Food Stuff

There are changes happening in my kitchen. 

I've always loved food and I've always eaten well, often too well. Without wanting to dig too deeply into the psychology and conditioning behind how I eat and why I eat, I'm aware that in recent months I've gotten very lazy about feeding myself. I've reached far too often for packaged convenience and, while eternally trying to shovel wholesome goodness into my children's mouths, far too often I've settled for peanut butter toast late at night for my own dinner. Old habits die hard.

But at the start of this year, I promised myself I'd address the old energy issue. I'm tired of dragging myself out of bed in the morning, counting down the minutes till the first coffee, scraping my way through the afternoon, and then hitting my stride sometime mid-evening and thus ending up in bed far too late, only to wake up and do it all over again. I'm tired of being tired.

And I'm better at making massive changes than gradual ones, so I decided I needed a big jolt, a big wake-up, something to strip me back to basics. So I've just come off a three-week elimination diet. It was fairly extreme - no sugar, wheat (or grains of any kind), fat or dairy for three weeks. No alcohol. No bread. None. At. All. I got through it, much lighter and clearer as a result.

It wasn't necessarily difficult, but it was boring. I was on a culinary desert island where I found myself fantasising long and hard about food. I rediscovered my cookbooks (and added to my collection as well.) I found myself drawn to blogs about real food and whole food. I toyed with previously unconsidered notions such as gluten-free and sugar-free. I lay in bed at night creating incredible meals in my head.

And now I've begun the part where I introduce foods back in. There's still no sugar and wheat, for the time being. I'm crossing my fingers and hoping this process doesn't reveal any sort of gluten intolerance. I know I have to cut back on the bread and the baked goods, but I can't stomach the thought of never enjoying them again.

But what I'm really excited about is something that's becoming clearer every day in my mind - an approach to food and eating, a philosophy, if you will, that I want to apply to how I feed myself and my girls. I hope to share more here in the coming weeks.

This past Saturday I travelled an hour up the highway to buy an organic chicken straight from the woman who raised it. Yesterday, the girls and I enjoyed it with roasted sweet potatoes, parsnips and beetroot. I made a delicious side of sautéed black cabbage and kale (bought direct from a woman who described herself as a kale specialist). The girls wouldn't touch that, so the leftovers went into a frittata for my lunch today. This afternoon I picked the chicken carcass clean then boiled up the bones for stock. I used a little of it to make a sauce with carrots, peas, a little creme fraiche and the leftover meat, which Pearl and I wrapped in pastry and called a pie. The girls devoured it, Lola declared it the best dinner ever, and then they insisted I pack the leftovers in their lunch boxes for tomorrow.

Winner, winner, organic chicken dinner.

Pie

My food processor's been on the blink for over a year. It used to make my pastry for me. Lately, I've had to do it myself. I've rubbed butter into flour with my very own fingers. Dripped in the water, just enough to make the dough come together. I've kneaded it, but not too much.

Rest it in the fridge. Roll it out. Drape it across the tin then gently push it in. 

It's become one of my very favourite things to do.

When I get the food processor fixed, if I do, I'll let it make pesto. Almond meal. Fish cakes. 

But I might keep the pasty making just for me.

{We made a pie with those apples. And then another.}

Pick Your Own

This is the sort of thing I had in mind when we moved to the country. The overflowing backyard veggie patch has always been in the picture (yet to be realised) but I wanted to be near places we could visit to pick our own food. There's something about an orchard that gets me all nostalgic. I spent a few years in my childhood living in a house in the middle of an apple orchard, and while the glasses have definitely taken on a rosy hue, I'm sure I'm not exaggerating when I say we spent our weekends running up and down the rows eating fruit straight from the tree. 

Even though apples aren't uncommon in this area, and plenty of people seem to have a tree or two in their backyard, I hadn't been able to locate a proper pick-your-own farm.

Then a friend told me last week about a place not far from here that was once run as an organic farm, and is now a meditation retreat. It's set on a beautiful patch of land alongside an enormous, neglected orchard with rows of apple trees of all different varieties. The fruit is falling from the trees and rotting on the ground - the birds are having a field day. 

So armed with our inside knowledge, my littlest pair and some dear friends put on our gumboots, grabbed some baskets and set out. We were warned about wombat holes and rabbit warrens, then invited to help ourselves. The kids ran wild while my friend and I sampled the wares, grabbing a handful of the sweetest, a selection of the crispest, as we came across them. Every tree held a different fruit, none of them labelled. The prettiest often seemed the most lacking in flavour. Ironically, after traipsing the length of several rows, I decided that my favourite had been the first one we'd tasted. Luckily we were able to find that tree again, and the basket was topped up.

Now I have to turn my attention to what to do with all that fruit. Apple pie, anyone?

Wild Plum Jam

After our little foraging trip, we had a kilo of wild plums, tiny and more sour than sweet. I roasted them to soften them then pushed the pips out, one by one. I transferred the soupy flesh to a saucepan, added sugar, then watched it bubble and simmer until it was sticky and jammy. Then I poured it into scalding hot jars, left them to cool, then tied it all up with string.

The end result - tart, not too sweet, perfect on a scone. Hopefully not poisonous. 

{Washi tape purchased from my old friend, the Craft Queen.}

A Perfect Meal

Do you ever come across a meal that is perfect for its time? One that seems somehow to represent you, entirely, right in that moment? This is my "perfect for me right now" meal, and I've been eating it an awful lot lately so I thought I'd share.

It has four main elements:

1) Speck. This is not bacon, or at least not as you know it. I got tired of boring sliced supermarket bacon, rubbery and flaccid and flavourless. I purchase speck as a big piece which means I can slice it to my desired thickness (oh, about a centimetre) and then into lardons. Sauteed in olive oil, those little morsels become crisp and juicy and terribly flavoursome. In the past I've used speck in wintery soups and stews, but more recently I'm sizzling it up in all sorts of exciting ways.

2) Silver beet. I never loved this vegetable. It was terribly green and terribly earthy. The stems were chewy. I didn't know what to do with it.  But a few years ago I jumped on the cavolo nero bandwagon, and found I loved it steamed then sauteed with garlic. Last year I tried that same simple method on some market-bought silver beet and tables began to turn. The final twist was when I planted a few seedlings last spring. That stuff grew and grew, and when I'd finally picked it all, it grew back again. Silver beet had it's time in the sun and in my kitchen, and I've not looked back. I'm looking forward to having it on tap again this summer.

3) Eggs. Or rather, very recently laid neighbourhood eggs. My chicken dream still hasn't come to fruition, but I've got the next best thing - friends with chickens. Every time I'm handed a carton of fresh-laid goodness, my heart skips a beat. And while most eggs find their way into cakes and tarts and Pearl's thrice weekly "mushy eggies", I save the very freshest for poaching. You can add your vinegar, swish your water, stand on one leg and whistle the national anthem all you like. All you actually need is a pan, simmering water, and the very freshest eggs.

4) Bread. Good bread, preferably sourdough, thick sliced, drizzled with olive oil, grilled in a hot pan till the stripes appear then rubbed with a cut clove of garlic.

All of that thrown together gives you this meal, this perfect anytime, every time meal. It could be breakfast, brunch, lunch or dinner. It's just right for one, but could feed a crowd. It's simple food, which means it has to rely on the quality of its ingredients. And it's got enough green to be good for you, and enough other bits to feel like a treat.

Saute speck in a little oil until golden. Add half a clove of garlic, crushed, and some washed, sliced silver beet. Cook for several minutes until silver beet is tender and wilted (keep it over gentle heat so as not to burn the garlic). Add a little water if it needs some help. Season it all liberally with good salt and freshly ground pepper. Meanwhile, poach eggs. Grill bread and rub with the other half of the garlic clove. Pile on the silver beet mixture, top with the eggs, and tuck in.

Herman the German Friendship Cake

The weekend before last, some of my Sydney posse made the trip south for a girls' night. Over lychee martinis and sparkling wine, we cooked and we chatted and we ate, oh, we ate. Amidst all the excitement, one of the ladies - a fellow knitting-baking type - poured  a beige substance from a plastic container into a bowl, covered it with a tea towel and set it on the sideboard, muttering something about feeding schedules and fridge avoidance. I didn't think much of it. We were already heavily into the gyoza and peking duck pancakes.

The next day I came across the bowl and the printed instructions beside it. It didn't take me long to realise this was the cake equivalent of a chain letter, or those emails that you have to send to 10 friends within 30 seconds lest your head explode. Only this chain letter had an element of suspense and the very real prospect of a tasty reward at the end.

It was a weighty responsibility. For 10 days I attended to Herman. I stirred him daily and fed him when the instructions told me to. He fermented and bubbled away with an air of nonchalance. At one point a couple of days ago, I noticed an unusual aroma and wondered if someone might have left an open beer bottle lying around. And today, day 10, I got to turn him (or a quarter of him, at least) into a cake - a sourdough German Friendship Cake.

Dense, dark and chewy, filled to the brim with apple and walnuts and cinnamon, Herman was every bit the fresh-baked delight I had hoped for. I am so smitten that instead of giving away the three remaining portions of the sourdough to friends today, as instructed, I kept one for myself to tend to for another 10 days. And the two friends I chose to pass on the duty bounty today, both keen bakers, took on the challenge with some bemusement, but mostly a good old-fashioned muck-in attitude, aware of the responsibility they were being given and keen to take it on.

I often bake cakes for friends, on special occasions or just because. And I'm getting good at handing out wedges of cake to people when I've got too much at home, due to a recipe or photo commission. That's what I think of when I think of friendship cake. But this - this is entirely different. "Here, friend, take this tub of bubbling ferment, my gift to you. You need to look after it, don't let it die whatever you do. And guess what - in  10 days it will be a cake...except you have to bake it yourself. Enjoy!" 

And enjoy I did. Thank you, lovely Beth, for the experience. I'm wondering if this might have been the trial run I needed to finally get a start on my own sourdough bread.

Have you heard of the German Friendship Cake? Has it passed through your town? Have you made it before?

Bread

When my big sister visited recently, she revealed that she'd given up bread. Well...

I reckon I could give up most things if I had to, but bread? Not bread. It's mostly standard wholegrain sliced in this house. And while I'll always be a sucker for the squishy white stuff (smothered in peanut butter, thank you very much), when I can get my hands on a good loaf of sourdough, things always seem a little more right with the world. Thank goodness I've found a place down this way that rivals my old favourite in Sydney. When I'm in town most weeks, I grab a loaf. And for the next few days I enjoy it toasted with a fried egg on top, or some avocado and lime juice, or freshly sliced tomato and salt.

But my absolute favourite special occasion or anytime way is doused in olive oil, grilled and then rubbed with the cut end of a clove of garlic. Magic happens with that little clove. Transformation.

Suddenly that humble grilled piece of bread becomes the basis for a real meal. Bruschetta, crostini, call it what you will. I've topped it with whatever's left in the fridge, or has come home fresh from the farmer's market. I've smeared it with feta and  added a big spoonful of smashed herby chickpeas. I've covered it with chargrilled vegetables and shards of parmesan. My current favourite is sauted speck and silver beet topped with a gooey poached egg.

I still make my own bread occasionally - not sourdough yet, but soon. I'd make it every day if I could make the time. I'd grind my own wheat if I had to. God knows, I'd grow the wheat if that's what it took. Just don't ask me to give up bread.

21. Winter is...

..hot porridge, brown sugar, stewed rhubarb - the breakfast equivalent of a warm woolly blanket.

9. Winter is...

..deeply warming comfort food, cooked slowly, preferably on the bone.

Very Rustic Silverbeet and Bacon Tarts

A savoury tart for the final day, a day in which we edged closer and closer to that $2,000 target. And we are so close. SO CLOSE! Who knows what the night will bring? 

In the meantime, a quick recipe in case you thought a bacon and silverbeet tart might be just the thing for your weekend brunch. Bubbly optional, but wholly appropriate.

To make six individual and rather rustic tarts, you will need: 

1 quantity shortcrust pastry (or if your food processor is on the blink and you're in a bit of a rush, use frozen sheets - they're perfectly adequate and two will make six small tarts)

splosh of olive oil

160g bacon or speck, diced

1/2 clove garlic, crushed

1/2 bunch silverbeet, washed, leaves shredded

3 eggs

1/2 cup cream

parmesan cheese, grated

Line individual tart tins with pastry. Blind bake according to these instructions.

Heat oil in a small frypan and cook bacon until golden. Remove to a plate lined with absorbent paper. Add garlic to pan with silverbeet and cook over gentle heat until the greens have wilted nicely - about 5 minutes. Return bacon and mix it all together. Season well with salt and pepper.

Whisk eggs and cream in a jug. Distribute silverbeet and bacon mixture between blind-baked pastry cases. Pour over egg mixture. Sprinkle parmesan on the top of each. 

Bake at 160 degrees for 20-25 minutes until just set.

For a larger, cheesier version of these little tarts, see my recipe here.

Did you see Claire's beautiful guest post back here? Did you enter the giveaway back here? (Winner announced tomorrow night!) Do you think calling it a savoury tart makes it sound fancier than a quiche?

Pistachio Cardamom Choc-Chip

Homemade choc-chip biscuits are a favourite around here. And I've always held firm to the belief that you shouldn't sully them by adding nuts or sultanas. (Just like my belief that tomato can ruin a good sandwich...)

But I must have come over all exotic when I thought up these little wonders. Cardamom - one of my favourite spices - and pistachios, complementing beautifully all of that chopped dark chocolate. Dunked in a mug of spiced hot cocoa? Well, there's not much more I can say, really. Bake them, eat them, don't say I didn't warn you.

You will need:

125g unsalted butter
1 cup brown sugar
2 eggs
2 cups plain flour
1 tsp ground cardamom
150g dark chocolate, chopped
50g pistachios

Cream butter and sugar until it is light and fluffy. Add eggs one at a time, scraping down the sides of the bowl if necessary. Add flour and cardamom and mix until just combined. Add chocolate and pistachios and mix further until distributed evenly.

Divide the mixture in two and roll each half in a sheet of baking paper to form a log shape. Refrigerate for 20 minutes to firm up.

Preheat oven to 190 degrees Celsius. Line two trays with baking paper. Using a sharp knife, slice biscuit logs into 1cm thick rounds. 

Lay on trays and bake for 10-12 minutes until golden.

Once cool, put them in a vintage biscuit tin then sit on your hands until your guests arrive because there's nothing more embarrassing than inviting people over and having to confess you've eaten their morning tea.