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.

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.

Dinner for two: Coconut and date chutney

Sitting on the front porch, mango juice dripping down my arms, cicadas shrilling in the background. The dog chases flies, snapping at them as they buzz. Older cars that pass have their windows wound down, all the way, and snatches of their music filter into my garden. Party music, all thumping bass and angry words, alternates with the chatter of afternoon radio, a voice or two almost recognizable. Almost. I throw the leathery mango skin into the garden, frisbeed against the fence. It’s summer after all. The black bird and his wife, scratching around in the undergrowth, will be happy enough to pick at the tiny amount, if any, of flesh left. It will be gone, skin and all, before the daylight fades.

School is nearly over for the year. The dragging days, countdown to six whole weeks of freedom were, as a child, excruciating. A week, often longer, would pass before Christmas arrived. I'd play cricket in the street with my brother, calling as cars approached, slower than they do now. The forbidden thrill of roller skating on the Bennett's driveway, the most satisfying of surfaces to roll across, was noisy and wonderful, but only if they were out. We'd skate past nonchalantly just to make sure. Riding bikes full pelt down the steepest of roads, no hands, definitely no helmet. You fell, picked the gravel out of your knees and started again, winded, but laughing.

The difference between the cozy northern Christmas and the sunny southern one is vast. Despite this we share the same snowy imagery, an irony not lost on Australian children. So, our Santa is often depicted in shorts, fur-lined thongs (the shoes, thankfully, not the underpants) and sports a jolly beer belly. Kangaroos pull his sled, a cringe-worthy but amusing thought. He sometimes wears a hat strung with corks that dangle from the brim to keep the flies off. Sitting in the front yard, flies everywhere, I could do with one of those hats. Luckily the dog does what she can.

Holidays again. Off to Sydney, to blue carpets of Jacaranda petals and the squealing of parrots as they settle colourfully in my parent’s leafy suburban yard. Glimpses of the harbour, sun-sparkled, caught between blocks of flats; congested streets but knowing all the short cuts, all the back ways. Seeing mum, dad and my brother (my brother!) who has, I think, fallen in love. Cooking with mum, who shares her daughter’s obsessive interest in food and literature. Talking, properly, with my dad. Friends. Jo especially. She’s had a tough year, but it’s been good. This is what Christmas holds for me.

Until then, though, we still have a week or so up our sleeves. Just like that break between the last day of school and Christmas itself, it stretches ahead of me. But it’s passing way too quickly. Something tonight, then, for just the two of us. A quiet night in before the silly season gets into full swing.

Coconut and date chutney

Adapted from Claudia Roden’s unbelievably useful Book of Jewish Food. This addictive fresh chutney, easy to make and easier still to eat (said as she pauses to dip in yet another cracker) is from the Bene Israel community of India. You’ll need to be an unabashed coriander-lover (cilantro) to enjoy this and while a combination of mint and parsley might work, I love coriander. Adore it. Great with fish, especially the fragrant banana leaf-wrapped parcels below, but wonderful too with slices of fried eggplant. Try serving it as a dip with crisp papadams, rice crackers or those mini toasts that the French make. Hard to stop eating, I tell ya…

1 tablespoon of tamarind paste
1 ¾ cups (about 125g) of shredded coconut
2/3 cup (about 150ml) of warm water
1 large bunch of coriander (cilantro), well washed
12 dried, pitted dates
Juice of 2 limes (or one juicy lemon)
2 cloves of garlic, crushed
½ teaspoon of sea salt
¼ teaspoon of hot chilli powder

Dissolve the tamarind paste in 2 tablespoons of boiling water. Tip the coconut into a large bowl and pour over the warm water. Leave both tamarind and coconut for 20 minutes.

Discard the roots of the coriander and roughly chop the rest. Push the dissolved tamarind paste through a sieve, pressing to extract as much liquid as possible, making sure to scrape anything that accumulates on the underside of the sieve too. Place all the ingredients into the bowl of a food processor and whiz until well chopped. Add a tablespoon or two of water down the chute to make the chutney smoother. Keeps for a few days, tightly lidded, in the fridge.

Banana leaf snapper parcels – for 2

We had these with tiny, pebbly new potatoes, boiled in their skins until tender (10 minutes), drained well and then sauteed, whole, in 2 teaspoons of ghee. 1 tablespoon of garam masala was added moments before serving.

Preheat the oven to 200 C (400 F). Take 2 banana leaves and lay them out flat on the bench, dull-side up. Place a fillet of snapper (or any firm-fleshed, white fish) in the centre of each leaf. Top each fillet with a sprinkling of freshly ground cumin, a few slices of lime, 1 long green chilli, sliced on the diagonal and some thin slices of ginger. Season, then wrap securely, tying the parcels with kitchen string or using bamboo skewers. Bake, on a tray, for 15 minutes. Unwrap at the table. Serve with the coconut and date chutney.

So, over to you. How will you be spending the festive season?

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.

Moroccan Pumpkin - A Vegan Venture

‘My hearse will be followed not by mourning coaches but by herds of oxen, sheep, swine, flocks of poultry and a small travelling aquarium of live fish, all wearing white scarves in honour of the man who perished rather than eat his fellow creatures.’

George Bernard Shaw, free-thinker, playwright and vegetarian, who died in 1950 at the ripe old age of ninety-four.

His longevity, Mr Shaw declared, could be explained simply by his choice of food. I imagine his tee-totaling lifestyle contributed a great deal to that too; still, it won’t stop me raising a glass to that sort of revolutionary thinking. Had he lived now, when the ethics of vegetarianism have been nudged further to the left, there’s little doubt in my mind that he would have adopted veganism with the same aplomb. Given, however, his particular passion for cream-laden cake, large wedges of which he would greet guests at the gate with, I’m not entirely certain Mr Shaw would have embraced tofu quite as readily as many modern vegetarians have. Tofu (the ‘T’ word) is, you see, one of the cornerstones of vegan cooking.

Much of what comes out of this kitchen is vegan or almost. The shores of Mediterranean Europe are brimming with ideas from which the greedy magpie cook can thieve. The flavours of India, the Middle East and North Africa offer a goldmine of vegan-friendly treasures, and all without the need for tofu. Tempeh, I love; its nuttiness and crispy, golden, pan-fried edges make it a toothsome addition to South East Asian dishes. Tofu, served in the elegant, Japanese way is high on my list of culinary loves (once, in Auckland, I ate an entire plate of Agedashi Tofu, then poked and prodded my chopsticks deftly around everyone else’s tofu too – a greedy girl, always). But tofu, Mediterranean-style, seems to this palate, wrong.

No tofu today. I’ve something better to share.

Occasionally it is necessary to suspend your disbelief when recipe reading. Skeptics (read me) may scoff at a suggestion (read Edward) that you serve your guests a platter of saffron-tinted couscous, topped with slowly braised golden shallots and sticky prunes, finished with quarter moons of spicy, fragrant orange pumpkin. But they’d be mistaken. Nadine Abensur, who transports you to her childhood home in Morocco in one breath then seduces you with her unique approach to vegetables, is just my sort of cook. Had the recipe not been hers, I probably would probably have turned the page.

The festive season is, amazingly, just around the corner. We were having a little festivity of our own in the backyard last weekend and this stunning, suitably festive meal was perfect. Can I suggest you try at least one all vegan celebratory meal this year? Serves six normal people. Or one normal(ish) person, her greedy partner and a teenage step son who’d been asking for it for months.

Moroccan pumpkin with a shallot and prune confit – for 6

There are three layers here. Start with the pumpkin, move onto the confit and prepare the couscous at the last possible moment. Nadine Abensur’s Cranks Bible was the inspiration for this – the confit is entirely hers with only slight changes by me because you live and learn. It is incredibly rich, really it is, so follow or serve with a simple green salad and some oven-warmed bread.

The pumpkin:
1 small jap (kent) pumpkin (about 1.5 kilos or 3 lbs)
1 tablespoon of coriander seeds
1 tablespoon of cumin seeds
2 teaspoons of chilli flakes
1 heaped teaspoon of ground cinnamon or ras el hanout
1 tablespoon of pure maple syrup
2 tablespoons of olive oil
2 tablespoons of tamari (or soy sauce)

Cut the pumpkin into at least 18 wedges. Scoop out and discard the seeds.

Toast the coriander, cumin and chilli flakes in a dry pan, tossing constantly, for 2 minutes, or until fragrant. Cool on a plate. Grind to a rough powder with either a mortar and pestle or a clean coffee/spice grinder. In a large bowl, mix the ground spices with the cinnamon or ras el hanout, the maple syrup, oil and tamari.

Toss the pumpkin wedges in the spice and oil mixture, arrange in a large baking dish and as best you can. Baste with any remaining spice and oil mixture and bake in the preheated oven for 45 minutes to 1 hour, turning each wedge at least twice, until completely tender, but still holding their shape.

The shallot and prune confit:
500g (1 lb) of shallots (eshallots)
2 large handfuls of raw almonds
300g (10 oz) prunes with their pits
2 tablespoons of olive oil
Sea salt
6 cloves of garlic, peeled and left whole

Bring a medium-sized saucepan of water to the boil. Throw in the shallots and simmer at a vigorous pace for 1 minute. Scoop them out, reserving the water, and drain. Top, tail and peel the shallots and set them aside.

Reheat the water and toss the almonds in for 2 minutes to blanch. Scoop them out, reserving the water, and drain before slipping them from their skins. Spread the almonds out on a baking sheet and toast for 8 minutes in the oven. Remove to a plate and cool.

Pit the prunes. Heat the oil in a large, heavy-based frying pan and fry the shallots until deeply golden all over, shaking the pan rather than stirring them around. Add a good pinch of salt, the garlic and the pitted prunes. Toss to coat in the oil then add a ladleful of the reserved water. Bubble at quite a rapid pace, adding more water as it is absorbed, shaking the pan as above until the shallots are golden, tender but still holding their shape, and coated in a little sauce. Some of the prunes will have broken down – highly desirable. This will take anywhere between 30-45 minutes. Stir through the toasted almonds 5 minutes before serving.

The couscous:
1 ½ cups of couscous
1 very large pinch of saffron threads
1 ¾ cups of boiling water
1 tablespoon of extra virgin olive oil
1 bunch of coriander and/or mint, well washed and roughly chopped

Mix the couscous with the saffron threads in a heat proof bowl. Pour over the boiling water and the tablespoon of olive oil and cover the bowl with a plate. Rest, covered, for 5 minutes before tossing over and over with two forks.

Arrange the couscous in a mound on a large platter or in the base of a tagine. Spoon over the shallot and prune confit and arrange the pumpkin wedges on top. Sprinkle generously with the coriander or mint, or both and serve immediately.

I’m submitting this as my entry to Suganya of Tasty Palattes who is hosting Vegan Ventures, a one-off vegan-friendly event for the month of November.

New York, Spain and what I'd do again

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

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

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

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

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

New York: Huge.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Madrid: Hot, but cool. Very cool.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

his work just gets better and better

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Millet paella with saffron, tomatoes and asparagus - for 4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sprinkle with parsley and eat. Gratefully.

And you know what? I even missed blogging.

Sunday afternoon

Lemon chutney.

Day one.

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

A risotto

Two Sundays ago, I sold the last bundle of books in retail for (hopefully) the last time. It’s official. I am now an ex-bookseller. Yesterday, the last, windy day of July, was my birthday. And my best friend, also an ex-bookseller, though she sensibly escaped many years earlier, flew down from Sydney for a few days of restorative dog-walking, tea-drinking and, of course, celebrating. A long and slightly sozzled birthday lunch on Friday at Vin Cellar was in order. How lucky I am.

A Saturday night in required something home-made and wintry for a dinner eaten on our laps, huddled around the fire. It’s not often that I would suggest a recipe for risotto here. Everyone has his or her own preferred style of preparation; his or her own preference for the type of rice used. Personally, Carnarolli works for me, but I refuse to enter the potential minefield of snooty rice arguments – plain old Arborio works pretty damn well too. So here, despite any misgivings, is a delectable, sloppy and oh-so-rich risotto, tinted a delicate shade of faded rose-pink. Just when you think it’s going to be too sweet, too soothing, the pungent cheese wakes your palate and the chives add a layer of freshness to each bite.

Dare I admit that I often use stock cubes in risotto? In my defense, I can enthusiastically recommend Marigold Swiss Bullion Powder, championed by many great cookery writers. So there, I’ve said it, thumbing my nose at tradition and awaiting a barrage of scorn. Do you think any less of me as a cook? While I’m at it, you might as well use the best mascarpone you can find – Elgaar Farm's organic one is beyond belief.

One final thing: if you’re concerned about animal rennet in cheese, do not use a blue unless you can be absolutely convinced that it’s okay by reading all labels. A stinky goat’s cheese will be different, but no less good.

Wine-poached pear and blue cheese risotto – serves 4-6
Adapted from a recipe in the magnificent Enjoy by Nadine Abensur. Serve with a salad of sharp-flavoured, bitter leaves, dressed like this.

5 ripe, firm pears
150ml of drinkable red wine
150ml of drinkable muscat or port
2 points of star anise
1 litre of vegetable stock, plus a little more
1 tablespoon of butter
1 tablespoon of olive oil
2 red onions, chopped
1-2 cloves of garlic, crushed
400g of risotto rice (use what you like)
150-200g of blue cheese, or 200g of equally stinky goat’s feta
4 tablespoons of mascarpone
1 bunch of chives, snipped
Pepper

Peel the pears, cut into eighths and cut away the cores. Place in a small saucepan with the wine, muscat and star anise and bring to a lively simmer. Cook at this pace for 10 minutes, then fish out and discard the star anise and set the pears in their cooking liquor aside.

Heat the stock or water in another saucepan over a very gentle heat and keep warm.

Melt the butter and oil together in a large, heavy-based saucepan over a medium heat. Add the onion and fry until translucent, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic and fry for 30 seconds before tipping in the rice, stirring constantly, until the grains are well coated in the fat. Lower the heat. Pour in the stock, one ladleful at a time, stirring often and only adding more when the last lot is absorbed. Pour in the pears and their cooking liquor and gently stir until the grains are perfectly cooked.

Crumble in the blue cheese and, if you think the risotto needs more liquid, up to one more ladle of hot stock. Clamp the lid on tightly, remove from the heat and leave to rest for 5 minutes.

Serve in bowls, sprinkle with a generous showering of chives and top each serving with a tablespoon of mascarpone. Grind over some pepper and pass the grinder around for others to add a little more.