Summer Holiday

We farewelled 2007 on a wooden deck overlooking a landscape reminiscent of something idyllic, Italian. On closer inspection the banana trees and black-trunked ferns give it away, but the hills, softly, pinkly, lit recalled instantly the intake of breath that pushing open the shutters in Siena inspired a couple of years ago. Clichéd though Tuscany may be, in reality it is as breath-taking as the profusion of memoirs and calendars implore us, endlessly, to believe. New Zealand is as amazing, a whole lot quieter and blissfully, a whole lot closer, too. The beach at Hahei is pristine, the water an arresting pale blue. I would float on my back, eyes shut against the fierce sun, buoyed by gentle, calming waves.

The orchard we stayed on is working toward its official Organic Certification. An arduous and bureaucratic process. My step-son Edward, the eldest at seventeen, cracked a small net of their exquisite macadamias one afternoon (and yes, he did make many, many unnecessary ‘nut-cracking’ jokes in the process) for his cousin Samantha, the youngest of the lot, to coat in chocolate. They were swooped upon by all the following evening.

A rafter of turkeys, ranging freely around the orchard, would erupt into an hilarious wave of outrage, gobbling at the slightest movement and I couldn’t help thinking how lucky they were, given the recent bout of festivities. The silvery quail that would make himself at home in the (beautiful) garden each dusk was my favourite. Then there were the Tui’s, clicking and whistling as they swooped in to feast and the leggy Pukekos that generously allowed me to get just a glimpse of their nest.

kangaroo paws

Cooking? Not a lot. For the most part, I was cooked for. Strangely, I didn’t miss the kitchen commandant that I have channeled in the past on these holidays. A Christmas platter of mum’s home-cured gravlax with deep pink edges (the best use of grated beetroot I’ve come across in some time) glistening in soft folds at the centre of the table was a culinary highlight. A salad of mangoes and prawns with crisp, sugar-and-sea-salt-coated walnuts and another of triangular wedges of feta and watermelon, studded with glossy black olives sat on either side. Simple, celebratory. In New Zealand, the family took turns cooking for one another over ten days – a bubbling cauldron of moong dahl my singular, well-received contribution - and I discovered, among many things, hot-smoked tuna (just three words…oh, so much more) flaked into chunks and served with Michelle’s still-warm bread and dollops of wasabi-laced mayonnaise. Best of all was the smoked roe. If I cannot find it locally, I will have to start importing the stuff. In frighteningly large quantities to suffice my own, burgeoning, needs.

For those of you who come here for the food, all I can offer is an apology for the serious lack of a recipe. I don’t know about you, but it's been hard finding the kick-start this year needed. Maybe it was the sun that did it (I am now the proud owner of a deep, dark tan); maybe the swimming (worth staying in and getting wrinkly as a prune for), or perhaps it was the great company (both at ‘home’ in Sydney – a confusing notion of home, mine – and with my bloke’s family in New Zealand). Whatever it was, last week was nigh impossible to get motivated. By Saturday I was pottering away in the kitchen, singing to myself and layering different vegetables for a lasagne. Too rich for these summer days, but at least I was cooking again. The wild rocket planted last year was one of the few things that thrived in (and, indeed, survived in) the heat during our three week absence. I grabbed a few snappy handfuls and dressed them with good, grassy olive oil and grain mustard. It was perfectly delicious. Watch this space. Recipes, soon.

It will be a good year, this one. I can feel it already, deep within my bones.

New York, Spain and what I'd do again

Travelling makes you hungry. Hungry for life, hungry for new experiences, hungry to learn as much as possible before you return to the ins and outs of daily life. Mostly though, it just makes you hungry for more travel. Language washes over you, seducing you with its unfamiliarity and teasing you with its similarities. Eating in a foreign country, however ‘safe’ your choice of cuisine, is one of the most seductive elements of travelling. And for the cook, travel, surely, is the most useful ingredient of all.

I wanted to get it out now, all in one blurt so to speak, because it’s not the end of the year quite yet. Holidays cannot go on forever, though the days here are warm and sunny enough to encourage that kind of thinking. It’s still spring, people. The Racing Carnival has begun and summer, well, she’s just around the corner. How did it get to be the end of October so quickly? There are things to be done, important things, and they’ll be needing my attention. Relaxed and refreshed, I’m ready for it.

Kathryn, I love you. Invaluable, crackingly good advice, I tell you. Planning a big trip? Please, check out these tips before you do. They made me far more companionable than the last time we went overseas...

It’s been a challenge to write about travel when, as a subject, it’s a little alien. I spent the weekend perusing the pages of The Age and still couldn’t come up with the right formula. So highlights it shall be. It’s a long post, and for that I apologise in advance. You can just scroll on down to the bottom of the page, where there is, I promise, a travel-inspired recipe worth waiting for.

Some highlights. Yes. These are the things I'd do again.

New York: Huge.

The apartment. Upper West Side. Near Central Park. The view from the roof was great; the view from the top of the stairs was vertigo-inducing.

Crying (quietly) in the Jewish Museum over an engraved camp spoon from Auschwitz and being confronted by an actual yellow star. Cheering up enormously over the silver Hanukah lamp adorned with emus and kangaroos.

Stumbling toward lunch on that first day, at Lumi, on the corner of Lexington and 70^th. Halibut on a bed of fennel and tomato, braised until sweet. Topped with shavings of fresh, crispy fennel.

More Rembrandt’s and Vermeer’s than you can poke a stick at in The Met. Meeting a friend on the steps, in the flesh, for the first time. Knowing instantly that this blogging thing has changed my life and added things that are more valuable, more satisfying, than I ever suspected it would. A great Indian lunch, spiced just the way I like it. Thank you, Susan.

Realizing just how confusing it is to navigate The Subway, late, on the way home from a fun dinner on the Lower East Side. Schiller’s three wines come by the bottle and are labeled thus; Cheap, Decent and Good. Honest, eh?

MoMA. UN-believable. Nothing else to say. Just go.

The American Museum of Natural History. A labyrinth of goodies. Oh, my. Dinosaur bones; taxidermed animals hung in a strangely beguiling way; beautiful birds, owls I wanted to revive and take home; American Indian costumes, headdresses, weaponry, all so exquisite; Aztec and Mayan treasures beyond priceless.

The Empire State building at night. A long way up. A Very Long Way Down.

Wandering, barefoot, in the grass in Central Park on our last morning. Eating lunch at the Boathouse beneath the slowly turning fans.

Madrid: Hot, but cool. Very cool.

Flying in while the sun rose; thinking just how hot and dry the place is and how like home the searing sun made me feel.

Narrow, cobbled streets. You don’t realize just how small the old section of the city is until you’ve traversed it, from hotel to Palace, in 30 minutes. Like a slightly smaller Rome, but with a very distinctive flavour of its own.

The plazas, surrounded by bars and restaurants, are empty until about 12.30, when the tourists, unfamiliar with the distinctive Spanish eating hours, head out to (sometimes unsuccessfully) find lunch.

A Paula Rego retrospective at the Reina Sofia (how lucky were we?). Didn’t see Guernica, but then how many times to you need to see that harrowing image? Brilliant.

Walking, albeit briefly, around the exquisite El parque del Retiro.

In our hotel one morning, the waiter pressed a business card into my hand for El Rincon de Esteban (about halfway down the page), an ‘authentic’ Spanish restaurant. Joyful, satisfying and hospitable. Best meal of the holiday. Esteban, a man larger than life and rotund enough to suggest he eats Very Well, kissed me goodbye on both cheeks, embraced me and then gave me flowers as we left. Apparently coming from Melbourne made us popular with both the waiters and the chef. Go figure.

9am: on the doorstep of the Prado for a quick run through. Fast and furious – better without all the tourists that flood in later. Velazquez (egotistical; magnificent); enough Goya’s to make your hair curl. Welling up with tears seeing his final, eerie works.

San Sebastian: A politically active fishing town, overrun by tourists in summer.

Hotel was beautiful, elegant and quiet. The haven we were seeking.

Climbing Monte Urgull, a fort, now crumbling romantically, offering the best view of the city and the shell-shaped beach it rests upon, La Concha. Green and lush vegetation grows wildly, making it seem even more romantic and mysterious. The huge statue of Christ that presides over the town stands at the summit looking down, concerned. Unsurprising given the Basque capital is often referred to as a 'party town'.

his work just gets better and better

Sun on winter-white skin, a local beer in hand and tomato, lettuce and sweet onion bocadillos (sandwiches, Spanish-style) eaten in a sunny plaza – followed by a siesta.

The deliciously sweet, pale-fleshed, dark green-skinned melons served at breakfast. Between broken Spanish, Basque and English, I still can’t figure out what it was…

Reading (Midnight’s Children by Salman Rushdie - stunning; Vegetable Pleasures by Colin Spencer, and the sadly less-than-thrilling Chez Panisse Vegetables), writing lots (giving a project some space to grow; nutting out some worries, both general and specific; wholefoods and food politics; just getting words on paper) and drawing were what we wanted. San Sebastian, then, is the perfect, laid-back place in which to get it all.

Swimming. The surf beach, to the left of La Concha, was more like the beaches we’re used to – real waves that toss you about and leave you gasping for air – and became a favourite for people watching. The deeply-tanned man who strode confidently up and down the beach wearing nothing but a pair of dark designer sunglasses caught our attention on a number of occasions. Who was he?

The older Basque men in their berets, ambling along like the thick-waisted older Picasso; the middle-aged women in their tight leopard-, tiger- and zebra-printed clothes. Often all at once.

Eating? Neither the artist or I are big drinkers (any more), so late nights in the pintxos (tapas, pronounced ‘pinchos’ in Basque) bars were increasingly less interesting. The Japanese we ate twice was a magnificent contrast to the heavy, oily Basque food. We ordered a couple of magnificent Roija’s while we were there (all great, Deb). I desperately wanted a Spanish rice dish (to no avail) and would have given my right arm (and my left too) for a dish of vegetables, just once. Spain ain’t the place for a vegetarian. My advice is to eat the fish which is outstanding, and try to make up for it when you get home. Otherwise, you WILL starve.

Complaining? Not me. But here’s something I would have liked to eat. It’s a re-working of something from last year, simplified, improved, adapted and all vegetarian. God, how I missed vegetables. Being away I realized how infrequently our meals contain wheat flour – we are the wholegrain freaks.

Millet paella with saffron, tomatoes and asparagus - for 4

Toasting the millet before rinsing it is a trick gleaned from Rebecca Wood’s The Splendid Grain. It makes the millet wonderful, taking away the hint of bitterness that tends to accompany this incredibly healthful grain. The Spanish smoked paprika is non-negotiable. It is one of the most intensely flavoured spices and is especially useful in vegetarian cookery because of its ability to simulate some of the smoky qualities associated with bacon and ham.

1 cup of hulled millet
1 ½ tablespoons of olive oil
1 onion, peeled and finely sliced
2 cloves of garlic, peeled and finely sliced
1 large pinch of saffron
2 teaspoons of smoked paprika
1x 400g tin of tomatoes
Sea salt
1 teaspoon of tamari (or soy sauce)
2½ cups of boiling water
12 juicy black olives
¼ preserved lemon
1 bundle of asparagus, woody ends snapped off
A handful of sugar snap peas
Chopped parsley, to serve

Place the millet in a large frying pan and toss constantly over a medium heat until it pops and starts to smell nutty. Rinse well and drain.

Heat 1½ tablespoons of olive oil in a very large lidded frying pan and fry the onion and garlic over a medium heat for about 5 minutes.

Reduce the heat and add the millet, saffron, paprika and tomatoes, breaking them up with a wooden spoon. Stir, then add a pinch of salt, the tamari and the boiling water. Cover with a lid and cook until the liquid is absorbed and the millet is cooked, about 35 minutes. If the millet still tastes a little raw, add another ¼ cup of boiling water and cook until it’s absorbed.

Pit the olives and roughly chop them. Thinly slice the preserved lemon. Slice the asparagus into thirds and, with the whole sugar snap peas, simmer for 3 minutes in a pan of salted water. Drain well.

Lift the lid and arrange the olives, lemon and vegetables on top of the millet. Replace the lid and cook for a further 3-5 minutes, just to warm the vegetables through.

Sprinkle with parsley and eat. Gratefully.

And you know what? I even missed blogging.

Leaving

So the bags are packed and we’re off. For the next three weeks I’ll be trying not to empty the entire contents of my wallet at Kitchen Arts and Letters, eating my way around New York, Madrid and the Basque region and meandering through various art galleries full of treasures the likes of which we rarely see here at home. Cy Twombly here I come. In London, at the Tate Modern, I cried in front of his Quattro Stagioni. It started slowly, but soon there was audible sniffling followed by loud nose blowing. Let alone what happened when I turned the corner on the top floor of the Musee d’Orsay and found, to my astonishment, a room full of Redon’s.

Let’s hope I can maintain a little more composure this time around. At least I have packed tissues. I can’t promise not to embarrass you Susan. But I will try.

Though I usually order the vegetarian meal on a flight, I’ve ordered the vegan option this time thanks to Kathryn’s invaluable advice. In an effort to use what’s in the pantry and the last of the oranges I can comfortably reach on the neighbour's tree, I’ll be bringing along a few of these little sugar-free, fibre-rich treats. If, that is, I can get Edward (elder of the two step-sons) to stop eating them.

Date and nut balls – makes 12-15
Based on a recipe from Aine McAteer’s very modern take on macrobiotic cooking, Nurture. Vegan, sugar-free, dairy-free, egg-free, gluten-free. Not exactly pretty. Delicious nonetheless.

Zest of ½ and juice of 1 large orange
Good pinch of cinnamon
½ cup of chopped, pitted dates
½ cup of mixed seeds (pepitas, flax, and sunflower seeds)
¼ cup of almond meal

Place the orange juice, cinnamon and dates in a small saucepan and bring to the boil. Give it a stir, lower the heat right down, cover and simmer for 10-15 minutes.

Meanwhile toast the seeds in a non-stick frying pan until they start to pop, tossing constantly. Remove to a plate and cool.

When cool, grind the seeds to a fine powder in either a clean coffee (or spice) grinder or with a mortar and pestle.

Give the dates a good beating with a spoon. Add the zest, ground seeds and almond meal and mix well. Using a teaspoon and wet hands form the mixture into balls. Rest for a few minutes before eating.

And this photo? Well, it’s just for me. I won’t see this little expectant face at the top of the stairs for a bit and might want to check in from time to time.