A fragrant bowl of wild rice

Digging around in the pantry these last few weeks has been quite enjoyable. A jar of wild rice – long sleek grains of black and chocolate brown – and a packet of dried porcini were unearthed this weekend. Soup season may have dug its heels firmly in this week, but I’m nowhere near done with it. Not while the celeriac looks this good, anyway.

Clean is Deborah Madison’s typically spare description of this soup and she is, typically, spot on. Clean, as a descriptor, may not seal the deal on recipes ordinarily, but by this stage of winter I find myself longing for something lighter. There’s been a lot of stodge eaten in these parts of late. So this beautiful and yes, clean, balance of warm, wintry earthiness and toothsome, lightly-cooked vegetables seemed to say all the right things. A cloudy, fragrant stock from simmering wild rice and dried mushrooms together; a little soothing creaminess stirred through at the last moment and I served it with a little saucer of amber sesame oil to dribble, at will, across the surface.

The recipe below is the result of gleaning a little from each of Deborah Madison’s wild rice chowders, some streamlining from experience and a small bottle of organic, unhomogenised cream from Tasmania. I must say, I quite like the photos for this one. They say, to me, exactly what I wanted them to. Fresh, clean, healthy. With cream.

It is excellent. A timely reminder that spring, and change, are not too far away.

A wild rice and celeriac soup – feeds 4
Wild rice smells intoxicatingly good as it cooks. Too often that scent is lost in and amongst other grains. Not here. Here, it is star. Attention paid to the quality and flavour of your soy milk will make all the difference if cream is not your thing. Adapted, heavily, from Deborah Madison.

3 handfuls of wild rice (about ¾ cup)
1 handful of dried mushrooms (porcini, shiitake, etc)
Toasted sesame oil
6 cups of water
Sea salt
3 tablespoons of olive oil (or a mixture of butter and oil)
1 large bundle of spring onions
1 bunch of parsley
2 carrots
2 stalks of celery
1 fist-sized potato, scrubbed well
1 small celeriac
1 bay leaf
A few healthy sprigs of thyme
½ cup soy milk or thin cream
Pepper

Place the wild rice in a saucepan, add the mushrooms, a teaspoon of toasted sesame oil and the water. Bring to a boil, add ½ a teaspoon of sea salt and reduce the heat to a burble. Set a lid, slightly ajar, on top and simmer for 40 minutes. When ready – the grains will butterfly open, bursting from their skins – set a strainer over a large bowl to collect the rice stock and drain. Set both stock and rice aside separately.

Warm the olive oil in a wide saucepan over a gentle heat. Trim the spring onions and chop finely. Slice the parsley leaves from their stalks, reserving the leaves. Finely chop the stalks. Add the spring onions and parsley stalks to the saucepan and cook while you chop the remaining veg. Cook for about 10 minutes, stirring from time to time.

Cut the carrots into thick slices and then into large irregular shapes. Trim and slice the celery stalks. Cut the potato into large dice then thickly peel the celeriac and cut it too into large dice. Add the vegetables to the saucepan, up the heat and fry for about 3 minutes. Throw in the bay leaf and thyme and pour in the reserved rice stock along with another cup, perhaps a little more, of water. Bring to a boil, add 1½ teaspoons of salt then reduce the heat and simmer for 20 minutes, until the vegetables are tender.

Chop the remaining parsley leaves. Add the soy milk or cream to the soup, remove the bay leaf and tip in the rice and mushrooms and most of the parsley leaves. Warm through and serve in deep bowls, each garnished with a little parsley, lots of pepper and a few droplets of toasted sesame oil to round things off nicely.

Raiding the Pantry: Solstice Cake

Stepping into a dark June morning, rugged-up, the cold takes a moment to adjust to. Shivering hands are thrust deeply into pockets. Even the dog, bounding with her usual energy, is a little reluctant to leave the faint light of the hallway. Softly, the door clicks shut. The key is icy, finally found fumbling through layers and swearing under foggy clouds of breath. These days of early winter, with their misting chill hold such delicious promise. Summer has her charms, oh yes – the deadly nightshades; luscious, dripping stone fruits – but it’s winter and the kind of cooking that colder weather inspires that I adore. Stepping in, post-walk, kettle rumbling toward its familiar ‘ping’, I give the fruit, plumping in a fragrant bath of orange liqueur, one last stir.

As a greedy child, I stole chunks of tooth-achingly sweet icing from my mothers carefully, lovingly, crafted Christmas fruit cake. It sat on the sideboard each December dressed in snowy, wintry white, adorned with plastic sprigs of festive holly. But the cake itself was too rich, too dark, too adult for my taste. It still sits there in its time-honoured place, though these days the icing is, at last, safe from prying fingers. The cake, well, now that’s another story.

Here, close to the bottom of the globe, the pagan roots of the religious holidays that punctuate the calendar sit awkwardly. Traditions really do die hard. Rich, hot food served beneath a sweltering Christmas sky is beyond silly. Icy days and freezing nights on the other hand, make a cake attuned to the contents of the pantry seem worthy of a rare baking experiment. With the Winter Solstice, the shortest day of the year, rapidly approaching, A.O.F.’s Solstice cake event places the celebratory fruit cake squarely in the season to which it so clearly belongs. Sans icing, this fudgy cake is quite something. Heavenly scenting the house as it slowly cooks, just knowing that it’s sitting tightly wrapped in the pantry, waiting to reach perfection, is very nearly agony.

Marzipan Solstice Cake – feeds 8-10
Adapted from Nigella Lawson’s How to be a Domestic Goddess for both its tinker-ability and comparatively fast maturation. Nigella, Queen of Cakes, makes this with ready-made marzipan, but I made my own for the simple reason that there is already a truckload of sweetness coursing through it and besides, a cane sugar-free version is dead easy. This is hardly everyday fare. You may as well go all the way, I say.

100g (4oz) of sulphur-free dried apricots
150g (5oz) of dried pears
150g (5oz) of sultanas
100ml (scant ½ cup) of Cointreau or white rum
250g (9oz) of marzipan (something good OR see below)
100g (4oz) of caster sugar
100g (4oz) of unsalted butter, softened
2 eggs, beaten
50g (2oz) of ground almonds
Zest of 1 lemon
Zest and juice of ½ an orange
175g (6oz) of wholemeal spelt flour

If you’re making your marzipan (see below), start it first. Snip the apricots and pears into small pieces with scissors. Soak the dried fruit overnight in the alcohol of your choice and cover, giving it a lazy stir from time to time. Chop the marzipan into small dice and place in the freezer.

Next day, preheat the oven to 140 C (275 F).

Drain the fruit of any liquid left at the bottom of the bowl (my fruit drank it all – shame, that). Beat the sugar, butter and eggs together in a roomy bowl, followed by the ground almonds, zests, orange juice and flour. Fold through the drained fruit and the frozen marzipan dice and mix well.

Line the base and sides of a springform cake tin, approximately 20cm (8 in) in diameter, with baking paper. Spoon the mixture into the tin, level with the back of the spoon and bake in the preheated oven for 2-2½ hours, or until a skewer inserted into the centre of the cake comes out clean.

Cool in the tin. Wrap the cake in baking paper, then tightly in foil and set aside in a pantry for at least two days, but preferably a week.

Marzipan. Sugar-free.
The texture of this is akin to those little fruits that grace Proper Cakes rather than the silky, marble-like stuff used to ice them. Thanks go to Ricki who assured me it was, indeed, possible. Little nuggets dipped in lush, dark chocolate would be rather nice.

1 ½ cups almonds (about 225g)
3 tablespoons of rice syrup (from organic/health food shops)
¼ tsp of almond essence

Preheat the oven to 180 C.

Boil the almonds for 3 minutes, drain and add to a bowl of cool water. Slip each almond from its coat, place in a single layer on a baking tray and cook in the oven for 5-7 minutes, enough to dry them thoroughly. Cool.

Whiz the almonds to a fine texture in a food processor. Add the rice syrup and almond essence. Turn the machine back on and let it run until the mixture forms a ball around the blade. Remove the paste immediately then knead for a moment. Form into a log, wrap in greaseproof paper and refrigerate for at least 1 hour.

Makes 250g (or near enough).

There is something to be said for this sort of cooking. It really does connect you with tradition in a small, but significant way. Next time, I may even attempt mum's more laborious recipe.

Pictures when she's ready, folks.

Solstice Cake 2008 runs right up until the 25th of June. Get soaking and baking.

A gingery mushroom salad

Foraging for mushrooms, indeed any wild urban food, is a romantic notion for the cook. There are treasures to be found out there on the fringes of the city for the patient and knowledgeable hunter. Alas, not for me. Still, peeling back the plastic film on my pretty city-reared oysters, trundled home in their polystyrene tray, there is a fragrant hint, however mild, of those earthy, cool places. At the risk of repeating myself (but nevertheless forging right on ahead), oyster mushrooms rate Very Highly on my fungi-lovin’ list. It’s the way those edges crisp to gold, just so, in the pan. Or perhaps it’s that soft, velvet tactility. Creatures of the dark with delicate, sensuous gills, and, as such, treated in my kitchen with a little reverence.

Indoors, in the kitchen at least, the cool and damp are kept at bay. Wrapped up in ugg boots and a checked flannelette shirt, I’m cheerfully embracing my inner bogan (oh go on, I know you’re curious). The nights are closing in. April, thankfully, provides lots of goodies for the infinitely more tasteful world of cooking. Loathe though I am to show favouritism, the quiet bridging seasons, hanging between their dynamic, bolder siblings are what hold the fabric of the culinary year together. Each has its bounty and unique beauty, but of them all, it’s autumn I always fall for. Head over heels. Mushrooms, year round favourites, taste just right, right now. After all, we’re knee-deep in what is quintessentially the mushroom season.

Though not technically a salad, while browsing through Peter Gordon’s slightly irritating book of salads ‘tother day it struck me that the very definition of the word has changed dramatically. So, if Mr Gordon can call something that involves loads of exotic ingredients and hours of prepping time A Salad, I can call this (far easier) dish one, too.

Warm oyster mushroom and leek salad – for 2

A light meal, good for a lunch. To be honest, it’s probably better described as a stir-fry, but will you indulge me just this once? The leeks themselves are surprising – like a tangle of egg and gluten-free noodles - and are a perfect way to add one more serving of vegetables to your day.

4 dried shiitake mushrooms, soaked in hot water for 30 minutes
300g (10 oz) of oyster mushrooms
2 leeks, trimmed of dark greens
2 tablespoons of pale sesame oil
2 fat cloves of garlic, thinly sliced
1 tablespoon of sesame seeds, toasted
Handful of coriander (cilantro) or parsley, chopped
Sea salt
Small knob of ginger, finely grated (about 2 teaspoons)
1 tablespoon of hoi sin sauce, thinned with 1 tablespoon of water

Drain the shiitakes and snip away the stems with scissors. Slice the caps thinly. Slice off and discard the stalks from the oyster mushrooms and tear any large ones in half.

Halve the leeks, wash, dry well and cut into matchsticks. Warm 1 tablespoon of the oil in a frying pan over a high heat. Cook the garlic for 30 seconds, add the leeks and stir fry for a further 2 minutes. Toss in the toasted seeds followed by coriander. Remove to a plate and set aside.

Warm the remaining tablespoon of oil in the same frying pan over a medium heat and toss in the shiitakes. Stir fry for 1 minute, then add the oyster mushrooms. Sprinkle in some salt, lower the heat and let them sizzle away gently for about 5 minutes, turning them individually from time to time to evenly crisp. Add the ginger, stir and cook for a further 30 seconds. It’s all about the ginger here, so don’t let it burn.

Arrange the leeks in small mounds, drizzle over the hoi sin mixture and top with the mushrooms. Garnish with extra coriander leaves and serve warm-ish.

Lisa and Holler’s baby, No Croutons Required, is three months young. April’s theme is soups or salads featuring their favourite ingredient, the mushroom.

Pale and Elegant: Leek and Flageolet Soup

Signs of autumn are slow to arrive in these parts. The vine covered fence a few doors down has turned a significant shade of deep crimson and here and there along the path lie amber-coloured leaves. The light has changed direction as it passes through the kitchen window, presenting a new set of shadows to work with and outside the sunlight is noticeably weaker, washier, on still-bare arms. After months of dry air and earth, my eyes are craving pale, elegant greenery as the season, grudgingly, shifts. Avocado on toast, steaming pots of peppermint tea and handfuls of parsley in everything.

Capturing green in all its subtle, lush shades was difficult in the harsh summer months. But in autumn the light becomes softer, more malleable. Refreshed by cooler days and a little much-needed rain, the herbs are again flourishing. The French tarragon in particular has gone mad. With a snaking root system of rhizomes, tarragon was thought in the Middle Ages to be a cure for snake bites. Can’t say exactly how effective it is given the nature of deadly snakes found in this part of the world. I doubt a sprig or two would do anything to stop the flow of powerful venom. White Magic, on the other hand, suggests it to be protective and calming, relaxing guests and warmly welcoming them into the home. This I am far more willing to believe. It's a licorice-scented herb, one I surprisingly love. The merest hint of that bitterness is all that’s required in a dish - too much and the spicy punch of bitter, characteristic of the Wormwood Family, will be all pervading. Use it instead with a light, knowing hand.

Eating alone presents its own set of pleasures. Alone, I can nab the big white armchair for myself and spread out the way that the men around here often do. Possess the entire space if I please. Alone, I can cook whatever I like. And alone, more often than not, that means soup. Something herbal and creamy. Flageolet beans and leeks paired with the aniseed touch of fresh tarragon. Something elegant, in a soothing shade of pale.

Leek and flageolet soup with tarragon – feeds 3-4

The smoked paprika croutons are just right here, bringing a playful, spicy balance to all that pale elegance. A spoonful of crème fraiche is good, very good in fact, but really just gilds the lily. Beans can take an age to reach tenderness. This is easily gauged by crushing one against the roof of your mouth. Even the slightest resistance? Back to the heat.

¾ cup of dried flageolet beans, soaked overnight
3 leeks, trimmed, keeping only 5cm (2 inches) of greenery
Olive oil and/or butter
6 cloves of garlic
1 large carrot, halved lengthways
Large handful of parsley, chopped
2 sprigs of tarragon, leaves only, chopped
3 sprigs of thyme, leaves only
2 bay leaves
Sea salt and pepper
4-5 slices of crusty bread
¼ - ½ teaspoon of smoked paprika
1/3 cup of dry white wine
Palmful of tarragon, leaves plucked from the stalks, to serve

Drain beans. Place in a saucepan, cover with fresh water and bring to a rolling boil. Bubble furiously for 10 minutes, skimming off any scum. Drain, rinse, and set aside.

Halve the leeks lengthways, keeping the root end in tact. Fan the leaves out in water to give them a thorough clean. Shake dry and slice thinly. Peel the garlic, halve and flick out the green shoots – the autumnal shoots of garlic are indigestible and nastily bitter.

Warm 1 tablespoon of oil in a large, heavy-based pot. Add the most of leeks, holding back a handful for the garnish, then add the garlic, carrot and herbs. Sweat gently, lid on, for 5 minutes. Remove the lid, add the beans and 1½ litres (6 cups) of water. Bring to a boil, pop the lid on and reduce the heat to low. Simmer for 1½-2 hours, or until the beans have almost collapsed (see head note). You may need to add a cup of water from time to time - keep checking. Discard the carrot and bay leaves. Remove 2 cups of the soup and puree. Return the puree to the pot, add salt and lots of pepper to taste. Keep warm.

Meanwhile, cut away and discard the crusts from the bread. Dice roughly. Heat 2 tablespoon of olive oil in a frying pan and when hot, add the bread. Stir for about 5 minutes, until golden all over and then toss in the paprika. Cool on a plate.

Heat 1 tablespoon of oil in the same frying pan, and add the remaining handful of leeks and the wine. Cover and simmer for 5 minutes. To serve, ladle the soup into bowls, spoon a small pile of the wine-braised leeks into the centre of each and sprinkle with tarragon. Pass the croutons at the table.

This goes out to Susan, The Well Seasoned Cook, this week’s host of Kalyn’s Weekend Herb Blogging.

Out of season

The dramatic drop in temperature is sheer, utter bliss.

Muddled by the heat, these asparagus spears were the first vegetable I grabbed in the cool of the supermarket this morning.

Frankly, they sucked.

Still, the fabric’s quite nice, isn’t it?