A useful, frugal sort of soup

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks, Grocer.

Holy Goat: Salad For One

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

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

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

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

Organic leaves dressed with goat’s cheese – for one

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

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

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

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

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

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

Entries close on the 20th of May.

Two Lunchbox Salads

Sturdy enough to withstand transit, wholesome and filling enough to help you through the afternoon, you might imagine a salad based on hearty, earthy wholegrains, would make perfect sense in your lunchbox. Ideal. Invincible, even. Sadly, to use a much-abused cliché, not all are created equal. Freshly cooked and quickly dressed? Delicious. Plump grains, bearing even the faintest trace of warmth, tossed in grass-green oil and something sharp, something fragrant, are far more forgiving dressed now than later, stone cold. But that very same salad fridge-cold two days later? Awful. Or so I thought.

Lunch, or more to the point, the question of what to pack for lunch, has always puzzled me. Bringing your own is clearly the clever person’s cash and time-saving solution, but exactly what to bring becomes less obvious once you move beyond soggy sandwiches and leftovers. But leftovers, however obvious they seem, are a very good place to begin.

Toss leftover rice, pilaf or otherwise, with generous spoonfuls of thick plain yoghurt, a squeeze of lemon, salt, crushed garlic and lots of dill. Halve a cucumber lengthways, scrape out the seeds with a teaspoon and slice it thinly crossways. Toss these quarter moons in next. In a separate container, pack some sturdy lettuce leaves, washed and carefully dried, to wrap around spoonfuls of creamy, herby rice. This, I find, stops you eating in front of the computer screen – while not impossible, it is rather difficult to check emails when both hands are actively, pleasurably, engaged.

I now happily roast extra vegetables just so they can be doused in this unbelievably good dressing. Tumbled with handfuls of roughly chopped parsley and/or coriander it’s easy and very, very do-able before you head out. Whip up a double batch over a morning coffee, pour into a clean jar and take it with you for the week. Carrot and celery sticks, those dreaded dieting staples, are lovely dipped or drizzled this way. Tinned dolmades (drained and splashed with both olive oil and balsamic vinegar) and pre-made falafels are good to have on hand. Serve with a tub of hummus or the roughly forked flesh of a ripe avocado. Tinned staples in fact make great salads: Sophie has a wealth of ideas and Stephanie’s own take on one of my earlier suggestions is grand – peruse the comments section while you’re there for a bunch of possibilities well worth exploring.

And then there are these two beautiful wholegrain salads. They’ll need to be made ahead, a quiet Sunday afternoon immediately springs to this mind, but both travel well and last beyond the single lunch. Not wanting to sound like a bore, I think it worth a reminder here to remove your lunch from the fridge about thirty minutes before you plan to eat – fridge-cold anything does neither the digestive system nor tastebuds any particular favours.

Karen Martini’s brown rice salad – 3-4 lunch-sized servings

Karen Martini’s fabulous, nutty salad in her latest offering Cooking at Home is so good it’s worth doubling. I’ve adapted the recipe to suit my needs, but the beautiful flavours are essentially hers. It just seems to improve with age. Frankly, we can’t stop eating it around here...

¾ cup of brown rice (stubby Japanese grains, for preference)
1½ cups of water
½ cup of currants
½ cup of red wine vinegar
½ cup of pine nuts
2-3 tablespoons of olive oil
3 onions, sliced into thin half moons
Generous pinch each of sea salt, cinnamon and allspice
1 bunch of parsley leaves, roughly chopped
½ bunch of mint leaves
1 red chilli, deseeded and chopped
Juice of 2 lemons

Get the rice on first. Bring the rice and water to a boil in a small, heavy-based saucepan. Lower the heat right down, clamp the lid on tightly and leave, untouched, for 45 minutes. Remove from the heat, lid still on, and rest while you get on with the recipe.

In another small saucepan, bring the currants and vinegar to a boil. Simmer for 3-5 minutes, until the fruit is plump and there is just a little liquid left at the bottom of the saucepan.

Toast the pine nuts until golden in a dry frying pan. Remove to a plate to cool, place the frying pan back on the heat and pour in the oil. Add the onions, salt and spices and cook over a low heat for 20-30 minutes, stirring from time to time. You want golden threads.

Toss everything together over and over while the rice and onions are still warm. Keeps for up to three days.

Beetroot and quinoa salad – 3-4 lunch-sized servings

Ah, the Wonder Grain. High in protein and easily digestible, quinoa is also rich in minerals. While most wholegrains will take an hour, often longer, to reach tender, toothsome perfection, quinoa is a speedy twenty-minute affair. Think tabbouleh and you’re halfway to understanding both its texture and functionality. Adapted from Rebecca Wood’s Splendid Grain, this is very a pretty shade of pink.

2 cups (500ml) of stock (cube, especially Marigold, is fine)
1 small beetroot, peeled and very finely diced
1 cup of quinoa
1 tablespoon of extra virgin olive oil
Juice and zest of 1 small lemon
Sea salt
1 bunch of chives, snipped with scissors
1 bunch of parsley leaves, chopped
Large handful of black olives, pitted and chopped
A few anchovies (optional), chopped
Thick, plain yoghurt or sour cream
Large soft lettuce leaves, washed and carefully dried (optional)

Bring the stock to a boil, drop in the beetroot, quinoa, oil and half a teaspoon of salt, followed by the zest and juice. Bring back to the boil, lower the heat right down, clamp the lid on tightly and leave, untouched, for 15 minutes. Stand, still covered, for a further 3 minutes.

Lift the lid and fork through half of the herbs, the olives and anchovies (if using). Cool completely, and add the rest of the herbs. Pack the yoghurt and lettuce in two separate containers. To serve, wrap spoonfuls of the quinoa in the leaves, dolloped with a little yoghurt or cream as you go. Just as good without the lettuce, but I quite like this ritual. Keeps for up to two days.

How do you ‘do’ lunch?

Faux meat: Nut roast

‘But surely the most crucial point of all is that if someone doesn’t want to eat meat, the chances are they don’t want their dinner to look like it either. You wouldn’t dream of presenting your Jewish guests with fish carefully manufactured to look like a pork chop. So why wave replica meat in front of someone who clearly doesn’t want to see it?’

Nigel Slater; ‘The Nut Cutlet’, Eating for England

Despite Johanna’s protestations, I think that Nigel makes rather a good point, poking fun, gently, at the sort of vegetarian cookery no longer considered in vogue. Having arrived at the flesh-free party somewhat late, I’ve never quite grasped the notion that replacing meat, with something concocted to look like it, is wise. Besides, I’m more of a legume girl, content to be drawn into the kitchen by what’s seasonal and abundant.

No-one writes about food like Nigel Slater. It’s writing one sinks, blissfully, in to. Later in the same book, he pokes a little more fun at ‘The Slightly Grubby Wholemeal Cook’:

‘Here you will eat healthily…the yoghurt will be goat’s, the chocolate barely sweetened and the milk soya…[the cookbooks] are on the same shelf as the meditation CD’s, the fruit tea and the tantric sex manual’

Mind you, he’s got my pantry eerily right, but the sound of dolphins cavorting through rainforests inexplicably angers me and frankly I’d rather eat Tofurky wrapped in Soy Bacon than spend hours and hours tangled tantrically. Perhaps a foray into faux meat, in light of Nigel’s dubious stereotyping, was worth exploring. I settled on Deborah Madison’s much-lauded terrine from Greens.

Nut roast is, essentially, something akin to the stuffing that steams in the cavity of a roasting bird, minus, obviously, the bird. Think meatloaf and you’re halfway there. A nut cutlet is similar in construction, differing only in size and shape.

This smells like a proper roast while it cooks: incredibly, deliciously, good. It’s substantial, weighty and golden: worthy of presenting at the table with a flourished ta-dah! Madison warns this is heavy, rich fare and she is right. Thin slices, daubed with plenty of chunky tomato and basil sauce are ideal. And if the thought of half a kilo of cheese and all those nuts fills you as much fear as it did me, try to make up for it in the days that follow with truckloads of salad and fruit…

Cheese and nut roast - feeds six or more, with leftovers

Serve with a quick tomato sauce made by dumping two tins of chopped tomatoes into a saucepan with 3 thinly sliced cloves of garlic, a glug of red wine and a sprinkling of sugar. Bubble away until reduced by about one third, add half a bunch of torn basil leaves and serve. Nut roast adapted from Greens by Deborah Madison.

½ cup of brown rice, or a mixture of brown and wild if possible
4 dried shiitake mushrooms
½ cup, packed, of dried porcini mushrooms
2 cups of nuts, a mixture of cashews, walnuts and pecans
1 tablespoon of olive oil
1 onion, diced
2 stalks of celery, diced
Sea salt
4 cloves of garlic, chopped
1 large handful of parsley leaves, chopped
3 eggs
250g (½ pound) of cottage cheese
250g (½ pound) of strong cheddar cheese, grated

Place the rice in a small saucepan and cover with one cup of water. Bring to the boil, lower the heat right down to its lowest possible setting, clamp a lid on tightly and leave, untouched, for 45 minutes. Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 180 C (350 F) and line a large loaf tin with baking paper.

Soak the dried mushrooms in hot water to cover for 20 minutes. Drain well and de-stalk the shiitakes, then chop the mushrooms. Spread the nuts out on a baking sheet and cook for 5 minutes. Cool on a plate. Chop the nuts quite finely, but not so much that you’re bored. A few chunks here and there don’t matter much.

Increase the oven temperature to 190 C (375 F). Warm the oil in a frying pan over a medium heat and cook the onion and celery until soft, about 6 minutes or so. Add a little salt, followed by the mushrooms, garlic and parsley and cook for a further 2 minutes.

In a roomy bowl, combine the cooked rice, nuts, onion and celery mixture. In another bowl, lightly beat the eggs and cottage cheese, then stir through the grated cheddar. Add the wet ingredients to the dry, combine well and press into the prepared loaf tin.

Bake for 1 – 1 ¼ hours until the top is burnished and golden, the loaf coming away easily from the sides of the tin. Cool in the tin for 10 minutes before gingerly slicing with a serated knife.

Am I a convert? Not quite, but I’ll be eagerly awaiting Johanna’s round-up for more inspiration. You have until April the 18^th to have a Neb at Nut Roast.

Zucchini soup with dumplings

Of the four seasons, summer, that bountiful, buxom beauty, is the one I secretly dread. The produce of summer is spectacular, a dream for cooks who revel in the pleasures of vegetable cookery; rather what I dread is the obligatory simmering heat, the unspeakably long hot days that render you listless, indifferent. Worse still are the ones that throw a dry northerly wind into the mix. The entire city becomes a giant hairdryer. Strangely, those days seem to have bypassed us. A few wildly out of kilter days aside, it’s been a remarkably gentle January.

Evenings stretch into night, the sun setting softly on the rooftops, old and new, in the neighbourhood. Somewhere between eight and half past, for the briefest of moments, the sky blazes pink, orange and blue, chalky strokes of pale colour heightened by the sinking sun. Nigh impossible to capture, though not for want of trying. The temperature drops, then gooseflesh sends you indoors digging deeply into the trunk at the end of the bed for something warmer, through things you’d put away months ago. Autumnal weather, this, delightful but disarming. All the ‘proof’, perhaps, that now rare creature, the Climate Change Skeptic, may require.

The garden heaves an almost audible sigh of relief in these cooler days. What’s left of the garden I should say; little survived the furnace-like heat of late December and early January. What did make it through unscathed confirmed, once again, that what thrives here is what thrives along the sandy shores of the Mediterranean. Tomatoes seem to love those searing, waterless days. The wild rocket, slow to start, continues to astound with its lush green growth. The basil, too. And finally, as of this week, the zucchini have begun to blossom, their pretty saffron faces nodding on the morning breeze. Zucchini, small and crisp, are a seasonal treat, especially at this early stage of the proceedings. Too few to make a meal of yet, but the beginnings of a crop to be sure.

Armed with a punnet of tiny, creamy fleshed zucchini, and a hankering for something substantial but light and summery, this is inspired (yet again) by Deborah Madison. It’s brilliant, multi-layered and satisfying, but light-as-a-feather. The broth is unlike any other I've met; restorative and rich like the chicken stock I fondly remember, but made without an ounce fat. None at all. Like most of these things, it will take a few hours, intermittently, of your time to prepare and mere moments to be devoured in quiet, but grateful, slurping spoonfuls. Silence is, after all, quite the complement itself. And it’s a perfect soup for weather that can’t quite make up its mind.

Zucchini in broth with corn and cheese dumplings – for 4-6

The broth takes two hours to simmer. I know that seems like a lot, but it’s got to develop deep flavours, you see, if it’s to hold its own in the same way as, say, a clear broth of chicken or beef would. And hold its own this broth does. My word.

First, make the broth:

Pour 3 litres (approx 3 quarts) of water into a large saucepan. Toss in 1 large onion, sliced, 1 large zucchini, sliced, a 400g (15oz) tin of tomatoes, 6 cloves of garlic, bashed with the flat of your knife, 1 large carrot, sliced, 3 stalks of celery, sliced, 1 bunch of coriander (cilantro), roots and all, 1 small bunch of parsley, a handful of green or brown lentils, ½ a green chilli, a pinch of fennel seeds, a few sprigs of fresh oregano (if you have it – it’s optional here), 2 teaspoons of sea salt and 1 teaspoon of peppercorns, lightly crushed. Bring to a boil, lower the heat and simmer, partially covered with a lid for 2 hours. Strain and set aside.

To make the dumplings:

½ cup of fine cornmeal (Masa Harina preferably) – NOT polenta
½ cup plain flour
1 teaspoon of baking powder
½ teaspoon of chilli powder
Good pinch of sea salt
½ cup of crumbled feta or grated cheddar
1 egg
2 tablespoons of olive oil + extra for frying
1/3 cup of water or milk

Make these while the broth is simmering. Combine the dry ingredients in a bowl. Beat the wet ingredients in a small bowl and then tip into the dry. Bring together with a fork, then use your hands to form a solid mass. Break off small pieces of dough and roll into balls the size of a marble.

Heat ½ cm (¼ inch) of the extra olive oil in a large frying pan. When the oil is hot, drop in the dumplings, turning with two forks until golden all over. Remove to a rack set over some kitchen paper and leave to cool.

The soup:

Broth, from above
Dumplings, from above
1 punnet of baby zucchini or 2 medium-sized zucchini, thinly sliced
½ bunch of spring onions, thinly sliced with most of their greens
1 bunch of coriander (cilantro) leaves, roughly chopped
1 small green chilli, deseeded and finely chopped
1 tablespoon of olive oil
Sea salt
3 ripe tomatoes, diced
1 avocado, peeled and diced
Lime wedges, to serve

Bring the broth to a simmer. Drop in the zucchini and the spring onions and cook for 5 minutes. Mix the coriander with the chilli and oil, seasoning with a little salt.

Drop the dumplings into the soup and simmer for 5 minutes longer. Divide the tomatoes between serving bowls, spoon the vegetables and dumplings on top and ladle over the broth. Add a spoonful of the coriander mixture to each bowl, a cluster of avocado and serve immediately with lime wedges.

This is my submission to Lisa of Lisa’s Kitchen, who is hosting the inaugural edition of a monthly, vegetarian event both she and Holler of Tinned Tomatoes will be hosting, called No Croutons Required. This month’s theme is soup.

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.

Spring leeks

'No onions’ he told me, ‘Drought. Still.’

Obviously, a man of few words. That’s two months now. Instead, there are plenty of tightly coiled, crisp green leeks and a large pile of purple garlic, small bulbs of which are astronomically priced, but no less tempting for it. Despite that statement, there are some onions this week - fresh ones, pink-skinned with their green tops standing to attention. Sweet and wonderful, these are quite unlike the more familiar papery-skinned kitchen basic they will become later in the year. Alliums a-plenty to keep me happy. ‘I can wait’, I told him, ‘I’m in no hurry’, and trundled off with a small bag of that expensive, highly perfumed garlic, a bunch of young onions and an armload of perky leeks.

Spring in Melbourne is changeable. Rain soaks the garden one day (and boy, did it drink deeply this last weekend) and the next finds you waking to bright cerulean skies, the sun beckoning you to shed layers and drink in the light. Just when you think you’re ready for salad weather to descend, the wind sweeps through the yard, knocks over your lemon balm and, damn it, it’s cold enough to warrant scarves. Again.

Patience is a virtue. Salad days are coming.

Any recipe that suggests you, ‘serve with a green salad’ is greeted in this kitchen with an audible sigh of relief. Any side dish whose sole instruction involves me, almost unthinkingly, tearing up a lettuce or two, adding a few leaves of whatever herbs look healthy in the garden and tossing them, at the last possible moment, in a mustardy-garlicky dressing is a very fine thing. Elaborate side dishes are tedious and frankly undo-able mid-week.

Transitional weather requires a transitional recipe. A savoury crumble, one that uses at least some of those leeks. Softly cooked, they lie beneath a layer of fresh, chunky tomato sauce and a crispy, herby, sesame seed-crusted topping. The tomatoes cook down while you sweat the leeks; you rub the crumble ingredients through your fingertips with a lazy eye on both pans, assemble, then chuck it in the oven for 30 minutes. Only when your partner pops his head over your shoulder and says, ‘It’s a bit like a tart, but in reverse’ do you think, ah, yes, it will be good. It is.

Needless to say, all you need to do is serve, predictably, with a green salad.

Leek and tomato crumble – for 4
Based on a recipe in Leith’s Vegetarian Bible. A recent post by Callipygia revised my thinking after this was photographed. I offer both ways here – one is béchamel-based (that’s what you see) and the other is milk-free and uses more leeks. It’s just as good, if not better.

Tomato sauce:
2 tablespoons of olive oil
1 onion, finely chopped
10 ripe, juicy tomatoes, preferably roma (plum)
Salt and pepper

Warm the oil in a saucepan over a low-medium heat. Add the onions, pop the lid on and sweat, lifting the lid to stir occasionally, for 5 minutes. Roughly chop the tomatoes and add to the pan, along with a little salt and pepper. Bring to the boil, then cook at a steady pace, stirring often, until tomatoes have broken down and the sauce thickened some, about 20 minutes.

Leeks, version 1:
1 tablespoon of olive oil
3 leeks, trimmed, well washed and thinly sliced
2 tablespoons of butter
2 tablespoons of flour
1 cup of rice, almond or cows milk
1 tablespoon of tahini
Sea salt and pepper

Heat the oil in a saucepan. Add the leeks, turn the heat to low and cover. Sweat, lifting the lid to stir occasionally, for 5-8 minutes or until the leeks are soft. Add the butter to the leeks and when it melts stir in the flour, stirring constantly, scraping the base of the pan as you go, for a minute or so.

Take the saucepan off the heat, pour in the milk and mix well. Return to the heat and, stirring constantly, bring to the boil. Simmer for 2 minutes. Stir in the tahini, season to taste and set aside

OR

Leeks, version 2:
2 tablespoons of olive oil/butter or a mixture of both
5-6 leeks, trimmed, well washed and thinly sliced
1-2 tablespoons of tahini
Sea salt and pepper

Heat the oil in a large saucepan. Add the leeks, turn the heat to low and cover. Sweat, lifting the lid to stir occasionally, for 5-8 minutes or until the leeks are soft. Remove from the heat, stir in the tahini, season to taste and set aside.

The rest:
1 scant cup of flour (wholemeal [whole-wheat] works well)
½ cup of rolled oats
2 tablespoons of fresh herbs, finely chopped
85g of cold butter, cubed
1 tablespoon of sesame seeds

Preheat the oven to 200 C (400 F).

Mix the flour, oats and herbs together in a roomy bowl. Rub in the cubed butter with your fingertips until it resembles chunky breadcrumbs.

Spread the leeks in an ovenproof dish with the back of a spoon. Pour the tomato sauce on top, spreading it out to the edges, then top evenly with the crumble mixture. Sprinkle with the sesame seeds and bake in the preheated oven for 20-30 minutes or until golden.

Even better the next day. No matter what the weather holds.

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.

A rosemary and red wine sauce

Rosemary is something of a challenge in a vegetarian kitchen. Strongly flavoured, it all too often overpowers subtler ingredients. Rosemary demands your full attention. Her camphor-laced flavour is bitter when used excessively so a considered, disciplined hand is required. While a fleeting hint is delicious, a wallop of the stuff will leave you feeling like you’ve eaten a handful of mothballs.

But she has much to offer. Ancient Greek scholars wore rosemary to improve the memory, their necks garlanded with her long branches. Almost universally she symbolizes remembrance and, of all things, love. An Hungarian friend once returned from a wedding bearing a healthy sprig. ‘If it grows’, she declared, ‘your true love will find you within twelve months’. Romantic stuff. Though it was duly planted, sadly to no avail, I am not one to give up on such fancies quite so easily.

Potatoes, peeled or not, and roasted with whole cloves of garlic and a few healthy sprigs of rosemary are divine; chunks of vegetables skewered onto long stalks, stripped of all but the paintbrush-like tips make great barbeque fare in the warmer months. But, down here at least, winter has firmly taken hold.

The meal (of which this sauce was a part) is too long and complicated to write up in these pages, suffice to say it took all afternoon and much of the early evening. Braised root vegetables (whole shallots, carrots, parsnips and big, earthy mushrooms), a swede and potato mash (made creamy with a spoonful of mascarpone) and perfectly tender Puy lentils, held together by this sauce.

Oh, this sauce.

Enough to make you swoon. Enough to make you pat yourself on the back and marvel at your own culinary genius. We ate silently, slurpingly, appreciatively.

Red wine, porcini and rosemary sauce – adapted from Local Flavours by Deborah Madison

So comforting and good is this sauce that it should prove, once and for all, to anyone doubting the virtues of a meat-free life that vegetarian fare can and does deeply, deeply satisfy.

Small palmful of dried porcini
1 tablespoon of olive oil
1 onion, diced
1 large carrot, diced
2 celery sticks, diced
8 mushrooms, quartered
4 cloves of garlic, smashed with the flat of your knife
1x 5cm (2 inch) sprig of rosemary
2 sprigs of thyme
2 bay leaves
Sea salt
1 tablespoon of tomato paste
2 tablespoons of plain white flour
2 cups (500ml) of good, well-flavoured red wine
1 tablespoon of tamari
1 tablespoon of unsalted butter (optional)

Place the porcini in a bowl and cover with 1 litre of freshly boiled water. Set aside.

Heat the oil in a large soup pot or Dutch oven. Add the vegetables, garlic and herbs. Cook over a medium-high heat, stirring only occasionally, until the vegetables are well browned. This should take you about 20 minutes.

Add 1 teaspoon of sea salt to the pot. Stir in the tomato paste and flour, letting it cook for a minute or two to take the ‘rawness’ off the flour. Add the wine, scraping the bottom of the pot to release any caramelized bits and then pour in the porcini and their soaking liquor.

Bring to the boil, then lower the heat, cover with a lid and gently simmer for 45 minutes. Strain through a colander into a large saucepan, pressing down on the vegetables with the back of a spoon to extract as much liquid as possible. Return the strained sauce to the heat and gently simmer for 15 minutes. Add the tamari and taste for seasoning (it will be pretty damn good, so you won’t need more than a touch of pepper).

Whisk in the butter, if you are using it, just before serving.

Double the recipe and freeze it in 1 cup measurements for fast mid-week cooking. The possibilities are limited only by your imagination; a shepherd’s pie of tender lentils, drained and mixed with 1 cup of sauce and topped with fluffy mash will make an easy mid-week meal. But don’t stop there. Some big mushrooms, sliced thickly, pan-fried until juicy and finished in a ½ a cup of the sauce make the most beautiful topping for toast mid-winter.

This post is being submitted to Kalyn Denny, creator and host of this weeks Weekend Herb Blogging.

Nourishing indeed.

Celeriac

It’s an ugly brute celeriac, heavy to hold, gnarled and scarred.

Those roots are a tangled mess. But beneath that rough exterior lurks an ever-so-slightly pale green flesh that quickly oxidizes on contact with the air. The thick skin it would seem shields a very sensitive creature indeed.

The celeriac was a last minute purchase on Saturday at the market. I was actually looking for some witlof to braise with slivers of sun-dried tomato, garlic and the last of the preserved lemons. Instead, I came home with this swollen root, leaves still proudly standing to attention on top. Though they wilted within two days, the root was happy to sit on the bench without them. What to cook?

There are many choices of course: with its close cousin celery in a savory, wholemeal bread and pecorino-topped crumble; cooked with green lentils, garlic and herbs; a soup perhaps? But with a sudden and unexpected downpour of rain, a gratin was calling.

Combined with earthy porcini mushrooms, onion, garlic and licorice-scented star anise, it is a beast transformed. The porcini are soaked in brandy, tamari and boiling water. Simmered in stock until tender and finished with a little cream, this is a delicious meal. Though I’d like to claim this as my own (it’s very, very good) I can’t and won’t even try. It comes from the incredible and exotic Nadine Abensur. Though the recipe appears in her latest book Enjoy (and you should look for it – there’s not a dud in the whole thing) you’ll find the recipe on this site where there’s a printer-friendly version.

Keep a large bowl of cold water, acidulated with the juice of a lemon or lime next to you as you slice the beast. Dunk slices in as they are cut to stop them turning an unsightly shade of grey. I used cheddar rather than gruyere, just scattered it on top of the dish before serving and naturally halved the recipe as there were just the two of us.

That means that I still have half a celeriac to go.

Reckon that crumble sounds good.