Spicy Moroccan Butter

Dry leaves are swept up, swirled momentarily then tumbled among the debris around the yard. Magpies struggle, warbling in protest, to hold on to the overhead wires they pendulously grip. There’s an unmistakable icy bite in the air. Our lilli pilli tree, as sweetly a named native as one could hope, is dropping juicy bombs of pink that explode on the deck. The small, pretty fruit can be made into jams and jellies, an old fashioned kind of Australian cooking, but as most recipes seem to require shocking amounts of sugar to impart any actual flavour, I’m content to sweep the daily windfall away. The lemon tree, far more useful, is bearing loads of ripe yellow globes that are being squeezed into, and over, everything.

Poaching quinces with rosewater and dried cherries to sit atop morning porridge; layering vegetables in a dish, bathing them in stock and a dribble of oil; carving smiling wedges from a hefty pumpkin. Cool weather pleasures abound in the months ahead. There will be bracing dog walks on the beach, dodging the eerily blue jellyfish deposited along the shore by wilder, seasonal waves, and gnarled driftwood to collect along the way. Ours is an ever expanding pile. Winds that blow away the cobwebs; scarves and socks and not shaving your legs. Reading and writing in a sunlit room on a bright, cold day. The joy of running without muttering breathlessly about the ‘bloody heat’.

Some rain came this week and washed away the fragment of self doubt that’s been hanging around. I walked the dog during one of the exceptionally gorgeous breaks between downpours. It was only then that the flame reds and burnished golds of autumn were, finally, revealed. What can I say? It was beautiful. Back in the kitchen I realized that pumpkin wasn’t going to carve itself. Then Cindy reminded me that the combination of fennel and pumpkin is utterly inspired. I got out the Big Knife and merrily carved away.

So, what’s for dinner? I’m very glad you asked.

Pumpkin, fennel and olive pies – feeds 4-6 (makes 8)

Do I really need to tell you that what makes this so very good is the Spicy Moroccan Butter? It’s based, in part, on a Paula Wolfert recipe via Deborah Madison’s Savory Way. It has loads of uses, but roasted with a tray of vegetables it is exquisite. The rest? Well, that's all my own work. And yes, I do know that filo really is better when brushed with melted butter than oil. Do as your conscience and waistline see fit...

Spicy Moroccan butter/oil:

½ teaspoon of sea salt
4 spring onions, white part only, chopped
2 cloves of garlic, chopped
1 heaped teaspoon of smoked paprika
1 tablespoon of cumin seeds
1 teaspoon of coriander seeds
1 teaspoon of fennel seeds
½ teaspoon of hot chilli powder
Small handful of parsley, chopped
Small handful of coriander (cilantro), chopped
125g (½ cup) of unsalted butter or 1/3 cup extra virgin olive oil

Using a mortar and pestle, crush the sea salt, spring onions, garlic and spices to make a paste. Add the herbs, and pound until quite smooth. Chop the butter roughly and pound it into the paste until well combined. Form the butter into a log, wrap tightly, and place in the fridge to rest while you get on with the recipe. If you’re using the oil, blend in all together well and set aside. The butter, well sealed and frozen, will keep for months; the oil in a lidded jar in the fridge for 1 week.

The pies:
1 kilo (2 generous lbs) of pumpkin (winter squash)
2 fennel bulbs, trimmed, soft fronds reserved
Olive/macadamia oil
Spicy Moroccan butter (see above)
2 handfuls of kalamata olives
1/3 cup of pine nuts, toasted
1 packet of filo pastry (thawed if frozen)

Preheat the oven to 180 C (375 F).

Peel the pumpkin and discard the seeds. Chop into chunks and place in a baking tray. Quarter, core and thickly slice the fennel bulbs. Add to the pumpkin, drizzle over a little oil and dot with 2 rather generous tablespoons of the butter. Bake for 45-50 minutes, tossing once the butter has melted and twice more during the process.

Chop the reserved fennel fronds. Pit the olives and roughly chop. When the vegetables are ready, remove from the oven and toss with the fennel fronds, olives and toasted pine nuts. Roughly divide the filling into 8.

Unfurl the pastry on a bench and place a clean tea towel on top. Brush the first sheet with a little oil and top with another sheet. Continue oiling and layering until 6 sheets thick. Using a sharp knife, cut the pastry in 2 widthways. Spoon the filling in the centre of each filo sheet, top with a little more butter if you dare, and gently bring the sides up. Pinch to make a ruffled ‘purse’. Brush with a little more oil, place on a lightly oiled baking tray and continue with the remaining pastry and filling to make 8.

Bake for 30-40 minutes, until golden and shatteringly crisp. Serve with a salad of bitter leaves dressed with grain mustard and red wine vinegar.

Spring herb tart

Away from the kitchen for more than a couple of weeks and these fingers start to itch, this brain begins ticking, whirring slowly into gear and then, oh dear, food itself becomes the very topic of dreams. Eating out every night in Spain, every day, too, had its charms (no washing up for starters) but the subconscious was not-so-subtly letting me know what it was craving. In lieu of actual cooking, dreaming about cooking took me by surprise.

Being surrounded by delicious salt cod and tuna dishes, inventive and awash with the most beautiful, grassy olive oil, anchovies both white and pink so succulent as to silence us on more than one occasion, snaffled up, alternating one pink, one white until the plate was empty was both wonderful and inspiring, yet each night, drifting off to sleep, vegetables, herbs and wholegrains took hold of my thoughts. Perhaps there’s something Freudian in that.

Notes from my journal this year are dotted with references searching for the perfect recipe for an all wholemeal (wholewheat) pastry. So often the dough is leaden, shrinks to nothing and tastes of cardboard. Holiday reading has happily fixed that. The idea of a tart, with a crumbly, buttery fibre-rich crust, filled with spring herbs, was sown.

Chervil is a pretty, wispy, girly sort of herb with a pale green, fern-like head of hair similar to, but finer still than, the feathery tops of baby carrots. It’s a spring tonic; a subtler version of parsley with the just the vaguest hint of anise. The classic use for it, then, is fines herbes a combination of equal quantities of finely chopped chervil, parsley, tarragon and chives. Sprinkled over a dish of perfectly cooked spring vegetables lightly drizzled with olive oil or topped, still-warm, with a spoonful of unsalted butter is reason enough to grow your own. I, however, am the chervil-killer, having tried to grow it unsuccessfully a record five pathetic times now. And it goes to seed as soon as you turn your back, before you can even utter the words, ‘I hope I don’t manage to kill this one before the holiday’s begun…’ Needless to say Prahran Market was able to oblige.

Holidays are marvelous, and there’s much more to tell, but it’s nice to be home.

Spring herb tart for 6-8
This is a Tarte aux fines herbes in essence, but as I can’t stand buying a bunch of herbs and using only a measly tablespoon or two (and watching the remainder wither away on the bench) it’s very herby and a little rougher around the edges than the classic-sounding name suggests. Spring herb tart it is then, and just the way home-cooked should be.

1 prepared tart shell (see below)
1 large bunch of spring onions
3 cloves of garlic
1 tablespoon of olive oil
4 large sprigs of tarragon
1 handful of chervil leaves
1 handful of parsley leaves
1 handful of chives
4 eggs, free range (you know the drill)
250ml of double cream, preferably organic
Pepper
1 large handful of grated cheese (Cheddar, Gruyere, Manchego, whatever)

Slice the spring onions thinly, greens and all, and crush the garlic. Heat the oil in a frying pan over low-medium and add the spring onions and garlic. Cook, stirring often, for about 5 minutes. Remove from the heat and set aside.

Strip the tarragon leaves, discard the stalks, and chop them finely. Chop the chervil and parsley finely, snip the chives into short lengths and add all of the herbs to the cooked spring onions and garlic, stirring well. Cool.

Beat the eggs lightly with the cream and plenty of pepper. Add three-quarters of the cheese and mix well.

Spread the spring onion-herb mixture evenly over the base of the cooked pastry shell. Gently pour in the egg mixture and top with the remaining cheese.

Bake for 20-30 minutes at 180 C (375 F) until golden on top. Rest for at least 5 minutes before slicing and serving. Good hot, cold or somewhere in between, with a salad.

Wholemeal (wholewheat) tart shell
From an idea in Colin Spencer’s Vegetable Pleasures. Don’t feel that you need to use this particular pastry – by all means use your own shortcrust – it’s just that I had a eureka moment and thought you might be interested. It will crack and misbehave and you’ll end up with a patch-worked tart shell, but it’s worth the effort. The secret is the lemon juice (which helps to develop the gluten) instead of water (which is why pastry shrinks). Bear with me.

150g (6oz) of unsalted butter
300g (a fraction less than 12oz) of wholemeal (wholewheat) flour
Pinch of sea salt
1 lemon

Measure your butter and then wrap in foil and freeze for 30 minutes or longer.

Sift the flour into a bowl and tip any bran left in the sieve into the bowl. Add the salt and mix. Using a box grater, coarsely grate the ice-cold butter into the pastry and, working quickly and lightly, crumble the mixture between your fingers, or use a pastry cutter if you happen to have one, until it resembles breadcrumbs. (This takes more effort than with white flour, but be patient).

Squeeze the lemon and add all of the juice to the bowl. Using your knuckles, pummel the mixture into a crumbly paste and form into two balls. Again, be patient – it will be crumbly, but this is desirable. Wrap in greaseproof paper and pop in the fridge for 30 minutes – 1 hour.

Preheat the oven to 200 C (400 F).

Remove both balls of pastry from the fridge. Roll out, one at a time, as thinly as you can (about ½ cm is the thinnest I got to) and yes, it will shatter and break. No matter. Place as many whole pieces as possible on the base of a tart tin with a removable base. Fill the holes and cracks in between with enough pastry to completely cover the base and sides. Any leftover pastry should be kept – this is important.

Cover the base generously with a sheet of baking paper and fill with dried beans or ceramic baking beads, whatever you have. Bake for 10 minutes, then remove the beans and paper and return the shell to the oven for a further 10 minutes.

When the shell comes out, the base will reveal cracks and even holes. Fill these, as you would a cracked wall, while the case is still warm, with the leftover pastry bits and cool completely before filling and continuing with the recipe.

This is my entry for the 105^th week (can you believe?), of Weekend Herb Blogging, and event created by Kalyn Denny and hosted this week by my friend Susan, the Well Seasoned Cook.

On lemons and gardens

Throughout my twenties, moving from house to house, the one thing that determined if a property was just right, was access to a lemon tree. Be it a branch, laden with fruit, hanging over the fence, a neighbourhood tree from which a little pilfering now and then in the dark would not be detected, or, better still, a tree of my own, this simple rule has kept me in good stead. I love lemons. Growing up in a typically Australian suburb on the (then) outskirts of Sydney, the lemon tree with its thick gnarled branches was the most useful plant in our otherwise very English cottage garden. The fruit was thick-skinned and the juice particularly sour. I used to mime to ABBA songs with a girl from next door who would eat the lemons straight from the tree, wincing, but soldiering on as if on some sort of mission. Good Lord. My lips still curl at the mere thought.

Lemons are simply indispensable in the kitchen. Cooking, indeed eating without them would be unthinkable. Anna Del Conte in Amaretto, Apple Cake & Artichokes says, ‘I feel totally lost when I discover I haven’t got a single lemon in the larder’. Might I add to that a lemon within short walking distance?

When we moved here a full twelve months ago, the giant, showy cumquat tree that swamps the front garden overshadowed the lemon, its dark leaves lurking in the far corner of the eye. What a lemon tree. One of the down sides of renting is that the garden, like the house itself, isn’t ever really yours to own. You cannot take a garden with you, nor can you make one, a real one, in the space of just a few years. I’ve had a few trees in my time, but this one, a Meyer as far as I can tell, is a corker. Thin-skinned, sweet of flesh and heaving with fruit, it’s a joy – just beware of the stabbing thorns, ever-ready to dig deep into wandering fingers. A Meyer, one equipped with a magnificent defense system, for sure.

Should we ever settle somewhere permanently, the first thing I will do is plant a Meyer lemon. Drought tolerant, useful, beautiful. You couldn’t ask for more.

What to do with all of that fruit? Salty preserved lemons. Once you’ve got the taste for this uniquely Moroccan specialty you’ll find yourself slipping a finely chopped chunk or two into almost anything. A tray of potatoes, roasted with wedges of red onion and a chopped red pepper or two then tossed with olive oil are lifted by a last minute addition of the lemons. Fresh coriander, smoked paprika and cumin, a downright addictive combination, even love that salt when tossed with fresh young broad beans (double-peeled) and tender chickpeas for a salad doused in grassy olive oil and fresh lemon juice.

Speedy preserved lemons
Adapted, only slightly, from Paula Wolfert’s recipe in Mediterranean Greens and Grains. Ready in seven days.

6 juicy, thin-skinned lemons, unsprayed and unwaxed
60g (2oz) of coarse sea salt (the big, grey chunks)
Olive oil

Cut 2 of the lemons into eighths and discard any obvious seeds. Pack the chunks into a clean glass jar.

Squeeze the juice from the remaining lemons until you have about 100ml. Add the sea salt and stir. Pour into the jar, secure the lid tightly and give it all a good shake.

Leave at room temperature with the lid on for 7 days. Shake the jar once or twice a day during this time.

After 7 days the lemons will be ready. Keep in the refrigerator and make sure the top of the jar covered with a thin layer of olive oil after opening. The oil becomes lemony and delicious and is perfect for dressing a salad when you’ve finished the lemons off.

To begin with, take one eighth, and very finely chop both skin and flesh adding to your chosen dish. Taste before deciding to add more (I always seem to add more). Many recipes tell you to discard the flesh and use only the skin, but I’ve never found that to be necessary.

Keeps, at the back of the fridge, for about 12 months. But don’t wait that long.

Here’s something well worth being the first thing you might make with those lemons.

For Christina, an excellent gardener.

Rainbow chard and feta filo pie – for 4
The only fancy bit of equipment you need here is a (very cheap) pastry brush. I also add the beetroot stalks, chopped and cooked with the chard stems when they are fresh and look snappy. The filling goes all pink and green – very pretty.

¼ cup of currants
¼ cup of pine nuts
1 bunch of rainbow chard or silverbeet
Olive oil
2 onions, very thinly sliced
2 cloves of garlic, very finely chopped
2 huge handfuls of greens (beetroot, rocket, whatever you’ve got)
Sea salt
4 eggs
200g of feta (goat’s feta works best)
½ a preserved lemon, finely chopped (more if you like)
Pepper
80g of unsalted butter, melted
1 packet of filo pastry

Soak the currants in freshly boiled water for 20 minutes. Drain when ready. Toast the pine nuts in a dry pan until golden, tossing all the time – they must not burn. Cool on a plate and set aside.

Separate the rainbow chard leaves from the stems. Trim the stems and cut into small dice. Wash the leaves, shake them dry and then roll up and slice thinly into ribbons.

Heat 2 tablespoons of the oil in a heavy-based frying or saucepan and sauté the onion until pale gold. Add the stems and garlic and cook over a medium heat, stirring often, for 5 minutes. Add the sliced chard leaves to the pan, followed by the beetroot or rocket leaves and trickle over 1 more tablespoon of oil. Cover the pan until the leaves have softened, then remove lid and stir well. Add currants, a pinch of salt and toasted pine nuts and cook, lifting and turning, until the stems are tender but the leaves are glossy and green.

Break the eggs into a large bowl, beat briefly with a fork and crumble in the feta. Add the preserved lemon and a good grinding of black pepper. Tip in the chard filling and gently mix.

Brush shallow ovenproof dish with a little of the melted butter. Unfurl the whole packet of the pastry on the bench and place a clean tea towel on top. Use 4 or 5 sheets of pastry to line the prepared dish, overlapping and letting the edges hang over the sides. Pour in the filling.

Crumple the overlapping edges of pastry on to the filing. Brush the remaining sheets of pastry liberally with the butter, crumple each sheet and arrange over the top, ensuring it is completely covered. Bake in the preheated oven for 30 minutes until the filling is set and the pastry golden. Cool slightly before slicing.

There are many other ways to use a lemon too. Watch this space.

Rainbow chard

A pink tongue of rainbow chard stalk.

Chopped and sauteed with onions, garlic and those crinkly, dark green leaves.

For a crunchy filo pie with currants, golden pine nuts, some feta and lots of salty, moreish, home-made preserved lemons.

Pie

Been working on a pie.

A simple one, with a rich Spanish-inspired, autumnal vegetable filling.

Pretty good.

But not quite there yet.