Looking up, listening

The beauty of waking to rain lies in the listening. There is no more delicious sound to be had, tucked up, dry and warm. Blowing small ripples across the surface of my tea, thawing fingers frozen solid by the cold, I watched the rain fall from a grey sky in silent gratitude last week. Winter inspires introspection, and close skies, well, they make looking down rather than up easier on the eye. Earth squelching beneath socked and booted feet; the profusion of green that thrives in this damp cold; a small scruffy dog leading us across the park – there is much to look down on during this season. My neck, however, was developing a crick from the weight of a low, skewed gaze. With the rain that gaze shifted upward, to the cold, dripping sky.

Clearly I have not been looking up enough of late. Rain, in a dry continent, changes everything.

Sunday: Football. Sherbrooke lies in the Dandenong Ranges, a place of steep, rolling hills and small-scale daffodil farming on Melbourne’s fringe. A rectangular field of mud sits atop a steep hill there, too. Drawn by the promise of a little bushwalking, we plunged into a triangular sloping patch of tall trees and scrubby undergrowth on the other side, an hour before play got under way. Wind rushed way up high through the bending branches of slender eucalypts, a lonely, haunting sound deep in winter, one I love. Later, the sky changed dramatically as Oscar played, much better, I am pleased to report. There was bright sun and a small kiss of almost-snow on the wind. Back turned on the action, I watched two kookaburras settle themselves, feathers bristling, on waving branches. Wild. Graceful. A young magpie sang out, announcing their arrival and the dog, clown that she is, balanced on her tiny hind legs to leap at them, barking. Their disdain for her futile attempts made us giggle.

Listening. Hmm. Should have listened more closely to the little voice that said, ‘too fussy’ – you know the one, surely - when approaching a recipe from what is, this winter, my favourite reading. It was delicious, oh yes, but used every pan and all my patience to produce a dish that was scoffed in seven minutes flat. Sheesh. This got me thinking. About formal, fussy dining and the kind of multi-pan, showing-off it involves in home kitchens. Frankly, I can’t be bothered. Better to serve a simple dish cooked well and wow them with a sauce good enough to make them look up and engage, if only to refill their plates, at least once. Yes, please.

Why re-invent the wheel? Walnuts are exquisite right now. From Claudia Roden.

Teradot
A chunky, robust Southern Turkish sauce from Roden’s New Book of Middle Eastern Food. Perfect for dipping crisp, raw veg in to and slathering on falafels. You can make your own, and sometimes I do, but it’s just as easy to go out and buy a good dry falafel mix and doctor it with huge handfuls of finely chopped coriander and parsley.

2 cloves of garlic, chopped
Coarse sea salt
1½ cups (about 125g) of shelled walnuts, chopped
4 tablespoons of tahini
Juice of 2 fat lemons
1-2 tablespoons of boiling water
Large handful of chopped parsley

Pound the garlic with a good pinch of salt for 30 seconds, add the walnuts and continue pounding to make a chunky paste. Blend in the tahini and the lemon juice, then the boiling water, stirring well until smooth. Stir through the parsley and thin with a little more water if you like.

Or, whack the first 5 ingredients in a food processor and whiz away, stopping just short of a smooth paste. You may need to add a little warm water to get things moving around the blade nicely, but you want some texture here. Stir through the parsley. Keeps well in the fridge, but bring it back to room temperature before eating.

Serve with oven-warmed pita breads; a bunch or two of red radishes, quartered; hot, doctored falafels (see recipe intro); shredded lettuce and some thick plain yoghurt.

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.

Roasted Cauliflower, Just So

The dog swapped her slumbering position between patches of sun and shade, spotted belly bared, and the cat, newly svelte and much happier, had even dared to pad silently outside. Beautiful, companionable quietude. Bees buzzed around us and the tiny, tightly furled blossoms that cover the cumquat tree. Illuminated by gorgeous autumn light, they refused to open despite the industry. Surely they must yield soon. With a weekend of rain – glorious, drenching rain - forecast, and cold weather on the horizon, an unexpected afternoon of soaking in the sunshine lay before us. A pot of chamomile tea, a virgin notebook in need of some scribbling and Mark Bittman, for inspiration, by my side.

Inside, an entire head of cauliflower waited, patiently, on the kitchen bench. It had taken nigh on a week to tackle, overlooked for the more exotic produce that it had come home with. Poor, lonely, lovely thing. Last year I read rapturous descriptions of the nuttiness, the golden goodness, of cauliflowers, carved up and roasted in the oven. So I tried, wanting to join the Love-In too, but each time that lingering, sulphurous smell would snake its way from the oven to the farthest corners of the house and my heart, again, would sink. I was beginning to think myself a numbskull. Then Mr Bittman seduced me, in the front garden no less, into one last try.

Pleased I succumbed? Oh. Yes.

Be picky. What you want is fresh, young and whole. The ideal cauli is small and tightly budded; leaves crisp, gently cradling and curling around its precious, pale cargo. There should be no sign, absolutely none, of yellowing or, as revolting as it sounds, browning; just pure, creamy curds. Like a bouquet of pretty, white flowers. A head halved and wrapped in plastic is of no use to The Cauliflower Hunter. You need to employ your sense of smell here - and it must not ever, never-ever, smell like something you wouldn’t like to nibble right there, on the spot.

Good eaten outdoors, among the bees, while the sun still shines.

Roasted cauliflower, Manchurian-style – feeds 2-4, depending on greed

If you scoff at the idea of eating half a cauliflower each in one fell swoop as we both did, then this will make you re-think. Why Manchurian? No idea. Bittman uses tomato sauce (ketchup) which would undoubtedly convince every child in the land to gobble up their veg. Substitute 1 cup, preservative-free, for the homemade tomato sauce and the recipe is that much quicker.

1 compact, perfect head of cauliflower
Olive oil
Sea salt and pepper
1 onion, finely chopped
1 x 400g (15oz) tin of chopped tomatoes
A good glug of red wine vinegar
A good glug of balsamic vinegar
2 teaspoons of sugar
3 fat cloves of garlic, finely chopped
Good pinch (or more) of chilli powder

Preheat the oven to 200 C (400 F). Core, trim and break the cauliflower into florets of even-ish size. Arrange in a single layer in a baking dish. Toss with 2 tablespoons of oil, 1 teaspoon of salt and loads of pepper and roast, turning twice, for 30 minutes.

Fry the onion in a little oil until soft and beginning to colour. Add the tomatoes, juice and all, followed by the vinegars, sugar and a little salt. Bring to a boil, then simmer briskly for 10-15 minutes, until reduced to about a cup. Puree until smooth.

5 minutes before the cauliflower is ready, heat a splash of oil in a large frying pan over a medium heat. Add the garlic, and cook for a minute or two until fragrant, but not coloured. Pour in the tomato sauce (either the one above, or use 1 cup of ketchup) and cook, stirring often, for a few minutes, until the sauce bubbles and thickens – it must be rich and sticky. Add the chilli powder to taste and, when ready, tip the cauliflower florets into the pan. Toss over and over, making sure they are well coated in the sauce and serve, hot.

Robert Rauschenberg died last Monday, aged 82. He redefined collage, indeed painting, and is, without doubt, among my favourite artists.

Me, me, me

bird #1

I’ve been tagged by Stephanie of the very elegant Elegant Sufficiency for a meme – 7 Random Facts. It’s my first, so let’s see what little nuggets of information I can give you…

1. My hair colour has changed dramatically over the years – I’ve been dyeing it since I was fourteen. It’s been fire-engine red; a deep but bright hot pink (my favourite); black; bleached to a startling white and streaked with blue. Last year I finally stopped. Now it’s grey.

2. I do a mean impression of the Mother Superior from the Sound of Music. My ‘Climb Every Mountain’ is legendary and full of nun-like warbles and crescendos.

3. Though I love music, complete silence is often better.

4. I once asked art critic Robert Hughes at a National Art School opening night if he’d like, ‘a shitty plastic tumbler of delightfully crappy cheap plonk?’ before I knew it was him. Luckily it was before he lost his sense of humor - he laughed heartily and asked for another.

5. I’m obsessed with birds, crows in particular. Drawing them, collecting them, dreaming about them. The bigger and blacker they are, the more I love them. My heart leaps when I hear the magpies calling out to one another. Here’s a couple of big charcoal drawings from a year or two ago - one at the top, another below.

bird #3

6. Though Sydney born and bred, I love Melbourne. I couldn’t ever go back. Sorry mum…

7. I catch myself talking to the dog. A lot.

I'm trying to sleep. Bugger off.

By the way, you should read Stephanie’s mammoth 100^th post – she’s running a competition to celebrate with a wonderful prize, though you only have until the 20^th of May to enter. Better get cracking.

Now I tag Susan, Johanna and Truffle.

Sorry, but it had to be done...

Loathe as I am to write posts about cute pets, let me just say this - the photo was an accident, but made me laugh for some time...back to food shortly.

In which I finally work out how to put photos into my posts

Poppy likes a bit of tofu on a hot summer afternoon....