Olympic Fish Pie

It seems universally agreed (even by reluctant Sydney-based media) that London has bested us all, taking gold for the most outstanding Games in living memory.

What better way to celebrate their success than with a truly British dish: Fish Pie.  

As a Yank, this is unfamiliar territory, so I decided to ask some British authorities, 

What makes an excellent fish pie?  

Nigella:  When I'm feeling the need for some comfort, there's nothing I love more than to wrap myself in the warm caress of a fish pie.  First, I strip the glistening, firm fillets of their skin - naked is better, don't you think?  Then I gently poach the fillets, taking care not to rush things along in a heated lather, as I tend to do.  When the fish is just right - tender and briny and yielding to the touch - I get on with the roux: take a great, big knob of butter - the bigger the better - and let it melt with an equal measure of flour over a long, slow heat until it's bubbling and crying out... for the stock.  Add a mound of grated cheese - lots and lots of cheese - for a gooey, unctuous sauce, and another knob of butter for a silky texture that oozes pleasure with every mouthful.  Spread your mash over the top - I like to use my hands - and top with more cheese.  Too much is never enough.

Jamie:  Right, fish pie.  We're gonna do a really clever, deconstructed fish pie.  No poaching, no fussing about with a white sauce.  Just fish and veg and mash.  We've got this lovely 1kg bag of frozen fish off-cuts from the grocery - no need to defrost it, just whack it in the casserole dish, and as it cooks the ice will break down to form a light, delicate stock.  Beau'iful.  Now, take your veg - your potato, your carrot, your celery, your courgette - whatever you have on hand - and we're going to grate the veg right into the dish, just making a lovely stack of shredded bits like this and scatter it over the fish.  Add some herbs - that's right, just throw the stems in, no need to pick the leaves but you can give it a chop if you want.  Then we're going to pour on some of this lovely cream, and, for the topping, we're simply going to slice some potato - no need to peel or boil - and we're gonna layer it right over the top.  Then, at the end, when it's all lovely and golden and bubbly, we're going to mash the potato with a fork, right on the pie. Too easy.   We'll serve it to every school child in Britain - just watch the weight drop off.

Gordon: I'll tell you how to make a f***ing beautiful, posh fish pie.  We're going to start with loads of  fresh, white fillets from your local fishmonger - this will be the backbone of your dish.  Check the eyes - they should be clear and bright; if they're cloudy, you know they've been in the f***ing freezer and it's rubbish.  Add some prawns, some butter, some cream, some shallots, top it with mash - keep it fresh, keep it simple.  Poach the fillets and prawns in some stock and vermouth, make a roux, cook some mash with butter, milk and egg yolk, and cook the lot until it's golden on the top and bubbling beneath.  Serve it with some petit pois tossed with butter, and seasoned with salt and pepper.  Simple.  Brilliant.  F***ing delicious.  

Next up was Mark Hix, of Hix Oyster And Chop House.  

He wasn't able to take my call, but directed me to this recipe, compliments of Gourmet Traveller.  

We gave it a whirl.

Hix's version calls for a mix of white fish, salmon, and prawns, and involves both poaching and making a sauce (sorry, Jamie).  

Normally, I like flavors to hit me over the head, but Hix's sauce is subtle and complex, flavored with Dijon mustard, the help of a single anchovy and generous quantities of dill, chervil and parsley.  

The pie is topped off with a spread of mash and a moderate sprinkling of bread crumbs and parmesan.  

A word of caution: keep your mash relatively rustic and dry.  

On my test run, I tried to match the delicacy of the sauce with an equally delicate mash, and went for extra-smooth and creamy, using a potato ricer and lots of milk.  Big mistake.

I wound up with fish mash, as the potato melded with the sauce, when what I wanted was a lid - potato above, fish and sauce below. 

On the second lap, I got the balance right.

The result, now known in our house as Olympic Fish Pie, was a winner.  

We won't be waiting another four years to enjoy it again.  

Best Pumpkin Soup EVER

Ah, the Olympics.

I have screamed, cried and sung my national anthem (American), all before breakfast.

I am exhausted.

Luckily, the cooking is already done: my freezer is stocked to bulging with litre upon litre of "The Best Pumpkin Soup EVER."

DB's description - not mine - but who am I to argue?

DB is passionate about this soup.

He muscles all his friends who come to play into trying some (it's on permanent weekend rotation).

A few non-pumpkin eaters have refused and, though he'd never come out and say so, I suspect they've dropped in the rankings.

Strange friendship criteria for a seven-year-old boy?

Perhaps.  But this is, after all, the child who asked Santa for a lobster last Christmas, and not as a pet.

And yet I still can't get him to eat fruit.

He's a mystery.

Back to the soup.

I posted about it way back when, but it's become such a staple that I feel it bears repeating.

Pumpkin soup is ubiquitous, like vanilla ice cream or steamed vegetables - always there, but nothing to get excited about.

This is different.

Pancetta, red onions, parmesan, and, critically, red wine vinegar distinguish this version from thinner, more timid cousins.

If pumpkin isn't your thing, I've included links to a few other favourites, below.

But don't expect DB to play with you.

Stay warm.

Dash's Best Pumpkin Soup EVER

This recipe was inspired by one that I clipped out from a magazine - who knows which one - years ago.   To the inspired soul who thought of including the pancetta, red onion and red wine vinegar: Thank you!

3 butternut pumpkins, halved and left un-peeled, seeds scooped out
3 olive oil, plus extra for drizzling
a knob of butter
1 large red onion, thinly sliced
2 garlic cloves, finely chopped
150 gm round mild pancetta, finely chopped (sliced pancetta works fine, too - just chop it fine)
2 litres (8 cups) chicken stock
a handful of finely grated parmesan - if you have a leftover rind, toss that in the pot, too

a good slug of  red wine vinegar (approximately 2 Tbs)

1.  Preheat oven to 200C.  Place pumpkin skin-side down on an oven tray lined with baking paper, drizzle with olive oil, season to taste, roast until very tender and caramelised (approximately 1 hour).  Leave to cool.

2.  Meanwhile, heat the butter and olive oil in a large, heavy-bottomed pot, over a medium-high flame and saute the pancetta until crisping along the edges.  

3.  Reduce the flame to medium and add the onion, sauteing until they become soft and translucent.   Add the garlic and stir through well and saute gently and briefly - you don't want the garlic to burn.  

4.  Take the pan off the heat.   Scoop the pumpkin from its shells, and add to the pot.  Pour over the chicken stock, stir the lot, and turn the heat back on to medium high.  If you have that left over heel of parmesan,  add it now.  Bring the soup to the near-boill and continue to simmer, partially covered and stirring occasionally (approximately 20 minutes).  

5.  Remove the parmesan heel and puree using a hand-held blender wand until very smooth.

6.  Add a generous handful of finely grated parmesan and a good slug of red wine vinegar, blend again to incorporate.  Season to taste, and you're done.

7.   Optional:  If you want to be fancy-pantsy, you could make some parmesan toast by combining equal parts softened butter and finely grated parmesan, plus one finely chopped garlic clove, spreading the mixture over thin baguette slices and grilling.  

Other soups on permanent rotation at our place include:

• Chicken Noodle;
• Minestrone; 
• Mushroom; and
• Tomato.

Extra-Rich Golden Lemon Curd

Things I love about Melbourne:

Lying in bed, and hearing the tram turn the corner.   

Buzzing cafes, spilling over, morning, noon and night.  

Nearly every coffee is a great coffee.

Thriving, independent bookstores, filled with real, actual books. 

Endless pockets of quirky, one-off shops.

Old and new sitting well together.

The attention to design and style in almost everything.

Things I hate about Melbourne:

The weather.  

Winter has been dark, wet and dreary, as evidenced by my shadowy, window-lit pics.  

A feeble complaint from a girl who grew up praying for snow days and trudging through slush, perhaps, but I've gone soft.

Luckily, nature is sometimes merciful.

Just when you think you can't stand another day of gumboots and inverted umbrellas, lemons appear.

Edible sunshine.

Spreadable sunshine, actually, if you meld them with eggs, sugar, and butter to make Extra-Rich Golden Lemon Curd.

Two things set this recipe, adapted from la Martha, apart:

1. egg yolks - six, to be exact, and not a white in sight.  A yolk-only approach makes for a richer, thicker curd.  You could go with three whole eggs, for a lighter result, but why?
2. straining - not once, but twice.  First, the egg yolks and, later, the final emulsion.  When you see what's left in the sieve, you'll be glad you did. 

The result from this ridiculously simple recipe is a decadent pot of goodness - or badness, depending upon how you look at it.

I went through a half-loaf of bread to get these shots.

The props kept disappearing.

But I forgot all about the weather.

Extra-Rich Lemon Curd

Adapted from Martha Stewart's 1995 recipe.

Yield: 1.5 cups

Ingredients

6 organic egg yolks, beaten

1 cup sugar

1/2 cup lemon juice, strained

1/2 cup unsalted butter, chilled and cut into small pieces

1 Tbs lemon zest, grated

Directions

1.  Start by sterilizing a glass jar for your finished product.

2.  Locate the perfect pot: it should be heavy-based and medium-sized, to reduce your odds of winding up with scrambled eggs.

3.  Separate your eggs, reserving the whites for a future meringue - or egg white omelet, should you feel the need to repent.  Egg whites can be frozen - just be sure to label them so you know how many you are dealing with later.

4.  Beat the yolks until smooth and strain through a fine mesh sieve, directly into the saucepan.  Don't push what remains through the sieve; you don't want it in there.

5.  Grate the zest from one lemon and set aside.

6.  Add the lemon juice and sugar to the egg yolk and stir to combine.

7.  Over a low, gentle heat, stir continuously for 10-15 minutes, until the mixture coats the back of a wooden spoon.

8.  Remove from the heat and pour through a clean sieve, into a mixing bowl.

9.  Swiftly add the chilled butter pieces and mix through - this will lend a satiny sheen as well as cool your mixture.

10.  Add the grated lemon zest - 1 Tbs if you are going regulation, more if you prefer extra pucker.

11.  Make a piece of toast with white bread only - the kind you'd never admit to buying.  Spread your toast with salted butter.  Slather it with your lemon curd.  Repeat as necessary.

12.  Transfer what remains to your glass container and refrigerate.

In theory, it will keep for two weeks, but I suspect we'll never know.  

Books On The Bedside Table

After a series of false starts that left me wondering when, if ever, I would again feel the exquisite agony of a brilliant book coming to an end, I struck gold with four consecutive winners.

I lost a lot of beauty sleep, but they were (nearly) worth every wrinkle.  Enjoy.  

Bring Up The Bodies by Hillary Mantel.
The magic of Hilary Mantel is that she makes history utterly contemporary and - incredibly - suspenseful.  We know the ending, but can't stop turning the pages to find out, What next?

In Wolf Hall, the Man-Booker Prize-winning first installment in her phenomenal trilogy, Mantel chronicles the rise and rise of Thomas Cromwell, a man of low birth and obscure background, who transforms himself into Henry VIII's most trusted advisor by negotiating his marriage to Anne Boleyn, and, consequently, England's separation from Rome.

As Bring Up The Bodies opens, Anne has failed to deliver the male heir she's promised Henry and her witty barbs, once charming, have begun to chafe.  Henry is now in the market for a more fertile and complacent companion, and, once again, Cromwell must clear the way for the king's remarriage.  Spanning nine pivotal months, the book concentrates on the three weeks during which Anne falls definitely out of favor and is arrested, tried and executed.  Cromwell survives the woman whose fortunes raised his own, but realizes it's only a matter of time before his own head is on a stake.

If, like me, you can't get enough, listen to this author interview.  The wait for book three is excruciating.

Note: if you were off-put by pronoun confusion in Wolf Hall (I often found myself rereading passages to confirm who was speaking or being referred to), good news - Mantel has addressed this issue.  The pages of Bringing Up The Bodies will fly through your fingers.

The Hare With Amber Eyes by Edmund de Waal
To the bookseller who warned that the first 175 pages might be a slog, as it was all a bit academic: (a) I don't know what you were talking about, and (b) nothing could have put me off after reading the opening chapter.  Pitch perfect.  It's hardly fair that, as one of the worlds leading contemporary ceramicists, writing isn't even his day job.

In this epic memoir, Edmund de Waal tells his family's history by tracing the origin and progression of his unique inheritance: a collection of 264 Japanese netsuke carvings.  His appearance at the Sydney Writers' Festival (listen here) had the audience (and this at-home listener) in tears.  Unforgettable.

The Stranger's Child by Alan Hollinghurst.
You could be forgiven for coming away from The Stranger's Child with the understanding that everyone in early 20th century England was secretly gay.   That said, I was mesmerized by Hollinghurst's extraordinary capacity for conjuring so perfectly the internal dialogue of every character, and the shifting nuances of every one of their social encounters, as the narrative changed perspective and period.  Incredibly powerful writing, and a compelling storyline.  I was under the doona with a flashlight, way, way past my bedtime.

All That I Am by Anna Funder
Is it right to issue a review before actually finishing the book?  I am applying the love-at-first-sight rule and, saying, YES.  I stumbled into this one - it was a gift and I deliberately didn't read the jacket notes.  So glad that I did.  I'll do you the same favor by not commenting on the text, but simply urge you to pick it up.  I am 1/3 of the way through and could barely put it down to t y p e t  h  i  s   ....

Soup, For Whatever Ails You

We are in weakened state, with two boys down and a mother rapidly following suit.

This calls for Chicken Noodle Soup.

Like all great recipes, it's not so much original as it is reinterpreted.

Inspired by Jora, who was inspired by a friend, this has evolved to become my go-to sick-bed recipe.

The chicken is cooked in stock, rather than in water to make stock, resulting in a broth that is doubly rich and golden.

The lemon juice (just a squeeze) is the super-duper, not-to-be-overlooked secret ingredient that puts it over the top.

Double chicken flavour, with a hint of vitamin C.

Potent stuff.

I hope you and yours are well, but if not, make this and you soon will be.



Chicken Noodle Soup

1 whole free-range chicken
1 litre chicken stock (I used Cambell's Low-Sodium in a carton - don't judge me)
3 carrots chopped (I like mine smallish)
3 celery stalks with leaves, chopped (ditto)
1 large or two small onions, chopped
1 Tbs lemon juice
1 handful of continental parsely, chopped fine
1 packet flat egg noodles (optional)

Put the chicken in a large pot and add the stock.  If the liquid doesn't quite cover the bird, top it up with water from the kettle.  Bring to a boil.  Lower the heat and simmer, partially covered.  Cook gently for 40-ish minutes (I like my chicken slow-cooked and tender, but be careful: if you let it go too long it will become stringy and mealy.  Yuck).  Remove the chicken from the pot to a platter.

Melt a knob of butter in a large frying pan, add the carrots, celery and onion and saute without browning, until the onion is translucent and the carrot and celery begin to soften.  Add to the broth and simmer away.

Meanwhile, remove the skin from the chicken and pull the meat apart into bite-sized strips.  (I set the white meat aside to be used in sandwiches and salads, returning only the darker meat to the pot).

Now, for the noodles: I cook mine in a wire basket submerged in the pot of broth and vegetables - this way, the noodles get great flavor and I can lift them out of the pot in one motion, store them in a separate container and add as needed, without worrying about them getting mushy, or leave them out entirely, as individual tastes demand.

Return the meat to the pot, add the all-import squeeze of lemon, and tip in the parsley.

Put noodles in bowls, ladle hot soup over noodles, and watch it disappear.


Image via Seabold Vintage Market - I love everything in this shop.

Heavy Rotation: Polenta, Goat's Curd & Tomato Salad

This dish, first enjoyed at my lovely neighbor Catherine's, haunted me for days before I finally got my act together and made it.

It has been on heavy dinner rotation ever since.

CB, who normally dismisses anything leafy as inadequate for the evening meal, devours it every time.

The key lies in the sizzling chorizo and grilled polenta - both hearty and hot enough to keep things from drifting into girly salad territory.

When serving myself, I double up on spinach and tomatoes and cut back on polenta and sausage, thus deferring my inevitable trip to the cardiologist for another day.

Meat for him, salad for her, and everyone is happy.

Polenta, Mozzerella Goat's Curd And Tomato Salad 
(adapted from Donna Hay's Magazine, 50th Issue Edition, Warm Salads article)
serves 4

3 cups (750ml) chicken stock
1 cup instant polenta
60g butter, chopped
 ½ cup (40g) 1 cup finely grated parmesan
sea sald and cracked black pepper
extra-virgin olive oil, for drizzling
300g truss cherry tomatoes
2 chorizo, sliced
80g 125g baby spinach leaves
360g buffalo mozzerela, torn ½ cup goat's curd

dressing
2 tablespoons white balsamic vinegar
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 clove garlic, crushed minced

Preheat oven to 220℃ (425℉).  Place the stock in a saucepan over medium heat and bring to the boil.  Gradually whisk in the polenta and cook, stirring for 2-3 minutes or until thickened.  Remove from heat and stir through the butter, parmesan, salt and pepper.  (At this point, I found my polenta to be too thick and mealy; by adding a bit of hot water, just a splash at a time, I eventually got the creamy - not runny - consistency and volume I was after.  Play this step by ear.)  Pour into a lightly greased 20cm X 20cm tin and refrigerate for 45 minutes or until set.  Turn out onto a board and cut into wedges.  Place on a lightly greased baking try and drizzle with oil.  Roast for 15 minutes or until golden and crisp.  Set aside and keep warm.

While the polenta is roasting, make the dressing.  Place the vinegar, oil and garlic in a bowl and stir to combine.  Pour the vinegar and garlic into a glass jar, season with sea salt and ground pepper, screw on the lid and shake until the salt disolves.  Add the oil and shake vigorously until the dressing is emulsified. Set aside.

Place the tomatoes and chorizo on a baking tray and drizzle with oil.  Roast for 3-5 minutes or until the chorizo is crisp and the tomatoes are tender.  Scatter the spinach leaves on the plates or platter, top with the polenta, followed by the tomatoes and chorizo.  Dot with goat's curd and spoon over the dressing.

Enjoy.

Thick, Chewy Granola Bars

I have just made my third batch of Thick, Chewy Granola Bars in as many days.

After spying this recipe, I thought:

Gluten-Free.

Easily customized.

Breakfast on the go.

Freezable. (Yes, I am obsessed. And on the hunt for a deep-freeze.)

Perfect.

The first batch never made it out of the pan, let alone all the way to the freezer.

The second batch included some modifications intended to dial down the treat factor and amp up the nutritional value.

Apparently, these alterations were not sufficient, as their sweetness led to a topsy-turvy argument with my seven year old:

After downing a bar in record time yesterday morning, he asked, "What's for breakfast?"

"What do you mean?" I asked. "That was breakfast."

Speaking slowly, in a tone usually reserved for folks teetering on window ledges, this child, who wouldn't normally touch a nut or an oat for love or money, explained,

"That wasn't breakfast... that was a treat. Where are the eggs?"

He may have a point.

But this is a treat I am feeling pretty darn good about.

The recipe says to let the bars cool for 20 minutes before cutting, but I defy you not to eat them warm, straight out of the pan.

Especially if you include a handful of dark chocolate chips.

I did. Hence the need for batch number three.

Here's my take on Thick, Chewy Granola Bars:

1⅓ cups quick rolled oats

½-¾ cup evaporated cane juice¹

⅓ cup almond meal²

1 tsp salt

¼ tsp cinnamon

3 cups mixed fruits, nuts and seeds³

⅓ cup natural peanut butter

1 tbs vanilla

6 tbs melted butter

¼ cup maple syrup

2 tbs light corn syrup

1 tbs water

Preheat the oven to 180ºC/350ºF. Lightly grease a square pan and line with baking paper. Combine the dry ingredients, including the fruit and nuts. In a separate bowl, whisk together the wet ingredients, including the peanut butter. Add the wet ingredients to the dry and combine until moist and crumbly. Spread the mixture into the square pan and, using a large piece of cling wrap as a barrier, press the mixture down using your hands until it is firmly packed and evenly spread. Bake for 30-40 minutes, until the edges brown and the top is golden. Allow it to cool in the pan (if you can resist nibbling) before cutting and wrapping individually. May be stored in the freezer.

Notes

1. Evaporated cane juice (a sugar cane product) is a less refined alternative to the regular sugar in the original recipe.

2. The original recipe called for 1/3 cup of finely ground oats (blitzed in a food processor), but I swapped it for almond meal for added protein and because my food processor has died.

3. I used 3 cups of: dried cherries, chopped; toasted almonds, chopped; pistachios; sunflower kernels, pepitas; shredded coconut; and a small handful of dark chocolate chips or finely chopped 70% dark chocolate.

Roast Beetroot, Goat Cheese & Walnut Salad

Have you heard about food52? I just did.

Sadly, I was too late to enter the "Your Best Beet" contest, but reading about it triggered memories of this salad that I simply could not shake.

The craving had to be satisfied and at lunchtime today, it was.

And it's a good thing I was alone.

Earthy beets, creamy chevre, tart vinaigrette, crisp grassy cress and sweet, crunchy walnuts.

One serve was not enough.

Roast Beet, Goat Cheese & Walnut Salad

serves 2

2 beets

1 bunch watercress

1 handful walnuts, toasted and chopped roughly

1/4 log chevre, crumbled

2 Tbs chives, chopped fine

Walnut Vinaigrette

juice from 1/2 lemon

sea salt, to taste

1/4 cup walnut oil, or to taste

Preheat the oven to 180º C. Wrap the beets in aluminum foil and cook on a baking sheet for two hours, until tender. Set the beets aside to cool with the aluminum still on; once cooled, their rough outer skin will easily slip off. Cut the beats into roughly 1 inch cubes and set aside. Wash and dry the watercress, discarding any rough stems. Make the vinaigrette, dissolving the sea salt in the juice of 1/2 lemon, before adding walnut oil. Taste test with a lettuce leaf and adjust, if necessary. Toast the walnuts and chop roughly - you don't want lots of walnut dust. Toss the watercress with the vinaigrette and pile onto the plate(s). Toss the beets in some vinaigrette and scatter around the watercress. Sprinkle the lot with chevre, walnuts and chives. Tuck in.

Sunday Night Supper: Crustless Onion Quiche

This recipe has everything.

It is inexpensive, easy, simultaneously light and rich, vegetarian and low-carb (if you care about such things) and, most importantly, delicious.

Which is why it has been a household favorite for ten years running.

Served alongside a green salad and a chilly glass of white wine, Crustless Onion Quiche is the perfect Sunday Night Supper.

The recipe comes from one my most loved and well worn cookbooks, Patricia Wells At Home In Provence: Recipes Inspired By Her Farmhouse In France.

It is a classic.

If you associate French food with heavy sauces and feats of culinary contortion performed by grouchy men in toques, open this book and be inspired.

Patricia's approach is everything I love: seasonal, simple, sophisticated, grounded.

Hers is real home cooking, that has neither been dumbed-down nor requires a degree from Cordon Bleu.

Patricia suggests serving the quiche warm, 'cut into thin wedges'.

I divided the entire dish into four equal slabs and it was gone seconds later.

The proof, my friends, is in the empty dish.

Enjoy.

Crustless Onion Quiche, from Patricia Wells At Home In Provence

500g/1 lb onions, peeled

3 Tbsp unsalted butter

1 Tbsp fresh thyme leaves

Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste

Freshly grated nutmeg, to taste*

4 large eggs

1/4 cup whole milk

3 Tbsp heavy cream

Preheat the oven to 220ºC/425ºF. Generously butter the bottom and sides of a pie dish. Slice the onions in half lengthwise. Place cut side down on a cutting board and slice crosswise into very thin slices. In a large unheated skillet, combine the onions, butter, thyme, salt, pepper and nutmeg. Sweat over moderate heat, covered, until the onions are soft , about 8 minutes. They should not carmelize or turn brown. Taste for seasoning and set aside. Crack the eggs into a medium-size bowl and whisk just to blend. Whisk in the milk and cream. Season with salt and pepper. Transfer the onions to the prepared pie dish, smoothing them out with the back of a spoon. Pour the egg mixture over the onions. Season with additional pepper and nutmeg. Place in the center of the oven and bake until the top is a deep golden brown and the custard is firm, about 30 minutes. To test for doneness, insert the tip of a knife in the center of the quiche; it is done when the knife comes out clean. Do not underbake or the quiche will be mushy, not firm. Let sit for 5 minutes to firm up.

*Note: the freshly grated nutmeg is key; if you substitute ground nutmeg, you will not get the desired result.

Breakfast

This summer, while my parents were visiting from America, I found myself opening Bills Sydney Food (Bill Granger's first and best cookbook) again and again.  

For all overseas visitors to our house, it is required eating.

There are several reasons for this:

1. That book epitomizes every-day Australian cooking at its best - fresh, flavourful, not overly teased or done-up.  

2. A pan-toasted sandwich with tomato and fontina, or a bowl of banana maple porridge with buttered stone fruit, is the best kind of short-hand for "Welcome To Australia."  

3.  When it comes to breakfast, Bill is king.  

Last night, I whipped up a loaf of his Coconut Bread.  

It is famously marked "never to be replaced" on the menu at bills (the restaurant), so you know it's good. 

Serve it in thick toasted slices, with a dusting of icing/confectioner's sugar, butter, lime marmalade - this is key - and a pot of strong coffee.

Heaven.

p.s. I will be taking Bill's advice and stashing a few slices in the freezer, for chilly mornings when I'd rather be in the Caribbean.  

Coconut Bread from Bill's Sydney Food

makes 8-10 slices

2 eggs

300 ml (10 fl oz) milk

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

2 teaspoons baking powder

2.5 cups plain (all-purpose) flour

2 teaspoons cinnamon

1 cup caster (superfine) sugar

150 g (5 oz) shredded coconut

75 g (2.5 oz) unsalted butter, melted

to serve

butter

lime marmalade

Preheat oven to 180°C/350°F.  Lightly whisk eggs, milk and vanilla together.  

Sift flour, baking powder and cinnamon into a bowl, add sugar and coconut, and stir to combine.  (Note: I always use self-raising flour and skip the addition of baking powder and it works just as well, if not better.)  Make a well in the centre and gradually stir in the egg mixture until just combined.  Add melted butter and stir until the mixture is just smooth, being careful not to over-mix.

Pour into a greased and floured 21 x 10 cm (8.5 x 4 inch) loaf tin and bake in the preheated oven for 1 hour, or until bread is cooked when tested with a skewer.  

Leave in the tin to cool for 5 minutes, and remove to cool further on a wire rack.  

Sunday Night

An organic rabbit pie from my favorite shop;

Fig, Pancetta & Blue Cheese Salad;

Australian Open Men's Finals on television;

And a chilly glass of the local sauvignon blanc.  

Love the end of summer.

Fig, Pancetta & Blue Cheese Salad

For the salad, crisp the pancetta with a bit of olive oil, either in a frying pan with a bit or on a baking sheet under the grill/broiler.  Slice figs in halve or quarters, depending upon how big they are.  Place them on a baking sheet lined with aluminum foil, cut side up.  Top with dabs of butter and sprinkle with brown sugar.  Grill/broil until the sugar carmelizes.  

For the dressing, mince a shallot and combine with sherry vinegar, salt and black pepper.  If you have the time to let this mixture macerate, all the better.  Add a bit of crumbled blue cheese, some drippings from the fig pan (there should be plenty of buttery, sugary, figgy liquid) and a bit of olive oil.  I always mix my dressing up in a glass jar with a tightly-fitting lid.  Shake, shake, shake, taste for seasoning by dipping in a leaf of rocket, and adjust as necessary.  Pour over the rocket, sprinkle with blue cheese, top with lightly crumbled pancetta and adorn with figs.  

Beautiful.  

Love Letter, Of A Different Sort

Dear Husband,

I hate to do this in a blog post, but we’re modern people, and I thought you should know: 

I have found my soul mate. 

Culinary, that is.

His name is Nigel.

I love him despite this.

He cooks. 

He eats.

He writes.  

I have been reading his diary, and let me tell you:

The man can put a sentence together.

He’s English and bangs on about crazy things like trifles, mullet, and blood pudding, but it doesn’t matter. 

We are of one mind. 

Listen:

“When I say butter, I mean unsalted.  When I say sugar, I mean the unrefined golden stuff from Mauritius.  Pepper is ground from a mill as I need it and not, absolutely not, ever bought ready ground.  Oh, and when I refer to a grill pan, I mean one of those heavy ridged cast-iron grill pans that sits on the hob.  You can now get them quite easily from cookware shops and department stores.”

Okay, so I've never bought sugar from Mauritius.  

I didn't even know sugar could come from Mauritius.

It doesn't matter.  

Sugar pretensions aside, his food is uncomplicated, but inspiring; simple, but not mundane.

Seasonal, honest, and real.

He had me at hello.

I hope you understand and can put jealously aside to enjoy his food. 

We’ll be eating lots of it, starting with this:

Nigel understands that bacon makes everything better.

What more can I say?

Love, 

Kate

p.s. My heart is still yours, even if my stomach belongs to him.  I think you know who has the firmer end of the deal.    

images from www.nigelslater.com

Gift Giving: Teachers

Tomorrow is the last day of school before Christmas holidays, which means that it is time for Advent Calendar Activity #9: Make teachers' gifts.  

Last year, we proudly presented lemon-iced shortbread only to realize that each teacher had received her own weight in cookies.

This year, we aimed for something a bit different: Granola.  

Actually, I stole this idea from my friend, Sharron.  

When I heard that she'd be giving friends her own interpretation of my granola, instead of her usual sweets, I was (a) flattered and (b) jealous that I hadn't thought of doing that myself.  

So, with Wayne Newton crooning Jingle Bells (the American version) in the background, the boys spent the evening scooping granola into mason jars and labeling manila baggage tags, while I wrote out ingredients and serving suggestions.  

As I did so, I wondered: 

If I were a primary school teacher, what would I be wishing for?

a glass of champagne?

an extra week's holiday?

an apology?

I hope my sons' teachers will settle for granola.  

They might, being far better people than I.  

And after all, it is good granola.  

p.s.  If you are making cookies, this is how we wrapped ours last year.  

Very simple: brown paper lunch bags, some ribbon, a hole puncher, an ornament or two, and you're done.  

The boys assembled the bird ornaments based on a DIY from the now defunct Domino; I would share the link but, sadly, it now shuttles you Architectural Digest - totally unsatisfying.  

We looped the ribbon at the top of the package through the ribbons attached to the birds and the baubles, so it all stays together.  Too easy.

Summer, Made Edible

Is there anything sweeter than the first corn of the season?  

 Technically, we may be jumping the gun, but temperatures dictated that we pull out this tin. 

Record breaking heat-waves in November (for those in America, think May) are just plain scary, but we chose to embrace the upside, with butter dribbling down our chins.

  

And summer (however early) would not be summer without this salad.  Fresh, cool, simple, delicious.

Tomato Basil & Goats Cheese Salad

Three tomatoes on the vine, sliced 1/4 inch thick

1/2 bunch basil leaves

1/2 red onion, thinly sliced

1/4 jar marinated goats cheese 

red wine vinaigrette 

Layer the tomatoes, slightly overlapping, on a platter, seasoned with sea salt and freshly cracked black pepper, and dress lightly with Red Wine Vinaigrette.  Top with basil leaves, pinches of marinated goat's cheese, and a sprinkling of red onion.  Done.

For the Red Wine Vinaigrette

Why anyone would ever buy commercial dressing is simply beyond me, when it is so easy and guaranteed to be better, fresher, cheaper, and so darn easy.  

1 French shallot, finely chopped

Red Wine Vinegar, to taste 

Sea salt and freshly cracked black pepper

Extra-virgin olive oil

Small piece of marinated goats cheese, crumbled 

Combine shallot, salt, pepper and vinegar in a jar with a tightly fitting lid and shake.  Do not hold back on the salt and pepper - season generously  and dissolve the salt in the vinegar, remembering that you'll be adding a fair bit of olive oil later.  If you have the time, all the better to then pop this combination macerate for a few hours or over-night.  Add the goats cheese and olive oil to taste (I like my dressing quite sharp - almost equal parts vinegar:oil).  Shake the jar until the dressing is emulsified, then test the seasoning by dipping in a lettuce leaf  (or, in this case, basil), and adjust as necessary.  

No-Knead Bread

For a long time, I have dreamed about being the kind of mother who fills the house with the smell of fresh baked-bread, and all the calm and tranquility that aroma suggests. 

As it turns out, I am the kind of mom who considers it a personal triumph if everyone gets to school wearing the right uniform on the right day. 

The need to prepare dinner comes as a daily shock - "What?  Again?  Didn't I just do that yesterday?"  

And, too often, the tenor of the house, or at least the woman running it, tends towards shrill, not chill.  

But, as of 3 weeks ago, I do bake bread.  

'Little Red Hen bread', as WB dubbed it, on sight.  Not because I made it myself (though I did - it was 10 o'clock at night) but because it looks exactly like the illustration in our Little Golden Book.

In fact, it is Jim Lahey's No-Knead Bread, which I have been meaning to attempt it ever since reading about it The New York Times, three years ago.  

I wish I could say that three years on the to-do list is a personal record, but it isn't. 

Mr. Lahey's recipe calls for straight white flour, but, in deference to DB's wheat intolerance, I substituted spelt flour, which accounts for the density and color.  

It was spelt, but it was delicious.  

I suspect if you slather enough butter and jam on anything, it will taste delicious, but this loaf disappeared fast.  

And, it was just as easy as Mr. Lahey promised it would be.  So easy, that half-way through my first bite I was fantasizing about making it every other day.  

That was three weeks and one loaf ago.  

But I live in hope.