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.

Stalky

‘Tis the season for all things stalky.

A head of celery for a soup of adzuki beans and tiny millet and brown rice balls.

Tender rhubarb, for stewing with rosewater and ginger.

Simplicity and muscle

Two phrases are scrawled through the pages of my journals, wedged between recipes, sketches and ramblings. Strive for simplicity. Strive for muscle. Written in confident, looping letters, these are big ideas which haunt me in the small, quiet hours of the morning. As though the action of tracing the letters over and over will allow them to seep into daily life. But the art of reduction is as elusive as it is desirable. ‘Strive for muscle’ is a phrase borrowed from Francine Du Plessix Gray, found when rifling one holiday among the pages of The Writing Life. Wrangling words, dancing with language – the ‘muscle’ or strength, simplicity if you will, of which Gray speaks is worth striving for. An idea linguistically stripped back to its essence, one that inevitably spills into other areas of thinking. Simplicity. Muscle. Both require courage.

Harmony, mindfulness. Lately these have taken a grip on my thinking, edging, as we are, toward the introspective darker days of winter. It’s all too easy to be swept up by the confusion of bells and whistles in the kitchen; to be seduced by long lists of the exotic, the obscure. Time to step back. Time to breathe.

Simplicity in the kitchen is about developing intuition and confidence. Listening to the language your ingredients are speaking. How else will they shine? It’s about taking pleasure in small things, like running your fingers through the verdant pots of parsley, beads of water showering your good shoes in the process. Or sipping green tea in the afternoon and watching chickpeas slowly, very slowly, swell in a dish of cold, clear water. Simplicity is washing the dishes by hand because the dishwasher is, sadly, far too complicated. And simplicity is having the courage to place a bowl of homemade smoky eggplant puree on the table with some buttery, slow-cooked chickpeas and happily call it Dinner.

Drifting back, nose first, to the musky fug of chickpeas and bay quietly simmering in the oven, I know instantly what is needed. A bowl of herbal, fresh, flavour-lifting persillade to cut through that richness. Simple. Muscular. We ate in contented silence and both agreed it a meal fit for company. Hunks of crusty bread, or soft fresh pita, optional.

Persillade
Simplicity is persillade. Parsley, from the garden if you’re lucky, washed and carefully dried, pine nuts from the pantry and a clove, maybe two, of garlic. The zest of a lemon sometimes goes in depending on the sort of lift a dish needs, but essentially this is an intuitive thing. A very worthy, but vastly different, substitute for parmesan cheese.

Palmful of pine nuts
1 clove of garlic, peeled
2-3 large handfuls of parsley leaves, washed and well dried

Toast the pine nuts to a pale shade of gold in a heavy based frying pan. Cool on a plate. Chop the garlic roughly, then chop everything together, running your knife back and forth, over and over, until it’s all quite fine.

Smoky eggplant puree
Not quite the classic Babaganoush, this is adapted from Stephanie Alexander’s simple, delicious recipe. Her suggestion to serve with a separate bowl of sour cream into which you have stirred some finely chopped fresh ginger and another, smaller, bowl of sliced hot green chillies is Highly Recommended.

3-4 eggplants
Olive oil
2 cloves of garlic, finely chopped
Sea salt
2 lemons, juiced
Tahini, to taste

Preheat the oven to 180 C.

Trim and quarter the eggplants lengthways. Nestle them in a single layer in a large baking dish and drizzle with a little olive oil, just enough to lubricate the pan. Roast, turning once, for 40-45 minutes, until the wedges are cooked all the way though. Cool, then peel away and discard the skins. Place the softened eggplant flesh in a colander and press down with the back of a spoon to expel as much liquid as possible.

Puree the eggplant with the garlic, a little salt, the lemon juice and a tablespoon, to begin with, of tahini. Whiz to a puree, adding a little more tahini if you like. Serve topped with a thread of extra
virgin olive oil.

Gum blossom.

Photographed while watching Oscar play football, I'm rather sorry to say, badly.

Poor lad...

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.

Adzuki croquettes

"azuki togō ka, hito totte kuō ka? shoki shoki."*

* "Will I grind my adzuki beans, or will I get a person to eat? shoki shoki."

This little ditty is sung by Azukiarai, a macabre river-dwelling creature of Japanese legend, who, when he isn’t rinsing his adzuki beans in running water, is grinding them to a powder in a skull. A human one presumably, given those lyrics. A little odd, yes, in an Iron Chef, inscrutable kind of way. Considering the reputed healing powers of the adzuki I’m not surprised this fellow is obsessed with them, though I cannot condone, nor fathom, his fondness for human flesh. Besides, there’s enough protein in those little red beans to keep one happy, healthy and nourished without resorting to...well, whatever it is that he does.

Adzuki beans are easy on the digestion and require no (or precious little) soaking. Their inherent sweetness, coupled with a tendency to cook down to a creamy, red-flecked mass makes cooking desserts with them a natural to the Oriental palate. There you’ll find sweetened red bean pastes, cakes and a creamy, dairy-free sorbet quite unlike any other. An elusive flavour it has, difficult to put an exacting finger on. My step-sons loved it right up until the moment they learned it consisted of only red beans, vanilla and sugar. Both were caught with spoons in the pail later on – its light but mealy texture had them hooked, but they needed to go away and think about it for a little while.

Tinned legumes are a necessity of modern life – you can squander an entire afternoon waiting for chickpeas to reach that butter-soft stage (not to mention the twenty four soak required prior to their immersion) - but there are some legumes that are light years ahead in both texture and flavour when cooked from scratch. Tinned adzuki’s tend toward mush which is fine, desirable even, for sweet things but less pleasant in a savoury dish like this. They’ll take an hour, sometimes up to two, to reach tender creamy perfection. If you double the quantity, you’ll find they freeze well (this is true of all home-cooked beans) and you get the added bonus of a mineral-rich broth reputed to cleanse the kidneys. Two meals and a detox. Not bad, eh?

Sit these croquettes on a bed of quickly-wokked carrot, shredded wombok (Napa cabbage) and ginger and this meal is will evoke the exotic flavours of the Orient. It combines a bit of Japanese flavouring, a pungent Korean sauce and a Chinese-ish stir-fry. Oh for such harmony beyond the kitchen walls. Perhaps I could coax even that nasty old Azukiarai into trying this, and maybe, just maybe, he’d abandon his cannibalistic ways.

Adzuki bean croquettes – for 4

Dip, crunch, lick fingers. Repeat. It’s a ritual that appeals enormously. And if the sauce into which you are dipping just happens to be a complex, salty brew, all the better. Get the sauce made while the beans are simmering. The beans themselves are great over rice or even a steaming bowl of quinoa.

For the beans:
1 cup of adzuki beans
1 ¼ litres (5 cups) of water
1 x 5cm (2 inch) piece of kombu
1 onion, peeled and stuck with 2 cloves
A thumb of ginger, peeled and sliced
4 cloves of garlic, whole
2 tablespoons of mirin (or white wine/sherry)
1 tablespoon of oil
2 bay leaves
Sea salt or tamari

Pick over and rinse the beans. Place all of the ingredients except for the salt/tamari in a saucepan and bring to the boil. Reduce the heat to its lowest setting, cover with a lid and simmer for 1-2 hours, or until the beans are completely tender.

Remove the kombu, onion, bay leaf, ginger and garlic. Taste, seasoning with salt and/or tamari. Simmer gently for a further 2-3 minutes.

Drain, holding back just a little of the cooking liquid.

To make the croquettes:
2 cups of cooked, drained adzuki beans (see above)
4 spring onions (scallions), finely chopped (greens, too)
1 generous teaspoon of Sichuan peppercorns
Good pinch of sea salt
½ cup of breadcrumbs
½ cup of toasted sesame seeds
Oil, for greasing

Preheat the oven to 200 C (400 F).

Puree the beans, either in a food processor, blender or a food mill (I quite like the texture a food mill gives and you get a bit of an upper body work-out in the process). Don’t be tempted to blitz to a super smooth puree – leave it just a little bit chunky. If the mixture looks a little dry, add a spoonful or two of the reserved cooking liquid.

Tip the beans into a bowl and mix through the spring onions. Crush the Sichuan peppercorns with the salt in a mortar and pestle then stir into the bean mixture. Add the breadcrumbs bit by bit until the dough is stiff enough to shape easily – you may not need them all.

Roll the mixture into small, slightly flattened croquettes – 5-7 cms (about 2-3 inches) is just fine. Make them smaller if you like, finger food-style. Tip the toasted sesame seeds out onto a plate and roll the croquettes around to coat.

Lightly grease a baking sheet and carefully place the croquettes on top. Brush the tops with a little extra oil and bake in the preheated oven for 15-20 minutes. They should be golden and crisp. Alternatively you can shallow fry them, but I find that baking them makes for a much lighter and, it must be said, less messy meal.

Serve hot, with the following sauce.

Sesame dipping sauce:

This is pungent stuff and much as I love raw garlic, I’ve toned it down just a fraction from Mark Bittman’s original recipe. It’s very salty, very umami and very, very addictive. Consider yourself warned. Serve it in small dishes by the side of each plate. Leftovers (which there will be) make a great marinade.

¼ cup of tamari, shoyu or soy sauce
¼ cup of warm water
2 tablespoons of rice vinegar
1 tablespoon of toasted sesame oil
1 tablespoon of pale sesame oil
2 tablespoons of sesame seeds, toasted until golden in a dry pan
1 tablespoon of sugar
1 small clove of garlic, crushed
1 tablespoon of finely grated ginger
Pinch of chilli powder

Mix everything together until the sugar dissolves. Will keep, refrigerated, for a few days.

I’m submitting this to Susan, the Well Seasoned Cook, who is hosting an event called My Legume Love Affair. Love your beans too? Get posting.

Embracing the new

If the world is divided into those that love coriander and those that loathe it, then I am a card-carrying, paid-up, life-long member of the former camp. Its sharp citrussy notes and soft, pungent green-ness get all my juices flowing. Luckily, I fell for it from the very first mouthful. Equally at home in the cooking of the Eastern Mediterranean, North Africa, India and South East Asia, it pairs beautifully with vegetable dishes of all kinds. For this reason alone, I cannot fault it.

Tofu on the other hand, I can take or leave. Or so I thought. New Year, new resolve. Dismissing something simply because one has little experience with it is not a good enough reason to ban it from the kitchen. Something worthwhile addressing, and soon, I think. Tofu feeds entire cultures – it is the ‘cheese’ of Asia with varieties and grades to match the finest dairy in Europe – and provides a sizeable chunk of the world’s population with a cheap, affordable form of good, plant-based protein. It loves the flavours that I love. What’s not to like?

One of the things I have learned to love about silken tofu – and it is by far my tofu of choice - is its wobbly texture. Slicing through it is like gliding your knife through a shivering, jelly-like cloud of pure white. Easier to cut than butter; even room-temperature butter at that lovely stage of near collapse, caught moments before it melts into a puddle of gold. Its soft, barely-there texture is light, airy even, on the tongue. Here, simmered briefly in a coconut milk broth, like a sponge, it absorbs the strong flavours of coriander, lemongrass, ginger and chilli but somehow manages to diffuse and tame the heat at the same time. A full-blown tofu-lover I may not be yet, but I do know a good thing when I’m onto it.

Silken tofu and green beans in a lemongrass broth – for 2-3

Light, aromatic and pretty, yes, but the real clincher is that it is both quick and easy. You need rice to soak up the juices going on here, and while steamed jasmine or basmati are good, sticky short-grain brown rice is my preference. Brown rice grounds the lightness of this dish with its particular brand of earthy goodness and, of course, is far more nutritious to boot. My method is below, but follow your own by all means.

2 stalks of fresh lemongrass, roughly chopped (the whole lot)
2 thick slices of ginger
6 kaffir lime leaves (or zest of 1 lime)
1 large bunch of coriander (cliantro), well washed and shaken dry
Sea salt
1 tablespoon of tamari or soy sauce
1 tablespoon of palm sugar or brown sugar
1 x 300g (10 oz) packet of organic silken tofu
A large handful of green beans, topped and tailed
1 teaspoon of macadamia or light olive oil
2 small red onions, thinly sliced
2 cloves of garlic, thinly sliced
1 red chilli, finely chopped
½ teaspoon of turmeric
200ml of coconut milk
Rice, to serve (see below)
Fried shallots, to serve (optional)

Get your rice on before you begin, regardless of type and method.

Place the first 3 ingredients into a saucepan. Cut the leaves from the stalks of the coriander and set them aside. Roughly chop the stalks and, if you are lucky enough to have the roots with your coriander, roughly chop them too. Chuck these in to the saucepan, add 1 ½ cups of water and a good pinch of salt. Bring to a boil, then simmer, uncovered, for 15 minutes or until reduced to a little over half. Strain into a jug and stir in the tamari and sugar.

Gently drain the tofu. Place it carefully on a wad of kitchen paper and slice into cubes (don’t be precious – it will dissolve a little into the sauce). Slice the beans into 5cm (2 inch) lengths. Bring a saucepan of water to the boil, throw in the beans and simmer them for 3 minutes. Drain and set aside.

Heat a frying pan, add the oil and when it is hot add the onions, garlic and chilli. Stir fry over a high heat for 2 minutes and then add the par-cooked beans and the turmeric. Pour in the broth, add the tofu and gently stir. Add the coconut milk and simmer the whole lot for about 5 minutes. Add the reserved coriander leaves (yes, all of them), stir and simmer for a further minute.

Taste for salt, adjusting as you see fit - a splash of fish sauce (nam pla) is good - and serve over rice. Scatter each dish with fried shallots, if using, and serve immediately.

Brown rice, enough for two

½ cup of short grain brown rice
1 cup of water

Bring the rice and water to a boil in a small, heavy-based saucepan. Don’t be tempted to add salt – it inhibits the grain’s cooking, much as adding salt to dried beans does. Lower the heat right down to its lowest possible setting, clamp a lid on tightly and leave, untouched, for 45 minutes. Now you can lift the lid. The water should be completely absorbed and the grains should be bursting from their skins. Replace the lid, remove from the heat and leave to rest for a further 5 minutes.

An Inauthentic Dal

Some women shop for shoes. I shop for spices, pulses and grains. Sometimes it’s a little overwhelming to open the pantry and wonder when, exactly, you were planning to use them all. Never met a pulse I didn’t like. A half-filled jar of mung beans, the result of a failed sprouting attempt, needed emptying in an effort to wrestle back some semblance of control. Mangy-looking sprouts sold in supermarkets and one, delicious, meal of kichidi aside, I’ve not cooked or eaten mung beans nearly as often as their nutritional profile suggests one should. Moong dal is one of the few foods considered tridoshic in Ayurvedic medicine; a protein- and fibre-rich, easy-on-the-digestion, no-soaking required, all-rounder of a bean. Why, I wondered, haven’t I been cooking a pot of them at least once a week?

A large portion of Saturday morning, post voting and a half-hearted attempt at weeding, was spent faffing on the computer. Fool. The weather was stellar, but there I sat, sucked into a vortex of food related searches. Three hours passed, trawling the internet mindlessly and nothing, not one, single, useful thing had been achieved. Not exactly my intended Saturday. Frustrated, I switched the damn thing off, found a wide-brimmed hat and headed outside with Marion Halligan and Mark Bittman tucked under my arm.

‘Mung Bean Dal with Apples, Coconut and Mint’, from Bittman, sounded revolting, not least because half a cup of mint is, in my opinion, only really useful in a teapot. Bittman’s is a fairly broad use of the word dal, but it is worth noting that there are nearly as many dals as there are cooks. His suggested ‘twist’ - ditching the apples for carrots and the shredded coconut in favour of cashews - sounded interesting. And those mung beans had already lost their coveted spot. The result, with a few changes, is a surprisingly delicate moong dal with enough of the elements of Keralan cuisine to take your tastebuds on a nice little trip to tropical southern India. I can’t tell you how light and lovely this is, odd and inauthentic though its various components seem.

Having wasted Saturday morning, wasting the afternoon shopping would not have been wise. That is the beauty of a well-stocked pantry. A few handfuls of less-than-perfect spinach wilted through at the end and a palmful of curry leaves, retrieved from the very back of the freezer, rounded things out nicely. Two limes from the grocer next door were the only shopping required. One for the recipe, to cut through the coconut milk and the other for slicing into a celebratory Cointreau later in the evening. Sipped whilst dancing (badly) and messaging like-minded friends, a bit further away than I’d like them to be.

Mung dal with cashews and carrots – for 4-6

Adapted from this book. A highly delicious way to eat a highly nutritious little wonder-bean. Great with basmati rice spiced with a tablespoon of mustard seeds, carefully popped in a little hot oil moments before serving. Mustard seeds aid the digestion of beans – I do love the ancient, noble wisdom of Ayurveda.

1 ½ cups of whole mung beans (moong dal, yellow dal)
½ cup of raw cashews
3-4 medium-sized carrots, chopped
A large knob of ginger, peeled and finely grated (about 2 tablespoons)
6 cloves of garlic, finely chopped or crushed
8-10 curry leaves (optional)
½ teaspoon of turmeric
1-2 dried red chillies
1 x 400g (15oz) tin of coconut milk
1 ½ tablespoons of brown sugar or agave syrup
1 teaspoon of sea salt
A handful or two of spinach leaves
1 lime
1 long green chilli, thinly sliced (to garnish)

Basmati rice (see above), to serve

Pick over the beans very well. Pebbles and other stray bits will do your teeth no end of damage and this also gives you a chance to discard any damaged or shrunken beans. Soak the beans in a bowl of water while you prepare the other ingredients. I’m never sure of the age of mine, so a short soaking means they will cook, perfectly, within the allocated time.

Drain the beans and place them, along with the cashews, carrots, ginger, garlic, curry leaves, turmeric, chillies, coconut milk and sugar in a large, heavy-based saucepan (a Dutch oven is perfect). Add enough water to cover by 10 cms (4 inches) and bring slowly to the boil. Turn the heat down to a simmer and partially cover with a lid.

Simmer for 45-60 minutes, stirring and checking the water from time to time (I keep a hot kettle of water by the stove to top things up). The beans must be absolutely tender before adding the salt, stirring through the spinach and squeezing in the juice of the lime.

When the spinach has wilted, ladle out over bowls of basmati rice and garnish with the slices of hot, green chilli.

So, I’ve earmarked some shelf space and washed out a new jar. Mung beans will be back. Might just be making that delicious coriander and garlic-laced kichidi again, too.

This week Weekend Herb Blogging is being hosted by Kalyn, creator of this popular, weekly blogging event.

Summer

The rocket has gone mad,
the cricketers have taken over the park
and the chick, whose nest we've been watching, has upped and left.

Summer's here and the tomatoes are di-vine.

Braised with green beans, red onion and a truckload of garlic.

Favourite summer lunch.

Small pleasures

Huge crates of asparagus are appearing at the market, beautifully boxed, heads held high, their necks gracefully, delicately, bowed. Asparagus is the star of spring. Undeniably. Love the stuff. But I’ve been waiting for an older, ancient crop, one a little less regal. One of the oldest domesticated plants. One with a suitably rich and varied history.

Broad beans or fava beans, tend to evoke bad responses from many (mostly English) people. My father takes great exception to them (though he's not English, so there goes that theory). I have a sneaky recipe up my sleeve for just such a person, a salad, one that uses broad beans, double-peeled and generously dressed with lemon, garlic, olive oil, smoked paprika and cumin. A tin of chickpeas, drained and rinsed is tossed in along with massive amounts of fresh coriander and parsley. I’ve not met a soul who didn’t fall for it – there’s hope for the unconvinced yet. Once peeled you can roughly pestle them to make a chunky sort of pesto mixed with some fresh mint, chives and goats cheese. Great piled high on garlicky toast. Another winner.

Split the pods and you’ll find them softly swaddled, like precious, sleeping babies. Peel away those skins and they emerge naked, a bright lime green. Delicious. In Greece broad beans are served raw, the whole pods dropped in a loose tangle in the centre of the table, a bottle of ouzo placed on the side. I can’t help myself when podding – raw they possess a crunch and green-ness unmatched by the more pedestrian pea. One for the pot, one for me. You don’t even need the ouzo, really.

A tough, grey, water-logged bean is a waste of both your time and energy. Blanch the podded beans in rapidly boiling water for sixty seconds, refresh them in ice-cold water and drain thoroughly before slipping off each bean’s little pale overcoat. An easy enough task, yes, but I sometimes prefer patiently peeling them, unblanched, with a sturdy thumbnail. Releasing each bean, dropping it into a bowl and hearing it plink against the surface offers a gentle, rhythmical sound, one that nearly manages to cancel out the screeching and honking of peak hour traffic filtering into the garden. Nearly.

I’m writing this now because I want to make use of the Australian spring before we disappear for a few weeks. Make hay while the sun shines as the saying goes. Spring here is short-lived; the transition from gentle warm days to fierce summer heat happens in the blink of an eye in this drought-ravaged country. And the Artist and myself are leaving on the first of October for a much needed holiday. New York, Madrid and a blissful week roaming the beaches of San Sebastian, sketchbooks and notebooks in hand. And wouldn’t you know it? Right smack bang in the middle of our spring.

Spring vegetable ragoût – generously serves 4

The ravioli or gnocchi is an addition, a good one, that will make this meal more substantial. Get them cooking while you chop the vegetables, that way they’ll be ready to slip in when the time is right. And don’t for even a second think that I would suggest you make your own here. Not even I am a martyr to that cause.

2 big handfuls of broad beans in the pod
750g (about 1 ½ lbs) of asparagus
1 bunch of baby carrots
1 large handful of snow peas
1 tablespoon of olive oil
1 tablespoon of butter
1 onion, peeled and finely chopped
Small palmful of thyme leaves
½ cup of dry white wine
1 cup of water
Sea salt
Large handful of baby spinach or sorrel leaves, washed
2 handfuls of spinach & ricotta ravioli or gnocchi, cooked
100g (about 3oz) of soft goat’s cheese (optional)
Small handful of parsley, finely chopped
Extra virgin olive oil or butter, to serve
1 lemon, sliced into wedges

Pod the broad beans. Peel the pale green layer from any beans that are larger than your thumbnail. Set aside.

Snap off and discard the woody ends of the asparagus by taking the spear between both hands and bending it. Where it seems to want to snap naturally is exactly where you should do so. Slice the spears diagonally into three. Set aside.

Remove the feathery tops from the carrots, leaving about 1-2 cm’s of stalk attached to each one. Any carrots thicker than your index finger should be halved lengthways.

Thinly slice the snow peas on the diagonal. Set aside with the broad beans.

Warm the butter and oil together in a large, lidded frying pan or a wide, heat-proof casserole over a medium heat. Add the onion, thyme and carrots and fry, stirring often, for 5 minutes or until lightly coloured. Pour in the wine and let it bubble away to almost nothing. Add the water, followed by the asparagus and a good pinch of salt. Place the lid on, lower the heat and cook for 6 minutes or until the vegetables are tender at knife point.

Lift the lid, give it all a gentle stir and drop in the broad beans, snow peas and spinach leaves. Replace the lid and continue to cook for another 2-3 minutes.

Turn off the heat, lift the lid and drop in the cooked ravioli or gnocchi. Gently stir. Crumble over the goat’s cheese. Sprinkle with the chopped parsley and drizzle with a spoonful (or more) of extra virgin olive oil (or butter). Replace the lid and rest for a moment or two.

Serve in wide soup plates with the wedges of lemon.

Black bean broth

Sometimes leftovers are a pain.

But sometimes, just sometimes, they are a boon.

Tinned beans are a thing of the past around here since the purchase last year of a good quality, sturdy and, most importantly, safe pressure cooker. In less than half an hour we can have perfectly cooked cannellini beans, tossed while still warm with a finely chopped mixture of garlic, fresh parsley and pine nuts. In twenty minutes, black (turtle) beans are ready for a chilli, heartily spiced then served with shards of oven-crisped pita bread, dollops of cold, thick yoghurt and creamy avocado dice.

Quite often though, I look at the broth the beans have cooked in and despair just a little. It’s full of flavour; full of goodness. Though tipping the liquid onto the garden is an option, the one most often resorted to, wastage of late has made me feel, well, wasteful. Maybe I'm getting old.

Last nights’ chilli yielded a delicious and workable amount of broth, flavoured with kombu (I always cook beans, regardless of cuisine, with a small piece to help digestion), 2 whole shallots and a large pinch of asafetida powder. Some of the beans dissolved just a little, satisfyingly thickening the whole, and I deliberately held back a spoonful of the beans to make something today. A soup, cooked with a large handful of tender, shredded gai laan (Chinese broccoli) leaves and topped with a sweet/spicy salsa. It’s great. Greater still is the peace of mind actually using leftovers can bring.

gai laan leaves

Black bean broth with greens and salsa
This is one of those flexible recipes therefore it is difficult to give exact quantities. It’s dependent entirely on just how much bean broth you have leftover – so gauge your servings as your hunger dictates. One litre (1 quart) or so of broth will feed two to three people quite happily. Reserve a large spoonful of the beans and place them back into the broth until you’re ready to cook the next day– it will give the soup a little more body. Use any greens you like. Spinach, silverbeet (chard) or sorrel would all work as well as the gai laan leaves.

½ avocado, peeled and diced
Small handful of cherry tomatoes, diced
1 tablespoon of sweet chilli sauce
1 teaspoon of olive oil
1 small onion, finely chopped
2 teaspoons of cumin seeds, ground
1-2 cloves of garlic, chopped
Leftover broth from cooking black (turtle) beans
A large spoonful of the beans (optional)
A large handful or 2 of greens
1 tablespoon of tamari, or more, to taste
Bread, toasted, to serve

To make the salsa, mix the diced avocado, tomatoes and sweet chilli sauce together in a small bowl and set aside.

Heat the oil in a saucepan. Add the onion and cook over a medium heat until translucent (about 5 minutes). Add the cumin and garlic, stir fry for a minute then pour in the bean broth and reserved black beans. Scrape the bottom of the pan to release any golden bits and bring to the boil.

Meanwhile, shred the greens into ribbons. When the soup boils, reduce the heat to a simmer and add the greens. Simmer for 5 minutes, or until the greens are tender. Add tamari to taste and simmer for a moment or two longer. Taste and add a little more tamari if you feel it is needed. Serve in deep bowls with a large helping of salsa spooned on top.

gai laan, flowering