Winter Skies, Kitchen Aglow

Stollen

2009-12-23T21:09:00.000+13:00

Christmas marks the beginning of the summer holiday period in New Zealand. This confounds many a visitor to the Southern Hemisphere. Many New Zealanders celebrate that which makes our Christmas so different to our Northern Hemisphere friends on the planet - there are amusing images of Santa wearing shorts and sporting a tan, reindeer wearing sunglasses, and kiwis on deck chairs knocking back beer...The New Zealand Christmas is one of barbecues, high sun and beaches.

That aside, there is one thing that does hold us back from totally embracing a distinct identity for noel. Our history is partly formed by colonisation of the English, Scottish and French. Many New Zealanders are but a few generations removed from Europe, thus the cultural ties are not totally severed or subverted. My good friend, the intellectually-ferocious and generous Anita, is an Australian of German descent; she and I are in the same boat when it comes to reconciling the amazing Christmas baking of the north with our southern humidity. Anita's grandparents have been kind to share their recipe for stollen.

Stollen is a fruit cake that is made either with cheese or yeast. As we could not find quark, we opted for a mix of cream cheese and ricotta.

Stollen
(by way of German tradition, care of Oma and Opa in Australia)

For the cake:

3 1/3 cups all-purpose flour
8g baking powder
3/4 cups sugar
9g vanilla sugar
4 drops almond flavouring
1/3 cup rum
2 eggs
120g butter, cold
1 1/4 cups combination of cream cheese and ricotta or quark
2 cups dried fruit, such as currants and raisins, macerated in rum for 48 hours
1 1/2 cups ground almonds
3/4 cup citrus peel
250g marzipan, rolled out into two rope-like lengths

For the icing:
1/4 cup melted butter
1/2 cup sifted icing/confectioners' sugar

1) Preheat oven to 160 C/320 F.
2) Into a large bowl, sift together all-purpose flour and baking powder.
3) Add sugars, almond flavouring, run and eggs into flour mixture so that it is combined, then cut in butter until a paste-like substance is formed.
4) Knead cheeses, fruit, ground almonds and citrus peel into paste to make a smooth dough.
5) Separate into two logs. Open each log to place marzipan in the middle, then cover over again so that marzipan is wholly enclosed.
6) Place both loaves on a sheet pan lined with parchment paper.
7) Bake for 50-60 minutes until golden.
8) Once baked, brush loaves with melted butter and sprinkle over with icing sugar.

Do not be afraid to use ALL of the icing sugar. If you are going save the stollen to eat at a later time (which is wise, for it does mature), the icing sugar will be absorbed by the butter, creating a light, delectable icing. To save for later, wrap in foil, then in cling-film and store in a cupboard.

The interesting thing about stollen is that it does not use any mixed spices at all, which is quite traditional in British Christmas fare. However, it does taste of Christmas - dense, dark fruit and nutty almond flavours throughout. The stollen is light in texture yet rich in flavour. I prefer to eat it as it is, but it is also quite acceptable to eat it toasted with jam or other fruit preserves.

Merry Christmas everyone!!

Golden Onion Pie

2009-11-29T20:51:00.004+13:00

Thanksgiving is a beautiful time of the year in the United States. Leaves on deciduous trees have truly turned and have all but given way to winter, biting winds require an extra layer or two, and candlelight beaming through foggy windows signal welcome and comfort. These are the images I have of my many Thanksgiving celebrations in southern California with my angelheart Eric, our family and dearest friends. Now that we live in my home country, New Zealand, we have to adapt the tradition to our antipodean lifestyle. This year, it has got off to a quiet start - just a light summery dinner. Even so, it was important we acknowledged this special time for sharing and gathering in between calls to family.

Of course, we recollected the many great meals we've had at this time of year, not all of which we made ourselves - our family and friends are really good cooks. This really put us in the mood to think about how else we could make a culinary nod to the US over the weekend. Unfortuntely, one of our sources for inspiration, Gourmet magazine, published its last issue this month. (There's no coverage of that in the magazine itself, so I'm not sure if this is a graceful note on which to leave the publishing world, or if the plug was suddenly pulled.) We turned to this final issue for guidance and came up with Golden Onion Pie.

Gourmet writers added a twist to Zwiebelkuchen, which is a German yeasted dough onto which is cooked steamed onions, bacon and caraway seeds. Instead of a plank of dough, this twist is a pie-like creation, sweet with caramelised onions, tamed with sour cream, though I added yoghurt and a bit of cream instead.

Epicurious has a catalogue of all Gourmet's recipes now, so it is not lost forever. The recipe for Golden Onion Pie can be found here.

We swapped out one brown onion for a red one to underscore our nod to fall in the US, the beautiful mingling of bronze and red. The dough is very easy to work with and can be left overnight, whether covered in a lightly oiled bowl or covered and lightly dusted with flour to slowly rise in the fridge. It stretches well and behaves very well - it also helps that it is muggy here in Auckland, so we didn't have to worry so much about draughts. Overall, the pie is sweet and substantial, symbolic, really, of Thanksgiving (putting aside the difficult task of reconciling the joy of finding a new home and the crimes committed on which successful colonisation was dependent). This was our mellow way of giving thanks, to finding each other, to being together, to having healthy family and friends, to having shared many a lovely memory.

The only bitter note, for us, is that we could not celebrate with family and friends in the States. At least we were able to build on the tradition of turning to Gourmet, even if it will now be absent from magazine racks all over the world - I only hope, of course, that the many talented contributors find worthwhile enterprises through which they can share their cooking talents and views on food trends and food politics.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Chocolate: Cookies & Cake

2009-10-31T20:55:00.005+13:00

Last month I shared with you my enjoyment for baking, which is often curbed by not having softened butter at the exact moment I want to bake. Twice this month, I was smart enough to leave unsalted butter out on the kitchen island over night, preparing me for baking in the morning.

I'm not really a baker, though. Sure, I can knock out pastry shells in a breeze (mostly) and cakes are generally problem-free, but I lack finesse when it comes to decorating cakes or dealing with small baked goods. Most cakes I make are not frosted or decorated in any other way, and I have never really handled cookie dough - why go to so much trouble when they are so cheap to buy? I suppose with making them yourself, you can design your own cookies, for not every cookie is available at the supermarket or your local bakery. Also, one cannot have a true appreciation for such things without understanding the process.

Like most human beings, my angelheart Eric and I favour chocolate cookies. If all cookie manufacturers were to go out of business, the last cookie off the production line in the western world would probably be a variety of chocolate cookie. It must not come, therefore, as a surprise to anyone that my second ever attempt at making cookies (the first were vanilla shortbread made 4 or 5 years ago!) is a chocolate cookie, one that was presented by Martha Stewart in a recent publication of her peerless lifestyle magazine, Martha Stewart Living. The recipe was not especially highlighted, but it captured my attention because I could sense that behind its apparent simplicity was a depth of flavour.

Dark-Chocolate Cookies from Martha Stewart Living, July 2009. (Click on the link to take you to the recipe.)

I did not divert from the recipe, really, but as I am not a cookie maker, I had to improvise with utensils to stand in for cookie cutters (which would have made life easy because they are sharp and cut through dough without any issues), and I let the cookies cook 30 seconds longer than I should have - the nose knows, after all. I was impatient with the filling and whipped it for volume, but it still ran, as you can see in the photo above. All of this in mind, the only things I would think of doing next time around are:
1) Add a tablespoon of finely ground coffee or instant coffee granules to the dough;
2) Roll the dough out thicker (Martha did give instructions, but it is hard to work this out by sight); and
3) Add brandy to the filling.

Like cookie dough, I'm a bit stumped when it comes to icings and glazes for cake decorating. Try as I may to follow recipes, I never seem to be able to pull off a great icing. It could be to do with lack of aesthetic instinct when it comes to applying icing, and it could also be that the recipes themselves are not the best, but it is probably because I have no real experience yet that lends to reading and handling icing. I found that the relationship between the recipes below and above rest in the icing, so attempting the mere variations twice in one month has certainly educated me...

All-in-One Chocolate Cake
(from Diana Henry's Cook Simple)

For the Cake:

125g/4.5oz self-raising flour, sifted
pinch of salt
55g/2oz cocoa powder
3 eggs, lightly beaten
175g/6oz caster sugar
175g/6oz unsalted butter, softened and diced
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
4 tablespoons warm water

1) Pre-heat oven to 190 C/375 F.
2) Put all ingredients but warm water into a bowl or food processor and beat until combined.
3) Add water slowly and combine again.
4) Pour cake batter into a greased cake tin, preferably 20cm/8" springform, though I used 22cm/9" and it worked out well, but the cooking time was shorter, for the cake was not as thick.
5) Place cake on the middle rack in the oven and bake for 25-30 minutes or until done.
6) Turn out of springform and leave to cool on wire rack.

For the Icing:

150g/5.5oz chocolate, broken into pieces
75ml/2oz sour cream
75ml/2oz heavy cream
5 tablespoons dark brown sugar

1) Put all ingredients in a bowl that is to be suspended over summering water (the water should never touch the bowl and should not bee too hot) and allow ingredients to melt.
2) Stir ingredients together and take off the heat.
3) Leave icing to cool and thicken.

In terms of presentation, I slathered the icing all over the cake and coated it with toasted slivered almonds - hazelnuts might have been better, but chocolate pairs pretty well with all nuts.

This is the perfect cake to whip up at a moment's notice - but for the softened butter. Even the most baking-averse person could achieve this, a simple though flavourful chocolate cake. As always, you could substitute one-third of the flour with a nut flour (such as almond or hazelnuts) for added sophistication in the general flavour profile, but this cake can stand well on its own - so much so that I might go so far to consider it my stand-by when I'm in a pinch.

What special cake recipe do you rely on for social gatherings?

Frozen Orange Syllabub Cake

2009-09-12T19:22:00.001+12:00

As much as I love cakes, I sometimes avoid making them. This is principally because I cannot always be bothered combining butter and sugar until they bond into a pale yellow cream, which, first of all, requires that butter be soft. When one bakes, sometimes it's on the spur of the moment, but with baking cakes, one has to be prepared. On account of more often making pastry dough for tarts and pies, I rely on the butter conditioner in the fridge to keep butter firm. Consequently, I actually have to plan ahead to soften butter. Yes, this is a minor matter, but if I want a cake within an hour of thinking about making one, then it is impossible to see this through without softened butter. So, what is a man to do? Well, I find a way around it, of course, and in doing so I often turn to desserts that use melted butter or that dispense of butter altogether.

Today's cake is in the vein of an ice cream cake. It is, in fact, a riff on a dessert that was popular in England from the Elizabethan era to the 19th Century and seems to have found mild resurrgence in current cookery books by British chefs and cooks: syllabub. Syllabub is cream that has been whipped, sweetened with sugar, spiced with nutmeg, soured with lemon juice, and fortified with alcohol, often wine or port. Mixed together, the boozy cream would be left to set up in a cold spot before serving. It is the simplest of desserts, and I am dumfounded that I never thought to freeze it before, like Philly ice cream, until I recently noticed Nigel Slater's recipe for Lemon ice-cream tart with gingernut crust in his inspiring The Kitchen Diaries, a book I've had since it was published in 2005, but, for some reason or another, had not previously registered the genius behind this particular recipe - it is funny how you can read something ten times and can still be surprised, isn't it? I guess with cooking, we're drawn to different flavours and ideas at different times...

Frozen Orange Syllabub Cake
(adapted from Nigel Slater's Lemon Ice-Cream Tart with Gingernut Crust in The Kitchen Diaries)

For the Crust:

400g/14 oz Gingernuts or other ginger cookies
120g/4 oz unsalted butter

1) Line the base of a loose-bottomed 25cm/10" cake tin with greaseproof paper.
2) Crush the ginger cookies to a coarse crumb or a fine powder, depending on the sort of crust you want for your cake.
3) Melt the butter, then stir in the crushed ginger cookies.
4) Pour the mixture into the cake tin, pushing it with your fingers to cover both the base and the sides of the tin - focus more on getting it properly covered than making sure the crust is equally level around the summit.
5) Put the tin in the freezer while you work on the filling.

For the Filling:

150ml white wine
2 tablespoons brandy
zest and juice of 2 oranges
zest of 1 lemon
4 tablespoons sugar
500ml cream

1) Put all ingredients into a bowl and beat slowly until thick, falling in soft folds.

For the Pie:

1) Pour the filling into the crust.
2) Freeze for at least four hours.
3) Remove from freezer 15-20 minutes before serving.

It is evident that this is not meant to be presented at a sophisticated affair, what with the crust being so free-form, but it is perfectly charming. The flavours, of course, are what matter, and they are as intense as the texture is dreamy, like eating sweet clouds.

It does seem too easy for words, but I ask that you try this recipe and adapt it at a whim. Swap out the orange for lime and brandy for midori or tequila, or use cherry juice and kirsh with a crust made with amaretti - the possibilities are endless and delightful. Nothing warms me more than a good dessert, and I will now count this as one of my very favourites. I wonder what other creams of old can be adapted in a similar way...

Roast Tail of Monkfish with Orange Sauce

2009-08-01T14:37:00.009+12:00

The Auckland Fish Market is so close by that it would be wasteful not to take advantage of the freshest catch. My angelheart Eric has always been an avid lover of most seafood; I, on the other hand, require a bit of persuasion. I have been making a conscious effort to eat more fish, though, particularly the innocuous types, like terakihi and cod. Of all fish, monkfish is the most superior. It is often thought of as poor man's lobster - it is succulent and meaty. While not as sweet as lobster, it does have a high water content, lending to a perfect sauce at the end of roasting your monkfish tail, as my angelheart Eric and I sometimes make.

On account of its abundant meat and water content, monkfish does not really suffer from overcooking. In the worst case scenario, the texture might become raggedy, but one can live with that if that is the worst that could happen to it. If you want to prepare the monkfish tail into fillets for cooking, salt the fillets prior to pan frying so that the water can be drawn out; otherwise, your fillets may end up soggy.

The monkfish tail is a large piece of meat, lending to its nickname in Scotland as "gigot," as in a leg of lamb. Think of preparing it as you would lamb - it can be roasted, braised, breaded and fried. It also partners well with lamb's friends - herbs, orange, anchovies...

Roast Tail of Monkfish with Orange Sauce
(adapted from Clarissa Dickson Wright and Jennifer Paterson's Gigot of Monkfish Romarin with Anchovies from Two Fat Ladies: Gastronomic Adventures)

For the Monkfish:

750 g/1.5 lb monkfish tail, butterflied and deboned
large handful of tarragon
1 orange
8 anchovy fillets
8 cloves garlic
olive oil
salt
pepper

1) Lay the butterflied monkfish in a baking dish.
2) Fill the inside of the monkfish with tarragon and slices from half of the orange, and season with salt and pepper.
3) Close up the monkfish by tying it up in three spots - either end and the middle.
4) Cut 8 slits into the monkfish tail with a sharp knife.
5) Insert one anchovy fillet and one garlic clove per slit.
6) Rub the monkfish with a bit of olive oil and the juice from the other half of the orange, and season with salt and pepper.
7) Place in the refrigerator to marinade - up to 2 hours.
8) Preheat oven to 180 C/350 F.
9) Bring monkfish out of the fridge for 20-30 minutes prior to roasting.
10) Roast monkfish for 35-45 minutes until cooked through.

For the Sauce:

30g/1 oz unsalted butter
1 tablespoon olive oil
1/2 onion, minced
salt
1/4 cup dry vermouth
liquor from the monkfish
rind and juice from half an orange
tarragon leaves, gently torn
pepper

1) When the monkfish is almost cooked through, melt butter with olive oil over medium heat in a saute pan.
2) Add onion and a pinch of salt.
3) When the onions are transluscent, add vermouth.
4) When the vermouth has evaporated, turn the heat up to medium high. Add the liquor from the monkfish (this will require that you pour the liquid from the baking dish - and then you can throw the monkfish into the oven, to finish cooking or to keep warm) and the orange juice.
5) Strew in the tarragon leaves.
6) Taste for seasoning.
7) Remove onions with slotted spoon and place on the monkfish, then pour sauce over the monkfish and serve.

Like a lot of large fish, monkfish stands up to heavy and punchy flavours as well as highly acidic or lowly nutty ones. Try it with romesco sauce or tomato vinaigrette, as Clarissa Dickson Wright does. It also goes well with thick mayonnaise.

This is wonderfully hearty without being too filling, an easy weeknight dish for two.

Beetroot Tart

2009-06-27T17:38:00.007+12:00

Although it is widely available throughout the year, as are most root vegetables, beetroot (beets) becomes most relied upon in my kitchen when it is winter. Its earthy sweetness and intense crimson flesh give warmth to frosty days. Beetroot bolsters the winter frame of mind and pairs particularly well with ingredients that tend to keep the cold away (especially ginger). Beetroot is surprisingly versatile and always, to my mind, an enchanting root vegetable to behold.

Beets have not always captivated me, though, and my previous aversion to them is relatively common. My revulsion stemmed from containers of sliced, pickled beetroot that were (and remain) a mainstay in my parents' refrigerator. I sampled them but once and practically gagged from the acidity of the flabby slices. I was put off for more than twenty years, avoiding any dish that came into contact with beets, even if they hadn't been pickled. Great cookery writers - Tamasin Day-Lewis, Diana Henry and Deborah Madison and their powers of description - convinced me that I had been too swift in maligning the spunky root vegetable.

For some, there is not an aversion to the taste of beets, but rather to the preparation of them. Beetroots contain pigments that stain (and for some people, hard to break down internally), and I have not come across a quick or convenient way to peel beets once they have been cooked. In my experience, it just seems best to handle beetroots as quickly as possible and to rinse one's hands often. There are two good tips to stop the colour running if you're roasting or steaming beets:
1) do not cut the stalks but 2.5cm (1") from the top of the root; and
2) do not cut the tail of the root.

The only time you may want the colour to run is when preparing soups. When roasting, wrap cleaned beets in aluminium foil and roast at 200 C (400 F) until softened, approximately 45 minutes. Unwrap foil, and when cool enough to handle, the beets are easy to be peeled, then sliced or grated as you prefer. It is best to add seasoning to beets when still warm, so that the flavours you wish to impart are absorbed by the beets.

Beetroot Tart

For the Shortcrust Pastry (for a 22-25cm (9-10") tart shell):

1 cup (and up to 1/3 cup extra, depending on humidity) flour, sifted
100g (3.5oz) unsalted butter, cut into small cubes
iced water

1) In a bowl, rub together the flour and butter with the tips of your fingers until a granular consistency is reached.
2) Slowly add iced water, one tablespoon at a time, until the mixture coheres into a ball. If it seems dry, you might need to add flour - you do not want it to be sticky. (If you prefer a golden tart, use one egg as the binder, and only add water if the mixture does not entirely come together.)
3) Once a ball has been formed, create a flat disc, and cover in cling-film. Refrigerate for at least 30 minutes (you can leave it overnight)
4) Bring pastry out of the fridge and let rest at room temperature to become pliable (5-10 minutes if left in the fridge for 30 minutes).
5) Preheat oven to 200 C (400 F).
6) Put pastry on a lightly-floured surface. Roll it out with a floured rolling pin, turning the pastry after each pass of the rolling pin to ensure it doesn't stick to the surface. Roll it out so it can fit into a prepared (that is to say, buttered and floured) tart shell.
7) Allow to sit in tart shell in fridge for at least 15 minutes, and until you are ready to add the beetroot filling.

For the Beetroot Filling:

750g (1 1/2lb) grated beetroot (roasted, then peeled, as above)
1 tablespoon ginger, grated
2 teaspoons pomegranate molasses
salt
pepper
2 eggs, lightly beaten and lightly seasoned with salt and pepper
3/4 cup cream (or milk)

1) In a bowl, mix together the still warm grated beetroot, ginger, pomegranate molasses, and pinches of salt and pepper.
2) Beat eggs and cream together.
3) Pour egg mixture into

To Finish:

Shortcrust pastry, as above
Beetroot filling, as above

1) Preheat oven to 180 C (350 F).
2) Take pastry shell out of the fridge and pour beetroot filling into it.
3) Place on the middle rack in the oven and bake for 35-40 minutes.
4) Allow to cool for five minutes before releasing from tart ring.

I love the shot of rich colour, almost Elizabethan in its saturation. One cannot help but be drawn to it, forgetting the howling gales outside. The butteriness of the pastry rounds out the beetroot's earthiness. I have made this before with spices, such as caraway, but have found that they make the beetroot quite musty...Ginger, on the other hand, lifts the flavour profile entirely. This is a heady tart that provides something different when one is used to the same preparations for root vegetables over the leaner winter months.

I hope that this post convinces those with an aversion, however slight or great, to give beetroot another chance. If you need to be further convinced of the beetroot's versatility, see my friend Pille's blog, nami-nami.

Afelia

2009-05-24T15:26:00.007+12:00

This month's Gourmet magazine's focus is on world travel. Consequently, the Gourmet's Cookbook Club feature for May 2009 is similarly themed: Tessa Kiros' Falling Cloudberries, which takes the reader on a culinary journey to Finland, Greece, Cyprus, South Africa and Italy.

The only disappointment that comes from travelling is losing the magic that makes the experience. Sure, there are lovely photos and purchases to aid in recalling the memories, but the atmosphere and scents sometimes remain out of reach. But this can be overcome with cooking at home. Paying attention to ingreidents, methods of cooking, and combinations of textures and flavours as presented on trips abroad can be reworked in the comfort of your home. My angelheart Eric and I often recall such details when we are in the mood to recapture the moment.

When abroad, I usually look out for things that I wouldn't ordinarily eat at home (or, at least, could not find so easily at home). I have not been to any of the countries featured in Tessa Kiros' culinary memoir, so when flipping through its colourful pages, I thought about what I would eat were each of the dishes on a menu. The clincher was practicality, of course. What combination of ingredients sounds intriguing, and what do my angelheart Eric and I have on hand?

Afelia is a Cypriot (and Greek) dish of wine-braised pork shoulder and lightly crushed coriander seeds. I have neither marinated pork exclusively in red wine nor had a dish that calls for such a heavy usage of coriander seeds. Actually, I couldn't quite imagine how they'd taste together, so I just jumped right on in, making a light dinner for two with ingredients that are almost always available (providing one is not hyper-sensitive to Swine Flu fears).

Afelia
(from Tessa Kiros' Falling Cloudberries)

750g shoulder of pork, cut into 2cm/ 3/4" thick slices (boned, excess fat removed)
1 cup red wine (we used a tempranillo)
2 1/2 tablespoons coriander seeds, lightly crushed
2-3 tablespoons olive oil
salt
pepper
2 cloves garlic, peeled and lightly crushed
1 bay leaf
1/2 cup water

1) Marinade the pork pieces and one tablespoon of coriander seeds in red wine. Cover with clingfile and refrigerate overnight.
2) 15 minutes before cooking, bring pork out, and pat dry. Reserve liquid.
3) Heat oil in pot and fry pork until caramelised (I did this in two batches so as not to steam the pork pieces).
4) Season with salt and pepper.
5) Add garlic and rest of the coriander seeds.
6) When you can smell the garlic, add the marinating liquid, bay leaf, and water.
7) Bring to boil, then cover and reduce to simmer until the pork pieces are tender, approximately 30-40 mintues. You want liquid to become sauce - be sure to add water if most liquid evaporates during the cooking process.

When I first read this receipe, I did wonder how it could be typical of Cypriot cuisine, given that I had previously read of gorgeous dishes with lemon and tomato sauces, mostly bolstered by bay, celery and parsley leaves. The coriander seeds, however, do add a lemony punch to the rich pork, taking it to new, unexpected heights. Without having been there, I have now seen Cyprus through Tessa Kiros' senses.

Pan Pugliese

2009-04-28T20:33:00.000+12:00

On a cool autumn's morning, there are few more comforts than hearing rain outside as you are bundled up in the warmth of your home. What amplifies this warmth and joy-making is baking bread. You will all know the delights of freshly-baked bread, so I hardly need be too detailed to convince you to bake a loaf or two (even those who are gluten-intolerant may have gorgeous associations with bread baking, and I know of some clever ones that have found ways of adapting bread receipes so that they do not have to miss out).

Personally, I prefer breads with a developed taste. To get this more nuanced flavour, you need to make a starter, whether it be a sponge, poolish, biga or old dough. Not only do starters give great depth to the taste of your bread, they add to the texture of it - adding both airiness and heft. In some Italian breads, a biga is used - this is a quickly kneaded starter that ferments for the better part of a day. It is then added to the rest of the bread ingredients. As the word "starter" indicates, the biga needs at least 12 hours before it can be used.

For today's recipe, a bread that is commonly made in Puglia, Italy, the biga needs to be made at least 15 hours before baking.

Pan Pugliese
(from Jeffrey Alford and Naomi Duguid's Home Baking: The Artful Mix of Flour and Traditions from Around the World)

For the biga:

1/2 teaspoon active dry yeast
1/2 cup lukewarm water
1 cup all-purpose flour

1) Dissolve the yeast in the water.
2) Add flour and stir to combine.
3) Knead briefly in a bowl until a soft dough has been formed.
4) Cover the bowl with cling-film, and let stand at room temperature for 12-24 hours (or for up to three days in the fridge).

For the bread:
1 teaspoon active dry yeast
3 cups lukewarm water
biga, as above
5-6 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/2 tablespoons salt
1 cup wholewheat flour (or wholewheat pastry flour)

1) In a large bowl, dissolve yeast in water.
2) Cut biga into 5 pieces and stir into the water, breaking it up with a spoon, loosening it (practically to the extent of dissolving it, but this is not fully achievable).
3) Stir in one cup of all-purpose flour and the salt.
4) Add wholewheat flour, stirring to combine, then add three more cups of all-purpose, one cup at a time, and stirring all the while.
5) Keep one hand dry and one hand wet with warm water for stps 6-. Stir the dough with your wet hand, manoeuvre it like a paddle and turn the dough around on itself, like figure 8s.
6) Add another cup of all-purpose flour with your dry hand. Stir and mix with wet hand for 3-5 minutes, keeping an eye on the consistency, which should be wet but clinging together. If the dough is too liquid, add another 1/2 cup of all-purpose flour and continue stirring.
7) Cover the bowl with cling-film and let the dough stand for at least 3 hours (even overnight). It will rise a bit but will not double in volume.
8) Preheat oven to 250 C/500 F and do not open oven door until 20 minutes after oven has reached this temperature. Place a baking sheet on the lower rack.
9) Open oven door. With wet hands, break dough in half, shape into a mound (tucking edges underneath to smooth out and tighten the surface), then drop onto baking sheet.
10) Decrease temperature to 225 C/450 F after ten minutes.
11) All to bake for a further 20-25 minutes, until bread is well browned (it will also sound hollow when you tap the base).
12) Raise temperature to 250 C/500 F before baking other half of the dough.
13) Let cool for thirty minutes before slicing.

Some breads freeze really well, so you can always pull a pre-baked loaf out the freezer the night before and defrost it on the counter overnight. Some wet breads, though, do not freeze well, for their crusts can become quite tough and tear away as they are sliced, which is the case of today's Pan Pugliese.

This is a bread best eaten the day it has come out of the oven (or even the next day). And who can resist freshly baked bread?

Rabbit in Mustard Sauce

2009-04-18T17:56:00.007+12:00

Now that Easter is over, it is safe to present a bunny dish. And not of the chocolate variety. Rabbit is often overlooked as a game option, it seems, even though there seem to be more television chefs presenting it to viewers. Rabbit is lean, and it has an undeniably savoury flavour. It is a surprising meat to present to guests. Actually, I don't really hear people talk about eating or cooking rabbit when sharing kitchen tales. Perhaps people are too afraid of others' reactions to say that they like rabbit, but I really think rabbit has fallen by the wayside as an option for dinner (well, for urbanites in New Zealand and in the US (as far as I recall). I hope this post will help change the tide a little bit.

The important thing to remember about cooking rabbit is that it has no real fat, so it has to be helped from going dry. Like most dry food, rabbit goes terribly stringy when cooked for too long and without an adequate provision of fat. As it is gamy and very savoury, it responds quite well to strong ingredients, such as garlic, woody herbs, and mustard, as in today's recipe.

This rabbit dish is really a riff on a typical bistro dish (in the best sense of the term). It is creamy, heady, and gamy. In all, the texture of the rabbit immersed in the cream makes for a comforting dish, so no one should turn their noses up at it, unless of course he or she is vegetarian or has an attachment to fluffy bunnies.

Rabbit in Mustard Sauce

1 small rabbit, approximately 1 kg (2lb), cut into 4 natural pieces (breast and legs)
salt
pepper
60g/2oz unsalted butter
1 leek, thinly sliced cross-wise
2 anchovy filets
1 tablespoon juniper berries, lightly crushed
300ml white wine
150ml cream
3 tablespoons dijon mustard
squeeze of lemon juice, to taste

1) Preheat oven to 170 C/325 F.
2) Season rabbit pieces with salt and pepper.
3) Put butter in frying pan, and over a medium-hot flame, add the rabbit pieces. Each size to be bronzed before turning over.
4) Remove rabbit and all butter but for 2 tablespoons liquified butter.
5) Add leek and anchovies, and cook until leeks have softened.
6) Add juniper berries, wine and bring liquid to the boil, then lower temperature to a simmer until the liquid has reduced by half.
7) Add rabbit pieces and bring liquid to simmer again.
8) Cover with foil, then place in the oven for 40-50 minutes until cooked through, turning the rabbit pieces over once.
9) Remove rabbit to a warm plate, place frying pan over medium heat and bring to the boil until syrupy (you could strain the liquor before, in order to remove the onion, if you prefer a smoother sauce).
10) Pour in cream and simmer until slightly thickened.
11) Whisk in mustard and add lemon juice to taste.
12) Add rabbit pieces back to the pan, simmer for 10-15 minutes, then serve.

My angelheart Eric and I love the quality that juniper berries bring to gamy dishes. Their alpine freshness cut through the intensity of flavour that some people might find hard to take at first bite. Knowing that game is not to everyone's liking, the addition of juniper berries helps make rabbit more palatable. Cream, of course, is to most people's liking and distracts a little from rabbit's savouriness. In the spirit of sharing (conversion), I am all for introducing mitigating factors, but the truth is that you can dispense of the juniper berries and even the anchovies for a gamier tasting dish.

I hope this is a good introduction to rabbit. Let me know how you get on.

Mjuk Toscakaka

2009-04-05T17:50:00.001+12:00

I have an usual love affair for European baked goods. Unusual because I have never really experienced any freshly made...no German spice cookies, no Hungarian cakes, no Austrian or Croatian pastries, no Scandinavian baking at all...you get the point. Really, the only European baked goods I've had are the few I've made after watching Ingmar Bergman, Susanne Bier and Lars von Trier films or after reading about traditional baked offerings for Christmas, St Lucia's Day and St Martin's Day. It seems that I love the idea of heavenly-scented baked goods against a wintry landscape, which speaks directly to the comfort food orientation of my blog.

I have, however, been consistent in my curiosity, for the baked goods I covet and dream of making are always made with spices and are often served with gorgeous jams or preserves. To be served such food in an authentic environment would be sublime, but in the meantime, I will try to realise the fantasy in baby steps. I do not have the confidence to make linzertorte or strudel, but the odd cake or cookie recipe is enough to satisfy my cravings.

Sometimes my curiosity is peaked by what I first think are anomalies, such as using cardamom in cookie or cake batters, which, as it turns out, is commonplace in Scandinavia. Today's post is very simple, and it relies heavily on my preferred nuts: almonds. (Baking with nuts is another of my proclivities.) I have often thought of almonds as belonging to areas with warm climates, so it surprised me that this variation on butter cake would appear in a Swede's repertoire - actually, it is a popular cake made throughout Scandinavia. And that there is a reference to Tosca in the title of the cake, I cannot help but be intrigued...

Mjuk Toscakaka
(from Tamasin Day-Lewis' The Art of the Tart)

For the cake:

2/3 cup unsalted butter
1/2 cup sugar
2 eggs, lightly beaten
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 1/4 cups all purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
5 tablespoons water

For the topping:

1/4 cup ground or slivered almonds
4 tablespoons butter
5 tablespoon sugar
1 tablespoon all purpose flour
1 tablespoon milk

1) Preheat oven 180 C/350 F.
2) Cream butter and sugar together until the mixture is smooth in texture and pale in colour.
3) Beat in the eggs little by little.
4) Stir in the vanilla extract.
5) Sift in the flour and baking powder, then beat it in well.
6) Add water, then beat until smooth.
7) Pour the mixture into a prepared baking dish, such as a tart pan.
8) Ensure that the top is smooth before putting on the middle rack in the oven.
9) Bake for 30 minutes.
10) Remove pan from oven, then turn heat up to 200 C/400 F.
11) For the top of the cake, put all ingredients together in a saucepan until combined and heated through.
12) When the mixture reaches boiling point, pour it over the cake in one layer.
13) Continue to bake in the oven until the top has browned. Be careful not to let it burn.

This cake can be served hot or cold, with or without cream. The caramel and almond topping is fragrant, sweet and nutty, giving complexity to the simple, buttery sponge beneath. As for the connection to opera, I cannot quite tell, but it seems there is a cultural tradition of naming cakes after figures in the high arts. Using slivered almonds is traditional, but coarsely grinding them, as I have here, does not appear to affect the overall quality of the cake. Like most baked goods that contain nuts, a slice of this fragrant cake is perfect with coffee.

Moussaka

2009-03-06T10:31:00.009+13:00

Sincere apologies for the stretch of time between posts. It is not that I have neither cooked nor thought of this food blog recently; it is just that my angelheart Eric and I have been setting up our new home in central Auckland, and we've been planning the details of our civil union partnership reception.

Moussaka (various spellings) is a dish associated with southern Europe, for it is of Balkan and Middle Eastern provenance, often said to be an Ottoman dish. It has been transported throughout the world and, consequently, has been subject to variations. The most typical version is the Greek moussakas, a three-layer offering of aubergine, lamb and tomatoes, topped with bechamel. In Arab cookery, moussaka does not have bechamel topping, and while layered, it is treated more as a cooked salad, which is to say it is very kind to whatever vegetables you have on hand.

This, here, is a simple vegetarian offering, which is to say we dispensed of the normal inclusion of lamb. One should not do away with the aubergines and tomotoes, which are the quintessential elements of moussaka. If you have potatoes, courgettes, and carrots, slice them thinly, saute or gently roast them, and layer them into the dish.

Traditionally, eggs are used as a binding ingredient for lamb and onions; we merely kept them in for oomph. Essential are herbs and spices. Use whatever suitable green herbs you have on the day (we used flat-leaf parley and lemon thyme, but feel free to use mint, tarragon and rosemary). As for spices, allspice and good black pepper work particularly well. But if allspice is not to hand, go for toasted cumin,

Moussaka
(Closely following a variation of Elizabeth David's recipe for Musaka in
Spices, Salt and Aromatics in the English Kitchen)

500g aubergine (2-4 aubergines, depending on size)
1 onion, thinly sliced
750g tomatoes, chopped (you can skin them, if you please)
1 clove of garlic, crushed
4 tablespoons olive oil
1 tablespoon parsley
1/2 teaspoon hondashi
1 teaspoon allspice, freshly ground
2 eggs, beaten
salt
pepper
4-5 tablespoons vegetable stock or water, divided use
breadcrumbs (homemade: toast slices of good day-old bread, then grind them)

1) Preheat oven to 180 C/350 F (grill setting).
2) Thinly slice aubergines lengthwise, brush both sides with olive oil and grill in the oven (or on a barbecue grill) until soft but not mushy. Remove from grill.
3) In a saute pan, gently fry slices of onion in a bit of olive oil until pale yellow.
4) Add seasonings and herbs. Off the heat, stir in eggs.
5) In a separate pan, cook tomatoes and garlic in olive oil until most of the liquid has evaporated. Season with salt and pepper and hondashi.
6) Pre-heat oven to 170 C/330 F.
7) Lightly oil an oven-safe baking dish, and layer in the ingredients: aubergines, then tomatoes, until all have been used.
8) Top with a layer of breadcrumbs.
9) Lightly soften with 3 tablespoons of vegetable stock. Cover with alumiunium foil, then bake for thirty minutes.
10) Remove foil. If the moussaka seems dry, add a little more stock. Bake for a further thirty minutes.

The specimen on the left is ultimately quite shallow, perfect as a side dish, but the number of layers you end up with depends entirely upon the amount of vegetables and size of baking dish you use.

This is a hearty, flavoursome and savoury dish that is best served hot but it perfectly tasty at room temperature, making it an ideal offering for any course during the day. If you have a small household, there will be leftovers for the following day, and like many dishes with herbs and spices, the dish improves overnight.

Moussaka is a perfectly simple dish to prepare, making good use of the bounty of summer and early autumn.

Cookery Book Review: Claudia Roden's The New Book of Middle Eastern Food

2009-01-18T18:37:00.001+13:00

In recent years there has been a proliferation of cookery books that focus on the general geographic region of the Middle East and Turkey. Fortunately, these texts have proven to the interested cook (and chef, I should imagine) that there is more to the cuisines of these cultures than kebobs, Circassian chicken, moussaka, and baklava - not that these aren't wonderful when perfectly prepared, but their ubiquity undermines the culinary variety of these interesting and vast territories.

My personal enjoyment for Turkish food began over ten years ago when my friends and I, fresh out of high school, went to the Turkish Cafe in Ponsonby (one of Auckland's restaurant rows) on a whim and hungry for something "different." Exotic to us, then, was Turkish food - and belly-dancers, but they do not an authentic Turkish meal make. Anyway, like most initiates, I tried hummus and doner kebabs for the first time, followed by baklava and syrupy Turkish coffee. Everything felt velvety on my tongue. Though simply presented, it was the luxury provided by the textural qualities of the food that won me over. I became obsessed with the restaurant for a couple of years.

If we are to talk about Turkish food in the over-arching, umbrella-sense of the culinary ideal, it is useful to know that it draws from many regional influences. The Osmanlis (Ottomans), the greatest of all Turkish dynasties, adapted Persian and Arab dishes in addition to those of the region Bolu, where the Osmanlis used to hunt, and from where the greatest cooks of the Ottoman Court were sought. Aspects of what became Ottoman and consequently a national cuisine left their mark wherever the Ottomans reigned, which speaks to the myriad versions of hummus and baklava throughout North Africa, Southern Europe and the Middle East. Historical information pertaining to cultural and sociological insights form the narrative depth from which spring the recipes of Claudia Roden's grand cookery text The New Book of Middle Eastern Food, which celebrated its 40th year in publication last year (first published by Penguin in 1968 as The Book of Middle Eastern Food).

(Please note that the concept Middle Eastern herein refers not to a specific region but to an extensive community of various cultures that have traded and shared with each other, sometimes by force or lack of choice (territory wars, dispersed populations, etc.)

In order to cook anything from The New Book of Middle Eastern Food, one should become acquainted with the various ingredients that are predominant. After an engaging introduction on the genesis and scope of her text, Ms. Roden provides the reader with information on the necessary flavourings, aromatics and condiments of Middle Eastern cookery, most of which are relatively easy to source in any large metropolitan centre, in any area where there is a distinct Arab, Iranian or Muslim community, or online, if all else fails. Such examples are: dibbs, a date syrup that is used as a natural sweetener in Iraq; orange-blossom water; pomegranate syrup (or pomegranate molasses), a dark, tart flavouring that I cannot do without; ras-el-hanout ("top of the shelf"), a spice mixture that can contain anything between 12 and 100 ingredients; and argan oil, from a nut native to Morocco.

Recipes are presented in chapters devised according to: Appetizers (Entrées for those outside of the US), Salads, and Cold Vegetables; Yogurt; Savoury Pies; Soups; Egg Dishes; Fish and Seafood; Poultry; Meat Dishes; Vegetables; Rice; Bulgur, Couscous, and Pasta; Breads; Desserts, Pastries, and Sweetmeats; Pickles and Preserves; and Drinks and Sherbets. I will touch on some of these chapters in this review.

The first food chapter, Appetizers, Salads, and Cold Vegetables, presents "an art of living," which most of us love: mezze. The perfect mezze plate comprises small bites of varying textures and temperatures. Those which inundate supposed-Occidental images of Middle Eastern mezze are well-represented here: hummus, dukkah, taramosalata, and baba ghanouj. My proclivity is towards those with Syrian accents, as indicated by the presence of pomegranate molasses in muhammara (a condiment also made with walnuts, garlic and coriander) and Betingan bel Dibs Rumman (in which pomegranate molasses plays a principal role in the marinade for baby aubergines). Common ingredients across the board are: chickpeas, aubergines, tahini (a paste made of ground sesame seeds), walnuts, and peppers. Parsley seems to be the primary herb used, and popular spices include sumac, cumin, and turmeric.

For the uninitiated, soup is a good entry into any cuisine, for the comfort of a soup bowl is seemingly universal. This may help overcome the reluctance to try something different - or at least it works when I try to get those of shy palates to challenge their tastebuds. Many a Middle Eastern soup is tangy (due to the reliance on good, sharp lemon juice), such as the Egyptian hamod and Greek avgolemono, and most rely on lentils or vegetables (particularly pumpkin and spinach) to create density in the soups. Another popular ingredient is yogurt, which is generally added after the simmering period; it adds depth and creaminess while rounding out intense flavours in a healthful way. Of all the yogurt soups, I particularly like Eshkeneh Shirazi, a specialty from the Iranian city of Shiraz (a city of gardens and fruit trees in which the oldest sample of wine has been found) to which chicken stock is added to a roux, then it is seasoned and brought to the boil before adding chopped walnuts and dried fenugreek. After a simmering period, a large quantity of yogurt is added, then the soup is quickly served. Some soups are national dishes, and their presence provides great insight into the various cultures explored in The New Book of Middle Eastern Food.

I cannot count how many times I have flipped through the Poultry chapter in the years that I have owned The New Book of Middle Eastern Food. Poultry is the stand-out star for special occasions, particularly festivals. As Claudia Roden presents each recipe simply, one can serve a dish that is ordinarily grand in an accessible, mid-week way. For example, Hamam Mahshi bil Burghul is a way of expressing one's love for someone else, but it is essentially roasted and stuffed small poultry (usually poussins or chickens). We all know how to do this, and I use this particular recipe on a regular basis - the poultry marinates in an aromatic oil of cardamom, cinnamon and allspice and is stuffed with sweetly spicy and nutty bulgar wheat that is plumped up in chicken stock. Of course, I suppose, nothing says "I love you" better than a well-prepared, roasted chicken. Combining poultry with sweet ingredients (particularly cinnamon and fruit) is fairly commonplace throughout the Middle East. Fast approaches include Tabaka Piliç (Georgian chicken with plums) and Djaj bel Loz (Moroccan chicken with almonds and honey).

Meat Dishes picks up on the lavishness of the Poultry chapter, for meat was largely associated with aristocracy, and is to this day used sparingly and for special occasions in some parts of the Middle East. There are many recipes for stuffed meat, ground meat, tagines (Moroccan stews), and offal. As a lover of lamb (no surprise, I suppose, given that I am from New Zealand), this chapter is a particular favourite. Great and interesting examples of lamb dishes include: Shish Kebab (marinated, grilled meat on skewers), Kuzu Kapama (a Turkish dish for leg of lamb with scallions and herbs), and the Turkish lamb stew with creamy aubergine sauce (Hünkâr Beğendi). For those who love meatballs, there are 8 recipes in this chapter. Meatballs with spinach and hummas (Kofta bel Sabanekh wal Hummus) is popular throughout the Middle East, and I like to serve it an Iranian sauce made with orange juice (khoresh sak) - a photograph is provided at the opening of the post; the taste outshines and belies its simple appearance.

As meat is used judiciously, there is a reliance on Vegetables, Rice, and Bulgar, Couscous, and Pasta, which make up three detailed chapters in The New Book of Middle Eastern Food. If ever you want to glamourise and vaunt a side dish of vegetables, or if you are looking for vegetables presented as a main course, look no further. In the Middle East, vegetables are grilled, stuffed, preserved and gently cooked in myriad ways. In Egypt, leeks (korrat) are added to fried garlic and caramelised sugar, sprinkled with lemon juice and salt, then stewed. One then chooses to serve them cold as an appetizer/entrée or warm as a side-dish. In Iran, spinach is given a jolt by being added to soft mixture of fried onions, turmeric, cinnamon, prunes and black-eyed peas (Aloo Sfenaj). Personally, I get giddy at the sight of all the aubergine recipes. There are directions on how to fry, broil, grill and roast them, and there are many base recipes given with regional variations. I love the Palestinian dish Ma'loubet el Betingan, in which aubergines are sliced and broiled before being presented in a layered dish. Place sweetly spiced lamb on the bottom of a frying pan, cover it with slices of broiled aubergine, which in turn is covered with rice. Repeat the process, then fill the pan with water, which is gently brought to the boil then turned down to a simmer until the rice is tender. Easy to prepare and a savoury delight, Ma'loubet el Betingan is then set off with toasted pine nuts.

Rice is given royal treatment in Iran. When served plain (chelow), it is used to fill out dishes or to accent ingredients contained in the main meal. It is elevated to a polow when combined with other ingredients in an artful manner (often with nuts and sweet, dried fruit). Many a special pilaf (rice dish) come from Iran and Turkey. One such example is Balkabagi Pilav, for which cubed pumpkin simmers in chicken stock with rice and lightly friend onion, heady cardamom and cinnamon until the rice has absorbed the chicken stock and the pumpkin is tender. Sauces are often employed to make a meal out of rice alone. These sauces (or khoresht-ha in Persian) are dramatic, for their puncutate fluffy, buttery rice with an edge of bitterness and sourness. Khoresht-e Ghormeh Sabzi is a herb sauce made with dried limes, fenugreek, and an abundance of herbs (namely, dill, parsley, cilantrao). Khoresht-e Rivas is a sauce made with tart rhubarb, softened with allspice and cinnamon, and paird with mint and parsley. Short-grain rice is used for rice puddings and stuffing vegetables.

Bulgar, Couscous, and Pasta showcases the versatility of these Middle Eastern staples, most of which are common to many households outside the Middle East due to easily making them tasty in a short space of time. Bulgar is cracked wheat, which is to say wheat kernels that have been boiled, dried, then ground. It adds a nutty flavour to dishes and comes in three types of grind: coarse, medium and fine. It is used to make extraordinary pilafs and salads. In the days of the Ottoman Empire it was soaked in chicken stock and was combined with toasted pine nuts and raisins. Like this, bulgar could be used as a side dish or as a stuffing - I like to stuff aubergines and bell peppers with it for a quick, summery lunch. Couscous is a staple of North Africa, and it is made by grinding semolina in a coarse manner, then coating it in flour. It is usually steamed in the dishes made from it, which are often also called couscous. Used as a bed for flashy ingredients (such as almonds and squab, perfumed with onions, gingner, saffron and ginger) or as an integral ingredient for a savoury stew (such as the Moroccan dish Kesksou Bidaoui bel Khodra, in which lamb stews with seven vegetables and chickpeas), couscous is a delight. The predominant pasta used in the Middle East is orzo, known in Arabic as "birds' tongues." Like bulgar, it is best flavoured by soaking up stock.

The majority of desserts (whether they be preparations of fruit, pastries or sherbets) from the Middle East are very sweet, but they are consumed in small doses. I adore them because they are always beautifully coloured and exquisitely perfumed. If you want a show-stopper, Claudia Roden has been thorough in providing the reader with many options to deliver. If you are in the mood for fruit, a fruit salad is enlivened with rose water, orange slices are lifted with a touch of orange-blossom water, and apricots are simmered in a perfumed rose water and sugar syrup before being filled with cream and adorned with chopped pistachios (the Turkish dessert Kaymakli Kayisi Tatlisi). If you prefer ice cream, try ones made with pistachios or almonds, or even the traditional sahlab offering from Turkey, Lebanon, Syria and Egypt (made with mastic and orange-blossom water, sahlab is the ground root tuber of the orchid family that creates a chewy ice cream). There are gorgeous pastry desserts, such as baklava (layers of filo pastry interspersed with perfumed and buttered ground nuts, usually pistachios or walnuts, M'hencha (a Moroccan dessert of ground, sweetly-spiced almonds, rolled up in filo, which is then spiralled into the shape of a snake before it is baked), and Ma'amoul (date-filled pastries - in Syria and Lebanon the pastry is made with semolina instead of flour). You will now have an idea of the ingredients preferred in desserts: fruit, sweetened and spiced nuts, and rose and orange-blossom waters. Ataïf are Arab pancakes, made with yeast and coated with a fragrant sugar syrup. These pancakes can also be filled with nuts and lightly fried before being dipped into the syrup (known as Ataïf bi Loz, as photographed in this paragraph).

And this is just a sampling of what The New Book of Middle Eastern Food contains. There are breads, preserves, and fish courses, too. Giving a textural quality to the recipes is a rich backdrop of history, cultural observations, riddles, and anecdotes. For the kitchen or armchair traveller, this is an ideal text. I feel like I have been to the Middle East every time I cook from or read this seminal cookery book. The cooking methods have been adapted for modern kitchens and technology, the recipes have been tested for success (though, of course, there is always room for personal interpretation and tastes), and the tone of Claudia Roden's writing is never intimidating - it is as welcoming and friendly as the lavish dishes provided in this, one of my "desert island books": The New Book of Middle Eastern Food.

(When I first began blogging, I participated in a blog event in which we were to cook from a cookery book, and I chose this one. You can read about and the chosen recipes here.)

The New Year: Croque Monsieur Bake and Cheescake

2009-01-03T18:56:00.000+13:00

It can be a bit of an effort to approach the statutory holidays of the new year with the same vigour one has on a workday morning, unless, of course, one is hosting friends and/or family for brunch and mimosas. I did not play host-like roles for any festivities pre or post-New Year's Day, for I knew that I would have too much of a good thing at the home of good friends' the night before (being hosted is always such a treat), and I did. But one must eat after such an evening, and in such a haze, needing sustenance for the day and others to come (festivities are known to continue through January 1), I often turn to eggs or bread, sometimes in combination.

A personal favourite at the start of any weekend or holiday morning is eggs benedict or croque monsieur. The former is more fiddly than the latter, requiring a hollandaise sauce to be made, so the decision to make croque monsieur was a simple one. Croque monsieur is the ultimate in simple Parisian snack food, for it is quite plainly a toasted ham and cheese sandwich (a croque madame is topped with a fried egg). As is particularly true for recipes that need but the fewest ingredients, the better the quality of bread, ham and cheese, the more satisfying the result. Your only choice for cheese is one between emmental and gruyère, both of which melt under the merest heat: emmental (or Swiss cheese, as it is known in New Zealand, Australia and North America) is a hard cheese of cow's milk that is nutty and slightly acidic; gruyère is made from cow's milk and is sweet but slightly salty (overall imparting a somewhat mineral quality to a dish). Both cheeses complement ham's salty notes.

Perhaps she did not have in mind those deservedly inflicted with a hangover, but Nigella Lawson's recipe for Croque Monsieur Bake is ingenious - everything is prepared the night before, so all one has to do is pre-heat an oven before throwing the waiting ingredients into it.

Croque Monsieur Bake
(from Nigella Lawson's Nigella Express)

6 slices light rye bread
75g Dijon mustard
6 slices and 4 tablespoons grated gruyère cheese
6 thin slices of ham
6 eggs
1 teaspoon salt
80ml/3 fl. oz milk

1) Make sandwiches in the traditional manner: spread each slice of bread with mustard, in between each sandwich go the cheese and ham. Cut in half, either straight down or on the diagonal.
2) Press sandwich halves snuggly into a baking dish.
3) In a bowl, whisk together the eggs, salt and milk.
4) Pour liquid over the sandwiches.
5) Cover with clingfilm and keep in the refrigerator overnight.
6) In the morning, preheat your oven to 200 C/400 F.
7) Remove baking dish from the fridge, dispose of the clingfilm, and sprinkle grated cheese over the top (along with a sprinling of Worcestershire sauce, if desired).
8) Bake in the oven for 25 minutes, by which time the egg will have cooked, the bread will have browned, and the cheese will have melted.

This is a great no-fuss way to start any morning, especially one in which stodgy food is a necessity to give one's stomach fortitude after the previous night's/early morning's boozing. Quite rich, there is easily enough to satisfy 4-6.

Later in the day, one might turn one's mind to something slightly sweet. This is not the right moment to go into the grand subject of The Mighty Cheesecake (we have hangovers and are suffering from the inevitable exhaustion that follows the rush to complete business before Christmas, remember?), on which many a book and treatise has been written; however, I will assert my general preference for baked cheesecakes in the style of Central and Eastern Europeans crossed with the Commonwealth and North American enjoyment of a biscuit base. In New Zealand we neither cook nor bake cheesecakes (generally), and often serve them with fruit atop or woven through. I dispense of the fruit, bake the cheesecake and always have a spicy biscuit base.

The following receipe is suitable for a 24cm/9" springform pan. Feel free to use your preferred cookies for the base. I like digestive biscuits, semi-sweet cookies made with wholemeal flour. When in the US, I use graham crackers as they are easier to find when I am not in the mood to make my own digestive biscuits - also, they are the closest approximation to digestive biscuits.

Cheesecake

For the base:

250g digestive biscuits, pulverised to fine crumbs
1/2 cup unsalted butter, melted
1/4 cup sugar
1/2 teaspoon ginger
1/2 teasponn cinnamon

1) Mix all ingredients together.
2) Press evenly into a springform pan, allowing it to come up the sides to form a shell around the cheesecake filling.
3) Place in the refrigerator for 30 minutes.

For the filling:

500g/1 lb cream cheese
1 tablespoon flour
1/2 cup sugar
4 eggs, separated
1/2 cup cream
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon salt

1) In a bowl, beat the cream cheese until it is soft.
2) Add flour and sugar, mix well.
3) Add the egg yolks, cream and vanilla extract, mix well.
4) In a separate bowl, combine egg whites and sugar until soft peaks are formed.
5) Fold egg whites into cream cheese mixture.

To complete:

biscuit base, as above,
filling, as above
3/4 cup sour cream
1/2 teaspoon vanilla bean paste (or vanilla extract)

1) Pre-heat oven to 200 C/400 F.
2) Pour filling into biscuit base.
3) Place springform pan into a roasting pan, add hot water, which is to come halfway-up the side of the springform pan (do not get any water into the cheesecake). Creating a bain marie prevents overcooking and keeps the cheesecake from rising and falling too dramatically, creating a smoother, more even-looking cheesecake.
4) Bake for 50 minutes.
5) While the cheesecake is baking, combine sour cream and vanilla extract.
6) Take cheesecake out of oven, spread sour cream mixture over surface of the cheesecake.
7) Bake for a further 10 minutes.

The addition of sour cream to the top (as opposed to folding it into the cream cheese itself) creates a foil to the richness of the cheesecake filling by supplying an overt tangy quality to it. I have a great love of sweet-sour combinations - this addition is also quite popular in the American northeast. I suppose this also acts as a metaphor for the year - to enjoy and accept the fullness and happiness of life, whilst also weathering its tangy, sour moments with as much grace as possible.

Today's results look quite spartan, and this is not without intention. This is a new year, after all. It is best to look forward, with renewed pleasure for life, learned from the previous year's experiences. This is going to be a great year for me, if for no other reason that for the fact that my angelheart Eric is moving to New Zealand.

Happy New Year!

Cherry Pie

2008-12-27T12:44:00.005+13:00

The cherry season properly begins in December in New Zealand. As such, and most being red, cherries are associated with the festivities of Christmas. A Christmas gift this year, from my good friend the sassy Sauciere Queen Lily, is 2 kilograms/4 pounds of Dawson cherries, which were flown up from Cromwell (in the South Island, where cherry trees do particularly well). 2 kilograms is rather a large quantity, and given that cherries do not store well, unlike apples, one has to put them to good use almost immediately.

When presented with such a quantity, it is no wonder that people often turn their hands to making a jam; this is a practical way of handling a glut of cherries. Partial as I am to jam, I have never preserved fruit and will not do so on my own (too scared of doing a poor job and creating an environment for nasty bacteria - perhaps making jam will be my new year's resolution, given that cherries and berries are plentiful for a good while). Other than enjoying them in their natural state, I have a few ideas on what to do with them.

In keeping with the spirit of Christmas, I decided to promptly make an American cherry pie. Actually, good old-fashioned cherry pies typically use canned sour cherries, so I am deviating a little, but not so much as to do away with the original intention and purpose of the cherry pie - to use a substantial amount of them in one fell swoop and to highlight the unusual flavour of the cherry.

The typical filling for cherry pies is made with a large amount of sugar, and the pie itself is typically served à la mode, which is to say with vanilla ice cream. This is probably because sour (tart) cherries are often used and the sweetness of the sugar and ice cream temper the cherries. It seems practical to use sweet cherries in the first instance, as they are generally the most available in New Zealand, and they also require less sugar in the filling. Of course, one does not have to serve ice cream with cherry pie at all; crème fraîche would do the opposite of vanilla ice cream with a naturally sweet cherry pie, for it would act as a mildly tangy foil against the cherries. Dawson cherries can have a slight puckering effect, so I have gone completely middle of the road - a little sugar in the filling and served with a small scoop of vanilla ice cream.

Cherry Pie

For the pie crust (a sugar crust):

1 1/4 cups all purpose flour
4 tablespoons granulated sugar
113g/4oz unsalted butter, diced
5 tablespoons ice cold water

1) Mix flour and sugar together very well.
2) Mix butter into flour mixture with tips of your fingers until incorporated in sand-like granules.
3) Add water, one tablespoon at a time, until dough coheres. A smooth ball should result.
4) Halve the dough, wrap each half in cling-film, flatten dough out to a disc shape, then place in the refrigerator for at least 30 mintues.
5) Roll out one half of the dough on a lightly floured surface with a floured rolling pin.
6) Place into a greased (lightly coated with butter and flour) tart shell or shallow pie dish of 22-25cm/9-10" and allow for some overhang.
7) Put in the refrigerator until you are ready to fill it.
8) When the pie is ready to be filled, roll out the other half of the dough and cut into strips, approximately 2cm/just under 1" wide. You can then use the strips to weave into a lattice or twist to cover the filling. Of course, you could just roll out the dough as normal, place over pie, then crimp the overhang and chop off the excess. If you do this, cut slits in the pie top to allow steam to escape. You can also brush with egg wash for colouring.

For the filling:

Lemon juice from 1/4 medium-sized lemon
4 cups cherries, stoned (or halved then stoned, if you do not have a cherry stoner)
1/4 cup granulated sugar
2 tablespoons cornflour/cornstarch
1 1/2 tablespoons brandy
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1) Put lemon juice and cherries into a bowl. The lemon juice prevents cherries from browning.
2) Add sugar, cornflour, brandy and vanilla extract. Stir well to combine. The cornflour prevents liquid from seeping into the pastry and helpd hold the contents of the pie together when it is cooked.

To complete:

1) Pre-heat oven to 200 C /400 F. Put a lined baking sheet on the middle rack.
2) Remove pie dish/tart shell with dough in it from refrigerator and line it with pie filling, as close to one layer as possible.
3) Cover pie with preferred topping per Step 8 of Pie Crust instructions. You will see that I twisted my strips and simply lay them over the filling. I then used a rolling pin to simultaneously join the strips at the overhang and to remove the excess.
4) Place tart shell/pie dish in oven on baking sheet.
5) After 20 minutes, turn temperature down to 180 C/350 F.
6) Bake for further 40-50 minutes until pie crust is bronzed and filling is bubbling away. For good measure, loosely place foil over the pie after 30 mintues to prevent charred-like appearance.
7) Allow to cool slightly before serving.

The pie crust is perfectly crisp and not at all damp (presumably on account of the sugar). The cherries are inherently slightly tart, but cooking them releases the juices, which gently bubble and amalgamate with the brandy, making for a mouth-filling sensation. Of course, if you prefer a slightly bitter edge, use kirsch instead of brandy - of course, you do not have to use any alcohol at all. A bitter edge can also be achieved by adding ground cherry stones to the flour. The bronzed crust and sparkling pie filling are cheerful, making a gorgeous addition to any Christmas table.

Ahead for us Kiwis (and those visiting New Zealand) is the ripening of many cherry varieties that will become available until early February. My particular favourites are the pale, sweet Rainier and dark, juicy Lapins, which are within reach around my birthday.

That Cookbook Thing II - Tarte aux Figues

2008-12-13T21:06:00.002+13:00

The final installment of That Cookbook Thing II, a community review of various recipes in Julia Child, Louisette Bertholle and Simone Beck's Mastering The Art of French Cooking, Volume One, brings us to desserts. The French are perhaps the most renowned for their desserts, particularly those involving pastry. Our final group sampling comes from the essential chapter Desserts and Cakes, in which one is introduced to fundamental baking techniques as well as what goes into making quintessentially French tarts.

Central to the art of baking are the various binding requirements of eggs, sugar and cream or milk required for pastries and pastry cream. The latter is more intricate for all it takes is a difference of temperature, quantity or inclusion of one or two different ingredients to go from a creme anglaise to a frangipane pastry cream. While short on theory, Child et al. provide enough information in order for you to succeed in baking heavenly tarts. The idea is to get you into the kitchen, not to weigh you down to the point of inertia.

Dessert tarts typically comprise of three elements: pastry shell, pastry cream and fruit. Of course, there are various pastries and creams from which to choose in order highlight one's chosen fruit(s), and this is where the French truly transcend the expectations of a simple dessert.

The tart that we were supposed to make is a flambeed cherry tart. While the cherry season has just begun in New Zealand, I was not able to find any. So, I decided on dried figs, which were still plump and responded well to reconstituting in red wine. Besides, figs are just as much a part of French life as cherries. The tart, finally, took a detour, ending up with more of southern flavour than a south-western one. Never mind. It is still a fruit tart, and you know I love tarts (Samantha Jones of Sex and the City included).

In making the tart, Child et al. suggest two possible tart shells and pastry creams. There is no discussion on which works best; therefore, the reader is empowered to create an instant repertoire - keep your fruit the same, and just change out the shell and cream. The pastry shell options are sweet short crust and sugar crust. I opted for the sugar crust, as it provides a firmer finish (depending on the amount of sugar used). As for the pastry cream, the options are a custard filling or an almond custart. I have an absolute adoration of almond custard (aka frangipane), so there was no debate. In combination with the figs, I was salivating from the first beating of the whisk - this is fruit tart ne plus ultra.

The tart fits a 25cm/10" tart pan. Overall, I used considerably less sugar than recommended.

Tarte aux Figues
(Largely based on Julia Child, Louisette Bertholle, and Simone Beck's first volume of Mastering the Art of French Cooking)

For the sugar crust pastry shell:

1 3/4 cups flour
4 tablespoons sugar
1/8 teaspoon baking powder
7 tablespoons butter, diced
1 egg beaten with 1 tablespoon of water
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

1) Mix together flour, sugar and baking powder in a medium bowl.
2) Rub butter into the flour mixture with the tips of your fingertips until sand-like granules are formed. Touch as lightly and deftly as possible. (Believe me, you will get that hang of it if you make pastry tarts enough times.)
3) Mix in the beaten egg and vanilla and bring entire mixture together.
4) On a lightly floured surface, knead the mixture into a ball.
5) To fully blend the mixture, use the heel of your hand to press small sections of pastry in a quick smear of approximately 15cm/6"(this process is known as fraisage).
6) Form into a disc and wrap in clingfilm for approximately 30 mintues.
7) Preheat oven to 190 C/375 F.
8) Roll out disc on a lightly-floured surface.
9) Place pastry into a prepared (lightly filmed with butter and flour) tart mold. Cover with foil and baking beans, then bake for 6 minutes.
10) Remove foil and baking beans, prick base of the tart base, bake for a further 8-10 minutes. Keep an eye on the rim of the shell, for it might blacken (due to sugar content). It is wise to place foil around the rim, as I have done in the past but neglected to do on this occasion.
11) Remove from oven and from mold, and let cool on a rack, during which time it will also harden.

For the figs:

1 cup red wine
2 tablespoons lemon juice
4 tablespoons sugar
3 cups dried figs, halved if large

1) Boil red wine, lemon juice and sugar.
2) Add the figs.
3) Simmer for 5-6 minutes, then off the heat and let figs steep in liquid for approximately twenty minutes.
4) Drain figs (no need to reserve liquid).

For the frangipane (almond custard):

1 egg and 1 egg yolk
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1/3 cup all-purpose flour
1 cup boiling milk
1 1/2 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon almond extract
1/2 cup almond flour (pulverised almonds)
2 tablespoons cognac (or kirsch or brandy)

1) In a bowl, beat egg and egg yolk, gradually adding sugar.
2) When the mixture is pale yellow and forms ribbons, beat in the flour.
3) Add milk in a very thin stream.
4) Over medium heat, pour contents back into pot in which milk heated (to save on dishes, you understand), stir slowly, whipping all the time.
5) When the mixture becomes lumpy, beat vigorously until a paste is formed, all the while over the heat to cook the flour. Be careful not to burn the mixture on the bottom of the pot.
6) Off the heat, add butter, vanilla and almond extracts, almond flour and cognac. If you are not using it immediately, clean the sides and dot top with butter to prevent a film from forming over the frangipane.

To assemble the tart:

1) Fold drained figs into the frangipane.
2) Spread figs into sugar crust tart shell.
3) Preheat broiler/grill in oven.
4) Sprinke 1 tablespoon sugar over surface.
5) Place under broiler for 2-3 minutes to caramelise the sugar.
6) Optional: Throw 1/4 cup cognac, kirsh or brandy over surface of tart, alight and present to table.

This truly is a heady and wonderful combination, a complete success. The tart shell is sturdy and sweet, the figs heady and plump, the almond custard and booze rounding our the flavours of the tart with interest. While there are a few steps to building this tart, not one of them is difficult - and only the last optional step is potentially dangerous. I found that this tasted just as good the next day with a perfectly hot cup of strong black coffee, but I have a love of sweet goods late in the afternoon (I must be Central European at heart).

That Cookbook Thing II has been a wonderful experience for me to get to know a classic cookery text. Whilst I have not proceeded to engage in it to the nth degree as Julie Powell of the famous Julie/Julia Project, I have made a connection to Julia Child, Louisette Bertholle and Simone Beck's masterful text. This is a great text for the home cook, for its sole purpose is to really train the reader to produce quality meals at home. The tips are insightful and the organisation of the great selection of recipes is practically unparallelled. This is a user-friendly guide for those of us who love French cooking.

Braised Lamb Shanks on Bulgur

2008-11-30T18:56:00.002+13:00

Even as the humidity rises and the sun gets closer, I am happy to braise meat. The benefit of braising in warm climes is that there is not much preparation time required, so one can still have cooked meat without having to sweat over a hot stove - most people I know all but abandon cooking during summer. And whilst the inside of a cooking vessel can look gloomy when one is braising dark meat, the meat itself, succulent and flavourful, can be served with any light, summery options you desire. Braising meat in summer is perfect for people who do not care to throw everything on the barbecue (cleaning the grates/grills is not a fun way to end a summer evening).

One of my favourite partners for braised meat is bulgur - cracked wheat that is a staple in Turkey and in the Arabic-speaking world (where it is called burghul). It is generally available in three textures - coarse (great for pilafs), medium (for salads, such as the summer necessity tabbouleh, and to stuff vegetables), and fine (for pastes and purees). It absorbs liquid wonderfully, thereby enhancing its naturally nutty flavors with the broth of your choice. For braised dishes, one can steep bulgur in hot water with a blend of spices and some of the braising liquid.

Braised Lamb Shanks on Bulgur

For the lamb shanks:

2 tablespoons flour
1/4 tablespoon salt
1/4 tablespoon pepper, ground (I used both Szechuan peppercorns and black pepper)
4 lamb shanks
3 tablespoons olive oil
1 tablespoon thyme
1 onion, thinly sliced
1 leek, sliced
2 carrots, diced
300mls/10 fl. oz white wine (just under half a standard bottle of wine)
2 cups beef broth
4 cloves of garlic, roughly chopped

1) Pre-heat oven to 150 C/300 F.
2) Create seasoned flour by combining flour, salt and pepper in a small shallow vessel.
3) Dredge the shanks in the seasoned flour, shake off the excess.
4) In a dutch oven, heat oil over a medium heat and brown the lamb shanks on all sides.
5) Remove lamb shanks, then add thyme, onion, leek and carrots until softened. Stir garlic through to cook, but do not let it brown.
6) Raise heat, add wine and broth. Allow the liquid bubble furiously for a couple of minutes, then return lamb shanks to the dutch oven.
7) Place a layer of baking paper snuggly over the lamb shank, cover with a lid, then put in oven until lamb is meltingly tender, approximately 2-2 1/2 hours.

For the bulgur:

1/2 cup bulgur, medium grind
2 teaspoons ground coriander seeds
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1/4 teaspoon ground Szechuan peppercorns
1/4 teaspoon ground pepper
salt
1/2 cup beef broth
1 cup boiling water

1) In a bowl, combine bulgur, ground spices and a couple of pinches of salt.
2) Add beef broth and water. Stir quickly, then cover with cling-film.
3) Do not remove cling-film until liquid has been absorbed by the bulghur wheat, approximately 20 minutes.

I mixed some of the vegetables from the braise with the bulgur in order to form a nice, nutty bed for the lamb shanks. Be sure to spoon some of the braising liquid over the shanks and bulgur. A touch of zingy freshness can be added with gremolata (minced garlic, lemon zest and parsley).

Even though it takes a while for the lamb shanks to become so tender that the meat practically falls of the bone, this is an exercise in effortless cooking.

Here's to summer!

That Cookbook Thing II - Tournedos Sautés Chasseur

2008-11-09T15:58:00.003+13:00

I don't know about you, but I cannot keep all the various cuts of meat straight. It has been most confusing keeping track of what one calls a particular cut in New Zealand and what one calls the same thing in the US. It is even more confusing when translating the same cut from another language - I need to check a few references (first, the one in the language/country from which I have found the recipe source) before finding a synonymous cut in New Zealand. It really does my head in. Perhaps this is because I'm easy when it comes to meat - no pun intended. If I see oxtail, I think of braising; if I see sirloin, I think of frying (in all its sanguineous glory, please). I have neither an allegiance to a selection of meat nor to a method of cooking. Today's choice selection, tournedos, ensured that I checked a few references before embarking on a the recipe selected for That Cookbook Thing II.

And so the research question: What is tournedos? Because today's post reflects a selection of meat recipes from Julia Child, Louisette Bertholle, and Simone Beck's first volume of Mastering the Art of French Cooking, it is best to see how Child et al. describe it. Better than verbal description alone, the ladies provide a cross-section diagram of a whole filet of beef. Tournedos is located in the T-bone steak section, which is towards the lower back, as opposed to the shoulder/rump. The T-bone is divided into two sections: tournedos (next to the filet steak of the porterhouse cut) and filet mignon (at the extremity of the rib end of the steak). This is clear enough, but another source, Martha Stewart, says that filet mignon and tournedos are the same thing in America. This conflicts with Julia Child's lesson, which is directed to an American audience. New Zealand Beef tells you that one side of the T-bone flesh is the tenderloin, agreeing with Child et al., one part of this is the tournedos. My head hurts already, but I think we're there...

The commonality of all these descriptions is the rib end of the beef steak (but not its extremity, which is the filet mignon), no matter whom you listen to. Armed with this basic understanding of steak, I trotted off to my butcher par excellence, the wonderful guys at Seaview Meats, and ordered: "Tournedos, or whatever one is calling it today. I would like six healthy portions of it, and all I know is that it is not the filet mignon but the the other bit of the T-bone's tenderloin." Exhibit A, this post's opening photograph, is what I got.

As you can see, it is not as marbeled as the filet steak (cut from the mid-section - aka Porterhouse), but it is indeed tender. The lack of marbling is an excuse to fry the steak with strips of pork fat.

The following recipe serves 6.

Tournedos Sautés Chasseur
(from Julia Child, Louisette Bertholle, and Simone Beck's first volume of Mastering the Art of French Cooking)

6 rounds of bread, thinly sliced, crust removed (I used one of spelt and flax seed)
4 tablespoons clarified butter
250g/ 1/2lb fresh mushrooms, whole or quartered if big
4 tablespoons unsalted butter, divided use
2 tablespoons oil, divided use
2 tablespoons minced shallots
salt
pepper
6 tournedos, each bundled in a strip of gorgeous fat
1/2 cup beef stock
1 tablespoon tomato paste
1/4 cup brandy (or Madeira), mixed with 1 tablespoon cornstarch (or arrowroot)
1 1/2 tablespoons parsley, minced

1) Sauté the rounds of bread in the clarified butter, lightly browned on each side. Re-heat at 180 C/350 F immediately before serving.
2) Sauté mushrooms in 2 tablespoons butter and 1 tablespoon oil.
3) Stir in shallots and cook over medium-low heat for two minutes. Season with salt and pepper, then set aside.
4) Heat up 2 tablespoons butter and 1 tablespoon olive oil in sauté pan over medium-high heat. When butter foams, sauté the tournedos to your preference, then immediately remove from heat. Season the tournedos and plate each one on a separate piece of browned bread. Keep warm while the following sauce is prepared.
5) Remove fat from the sauté pan in which your prepared the steaks, add stock and tomato paste. Boil fiercely, scraping up the browned bits (the fond) and cooking juices.
6) When the liquid is reduced to but 2-3 tablespoons, add brandy and starch mixture. Boil until alcohol has evaporated and sauce has thickened.
7) Add sautéed mushrooms, simmer to blend the flavours and taste for seasoning.
8) Spread mushrooms over the steaks.
9) Sprinkle parsley over the dish.

Ms. Child recommends that the dish is served with whole-roasted tomatoes, artichoke hearts prepared in butter, or potato balls sautéed in butter. I roasted tomatoes with olive oil, salt, pepper and thyme. I also served the dish with sautéed bok choy, which is not French at all, but I like to serve red meat with greens. You, of course, will do as you please.

Even though the dish serves 6, I had two tournedos. I was feeling very greedy but regretted it soon after. One really is enough if one wants dessert afterwards (besides, one supposedly shouldn't consume more meat than the size of one's palm). In terms of repeatability, the tournedos, truthfully, are very simply prepared. I will marinate them next time. The mushrooms work well in the sauce, but it is too tomato heavy, really. Less tomato paste and perhaps some herbs will liven it up next time. As seems to be the case with all the recipes attempted for That Cookbook Thing II, Mastering the Art of French Cooking provides the willing cook with wonderful foundational material from which one can spring forth with personal additions and twists.

Please visit the posts of my friends in the blogging community who have also tried this dish as part of That Cookbook Thing II: Mike at Mel's Diner, Sara at I Like to Cook, Ruth at Once Upon A Feast, and Deborah at What's In My Kitchen?.

Tangerine Curd Tart

2008-11-02T14:29:00.005+13:00

Today's entry does not have the beginning I had mentally drafted. You see, I took photos of flowering kowhai trees (sophora microphylla) last week as evidence of spring in New Zealand, for yellow is one of the most striking colours of our spring - it sparkles against new green growth and dew drops, however cold the days might still be right up to the middle of the season. This morning I looked out the kitchen window while preparing the deified first coffee of the day, expecting to see the gorgeous ochre and sunshine yellow bells of the kowhai. Instead, I was confronted by an alternate reality: no flowers at all on the kowhai tree. Suddenly I had a flashback of something overheard on the news last night (I don't generally watch the news on telelvision, as a rule, preferring instead to make time to read worthwhile publications that analyse world events and politics): yesterday was the first day of summer. What? Fear not, those idiots got it wrong (giving credence to my belief in using other sources for the news). A quick search on MetService, however, confirms that summer is indeed from December to February. Tell that to the kowhai, though, which I thought flowered throughout spring. Perhaps this is a tough year for the speciman in my backyard. And tell that to the locally-grown tangerines that I have.

It seems as if the flora are all a little confused at the moment. Perhaps this is evidence of global warming on a micro level? Concerning tangerines, perhaps winter fruit and vegetables are genetically predisposed to survival, whereas springtime specimens are more delicate? No matter the science, the point is that I have tangerines at my fingertips, presumably the last of the available local citrus fruit, the colour of which supplies warmth and mental bolstering to what continues to be an unpredictable and cool time of the year.

Tangerines (mandarins that have red-orange peels) are so named because they were first shipped from Tangier, Morocco, to Europe. Of course, this is a purely imperialist distinction. The fact is that tangerines are widely consumed all over Northern Africa, the Middle East and pockets of Asia. Tangerines are generally smaller than oranges and less tart. There is a beautiful ethereal quality to their colouring - not quite orange, not quite yellow, but a blur of the two. Tangerines provide a soft tangy foil to desserts of caramel and chocolate. Of course, one can highlight the quality of tangerines in an easy tart.

Of course, you do not have to use tangerines. You might have other citrus around at the moment, and a curd can be made from all of them - one made from pink grapefruit is especially pretty.

Tangerine Curd Tart

for the Pastry:

5oz/140g flour, sifted
2 1/2oz/70g unsalted butter, cut up into small cubes
1 egg, separated
1/2 tablespoon tangerine zest
1 tablespoon tangerine juice
1 pinch salt
iced water, optional

1) In a bowl, rub together the flour and butter with the tips of your fingers until a granular consistency is reached. Mix in tangerine zest.
2) In another bowl, lightly beat the egg yolk, tangerine juice and salt.
3) Mix egg and flour mixtures together with hands (mixing in one direction) or with a wooden spoon. You want the mixture to cohere into a ball. If it does not seem to be coming together, add **one** tablespoon of iced water at a time. You may not need any, but if you do need it, be careful not to add too much because you'll end up with a wet mess and the damage will be done - unless, of course, you want to pour out the excess and add in a bit more flour, but that is a gamble, and I wouldn't recommend it.
4) Once a ball has been formed, create a flat disc, and cover in cling-film. Refrigerate for 30 minutes.
5) Bring pastry out of the fridge and let rest for 5-10 minutes, to allow pastry to become pliable.
6) Preheat oven to 200 C/400 F.
7) Put pastry on a lightly-floured surface. Roll it out with a floured rolling pin, turning the pastry after each pass of the rolling pin to ensure it doesn't stick to the surface. Roll it out so it can fit into a prepared (that is to say, buttered and floured) 9 or 10" tart shell.
8) Allow to sit in tart shell in fridge for 15 minutes.
9) Cover pastry with parchment paper onto which you put baking beans (this is to weight down the pastry, so it doesn't rise and bubble during the initial baking process).
10) Bake for 15 minutes.
11) Remove parchment paper and beans. Prick base with the tines of a fork, then dab lightly beaten egg whites over the surface to give added crispness to the pastry.
12) Bake for a further 5-10 minutes until golden all over.

for the Tangerine Curd:

2 small-medium tangerines, zested and juiced
2 eggs and 3 egg yolks
1/2 cup sugar
113g/4oz unsalted butter

1) In a bowl, beat together 2 tablespoons of tangerine zest, 1/2 cup tangerine zest, the eggs, yolks, and sugar.
4) Over a low heat, melt the butter in a medium-sized saucepan. (If you are increasing the quantity of citrus curd, you may want to use a wider pan in order to speed up the setting of the curd.)
5) Stir in the liquid mixture.
6) Whisk constantly over a low heat until it has come together and has thickened, almost like custard. This took me approximately 30 minutes because I am overly cautious. You may choose to do this at a medium-high heat but at your own risk. Do not forget to stop whisking as you do not want to cook the eggs.
7) Pour the curd into a bowl and cover once cooled. It can then be refrigerated or used immediately. For the purposes of this tart, refrigerate the curd for 30 minutes once cooled.

To assemble the tart, pour the cold tangerine curd into the pastry shell and refrigerate until you are ready to serve it. This open-faced tart looks like spring and tastes like winter. It offers a cool, tangy surprise to the palate and is as perfumed as the headiest of spring days. Feel free to serve the tart with whipped cream or natural yoghurt, into which is stirred a tablespoon of tangerine juice, or enjoy it as is. Given the complication of timing the seasons, it is best to just to accept local nature's produce as it becomes available. I will become concerned about flip-flopping seasons should I find myself making strawberry shortcakes in winter.

Vinegrowers' Braised Oxtail

2008-10-25T17:08:00.006+13:00

Spring weather is notoriously unpredictable. The sun might have now inched its way closer to the southern hemisphere, but polar blasts are still bone-chillingly felt. It is in the first four weeks of spring that one continues to serve the soul-warming food of winter with touches of brightness. I love the bounty of produce that is available in between seasons. With great appreciation for challening identities and blurring borders, cooking at the threshold of a new season is exciting - it makes for interesting choices and shows the promise of the forth-coming season. Before crossing the threshold into the new season, one is also given the opportunity to cook the dishes one wanted to before it's too late...

And this is what brings me to today's post. Typically prepared at the beginning of autumn, when vinegrowers pick the most fragrant grape varietals, braised oxtail with grapes is a salt-of-the-earth dish that can be offered at any time there are decent seedless grapes available. The grapes make this a luxurious offering on the tongue, lapping up the fat rendered from braising the oxtail (the fat that could not be trimmed away for whatever reason).

An oxtail generally provides 7 joints - some larger than others. Oxtail joints are cheap and largely available from good butchers, who generally sell oxtails already jointed. Oxtail joints require slow, gentle cooking (as do many secondary grade cuts of meat) to release their best qualities. This makes for stress-free cooking, highlighted by the fact that this particular dish is best if made one day in advance.

The following dish serves 2-3.

Vinegrowers' Braised Oxtail

2 tablespoons olive oil
1 leek, chopped into 1cm/0.5" half-moon slices and thoroughly washed
1 shallot, finely chopped
2 carrots, chopped into 1cm/0.5" rounds
6 joints of oxtail
2-3 cloves
1 clove garlic, peeled and left whole
1/2 cup brandy
2 cups beef stock
salt
pepper
bouquet garni (aromatic herbs: parsley, thyme, bay leaf tied together)
450g/1lb seedless grapes (you can remove all from the woody stems, leave them in clusters, or prepare a combination of the two, as I have)

1) Preheat oven to 140 C/285 F.
2) In a dutch oven, heat olive oil over low heat and add the leek, shallot and carrots. Fry gently until softened but not coloured, approximately 5 minutes.
3) Raise heat and brown joints of oxtail until they are bronze all over.
4) Add cloves and garlic. Heat through for one minute.
5) Add brandy and cook out the alcohol.
6) Add beef stock and salt and pepper. Stir.
7) Add bouquet garni and grapes, then cover tightly with greaseproof/baking paper.
8) Put on the lid of the dutch oven and place dish in the oven.
9) Cook for two hours, stirring at the one hour mark.
10) Allow to cool, then place in the fridge over night.
11) Next day: Remove the fat that has solidified on top and heat the braised oxtail dish through over a medium-low heat. Check for seasoning before serving.

Even though the colour is largely drained from the red grapes, creating a blushed effect, the flavours are big, uncomplicated and deeply-satisfying. Restrain from loading the plate up with too many grapes or each mouthful will be too sweet. As you can see, I have spiked the oxtail joints with gremolata, a herb condiment of parlsey, garlic and lemon zest, to lift the autumnal and wintry depths of the dish into springtime. Traditionally, potatoes boiled in their skins or a potato purée accompany this dish. I would heighten a purée with a touch of horseradish, further attaching Vinegrowers' Braised Oxtail to the new season.

That Cookbook Thing II - Poulet au Porto

2008-10-10T01:00:00.006+13:00

When I first read through the recipe sequence for That Cookbook Thing II, I had not thought of making the highlighted chicken dish, Poulet au Porto (chicken in port), the centrepiece of a casual dinner with great friends. I had imagined it as an easy Sunday dinner for one, not only because I have no great affection for fungi but also because I derive a lot of satisfaction from making roast chicken. Yet I am also a man of occasional drama. Knowing of the delight that the intellectually-ferocious and generous Anita and quick-witted and cool Craig would get from a bit of flambée action, it was clear that the otherwise simple recipe of roast chicken and mushrooms would lend a touch of the unexpected to a dynamic evening.

Of course, it also helps that it is expressly stated in Julia Child, Louisette Bertholle and Simone Beck's first volume of Mastering the Art of French Cooking that Poulet au Porto is the perfect dish to make in the company of close friends. After all, the chicken can roast whilst host and guests imbibe the first of the evening's glasses of wine along with home-made pâté and charklis pkhali. After the first drinks have warmed the back of the throat and lightened the load in one's head, it is easier to rope friends into participating in the kitchen. Speaking of drinks, booze features rather prominently in this menu, for the home-made pâté (an on-going receipe development, becoming more nuanced with each attempt) is rich with brandy, the mushrooms for the poulet au porto are reduced with both brandy and port, the poulet itself is set alight after a splash of brandy, and the evening's dessert, Prune Tart, is made with brandy-sozzled prunes d'Agen.

Perhaps the aid of wine-happy friends is not what Ms. Child had in mind when suggesting that Poulet au Porto be made for the company of friends, but one cannot be too sure given how many cocktails housewives and cookie-cutter husbands knocked back in their square homes in the `60s (all in the name of sophistication, of course). And maybe it was the drink speaking, but the chapter on Poultry is quite hilarious, easily one of the most evocative of the period at the time the cookery book was originally released (1961). I don't know anyone with a trussing needle nor do I know anyone who "averts" his or her face when engaging in flambée - in fact, it would be a dangerous decision not to keep an eye on the development of the flames. The notion of stitching up a chicken or avoiding a flame in so prissy a manner comes to a head in these rushed, contemporary times when kitchen string does the trick (faster) and purposefully-created flames over food whoosh and wheeze before one has had time to think about looking the other way.

The French, in any period, are particularly revered for their poultry dishes. Whether the chicken be stewed in red wine, poached in an aromatic liquor, or bronzed to Biarritz perfection, the common chicken gets a real make-over when prepared á la française. Julia Child, Louisette Bertholle and Simone Beck's Poulet au Porto also got a make-over by democratic decision-making.

Poulet au Porto
(Adapted from Julia Child, Louisette Bertholle and Simone Beck's first volume of Mastering the Art of French Cooking)

The essential components of Poulet au Porto are: 1) roast chicken; 2) mushroom sauce.

By now you probably know me as someone who greatly respects tried and true methods by cooks and chefs, but even I have a preferred method for roasting chicken. I have no patience nor derive any enjoyment from spreading butter over the skin or between the skin and flesh of a chicken. I personally think it best if you roast a chicken in the way that pleases you most; otherwise, see Mike's version of Julia Child's method at Mel's Diner.

For the roast chicken:

1 whole chicken, to serve four people (or three greedy ones, like us)
2-3 tablespoons olive oil
fleur de sel
black pepper, freshly-ground
to fill the cavity: a citrus fruit of your choice (usually one orange or lemon, halved; if the fruit is small, use more and slice in half), and a bunch of fresh herbs. (I generally throw in a few whole cloves of garlic, but the quick-witted and cool Craig is allergic to members of the allium family.)

1) Pre-heat oven to 200C/400F.
2) Coat the chicken in the olive oil.
3) Sprinkle the chicken all over and inside the cavity with fleur de sel (or kosher salt) and pepper.
4) Fill the cavity with the citrus, herbs and garlic, if using.
5) Close the legs of the chicken with kitchen string and tuck the wings tips under the "neck" of the chicken to prevent early burning during the roasting period.
6) Put chicken in the oven, breast side up.
7) Baste every twenty minutes, turning the roasting tray every time until the chicken is done, approximately 80 minutes.
8) There are a couple of tests to do to ensure that the chicken is done. To my mind, the fastest method is to cut the inner thigh close to the bone. If the liquid runs clear yellow, the chicken is done. If it is rosy, then you need to roast the chicken longer. Check every 5 minutes.
9) Remove chicken from the oven and cover with aluminium foil for 10-15 minutes.

While the chicken is resting, prepare the mushrooms and sauce. The ferociously-intelligent and generous Anita, quick-witted and cool Craig and I dispensed with the notion of "boiling" the mushrooms by using but a couple of tablespoons of water to create steam.

For the mushrooms and sauce:

300g/10.5oz mushrooms (we used innocuous button mushrooms), trimmed and sliced thinly
1/4 tablespoon butter
spritz of lemon juice
1/8 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 cup (heavy) cream
1/4 tablespoon cornstarch
salt, pepper, if necessary
1/5 cup port

1) Toss mushrooms, butter, lemon juice (a quick squeeze) and salt in a saucepan. Cover. Shake saucepan every now and then until mushrooms have softened, about 5 mintues.
2) Slicken with heavy cream.
3) Add cornstarch to one tablespoon of water and stir until combined.
4) Stir cornstarch into mushrooms. Check for seasoning - add salt and pepper, if required.
5) Stir in port. Leave uncovered until liquid has reduced somewhat and strongest notes of alcohol have evaporated.

To assemble the Poulet au Porto:

Roasted chicken, as above, jointed or carved into slices
Mushrooms in port, as above
salt
1/2 tablespoon butter
1/4 cup brandy

1) Smear a casserole dish with butter.
2) Arrange chicken pieces in casserole dish and dust lightly with salt.
3) Put casserole dish over a moderate heat.
4) When the butter begins to bubble and the chicken begins to sizzle, pour cognac over the chicken and set cognac alight.
5) Gently shake casserole dish until flames have abated.
6) Pour in the mushrooms in port, coating the chicken.

Perfect with an earthy red wine or an aromatic white wine alike, this silken dish is the essence of comfort cooking. The dish's lack of pretense is relaxing; therefore, it is conducive to good discussion around the table, underscoring Julia Child's recommendation of preparing it in the company of very good friends. We simply paired the poulet au porto with wilted down spinach, sautéed in olive oil and lightly seasoned. It is a perfect side dish to a modest main. Julia Child suggests potatoes sautéed in butter or a simple risotto as vegetable suggestions that do not interfere with the deep flavours of the Poulet au Porto.

After a cheese platter of gouda, English stilton, camembert, membrillo and cherry tomatoes, we yearned for a sweet note on which to end our fabulous evening. Sticking with the "cooking with booze" theme of the evening, I turned to a tart that I had not had since I lived in France more than ten years ago: Prune and Armagnac Tart. I reached for brandy instead, but it is practically the same as armagnac if one bears in mind that armagnac has vintages - good for remembering the best years - whereas more common brandy can be of varying quality. Use your preferred booze. (Stephanie Alexander recommends against telling the French of the south-west that cognac and armagnac are the same thing.)

The following recipe suits a 26cm/10.5" fluted tart pan, and the tart pastry is slightly boozy, too!

Prune and Brandy Tart
(from Prune and Armagnac Tart in Stephanie Alexander's Cooking and Travelling in South-West France)

For the pastry:

1 1/4 cups flour, sifted
tiny pinch of kosher salt
113g/4oz unsalted butter, diced
1 egg
1/2 teaspoon orange blossom water
1/2 teaspoon brandy

1) In a medium-sized bowl, mix flour and salt together.
2) With the tips of your fingers, rub the butter into the flour until sand-like granules are formed. This is your dry mixture.
3) In a separate bowl, gently whisk together egg, orange blossom water and brandy. This is your liquid mixture.
4) Stir the liquid mixture into the dry mixture until a ball is formed. You might not need all of the liquid for this.
5) Knead lightly and quickly with the goal of encouraging cohesion. Lightly flatten out to a disc, wrap dough in cling-film and refrigerate for thirty minutes.

For the tart:

1 tart recipe, as above
1 egg white, lightly beaten
20-24 prunes d'Agen, steeped in brandy (reserve the brandy)
4 eggs
100g/3oz ground almonds
125ml/4.5oz (whipping) cream
1 tablespoon brandy
60g/2oz unsalted butter, melted and cooled

1) Pre-heat oven to 200C/400F.
2) Lightly dust your pastry surface (marble stone, cool benchtop, cold wooden board), rolling pin and hands with flour, then gently roll out the pastry, always from the centre. Turn the pastry clockwise after every couple of passes of the rolling pin to ensure that it does not stick to your surface (throw some flour underneath every now and then for extra security).
3) Loosely roll pastry around rolling pin, and roll dough out over a prepared (with butter and flour) tart pan. Gently ease the pastry into the pan, then use the rolling pin to cut across the edges of the pan to remove the excess pastry.
4) Prick holes in the base of the tart with the tines of a fork and blind bake for 15 minutes. To "blind bake": line pastry with foil, cover with beans and bake for 10 minutes. Remove the foil and beans, brush pastry base with egg whites, then bake for a further 5 minutes).
5) Reset oven to 180C/375F.
6) Position the boozy prunes in the tart pan.
7) Mix the eggs, ground almonds, cream and melted butter in a small bowl, then gently pour over the prunes, trying not to disturb their layout.
8) Bake until the custard is firm, about 25 minutes.
9) Before the tart is completely cool, brush it with some of the reserved brandy.

Prune and Brandy Tart is simple as far as ingredients and method go, but the depth of the sweet yet spicy prunes combined with nutty, buttery almonds is a beguiling experience. So enchanting was the first slice (or so boozed were we) that we had seconds. This is the perfect tart for almost any occasion, as it is elegant, flavourful, and can be served at room temperature. A perfect ending to a perfect meal.

Please review the other bloggers' posts on Julia Child, Louisette Bertholle and Simone Beck's Poulet au Porto - Mike at Mel's Diner, Ruth at Once Upon A Feast, and Sara at i like to cook.

Duck Confit

2008-09-21T16:27:00.003+12:00

In the week leading up to a recent visit to Los Angeles, my angelheart Eric and I were aware that we would be dining out most days and nights - not to be extravagant, but to give some teeth to the various discussions we have had together and with friends on the direction of Californian cooking and American cuisine in general (amongst the chosen restaurants were AOC, Fraiche and Craft LA). This meant that we had to make a real celebration of our home cooking because we would not be blessed with many occasions, and also because we did not know when we would next be able to share space in a kitchen. My angelheart Eric suggested that we prepare something that we've always been curious about and that wouldn't do our heads in - time being too precious to waste any of it on frustration and stress (and let us not forget that I was on holiday, too!).

Recently it seems that the food presented on this blog leans in the direction of French cuisine, but I assure that you that this is not how I really approach decision-making in the kitchen. Sure, I am often swayed by cultural influences, curious combinations and new techniques; however, it is not my goal to continue to exhalt French cuisine, whatever that is.

That said, confit is a celebrated south-western French method for preserving meat. This is not a terribly difficult process, but it is one that takes place over many hours. Each step requires slight attention in order to produce a confit that is not salty or fatty (irrespective of the fat that it is salted for many hours and then immersed in fat as it cooks and sits, if one is not eating it immediately).

The following recipe requires for four duck legs, but you can also try boneless duck breasts, rabbit, chicken or the shoulder of pork, as Judy Rodgers recommends in The Zuni Cafe Cookbook. Instead of leaving the meat dusted in salt for 18-24 hours, my angelheart Eric and I left it only for 12 hours because we out the duck legs through a marinating process that is not typical of most confit preparations. This is one of the many reasons my angelheart Eric and I adore Kate Fay and Jeremy Turner of Cibo and R'ce fame.

Duck Confit
(Adapted from Kate Fay and Jeremy Turner's Cibo: Food with Attitude)

4 duck legs
5 tablespoons sea salt
duck fat (rendered to cover the duck legs during cooking, approximately 620ml/21oz)
1/2 yellow onion, peeled and chopped
6 cloves of garlic
1 orange
1 tablespoon juniper berries, crushed
2 tablespoons dried marjoram
4 dried bay leaves
1 tablespoon black cracked pepper
2 teaspoons five spice powder
1 tablespoon Szechuan peppercorns, crushed

1) Coat the legs with sea salt (1 1/4 tablespoons per leg) and leave overnight, 12 hours' minimum, 18-24 hours for optimal result. Regarding the salt, in the magnificent The Zuni Cafe Cookbook, Judy Rodgers' experience has led her to recommend 2 tablespoons per pound of meat. It is the salt curing that preserves the duck legs.
2) Remove the salt by washing it off under a stream of cold water.
3) Pat the legs dry with paper towels.
4) Mix onion, juniper berries, marjoram, bay leaves, black cracked pepper, five spice powder and Szechuan peppercorns together to make a spice mixture.
5) Coat the duck legs in spice mixture, cover and refrigerate for 12 hours.
6) Preheat oven to 120 C/250F.
7) Place the legs in a roasting pan with the marinade.
8) Squeeze the juice of one orange and sprinkle sliced orange peel over the legs.
9)Cover with melted duck fat. It is important that the duck meat is fully immersed in the fat.
10) Cover the pan with tinfoil and cook the duck legs for 2 1/2 hours, or until the meat is coming away from the bone.
11) Allow the duck legs and fat to cool before refrigerating overnight or until it is time to eat them. Again, ensure that the duck fat conceals the duck legs if you are going to leave in the refrigerator for more than 1-2 days (and especially if you are going to leave for months).
12) To reheat, bring meat out at least one hour prior to cooking so that meat can be loosened from solidified fat, if one is not going to cook all the meat. Preheat oven to 180 C/355 F, then cook for 20 minutes. Lightly pat duck legs with paper towel and brush off residual marinade and orange peel prior to serving.

Generally, confit of duck is browned before serving, but neither we nor our friends were particularly fussed (you will note that we also didn't bother with trimming the edges of fat around the long end of the bone before preparing, but you can do this and render the fat for this dish). The marinade produces a beautiful colouring on the duck skin, like sunset. The flesh is perfectly done, which is to say meltingly tender. Whilst we had prepared duck confit as part of an informal pot-luck, it is more popularly served with pommes salardaises, potatoes sauteed with garlic in goose fat.

This appears to be a year of crossing culinary firsts off the list, thanks to my angelheart Eric. I'd love to know what culinary firsts you have or plan to attempt this year.

P.S. Thank you to Jasmine of Confessions of a Cardamom Addict for the Yum-yum Blog Award. It is a delight to receive such recognition from a fellow blogger whose work I admire and whose friendship I enjoy. In the generous nature of this award, I would like to share the world of Christina at A Thinking Stomach. Christina's insightful prose on garden-keeping elevates it to an art form, as opposed to keeping a garden for sheer subsistence.

That Cookbook Thing II - Râpée de Morvandelle

2008-08-10T16:00:00.002+12:00

French lunches are almost always simple yet fully-flavoured affairs. There is great importance placed on fresh produce and a steady reliance on eggs, the superfood.

In her many texts, Elizabeth David paints glorious pictures of lunch at provincial hotels after drives in the countryside or along the roadside with provisions from a hotel proprietor or produce bought at an impromptu moment. Always, the descriptions of lunch menus are spellbinding. An enticing pastoral lunch is David's famous preference for an omelette and a glass of wine, preceded by home-made pâté, and olives, followed by fresh salad, a ripe, creamy cheese and small, fresh fruit, such as figs or strawberries. In the first instance, this lunch menu is beyond simple; it is a masterplan that can be adapted to every season. Thinking of the buttery, eggy omelettes, rich cheese, bitter salad leaves, salty olives, gamy pâté, and honeyed figs, one sees that this is an exploration of seasonailty, temperatures and textures. This is also a celebration of depth of flavours.

The most popular lunch item that has been appropriated by many a nation is quiche Lorraine (although often bastardised with the addition of cheese). In fact, such is the simplicity and convenience of making open-faced tarts that Julia Child, Louisette Bertholle and Simone Beck first present readers of their Mastering the Art of French Cooking) with a series of quiches in their chapter on Entrées and Luncheon Dishes, from which That Cookbook Thing II tests this month's chosen recipe: Râpée de Morvandelle.

If one is too pressed to make a pâte brisée (as shown at the introduction of this chapter, which also gives detailed preparations on making soufflées, which I recognise may not be a typical offering at lunchtime these days) for a quiche, one can turn the filling of a quiche into a gratin (named for the shallow heat-proof dish in which it cooks). Gratins also often have cheese (usually Swiss cheese), bubbling and burnished as they come out of the oven and are transferred to the lunch table. Râpée de Morvandelle is a gratin of shredded potatoes with eggs, onion, and ham.

Râpée de Morvandelle
(from Julia Child, Louisette Bertholle and Simone Beck's Mastering the Art of French Cooking)

1/2 cup onions, finely minced
2 tablespoons olive oil
56g/4 tablespoons unsalted butter, divided use
120g/3oz cooked ham, finely diced
4 eggs
1/2 clove garlic, crushed
2 tablespoons parsley, minced
120g/3oz cheese, grated (I used Gruyere; the receipe suggests Swiss)
4 tablespoons cream
salt, pepper
300g/10oz potatoes

1) Preheat oven to 190 C/375 F.
2) Over medium-low heat, heat oil and 21g/1.5 tablespoons butter in a saute pan, then cook onions until yeilding but not coloured.
3) Turn heat up to medium, then add ham and cook for one minute.
4) In a bowl, beat together the garlic, parsley, cheese, cream, salt and pepper.
5) Add onions and ham to the beaten mixture.
6) Peel potatoes and grate them with the large holes of a box grater.
7) Squeeze water out of the grated potatoes.
8) Stir potatoes into egg miture.
9) Check for seasoning.
10) Heat 21g/1.5 tablespoons butter in a heat-proof baking dish or oven-proof saute pan/skillet. When warmed through and foaming, pour in the potato mixture.
11) Dot with the remaining 14g/1 tablespoon of butter.
12) Bake in upper-third of the oven until top has browned, approximately 35-40 minutes.
13) Serve from the baking dish or sauté pan.

True, this is simplicity itself, but it is an odd dish to pick to highlight a section of a cookery book. That said, like Elizabeth David's aforementioned lunch menu, many a technical foundation is taught in this chapter, and this gratin is appealing and adaptable. Imagine it encased in a buttery pâte brisée or swap out the onion for leeks and blitz chives into the butter that dots the gratin. This is the foundation for a lunchtime centrepiece; it is rich, fulsome, and perfect.

Feel free to check out the results of That Cookbook Thing II's other members: Sara of i like to cook, Ruth of Once Upon A Feast, Mary of The Sour Dough, Kittie of Kittens in the Kitchen , Elle of Elle's New England Kitchen, Deborah of What's In My Kitchen?, and Mary of Cooking For Five. Bon appétit.

Crimson Dishes - Rhubarb and Mint Cobbler and Charkhlis Pkhali

2008-08-04T22:13:00.002+12:00

Against a backdrop of darkening, shifting clouds and a sky of various shades of grey, the kitchen and dining room are aglow with the oven's soaring temperature, candles on the dining table and warm-hued meals (caramelised root vegetables, burnished poultry and red wine-based braises). One can, however, become disenchanted with contorni of roasted potatoes, kumara and parsnip or with honey-coloured puddings of lemons, pears and apples. Just when it cannot possibly get any colder (here, anyway), I switch out golden vegetables and fruit for a shocking display of intense crimson.

Rhubarb appears to have reached a whole new level of appreciation of late. What has always been a winter and spring feature in my household is now a trendy dessert offering. Rhubarb is an unusual vegetable. Its roots and almost lime green leaves are toxic, and its stalk, practically the colour of a cardinal's robe, is so tart that it has to be counteracted with obscene amounts of sugar. (To my knowledge, it is the only vegetable treated wholly as a fruit.) Stewed (best when cooked through but not mushy), vibrant rhubarb is a delightful antidote when the temperature drops.

I used to eat lemons right off the tree as a child, so I guess it is fair to say that I have a proclivity towards sour and tart food. Accordingly, I tend not to add but the least amount of raw/brown sugar to take the sourest edge out of rhubarb. Of course you can add more sugar. That said, I suggest that you be prudent because to oversweeten rhurbarb defies its purpose, and you might as well be having something else instead - add what I suggest here, then add more towards the end of the cooking period after you have sampled the rhubarb.

This particular cobbler is lifted from Jerry Traunfeld's greatly inspiring cookery book, The Herbal Kitchen: Cooking with Fragrance and Flavor. I tried to find angelica for a variation, but I was not so lucky at the weekend. I have, however, tweaked the recipe: lemon zest to complement the rhubarb; rose water to perfume the rhubarb along with mint; and ground almonds in the biscuit mixture to round out the sweetness of the topping with full-flavoured nuttiness (pulverised walnuts and pistachios also work well). When slicing rhubarb wands, peel off any stringy bits that begin to come away because they only amplify the fibrous quality of rhubarb (its principal drawback, to my mind).

Rhubarb and Mint Cobbler
(Adapted from Jerry Traunfeld's The Herbal Kitchen: Cooking with Fragrance and Flavor)

For the Rhubarb:

750g/1.5lbs rhubarb stalks
2/3 cup raw/brown sugar
1/2 cup chopped English mint
1 tablespoon rose water
zest of one small lemon
14g/1 tablespoon unsalted butter

For the Biscuits:

2/3 cup all-purpose flour
1/3 cup ground almonds
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
4 tablespoons white/granulated sugar, divided use
28g/2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1/2 cup heavy cream

1) Preheat oven to 200 C/400 F.
2) Wash rhubarb stalks, then chop off the ends (removing any dry ends).
3) Slice rhubarb cross-wise into 1.25cm/ 1.2" pieces.
4) Put into a baking dish (approximately 22cm/9" x 33cm/13") and mix in the sugar, mint, rose water and lemon zest.
5) Dot surface with the butter and bake for 15 minutes (until it softens and releases bubbling, crimson juices).

Prepare the biscuits as the rhubarb is baking.

1) Put flour, ground almonds, baking powder, salt and 3 tablespoons of the sugar into a bowl. Mix together.
2) Dice the butter and rub it into the flour mixture with your finger tips, as you would when making pastry.
3) When the flour and butter mixture slips through the fingers like granules of rice, pour in the cream.
4) Mix cream with hands until clumps of dough are formed.
5) Put the dough on baking/parchment paper.
6) Divide dough into eight equal pieces and flatten each into a disk 5cm/2" in diameter.
7) Arrange on top of the rhubarb and sprinkle with the remaining tablespoon of sugar.
8) Bake until the biscuits have browned all over, 15-20 minutes.

In all, this is a boon of a dessert - filling yet light. The rhubarb zings across the palate in a complex melange with the rose water, mint and lemon zest, partnered with the pronounced almond tones in the biscuit. Of course, it does not have to end here - a cobbler can be made with practically any fruit, but the choice to use rhubarb elevates the simple cobbler, making it an interesting dessert.

You might want to gild the lily and pair it with ice cream (I poured over some cream). Strawberry ice cream would make a great option, for strawberry is a traditional bedmate (remember, though, I made this in winter, so there weren't any fresh strawberries around for me to make ice cream). Ginger is another interesting partner, so I also recommend that you have a look at this Tamasin Day-Lewis recipe for Stem Ginger and Spice Ice Cream.

While the above recipe is a great way to end the night, a fabulous way to start a dinner party is with dips and pâtés or elements from zakuski, a Georgian tradition of small plates of contrasting temperatures and textures. While I've read a lot about zakuski, I have never hosted such a dining event (probably because I do not have the stomach to wash down shots of vodka between mouthfuls of food). I do, however, take a leaf out of Georgian housewives' books and look to zakuski for inspiration when creating a cocktail-hour menu.

Georgians love to combine coriander/cilantro and walnuts (such as in satsivi, the national sauce). This is an unusual yet intriguing interplay of flavours, realised perfectly in Charkhlis Pkhali - a beetroot, walnut and coriander pureé.

Charkhlis Pkhali
(from Diana Henry's Roast Figs, Sugar Snow)

700g/1.5lbs beetroot (washed and leaves chopped off 4cm/1.5" from base)
150g/6oz walnut pieces
1 teaspoon sea salt
5 cloves garlic, crushed
5 tablespoons coriander/cilantro, finely chopped
5 tablespoons flat-leaf parsley, finely chopped
1/2 teaspoon ground coriander
4 tablespoons red wine vinegar
1 tablespoon olive oil
pepper

1) Preheat oven to 190 C/375 F.
2) Wrap beets in aluminium foil, place them on a baking tray and bake until tender, approximately 1 1/2 hours.
3) In the meantime, grind together the walnuts, salt and garlic.
4) Add the herbs and continue grinding until a paste is formed.
5) When you can handle the beets, peel quickly and grate the flesh of the crimson orbs into a bowl (and wash your hands immediately afterwards to remove the stain).
6) Mix in the walnut paste and red wine vinegar, olive oil and freshly ground pepper to taste.

What is great about this dish is that it can be made in advance and kept in the fridge. Bring it to room temperature before serving with pita chips (pita bread cut into triangles, toasted in the oven with olive oil, Hawaiian red clay salt and pepper) or toasted herb bread. You can gild this lily, too, by sprinkling pomegranate seeds once the dish has come to room temperature.

Charkhlis Pkhali and Rhubarb and Mint Cobbler are celebratory dishes. Vibrant in both colour and flavours, these crimson dishes fire up conversation around the dining table, allowing one to forget that it is dark and cold out.

Who does the b*tch think she is? La reine de Saba?

2008-07-22T19:16:00.009+12:00

If it weren't for my basic biblical and Islamic knowledge, I would have assumed that the Queen of Sheba was a notoriously haughty woman who did as she pleased, a non-fictional, pre-Common Era Duchess of Langeais. This impression stems from the colloquialism in the title of this post (but for the French name for the queen). In fact, I recall a few childhood moments witnessing my mother's frustration as women cut in front of her in queues or acted superior to her when they were the ones behind the counter. Out of an offending woman's earshot, my mother would mutter under her breath, "Who does she think she is? The Queen of Sheba?"

The Queen of Sheba is recorded to have travelled from the areas of contemporary Eritrea and Ethiopia to Jerusalem as a monarch conducting international affairs. She was impressed by King Solomon's wisdom, to whom she presented many questions and riddles, and submitted to monotheism.

What the gâteau, reine de Saba, has to do with the Queen of Sheba, I do not know. I have thus far not been able to find a connection between the two and have thus invented it: 1) The cake contains almonds, which are part of the regular diet in Ethiopia; 2) The cake is rich, and the Queen of Sheba is recorded as being a very wealthy monarch, having gifted a load of gold to King Solomon.

Reine de Saba with Glaçage au chocolat
(from Julia Child, Louisette Bertholle and Simone Beck's Mastering the Art of French Cooking)

For the cake:

120g/4 oz chocolate (I used 68%)
2 tablespoons espresso (or rum)
113g/4 oz unsalted butter
2/3 cup and 1 tablespoon granulated sugar, divided use
3 eggs, divided into yolks and whites
pinch of salt
1/3 cup finely ground almonds
1/4 teaspoon bitter almond extract
1/2 cup flour (cake flour is also good), scooped, levelled and sifted

1) Pre-heat oven to 180 C/350 F.
2) Butter and flour a cake tin (I used a 23cm/9" springform pan).
3) Create a double-boiler and set chocolate and espresso on top, letting the chocolate melt while you prepare the rest of the ingredients.
4) Cream the butter and 2/3 cup of sugar until pale and fluffy.
5) Beat in the egg yolks.
6) In a separate bowl, such as a clean stainless steel bowl, beat the egg whites with a pinch of salt until soft peaks are formed.
7) Sprinkle one tablespoon of sugar on the soft peaks and beat until you have stiff peaks.
8) Blend the melted chocolate into the creamed mixture.
9) Stir in almonds and almond extract.
10) Stir in 1/4 of the beaten egg whites to lighten the density, then gently fold in the remaining egg whites 1/3 at a time, interspersed with additions of flour by the third.
11) Pour batter into prepared cake pan and bake on the middle shelf in your oven for approximately 25 minutes.
12) The cake is ready when it has puffed slightly and 6cm/2.5" around the circumference are set (a toothpick test in this section should be clean, and it should be oily if poked into the centre of the cake).

For the icing:

60g/2 oz chocolate (again, I used 68%)
2 tablespoons espresso
56g/4 tablespoons unsalted butter

1) Melt chocolate with espresso in a double-boiler.
2) When perfectly smooth, remove from heat and beat in butter one tablespoon at a time.
3) A spreading consistency needs to be achieved. As the icing is cooling, you can beat over a bowl of ice until spreading consistency is reached.

Decorating the cake with almonds tells your quests that there almonds are present in the cake. As I mentioned around this time last year, almond flour adds depth of flavour and imparts a moist result. Reine de Saba is rich beyond belief; it is both dense and creamy.

I don't who she thinks she is, but reine de Saba is welcome to turn up any time an easy-to-make and rich cake is desired.

Homemade Pasta

2008-07-15T21:57:00.004+12:00

For the interested/serious homecook, there are many culinary milestones. Most of these milestones involve learning and honing a technical skill (such as boning a chicken or mincing garlic with the back of a knife at a breakneck speed - a vital skill that I have yet to accomplish) or making a certain dish or component of one. In that which concerns the latter, something that my angelheart Eric and I have long wanted to do is make pasta at home. Accompanied by my good friends the sassy sauciere queen Lily and the gardenia-loving epicure Titaina on a day of bone-chilling breezes and distant Winter light, I crossed a culinary goal off my list.

While dried pasta is a great convenience and shop-bought fresh pasta is typically of good quality, apparently nothing holds a candle to pasta made simply and quickly at home. The options are limitless for he or she who has long crossed the pasta-making divide before me. One can use almost any type of flour with almost any type of flavouring. But first things first, the following recounts our baby-steps into the world of making pasta from scratch (but for the milling of the flour and the gathering of eggs; however, this is as close to "from scratch" as most of us ever get, and technically, this is the spirit of the expression), as taught by the sassy sauciere queen Lily. (Funnily enough, the pasta-making machine was a gift to the sassy sauciere queen Lily from the gardenia-loving epicure Titaina, who probably had an ulterior motive at the time, but I'm sure she didn't expect it to take a good year or two before finding herself invited over for homemade pasta!)

The following amount of dough makes enough for four (that said, we had no pasta left over, but we were especially hungry and were so enamoured of our first group effort that there somehow managed to be more room for pasta in our bellies than usual).

Homemade Pasta

2 1/2 - 3 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
3 eggs

Yes, that's it!

1) In a medium-sized bowl, stir salt into 2 1/2 cups of the flour to combine well.
2) Add the eggs.
3) Combine with a fork until granules are formed. If the mixture is too dry, add water by 1 tablespoon increments. If the mixture is too moist, add extra flour by one tablespoon increments.
4) On a very lightly-floured surface, knead the granules into a ball.
5) Cover with cling-film and allow to rest for 30 minutes (it was a cool day, so we let the dough rest at room temperature for 20 minutes).
6) Most hand-cranked pasta machines have two sets of rollers: one to roll out the pasta dough, the other to cut the dough into a desire shape. We separated our ball of dough into 5 smaller balls.
7) Take one of the small balls, flatten with the palm of your hand.
8) Set the machine at the widest setting (number 1 on the sassy sauciere queen Lily's Marcato - made in Padua) and feed the flattened dough through it, turning the crank slowly. Fold the dough in three (as one did up until the late-90s when preparing letters for envelopes), and pass through again. Repeat once more.
9) Increase the setting by increments of one, passing the pasta dough once each time (you no longer need to fold the dough). The higher the setting, the narrower the setting becomes, creating very flat dough (the highest setting on our machine is 7). You will find that the pasta dough becomes shinier and that you have to pull it gently - otherwise it will fold and/or tear (only dust lightly with flour if you feel that the dough is too soft and is likely to stick to the machine).
9) Choose desired rollers for cutting the pasta (we chose fettuccine - long flat ribbons), and pass your long, flattened dough through the cutters. Place in a pile, with a mere pinch of flour to prevent sticking.
10) Repeat steps 7 to 9 with the remaining small balls.

One only needs to cook the pasta for two to three minutes until it is al dente. To ensure this is a quick process, bring a large pan or pot of heavily-salted water to a rolling boil before adding the pasta. If is is not boiling rapidly, there is a possibility of the pasta becoming water-logged and viscid.

The possibilities for pasta are endless with this egg dough. Instead of cutting it into fettuccine, the dough can be adapted for all types of pasta: other long pastas, such as pappardelle (wide ribbons) and tagliatelle; short pasta, such as garganelli and penne (both tubular pastas); flat pasta, such as lasagne and cannelloni; and filled pastas, such as tortelloni (large parcels), ravioli (square-filled pasta with fluted edges) and cappelletti (little hats). Apart from shapes, there are endless variations on flavourings also. One of the most intriguing to my mind is Stephane's semolina dough flavoured with beetroot and squid ink, which he combined into striped ravioli cases, "zebravioli". Clearly, you can let you imagination run free.

We, on the other hand, kept it simple with a topping a rustically grated parmesan after tumbling our fettuccine into a ragù (a meat sauce, which for us was made by sweating down an onion and two small bulbs on fennel in olive oil with thyme, to which was added two 450g/14oz cans of tomatoes plus 3/4 of its juice, 1 cup of beef broth and one bay leaf, brought to the boil and left at a steady simmer for 40 minutes, by which time the liquid was mostly absorbed by the mince). Homemade pasta is silken, light, and a joy to behold. We all felt like we were taking part in a time-honoured tradition, albeit with steel rolling pins and cranks to make life easier. That said, there is a great sense of accomplishment that comes from making pasta oneself. I would not recommend it when preparing for a crowd, but for a small lunch for three or four, it seems no big deal, especially when one can rope friends in for assistance. Seconds, ladies?

Tsung Yo Bing, or Scallion Oil Pancakes

2008-07-05T19:07:00.012+12:00

Some days one cannot but try to recapture the past. I have recently been caught up in wistful reveries since learning of a food blog event hosted by my friend the inimitable Susan of The Well-Seasoned Cook: Pancakes on Parade: A Sweet and Savoury Event. Unless one has issues with gluten, pancakes are the friendliest, most accessible food. Almost always golden and circular, pancakes are like the sun: cheerful, warming, and good for you (at least mentally - and spiritually, depending on your needs for the day). I really had two choices: either my mum's pikelets or a variation on Taiwanese Scallion Oil Pancakes, Tsung yo bing.

My father often begs my mother to make pikelets, which are miniature pancakes (made with self-raising flour, generally), approximately 12cm/5" in diameter. They are common Kiwi fare, typically as a breakfast option, but since childhood, they have been a treasured dessert in my household, topped with a sprinkle of sugar and loads of freshly-squeezed lemon juice from our sole fruit-bearing backyard tree. I decided not to make them for this event because my efforts are not as good as my mother's, and also because I was worried that they would not photograph well.

Tsung yo bing were new to me in 2001, when I moved to Los Angeles County. Being dutiful sons, we made sure that we spent regular time with Eric's mother, often going to lunch, a movie, and grocery shopping together. The first time I had Scallion Oil Pancakes was at a very small restaurant in Temple City, fifteen minutes east of Pasadena. I never saw a temple in the two years we spent having lunch or dinner there or in nearby Alhambra, but every Scallion Oil Pancake I had was a divine experience: crisp on the outside, fluffy inside, full of allium goodness, and caressed with oil. They are sooooo good when nursing a hangover - not that I ever told my angelheart's mom.

Soon after my angelheart Eric's mom moved to Orange County in 2004, we had moved from Pasadena to Long Beach, so it was both easy and convenient to continue our regular lunch dates (the restaurant locales for Taiwanese food, however, switched from Temple City and Alhambra to Cerritos and Huntington Beach). By then it had become a running joke - I would not need to read the menu, my angelheart Eric and his mom ordered my Tsung yo bing and beef with scallions (to gild the lily).

I decided to make scallion oil pancakes because I had never eaten homemade ones, thus I had no family member's reputation to live up to. Also, it was lunchtime. Because this is a submission to a food blog event, I wanted to spice up the pancakes and found a delightful recipe to follow.

After the experience of following the recipe, I have to warn you, reader, should you choose to follow this recipe: try to stick to the amount given regarding the paste to spread on the dough, for the paste is going to squirt when you flatten out your spirals, whether you do so lightly or with a rolling pin. It is a messy job at worst, but the result makes the constant wiping down of the rolling pin and surface area a means to a satisfying end.

Tsung Yo Bing, or Scallion Oil Pancakes
(closely adapted from Michele Cranston's recipe for Spiced Pan Bread in Marie Claire: Food + Drink)

For the dough:
2 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/3 cup hot water
1/3 cup cold water

1) Sieve flour and baking powder into a bowl.
2) Add hot water and cold water in quick succession, constantly stirring.
3) When dough comes together, cover with cling-film for 15 minutes.

For the paste:

1 teaspoon sea salt
1/4 cup / 2 fl. oz olive oil
1/4 cup / 2 fl. oz bran oil
2 cloves garlic, roughly chopped
1 cup sliced spring onions/scallions
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1/4 teaspoon ground ginger
1/2 cup fresh parsley, roughly chopped
1/2 roasted red capsicum/bell pepper, blistered skin and seeds removed

1) Blitz all ingredents together until a paste is formed.

To assemble:

1) Divide dough into four sections.
2) Roll out one section to a circle of approximately 17cm/7" in diameter.
3) Brush the surface with one tablespoon of the paste.
4) Roll the dough into a long, then form into a spiral, tucking the end under.
5) Flatten lightly with the palm of one of your hands or with a rolling pin. I did mine with a rolling pin, which proved unwise as the circles became misshapen despite my experience handling dough with a rolling pin.
6) In a frying pan/skillet, heat 2 tablespoons bran or olive oil.
7) Cook over medium-heat for 3-4 minutes, or until the underside is golden, and then flip over for the same result on the other side.
8) While cooking the pancake, prepare the next section of dough by following steps 2-5.
9) Add one extra tablespoon of oil before the addition of each section of dough to be cooked.
10) Drain on paper towels until ready to eat.

When I told my angelheart Eric that I had finally made Tsung yo bing, all he asked me was "Were they oily?" I answered in the affirmative, and he said that he was very happy for me. Admittedly the spring onion presence wasn't as great as I had hoped, so if you love touches of allium, I would increase the spring onion/scallion content by 1/4 to 1/2 cup. Of course, one could always make these the traditional way, which is simply to fold loads of spring onion into the dough before it rests - this, of course, also means that you avoid a mess when rolling out sections of the dough. It is a good idea to serve these warm, whether with food (such as stir-fried beef), a sauce (such as one of soy sauce, rice wine vinegar, garlic and fresh ginger) or on their own. Tsung yo bing make for fragrant bites, perfect as a submission to the inimitable Susan's Pancakes on Parade: A Sweet and Savoury Event.

Post-script: Please see Susan's round-up of Pancakes on Parade: A Sweet and Savoury Event.

Mmm...Canada - Tourtière

2008-06-28T21:50:00.004+12:00

I have been to Canada twice: 1997 and 1999. The first time was largely spent visiting family friends on Vancouver Island in the town of Nanaimo. What I mostly remember of that one month in Spring are eating lots of bagels (the first time was a memorable experience, and I could not get enough of cream cheese with dill) and drinking lots of table wine (what else was a late-teen to do?). I also recall that a friend and I established a reputation as "bar stars" because we'd out-dance the hired dancers on the podiums and "vogue" our young hearts out at the Savoy. Oh, how much I loved Madonna's dance remix of "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina" back then. And I also remember seeing a school of orcas from a ferry as it traversed the North Pacific Ocean between Vancouver Island and the mainland. My second visit was only for a few days with my angelheart Eric. We had the use of a friend's apartment in downtown Vancouver, a central hub from which to meet old friends and check out what the student film scene had to offer. I remember drinking vodka out of plastic cups and the rude Canadian officials at the Canada-US border (the only seriously rude Canadians I have ever met). Fast-forward almost ten years, and I know so much more about Canada, politically and culturally, not just as a pretty holiday destination. This brings me to Jasmine - you should know her as the author of one of my favourite blogs, Confessions of a Cardamom Addict. Jasmine is co-hosting a food blog event that captures the essence of Canadian food: Mmm...Canada. Jasmine is showcasing the savoury entries, and Jennifer of The Domestic Goddess the sweet ones. While not Canadian myself, I am not oblivious to the vast nation's great people, famous produce (particularly its maple syrup, which I know is a cliché to mention but its B grade, deep amber syrups are amazing) and culinary traditions.

In an effort to submit a dish to Mmm...Canada, I sought assistance from good friends: the fiercely intelligent and generous Anita and the pensive, jack-of-all-trades Craig. One lived in Canada for a few years and the other was born and raised in Ontario, so I figured they were a source of knowledge from which I could benefit. They informed me of a Québécois dish that is rich in flavour, deep in tradition and perfect on bitterly cold days.

Tourtière is a Québécois pork pie. According to a Jim Cummings' article at Quilter Muse, the origin of Tortière lies in France, where pigeons and other game birds were cooked in a deep baking dish that was originally named for tourtes (big game birds), until they became extinct. Early in Canada's colonial years, Tourtière was recognised as a fowl pâté, and now it is a pie that principally substitutes pork for game birds. As is typical of meat pies of Western Europe provenance, variations on Tourtière include many a spice to lift and complement the meat, such as allspice, cinnamon, cloves or nutmeg, in addition to onion or garlic.

Tourtière is a favourite dish at Christmas Eve, which is fitting given that it is almost time to celebrate mid-Winter Christmas in New Zealand. While there are recipes for vegetarian versions of this famous pork pie (which, to my mind, means that they are not Tourtière at all but vegetable pies - nothing wrong with that, of course, but there is no relation to Tourtière, except for the fact that vegetable pies can be cooked in in tourtières), I am from a pork-loving nation and am not interested in uninvesting myself from this traditional Canadian dish. Having said that, there are old English recipes for similar pies, but they are usually jellied, a love for which has not passed down my father's side of the family to me. I'll have pork pie the Canadian way, thank you.

As for the pastry, it almost seems that any pie pastry will do, so I have decided on one that uses shortening - for its depth and flakiness (if nothing else, the pastry must harken back to its French background, and most French pastries are buttery and flaky).

The following recipe is perfect for a 25cm/10" springform pan.

Tourtière
(Adapted from Jill Norman's Winter Food)

For the pastry:

2 cups flour
1 teaspoon salt
160g/3/4cup vegetable shortening
20g/3/4oz unsalted butter
6 tablespoons iced water

1) Sift flour and salt together into a large bowl.
2) Cut in the shortening and butter with either two knives or a pastry cutter until a texture of coarse cornmeal is achieved. With two knives, this requires a bit of patience. I did not reduce all the shortening to mere flakes, which results in cavities in the pie top, as seen in the photos. If you're the type to lose sleep for fear of not measuring up to perfection, then I suggest that you get a pastry cutter.
3) Add water, one tablespoon at a time. When moist enough to gather into a ball, stop adding water.
4) Wrap in clingfilm and roll out slightly with a rolling pin to form a disc.
5) Chill for one hour.
6) Leave on counter for approximately 20 mintues to allow pastry to come to a temperature at which it is pliable.

For the filling:

1 large potato, peeled and boiled
8 tablespoons cream
2 tablespoons vegetable or sunflower oil
1kg/2lb ground pork
1 onion, chopped
1/2 tablespoon grated nutmeg
1 tablespoon thyme
1 bay leaf
salt
pepper

1) Mash the potato and soak it in the cream.
2) Heat oil in frying pan and add pork and onion, break pork with a wooden spoon.
3) Season with nutmeg, thyme, bay leaf, salt and pepper.
4) Cook until pork juices have evaporated, approximately 20 minutes.
5) Off the heat, remove the bay leaf and stir in the mashed potato, mixing it well with the pork.

To complete the Tourtière:

egg wash, made by breaking an egg into a vessel, lightly beaten with one tablespoon of cream, milk or water.

1) Preheat oven to 200 C/400 F.
2) Prepare your springform pan (butter and flour it).
3) Lightly dust surface to roll out pastry. Dust your hands and the rolling pin with flour, too.
4) Remove one-quarter of the pastry and leave aside.
5) Roll out the pastry and fit into pan (a large enough circle such that there is an overhang).
6) Fill with cooked pork.
7) Roll out remaing pastry to fit pie top. Fold the overhang over and crimp. You should see before folding the overhang over if there is excess pastry - remove it.
8) Brush egg wash over surface.
9) Cut a hole in the centre of the pie top.
10) Bake until pastry is deeply golden.

The nose knows when this is ready. It is amazing that such simple ingredients can almagamate to a richly satisfying dish. The flaky pastry is a dream - even though it takes a good chunk of time to cut shortening into flour, the texture and flavour make the time spent very worthwhile. Its richness complement the pork, and the few herbs and spices used give added depth of complementary flavours. Served with a dollop of Greek yoghurt and spicy relish on the side, Tourtière is festive and rich without being over the stop.

Those Canadians sure know a good thing when they taste one. Mmm...Canada!

Post-script: Please visit Jasmine's round-up of the savoury edition of Mmm...Canada, and please go here for the sweet edition.

That Cookbook Thing II - Sauce au Cari

2008-06-22T13:30:00.004+12:00

In January of this year, a group of food bloggers reviewed Norwegian chef Andreas Viestad's Where Flavor Was Born, and they all had different results. Sometimes the Round Table Review bloggers concurred that instructions were vague, some failed where others succeeded, and all of them found at least one new favourite recipe. While it is clear that subjectivity reigns when deciding on whether to integrate recipes into one's repertoire, I am wholly amenable to building on this dialogue where bloggers are working from a common space in order to understand the many ways we orient ourselves in the world by way of various texts on cooking. To work with Where Flavor Was Born, the bloggers' selection of recipes to test was decided by a complicated rubric - season, availability, cost, individual preferences. What the selection of recipes to test essentially offers is an education into what an author offers as the truth of its chosen subject. The varying results act as a cross-section of reviews for those who are thinking about purchasing the cookery book.

So, exhilerated by this experience, one of the members of the Round Table review group, Mike of Mel's Diner, decided to test some recipes as a way of illustrating some truths of French bourgeois cookery by way of the classic text Mastering the Art of French Cooking by Julia Child, Louisette Bertholle and Simone Beck. Personally, I jumped at the chance to join the bunch because I didn't have this landmark American book - like any interested foodie, I have come across the title many times, whether it be a reference in a bibliography or an adaptation of a recipe, but I never got around to buying it. I suppose the apprehension is because I did not grow up in a household that had had the text "since forever" and valorised it for its appropriation of American cuts of meat to French techniques, but my curiosity never waned when the book was referred to. The other members of That Cookbook Thing II are: Sara of i like to cook, Ruth of Once Upon A Feast, Mary of The Sour Dough, Kittie of Kittens in the Kitchen , Elle of Elle's New England Kitchen, Deborah of What's In My Kitchen?, and Mary of Cooking For Five.

One of Mastering the Art of French Cooking's great assets is its recipe layout. The recipes are divided into two columns - on the left-hand side are the ingredients, matched in the right-hand column with the concomitant method for the ingredients. This prevents confusion, especially when ingredient lists are long, and it forces a thorough reading of the recipe before cooking, which is what one should do, but do we all do as we should in our private lives?

Based purely on a cursory exploration, I have to say that recipe layout aside, this is an odd book. There are useful tips on food preparation peppered throughout the book (and strange ones, like illustrated hints on preparing a gigot - leg of lamb - which I know is because this cut is a fave in traditional French cookery, but what about the rest?), but there is no real historical context. And this is what poses a problem for the first recipe I am testing from the book: Sauce au Cari.

Curry in French cooking?! (Double-take.)

Why it was so necessary for the authors to choose this sauce from others in the haute bourgeousie's reportoire, I do not know. Yes, I am aware that most people don't care - a sauce is a sauce - but I'd like to know why this recipe is featured and what particular curry blend Ms. Child and gang had in mind when they prepared Sauce au Cari. I know Escoffier made it, with similar lack of detail regarding his blend du jour (and this is probably how it entered Child's lexicon), but what I want to know is what she had been exposed to that made it so good - my searches online have not been able to elucidate my inquiry.

To say that the French don't like hot spices might be stretching it, but what we know from the representations of French cuisine that cram bookshelves is that there are not a lot of piquant flavours in French cuisine - at least not without a salty kick. So, my guess is that the types of curries that were appropriated by the French during Julia Child's time in France are those that came from France's many colonies. Following this line of thought, I turned to West Africa for a curry mix, which is exciting because the fact that I find myself doing this undoes preconceptions I had of the book - whether or not that is the intention, I do not know for sure, but cooking is an intimate process, so it almost does not matter what Les Trois Gourmandes had in mind.

Ghanian curry powders typically feature 12 or more spices, herbs and seeds. I was without some ingredients - Grains of Paradise, groundnuts, tamarind, fenugreek and mace; however, I substituted peanuts for groundnuts and black pepper for Grains of Paradise. While I had no idea of the ratio of each ingredient per cup of curry blend, I used the various ingredients according to my own taste in order to produce a curry blend that made up a nuanced blend without too much heat, which I decided is what Escoffier would have liked. The following recipe makes exactly enough for the Sauce au Cari - just over three tablespooms.

Ghanian Curry Blend

1 tablespoon cumin seeds
1 tablespoon fennel seeds
1 tablespoon shelled peanuts
1/2 cinnamon quill
1 teaspoon cardamom seeds
5 cloves
1/2 teaspoon black pepper, whole
1 teaspoon nutmeg, ground
3/4 tablespoon turmeric
1/8 teaspoon lemon zest

1) In a dry saute pan over medium heat, heat the cumin seeds, fennel seeds, peanuts, cinnamon, cardamom seeds, cloves and black pepper until fragrant, tilting the pan occassionally in order to allow oils and heat from the ingredients to intermingle. Do not allow any ingredients to burn.
2) Take off the heat and allow to cool.
3) Discard the cinnamon, and tip the rest of fragrant spices and seeds into a spice blender with the nutmeg, turmeric and lemon zest.
4) Blend until a powder is formed.

Depending on which way you want to swing, Sauce au Cari can be a riff on béchamel (milk based) or velouté (stock based), and it can be as thick or thin as you like. I think a few members of That Cookbook Thing II had an issue with the thickness of the sauce. Having made béchamel a million times with my angelheart Eric (many Sunday nights making lasagne with parmesan and asiago), I paid great attention to the writers' suggestion of cooking the sauce for 10-15 minutes after adding the liquid. Stopping in between the suggested duration, my sauce was just right, and I did not need to enrich and thin the sauce with more than 5 tablespoons of cream. Of course, the timing is dependent on the size of your saucepan (Mesdames Child, Bertholle and Beck suggest an 8-cup enameled saucepan), and I think that the volume capacity has a lot to do with the desired consistency within the suggested times to thicken and cook the sauce.

The following recipe makes 2 1/2 cups of sauce.

Sauce au Cari
(from Julia Child, Louisette Bertholle and Simone Beck's Mastering the Art of French Cooking)

1/2 minced white or yellow onion
70.5 - 84.75g/5-6 tablespoons unsalted butter, divided use
2-3 tablespoons curry powder, such as the Ghanian Curry Blend above
4 tablespoons flour
2 cups boiling milk (for a variation of a béchamel sauce)
4-6 tablespoons whipping/heavy cream
salt
pepper
lemon juice

1) Cook onions and 56.5g/4 tablespoons of butter over low heat for approximately ten minutes. This allows to the onions to soften without colouring.
2) Stir in the curry powder and continue to cook over low heat for two minutes.
3) Add the flour in one go, stir, and cook over low heat for three minutes.
4) Take curried mixture off the heat and blend in the boiling milk.
5) Return to the heat - increasing slightly to obtain a simmer, which is to be maintained for 10-15 minutes, depending on desired thickness. Stir occasionally.
6) Remove sauce from the heat, add enough of the cream to your preference, and add salt, pepper and lemon juice for preferred seasoning.
7) Enrich the sauce by stirring in 14-28.25/1-2 tablespoons, bit by bit. Feel free to add minced parsley for colour.

Whilst fragrant and delectable with sautéed skinless chicken thighs (not my usual choice, for skinless and boneless preparations reek of hypermarket disrespect for provenance, but it seems that many things are without explanation today), I still do not understand why Sauce au Cari is included in this book, unless it is the only master class curry sauce that the French acknowledge - nowadays that would be hard to believe, but perhaps not impossible to comprehend in the 1940s-60s, the time in which Julia Child lived in France, culminating in this book co-written with her Les Trois Gourmandes partners in crime.

Stay tuned for further explorations of Julia Child, Louisette Bertholle and Simone Beck's tribute to La Belle France, Mastering the Art of French Cooking.

Pumpkin Pie

2008-06-17T19:44:00.003+12:00

One of the truest signs of the onset of winter is the presence of pumpkins and squashes in the markets. It is perhaps no surprise that pumpkins were part of the welcoming gift basket from Native Americans to the newly arrived English at Plymouth Rock in the 1620s, for the appearance of their curvy figures and cheerful colours are both inviting and comforting. While pumpkins and squashes look gorgeous on the mantelpiece, dining table or at the foot of a door, their creamy textures make for divine treats, such as pumpkin pie.

I have had an odd fascination with pumpkin pies since childhood. Their ostensible glow seemed to me symbols of unity and warmth in many of the shows I grew up watching, such as Sesame Street, The Cosby Show, and Peanuts cartoons. I was, however, always baffled at the idea that a dessert could be made from pumpkin, for my exposure to Cinderella's vehicle-in-waiting were smiling, boiled wedges. (To boil slices of pumpkin should be a culinary crime since they already contain so much water, which essentially displaces its mild sweetness and earthy flavours.) When I moved to the US just before Thanksgiving in 2001, I finally had the opportunity to try this practically mythologised pie, but the moment of eating a slice overpowered the actual eating of it - so much so that after I scoffed my portion of pie, I was not certain that I liked it.

What I have since found singularly surprising is that many pumpkin pies are made with butternut squash. Given the difference in natural and detectable sweetness, this makes sense. But a pumpkin pie made with butternut squash should still nod to the great Thanksgiving pumpkin, and I do this by using pepitas in both the pie crust and pie filling a la Martha Stewart.

Pepitas are hulled pumpkin seeds - oval and the colour of deepest jade. When ground they are a glorious mint green, fairy dust similar to fine powdered green tea. When I think of baking pies, I often look to add ground nuts or seeds to any crust, for it makes them taste more like the ingredients they contain. If, however, you are making a pie whose principal ingredient does not have nuts or seeds, then use nuts or seeds that complement the principle ingredient (for example, almonds pair so well with cherries, though having said that, grinding a few cherry kernels is not impossible, if you can be botherd to smash them).

I have followed Martha Stewart's recipe for Pumpkin Pie with Candied Pepitas before, and while gorgeous, I have since adapted it to suit my proclivities. I am not huge on cloves - her recipe begs for but a pinch, but I find it too overpowering, preferring instead to use cloves sparingly in braised dishes or mulled wine. You can reduce the amount of spices by 1/4 if you prefer, but I find that without the overt presence of spices, pumpkin pie tastes odd - it just does not quite sell me as a dessert. Having said that, if you leave the pie for one day, the profound nature of the spices will permeate the filling, adding gorgeously subtle notes to every bite.

Pumpkin Pie with Candied Pepitas
(Adapted from Martha Stewart Living, November 2006)

For the graham crust:
2/3 cups all-purpose flour
1/3 cup whole-wheat flour
1/4 cup ground pepitas
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/2 cup (113g) unsalted butter, softened
1/3 cup light brown sugar, packed

1) Combine flours, pepitas, salt, and cinnamon (either with a whisk or in a food processor).
2) Add butter and sugar and proccess and rub fat in until mealy (you can also do this with a food processor).
3) When dough comes together, press it into a 23cm/9" or 25cm/10" springform pan or single-crust metal pie plate, then freeze for 15 minutes.

For the filling:

1 small butternut squash (approximately 3/4 kg/ 1 1/2lb)
3 large eggs, lightly beaten
3/4 cup light brown sugar, packed
1 tablespoon corn starch
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon ground ginger
pinch of cayenne pepper
1 1/2 cups evaporated milk

1) Slice butternut squash in half and roast at 220 C/425 F, cut-side down, for 50-60 minutes.
2) When cool enough to handle, discard the seeds from the cavity and puree the flesh. You need about 1 1/2 cups packed butternut squash puree for this recipe.
3) Preheat oven to 180 C (350 F).
4) Bake crust (after it has been in the freeze for 15 minutes) until dry and golden brown - about 20 minutes - and then let cool completely.
5) Reduce oven temperature to 170 C (325 F).
6) Whisk pumpkin and eggs in a bowl.
7) In a separate bowl, combine brown sugar, cornstarch, salt, and spices.
8) Whisk dry ingredients into the pumpkin mixture.
9) Whisk in evaporated milk.
10) Tap firmly on counter to release air bubbles *you can let it stand for 20 minutes to ensure this as well).
11) Pour filling into graham crust; tap to release air bubbles.
12) Bake until set, approximately 50 minutes. I like to leave it in the oven for an extra couple of minutes to encourage a caramelisation to occur on the surface of the pie, lending a burnished shade that contrasts with the rich and bright orange of the pie filling.

For the candied pepitas:

1 1/4 cups pepitas
5 tablespoons sugar
1 large egg white, beaten
pinch of coarse salt, plus more for seasoning
pinch of ground ginger
pinch of cayenne pepper

1) Preheat oven to 180 C (350 F).
2) Stir ingredients together in a bowl.
3) Spread mixture in a single layer on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper.
4) Bake until pepitas are golden and slightly puffed, approximately 10 minutes. 5) Season with salt.
6) Stir gently, forming some into clumps.
7) Let cool completely in a bowl before storing in an air-tight container for up to three days. Sprinkle a small handful over pumpkin pie (the remainder of which makes for sweet snacking).

The colour and aromas of this pie are so enticing that they beg to be enjoyed in the company of good friends and family. The pumpkin pie's understated yet celebratory appearance make it a perfect feature for every holiday table, or at this time of year when one is tempted to break in the pumpkins and squashes of the season but is not quite ready for their savoury elements. The comforting glow as a slice on a plate is a culinary refuge when looking out at the gloomy skies on the other side of the window panes.

(And happy birthday to the stylish and effervescent Ailene!)

Beetroot and Kumara Fritters with Sumac Salt

2008-06-07T20:37:00.011+12:00

Through the tangle of orange, red and purple withering leaves, piercing blue skies suggest an Indian summer. In New Zealand this is the last moment of autumnal brilliance, just before all the deciduous trees cast off their leaves shaped like aces, leaving behind spindly branches ashen and bare.

The sparkling quality of the image to the left does not fool you, I am sure - the sky looks pristine, clear, but the sun is turning its warm rays toward the northern hemisphere, and we Kiwis are in the cool space that is the transition from autumn to winter.

This is the optimal time in which to put to good use the dreams of winter that I escaped to during the height of summer when it was too hot and muggy to think - instead of swimming or napping, I day-dreamed of rainy days in the kitchen. In the heart of winter one is often tired of root vegetables, so playing around with them before one has no choice but to get used to them is a luxury, for one can still call on the last of the autumnal bounty to overcome failed ideas for interesting winter fare (let's face it, one does not always want for hearty and robust food even when it is blowing a gale and grey as slate).

To lift one from the doldrums of cold climes, I turn to sharp flavours, much as I turn to wooden, earthy herbs in summer - hopefully I am not the only one that, in this instance, appears a walking (blogging) contradiction. I am particularly drawn to sumac, a spice that is produced by crushing dried berries from sumac shrubs (also known as "vinegar trees" in Iran). Lending a gorgeous deep red-purple shade to any marinade, sumac has a sour taste and a citrus spike. Its inherent smokiness makes it a natural spice for grilling. In Turkey, Iran, Lebanon, Syria and Iraq, sumac is sprinkled over meat and fish dishes as well as salads as an alternative to lemon (if the acidic jolt of citrus juice is not required, that is). Sumac is sometimes incorporated into spice rubs, such as za'atar, which also consists of thyme, salt and toasted sesame seeds. Today, though, the sharp property of sumac is paired with the salty yet delicate touch of fleur de sel, giving the palate a real workout against the sweet and earthy bites of beetroot and kumara.

Beetroot and Kumara Fritters
(Adapted from Issue 38 - Autumn of Donna Hay Magazine)

For the sumac salt:
1 part sumac
2 parts fleur de sel

For the fritters:
200g/7 oz beetroot, peeled
100g/3.5 oz orange kumara (sweet potato), peeled
1/4 cup flour
salt, pepper
1 egg white
rice bran or sunflower oil

1) In any vessel (I used a half-cup measuring cup!), mix together fleur de sel and sumac, then put aside.
2) Julienne the beetroot and kumara and put the strips into a medium-sized bowl. For a more refined look, drag a zester across the flesh of the vegetables in order to yield long, thin strips. You can see that I forwent refinedness.
3) Tip the flour onto the julienne strips of beetroot and kumara.
4) Grind in salt and pepper, half the pepper to salt - approximately 1/2 teaspoon salt and 1/4 teaspoon pepper.
5) Break an egg white into the bowl (keep the yolk in a zipper-locked plastic bag in the fridge and use within a couple of days).
6) Mix together with a fork. After 30 seconds, it should bind quite well.
7) In a small saute pan over medium heat, add enough oil to come 1cm/0.4" up the sides. This is to create a shallow frying environment. The oil is "ready" when the oil bubbles semi-furiously - add a strip of either beetroot or kumara to test.
8) Add 1/4 cupfuls of the vegetable strip mixture, flatten so that all strips touch the oil.
9) Cook in batches 40 seconds to one minute per side or until golden, then flip them over.
10) Drain on paper towels and sprinkle with sumac salt whilst hot.

Because of the salty addition, these free-form fritters accompany cocktails perfectly - not exactly party food, though, for these are best piping hot; however, for a few friends gathered in the kitchen with Sidecars and Cosmopolitans, this is a great lead in to the pate and whatever else you have going. Speaking of cocktails, tomorrow I'm off to watch a movie with friends...and you know which film: it is the one that features a certain quartet of ladies - I'm "a Miranda," by the way, fitting given that it appears to be the last moment of autumn's russet splendour.

Weekend Cookbook Challenge # 28 - TV Cooks

2008-05-24T14:32:00.015+12:00

When thinking about this month's Weekend Cookbook Challenge, TV Cooks, I was in two minds about participating. There has been sufficient negative print regarding the post-modern breed of celebrity chefs and cooks that I didn't want to open myself up to criticism (namely, for lack of both depth and individuality). But then, I thought, "Who am I kidding?" The fact of the matter is that television channels like the Food Network and the proliferation of food-focussed magazines, all of which are either driven by or concentrate on cooks and chefs, may potentially curb what appears to be a very dangerous trajectory in the course of consumption - some of us are now questioning the provenance of our food and are thinking about what we are putting into our bodies. If one looks beyond the glossy lives, smooth skin and kitchen gadgets, what is there to criticise? Besides, I'm part of the target audience for these shows: willing and fabulous.

While we're talking about home truths, if it were not for television cooks, such as Nigella Lawson, Tyler Florence, Tamasin Day-Lewis and Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, I might not be cooking as I do now - regularly and with some respect for ingredients. The appeal of the cooks on television is not necessarily their looks, though that can stop one from changing the channel when one is surfing, but their accessibility. The best tv cooks condense their knowledge into culinary bullet points, perfect for generations X and Y - the Short-Term Attention Span Set. Accessibility is paired with enthusiasm for ingredients and recipes, and each episode often climaxes with a lifestyle plug: food + friends = the good life.

It was the endorsement of a lifestyle I wanted that finally motivated me to work in the kitchen in a meaningful way (also, I had time on my hand as a student and felt guilty watching my angelheart Eric cook after a day's work followed by a typically-hellish Los Angeles commute). As you will note in my earlier posts, cooking centres around dinner with my angelheart Eric or gathering around the dining table with our good friends, most notably the divine poetess Suzanne (now in Paris), the stylish and effervescent Ailene and her husband, the espresso-loving and ruminating Mirko (both now in Colorado). Since leaving Los Angeles, the drive to cook has simmered. At first I attributed this to heartache; and while I think this quite true, I think that holding dinner parties for my Kiwi friends will get the boil going again.

So, moving forward, I am revisiting the cookery books that inspired me so much in the first place. (And I appreciate your patience, having listened to me rattle on about justifying my participation in this month's theme Weekend Cookbook Challenge, TV Cooks.)

What my angelheart Eric and I love so much about Tyler Florence is his enthusiasm for big flavours (heck, the guy even keeps a "flavour journal"!). One of my favourite cookery shows is the old format of Tyler's Ultimate in which Tyler would visit two different people to learn their approach to a particular dish (sometimes going to different countries) and then he'd return to his Manhattan apartment (with its gorgeous brick wall), enlightened and inspired to put his spin on the two recipes and produce the ultimate version of the episode's featured dish (the apple pie, lasagne and paella episodes are particularly compelling and mouth-watering). There is a cookery book of the same name plus two others by this young chef: Tyler Florence's Real Kitchen and Eat This Book.

Eat This Book celebrates big global flavours. The cover shows Mr. Florence in step, powering foward with grocery bags on which are printed Chinese charcters - he is urban, savvy and purposeful. The cover does not misrepresent the contents of the book. Eat This Book places diversity on a pedastal and is a culinary passport of the decentred yet globalised world in which we live.

The recipe that inspires this post highlights Tyler Florence's skills - it presents classically-paired items (pork and apple) and adds his post-modern spin; this is global fusion that is achievable without necessitating a leap of faith from one's comfort zone.

The glory of pork belly is that it is a cheap piece of meat that can be poshed up. It responds well to dry rubs and pastes, and because of its tender structure it is best braised, allowing many possibilities for great depth of flavour. While Mr. Florence suggests serving the dish with a potato and celeriac mash, I have opted for something that is not as soft, for the apple and pork belly offer enough - roasted kumara, cut into chips.

New Zealand kumara is also known as sweet potato. While pre-European Maori are shown to have grown many Polynesian cultivars, the most common kumara is the Owairaka Red, which was developed from a larger American variety of sweet potato. It is rich in Vitamins A and C, and the best thing is that you do not have to peel it (besides, the skin has a special fibre that has special health properties related to both cancer and longevity). Today I have chosen the red kumara for its mellow taste - if I had chosen orange kumara, it might have created too sweet a dish, what with the baked apple on the plate, too. For more information on kumara, go to Kaipara Kumara.

The following menu has been tweaked for a variety of reasons, one of them being that sage is not easily found in New Zealand, so I chose to forgo it altogether, and that I created a slightly spicier apple side by using ginger loaf instead of cornbread muffin, as you will see. Enough for four.

Braised Pork Belly and Buttered Apples
(Adapted from Tyler Florence's Eat This Book)

For the pork belly:
1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
1 tablespoon fennel seeds, toasted then ground
2 tablespoons thyme
1/2kg/1lb pork belly (one slice, unsmoked)
salt, pepper
720ml/24 fl. oz cider
1 cup chicken stock

For the kumara:
3 kumara, approximately 900kg/1.8lb, cut into wedges
olive oil
salt, pepper

For the apples:
4 apples (I used early season Pacific Rose because they hold their structure well when cooked and have a lovely pink blush)
56g/1/2 stick unsalted butter, softened to room temperature
1/2 cup crumbs from a moist ginger loaf (or, per Mr. Florence, corn muffin)
1/2 tablespoon thyme
1 clove garlic, minced
salt, pepper
1/2 cup cider

1) Pre-heat oven to 200 C/390 F.
2) Score the fat of the pork belly and pat the entire slab dry.
3) Stir together olive oil, ground fennel seeds, thyme in a small bowl. The idea is to make a paste, but I made mine slightly wetter for extra coverage.
4) Rub liquid all over the pork belly and season generously with salt and pepper.
5) Heat a saute pan over medium-high heat. Add 2 tablespoons olive oil.
6) When oil smokes, place the pork belly in the pan, fat-side down. The belly may bend, so use tongs to ensure all the fat crisps up. It should only take five minutes for the fat to look resplendent in burnished, autumnal hues.
7) Turn pork belly over and move pan from the heat.
8) Drain fat from the pan, add the cider and chicken stock.
9) Cover with foil or heavy lid and place on the middle rack in the oven until done, approximately 45 mintues.
10) Core apples.
11) In another small bowl, mix together softened butter, ginger loaf crumbs, thyme, garlic and salt and pepper.
12) Spoon the stuffing into the cavities of the apples, and stand them up, snuggled side-by-side in a baking dish.
13) Once the pork is approximately 30 minutes from being done, pour the cider around the apples and bake until soft.
14) On a foil-lined baking tray, place the kumara wedges and drizzle over olive oil, salt and pepper. Mix together, then lay wedges in one layer. Place in the oven on lowest rack.
15) After minutes, turn kumara wedges over and leave to bake until done.
16) Pull saute pan out, remove foil or lid, and place over medium-high heat. Baste the pork belly as the liquid boils. (If you wish, you can reduce liquid to a sauce and serve as a gravy.)
17) Remove pork belly and cut into slices.
18) Check sauce for seasoning.

The Autumn light does not allow for the most beautiful photo of the results, but you get an idea of the dish anyway. The amount of pork belly, here, seems stingy, but I assure you that it is so beautifully rich that one does not need more. And though one does not taste the cider, fennel seed and thyme strongly, there is a sweet herbiness throughout, harmonising with the richness of the meat. I did not eat the crackling, but I adore its tactile quality; it gives the dish presence. (And such wonderful quality pork belly from the guys at Seaview Meats.)

Now I just need to set the table for friends...

Post-edit: Please visit the round-up to see what everyone else made.

Chocolate Mousse

2008-05-05T19:17:00.008+12:00

The first chocolate mousse I ever ate came out of a box. Mum must have added water or some other liquid, stirred it into the dry ingredients, which probably included gelatine and powdered milk, and let the creamy chocolate-looking mixture "set up" in the fridge some time before dinner. (I say "included," but it would not surprise me if one could still purchase it or some other post-modern variant.) I used to love "mousse" as a kid. But, of course, I am no longer a kid, and I now know better - however nostalgic the photos for today's post look (bad lighting on account of heavy, dark clouds that make my usually vivid yellow background that strange "70s ochre" of my parents' kitchen counters when I was a child), the contents are not from a box. What is ridiculous is that one does not need to depend on an instant dessert kit to make chocolate mousse - the few ingredients required and recipe are simplicity itself. And for those who are vegetarian, there is no need to look away from this recipe, for no gelatine is needed to stabilise the mousse (the chilling of the mousse keeps the whipped egg whites from breaking down).

I have not made chocolate mousse that often, but when I do make it, I tell anyone who wants to eat it that it is rich. I do not do what chefs and cookery writers conservatively often suggest: a combination of bittersweet and semi-sweet chocolate to please all palates (and, I suspect, to give the chocolate more dimension). I love bittersweet chocolate, and though I tell myself that cream works to balance out the acidity of the chocolate, it does actually make the dessert richer. Of course, the chocolate you use will impart its own properties - for example, a dark chocolate from Madagascar generally has fruity notes; whereas a dark chocolate from the Ivory Coast may impart cinnamon and coffee notes. I rely on Valrhona's Guanaja when making chocolate desserts because of its intense chocolate aroma with subtle berry notes. (If you have no clue about the properties of the chocolate bars available in today's market, and if you do not mind subjectivity, check out the incredible array of chocolate bars reviewed at seventypercent.com.)

The following recipe, loosely adapted from Lindsey Remolif Shere's Chez Panisse Desserts, can be improved upon depending on your proclivities. In fact, you can stick to Ms. Remolif Shere's recipe to the T and add two tablespoons of cognac or brandy (or, by extrapolation, any booze). I chose to omit the brandy (I know - Shock! Horror!) because I was serving the mousse to people who are sensitive to brandy, which is to say that they do not care for it at all. I substituted the potential differentiation in liquid with a little extra cream.

The following recipe makes approximately 3 1/4 cups.

Chocolate Mousse
(Adapted from Lindsey Remolif Shere's Chez Panisse Desserts)

180g/6oz 70% dark/bittersweet chocolate
2 tablespoons coffee from freshly ground beans (you could use water instead)
4 eggs, separated
1 cup + 2 tablespoons whipping cream

1) Melt the chocolate with the coffee in a glass bowl suspended over a pot of simmering water (make sure that the bottom of the bowl does not touch the water). Stir frequently.
2) Remove chocolate from heat as soon as it has melted and is smooth and glossy.
3) Whisk the egg yolks into the melted chocolate.
4) Beat the egg whites in a steel bowl until they hold very soft peaks.
5) Fold one quarter of the egg whites into the chocolate mixture, then fold in the remainder. The addition of one quarter at the beginning creates a ligter mixture that is receptive to a quick folding of the rest of the egg whites - it prepares their reception! A quick folding is essential in order to prevent the egg whites from deflating too much.
6) Whip the cream until soft peaks are formed (stiffer peaks creat a foamy texture).
7) Fold the cream into the chocolate mixture.
8) Evenly divide the chocolate mixture into your serving vessels - I usually use wine glasses.
9) Chill in the refrigerator.
10) Take the mousse out five minutes before serving in order to make it more palatable (too much chill is not fun for the teeth, and it masks some of the subtle flavours of the mousse). Use this time to consider topping the mousse.

As you can see, I whipped up 1/4 cup of cream until soft peaks were achieved and then stirred in 1 tablespoon of hazelnut syrup. I spooned the cream over each mousse and garnished them with grated chocolate.

Though cool to the tongue, the richness of the chocolate and silky texture make chocolate mousse an appropriate and welcome Autumnal dessert. The variations are endless - you can use different chocolates, a little alcohol...I already have my eyes on Lindsey Remolif Shere's recipe for Frozen Caramel Mousse!

Richness upon richness!

Stir-Fried Capsicums, Tomatoes and Capers with Hummus on Pita

2008-04-12T17:47:00.010+12:00

This morning I had my heart set on making pecan pie. This is not the sort of dessert my angelheart Eric would have expected on his birthday (he is of the group of humans who either wants chocolate in a dessert dish, cake or ice cream - and, often, both), but the chill in the air begged to be buffered by the richness of this buttery-tasting nut, with additional depth provided by a good Canadian or Vermont maple syrup (my preference is for the dark amber syrups). Of course, today, I could not find pecans anywhere. And in the course of shopping, I was presented with another problem - forget the cake for now, what about lunch?

Recently Lucy of Nourish Me asked her readers what they tucked into their weekday lunchboxes. This morning, a Saturday, the very same question struck me. While I do not have to worry about the constraints of a lunch box or other vessel to take to the office, I could technically make anything. That thought is overwhelming to my somewhat rigid (selectively flexible) nature - parameters are nice at times.

The luxury of weekend lunches, though, is that one has the time to cook, if he or she chooses. But what to cook? I did not really feel like cooking for any great length of time, and I had it fixed in my mind that I would not just pick something from the fridge or grab something ready to go from a bakery or delicatessen either (I'm bloody difficult at times, I know). I wandered the market aimlessly, thrown off by not achieving the only plan I had for this morning (to find pecan nuts). I halted in front of a display of shiny capsicums (bell peppers).

I love the solanaceae family, not only because the members of its clan have the coolest names in the botanical world (datura and deadly nightshade - the belladonna genus is the deadliest of the bunch with high levels of alkaloids) but because the plants that are edible produce either fruit (like capsicums, aubergines and tomatoes) or berries (such as wolfberry) - and you know of my looooooooovvvve for aubergines.

I do not like capsicums in their raw state, say in a standard salad offering, but cooked in any fashion, they impart a smoky and sweet quality to any dish. It was only a few weeks ago that I made a Moroccan salad of roasted capsicums and tomatoes (Chakchouka), and I suddenly felt like having it again. I decided on a shortcut to get around roasting the capsicums; thus, I could also work on my version of hummus - and the two would be combined in a warm pita pocket.

Stir-Fried Capsicums, Tomatoes and Capers
(adapted from the recipe for Chakchouka in Kitty Morse and Danielle Mamane's The Scent of Orange Blossoms)

2 tablespoons olive oil
2 capsicums, sliced
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 tomatoes, peeled and coarsely diced
1 teaspoon sumac
1 teaspoon capers, rinsed
salt
pepper

1) In a saute pan over medium-high heat, warm up the olive oil, then add the capsicum slices.
2) When the capsicum has softened, add the garlic.
3) When the garlic is fragrant but has not coloured, add the tomatoes (the point is to warm them through).
4) Let the sumac hit the bottom of the pan for a few seconds before turning it into the other ingredients.
5) When the capsicum slices have completely softened, take the pan off the heat, add the capers and season the dish with salt and pepper

With respect to the portions of ingredients, think one capsicum and one tomato per person. The presence of sumac should be subtle, adding a slight citrus spike to the capsicum and tomatoes, heightened by the capers. Using this recipe as a stand-alone salad is a great possibility for busy gatherings, for it is traditionally served at room temperature, which allows you to get on with other things.

My version of hummus is a combination of recipes for Hummus Habb (chickpea puree) and Hummus bi Tahini (chickpea puree with tahina). It is a cinch to make and preferable to many prepared ones because the fresh citrus juice is allowed to sing beautifully, accenting the richness of the puree. Also, I have found no significant difference in making hummus from scratch with chickpeas in their raw state and soaked overnight to making it from chickpeas in a can.

Hummus
(Adapted from recipes for Hummus Habb and Hummus bi Tahini in Claudia Roden's The New Book of Middle Eastern Food)

450g canned chickpeas, drained and rinsed
1 teaspoon cumin, ground
1 large clove garlic, minced
juice of half a lemon
1/4 cup tahina (a paste made from hulled sesame seeds)
salt
pepper
1/3 cup warm water
3 tablespoons olive oil, approximately

1) In a blender mix the above ingredients. The liquid is to encourage the puree to become creamy. If you find the above liquid measurements do not work for you, add more olive oil (or argan oil). Add seasoning or more lemon juice to your liking.

Slice a warm pita such that you create a pita pocket, slather the internal walls with Hummus, and fill with the stir-fried goodies. Each mouthful should be warm and rich. While an incredible stomach-filler, the acidic and salty additions clear the way and encourage continued bites until one has had too much (I had two and could not bear a light dinner until very late). While this is the perfect lazy, weekend lunch for me, I hope it is not too long before I can satisfy my sweet tooth with a great pecan pie. Bring on Autumn!

(And happy birthday to my angelheart Eric.)

Aubergine and Fennel Seed Fettuccine

2008-04-05T17:52:00.009+13:00

Sometimes being in between seasons is a bother. Do you carry an umbrella on a day that appears to be sunny? Do you leave behind a sweater because it might not be that cold? Do you risk going outdoors at all? Being in a liminal space such as this forces one to second guess. The same applies to cooking at these times of the year. I had one last, good Summer aubergine on hand, but I didn't want baba ghanouj or a smoky aubergine with barbecued meat...I decided to take the best of the Summer and combine it it with something that hints at the colder climes: a touch of cream.

I suppose today's offering is not only a "changing seasons" dish but is one that builds on the notion of compromise, for it marries northern and southern Italian ingredients - well, in my canvas of broad strokes it does.

Aubergine is very popular in Sicilian cooking, where it is used to carry and not compete with the salty and sweet combinations for which the glorious island of volcanic rock is famous: capers, chilis, vinegar, marsala...Aubergine is a recognised ingredient largely because of the international popularity of the Sicilian dishes: pasta alla Norma, a combination of aubergine, ricotta, tomatoes, basil and preferably either of these two pastas maccheroni or paccheri - the dish is named after the grandest work of Sicilian composer Bellini, Norma; and caponata, a fiery relish of fried aubergine and peppers mixed with celery, capers and olives bound with a bittersweet sauce of vinegar and sugar. What I largely associate with southern Italian preparations of pasta are tomatoes. And while tomatoes are also used in northern pastas, I tend to be lulled by the creaminess of their pasta dishes more than anything else - made so usually on account of cheese or cream itself.

Today is one of those grey but not cold days, where there is an autumnal chill in the air, enough of one to make you put on an extra layer, but it is not so cold that you're pining for stew and wearing two pairs of socks. A marriage of summery aubergine and a touch of comforting cream. (And I am sure by now, but especially following my post from 1 March, 2008, you know that fettuccine is my favourite pasta - you use whichever long pasta you prefer.) In the interest of meeting halfway, the hinge of all good and long-lasting relationships, I've added fennel seeds and fronds, which are popular in Roman cooking - the best fennel, itself, is purportedly from Florence, but that is only a minor detail of - remember? - generalisations.

The following recipe can serve four. As is typical of most of my recipes, I give you the steps in the order that I do things, so that the ingredients come together at once, which is easy if this is all you're preparing, which would be more than adequate for lunch.

Aubergine and Fennel Seed Fettuccine

2 tablespoons olive oil, divided use
1 1/2 tablespoons fennel seeds
500g/16oz aubergine, cut into bite-size pieces
salt & pepper
150ml/5fl. oz cream/heavy cream
1/4 cup parmesan, grated
1 1/2 tablespoons fennel fronds, chopped
350g/12oz fettuccine
extra parmesan (prepared with a vegetable peeler) and fennel fronds (chopped)

1) Boil water that is heavily seasoned with salt in a large pot.
2) Heat 1/2 tablespoon olive oil over medium heat. Add fennel seeds.
3) When the seeds give off an aroma, add the rest of the olive oil and the aubergine pieces. Toss together and cook until aubergine is very soft - 10 to 15 minutes.
4) In the meantime, the water should be boiling, so add pasta to the water. Follow the instructions of the pasta your purchase, if you do not make it yourself, as to when your chosen pasta should be al dente, or to your liking if you prefer it without the slightest resistance.
5) Season aubergine with salt and pepper.
6) Add the cream and parmesan over a very low heat.
7) When the cream bubbles lightly, remove from the heat and add fennel fronds. Stir to combine.
8) By now the pasta should be ready, so drain it in a colander and then add it to the creamy aubergine. Toss together and serve with shavings of parmesan and a scattering of chopped fennel fronds.

Bravissimo!

Well, only if you enjoy the aroma and finish attributed to anethole as I do - fennel, licorice, star anise, sambuca, you name it. Luscious, earthy, smacking of early Autumn in Oceania, this comforts without any gastronomic suffocation. Of course, the perfect match is Sicilian nero d'avola, which is typically medium of body with notes of figs and pepper.

While I eagerly anticipate the Fall bounty to come, I particularly love being caught in-between seasons and blurring boundaries.

Hot Cross Buns and Stove-Top Mochaccino

2008-03-24T08:31:00.009+13:00

There are two walkways from different major arterial roads that lead down to my home nested in a valley between somewhat steep ridges. Opposite one of those walkways is house that has its territory marked with deciduous trees - Japanese maples. Their leaves begun to turn a gorgeous russet early last week. While most of the cookery book literature I read celebrates the new beginnings that are associated with Spring and Easter, in the Southern hemisphere, and particularly in New Zealand - practically at the bottom of the world - it is a time of reflection.

I do not recall many religious explanations for the way the world works as a child, but I have a vague recollection of Easter being presented to me as a time of renewal and cleansing. I remember looking out the large aluminium-framed windows of one of my primary school's prefabs to see nature seemingly on the verge of dying. It didn't make sense in my little six-year-old head, then: renewal. The cleansing bit I got - my memory is full of many wet childhood Easter weekends. Beyond that, I couldn't make the association, and so I didn't.

I do not know how the religious signifcance of Easter is reconciled through food in New Zealand. A reconciliation is surely required for all the various denominations of the various religions and faiths to show unity across the globe, is it not? In New Zealand, one does not eat the young Spring lamb, but rather those that are six months older (and more preferable to taste, in my mind). There are no delicate salad greens, but the beginnings of hardy greens. As for fruit, gone are most of the juicy Summer berries, but there is the very short fig season and the entry to three months of feijoa heaven. The figs, at least, can be worked into some Northern representation of the importance of Easter.

As an atheist adult, Easter is mainly a special time of year for those who work a regular week in New Zealand (or for anyone, really), as it is the only public holiday in which a day off work is tacked onto either side of the weekend - heck, even most of Auckland's stores are closed for large chunks of the holidays (some open on the two major days, Good Friday and Easter Sunday, and risk paying a fine or being prosecuted for it). Mostly, Easter allows for a relaxing getaway without having to use one's annual leave in order to enjoy the last of the Summer sun. Sometimes, Easter weather is pretty miserable, so having hot cross buns and hot chocolate is a good way to go. (Having said that, this weekend has been rather glorious.)

I'm not bucking my own tradition, though, for it is all I have left to tie me to the Easters of my past. Gone are the all the kids playing together in my cul-de-sac - families do not know/trust each other anymore. Gone is the novelty of the Easter Show (now usually seen as a lame excuse for a temporary amusement park). And with Easter occurring earlier, it seems, gone is the gloomy weather. Despite the change, I still find myself munching on chocolate and fig-filled hot cross buns, drinking homemade mochaccinos (without the steamed milk)...all the while watching The Sopranos.

Hot Cross Buns
(adapted from Nigella Lawson's Feast: Food That Celebrates Life)

See recipe from my post on Hot Cross Buns last year.

I made a few modifications:

I did not use any orange zest, but rather increased the amount of cardamom pods used to steep in the once-boiled milk. I halved the cinnamon and increased both the nutmeg and ginger. Most of the fruit used was dried figs. I substituted one egg for a couple of tablespoons of milk, as necessary to bind the ingredients together. Encased in half of the buns is one square of dark, bitter chocolate.

As you can see, I didn't bother with marking the crosses on the buns except for the indentations made with the back of a butter knife. Store-bought buns always have beautiful looking crosses, but I suspect the firmness is attained by using gelatine, which I prefer not to use except for the odd occasion of making jelly or panna cotta. And while mine are tiny and not heterogeneous in shape, they taste more grown up than the commercially-produced, timidly-spiced buns sold in stores. Further, the combination of fig and chocolate feels more grown up - I could have made these more contemporary, I suppose, by steeping the dried figs in lapsong suchong or earl grey tea and then shaping the balls into squares. Perhaps next year?

I do not profess to be a great drinker of hot chocolate, especially not virginal ones - I prefer it with coffee or a hint of brandy. What I do love is the romantic associations: Winter getaway to a chalet, a buffer to the coldest of polar southerlies beating against windows...However you make it, insist on using the best-quality chocolate you can lay your hands on, for it is the principal ingredient here. The following recipe serves two.

Stove-top Mochaccino
(Adapted from Tessa Kiros' Hot Chocolate in Apples for Jam)

3 rounded tablespoons ground coffee beans
1/2 cup water
2/3 cup chopped 70% cocoa-solid/bittersweet chocolate (Ms. Kiros suggests semisweet)
1 1/2 cups milk
1/2 cup (heavy) cream
1 teaspoon icing/confectioners' sugar
unsweetened cocoa powder or ground cinnamon to dust on top

1) In your coffee vessel, make a pot of coffee. I have a moka pot, and this small quantity of coffee takes almost seven minutes to make, to I suggest getting on with it first.
2) Over medium heat, bring the chocolate and milk to just below boiling point, at first stirring with a wooden spoon to ensure the chocolate fully melts and does not catch on the bottom of the saucepan, then whisk to ensure smoothness.
3) In a bowl, whisk together the cream and icing sugar until thick. Ms. Kiros advises not to make it stiff, but I like it to float like an island, cool and creamy gulps in between hot and dark ones.
4) Pour hot coffee and chocolate into cups, stir together.
5) Gently spoon the cream on top.
6) Sprinkle a small amount of cocoa powder or cinnamon on top, if you wish.

Radish-Chive Tea Sandwiches and Sesame Cookies

2008-03-15T08:38:00.004+13:00

I have been in a food funk for months now. Normally, I am inspired by what I read as opposed to playing around in the kitchen dreaming up dishes of my own. Sadly, I have been reading cookery books in a half-hearted manner, which is to say that I cast my eyes over the text but am not really absorbing anything. Part of the problem, though, is the produce - the same old fruit and vegetables for the most part, irrespective of their house of sale, whether a large or family-run greengrocer's or supermarket. As for the Auckland farmers' markets, well, there seems to be a lot of pre-made products for sale, presenting more of a food boutique than a celebration of farmers's bounty. I know that I should give it another chance, but I am doing the very depression-inducing thing of comparing what there is now to what was...I do miss the Long Beach and Santa Monica farmers' markets ever so much.

But I am not in Los Angeles anymore, though my heart is. Luckily my angelheart Eric and I will decide on the location of our abode some time this year, which gladdens me greatly. What also gladdens me is that my angelheart Eric knows of my great love for food but hasn't heard me talk about food a lot. This awareness of my condition (I first thought it might be a cyber-related ennui, but this does not alter the fact that I have not really been cooking for myself with any relish lately) has prompted my knight in shining armour to pick up the cause himself, immersing himself in the stack of food magazines that arrive at his door monthly and the food sections of various American newspapers (oh, how I miss the Los Angeles Times' unparalleled food section). Like all his offerings, my angelheart Eric came across something delicious and pure.

I don't typically prepare anything overly complicated, mostly because I easily stress myself out and can work myself up into a tizz over nothing, so the idea of making something simple was not necessarily lost on me. I have, however, found that I have spent much of the end of last year and most this year (almost one-quarter of the way through already!) straying from familiar flavour combinations. With my nose, tastebuds and interest in Middle Eastern, North African and Turkish cookery books, I have been quite content but have not made anything frequently so as to know it well - I understand this will come with time, but for now, when I want something of comfort, in this sea of grand cookery books cast before me there is no liferaft. Essentially, what my angelheart Eric found was a recipe that reminded me why I love food so much.

Radishes on their own are peppery in flavour and crunchy in texture. On a bed of sliced baguette, a compound butter of toasted sesame seeds, sesame oil, fleur de sel, pepper and chives, the peppery-quality of the radishes all but disappears but their crunch remains, making for a simple, tasty and comforting mouthful. If you're in New Zealand, where traditional bakeries are few and far between, get the best baguette available (note: I did not say "afford," for sometimes even the priciest sticks that pass for baguettes are made with a standard bun mixture only shaped to look like a baguette, sadly lacking its characteristic toasted exterior). It is conventional wisdom that tells us to use the best of ingredients at all times, and this is imperative when working with so few ingredients.

Radish-Chive Tea Sandwiches
(from Bon Appétit magazine, April 2008)

Recipe is found on the Bon Appétit website.

This reminds me of a glorious Spring afternoon some ten or eleven years ago, when the magnanimous Marie-France and I took off in her little Renault to the countryside just south of Paris and marched through paddocks before finding one overlooking a goat farm. There we spread out a picnic blanket and ate the freshest produce along with home made goodies, such as pâté. Before then, it had never occurred to me that food could be simple and life-affirming, rich and tasty. The inclusion of sesame seeds and oil, here, only serves to round out the flavours, adding depth that is contrasted with the chives. If only my angelheart Eric could have been here with me to enjoy these elegant and simple slices.

If you're making these, you may as well keep the sesame seeds out and take a step in another direction to make these very simple cookies, which are crumbly, light, and a breeze to make.

Biscuits au Sésame
(Almost faithfully adapted from Kitty Morse and Danielle Mamane's The Scent of Orange Blossoms)

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 cup vegetable oil
1/2 cup sesame seeds, toasted with 1 tablespoon of vegetable oil
1/2 cup icing/confectioners' sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 teaspoon orange blossom water
2 tablespoons cold water
cinnamon, to sprinkle on top

1) Preheat oven to 180 C/375 F.
2) In one bowl, sift together the flour and baking powder.
3) In another bowl, mix together the vegetable oil, sesame seeds, icing sugar, vanilla extract and orange blossom water.
4) Add the flour mixture in thirds with the cold water in between the additions of flour. The idea is to have coarse crumbs.
5) Make rounded patties in your palms with approximately 2 tablespoons of cookie mixture. Flatten slightly on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper.
6) Sprinkle cinnamon on top.
7) Bake for 20-22 minutes, until the cookies are light gold in colour.
8) Allow to cook and harden slightly on a wire rack.

If you leave the cookies in the oven for a bit too long, as I have done a couple of times, there is no danger; they just crumble more easily when you bite into them. I enjoy their lightness in texture and depth of flavour. They are perfect with a hot drink of equal ballast, such a strong, dark cup of coffee.

Simple food is never boring, and I have obviously needed this gentle reminder to get back into the swing of things. I will try my best to enjoy what there is on offer here and go that extra mile to understand what is available in New Zealand and when. Finding patterns and rhythms, as I did in Los Angeles, will ensure that I take care of and have pride for what I eat and share with others.

Bon appétit!

Weekend Cookbook Challenge # 25 - Nigella Lawson

2008-03-01T14:47:00.008+13:00

Many foodies and everyday cooks (those who only cook because one needs to eat) enjoy Nigella Lawson's approach to cooking. She is a great magpie, picking from many cuisines and adapting them to largely unfussy presentations for everyday cooking and great parties. I think that which makes her more successful than most tv cooks and chefs is that she has finely tuned her analytical abilities developed through her work as a literature and restaurant/food critic. As such, she is able to make any ingredient and, by extension, any dish approachable and appealing. Nigella Lawson is the "theme" for this month's Weekend Cookbook Challenge, hosted by Ani at Foodie Chickie.

La Lawson first came to my attention through her television show Nigella Bites. I hadn't heard of her before then, and I managed to catch her quite by accident when I was alone on a rainy night with nothing better to do. In fact, I was thinking of changing the channel, for preparing food was not my "thing" - my angelheart Eric was the cook in our family; I was the barman. Anyway, it didn't take long for me to get hooked. I got caught up in Nigella's energy, the way she talks directly to the camera, drawing her audience in, and by the swift and uncomplicated editing. Nigella Bites and all of Nigella's subsequent shows are contemporary and ride on La Lawson's sass, charm and heady, descriptive powers.

Okay, so it took me a few years to actually get around to trying any of her recipes, but Nigella planted the seed and many a mental note was taken - her encouragement and lack of airs made it all seem so easy. To Nigella, I am grateful for ingredients and foods that I now couldn't imagine my cooking and baking life without - principally sumac and vanilla extract.

Nigella Lawson's books capture her shows' same humour and vivacity, which are not easily translatable to text. What I also enjoy about the texts so much is her detailed explanations of combinations of ingredients, aromas and textures, clipped from other writers and from her own travels and experiences. That she has a great bibliography section at the back of each book is a wonderful bonus, a direction to further one's own culinary curiosities. From La Lawson's recommendations alone, I have found myself purchasing books by Claudia Roden, Beatrice Ojakangas, Elizabeth David, Simon Hopkinson, Patricia Wells and Nigel Slater.

The following recipe is taken from Nigella Lawson's first book, How to Eat: The Pleasures and Principles of Good Food, which I reviewed last year. And while she, too, has adapted this recipe (from Claudia Roden), I find it summarises her approach to food really well. La Lawson extracts all the goodness from every ingredient, and it is no different with the incorporation of chicken fat in this recipe, used to coat the pasta, best enjoyed hot. If you want a quick and tasty lunch, this is the way to go: chicken thighs instead of a roast chicken. The Venetian ghetto is conjured up with the pinenuts and sultanas, necessary ingredients for haroset.

Fettucine with Chicken from the Venetian Ghetto
(Adapted from Nigella Lawson's How to Eat: The Pleasures and Principles of Good Food)

2 large chicken thighs, bone in and skin on
extra virgin olive oil
salt
pepper
1/4 cup sultanas, soaked in warm water for 30 minutes
1/4 cup pine nuts, lightly toasted
fettucine, about 500g/1 lb
parsley

1) Cover the chicken thighs with olive oil, salt and pepper and start boiling a pot of water for the pasta.
2) Over a medium-high heat, pan-fry the chicken thighs - skin-side down first. It should take approximately 10-15 minutes for the thighs to be done, depending on their thickness.
3) When done, allow to become cool enough to handle. Ideally, this should be done about the time the pasta is ready to go into a pot of boiling, salted water.
4) Tear the chicken flesh from the bone either with your hands or two forks. Chop up the skin.
5) As the pasta nears completion, add the pinenuts and drained sultanas to the liquidised chicken fat and olive oil in the pan. Heat through over medium-low heat.
6) Drain pasta and immediately pour over the chicken fat, sultanas and pine nuts. Toss thoroughly.
7) Add the shredded chicken and sprinkle over with parsley.

This is incredibly comforting on a blowsy day like today. The inclusion of this recipe in Nigella Lawson's debut book is testament to her ability to create appealing and approachable food, showing off the best of each ingredient. The slickness of the oil-coated pasta is tempered by the sweet, juicy sultanas, the crunch of the toasted pinenuts and the freshness of the parsley. It took Nigella Lawson to teach me how so few ingredients are all it takes to make a good meal every day.

Yoghurt in Summer

2008-02-24T16:18:00.008+13:00

I had intended on beginning this post with a note on using food a safe mechanism for escapism, but upon taking photos, I realised this was not to be. I have run out of the necessary batteries for my camera. I will rectify the situation this week, but it means that today's photos are taken with an aparatus whose results are uninspiring at the best of times: the web cam. So, I find myself beginning the post with an apologia for the visuals.

Now, that the depressing stuff is out of the way, and perhaps more of a reason to transport oneself, though in this instance it would be preferable to have the real-life escape instead of a sensory or virtual one, allow me to point out what is probably evident to regular readers: I use food to escape. This is not to say that I do not appreciate living in the moment, I do, but it often transpires that I use food to create moment, to impart an energy. When creating a menu, what is often the great fun is creating a link between the courses, to have each dish speak to those preceding or following it. It is a great learning opportunity to understand the possibilities of many an ingredient. In fact, when I create a menu, I sometimes have just one ingredient in mind, and I like to see what I can do with it - of course, I am aware of overkill and make sure it is not the star of every single dish, for that gets tired. And most people don't care that much anyway; they just want to be fed.

When I want to escape, I head for my bookcase of cookery books, which functions as a stone-front fireplace would in the coldest, snowiest of Winters. This weekend looks like Winter, but, thankfully, it isn't yet unbearably cold. It is in this subtropical storm that I get the best of both worlds: moderate temperatures and grey, wet skies. While not quite willing to swap polos for turtlenecks, I am showcasing two of a myriad of ways with one of my favorite Summer foods: yoghurt. (Of course yoghurt can be made year-round; I just tend to crave it in the Summer more than any other time of the year.)

With my dabbling into Middle Eastern cookery, I have found yoghurt to be a kitchen staple. Often it is used as a marinade, a dipping sauce, or as a thirst-quencher. While not nearly as familiar with the myriad of Indian cuisines as I am with those of the Middle East, I am becoming increasingly inquisitive about the food preparations of this vast subcontinent, the world's largest producer of spices. A perfect way to counter heat with its cooling effect on the palate is raita, an Indian condiment. It accompanies spicy Indian dishes, grilled meat, and it also makes a great dip for pita or naan chipes.

To this dip, feel free to add as much mint or cucumber as you prefer. You could also add onion and garlic, or you can swap out the mint for coriander. Instead of dusting it off with a little chilli powder, I added a sprinkling of my favourite spice, sumac, which has a citrus-spike that pairs well with cumin.

Cucumber and Mint Raita
(Closely adapted from Anjum Anand's Indian Food Made Easy)

1 cucumber, about 12 1/2cm/5" in length
1 1/2 tablespoons mint, chiffonade
300g/10 fl.oz nautral/plain yoghurt
3/4 teaspoon cumin seeds, toasted and ground
a pinch of sumac

1) Peel the cucumber and grate it coarsely.
2) Squeeze the excess moisture out of the grated cucumber. (I did this by wrapping the jade-coloured strands in kitchen paper.)
3) Place the grated cucumber into a bowl with the mint and gently mix together.
4) Fold in the yoghurt.
5) Fold in the cumin.
6) Sprinkle sumac on top.

For a mildly sweet hit for afternoon tea, I am partial to moist cakes made with yoghurt. What I love most about them is that the cake itself can be made simply, allowing for the chosen syrup to be the great carrier of flavour, which means that no matter what your mood on the day, the cake-making part is a no-brainer. The only thing to bear in mind is that Greek yoghurt is a little thicker than most and has a slight tang, which I prefer, so it is something to be mindful of when deciding what syrup to make. If you do not prefer a tangy yoghurt, then choose plain/natural instead of Greek or Greek-style yoghurts. The other great thing about this particular cake is that it alleviates one of the creaming of butter and sugar, which is often necessary for baked goods. It is something I don't particularly enjoy doing even though I understand the necessity of it. Also, the less eggs there are to break, the better. I've made hundreds of cakes and muffins, and there is nothing I hate more than breaking eggs...it is always such a task for me (and yes, I've read up on various methods to break eggs easily and cleanly).

The syrup is taken from a Diana Henry recipe. It is rather ingenius because it means one can leave out the brandy from the cake base - it seems to be a common ingredient in Greek yoghurt cakes. The addition to reduced coffee, though, does not leave a brandy-flavoured syrup, but simulates that of walnuts in liquor, which is what some Turks use in their yoghurt cakes. In this way, you get the ultimate blend of both Greek and Turkish approaches to yoghurt cakes (as opposed to the Italian and Middle Eastern ones that also often use semolina, which I didn't think I had on hand, but I did - only I found out too late).

Greek Yoghurt Cake with Coffee and Brandy Syrup

For the cake:
1 cup Greek yoghurt
2 eggs
1 cup sugar
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/2 cup vegetable oil
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon icing sugar

1) Line and grease a 25cm/10" springform pan.
2) Preheat oven to 180 C/350 F.
3) Gently combine yoghurt, eggs, sugar, vanilla extract and vegetable oil in a bowl.
4) In a separate bowl, sift together the flour and baking powder.
5) Slowly add the dry ingredients to the wet, ensuring the batter is smooth.
6) Bake for 35-45 minutes, until a skewer or toothpick pierced into the centre of the cake comes out clean.
7) Allow the cake to rest for 10 minutes before taking it out of the pan and resting it on a plate.
8) While it is still warm, pierce the cake with a toothpick and pour the syrup over.
9) Once the syrup has seeped into the cake, dust the cake with icing sugar.

For the syrup:
(Closely adapted from Diana Henry's Crazy Water, Pickled Lemons: Enchanting Dishes from the Middle East, Mediterranean and North Africa)

1 cup (8 oz) espresso
1/2 cup raw sugar
2 tablespoons brandy

1) Boil the hot espresso and sugar together.
2) Reduce liquid by half.
3) Remove from heat and add brandy.
4) Allow to cool before pouring over the cake.

I appreciate that the top of the cake is not too much to look at, which is why the dusting of icing sugar is a good idea, but the flavours and texture are wonderful. This cake is dense but light-tasting at the same time. Your unintiated guests will wonder what the ingredients are, for the syrup is incredibly complex and the underscoring tang from the yoghurt makes for excitement on the palate.

Hummas

2008-02-10T10:48:00.000+13:00

Not to be confused with Hummus, Hummas is a Morrocan dish of chickpeas, turmeric and parsley (or coriander, or a mixture of both). I feel that I will be spending the next month or so informing myself of Moroccan cooking. The timing could not be better, for February is often a very warm and humid month in Auckland, and what mostly appeals to me about Moroccan food is that it is spicy but not terribly hot. This post also serves two purposes, as I not only try the combination of turmeric and parsley, but I also submit it to my good friend Susan's food event, My Legume Love Affair.

Chickpeas (also known as garbanzo beans) are grown all over the world, specifically in the Mediterranean, Western Asia and throughout India. I have made good use of them as the key protein in vegetarian curries, finding that they are ultra luxurious when coated with a thick sauce. Nutritionally, there are many benefits but most interesting is that fact that chickpeas are high in folate, which is a B vitamin necessary for creating serotonin (which makes us happy and assists in liver regeneration, amongst other things, and in this respect amongst other properties, chickpeas are also similar to spinach - no wonder I feel so good after eating both!).

In Moroccan cuisine, chickpeas are used in many a dish, most importantly Harira, a soup that is eaten to break the fasting day in the month of Ramadan. Chickpeas also feature in couscous recipes, which are probably the most familiar of Moroccan cuisine.

Turmeric is part of the ginger family, and its rhizomes are boiled and then dried in ovens before being ground into the marigold-coloured spice with which we are familiar. It is incredibly aromatic and has a mildly bitter, peppery flavour and smells like mustard. Often it is used as a colouring agent in food, but in this recipe, it not only imparts its gorgeous colouring, it also adds warmth and plays with the sweet onions and parsley, bringing out a somewhat unexpected character...

Turmeric is the only spice in this recipe, so the freshest you can find will be best. If you are going to use dried chickpeas, they first need to be soaked overnight (actually, for any recipe, you have to soak dried chickpeas in advance of preparing them). If you are using canned chickpeas, ensure that they are drained before use.

Hummas
(from Claudia Roden's The New Book of Middle Eastern Food)

2 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 large onion, chopped
3 cloves garlic, crushed
1/2 teaspoon turmeric
1 1/2 cups chickpeas (to be soaked overnight) or 600g/21oz of canned chickpeas
salt
pepper
1 cup parsley, chopped

1) In a large pan, heat oil and fry the onion.
2) Add garlic and stir.
3) Stir in the turmeric.
4) Add chickpeas and turn them in the onion.
5) Cover with water and simmer for 15-20 minutes if using drained chickpeas from a can. If using dried chickpeas that have been soaked then drained, simmer for 1 1/4 hours.
6) Add salt and pepper only after the chickpeas have begun to soften.
7) Add water to keep chickpeas covered, if necessary.
8) Once the chickpeas are tender, reduce the liquid until it becomes a thick sauce, approximately 20 minutes over a medium heat.
9) Stir in the parsley and cook for five more minutes.

Hummas is really what one eats when the fridge and pantry are bare, and in Morocco, it is considered a food of the poor that it is stretched by often being served with hot bread. Ms. Roden writes that this dish can be cooked using saffron instead of turmeric (and even though the two do not taste at all similar, they impart a golden colour); it can then be served as a first course. I was most surprised by the faint gingery notes because the spice smells more like mustard than it does ginger. It plays beautifully with the caramelised onions and fresh parsley, toning down the flavours of both with its warmth.

Professor's Chocolate Cake and Victoria Sponge with Ganache

2008-01-28T16:58:00.000+13:00

It is evident that I have to make a New Year's Resolution, even though we are already nearing the end of the new year's first month. You see, I have made a terrible mistake twice...and on the same day. I acted recklessly and baked cakes either by ignoring instructions or by not questioning them. Today's post is a lesson in rebellion and how wilful obliteration of time-honoured and tested principles will not yield light and fluffy cakes. Because you are infinitely more intelligent than I am, you will not do as I did and buck against your nature, which, for me, is to act with restraint and consideration - practically virtues in the world of baking.

The Resolution: just do as baking instructions say - no questions!

I wanted to surprise a beloved aunt with a birthday cake. I know, I'm terribly sweet. If only I could have lived out my day's goal of being nephew par excellence. I was in a bit of a tizz deciding what to bake...definitely something rich but also something unexpected. I am not really an online recipe-searcher, preferring instead to reach into my trove of cookery books and food magazines. I pulled out the magazines several days before the birthday celebration and got side-tracked re-reading articles and creating lists of restaurants to go to when I am next in the US. I decided looking through them was not a good idea and turned to the index of every cookery book I could get my hands on.

I chanced upon a previously unnoticed recipe for the Professor's Chocolate Cake in Beatrice Ojakangas' Scandinavian Feasts. Known as Professorin Suklaakakku in Finland and Professorns Chokladkaka in Sweden, Professor's Chocolate Cake is so-named because it is meant to appeal to "educated tastes." I suppose this comes from the density and gooey interior of the cake, different to traditional sponge-based cakes, which I turn to later in this post.

The first error rests with not clicking to the facts of the low amount of flour and the lack of baking powder. Somehow I had it in my mind that I would produce a generous-looking cake, overflowing with chocolate goodness - the properties of any respectful birthday cake. Alas, it was squat and more like a brownie than a cake. And this is how it was meant to turn out, I suppose. Perhaps directly translating it as a "cake" was a bit misleading, but I really should have thought about the ingredients and what they would produce before launching head-first (without brain) into it.

The Professor's Chocolate Cake (or Chocolate and Walnut Brownie)
(from Beatrice Ojakangas' Scandinavian Feasts)

180g/6oz 70% dark chocolate (recipe specifies semisweet)
170g/6oz unsalted butter
3/4 cup sugar
3 eggs, separated
1/3 cup all-purpose flour
3/4 chopped walnuts (filberts or pecans will also do)
1 tablespoon instant coffee
icing sugar, for garnish (optional)

1) Preheat oven to 180 C/350 F and prepare (butter and flour) a 23cm/9" springform cake pan.
2) In a small saucepan, melt chocolate, butter and sugar together, then set aside to cool.
3) In a stainless steel bowl, beat the egg whites until stiff (drier than soft peaks).
4) Stir egg yolks into the melted chocolate mixture.
5) Add flour, walnuts and coffee before folding in the egg whites.
6) Pour into the cake pan and bake for 35-40 minutes. This will be slightly gooey in the centre, so it will not completely pass the toothpick test, but you don't want the toothpick to come out all wet.
7) Once cooled, sift icing sugar over the "cake," if so desired.

In my mind I had concocted a gorgeous chocolate cake over which I was going to further celebrate with a ganache. You can imagine my surprise when a low-lying excuse of a cake came out of the oven. And after it had cooled down, it collapsed further. Bugger. Then the wheels turned and I realised I had been foolish to not look at the ratio of ingredients. Furthermore, the walnuts should have been more chopped, though not finely, for the "cake" did not easily cut into uniform wedges. If I had known that this would be a brownie, I would have been ecstatic with the result. The richness of the chocolate fills every mouthful; it is all things a brownie should be.

However, Professor's Chocolate Cake was not the birthday cake of my imagination, so, with some time still to spare, I set about baking something traditional: Victoria Sponge. These are the birthday cakes of my childhood. Soft, fluffy cakes with billowy cream and generous spoonfuls of delectable jam. I always preferred it to chocolate cake as a kid, a jam-connoisseur from way back. (Making jam is on my list of things "to do," but at the rate I'm going - disavowing conventional wisdom, the subject of this post - that should not happen until I have my sensible head back on again.)

A Victoria Sponge is a breeze to make providing you divide the batter into two pans, although Nigella Lawson does not say why this must be. This is no excuse, however, to put the batter into one pan. I have now been reminded that what happens with all cakes is that they collapse a bit as they cool down. Why this oft-witnessed act was effaced from memory at the time of my laziness, I do not know. I was acting as though I knew what I was doing, like I'd seen it all before. I also made a blunder with the flour, which is supposed to be self-rising flour. I just used all-purpose flour without adding 1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder and 1/2 tablespoon of salt per cup of all-purpose flour to create a likeness. Finally, it seems that the idea of dividing the batter is so that it can rise as high as is possible given the little placed into each pan. The objective is to create a fluffy-as-can-be sponge. Not a cake.

A ganache was made with semisweet chocolate, as I had envisioned it for the Professor's Chocolate Cake, when in hindsight it should have been made of dark chocolate in order to create a greater and richer contrast to the "sponge." Also, I played with the ganache too much when I should have just let it melt without my help. I should only have whisked it once it had cooled and set up a bit (per Linda Carucci). Nigella was a bit vague there, probably because she had made it a million times with great success, although mine looks like hers does in the photo for her Boston Cream Pie. I have seen ganache made a million times with great success but had not made it myself...All I had witnessed, again, went out the window as I merrily went on with my whisk-happy self. I think the reason for leaving the ganache alone is to prevent the appearance of little air pockets that will get trapped and create an effect resembling a chip in a windscreen...As you see below, I had many a chip in the glass screen of my ganache.

Victoria Sponge
(from Nigella Lawson's How to Be a Domestic Goddess)

125g/8oz unsalted butter, softened
3/4 cup sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
4 eggs
1 1/3 cups self-rising cake flour (see above note if you only have all-purpose), sifted
2 tablespoons cornflour
(1 teaspoon baking powder, do not add this if you are making this with a food processor)
3-4 tablespoons milk
4 heaped tablespoons of jam (I used black cherry jam)
1/2 cup cream/heavy cream

1) Preheat oven to 180 C/350 F and prepare two 20cm/8" cake pans (best done, in this case, with the aid of parchment or wax paper).
2) Cream the butter and sugar until pale and fluffy, then add the vanilla extract.
3) Add one egg at a time, but between each egg add one tablespoon of flour.
4) Fold in the remainder of the flour and the cornflour until fully incorporated.
5) Add as much milk as necessary to bind to a dropping consistency.
6) Pour into prepared cake pans and level with a butter knife or palette knife/offset spatula.
7) Bake for approximately 25 minutes, when the cakes should be pulling away from the edges. The sponge will pass the "toothpick/skewer test."
8) Turn out of pans after sponges have rested on a wire rack for about ten minutes, then leave them to cool completely.
9) Once cooled, put the jam on the top of one of the sponges.
10) Whip the heavy cream until voluptuous and billowy, then scrape it out on top of the jam.
11) Top with the other sponge. You can sprinkle sugar on top, if you so please, or make a ganache.

Ganache
(from Nigella Lawson's How to Be a Domestic Goddess)

1/2 cup cream/heavy cream
1 teaspooon vanilla extract
1 teaspoon unsalted butter
150g/5oz semisweet chocolate (Ms. Lawson actually recommends dark/bittersweet), chopped into little pieces

1) Warm all of the ingredients in a saucepan over low heat.
2) Bring to the boil (bubbling around the edges; the chocolate should have melted by this point), then remove from the heat.
3) Whisk until smooth and thick.
4) Leave to cool before spooning over the Victoria Sponge. Don't let it set entirely because you need to pour it over the cake, but once it has been spooned over the cake you can let it set properly.

As you can see, my sponge did not fluff up (for lack of a better expression). This is not as I had hoped, but all fault rests on my unbalanced shoulders, tipping too much under the weight of my fallibility. Though delicious (what could not be with such glorious ingredients...especially the divine French black cherry jam), I am not content and vow to you that I will not act without reservation again. There is something to be said about thought and consideration, especially when it comes to baking. You really cannot just do as you please unless you understand the principles behind the methods of preparation. If an author does not give all the information, don't do as I did and just make it up. Stop and do some cross-referencing, or follow the recipes exactly.

Lessons learned.

Fruit Tart à la française

2008-01-17T11:42:00.000+13:00

For a while now, I have considered making a delectable fruit tart for my 30th, like the ones seen in a French pâtisserie: pâte sucrée, crème pâtissière, loads of fruit and a fruity glaze. After my second apple martini last night (seeing out the 20s), I decided to make pâte sucrée. Nigella Lawson reckons it's a nightmare; Tamasin Day-Lewis makes it sound like a breeze. My proper baking bible, Martha Stewart's Baking Handbook, is in the US, and so for the details of this tart, I relied on Tamasin Day-Lewis' Tamasin's Kitchen Bible.

Waking up very early after the two martinis, I pulled the dough out of the fridge to come to a pliable temperature. When I thought that had been reached, I started rolling. The pastry crumbled and then proceeded to stick to everything. Knowing that one can patch a tart base together, I decided to construct an entire pastry shell out of a patchwork. Anticipating more shrinkage than usual, I crammed as much as I could into the 25cm/10" fluted shell and put it in the fridge for an hour (to also prevent further shrinking). It didn't matter. When I removed the beans part way through the blind baking process, I could see that seams had been created along the base, creating gaps. There was no way the pastry was going to expand and fill those in. Into the bin the half-cooked tart shell went.

So, what went wrong? Ms. Day-Lewis states that she uses egg yolks to bind the dry ingredients together (as opposed to iced water, which is used for shortcrust pastry). In the list of ingredients for her pâte sucrée, however, is the suggestion of a little cold water. What? The sand-like combination of flour, butter, icing sugar and vanilla seeds seemed to come together after mixing in the cold egg yolks. The addition of water seemed unnecessary, and Ms. Day-Lewis did not explain when one should use that little amount of cold water. When the pastry crumbled, though, I knew it was too dry.

I had another go at it, but this time without the luxury of really cold flour and eggs because I didn't expect to have to make the pastry again (and one would hope not given the amount of eggs and vanilla already used in the failed pâte sucrée as well as the crème pâtissière). I added perhaps one tablespoon of ice-cold water after binding the dry ingredients with egg yolks. The pastry was supple and not soggy. After resting it for an-hour-and-a-half, I left the pastry on the kitchen counter for 20 minutes and then rolled it out. It still tore a bit and was perhaps a little too wet to transfer from the rolling pin. I got around this by making a tri-fold, which I opened out over the 25cm/10" fluted tart shell. Once baked blind, there was a tiny split seam...Grrr...So, I figured, one has to compile this tart just before eating, for the custard will make the tart shell soggy anyway, and I just went with it...

Pâte Sucrée
(from Tamasin Day-Lewis' Tamasin's Kitchen Bible)

1 1/2 cups flour, sifted
110g/4 oz butter, cut into a dice
1 tablespoon icing sugar, sifted
seeds from 1 vanilla pod
2 egg yolks
1-2 tablespoons ice-cold water

1) Lightly with fingers rub the butter into the flour, sugar and vanilla seeds.
2) Once a sand-like texture is achieved, add the egg yolks. Mix together. If the dough is not coming together and or is not supple, add ice-cold water, mixing only one tablespoon at a time, for you might not need all of the water. Too much water will make a sticky dough.
3) Wrap in cling-film and refrigerate for at least one hour.
4) Pre-heat oven to 200 C/400 F.
5) Bring pastry out of fridge and allow it to come to a pliable texture, about 15-20 minutes.
6) On a lightly floured surface, roll the pastry out, keep turning it so it does not stick to your cold surface.
7) Set pastry into your tart shell, cover with parchment paper and baking beans.
8) Bake for 15 minutes.
9) Take out of the oven, remove beans and parchment paper. Prick the base of the shell with the tines of a fork. Put back in the oven until cooked through and golden, approximately 10 minutes.
10) Allow to cool before filling with crème pâtissière.

Crème Pâtissière
(from Tamasin Day-Lewis' Tamasin's Kitchen Bible)

340ml/12 fl. oz milk
150ml/5 fl. oz heavy cream
vanilla seeds from 1 vanilla pod
1 egg
3 egg yolks
75g/2 1/2oz caster sugar (vanilla sugar works here, too)
1/3 cup cornflour, sifted

1) Into a saucepan pour milk, cream, vanilla seeds and split vanilla pod. Bring to scalding point over a low heat.
2) Whisk together the egg, yolks and sugar until pale and creamy.
3) Add one-third of the cornflour to egg mixture and mix thoroughly, then do the same with the remaining two-thirds. Ensure that all lumps are worked out.
4) Remove vanilla pod from milk. If you want, you can rinse it then dry it before adding to your sugar container.
5) Pour one-third of the milk to the egg mixture and whisk well. Pour this into the rest of the milk in the saucepan and continue to whisk over a gentle heat. The cornstarch helps stop the custard from splitting, but you do not want to ever boil the mixture, so whisk, whisk, whisk.
6) Once thickened, pour into a bowl, cover and cool. Once cooled, this can be stored in the fridge for about three days.

A bit of a trial, really. I didn't bother with glazing the fruit as I had planned, for I could see the fruit sinking in the pastry cream. Great. I thought it looked quite solid, but I suppose I should have seen if a spoon could stand up in it as that would have been a better measurement of how much the crème pâtissière had set. And I can see why people avoid making pastry altogether. Perhaps with a little more experience I will create a perfect pâte sucrée, which I feel might also be eased by checking other recipes. I was afraid that the cream would break the dams of the pastry, but it didn't. I must say, though, that life would have been made simpler with a shortcrust pastry because the crème pâtissière is so strong in flavour that the pâte sucrée had no chance of standing up to it - but it did look lovely, in the truest sense of the word: simple, natural, sweet. In all, though, an incredibly tasty tart, if a messy one. I only hope that is not too indicative of my year of being 30.

Braised Lentils

2008-01-13T16:03:00.000+13:00

My angelheart Eric and I welcomed in last year with a very simple yet rich lunch of Alaskan Colossal Crab Legs and Eggs Benedict. It made a nice change to dashing around to attend this, that and the other breakfast-brunch-lunch and sipping mimosas (which along with Bloody Marys seem to be the favoured brunch drinks in Southern California). This year, I couldn't even tell you what I ate on New Year's Day. No, I wasn't hungover; I just wasn't in the mood to mark the occasion. I simply ate (maybe a bulgur wheat salad?) and saw the day through. Perhaps the funk rested in the apprehension of the year to come - so many changes, all of which are exciting and nerve-wracking. I have finally decided that it is time to officially accept that the new year has begun, so now I must embrace the changes to come and get on with the show.

I have decided to start with adapting an approach to dish design that I read about in Skye Gyngell's seasonal celebration, A Year In My Kitchen. She has created for her restaurant menu a series of culinary accents that she uses to complement and round out her dishes: a "Culinary Toolbox". The items sit like notes on a scale, from woody herbs at the low end, bright herbs at the top, to agra-dolce (the sweet-sour application in Italian cookery), which sits in the middle. On the low end of the scale also sit Skye Gyngell's staple of Braised Lentils.

Lentils are legumes that develop an earthy and rich flavour when cooked. Making lentils is a fitting way to start my posts for 2008, for many cultures use them as symbolic representations of the year they hope to come. Shaped like a coin, lentils suggest prosperity; circular, they are a symbol of new beginnings and good luck. The most known of new year's dishes is Italy's cotechino con lenticchie - pork sausage and lentils.

Before embarking on any lentil recipe, first tip the amount of lentils you are going to use for your dish onto a baking tray or other flat container. Thus in a single layer, it is easier for you to sort through the lentils for any small stones, fibres and discoloured or misshapen lentils. Place the lentils into a colander or sieve and run cold water through them. For braising, you will need whole lentils, so Puy (sometimes called "French lentils" in New Zealand) or Castelluccio are best - you need them to be cooked through but retain their bite. Red, brown or yellow split lentils will quickly turn mushy; consequently, they are used for soup dishes.

Braised Lentils
(largely adapted from Skye Gyngell's A Year In My Kitchen)

345g/12oz Puy lentils
1 onion, peeled and quartered
1 carrot, peeled and cut into three chunks
1 red chilli, left whole
3 small cloves of garlic, peeled and left whole (use 2 if the cloves are large)
2-3cm/0.7-1" fresh root ginger, peeled (made easy with a teaspoon) and left whole
5 sprigs of parsley
3 bay leaves, fresh
1 tablespoon red wine vinegar
1 1/2 tablespoons soy sauce
2 tablespoons sesame oil

1) Rinse lentils and place in a deep saucepan with all ingredients except the vinegar, tamari or soy and oil.
2) Add enough water to completely cover lentils and bring to the boil over a medium heat. Over too a high heat, the gentle flavourings of all the elements will not be encouraged to be extracted; instead they will be shocked.
3) Lower heat and simmer until lentils are cooked but still retain a bite, approximately 20 minutes.
4) Remove from heat, drain in a colander and tip lentils into a bowl.
5) While still warm, dress lentils with the vinegar, soy and oil.
6) Once cooled, the lentils can stored in an air-tight container in the fridge for up to one week. Bring them to room temperature before using.

The Braised Lentils are to be used when required. They can be scattered over a dish to lend depth and nuttiness when such elements are otherwise missing, or to complement other nutty elements of a different texture. You could also use the lentils as a base onto which you set the rest of the dish, as Skye Gyngell does with pan-roasted chicken supremes (breast with wing still attached), basil oil, slow-roasted tomatoes, topped with aioli.

There are other elements of Skye Gyngell's culinary toolbox, all are items which can be stored for a few days or up to one week. I think this is a good idea for the home cook, like myself, to "finish" or "dress" meals for the home cook. I'm excited to have tried this, and though I'm sure to tweak it further to serve as my own nutty and earthy low-note, the concept is inspiring. I wonder what other seasonal toolbox items I will create throughout the year to have on hand in the kitchen?

I thank Pille of Nami-Nami for recommending A Year In My Kitchen to me as a comforting and inspiring read during a particularly hard time of writing my thesis.

Aubergine with Mint

2007-12-31T14:43:00.000+13:00

One can always tell when it's Summer at my place - wherever it may be - because it is the time of year that I go mad for aubergines (eggplants) and plums. Their gorgeous purple skins sing to me, as do their plump bodies. Neither requires that much work to cook, but both react very differently to heat. Plums become juicier and more intense, whereas aubergines develop a smokiness. Earlier this year I escaped the chilly and tempestuous New Zealand Winter and spent Summer in the US, where I made a gorgeous Savoury Aubergine "Jam". It was perfect to have on toast, a light and flavourful lunch. Like many during Summer, my diet tends to be comprised of goodies that are quickly cooked - if cooking is at all necessary - because the oven's heat sends me overboard during times of heat and humidity.

Over time, I have come to really appreciate the flexibility of the aubergine. Its mallowy texture can take on many heavy sauces and dressings, whether they be of a base that is soy, sesame or olive oil, and they pair so well with the best of the hardy and hearty herbs: mint and oregano. Mint is too often maligned amongst my friends due to many a bad roast lamb served with overpowering mint sauce that has all too often come from a proprietor of ill-repute. With powerful dressings - especially those that contain garlic cloves instead of minced shallots - mint adds a coolness to the palate. There are myriad uses of this herb, and we only need to look to the Sicilians and Greeks for guidance and inspiration. I hope it makes its way into your salads this Summer as it is the herbal version of a tall glass of anything cold.

To prepare large aubergines, use a vegetable peeler to remove some of the skin in strips so that you are left with a zebra pattern; this is to remove some of the bitterness. To further extract bitterness, slice the aubergines in the desired manner, then layer in a colander with a dusting of salt. Put a small plate over the top layer and weight with a heavy item, such as a canned product from the pantry. After 30 mintues have elapsed, rinse the slices of aubergine and dry them thoroughly. Small aubergines should not necessitate this step before any cooking.

The following makes a great salad for one or two for lunch, or it can be incoporated as a side dish or into a mezze for four. I have very slightly adapted the ingredients to suit what I had at home. Original specifications are in parentheses.

Aubergine with Mint
(From Diana Henry's Crazy Water, Pickled Lemons)

2 aubergines (or 3, if medium-small)
olive oil
salt, pepper

For the dressing:
1 teaspoon vermouth (white wine vinegar)
1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar
2 garlic cloves, minced (crushed)
1 teaspoon white sugar, superfine
50ml/2 fl. oz extra virgin olive oil
a handful of mint, torn

1) Cut tops and bottoms off the aubergines. You can slice them length-ways or across, as I did. Slices should measure approximately 1 cm/ 1/4".
2) Brush the aubergine slices with olive oil and season on both sides with salt and pepper.
3) You can either put a frying pan or griddle on until very hot, grill on both sides and then turn heat down to cook through. I find this quite laborious as I actually hate having to get out more than one pan when a dish has so few ingredients. So, I lay the slices on a baking tray covered in foil and grilled on both sides. Once grilled, move to middle rack and turn oven on to 180 C/375F until cooked through, approximately 5-6 minutes.
4) Whisk all the dressing together except for the mint.
5) Put aubergines on a serving platter and dress immediately so the aubergine can absorb the dressing. Drop in the torn mint leaves.
6) Leave to soak for a couple of hours and serve at room temperature.

Mint is a herb that is best added at the end of any dish in order to retain its zing, which rings through the smoky aubergine - a perfect match, satisfying in a way that leaves your stomach full and your palate pleased. The dressing is perfectly Sicilian, both sweet and sour. This was lunch for me, but that is because I'm a glutton for aubergine - I would have been happy to share it. Though not the prettiest salad in the world, it packs a punch without a lot of effort. All you need is a few simple ingredients...and, as you know by now, one should always have aubergine on hand over the Summer when it is at its most plentiful. A great way to enjoy the last sweltering afternoon of the year.

Challah

2007-12-21T18:11:00.000+13:00

The breaking of bread marks the beginning of many traditional meals. Though one is oft laden with back-breaking stress at this time of year, we sometimes lose sight of the simple fact that traditional meals mark occasions. The one that we - as in, the human race - commonly share is that of the New Year (though it occurs at different times depending on the calendar one follows), but within cultural divisions, there are celebrations of puberty rites, Chanukah, Christmas, Kwanzaa, Eid, engagements...What about theses? Though I do not intend to make a tradition out of writing academic documents, I do intend to mark this singular occasion with the breaking of bread: challah (or challot in this case, for I made three loaves).

Challah is a bread that I truly love but have not had for a while as it does not seem to be sold in New Zealand bakeries, presumably on account of the small Jewish representation in the Kiwi population. Technically, challah refers to a "portion" of bread that is to be kept aside to represent the manna that aided the Israelites during 40 years after the Exodus from Egypt. It is a payment of tithe (tax levy) to the kohen (Jewish priesthood). Actually, there are debates within Judaism about the contemporary legitimacy of tithe, so I am going to quit while I'm ahead, for the purpose of mentioning it in the first place was only to refer to the origins of naming the bread.

Challah is probably as recognisable as baguette, for its most common formation is in a three-strand braid. It looks lovely when it has been executed well. As you can see from my "effort," I need to make a few more loaves in order to perfect the technique of braiding. Let's blame it on post-thesis trauma that I could not remember how to braid. In case you have forgotten, line up your three strands and pinch them together at the top. Pull the left strand over the centre strand, then the right one over the centre strand (which is now the left strand that was pulled over) and repeat.

There seems to be a proliferation of food bloggers' attempts at recipes from Jeffrey Alford and Naomi Duguid's Home Baking: The Artful Mix of Flour and Traditions from Around the World. I also have this interesting book and have decided to take my first directions for making challah from it. The recipe yields three loaves. Do not be concerned if you do not use all of the flour, for you might not need all 2 1/2 cups suggested for the kneading process (a lot is called for as it is quite sticky), but absorption depends on the age of your flour and on the weather conditions prevailing on the day you make challah.

Challah
(from Jeffrey Alford and Naomi Duguid's Home Baking: The Artful Mix of Flour and Traditions from Around the World)

2 teaspoons active dry yeast
2 1/2 cups lukewarm water
5 1/2 to 7 cups all-purpose flour
3 eggs
1/2 cup sugar
1 tablespoon salt
1/3 to 1/2 cup mild vegetable oil
egg wash (1 egg beaten with 1 tablespoon water)

1) In a large bowl, stir yeast into the warm water until dissolved.
2) Stir in two cups of the flour until a smooth batter has been formed.
3) Cover with cling-film and let rest at room temperature for 2 hours, by which time the batter should be frothy.
4) Stir eggs, sugar, salt and oil into the batter.
5) Stir in 2 1/2 cups of flour in 1/2 cup increments. Ensure smoothness after each addition.
6) Add an additional 1/2 cup of flour, which is to be folded in. There is no explanation as to why it is folded instead of stirred in until smooth, but I suspect this is to aid in making it a little less sticky when it is first tumbled out for kneading.
7) Sprinkle flour on a cold surface and knead the bread, which is to say that you fold the dough over on itself, flatten it, then repeat. This creates a firm yet elastic texture that aids the dough in rising. You will need to add sprinklings of flour to your hands, the dough and the surface during this process, until you have a very smooth dough.
8) Place dough in a well-oiled bowl and cover with cling-film. Leave for 6 hours or overnight. The authors don't tell you what to expect when you come back after leaving the dough overnight. You can imagine my fright when I saw what is pictured on your left. I guess enough carbon dioxide was given off by the yeast over night. This was a very active dough indeed. I decided not to throw it out in despair and was surprised at how well the dough pulled together when I gathered it into a ball before putting it on a lightly floured surface.
9) Divide the ball into three equal portions.
10) Take one portion of dough and divide it into three parts. Roll each of these three parts out to form strands, approximately 46cm/20" long, tapering at both ends.
11) Pinch together at top end and braid per instructions above. Tuck ends underneath.
12) Place bread on a baking sheet and cover with cling-film.
13) Repeat with the other two portions of dough.
14) Let the loaves of bread rise for 45 minutes to one hour.
15) Preheat oven to 190 C/375 F.
16) Just before baking, brush egg wash on the loaves.
17) Place bread on lower third rack in the oven and bake for 15 minutes.
18) Brush egg wash on the loaves again, and turn oven down to 177 C/350 F.
19) Bake for a further 20-25 mintues. The loaves should sound hollow when rapped.
20) Place loaves on a rack and let cool for approximately 20 minutes before slicing.

This is a slightly sweet bread, especially the crust. I found that the inner layers still had a bit of a tang, but I suspect my yeast was overactive, which you can see in the little bumps that formed on the crust in the photo that introduces this post. I love seeing the tension in the crust; it makes the bread look like strands of rope. The texture of the interior is incredibly light and fluffy. It reminds me of French pastry in the way the layers separate like leaves of paper.

I enjoyed breaking from the thesis with challah. I froze two loaves once they had completely cooled...the other one was gone in no time.

Student Food: Coffee, Eggs and Books

2007-12-02T15:07:00.000+13:00

I know it is such a cliché to consume copious amounts of coffee, but what can I say? While it is not necessarily good for one's blood pressure, coffee is mood-enhancing; I, for one, am relaxed in pose and steely-eyed in my concentration after drinking a cupful, and these effects are absolutely necessary when one is hunched over a desk all day at the computer or scribbling on one piece of coffee-ringed paper after another. Truth be known, I don't usually have but two cups per day, but they are loaded by the strength of the coffee - utterly dependent on the type of roast and quality of roasted beans - and the coffee machine itself.

My angelheart Eric is enjoying sole custody of our faithful espresso machine. Since moving back to New Zealand, I have purchased a moka pot, which is the closest fake-espresso one can have at home because it is also functions by creating steam to activate the water that funnels upwards towards to beans, extracting a very strong brew (not to be confused with percolators, in which boiled water seeps downwards through coffee grounds). I am happy with it; in fact, I am in love with it. If it wasn't for this invention, I would probably not be able to work from home but would have to work in the city, where good cafés abound. This is an important consideration for most students, I venture.

One of the main reasons I have not posted of late is because my diet has not greatly varied these past couple of weeks. Lunches consist of a sandwich of some description and fruit; dinner is whatever my parents put on. Occasionally I make linguine with garlic oil and peperoncino. Although I seriously miss taking my time in the kitchen to explore, it is time I cannot afford. On the days that my tastebuds get depressed at the notion of yet another sandwich (no matter how delicious I make them with fresh bread), I turn to my protein superfood: eggs.

From the days of 5th form and 7th form year-end examinations in high school, I make sure to have eggs when I need to be mentally alert. The effects this has seems to wear off if I follow it for too many consecutive days; however, I have learned to harness the power of the mighty egg and ensure that I consume them for lunch at least twice a week. The mental clarity gained is impressive.

Elizabeth David's French Provincial Cooking is my book to go to for recipes on eggs. There is a so much variation in the provinces of France on ways to prepare fried eggs, poached eggs, hard boiled eggs, omelettes, soufflés, tarts...I find never-ending satisfaction from these pages. Ms. David does remark that in most cases, people are very particular about how they prepare their eggs. I clarify that this is not because people are always picky and difficult but that, in most cases, egg dishes feature eggs as the star and if they are not prepared to one's liking, then the entire dish is ruined.

I confess that I generally prefer poached eggs to fried eggs, but every now and then I do crave the combination of nutty butter and tart vinegar, a combination that defines Oeufs Frits au Beurre Noir. I do not prefer my yolks to be set too hard, but this is a call that you can make. Ms. David doesn't specify the vinegar to be used for this quick dish. I have tried the following vinegars for this recipe: tarragon, white wine, and red wine. The latter is my favourite on rainy days, providing both a savoury fruit and tart bite; tarragon vinegar is better on other days. I have yet to try it with champagne vinegar. This very simple recipe provides enough for one in a hurry.

Oeufs Frits au Beurre Noir
(from Elizabeth David's French Provincial Cooking)

1 3/4 tablespoons butter, divided use
2 eggs
salt
pepper
1 tablespoon red wine vinegar (see note above)

1) Set oven to low and place inside a heat-safe serving dish.
2) Melt one tablespoon butter (or light, frying oil) over medium heat.
3) Into a plate with sloping sides, crack one egg.
4) Sprinkle egg with salt and pepper.
5) When butter has melted, gently slide in the egg so that the yolk does not break.
6) Tilt the frying pan so that the butter completely surrounds the egg.
7) Cover and fry gently until just before done to your preference. They should cook a little further while hanging out in the oven.
8) In the meantime, crack the other egg into the plate and sprinkle with salt and pepper.
9) Transfer done egg to the waiting warm serving dish and get on with frying the other egg.
10) When both eggs are done, clean the frying pan, then add remaining 3/4-tablespoon of butter. When it is foaming and gently transforming colour, pour over the fried eggs, which are staying warm in the oven.
11) Pour the vinegar into the frying pan and let it boil. Pour over the eggs and pool of nutty butter. Serve immediately.

Of course, when it all gets a bit much and a break is needed instead of food, there is another sort of food: that contained in the pages of my cookery book collection. Currently at my side are the latest offerings by Diana Henry, Cook Simple: Effortless Cooking Every Day, and Simon Hopkinson, Week In Week Out: 52 Seasonal Stories, the first by Australian chef Skye Gyngell, A Year in My Kitchen, and the Elizabeth David stalwart French Provincial Cooking. Each one is uniquely comforting, but full of insight and imagination.

Bear with me. There are only two more weeks to go, and then I will be free of the ball and chain that is my beloved thesis.

Pear Crisp

2007-11-23T09:50:00.000+13:00

It is Thanksgiving in the United States of America, my second home. My angelheart Eric returned to LA yesterday after a heavenly 8-day sojourn in New Zealand, which was far too short. Although terribly depressed, as anyone is when apart from his or her most loved one, I am thankful that he was able to come over and spend some time with me, for it may not be months now until we next see each other.

As is typical in a state of sadness, I felt the need to bake. I also wanted to contribute something to the Thanksgiving table. Of course, we don't have cans of pumpkin purée lining our supermarket shelves in New Zealand - at least, not typically - and butternut squash is not in season, so I couldn't make any purée for myself. I headed to the market for other American favourites in the Autumn: pears and pecan nuts.

I first had pecans by way of the infamous Southern delight: pecan pie. Pandoro Panetteria in Parnell (on the inner-city fringe of Auckland) used to make a nutty and sweet pecan pie. I adored its custard filling made with both brown and white sugar. I say this in past tense because I haven't had one for years and don't know if they still make it. I should stop by. It is criminal that I never had one in all of my years (and Thanksgivings) in the USA - or, at least, I didn't have one that I remember.

I do like pecans a great deal, though. I love their oval shape and the ridges cracked into their maple-to-deep brown skin. Pecans are rich in flavour, particularly of butter, which is perfectly heightened with any recipe that involves melted or brown butter. Storing them isn't terribly difficult. According to the National Center for Home Food Preservation, shelled pecans should be refrigerated or frozen. They need to be kept away from air and light as they have a high oil content; exposure to heat will quickly make the pecan's natural oil go rancid.

Thanksgiving is a time of year that is associated with all things richly hued. This is the season in which I never seem to tire of the clichés that are presented in store fronts or on magazine covers, where everything is brown, orange and burnt red. Deep in a sepia haze, one can be forgiven for wondering what it's like to see "normal" again. Of course, I don't find it suffocating or overwhelming because I don't have the cultural associations that go along with it, whether it be dealing with the emotions caused by family hysteria or by a post-colonial reality. But bring it on: roasted squash, braised mustard greens, carrot puree, fennel gratin, roast turkey (first brined then stuffed with citrus), toffee apples, maple ice cream, brown butter sauce, dark cups of coffee, pumpkin pie, and, of course, all the nuts of the fall: hazelnuts, chestnuts, and pecans...

Pear Crisp
(Adapted from the Brown-Sugar Apple Cake recipe in Martha Stewart Living, October 2006)

95 1/2g (3 1/3oz) butter, melted
2 medium pears (I used Bosc), approximately 2/3 kg (1 1/2lb)
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1 tablespoon granulated sugar
2/3 cup brown sugar, any colour depending on desired depth of flavour
2/3 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 egg, lightly beaten
2/3 cup pecans, toasted and coarsely chopped

1) Preheat oven to 180 C (350 F).
2) Butter a loaf pan. Mine measures 22 x 13cm (8 1/2 x 5").
3) Peel, core and cut pears into 1cm (> 1/3" but < 1/2") slices. You can dice them, if you prefer a neater presentation when the crisp is inverted after the initial cooling period once baked.
4) Add sliced pears to a medium bowl and toss them with the cinnamon, nutmeg and granulated sugar.
5) Spread the spicy pear slices on the bottom of the loaf pan.
6) In a large bowl, whisk together the brown sugar, flour and salt.
7) Add the egg and butter and whisk until just combined.
8) Stir in the pecans.
9) Pour batter over the spicy pear slices.
10) Bake until the top is a maple brown and a skewer comes out clean, approximately 35 minutes. I checked after 25 minutes and poured out any excess butter that was bubbling on top.
11) Let cool slightly on a rack.
12) Use a knife around the edges of the loaf pan to loosen and invert.
13) Cut into squares or cut across into slices.

The base is chewy and redolent of the butteriness imparted by the pecans, the toasted pieces of which full each mouthful with warmth. The soft slices of pear are spicy in the most comforting of ways - What would Thanksgiving be without spices?

To my angelheart Eric and all my wonderful American friends:
Happy Thanksgiving!

Dense Chocolate Cake

2007-11-08T13:05:00.000+13:00

I thought that I was like most people, which is to say: I thought that I was a chocolate-lover. This year has taught me that I don't especially care for it in all forms, mostly because I don't think it is always accented enough. My angelheart Eric will tell you that I scoff chocolate biscuits (cookies) if they're around, and he'd be right. But that is only because they are in the pantry, from which I have taken many a biscuit. It's not a chocolate addiction, but a habit of snacking when I need a break from trying to read and write my thesis.

In its least overworked form, which is to say melted with cream and formed into a truffle, chocolate can satisfy me. But I think that my favourite use of chocolate is in a cake or pudding. I love it to be rich in chocolate goodness and never diluted of flavour. Too many flavourings are a bad thing in my books when it comes to cooking with chocolate - and though I am sad to say it, I don't often go in for fancy truffles that incoporate every ingredient under the sun (I might however be attempted to try some of Vosges' delights, following the review by Garrett of Vanilla Garlic). I find that even a small amount of freshly ground coffee heightens the flavour of the chocolate. And I am a sucker for pairing brandy with chocolate. (I'm sure, by now, you have seen that brandy is my preferred plonk with which to bake and cook.)

You can melt chocolate on a stovetop or in a microwave. If you are going to use your stovetop, a double-boiler will need to be constructed out of a saucepan and a non-reactive bowl. Bring water in the saucepan to a boil then turn down to simmer. Place a bowl over the saucepan, into which is placed the chocolate. The bottom of the bowl should never touch the water. Chocolate melts at 30 C/95 F but burns, splits and cannot be used if it reaches or surpasses a temperature of 50 C/120 F.

Dense Chocolate Cake
(Adapted from Nigella Lawson's How To Be A Domestic Goddess)

225g/1 cup unsalted butter, softened
1 2/3 cups brown sugar
2 large eggs, beaten
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
120g bittersweet (70%) chocolate, melted
1 tablespoon coffee, freshly ground
1 1/3 cup all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon bicarbonate of soda
1 cup boiling water
1 tablespoon brandy

1) Preheat oven to 190 C/375 F.
2) Butter and line your baking vessel. A 23 x 13cm/9 x 5" loaf pan is ideal. I used a 24cm/9" springform cake pan. I have one loaf pan, which is half the dimensions, and I didn't not want to halve the recipe for fear of seeming miserly. I couldn't think quickly enough as to what I would do with the remainder of the batter, save for eating it (I'm not above eating raw egg and flour - goodness only knows how often I ate the biscuit dough when mum wasn't looking), hence the springform pan. Place baking vessel on a lined baking sheet in case there is a bit of spillage.
3) Cream the butter and sugar until fluffy.
4) Beat eggs in well.
5) Fold in the melted and slightly cooled chocolate until blended, but do not overbeat because there is still more folding to come.
6) Combine coffee, flour and bicarbonate of soda.
7) Add flour and bicarb mix by the spoonful to the chocolate mix alternately with a spoonful of boiling water. This takes a while to do, folding with each addition, but it only requires patience, not technical prowess.
8) Stir in the brandy.
9) The batter will have the appearance of swamp mud - that is to say, it will look quite liquid.
10) Pour into prepared baking vessel.
11) Bake for 30 minutes, then turn the temperature down to 163 C/325 F to bake for a further 15 minutes.
12) The loaf will not pass a skewer test, for it is meant to be quite damp in the centre, but the outside should look done.
13) Cool completely on a rack before opening the springform pan or turning it out, if in a loaf pan.

If using a loaf pan, the cake will sink in the middle because it is damp in the centre. The photo to the left should give you an indication of that. However, the top is fairly crisp, adding a textural contrast to the interior. As much as I love brandy, any more would have been overkill; one tablespoon is enough for the cake to be slightly boozy, making it acceptable to eat before cocktail hour.

Arancini

2007-10-30T20:02:00.000+13:00

Leftovers are a lifesaver for a cook who is short on time. They get you out of a bind in a jiffy, most of the work having already been done. My angelheart Eric and I often cook more than we need so that there is something for lunch or the beginnings of the following night's dinner. I often turn leftover roasted vegetables into soup with the addition of chicken or vegetable stock, but that is as far as I usually go in order to revamp. The Italians, on the other hand, are adept at refining leftovers. They are renowned for their recipes that incorporate leftovers, creating entirely different and delicious dishes out of them. The current infatutuation with la cucina povera is testament to this.

Arancini does not pass for dinner in Sicily, but it suffices as a snack or as part of a lunch. I do not typically have leftover risotto but everyone had already eaten when I cooked up Beetroot Risotto two days ago - and I ate as much as I could! To feed more, of course you would need more than my measly cup of leftovers, but I wasn't going to waste it.

I didn't go whole hog either, for there was not enough leftovers to merit going to the effort of deep-frying, which though faster than what I did, requires waiting around time for a vat of oil to reach the required temperature (around 190 C/375 F). If you want proper arancini, which is to say a "little orange", then deep-frying is the only way to achieve a ball of golden crust that completely encases the balls of risotto and cheese.

The following recipe makes 4 arancini, enough for 2 as a snack or 1 for lunch.

Arancini

1 cup leftover risotto (I had Beetroot Risotto, the recipe for which is here)
1 egg
3/4 cup breadcrumbs, divided use
1 tablespoon parsley, chopped, divided use
1/4 cup grated cheddar (feel free to be more traditional and cube mozzarella)
Red bran oil (or substitute with your frying fave: canola, olive or vegetable oil)
salt

1) Heat enough oil to come half-way up the balls of risotto, approximately 3cm/1.2".
2) Mix together the risotto, egg, 1/2 cup of breadcrumbs and 1 teaspoon parsley in a bowl.
3) Combine the remaining breadcrumbs and parsley on a flat plat and reserve. The balls will be rolled in this mixture before frying.
4) Use two tablespoons or the risotto mix per ball. Flatten out in the palm of your hand and sprinkle some grated cheese in the centre (or a cube of mozzarella). Close the risotto mix around the cheese.
5) Toss the ball from one hand to the next, gently forming a squat ball - a rounder meat patty.
6) Roll the balls in the breadcrumbs.
7) Fry until browned and heated through, approximately 4 mintues.
8) Drain on a paper towel and sprinkle with salt.
9) Serve after 2 minutes or else they will be too hot to eat.

This is a beautifully simple recipe to follow, and the result is rather incredible! It was good to use a relatively adventurous risotto, which has a bold flavour of sweet and savoury components. This complexity in initial flavour allows for more play with the crispy exterior - and more interesting bites, too! The cheese was gooey in the centre, as it should be. Each bite was sheer perfection. I'm beginning to think it isn't such a bad idea to make risotto for the purpose of making arancini. If that is not a sign of the genius of Italian cookery, turning leftovers into taste sensations, then I don't know what is.

Beetroot Risotto

2007-10-28T21:54:00.000+13:00

For the longest time I had an aversion to beetroot (beets). My knowledge extended to canned, pickled fuschia slices in vinegar. They are ubiquitous in this form in New Zealand and Australia, where they are put into Summer salads and hamburgers. The stench from the cans still prompt a gagging response that used to urge me towards the nearest chunder vessel. Of course, my parents have always thought they were lovely, as many people do. And why wouldn't they? After all, they are products of housewives cooking post-WWII, which brought the "convenience" of mass preparation and production.

Though wars continue to be fought at different levels of intensity, and some more systemic than others, there is no need in New Zealand to still be paying homage to the canned, pickled beetroot. One can pickle them at home and preserve them in a manner that would not result in a malty waft whenever accessed. In a world that is trying to remember fresh fruit and vegetables, I have been largely re-educated on the beauty of the sweet, earthy beetroot.

One of my favourite applications of beetroot is in salad. It is roasted, peeled and grated, and finally served with grated apple and horseradish. There is an affinity between beetroot and horseradish, for they are both earthy, but the beetroot is sweet and the horseradish is hot/peppery. I first had beetroot risotto at Celestino's, an Italian restaurant in Pasadena, where the food is fresh, including the pasta, and the service is attentive and cheerful. I enjoy the savoury elements of their soffrito, which is given a mild zing with the addition of the beetroot. I have wolfed it down several times, at different restaurants, actually, and none has been better than the one at Celestino's, where the earthiness is never lost.

Because of their longevity when stored correctly, beetroot, like many root vegetables and some fruit (apples, particularly), give the impression of being harvested year-round. Their seasons are typically Autumn-Winter, making them the perfect, bright-coloured foil to dim, grey skies. Beetroot can be kept in the fridge or in a dark space, like a lined drawer designated for fruit and vegetables, as my angelheart Eric and I did when we lived together in Los Angeles. Choose beetroot that is hard and that has bright leaves. Tender, young leaves can be tossed into a salad; large leaves can be sauteed and served as a vegetable side.

Finally I have made beetroot risotto at home. My angelheart Eric is still in Southern California, where it is now Autumn. Missing him and our nights out on the town, I have turned to the beetroot, which, as noted above, I can get year-round. This risotto may not be as perfect as Celestino's, but memories were triggered when I ate it, which is what I needed. More than anything Winter Skies, Kitchen Aglow seeks to comfort.

This recipe serves two for primi. There are two main sets of ingredients and methods: one for pickling the beetroot, and another for the preparation of the risotto. Keep hot water on the side in case you need more liquid for the risotto.

Beetroot Risotto
(Closely following Diane Forley and Catherine Young's The Anatomy of a Dish)

For the pickled beetroot:

2 medium beetroot
1/3 cup dry red wine
1/3 cup red wine vinegar
1/4 cup sugar
1/3 medium onion, diced
1 bay leaf
1 sprig thyme
1 teaspoon black peppercorns
1 clove
1/5 cup water

1) Preheat the oven to 200 C/400 F.
2) Clean the beetroot and lop the tops off. Leave the roots intact, otherwise the beets will bleed.
3) Wrap beetroot individually in foil.
4) Roast for 50 minutes to one hour until beets are easily pierced with a fork.
5) Once cooled, peel, remove the roots, and dice.
6) In a saucepan, place the diced beets and the rest of the ingredients. Bring to a simmer over medium heat. Stir.
7) Reduce to low and cook until beetroot is very tender, approximately 15 minutes.
8) Strain beets. Reserve the liquid and beets separately. Discard the rest.

For the risotto:

1 tablespoon olive oil
2/3 medium onion, peeled and diced
1 tablespoon thyme
Kosher salt
Black pepper, freshly ground
Juice of 1/2 lemon
1/3 cup vermouth (or dry white wine)
2/3 cup arborio rice
1 1/3 cups chicken stock
1 teaspoon butter, unsalted
1/3 cup of liquid from pickled beets
Beets, as roasted, diced and pickled above

1) Heat olive oil in a large, deep pan/skillet over medium to low heat.
2) Add onion, thyme and season with salt and pepper. Stir occasionally until the vegetables begin to soften.
3) Add lemon juice and vermouth. Cook, stirring occasionally until the pan is almost dry and the vegetables are tender.
4) Add rice, season with more salt and pepper. Stir to coat rice with oil.
5) Add 1/3 cup chicken stock and simmer, stirring often with a wooden spoon.
6) When most of the liquid has been absorbed, add another 1/3 cup chicken stock. Stir until it looks like it is going to stick to the pan. Keen adding chicken stock by 1/3 cup and stir. If you run out of chicken stock and the rice is not yet tender, this is when you need to start using the hot water.
7) Once almost tender, add 1/3 cup of liquid from pickled beets. Stir in and keep stirring until the liquid looks slightly syrupy.
8) Ideally, you want the rice to still have a bite but not hard as a ball in the centre. It should yield easily when you chomp.
9) Stir in the butter and remove from the heat.
10) Gently stir in as many of the diced, pickled beets as you desire and serve immediately.

The colour is a bit of a shock, but it is au naturel and a large part of the charm of beetroot. This intense yet cheerful purply-crimson is enough to brighten any dreary day.

The creaminess of the risotto is not too rich as it is buoyed by the mildly spiced beetroot. The butter adds further richness without being too much. You may want to add a tangy or nutty cheese to add further dimension, but it is perfectly good as it is.

This post is being submitted to the glowing and generous Pille of Nami-Nami, who is hosting the 106th edition of Kalyn's Kitchen Weekend Herb Blogging.

Post script Please visit the round-up for this event, as posted on the glowing and generous Pille's food blog, Nami-Nami.

Mesclun and Lamb Salad

2007-10-21T10:23:00.000+13:00

Designer leaves - those pre-washed and packaged salad greens - do come in handy. But if you're a committed Green, and occasionally my inner-Clean, Green Kiwi kicks in, those plastic bags are a waste and an unnecessary pollutant, especially since they only contain greens you can obtain yourself. And if you haven't got time to wash salad leaves yourself, then what have you got time for?

Of all the designer leaves, my favourite mix is Mesclun (called Spring Mix in the US), which contains leafy baby greens. There is an amazing range of textures and flavours contained therein, and you can probably find most of them at your local farmers' market.

To create your own Mesclun mix, ensure that the greens are young; this way all the leaves are very tender. In addition to different tastes, each subspecies should have a different character in order to provide textural and visual interest. It is best to get a combination of the bitter with the sour and the buttery to make for a more complex salad.

The following are common in Mesclun mixes:

* Radicchio - Sometimes known as Italian Chicory or Treviso, it has a thick red leaf that is bitter and spicy.
* Rocket - Also known as Arugula, this is a favourite for its pepperiness.
* Mizuna - a mustard green that tastes like dandelion, this leaf has gorgeous jagged edges and is slightly less bitter than radicchio.
* Frisée - From this endive family, this frizzy leaf is the palest of greens and is creamy yet bitter in taste and is slightly crunchy in texture.
* Mâche - Also known as Lamb's Lettuce, this has a long green leaf with a sweet taste (the older the leaf the more intense the bitterness).
* Sorrel - A long wavy leaf with a sour taste.
* Silverbeet - Also known as Swiss Chard, this is a leathery, dark green leaf that has a mild bitter taste.
* Spinach - In its baby form, it is tender but with a slight bite.
* Red Beet - The heart-shaped leaves of the beetroot (or beet) taste like spinach and add a gorgeous deep-red to your salad palate.
* Pea Tendrils - From the snow pea plant, the graceful tendrils add crispness and taste like peas, as you would expect.
* Bibb - Or Boston Lettuce, this baby leaf is spade-shaped and has a buttery texture.

Of course, I cannot leave well alone and just have a salad of leaves, though I do not hold it against those that choose to do so. I love meat in my salads, whether it be duck, beef or lamb. Today I chose lamb chops from the middle loin. The meat is not fatty, which makes it a perfect meat for quick grilling. But I chose a chop because I had something specific in mind for the outer layer of fat.

This salad can serve two or four, depending on the course.

Mesclun and Lamb Salad

For the marinade:
1 tablespoon sumac
1 tablespoon olive oil
1/2 tablespoon balsamic vinegar
salt
pepper

4 middle loin lamb chops, approximately 1/3kg or 3/4lb total weight

For the salad dressing:
1/2 tablespoon vermouth (or white wine vinegar)
1/2 tablespoon clover honey (or any sweet, runny honey)
1/8 teaspoon kosher salt
1/8 teaspoon black pepper, freshly ground
3/4 tablespoon sumac
1 1/2 - 2 tablespoons olive oil

60g/2oz Mesclun salad mix, your own or store bought

3/4 tablespoon olive oil, plus 1 teaspoon if required
4 slices of ciabatta bread
1 tablespoon parsley, chopped

1) Mix the marinade ingredients together in a shallow bowl.
2) Put the lamb chops into the same bowl. Turn over and rub in the marinade to ensure complete coverage. Leave at room temperature, covered, for at least 30 minutes. If for more than an hour or if it is an especially hot day, leave covered in the refrigerator. Bring meat to room temperature before grilling, though.
3) In a large bowl, mix the salad dressing ingredients together except for the olive oil. Trickle olive oil in last, stirring with a fork or small whisk to emulsify. Taste for additional seasoning or whether you want it more astringent (more vermouth) or sweeter (more honey). If you do not have sumac, substitute with the juice of half a lemon and use less vermouth.
4) Put your Mesclun leaves on top of the dressing, but don't toss them in the dressing until you are ready to serve the salad.
5) Put a heavy-bottomed frying pan/skillet on over high heat. Add 3/4 tablespoon of olive oil.
6) Give the chops a quick shake over the bowl in which they have been marinading to release excess liquid. Put into the frying pan when the oil begins to smoke.
7) Depending on how you prefer your lamb chops done, allow 3-7 minutes per side. Before removing from the pan, roll the in the pan to get it slightly crispy and to render some of the fat. Remove from the pan and allow to rest. Do not freak out if they look burned; it should only be darker than expected on account of the sumac.
8) Turn the heat down to medium-high. Check liquid to see if more is required; if so, add 1 teaspoon of olive oil. Put the slices of ciabatta in the pan to soak up the lamb fat and olive oil. You want a light toasting, so only 1-2 minutes per side should suffice.
9) Toss the salad.
10) To assemble the salad: Place the slices of ciabatta on the plate, add a light layer of mesclun leaves, followed by the lamb chops. Top with a bulkier layer of mesclun leaves and scatter with parsley.

I love the smoky, citrus elements of sumac, which marries so well with lamb, with its gamy intensity. As for the ciabatta, not only does it add a toasty crunch to every bite, but combined with the lamb fat it has absorbed will make your eyes roll with pleasure.

The salad world has come a long way from those consisting solely of the ubiquitous iceberg lettuce. Give Mesclun a shot. It will make any side salad infintely interesting, or it can be incorporated into a more substantial salad, like this one, adding an element of sophistication.

This post is being submitted to the inimitable Susan of The Well-Seasoned Cook, who is hosting the 105th edition of Kalyn's Kitchen Weekend Herb Blogging, a food blog event that has just gone into its third year.

Post script Please take the time to visit the round-up of this event, as poetically compiled by Susan at The Well-Seasoned Cook.

Fragrant Rice

2007-10-17T21:30:00.001+13:00

Do you have days when you know exactly what you want to eat but almost scoff at the craving because it is ludicrously simple to access? No? Just me, then. Well, I am going to talk your ears off anyway.

All I have wanted for the past week is spinach quickly sautéed in olive oil with garlic and a rice pilaf cooked in chicken broth. I meant to ask mum to get the ingredients when she did the shopping on Friday (how sad am I to have relegated food shopping to someone else when I am the foodie in this household?!), so there was neither spinach nor organic whole chicken to be found. I didn't have time to go out; lunchtime is a scheduled break from writing my thesis. Rice. I had it. I made do. What you see in the above photo is not just any old bowl of white rice. Noooooo. Innocuous it may seem, but on a typical Spring day in Auckland (read: the lightest of blue skies one minute, adverse conditions the next) this filled a void and brought great comfort.

Rice was not a staple in my household when I grew up, so having it as a component of any dish was always rather exotic. I always knew that it was going to accompany a dish redolent of spice and heat. Appealing to my inner Aladdin or Jules Verne, those nights were always my favourite. Of course, then, I didn't know the creations were Westernised or "quick" versions of murgh makhani, caponata or beef rendang. In any case, rice was never really treated as something to have on its own, but as a neutral carbohydrate background to the spice or heat of the protein.

Living with Eric taught me that rice could be incorporated into a main dish, not just to act as a neutral base. I was introduced to aromatic rices like basmati and jasmine. It was with him, too, that we would get a craving for rice only, which we would cook, lazily, with only chicken stock. Today I was not feeling so lazy, but I couldn't go the whole hog.

Nevertheless, I found inspiration in one of my favourite preparations of rice, which comes in the form of a pilau or pilaf. With its roots in Persian cuisine, a pilau is sometimes cooked with a reduced broth after poaching chicken, and it is often studded with nuts, fruit and/or spices and herbs that have been added to an aromatic, like onions, cooked in a fat, typically oil. Variations of pilau using white rice, aromatic rices and bulgar are found throughout the Middle East, North Africa and Turkey. They are innumerable, but all of the ones I have tried have been delicious and restorative.

A word of note: the amount of liquid to rice often varies. I often find that most plain white rices need 1 1/2 times the amount of liquid per cup of rice. For bulgur, you may need 1 3/4 cup liquid per cup of bulgur wheat. Keep an eye on how the liquid is being absorbed. If the liquid is absorbed before the rice is tender, you will need to add more liquid.

Fragrant Rice
(Inspired by my angelheart Eric and by Nigel Slater's Appetite)

1 scant tablespoon olive oil
1 small onion, peeled and cut into thin half-moon slices
1 clove garlic, bashed to release oil and to remove papery casing
2 bay leaves, preferably fresh
4 cardamom pods, either whole or lightly smashed to release aroma
2 cloves, whole
3/4 cup white rice, or an aromatic rice (basmati or jasmine), if you prefer
2 1/4 cups chicken stock, or other light broth or water
salt
pepper

1) Heat olive oil in a wide saucepan.
2) Add onion and cook until soft but not colored.
3) Add garlic, bay leaves and spices. Stir into the onion and oil.
4) Once aromatic, stir the rice into the spiced onion.
5) Add the chicken stock. Bring it to a boil, then simmer, covered, for ten minutes. Halfway through, check for seasoning.
6) Off the heat and keep covered for around eight minutes.
7) Fluff the rice with a fork, then remove the bay leaves and spices, or leave them in if it does not bother you to check for little seeds and what not before each mouthful.
8) Serve with an extra crank of freshly ground black pepper.

Yes, this is enough for a satisfying though not over-whelming lunch for one. If you are using a store-bought stock, check for saltiness and potency. If it is quite strong, you may not want to add the cardomom, which is better suited to and more noticable when cooking the rice in a light broth or water.

Cardamom Cream Cake

2007-10-09T00:04:00.001+13:00

The first time I ever used cardamom was for Hamam Mahshi bil Burghul, an Egyptian preparation of stuffed small birds that requires marinading in spices (principally, cardamom and cinnamon but also a bit of allspice), onion and a combination of oil and lemon juice. I was first surprised by the inclusion of cinnamon since I had only ever had it in desserts, but I got over that when I first smelled cardamom. I did not know what to expect of it because I had had no known experience with the pods (I say 'known' because it has probably appeared in its ground incarnation in many curries I have eaten in Indian restaurants). I was soon entranced during the process of pulling the seeds from their pods and of grinding them, a process which releases an aromatic transformation at every step.

I am a fan of spices and herbs decidedly and judiciously used to either give flavour to or augment the flavours of protein. However, for the longest time I have wanted to put a niggling question to bed: Why do Scandinavians use cardamom in their breads, cakes and pastries? Understanding that my worldview is affected both by my upbringing and education, I did not ever pass judgment on this baking norm, but I could not but help think it an intriguing thing to do. But the Vikings and the Scandinavians, centuries on, could not be wrong. Clearly, there was something in this application to be learned.

When buying cardamom pods, look for tight ones with papery husks the lightest of olive greens (though in Europe and the North America they are sometimes bleached). You may want to bear in mind the green cardamom is more commonly used for Scandinavian baking, as opposed to black cardamom, which is closely related and is used in African cookery. Once removed from their husky capsules, the dark pellets immediately smell of ginger, which is no surprise given they are from the same family. Once ground, the specklings are redolent of Eucalyptus. And while this might not sound appetising, another transformation occurs once heated.

The usage of freshly ground cardamom is imperative in order to get the lingering lemon flavours of the cardamom that imbue baked goods upon the introduction of heat. Pre-ground cardamom will leave too little trace, potentially nullifying its addition in the first place. And since it is one of the most expensive spices in the world (third to saffron and vanilla), it is not something you should want to waste.

A pretty tube pan is suggested for this cake, ostensibly to give it some presence, for this is, at the end of the day, a plain cake - at least only in terms of appearance. I used a bundt pan, not having a tube pan on hand. If you do not have a cake pan with a hole in the middle, do not lose sleep over it. I would use a loaf pan instead, which is what I did for Toasted Ginger Cake.

Cardamom Cream Cake
(from Beatrice Ojakangas' Scandinavian Feasts)

2 cups flour, sifted
1 cup sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon cardamom, freshly ground
1 pinch salt
3 eggs, at room temperature
1 1/2 cups/12 fl. oz heavy/double cream
icing sugar, optional

1) Preheat oven to 180 C/350 F.
2) Butter and flour a 24cm/9" cake pan.
3) Combine flour, sugar, baking power and cardamom in a bowl.
4) Using an electric mixer, blend in the eggs on low speed.
5) Add cream and beat on high speed, scraping down the sides of the bowl to ensure the mixture is incorporated. Look for the texture of softly whipped cream.
6) Turn the batter into the prepared pan.
7) Bake until done, approximately 50-60 minutes. A toothpick/skewer test is a good way to assess this.
8) Cool in the pan for 5 minutes before inverting onto a rack.
9) To dress up the cake, lightly dust with icing sugar before serving.

The cake has a dense centre, which I suppose is attributed to the fact that there is no creaming required to make it. The crumb is quite closed, dense, as opposed to the open crumb of sponges and some pound cakes. The texture is yielding in the mouth on account of using so much cream.

It occurred to me while eating this cake that citrus fruit is not widely grown in Scandinavia, so including cardamom as an ingredient allows one to get a mild yet uplifting citrus hit, which is what some of us crave for from time to time.