Banana & Almond Loaf

Have you ever wondered what to do with overripe and blackened bananas? Or maybe you're like me and you're not really a fan of the flavour of blackening bananas and want a recipe that will use up the bananas without highlighting the overripe flavours. If you don't want to make this straight away, you can peel the bananas and put them into the freezer for a few weeks then let them defrost in the fridge overnight before using.

I based this recipe on the basic pound cake ratio of equal parts butter, sugar and flour. It's incredibly easy to make and vary to your own preferences and doesn't require any special equipment. To make this a little more fancy than your conventional banana bread, I added some lemon zest and juice, and sliced almonds scattered on top for contrasting texture. I also reduced the amount of sugar as bananas convert their carbohydrates to sugars when they ripen which is why ripe bananas are more sweet than underripe ones.

Banana & Almond Loaf

200 g butter, at room temperature

120 g sugar

2 overripe bananas, peeled

1 lemon, zest and juice

200 g flour

a small handful of sliced almonds

• Beat the butter and sugar together in a large bowl until it becomes lighter in colour and creamy. You can use a whisk or a wooden spoon for this job.
• Break up the bananas and mix them into the butter with the lemon zest and juice.
• Fold through the flour gently and stir until just combined.
• Line a loaf tin with some baking paper and leave the excess hanging out to make it easy to take out afterwards.
• Transfer the batter into the tin and use a spoon to smooth the top.
• Sprinkle over the sliced almonds and bake in the oven for 40 minutes at 170 degrees Celsius.
• Turn the tin around after 20 minutes to make sure it cooks evenly.
• When it's done, remove from the oven and allow it to cool for a while, then use the baking paper hanging out to pull the loaf out of the tin.

Lamb Ham Pie

I love a woman who's not afraid to tell me what she wants. One who spreads shivers of dark desire through inaudible whispers. With luscious lips, a sensual aroma, an unpredictable bite; her familiar face belies the olfactory orgasm concealed and waiting beneath. While many prefer to bypass the foreplay and pay for the more expedient of pleasures, those poor souls deny themselves the pleasure of long and slow cooking over a gentle heat, continual tasting and licking of lips, spooning, caressing the pastry with bare hands, and... well... let's just say that the two experiences are not quite the same...


Lamb Ham Pie

400 g Hay Valley Lamb Ham, diced + bone
2 brown onions, brunoise
1 carrot, brunoise
4 tomatoes, peeled & diced + stalks
1 head of garlic, peeled & smashed into smithereens
330 ml McLaren Vale Pale Ale
1 L chicken stock
20 g Vegemite
20 g maple syrup
80 g plain flour
2 bay leaves
8 g thyme sprigs
puff pastry sheets
1 egg + 1 Tbsp milk, for brushing

Gently sweat the onion in a large pot.
Throw in the diced ham, carrot, tomatoes and garlic. Stir everything around for a few minutes.
Pour in the ale and chicken stock.
Stir through the Vegemite and maple syrup.
Dust the flour over the surface and stir it through well for a smooth texture.
Add the bay leaves and thyme and simmer gently for 2 - 2.5 hours until ham is tender and the mixture has thickened considerably.
Remove bones, stalks, etc. and cool to room temperature before refrigerating.
Line a pie dish or a few muffin pans with puff pastry trimmed to size.
Fill generously with cold lamb mixture.
Whisk egg and milk together to create an egg wash.
Brush exposed puff pastry rims with egg wash and cover with puff pastry lids.
Remove excess pastry with a knife and press the edges together with the tines of a fork.
Brush the lids with egg wash.
Using a small, sharp knife, pierce the lids to allow steam to escape when baking so the pastry doesn't split.
Bake at 180°C for 35 - 40 minutes, rotating halfway for even heating, until golden brown and bubbling.
Cool for at least 10 minutes on a wire rack before removing from the pan.

Maple Syrup & Vegemite Glazed Lamb Ham

I'm Asian. I love freebies and I'm a sucker for good food.

The cunning pants at Meat & Livestock Australia and Hausmann have played me right into their hands with a sacrificial offering of Hay Valley lamb ham, gourmet mustard and sourdough tucked neatly into a red linen-lined basket. If Little Red Riding Hood had a hoarding habit and accepted her goodies in styrofoam boxes, we could very well be twins.

There was a lovely note slipped in beneath the bread, just in case I'd been struck by a sudden case of amnesia and forgotten the email I'd received two days prior confirming my availability to accept a perishable delivery from so and so.

"Thanks for all of your hard work - taking pictures of random things, chowing down on free food and taking more pictures, posting said pictures with delirious comments attached on a blog that nobody in their right mind would ever read.  Lots of love from the seedy man in admin who signs notes under exotic female aliases to build customer rapport."


I'll pretend to be frank for a moment. I was intrigued yet dubious about the concept of lamb ham from the beginning for the following reasons: 

1. I've never ever heard of 'lamb ham', thus it must be a terrible concoction of farce and nitrites. Perhaps past tasters in market research groups contracted botulism and were unable to speak of its delicious flavour and paralytic effects.

2. This so-called 'lamb ham' contains 20% less fat than the traditional porker. Since fat is flavour and a lubricating agent, the proportionally lower fat content of lamb would no doubt result in a despicable product with the dry and unpalatable texture and flavour profile of shredded cardboard. 

3. Google Images reveals numerous pictures of lamb that appear about as appetising as a dinner party consisting of two girls and one cup.. minus the girls.

I don't normally say this because it never ever happens except maybe just this once ..but well.. I was wrong. Cured in maple syrup and smoked, it was as good as (if not better than) a traditional pork ham - unbelievably tender, succulent, oh so moist. 

To enhance the subtle ingrained smoky sweetness, I sloshed together a fairly traditional ham glaze with maple syrup, Dijon mustard and cider vinegar. Hmm.. There wasn't anywhere near as much fat around the outside so I bypassed the scoring and clove studding and added a light dusting of allspice. Oh what the heck. Lamb is the epitome of the modern Australian diet. In went a blob of Vegemite. 

A whole lot of basting, cursing, basting, peering, and basting later, the lamb ham was removed and allowed to rest for two hours. Admittedly I was upstairs watching an enthralling episode of Better Homes & Gardens but it needed to rest anyway. All that basting would have tired the little lamb out. 

I dug out my biggest knife and sliced into the cooled meat with trepidation, but I needn't have worried. All of my niggling doubts and expectations flew out the window as the quivering pink flesh touched my lips. No words can describe the elation of discovering a ham that surpasses all other hams, or the Kodak moment when one tastes the first sliver of barely warm lamb that's been cured, smoked and basted for an hour with maple syrup and rich Vegemite. This is definitely a recipe that I'll be keeping in the books for next year, and possibly one to overthrow past traditions.



Maple Syrup & Vegemite Glazed Lamb Ham

1 x 2 kg Hay Valley lamb ham
200 g light brown sugar
60 g maple syrup (real maple syrup, none of that flavoured fake stuff)
60 g apple cider vinegar
50 g Dijon mustard
25 g Vegemite
1.5 tsp allspice, ground

Trim the skin off the lamb, leaving as much fat on as possible. Remove any visible sinew.
Cover the bone with foil to keep it nice and clean.
Leave for an hour or until it comes to room temperature.
Preheat the oven to 180˚C.
Chuck all of the remaining ingredients into a bowl and whisk until sugar is dissolved and Vegemite is thoroughly combined.
Place a rack over a tray and half-fill it with boiling water.  
Place the lamb ham on top (make sure the water doesn't touch the lamb), covering loosely with foil. 
Roast for 40 minutes.
Remove the foil, top up the water and baste with maple syrup and Vegemite mixture.
Return to the oven and continue roasting for 40 - 50 minutes, basting lightly every 10 minutes or until a beautiful golden brown.
Stick a thermometer into the centre to make sure that the meat has reached 60˚C.
Remove tray from oven and rest for 2 hours before slicing.
Enjoy! :D

Wintry Pumpkin Pie

When one has close to a dozen pumpkins stacked in a corner of the kitchen, meal times become a game of finding ways to disguise pumpkin in anything and everything. As delicious as they may be, there are only so many times that I can eat variations of Parmesan-crusted pumpkin wedges (Gruyere and torn basil is an excellent combination by the way), baked oatmeal with pumpkin and maple-soaked raisins or chickpea-hiding-pumpkin-patties before I feel inclined to start pulling my hair out.

I've never had a proper pumpkin pie before (the orange-coloured cream masquerading as said pie at Cotton Duck doesn't count), so I thought I'd give that a go. I wanted a really beefed up version full of warming spices and wintry nuances so I scoured through my books for a few ideas which I mashed together into a single recipe.

Spices from a traditional American diner dessert - sweet potato pie were added and the amount of sugar scaled back to let the natural sweetness of the pumpkin sing. Instead of making a classic pie with flaky pastry, I cooked the pumpkin pie filling in jars and dished them up with homemade yoghurt, dried lemon peel and some shortbread biscuits infused with lemon and rosemary.


Dried lemon peel

1 lemon
100 g water
50 g castor sugar

Peel lemon with a vegetable peeler.
Remove white pith from the peel with a small, sharp knife.
Cut peel into thin strips about 2 mm wide.
Place water and sugar into a small pot and bring to the boil.
Add lemon peel and bring back to the boil.
Allow to simmer for 2 minutes.
Remove pot from heat and cool to room temperature.
Strain out the peel and drain well.
Spread peel onto a flat tray lined with baking paper or a silpat mat.
Dehydrate at 55ºC for 3-4 hours or until crisp.
Cool to room temperature.
Store in an airtight container.


Pumpkin pie

1 kg pumpkin, unpeeled
30 g olive oil
134 g castor sugar
3 g salt
2 g ground ginger
2 g ground cinnamon
1/2 g ground nutmeg
1/2 g ground allspice
4 g vanilla paste
7 g all-purpose flour
260 g evaporated milk
20 g water
10 g lemon juice
2 eggs

Slice pumpkin into 2cm thick wedges.
Brush with olive oil and roast at 200ºC for 40 mins or until pumpkin is cooked through and caramelised.
Remove from oven and set aside to cool to room temperature.
When cool to the touch, scrape away pumpkin flesh from skins and set aside in a bowl.
Discard skins.
Place 320 g of pumpkin flesh in a food processor with sugar, salt, spices, vanilla paste and flour.
Blend until smooth.
Whisk together evaporated milk, water, lemon juice and eggs in a bowl.
Add liquids to pumpkin mixture and blend to combine thoroughly.
Transfer to a jug and half fill 5 small 300 ml jars.
Place jars into a roasting tray and fill with boiling water.
Bake at 160ºC for 35 mins or until pumpkin is just set in the middle when shaken.
Transfer jars to a rack to cool slightly.
Serve with homemade yoghurt and a sprinkling of dried lemon zest.

A bastardised pumpkin recipe

My first was an accident, a mishap, the result of unintentional volunteer seed spreading through unprotected contact. A certain somebody had thoughtfully deposited half of a mouldy supermarket pumpkin into the compost heap which, much to my annoyance, somehow lodged itself onto the prongs of my garden fork every time I turned the heap. After much cursing, It eventually disintegrated and I spread the compost around the base of my chilli plants as mulch. At this very moment, I had become the unwitting propagator of pumpkins.

The Chinese lady next door told me that pumpkins are ready to harvest once the white splotches turn a yellow, creamy colour. My dad the self-proclaimed 'expert' confirmed this but failed to mention that pumpkins require a few weeks to cure before eating. So excited about picking pumpkins was I, that I cracked one open immediately and made a big batch of soup that tasted like total ASS.

I thought I'd done something terribly wrong. Maybe pumpkins and chillies are not fitting companion plants and are instead, bitter instigators. Maybe pumpkins DETEST being watered with seaweed emulsion. I was full of self-doubt and loathing and distasteful pumpkin. I wept silently while the pile of pumpkins slowly grew.

A friend of mine offered me a copy of Plenty by Yotam Ottolenghi after inadvertently ordering one too many online. When I chanced upon the recipe for 'Crusted pumpkin wedges with soured cream', the pumpkins too received a second chance, lest I be left with a mouldy collection as a permanent reminder of inadvertent mistakes. 


Parmesan-crusted pumpkin wedges with yoghurt
a recipe adapted and completely bastardised from Plenty by Yotam Ottolenghi

750 g pumpkin (skin on)
40 g Parmesan, finely grated
30 g white breadcrumbs
25 g unsalted butter, melted
26 g black Tuscan kale leaves, roughly chopped
7 g garlic, finely grated
3 g thyme leaves
1 1/2 g black pepper, coarsely ground
2 g salt
1 g ground cumin
1 g ground nutmeg
50 g olive oil

Cut the pumpkin into wedges 2cm thick.
Toss with olive oil to coat and arrange onto a tray lined with baking paper.
Bake for 20 minutes at 180ºC.
Toss all of the remaining ingredients together and press firmly onto the sliced pumpkin.
Return to oven for an additional 30 minutes until the pumpkin is cooked through and crust is golden.
Serve with a zesty natural or European style yoghurt.

Caramelised white chocolate bubble cake

It's been three weeks and barely a dent has been made in my ever growing list of things I'd like to do. The library books I borrowed in February are still collecting dust. I go to bed every night meaning to do more, and every morning I wake with dreams of escape.

If you want something done sometimes you have to do it yourself, but what if this is too much? Can I alone affect even one person? My doubts keep getting in the way, along with my tendency to put off the most simple of things like asking a gorgeous woman to a dinner at her suggestion. Fuck.

These last few weeks have been whiled away digging trenches in the garden, planting heirloom King Edward spuds, nibbling on freshly picked roquette salad leaves and providing my young plants with a heavy mulching of shredded pea straw to protect them against the oncoming frost. One more day to endure before I find out how my efforts fared.

I wish I could bury myself amongst the potatoes and somehow fast forward time to tomorrow. Will I pass? Will I fail? Will I be throwing up with excitement or trying to kick myself in the head? This waiting game is excruciating, even with the consolation of a soft and buttery homemade white chocolate cake worthy of cardiac arrest.

White chocolate sponge cake

145 g white chocolate buttons (Callebaut)

60 g unsalted butter

6 egg yolks

10 g all-purpose flour

4 egg whites

5 g vanilla paste

1 g cream of tartar

90 g castor sugar

Melt chocolate and butter over a bain marie.

Remove from heat and stir until smooth. Allow to cool slightly.

Whisk together egg yolks, flour and 20 g sugar.

Add melted chocolate to yolks and whisk to combine.

Whisk egg whites, vanilla and cream of tartar in a large bowl until medium peaks form.

Sprinkle in a little sugar at a time, whisking until all remaining sugar has been used; firm, glossy peaks have formed and sugar granules can no longer be felt in the meringue.

Add 1/3 of the meringue to the yolks and whisk to combine.

Add remaining meringue and fold together gently with a whisk.

Pour onto a heavy baking sheet lined with baking paper.

Bake at 140ºC for 12 minutes, rotating halfway.

Cool completely on the baking tray.

Place a sheet of baking paper over the top and flip upside down.

Gently prise off the first sheet of paper and set aside.

Dehydrated yoghurt

200 g natural yoghurt

Spread yoghurt onto the shiny side of a silpat/non-stick baking mat.

Dehydrate in oven with the door slightly ajar at 50ºC for 5 hours or until crisp.

Cool to room temperature.

Break into shards and store in an airtight container.

Malted milk honeycomb

70 g liquid glucose

185 g castor sugar

60 g water

12 g dehydrated milk powder

15 g malted milk powder

4 g baking soda

Heat glucose, sugar and water in a small pot to 160ºC.

Whisk together dehydrated milk, malted milk powder and baking soda in a small bowl.

Add powder to caramel and whisk until just combined.

Pour malted caramel into a large bowl lined with baking paper. (Caramel will bubble up and expand)

Set aside at room temperature for half an hour to set.

Remove paper and break apart into small chunks.

Store in an airtight container.

Custard buttercream base

300 g milk

4 g vanilla paste

5 egg yolks

240 g castor sugar

450 g unsalted butter, soft

Scald milk, vanilla and half of the sugar in a small pot.

Set aside for half an hour to infuse.

Cream egg yolks and remaining sugar.

Pour milk into the eggs a little at a time and whisk to combine.

Return to the pot and bring to a simmer to thicken, stirring continuously. (High amount of sugar will prevent egg from scrambling)

Remove from heat and cool to room temperature.

Whisk butter in an electric mixer to aerate.

Slowly add cooled custard and continue whisking until light and creamy.

Lemon buttercream

700 g custard buttercream

10 g lemon zest, finely grated (approx. 3-4 large lemons)

Add lemon zest to buttercream and whisk until fully incorporated.

Caramelised white chocolate buttercream

250 g custard buttercream

50 g white chocolate buttons

20 g milk

Spread chocolate onto a silpat mat and bake at 150ºC for 12 minutes, mixing every 3 minutes.

Heat milk with 35 g of caramelised white chocolate and bring to a simmer. (Eat the rest of the caramelised chocolate.. yummy)

Allow to cool to below 55ºC.

Add caramelised chocolate milk to buttercream and whisk until light and creamy.

To assemble:

Cover white chocolate sponge with lemon buttercream.

Crush a little malted milk honeycomb with a mortar and pestle and sprinkle over the buttercream.

Roll, using the baking paper underneath to support the sponge.

Refrigerate until firm.

Cover the sponge exterior with caramelised white chocolate buttercream.

Refrigerate until firm.

Tempered white chocolate bubbles

400 g white chocolate buttons

Melt chocolate over a bain marie, stirring with a spatula.

Bring to 45ºC.

Cool to 27ºC by spreading chocolate on the bench in a thin layer to cool quickly before scraping back into the bowl.

Return to bain marie for a few seconds until it reaches 31.5ºC.

Spread tempered chocolate over a sheet of intact bubble wrap that is large enough to cover the entire sponge.

To finish:

Place sponge into the middle of the bubble wrap sheet and bring the sides up.

Smooth down the bubble wrap, making sure all parts come into contact with the buttercream exterior.

Place on a tray and refrigerate until firm.

Remove bubble wrap carefully and turn upside-down for best presentation.

Serve at room temperature with shards of dehydrated yoghurt.

Baked oatmeal, buttery pumpkin & maple-soaked raisins

During my last stint as a chef, I spent a good many months stressing out and wondering when I'd have 'the moment of realisation'. When I looked around me I was constantly surrounded by people who knew exactly what they wanted to do and where they wanted to be in 10 years time. I had no fricking clue, I still don't know what I want for the future.

I do have one dream though. I want to do something to change the world (as I'm sure many other idealistic kids my age want to do) but let's be honest, I don't know how exactly so I don't think that we can categorise that dream as being feasible just yet. I suppose that's why it's called a dream. Another thing to pile up on the back burner to check on every now and then. 

This recipe adapted from Erica Lea isn't going to change the world; but this spirited medley of baked oatmeal, buttery homegrown pumpkin, pecans and the occasional burst of maple-soaked raisins sure does make it a nicer place to be in.


Baked Oatmeal, Buttery Pumpkin & Maple-soaked Raisins

285 g pumpkin, (about 2 ribs of medium size) peeled
60 g unsalted butter, diced
80 g maple syrup
50 g golden raisins
200 g rolled oats
60 g pecans
6 g flaked sea salt
250 g milk
6 g vanilla bean paste
1 x 58 g egg

Preheat oven to 180ºC.
Slice pumpkin into 1cm thick pieces.
Place it into a 8 x 8" tin with 40 g butter and bake for 20 minutes.
While the pumpkin is cooking, gently heat raisins in a small pot with maple syrup and remaining butter until plump.
In a large bowl toss together the rolled oats, pecans and salt.
Whisk together the milk, vanilla and egg.
Pour maple-soaked raisins and milk into the bowl containing the oats and give everything a good stir.
When the pumpkin's 20 minute head start is up, spoon the mixture on top and bake for 30 minutes. 
Best eaten straight from the oven with a big spoonful of sheep's milk yoghurt and extra maple syrup drizzled over.

Pulled Pork Pie

Whenever I fall at your feet
Would you let your tears rain down on me
Whenever I fall..
                                        Neil Finn, Crowded House

It's nights like these that I dread the most - when closely knit families gather together under one big roof to celebrate life, and friends toast one another around a tree with clinking glasses and warmed bellies. I feel lost. I feel empty. On nights like tonight I think about lost loves, white lies and aching truths. I sit by the window in the fleeting light with a mug of lukewarm tea and a lonely heart at my sleeve, and watch the world move slowly by.

Once upon a time, when I stared into those deep and endless pools of a soul's reflection flecked with green and brown, I could see myself older, still holding those same hands. There were some moments that I'll never forget: a freezing day in the underground metro, riding up the escalator with hands intertwined, soft and supple lips against my cheek; or another film night, falling asleep on the tiny couch (yet again) with reassuring arms around my waist and the warmth of breath against my neck. It's slightly depressing to open my eyes and realise that these memories are just that.. Memories.

Apparently time can heal all wounds but I'm still waiting for that day to pass. Tonight I just need to be alone. I need to immerse myself in a project that is productive but slow, something I can drag out all night to keep myself contained, a recipe that I can pour all of my love into with results that are both satisfying and reflective.

This is a completely new recipe for me. I had grand plans to do a long, slow braise with dried and podded lazy housewife beans from my garden but changed my mind at the last minute when I found a roll of puff pastry that I'd tucked deep into the freezer many months ago. Not counting the cherry pie with almond cream that I made this time last year, this was my first go at a savoury pie and I'm pretty chuffed with the results.

I collected all the bones and bits (head included) from a suckling pig that would normally find their way into the bin at work. After a quick blanch and a few hours of slow cooking, I picked the meat off the bones and used this to make the pie filling. Despite everyone in my family professing to dislike parsley, I made a parsley sauce anyway. It took me two nights of simmering and reducing, rolling and baking to make my pulled pork pie. I haven't received much feedback yet but I can confidently assume that it would be welcomed back with open arms and mouths seeing as there is nothing left aside from the polite, obligatory sliver and a scraping of sauce. Ho ho ho!

Braised Pork Bits

3.7 kg pork bones (head, bones, trotters)

3 carrots, sliced into 1" pieces
8 fresh bay leaves
5 g thyme, picked (reserve leaves for filling)
70 g parsley, picked (reserve leaves for sauce)
3 g star anise
4 cm cassia bark

Place bones in a large pot and cover with cold water.
Bring to the boil, discard water and rinse well to remove scum.
Cover with fresh water, add carrots, bay leaves, thyme stalks, parsley stalks, star anise and cassia.
Bring to the boil, reduce heat to low, cover and simmer for 2 hours and 20 minutes.
Remove pot from the heat and allow to cool.
Strain and reserve the stock
Pick meat from bones, discarding any cartilage, skin and fat.
Return bones to the stock and simmer for 4 hours.
Strain the stock and discard bones.
Reduce stock over low heat until only 240 g remains.

Roux

50 g unsalted butter
50 g all-purpose flour

Melt butter in a small saucepan.
Add flour and cook for 2 - 3 minutes over low heat.

Remove from heat and cool.

Store in the refrigerator.


Pulled Pork Filling

10 g vegetable oil
125 g brown onion, finely chopped
reserved thyme leaves (approx 3 g)
100 g white wine (I used an Australian Gewürztraminer)
240 g reserved pork cooking stock
50 g roux
30 twists of cracked black pepper
3 g sea salt flakes

Heat oil in a small saucepan and sweat off onion until translucent.
Add thyme and cook for another minute.
Add wine and reduce until almost dry.
Add pork cooking stock and bring to the boil.
Add roux and cook, stirring for 4 - 5 minutes until thickened.
Season with salt and pepper.
Mix through reserved pork meat.
Place on a tray and refrigerate until cold.


Assembling the Pie

375 g puff pastry
1 egg
2 Tbsp milk

Roll out puff pastry to about 4 mm thickness between two sheets of baking paper.
Place onto a tray and refrigerate until cold.
Use an 8" pie plate turned upside-down to mark the pie lid.
Place the remaining pastry over the plate and fill with the cold filling.
Whisk egg with milk to create an egg wash.
Brush egg wash onto the edges of the pastry.
Crimp the edges with the back of a knife.
Trim off excess pastry and cut out leaf decorations.
Stick leaves to pie lid with egg wash.
Brush the pie lid with egg wash.
Cut a few slits in the lid with a sharp knife to allow steam to escape while baking.
Bake at 200ºC for 10 minutes.
Reduce heat to 170ºC and bake for a further 30 minutes.
Remove from oven and place on a wire rack to cool.


Parsley sauce

300 g milk
5 g thyme
70 g brown onion, finely chopped
50 g roux
20 g reserved parsley leaves, chopped
1 g sea salt flakes
20 twists of cracked black pepper

Place milk, thyme and onion in a small saucepan.

Cover and simmer for 10 minutes to infuse.

Strain, discarding solids.

Add roux and cook for 4 minutes to thicken.
Add chopped parsley and cook for another minute.
Place in a blender or food processor and blend until smooth.
Season and taste.

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Corn Bread, Avocado, Summer Salad

Rolling up the driveway and peering at my garden through the car window after four weeks of absence filled me with apprehension. The black radishes I'd planted just before my departure had sky-rocketed and become a huge, impenetrable hedge. The purple podded peas were leaning precariously to one side, threatening to topple their support and smothering any rainbow chard that got in their way. Giant red mustard seemed desperate to flower, their leaves dotted with dull yellow spots. Beneath it all, dreaded onion weed had popped up everywhere and rambling nasturtiums had taken over once more.
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Six weeks and buckets of sweat later, a new bed has been prepared and little Pasilla Bajio chilli seedlings have been planted out. Zebra tomatoes are now waist-high and about to bloom at any moment. Red Aztec corn are sprouting underneath the peach tree which, at this present moment is covered in recycled envelopes and paper bags. The old compost was spread over the garden to provide all the growing plants with extra nutrients and the new compost gets turned diligently with my super sturdy, super awesome Digadoo fork which I bought online after testing out their unbreakable hand trowel at the Gardening Australia Expo earlier in the year.

Along with the pruning and the weeding, the perpetual sowing and expanding, it feels extraordinarily satisfying to create a meal from what most people would see as nothing. An avocado, some maize flour, a few basic pantry items, sharp scissors and an open mind were all the ingredients I needed to make this simple Summer-y dish.

Corn Bread

165 g flour
140 g maize flour
12 g baking powder
5 g sea salt flakes
4 eggs
306 g milk
15 g light agave syrup
100 g unsalted butter, melted

Lightly brush a shallow 8" x 12" (20 x 30 cm) tin with a little melted butter.
Sift flour, maize flour, baking powder and salt together into a large bowl.
In a separate bowl, lightly whisk eggs, milk and agave syrup.
Pour over flour and whisk to incorporate.
Add remaining melted butter and whisk.
Pour batter into the greased tin and bake at 180ºC for 25 minutes or until golden.
Cool on a rack for 10 minutes before removing.


Avocado 

130 g avocado, flesh only
18 g verjuice

Puree the avocado with verjuice.
Cover with clingfilm and refrigerate.


Salad Dressing

7 g garlic
16 g extra virgin olive oil
1 g light agave syrup
17 g verjuice
2 g sea salt flakes

Slice the garlic and let it steep in olive oil for an hour.
Whisk agave syrup, verjuice and salt in a small bowl.
Add olive oil and whisk to combine.
Discard garlic slices.


Summer Salad

5 g parsley, leaves only
4 g chervil, leaves only
2 g mint, leaves only
2 g nasturtium leaves
2 g nasturtium petals
1 g bronze fennel fronds
1 g giant red mustard flowers
20 g walnuts, toasted

Mix all ingredients and salad dressing together with light hands. 
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An Old Love, Crumbled

A few days ago I caught up with someone who was once a very special person in my life. Years have gone by since we last conversed but she's still the same striking, unconventional, deeply intelligent and self-possessed woman that I remember. It's strange - even after so much time apart we met again with the same comfort and ease. Amidst the frantic pace, I'd resigned myself long ago to the thought of never seeing her again. Together in the silences, sitting close enough to trace her hands, her face, her lips; I wanted so much to cast off my remaining inhibitions and blurt out "I've never stopped loving you".

Somewhere on the journey home I realised that occasionally a taste is required to remind ourselves of the things that we've always loved and momentarily forgotten.

After a long leave of absence, rhubarb crumble made a reappearance at the dining table to much delight, and perhaps, even a little surprise. It's been a while since I've given a humble crumble the time of day. I've come to consider it as a "fallback dessert" - possible to whip up with minimal ingredients and the most meager of tools.

Perhaps it was the crimson rhubarb, stems snipped from their crowns under drawing dusk; maybe the apples with their blanket of floral perfume were to blame, the mandarins, just fallen from their bowing branches; or the Madagascan vanilla, so sweet and seductive; that brought me back to appreciate this simple dessert.

Baked in the oven with a sprinkling of rapadura sugar for a boost of extra caramelisation and served while still warm with a zealous dollop of cold and tangy sheep's milk yoghurt, some old loves are truly worth pining for.

Rhubarb Crumble

a dozen stems of freshly picked rhubarb (20cm long)

1 fuji apple

2 mandarins, zested and juiced

castor sugar

unsalted butter

1 vanilla pod, split & scraped

all-purpose flour

a sprinkling of Murray River salt flakes

rapadura sugar

lots of sheep's milk yoghurt

Give the rhubarb a rinse and dry.

Finely slice stems and place in a small pot.

Dice the apple into small cubes and add to rhubarb.

Add mandarin juice to pot and cook over medium heat, stirring every now and then until apples have collapsed.

Add castor sugar to taste and cook for a few minutes until jammy.

Stir through mandarin zest and spoon into a ceramic dish.

Rub about half a cup of diced cold butter with a large pinch of castor sugar, a small pinch of salt, scraped vanilla seeds and enough flour to form a clumpy, breadcrumby consistency.

Sprinkle this over the rhubarb in a thick layer.

Sprinkle a little rapadura sugar over the crumble topping.

Bake for 30 minutes at 180ºC or until golden and bubbling.

Allow to cool for 10 minutes before serving with a generous amount of yoghurt.

Submitted for Grow Your Own - August 2010.

Fennel Salt Schiacciata

I'm so depressed. Masterchef is over (again) and I've added another year to my life. It's not that I feel old because I don't - I've only turned 24. It's just that sometimes it feels like it all goes by so quickly. Woosh! There goes another year, and another, and another.. I don't feel like I've really done much besides work. I've yet to have the epiphanous moment, you know, the one when you finally realise what your lifelong dream has been all along.

I think I might like to be a food producer somewhere down the track. I love the idea of turning to the ways of the Old World. I read a tiny snippet in the paper last week about a new university course being offered in Britain - a year-long diploma on artisan foods. If only I had an extra 20,000 pounds sitting in the bank. I'd love to spend every single day up to my elbows in curd and learning how to make cheese or bread or smallgoods. Now that would be a dream come true.

A few weeks ago in masterclass, Michael Klausen of Brasserie Bread taught two lucky contestants how to make schiacciata. Its Italian name translates to 'crushed' and it is believed to have originated in Tuscany where during the grape harvest, crushed grapes are pressed into the dough along with olive oil, honey and salt. Like focaccia, schiacciata is a flatbread that is leavened with yeast and dimpled before baking over hot stones.

I know a few chefs who aren't too keen on Masterchef. It does make situations a bit awkward when a random weirdo guy comes into the kitchen to stare at us in the middle of dinner service with nothing to say except "Oh I cook too!". Okaaaay then.. I tend to think of it as more of a DIY show like Gardening Australia or Better homes and Gardens. I can pick up some new recipes and techniques from watching the show but I'm not a better cook until I actually give it a go.

After watching the episode online and with the kneading technique still fresh in my mind, I took Michael Klausen's suggestion to use fennel and set about making my fennel salt schiacciata. I used all-purpose flour which doesn't absorb as much liquid as high-protein baker's flour so my dough wasn't as wet as it was on the telly. It took 6 rounds of kneading and resting before the gluten in the dough was worked enough to form a thin membrane when stretched. Despite not having the right flour at hand, my schiacciata emerged from the oven deeply caramelised on the top, crunchy, salty, sweet and oh so aromatic. Mmm..

Fennel Salt Schiacciata

adapted from a recipe by Michael Klausen

420 g plain flour

10 g instant yeast

10 g sea salt

10 g extra virgin olive oil, plus extra for brushing

285 g water

10 g rapadura cane sugar

4 g sea salt flakes

4 g fennel seeds

Place flour in a large mixing bowl.

Place yeast on one side and salt on the other (salt will kill the yeast if they come into direct contact).

Add the oil and water and stir together until it forms a dough.

Transfer to a bench and knead for 5 minutes.

Cover with the bowl and rest for 2 minutes.

Repeat kneading and resting another 5 times.

Lightly grease a clean bowl and place the dough inside.

Cover with clingfilm or a damp cloth and prove for 1 hour.

Transfer to the bench and gently press to form a rectangle.

Visually divide the rectangular dough into thirds and fold both ends into the middle.

Press out a little to form a rectangle and fold into thirds again (this step promotes even yeast distribution within the dough).

Flip the dough so that the seam is on the bottom and return to the bowl.

Cover and prove for 30 minutes.

Divide dough into two equal pieces.

Place each dough piece onto a sheet of baking paper as large as your oven tray.

Using only your fingertips press both dough pieces into rectangles with rounded ends approximately 13cm x 25xm.

Push your fingertips into the dough, firmly and evenly to dimple the entire surface.

Brush liberally with olive oil, sprinkle 5 g of rapadura cane sugar, 2 g of sea salt flakes and 2 g of fennel seeds over each.

Cover with deep baking trays or clingfilm and prove for 30 minutes.

Place a heavy steel baking sheet into the lower section of the oven and preheat to 210ºC.

Slide one dough piece onto the hot oven tray and bake for 15 minutes.

Remove bread to a cooling rack.

Repeat with the second dough.