Tea

Each day begins with a small, quiet ritual. A pot of tea is brewed and sipped silently, usually over my current reading. Sometimes the tea is green, but mostly it’s black, a strong brew steeped in a chipped ceramic teapot covered in a patchwork of blue and white butterflies; a beaten silver jug of soy its partner. It is a ritual worth waking early for. Coffee in the morning makes my heart pound against my chest in a deeply unpleasant way. Tea, however, soothes as it steeps.

Rooibos tea is grown, exclusively, in its native South African soil. Thriving in scrubby, tufted rows of green, it becomes a deep cedar red once dried. Caffeine-free and low in tannin, it boasts a swathe of health claims but, being something of a skeptic, I cannot vouch for all of them, antioxidant properties aside. What I do know for certain is that it is good. Surprisingly, rooibos is never bitter, no matter how long it is left to brew. Perfect in the summer, served in tall, frosted glasses with sprigs of mint and curled slices of lemon.

Cooking a pot of grains in rooibos will increase the antioxidant qualities, yes, but more importantly, adds a certain, mysterious something to the final dish, not unlike a light, herbal vegetable stock. A whole lot quicker to make, too. This dish of amaranth and brown rice, cooked in a red bath of tea, sits comfortably on the more esoteric side of ‘healthy’ cooking but its virtues are matched perfectly by its creamy, versatile nature. Once made, it has a variety of possibilities, limited only by the cook’s imagination.

Small sesame-coated balls of the mixture floating across the surface a bowl of adzuki bean soup are perfection, but these are also rather good when formed around a half teaspoon of the exquisite Japanese chutney natto miso, or a small piece of salty-sour umeboshi plum. Enough to make you glow from the inside out. A Macrobiotic diet will do that to you. Ah, I wish.

Amaranth and brown rice cooked in rooibos tea – feeds 2
Based on an elegant and minimal, but rather fabulous recipe from the pages of Lisa’s Vegetarian Kitchen. This has a tendency to stick to the bottom of the pan, so gently, gently with the heat. A heat diffuser is essential, I think.

1 ½ cups of strained rooibos tea
¼ cup of amaranth (or hulled millet)
½ cup short-grain brown rice
Sea salt
1 small clove of garlic, crushed
2 tablespoons of tahini
1 tablespoon of tamari
½ tablespoon of unsalted butter or pale sesame oil
Palmful of leafy herbs, chopped (parsley or celery leaves are ideal)

Pour the rooibos tea into a small, heavy-based saucepan. Tip in the grains and add a pinch of sea salt. Bring to a boil, then reduce the heat to the lowest possible setting and cover with a tight-fitting lid. A heat diffuser, set between pot and flame, is best. Simmer, lid untouched, for 40-45 minutes. Rest, off the heat, still covered, for 5 minutes.

Stir through the remaining ingredients. Cool, then roll into sticky marbles and, if you like, coat in sesame seeds to float in a bean or lentil soup. Or, shape into larger patties and fry to golden brown in little olive oil or, as we often do, eat, simply as is, with a pile of greens.

July’s edition of Click, a food photography event, highlights coffee and tea, substances so entwined in our daily lives that they, rightly, deserve an event all of their own. The image, right there at the top, is my entry.

Bee and Jai have, very kindly, asked me to sit upon the judging panel this month.

Entries close on the 30^th of July.

A useful, frugal sort of soup

Seedlings of flat-leaf parsley, planted at the tail end of summer, have, halfway through winter, become forests. Which is a stroke of luck, really. It’s the one thing that I seem to be able to grow rather well. Other things – the pennywort I wanted so badly; the stubby bushes of rosemary that will not even try – are moving at the proverbial snail's pace, but the parsley, it is unstoppable. Lush forests of greenery that sit close to the back door so that I can slip out, feet un-shod, to grab a handful or two as needed. It’s enough to make a trainee kitchen gardener feel inordinately proud.

A mountain of parsley went into this soup, a wise attempt to harvest just a little of this year’s prolific crop. Incredibly delicious it is, though the sum of its parts may not initially suggest much. Ladled into shallow soup plates, this becomes quite sophisticated. Understatedly elegant and deeply herbal, in a deeply nourishing sort of way. Honest, restorative, iron-rich. Frugal winter food.

A soup to make you feel like a gardener, even if you’re not.

Parsley soup – feeds 2
To use anything less than a forest of parsley is to miss the point. This must be vital, green and herbal. You’ll need a whopping 300g, a generous ½ lb or so, to suffice two. Adapted from The Cranks Bible.

2 very large bunches of flat-leaf parsley
1 small onion, roughly chopped
6 cloves of garlic, roughly chopped
2 tablespoons of butter (or olive oil)
2 small potatoes
½ teaspoon of good veg stock powder (optional)
Sea salt and pepper
Best olive oil, for drizzling
1 heaped tablespoon of smoked almonds, chopped (optional)

Cut the parsley leaves from their stalks. Place the stalks in a large saucepan and cover, quite generously, with cold water. Throw in the onion and half of the garlic. Bring to a boil, reduce the heat and simmer, partially covered, for 30 minutes.

Roughly chop the parsley leaves. Scrub the potatoes and chop them into chunks.

Stew the potatoes and garlic in the butter gently, stirring from time to time, for 15 minutes. Add the parsley leaves and stir slowly through the garlicky potatoes for a minute, maybe two. You want it to collapse a little. Measure out 3½ cups of parsley stock and pour it in next. Stir, then add the stock powder. Simmer, covered, until the potatoes crush easily against the side of the pot – 10 - 15 minutes should do it. Season to taste. Cool a little before blending until velvet-smooth. Serve with a thread of good, spicy olive oil and the almonds, if you’re using them.

Holler is hosting this month’s herbal edition of No Croutons Required and this bowl of green is my submission.

In other news, I’ve been watching Posh Nosh over here and laughing very loudly. Required viewing for anyone who claims to love cooking, I reckon. Richard E. Grant at his absolute best.

Thanks, Grocer.

Pudla: Pancakes on Parade

Every freezer contains, within its cold depths, a bag of peas, lurking way up the back. Grasp about in the dark and you’ll no doubt find other long-abandoned edibles worth retrieving, or perhaps dumping, in the process. Much as I like people - really, I do - there are days when being alone, at home, is much needed. Digging around in the freezer and standing in front of the pantry sighing can yield surprising results. The sort that make stepping out into the fray irrelevant. Discovering a very icy bag of green peas, still sweet despite their lengthy hibernation, made me ridiculously happy this weekend.

Besan or gram, a buff-coloured flour made of chickpeas, may not be an ingredient native to your panty, but that may change once you’ve tried Pudla. Egg-less, dairy-less pancakes, Pudla traditionally belong to the cooking of the mango-shaped state of Gujarat in western India. Some cooks liken these to crepes, but that’s not quite right – there’s a certain magic that eggs, milk and refined white flour weave that cannot be equalled by besan alone. I don’t envision serving these sweet, though you, of course, with a little tweaking, may. The batter is best when spicy and served as a quick, simple dinner or lunch to my way of thinking. There’s much that can be made with the flour besides; a veritable wealth of gorgeous recipes await the remainder of your stash.

Serve piping hot, straight from the pan, with an array of chutneys, salsas, relishes, pickles or some thick, strained yoghurt; whatever your fridge holds. I made a winter salsa with a prized tamarillo and an avocado, but don’t go to great lengths here. That would simply defeat the purpose. You don’t want to have to go shopping.

I may never leave the house again.

Pudla (chickpea pancakes) with ginger and crushed peas - feeds 2-3

From Madhur Jaffrey. I’ve made these a lot this week. Exactly how many times, I’m not willing to share. It’s a little embarrassing. These will not turn out to be perfectly round – each will take on its own, odd shape and that, for me, is part of their charm.

1 cup of frozen, shelled green peas
2 cups of chickpea flour (besan/gram)
1 teaspoon of ground cumin
Good pinch of ground turmeric
Good pinch of chilli powder
1 teaspoon of sea salt
2 cups of water
A large thumb of ginger
4 spring onions, finely sliced
A little olive oil, for frying

Cook the peas, in their frozen state, in boiling water according to the packet instructions and drain well. Lightly crush with either a fork or a potato masher.

Sift the chickpea flour, spices and salt into a roomy bowl. Make a well and slowly trickle the water into the centre, whisking in a little of the dry mixture from the sides as you go. There must be no lumps. Lumps are bad. Grate the ginger and squeeze the resulting juice into the mixture, whisk well and stir through the peas and spring onions. Rest, at room temperature, for 30 minutes.

Warm a frying pan over a medium-high heat and drizzle in a little oil. When hot, pour in a ladle of the mixture and cook for 2 minutes. They should be golden underneath. Drizzle the uncooked side with another dribble of oil before flipping and cooking for a further 2 minutes. Eat hot, straight from the pan.

Tamarillo and avocado salsa

My beautiful almost-mother-in-law Barbara often serves rosy-hued poached tamarillos for dessert. They are truly a sensational winter fruit. I’m indebted to Stephanie Alexander for the idea of using tamarillo in a salsa. This is rather good.

1 tamarillo
1 ripe but firm avocado
2 spring onions
Scrap of garlic, crushed
A little sugar
Sea salt and pepper
Olive oil

Cut a small cross in the pointed end of the tamarillo and place it in a heat-proof bowl. Cover with freshly boiled water and retrieve after 1 minute. Peel then dice the flesh – seeds and all. Peel, deseed and dice the avocado and chop the spring onions as finely as your inclination permits. Gently toss with the garlic in a small bowl. Season to taste with a sprinkling of sugar, some salt, pepper and a drizzle of olive oil and toss again.

Susan, The Well-Seasoned Cook, is hosting a one off event called Pancakes on Parade.

Get flipping - entries close on the 6^th of July.

Lemongrass, ginger and coconut

Sun steams through the windows at the back of the house and, with it, sharp wintry shadows fall dramatically across the desk. Only a small corner of sun and warmth this, so the resident animals settle themselves snuggly around my feet, snoozing. Wild winds – dramatic and exciting – blew through the house this week, through every door and window that could be prised from creaky, neglected hinges. The act of blowing out the dank, recycled air was long overdue. A musky breath of Japanese incense curled around the kitchen as the house, and my thinking, sprang back to life.

Does the season in which one is born dictate the sort of holiday one craves? Not the classic hammock strung between coconut palms for me, a babe of the colder months. Give me cold, give me cosy fires, give me brisk walks and blanketing snow. Yet the food of balmy climes captures all of my imagination. A friend’s email arrived describing, in the course of things, a dish of such sweetness and exotic perfume that I wondered, aloud, if we here in Australia are hard-wired to the exotic foods of our South East Asian neighbours. Slipping a kaffir lime leaf into a mug of freshly boiled water, waiting for the citrus scent to rise, this must, surely, be true.

James Oseland describes an Indonesian technique of bruising and knotting stalks of lemongrass to impart flavour in much the same way as the French use a bouquet garni. The fragrant, crushed stalks make a winter kitchen, indeed any kitchen, smell incredible. A gingery, coconutty Malaysian and Singaporean breakfast specialty, Nasi Lemak translates literally as the less than appetising ‘fatty rice’. Fatty here simply describes the rich, sumptuous nature of the dish. It is far too good to be saved for breakfast alone. Served with a vaguely Indonesian (and Very Addictive) quick pickle of vegetables and little dishes of crispy things, this is a surprisingly fast and deeply satisfying meal. P’raps I am a warm weather girl after all…

Quick cucumber and carrot pickle feeds 4-6

Vaguely Indonesian, these quick pickles, stained yellow from a smattering of ground turmeric, are tangy and moreish. The green chillies have only the merest hint of heat to them, but half a green capsicum (pepper) could be substituted. Unfortunately the best use I can come up with for a green capsicum is the compost heap…

1 large carrot
1 cucumber, same length as your carrot
3 golden shallots, peeled
2 long green chillies
1 tablespoon of sea salt
1 clove of garlic, crushed
½ cup rice or white wine vinegar
2 tablespoons of palm sugar or caster sugar
½ teaspoon of ground turmeric
1 tablespoon of mustard seeds
¼ cup of macadamia or light olive oil

Peel the carrot and cut it into thin matchsticks. Slice the cucumber lengthways, scrape out the seeds using a teaspoon and cut into batons. Slice the shallots and green chillies into rounds. Place all in a bowl, toss and set aside.

Mix the remaining ingredients together in a small saucepan and bring to the boil. Remove from the heat and pour over the vegetables. Toss well, then rest while you prepare the rice. Remainders will keep, well sealed and refrigerated, for a few days.

Nasi Lemak (Lemongrass, ginger and coconut rice) feeds 4-6

Adapted from Oseland’s wonderful Cradle of Flavour. A small tin of coconut milk is just that – as small as you like. Remember that ‘light’ coconut milk is simply the full-fat stuff diluted with water. Like the homogenization of milk, it’s something I can do, quite simply, myself.

2 cups of basmati or jasmine rice
1 small tin of coconut milk
3 stalks of lemongrass
A large thumb of fresh, juicy ginger, peeled
1 ½ teaspoons of sea salt
A few tablespoons of fried shallots
A few tablespoons of dry roasted peanuts, chopped
4 hard-boiled eggs, quartered (optional)

Wash the rice in several changes of water. Drain well. Pour the coconut milk into a measuring jug and top up with enough water to make 3 ½ cups of liquid.

Bruise the lemongrass all the way along each stalk with something blunt and heavy – ideally a pestle. Tie each roughly in a knot. Bruise the ginger in the same way. Place the rice in a medium-sized saucepan, one with a tight-fitting lid. Pour in the diluted coconut milk, add the lemongrass knots and ginger and bring to a boil. Add the salt then place the lid on tightly and reduce the heat to the lowest possible setting. A heat diffuser set between pot and heat is very helpful. Simmer for 20 minutes. Remove from the heat (no peeking) then rest untouched for 10 minutes.

Discard the lemongrass stalks and any visible chunks of ginger. Fluff with a fork and serve in a large bowl. The pickles, shallots, peanuts and eggs should be set in separate dishes for everyone to help him or herself.

Suganya of Tasty Palettes is hosting this month’s edition of ‘A Fruit a Month’ and she has, rather cleverly, chosen coconut as this month’s theme. This, accordingly, is my entry.

Reasons to be Cheerful

a seam of yellow

This month’s edition of Click!, brought to you by bee and jai of Jugalbandi, features Yellow as its theme. Yellow, more specifically, for Bri. With the help of the wider community, bee and jai are banding together to raise funds for Bri's battle with cancer. They have very nearly reached their target. Accordingly, that cheerful seam of yellow, there at the top, is my entry.

What could be more cheerful than bunches of organic rainbow chard for $1.99 each? I’ve arranged (well, alright, plonked) them in jars and vases around the house. Those impossibly bright colours are perfect fodder for The Artist.

The garden is bustling with the noisy, energetic antics of a family of brightly-breasted parrots, who have, just this week, discovered the bounty in the backyard trees.

Flickr. It’s my new (old) favourite toy.

There’s a tonne of work to plough through, and way more to come, but the task itself is cheerful enough.

Those nice people at Mealopedia have been sifting through and highlighting some older posts, things I had (very nearly) forgotten.

A project, something else very nearly forgotten - something offline, you know, out there in the real world - has been reactivated.

Yesterday’s salad of very thin shavings of celery (those tender, pale, inner stalks), fennel, witlof and two wee turnips made a startlingly good lunch. Dressed with teeny, tiny capers; the last of the hazelnut oil and a few fresh walnuts, toasted and broken up.

To top things of very nicely, it’s raining. Finally. Soakingly. I feel like dancing.

Many, many reasons to be Cheerful, don't you think?

In which we make a sauce of Some Deliciousness

E.H.Shepard

Isn’t it funny
How a bear likes honey?
Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!
I wonder why he does?

Sung in a small growly voice, by a Bear of Very Little Brain

Winnie-the-Pooh is a stout, greedy sort of bear and honey - dripping, viscous, sweet honey - his infamous weakness. Not that one can blame him, not one bit; in fact it is just that absent-minded greed that endears him to both adult and child alike. I’ve been wandering around the house reading A.A.Milne’s classic Winnie-the-Pooh aloud to myself and the dog, and it’s been hugely, immensely, enjoyable. Read aloud, it matters little that your audience be youthful. Nor, obviously, that one has an audience at all. ‘I can also highly recommend ‘Now We Are Six’; a tour de force of gentle but smart humour wasted on the under 10’s’, said Jo during an exchange of emails. I think she’s on to something significant. Winnie-the-Pooh is far too good to be kept merely for children.

Rotund of middle, Pooh one day finds himself stuck in Rabbit’s narrow doorway after a particularly delicious morning tea of honey and condensed milk. In one of my favourite passages, Christopher Robin, Milne’s real life son, is called upon to solve the rather sticky situation. A week of starvation is his diagnosis; Pooh must live on a diet of words alone if he’s ever to leave Rabbit’s home:

Bear began to sigh, and then found he couldn’t because he was so tightly stuck; and a tear rolled down his eye, as he said:

‘Then would you read a Sustaining Book, such as would help a Wedged Bear in Great Tightness?’

So, for a week Christopher Robin read that sort of book at the North end of Pooh, and Rabbit hung his washing on the South end…and in between Bear felt himself getting slenderer and slenderer.

With one almighty pull and a cork-like ‘pop’, Winnie-the-Pooh, I am pleased to report, is finally freed. Silly old Bear.

Simple sugar, which is essentially what honey is, has taken hold of our modern diet and rattled it to the core. Sure, we all like some sweetness, but eating as much honey as Bear does is hardly wise. So, I offer something new for Pooh to try. A sticky miso and honey sauce, just right for dressing up some simple steamed greenery. A much better and more slimming way for a Bear to get his, or indeed her, honey fix.

Honey & miso sauce (of Some Deliciousness)
Honey (or Hunny as per Pooh Bear’s spelling) is one of those things that I have come to, in small amounts, later in life. Better late than never, I say. Sub in agave syrup or rice syrup to make this vegan. Very Good poured over crisp tofu or, better still, a pile of steamed Asian greens. Keeps well, refrigerated.

1 generous tablespoon of sesame seeds
2 ½ tablespoons of miso (dark red in winter; white in the warmer months)
2 teaspoons of pale sesame oil
1 teaspoon of dark, toasted sesame oil
5 tablespoons of warm water
2 tablespoons of raw honey, rice or agave syrup
Dash of rice vinegar
1 red chilli, seeded and very finely chopped
A thumb of ginger, freshly grated

Toast the sesame seeds to a pale shade of gold in a dry frying pan, paying close attention – they can (and do) burn in the blink of an eye. Cool on a plate.

Whisk all but the sesame seeds and ginger together in a small bowl. Squeeze the grated ginger in, discard the pulp and whisk again until smooth, then sprinkle over the sesame seeds. If using white miso, you may like to add a large splash, perhaps a little more, of either tamari or soy sauce to balance things out nicely.

E.H.Shepard

Simona is co-hosting another round of Novel Food.

Read something delicious lately? Entries close on the 21^st of June.

Solstice cake, unwrapped

Solstice Cake.

Unwrapped a day or two early. (Greedy. Always.)

The marzipan dissolves into the texture of the cake, making for a perfect combination of fudge and crumb. Surprisingly, not at all dry. Not one bit.

Sliced thinly and enjoyed with a steaming cup of rooibos tea and Jo, who’s had, one could say, the Week from Hell.

There will be another for the Solstice itself. Am converted, completely, to the wintry joys of a Fruited Cake.

Just no lurid glacé cherries or horrid mixed peel…

Want to join in?

Pop on over to Confessions of A Food Nazi. You have until the 25^th of June.

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.

Holy Goat: Salad For One

My father’s mother was a consummate gardener. A terrible cook, mind, but blessed with more than a mere thumb of green. Occasionally I catch sight of her in my own reflection when passing the windows, grey hair pulled back, cheeks flushed from weeding. It’s a likeness I’d not imagined before I let my hair ‘go’. Nana grew things in her Sydney garden that other gardeners could only dream about. The ‘drought’, ever-present at the edges of my adult life, seemingly only affected farmers in hers. Her sprinkler system, like many in my 1970’s suburban childhood, would often run all day.

It’s easy to forget, standing at the supermarket dairy cabinet, that farmers make extraordinary daily sacrifices to bring food to our tables. To do so organically, in a country of dry grass and almost non-existent rainfall is very nearly a miracle. Seldom do I mention a product by name – thanks, Naomi Klein - but some things demand attention. Holy Goat organic cheeses, hand-crafted from paddock to plate by Carla Meurs and Ann-Marie Monda in country Victoria, are divine. One episode of Love’s Harvest, a series of half-hour documentaries exploring the pleasures and perils of farming organically, followed their fortunes. Watching them struggle through drought, grain shortages, births and deaths, all the while lovingly tending their herd of charming, cheeky goats, added, for me, extra sparkle to their already stellar range. Organic food has always been more costly – the unpredictable nature of the act itself determines that – but I like to give a little back to the farmer making a red-hot go of it, whenever, financially, I can.

Lately, I’d sensed an air of exclusivity about Organics; the tiniest whiff of snobbery that seemed out of kilter with its grass roots, hands-in-the-dirt philosophy. Not the farmer, mind you, but the (usually chain) retailer. The fusty, earth-worshipping image, much like the vegetarian eating it encompassed, is slowly being replaced by slick styling and clever marketing. But I miss the fustiness; I like the earth-worshipping. Enter a trip, with a friend, to the Queen Vic Market. There, poking around stalls with spankingly fresh organic produce, I sensed the spirit of community that I had imagined gone. A fragment of fustiness, delivered with a sense of style and warmth. Faith, resolutely, restored.

Nana didn’t get to eat at my table, and I was too young to learn any real, concrete gardening skills during her lifetime. Her cooking was a rushed affair because for her, the garden itself held the key to happiness. A simple, honest salad such as this makes an ideal lunch for one. If that lettuce just happens to come fresh from your garden, well, all the better.

Organic leaves dressed with goat’s cheese – for one

The quality of your cheese lies at the heart of success or failure here – choose accordingly. The fromage frais is apparently low in fat. Imagine that? I couldn’t help myself and added some sour cream…

1 hard-boiled (hard-cooked) free-range egg
1 small, organic Cos (Romaine) lettuce
1 teaspoon of Dijon mustard
½ teaspoon of sugar or honey
1 teaspoon of white wine vinegar
Small piece of garlic, peeled
Sea salt
1/3 cup (80ml) of Holy Goat fromage frais (or soft goat’s curd)
1 very heaped tablespoon of sour cream
Black pepper

Carefully separate the egg white from the yolk. Finely chop both separately. Wash the lettuce leaves well and dry meticulously. Tear as artfully (or not) as you like.

In a small bowl, whisk together the mustard, sugar and vinegar. Crush the scrap of garlic to a paste with a little salt using the flat of your knife. Whisk this paste into the bowl next, followed by the finely chopped egg yolk, the fromage frais and the cream. Thin with a little water, bearing in mind you’re aiming for a pourable/dollop-able consistency.

Arrange the leaves on a plate, in a bowl, whatever you like, pour over the dressing and top with the finely chopped egg white and a good grinding of pepper.

In the northern hemisphere warmer weather is taking a firm foothold but that doesn't stop southern cooks from salad-making. Holler requests your cheesy, salad-y best for this month’s edition of No Croutons Required, an event co-hosted with Lisa.

Entries close on the 20th of May.

Gingko Nut Custards

The Ginkgo Biloba is a tree with an ancient lineage. It’s a living fossil, like a crocodile or the remarkable Wollemi Pine. 270 million years old it is, and that people, commands respect. Reputed to improve the memory, the green fruit, or nut, of the female tree is highly prized by both Chinese and Japanese cuisines. Julie told me that she has watched families in New York gather the stinking fruit from the pavement. Having smelt it walking around The Gardens during her stay, it’s not a task that excites me very much, I have to say. Lazy, I know, but there you go. Better by far is finding a net of gingko nuts, as I finally did, in the fridge of an excellent Asian grocery.

Shell-bound, the ginkgo is shaped much like an almond; one end rounded, the other tapered to a point. Paler and thinner-skinned, with a strong, pungent smell. Once freed, the fruit itself is a little rubbery. Not quite what I was expecting, but interesting, nonetheless. The recipe that follows uses just three and this is, I think, ideal for an untrained Western palate to begin with.

Served in tiny Japanese tea cups, these barely-set custards shudder in a very luscious way. Not sure about you, but I have days when little bowls of this sort of restorative thing are very, very welcome. Wholesome, but light. Smoked tofu adds depth and complexity to the girly-ness of it all, but originally, I made this with about 60g (2oz) of salmon belly cut into small cubes, just as Holly Davis did. It made an extraordinarily good custard, gentler and even more delicate. The earthier grounding of smoked tofu however, feels somehow right for autumn. Play as you like. Best of all, it’s quick and simple. It is surprising just how much liquid two eggs will, tremulously, set. I didn’t expect this to work at all. Lovely stuff.

Steamed ginkgo and mushroom custards – makes 6

Adapted from a Holly Davis recipe. I’ve looked, longingly, at this recipe for years, but never found the nuts. If they elude you, this, I promise, will not suffer their omission in the slightest. I wish I’d made them sooner.

8 dried shiitake mushrooms, destalked
A thin slice of smoked tofu
3 ginkgo nuts, shelled OR 6 almonds, blanched and slivered
2 free-range eggs (best you can afford/find)
½ cup of mirin
1 ½ tablespoons of shoyu, tamari or soy sauce
4 spring onions, white and an inch or so of greens, sliced
A little of green tops of the spring onion, finely chopped

You will also need:
A bamboo (or similar) steamer
A wok
6 Japanese/Chinese teacups, each of about 80ml (1/3 cup) capacity

Soak the shiitakes in freshly boiled water for 1 hour. Soak the tofu separately in cool water to cover at the same time. Drain the tofu, pat dry and cut into tiny dice.

Drain the mushrooms, reserving 1 cup (250 ml) of the liquid. Place the mushrooms in a small saucepan, cover with water and simmer until tender. Scoop out and squeeze gently when ready. Slice caps very thinly. Rub the skin from each ginkgo nut and boil in the same saucepan for 10 minutes. Drain well and slice each into 6 pieces.

Whisk eggs, mushroom liquor, mirin and shoyu together in a bowl until well combined. Divide evenly between 6 teacups and gently arrange the mushrooms, nuts, tofu (or salmon) and spring onions in each cup.

Carefully place the cups in a bamboo steamer. Pour a little water into the base of the wok, bring to a simmer and balance the steamer on top. Place the lid on and steam for 10-12 minutes. Remove and cool for 10 minutes, then serve garnished with spring onion greenery.

The gorgeous, inventive Laurie of Mediterranean Cooking in Alaska is this week’s host of Kalyn Denny’s Weekend Herb Blogging.

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.