the story of how I learnt to make yoghurt

The story of how I learnt to make yoghurt is not a simple one. It spans some 5 years and two continents. It begins just after I finished my undergraduate degree, when I spent a year in India, getting lost and trying to find myself again. As you do when you are 24. During that time, I spent a couple of months volunteering in a Buddhist nunnery teaching English in the Gompa. The nunnery was in the far north of India, in a place called Zanskar, a mountain range that runs on the Tibetan side of the Himalayas. Being in the rain-shadow of the tallest mountain range in the world, Zanskar is something like a desert, it never rains and vegetation on the surrounding slopes is scarce. But in the valleys where there are glacial streams, fluorescent green fields make a stark contrast to the moonscape hills. Here the grass grows with a certain urgency learnt through evolution in a land where warmth and water are ungenerous.

But signs of life are not restricted to the stream soaked valleys. On the hill tops prayer flags beat in the winds, some are very old, worn and tattered with almost all their prayers lifted to the breeze. Fossils scatter the myriad of paths that weave their way out of town along scree slopes and over mountain ridges. These benthic remnants a reminder that this very landscape was once hundreds of meters below the ocean.

My journey to Zanskar begins in Leh, with a 26 hour bus ride covering some 400km to take me to the remote valley. As you can imagine, the road is very rough. Because I booked late, I don’t have a seat and so have to make do with the floor where I wedge my way into a somewhat comfortable space between the luggage that fills the aisle. I am not the only one and soon a man falls asleep on my back and another on my knees. After 10 hours of this and with the knowledge of 16 more to go, I begin to feel agitated, my legs and back cramped. From my place on the floor I glance up at a boy standing at the front of the bus without even room to sit. He is smiling and in his smile my anger subsides. The easy nature of the locals and their open acceptance of each situation is contagious. Like other times when I have traveled to developing countries, I am struck by what lessons we have forgotten in a privileged and wealthy world. Not long after, a girl sitting on the seat next to me offers me her lap to rest my head. Gratefully I fall asleep there for an hour or two. Later I find out she is from Zangla, the small village where I  will be teaching.

When we finally arrive, tired and dirty from the dusty road, it is late, so I spend the night with the girl from the bus in her family home. Their house is like all the rest in the village, made from mud and cow dung, two stories high, with a flat roof loaded with fodder, wood and dried cow dung to burn in the coming winter.

The next morning I walk through a flowered field woven with a myriad of creeks and streams running to the river. There I wash in water clear as glass before walking the short distance to the Gompa that sits on a small hill on the far side of the village. I am nervous to meet the nuns as they have no way of knowing I am coming, but I am greeted with warm smiles and open laughter.

During my time at the monastery, my relationship with the nuns becomes more like a friend than a teacher and maybe this is why at times it is difficult to get them to come to class. Many of the nuns don’t have much of an interest in learning English, except maybe male and female body parts for which they have abundant enthusiasm. But it makes me question what I am doing. What is the purpose of teaching English? Is it not just another form of cultural imperialism? I still don’t really know the answer to this, but I do know that I am there with others who came before and after me. With a growing number of tourists visiting the region each year and with increasing access to the outside world, western influences are unavoidable. And in general, such change is welcomed by the locals, because with it comes a higher standard of living, the ability to join the rest of the world, to “develop”, to “progress”. I realise I am more sentimental than many of the locals in regard to the loss of traditions and the damage to land and culture that comes with such pursuits. But as I learn from the Buddhists that live there, nothing is permanent, change for good or for bad is inevitable. So perhaps as westerners we should focus on learning from our own mistakes and try to assist those who are following in our footsteps to take on a more sustainable path. Because of this I allow myself some small reassurance that in some tiny way, I am giving the nuns some of the skills they need to communicate with the outside world, so they can speak up and voice their needs and concerns in a shifting landscape. But it is small comfort in light of the stories of rapidly retreating glaciers, water sources drying up, the brain drain as educated children chose to live in far off cities, the introduction of white flour, sugar, packaged food and the plastic litter building up in a place with no formal rubbish disposal system.

So I spend my time practicing the art of just being and trying to help where I could, teaching in the school with the younger nuns, offering small informal English lessons here and there and lending a hand with the cooking.

The kitchen is a good place to be because it is where the nuns meet. Warm and cheeky they laugh and hoot slapping one another on the legs as they sit cross-legged at the low tables lining one wall of the large room. This is where I watch them making yoghurt. Taken fresh, straight from Pashi the Gompa’s resident cow, they heat the milk over a large pot-bellied stove in the middle of the room. Just as the milk starts to simmer but before it boils they pull it off the heat allowing it to cool to the temperature of a hot bath before stirring in a tablespoon or so of yoghurt left over from the last batch. The whole pot is then wrapped in a thick woollen blanket and placed in a corner of the kitchen until the next day when it is eaten with ladakhi bread and butter tea for breakfast.

I became very fond of Pashi and her calf Patel. They were a handsome pair, golden blond with strongly defined features. Their stable was next to my room and at night I could hear them moving around. It would give me great comfort. In the evenings I liked to bring Pashi back from the fields where she would be tethered on a grassy knoll. I remember the pleasure in the simplicity of it all, walking the cow home with the summer breeze on my face and playing in my skirt.

My room was also made of mud and cow dung, a little square that I could just lie down in. It had a small window and a small door I had to double over in to enter. When it was windy the roof sprinkled dirt to the floor.  I remember the scene vividly from my little window.  At dusk small birds with round bellies and orange tails would sit outside. I would try to be very quiet then, any movement and they would fly away. As night would draw, the moon illuminated the land with a pale yellow grey light and the shadows of the clouds played on the mountain tops.

Some days I would walk to the river, its fast current tempting me, full of the energy of the mountains and sky from which it came. To get there I would walk past Mane walls, ancient inscriptions on flat stones piled together. Who placed those first rocks there sending Om Mane Padme Hum to all ends of the earth? The valley big and broad with barely any landmarks, I would lose perspective of distance, everything seemed closer than it really was. Zhos (a cross between a yak and a cow) grazed on the fertile strips where a creek met the river’s edge. I would watch the herders bring them together and drive them home. At the river the current was hypnotising, eddies running in all directions and waves appearing to move upstream.

Other days I would follow the small stream up behind the Gompa into a canyon that became narrower and narrower drawing nearer to its source. There in the rock pools I would swim comfortably naked and alone among the pastel green, maroon, and orange of the boulders. The water as glass, streamed crystal clear over the rocks, like cloth falling over the landscape, cool enough to make me gasp but warm enough to linger a while.

One night stands out to me in particular. It was nearing the end of my time in Zanskar and we couldn’t find Pashi. She was not in the field where we had left her and must have broken her tether. One of the nuns and I went looking for her down by the river. The moon was half full in the sky and bright enough to lead the way, the stars half obscured by clouds. The green field in the flat of the river ran with small streams and shone moist. The beauty caught my breath. We spent two hours wandering along the water’s edge, through fields and along stone-walled pastures. Finally, defeated, we walked back to the village through the sweet smell of mustard in flower. Back at the Gompa we found Pashi tethered to her stable. One of the other nuns had found her and brought her back whilst we were gone. By now it was late and I climbed back into my mouse-hole room only to find I couldn’t sleep. The freshness of the night was still on my skin and in my mind, the stars shining on me.

My last day in Zangla, I woke up from my small window to see the sun’s first rays on the fresh snow-capped mountains turning from grey to orange to yellow and finally to white as the day began. My sleeping bag was slightly wet from rare rain that had fallen that night. After breakfast the nuns filled my bag with chapatis’ for my journey to Leh. Way to many for me to eat by myself but they insisted I take them all. We heard the bus coming so running out the door, kataks thick around my neck it finally sunk in that I was leaving and tears pricked my cheeks. I climbed onto the roof of the bus. From there the nuns looked so sweet waving in their maroon robes framed by the Gompa and the Himalayas. The fresh morning and the smiling mountains felt good on my damp cheeks. I was full with the privilege to have lived a little in their world.

How to make Yoghurt

Before going to Zanskar, I had always been put off by the idea of making yoghurt as every recipe I had come across called for either a yoghurt-maker or thermometer, making it all seem far to complicated. But after seeing the nuns do it, I realised all you really needed was a large pot, a warm  place, a blanket and a bit of careful watching.

But still I kept putting it off and it wasn’t until a year ago when I was asked to give a fermentation workshop at CERES that I decided I better give it a go. I couldn’t even pretend to be an expert if I had never made yoghurt before. So I started researching. It turned out I didn’t need to go far.  In my bookshelf  was my much-loved copy of Wild Fermentation and in it a recipe for Yoghurt that doesn’t use a yoghurt maker or a thermometer. This was what I’d been waiting for.

The most important thing you need when making yoghurt is a warm and cosy place to rest it in. I usually pre-heat a small Esky by filling it up with hot water from the tap. I then empty it, dry it out and fill it with towels and if it is winter and really cold, a hot water bottle or some jars filled with warm water as well. But really what you need is a place  that will cool down very slowly. I have also heard of people making yoghurt in a thermos and I’m sure this could work too.

Yoghurt Recipe makes 1 litre

Equipment

1 litre jar
Insulated cooler/esky

Ingredients

1 litre whole organic milk
1 Tbsp fresh yoghurt (check it has live cultures)

Method

Pre – heat your jar and cooler with hot water, so that they won’t drain heat once you pour in your yoghurt.

Slowly heat your milk, paying close attention, until tiny bubbles start to form but before it starts to boil (if you have a thermometer, this is 80°C/180°F). Stir frequently to avoid burning the milk. The heating is not absolutely necessary, but it helps to get thicker yoghurt.

Allow the milk to cool until it still feels hot but is not so hot that you can’t keep a clean finger in it. You can quicken the cooling process by placing your saucepan in a bowl of cold water. But be careful it doesn’t cool too much. The optimum temperature is as mentioned above – about 40°C/110°F).

Mix the starter yoghurt into the milk. Make sure you don’t get tempted to add more yoghurt thinking it will help to make a thicker  end result as it will do the opposite. Poor into your jar, screw on the lid and place in your pre heated “incubator”. If you see fit, add some jars with warm water and/or a hot water bottle (with warm water in it) to help maintain the temperature. Leave in a place where it won’t be disturbed as it doesn’t like being jostled.

After 8 – 12 hours, check on your yoghurt. It should have developed a “tangy flavour and some thickness” .

Store in the fridge and consume within 4 weeks, saving some for your next batch.

Finally, make sure you have a look at how to make Labnah cheese from yoghurt here and some of the things you can do with Labnah here.

pho

Its been two and a half months since we moved to Darwin. In that time, I have started making a basket out of scrap material collected over my 29 years, made huge amounts of pickled cucumbers, watched far to many murder mysteries, tried to commit myself to balancing on my head at least once a day, finally got a job, and consumed large quantities of pho. AND pho could just so happen to be the very best thing that has happened to me since I arrived. A traditional Vietnamese soup, it’s so easy to make, and so so tasty.

As I have learnt, there are a few things you need to consider when making pho. The first is your stock. I always recommend people make their own stock out of organic meat, rather than buying it from the store. Not just because it tastes so much better but because homemade stock is very very good for you.

For pho, I have made and used stock from chicken, beef and fish. All work well, just adding a slightly different flavour. Just remember that fish stock can be quite strong, so adjust the quantities as needed.

The next thing you need to consider is the herbs you garnish your pho with. My favourite by far is Thai basil, but you can also use coriander, mint and traditional basil or combinations of each.

How to make stock

To make stock, I usually use the leftover bones and carcass from the previous nights roast dinner (about 1 – 2 kg). If I haven’t had a roast in a while, I will sometimes use 4 chicken drumsticks instead. I will place them in a large pot with one or two bay leaves and a good pinch of salt. Some people add vegetable scraps too and you can if you want. This is then covered with water, (about 4 – 6 litres) and brought to the boil before leaving to simmer for 3 – 4 hours, skimming the scum as needed. This can then be frozen into serve size portions (say two cups each) and used when needed. It will keep in the fridge for about 4 days and in the freezer for 3 – 4 months.

Pho (serves 4)

For the broth

4 cups stock
4 cups water
4 star anise
1 – 2 cinnamon quills
1 inch piece of ginger cut in half
1 onion cut into quarters
4 cloves garlic peeled
1/3 cup fish sauce

To serve
375 g flat rice noodles
Roughly 300 g organic beef very thinly sliced
2 limes cut into quarters
A bunch of fresh Thai basil
About 200 g beansprouts
2 fresh chillies cut into strips
Chilli sauce (optional)
Hoisin sauce (optional)
Additional fish sauce

Method

Place, stock, water, star anise, cinnamon, ginger, onion, garlic and fish sauce in a large saucepan and bring to the boil. Cover and allow to simmer for around 30 minutes.

In the meantime, cook rice noodles as per package suggestions, and arrange limes, basil, bean sprouts, chilli and sauces on a serving plate in the middle of your table.

Divide the cooked noodles into 4 bowls. Place the raw beef strips on top and cover with steaming hot broth. The hot broth will cook the meat as it makes its way to the table. Allow people to add the additional ingredients in the centre of your table, as per their liking.

Jamie’s baked fish

I am currently elbow deep in a pot of pho broth which I will share with you all very soon. But before I do I wanted to draw your attention to Jamie Oliver’s delicioius baked fish recipe that I was making a lot of before I left Melbourne. I love it! And am despertate to squeeze it in here before tomatoes and basil are completely out of season for all you southern people. Strange as it may seem, April is the time Territorians plant their Solanaceaes. Its the time when the air changes texture. The moisture relents. The blessed dry is around the corner.

So here it is. Jamie Olivers incredible baked fish. Perfect for summer evening dinner parties. Lick your plate good. In his recipe Jamie suggests using Sole, but I used Trout. Any whole flat fish will work.

On another note, I also started baking just the vegies and herbs, prepared as he suggests below but without the fish. This made for a delicious pasta sauce.

Serves 4

Ingredients for Jaimie Oliver’s Baked Fish

4 whole lemon soles, from sustainable sources, ask your fishmonger
2 handfuls red and yellow cherry tomatoes, halved
4 cloves garlic, peeled and finely sliced
1 handful fresh oregano or basil, leaves picked
1 bunch spring onions, trimmed and finely sliced
1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar
sea salt
freshly ground black pepper
zest of halved 2 lemons
extra virgin olive oil
1 handful black olives, destoned and chopped
1 handful fresh flat-leaf parsley, finely chopped

Method

“This is really simple. First of all give your fish a wash, then with a sharp knife score across each fish down to the bone at 2.5cm/1 inch intervals on both sides. This allows flavour to penetrate the fish and lets the fish’s juices come out.

Preheat the oven to 200ºC/400ºF/gas 6. Get yourself a bowl and add the tomatoes, garlic, oregano or basil, spring onions, balsamic vinegar, a pinch of salt and pepper and the zest and juice of 1 lemon to it. Loosen with a couple of good tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil and mix well, then spread over the bottom of a large roasting tray. Use one that will fit all 4 fish quite snugly (or you can use two smaller trays). Place the fish on top – top to tail.

Now add the olives, parsley, juice and zest of the second lemon to the bowl that the tomatoes were in. Loosen with a little olive oil and then divide this mixture between the fish, placing an equal amount on the centre of each. Cook in the preheated oven for 12 to 15 minutes, depending on the size of the fish. To check whether they’re done, take the tip of a knife and push it into the thickest part of the fish. When done, the flesh will easily pull away from the bone.

Once cooked, remove the fish from the oven and allow them to rest for 3 or 4 minutes while you get your guests round the table, serve them some wine and dress your salad. Then you can come back to the fish. Divide them up at the table on to 4 plates, making sure that everyone gets some tomatoes and juice spooned over the top of the fish. “

Enjoy!

The above recipe was taken word for word from here.

The two photos in this post were taken last year around this time. Here is what I posted on then.

spelt hot cross buns

I remember making hot cross buns with my mum and sister when I was very young. I remember the smell of orange and spice bouncing off the kitchen walls and making it bright and warm.Often the fire would be on because the weather had started to turn by then and my sister and I would stand on chairs at the kitchen bench rolling out the little white stripes of dough to become the crosses, placing them  haphazardly on top of the buns before they went in the oven. We would prove the dough on the backseat of the car which mum would have parked in the sun. Covered with a damp tea towel and sitting wonkily on the seat, this would always amuse me.

I have always loved hot cross buns, who wouldn’t – the smell of yeast and spice, warm and gently sweet, melting with butter.  What a shame people only tend to eat them one day of the year.

Here I have a recipe that  is not my mothers, in-fact there is no sentimental story behind it whatsoever. I found it today, not even in   a well-loved, old and creased cook book, but on the internet.  And it is good. So much so that I wanted to share it with you all. Perhaps if your quick you may be able to whip up a batch for tomorrow.

Below is my version of the recipe I found. It is quite similar to the original except I used spelt flour instead of wheat, orange zest instead of dried orange peel, honey instead of sugar and I added a pinch of clove.

Recipe for Spelt Hot Cross Buns

2 tsp dried instant yeast
3 ½ cups plain spelt flour
1 Tbsp honey
300 ml milk
1 tsp salt
1 tsp cinnamon
½ tsp ground all spice
¼ tsp freshly grated nutmeg
Pinch of ground clove
60 g butter
1 large egg lightly beaten
1 ¼ cups sultanas, currants, or raisins
Zest of one orange

Crosses
2 Tbsp flour
2 Tbsp cold water

Glaze (optional – it ends up making the bun sweeter if that is what you like)
2 Tbsp sugar
¼ tsp cinnamon
150 ml boiling water

In a small saucepan gently heat the milk, honey and butter. Turn off as soon as the butter melts and allow to cool to about body temperature.

Sift flour, spices, salt and yeast into a large bowl. Add the sultanas and orange zest.

Combine the milk into the flour mixture then add the egg and mix well.

Turn onto a clean floured surface and need until smooth. About 10 minutes.

Place in a lightly oiled bowl, cover with a damp tea towel and put in a warm spot to prove for approximately 1 hour. Once the dough has doubled in size, punch down and divide into 12 equally sized portions.  Roll and push them into bun shapes and place them snuggly on a lightly greased baking tray. Allow to prove again for a further hour or until doubled in size.

Crosses
Sift the flour into a small bowl and add the water. Mix thoroughly to form a thick paste. Spoon into a pre-used and cleaned zip-lock bag. Cut a little hole out of the corner of the bag and use it to pipe the mixture in crosses on top of the buns (not the way we did it when I was young, but I have to say, so much easier).
Bake in a preheated oven at 220°C/390°F for 15–20mins.

Glaze (optional)
Whilst the buns are in the oven prepare the glaze by mixing all ingredients and dissolving the sugar in the boiling water. Brush this mixture over the buns as soon as they come out of the oven and whilst they are still hot. 

Happy Easter!

spiced roast eggplant and zucchini salad

It is hot! Stinking hot! The kind of heat with thick hairdryer winds. The kind of heat you feel like you are swimming in rather than walking in. The air is viscous, your arms almost float in it.

I never feel like eating much in this weather other than ice cubes, salads and smoothies. Not all at once of course but spaced between episodes of gasping on the couch with a wet towel on my head and the fan on high no less than two feet from my face.

The recipe below for an eggplant and zucchini salad spiced with paprika, cumin and mint, is both light and rich. The dried figs, walnuts and fetta add a lovely texture to the softness of the roasted vegies.

Spiced roast eggplant and zucchini salad

2 – 3 large eggplants
1 large or 2 small zucchinis
Salt
1/3 cup olive oil
2 Tbsp apple cider vinegar
1 Tbsp honey
1 tsp paprika
1/2 tsp cumin
4 cloves garlic chopped
Zest and juice of 1 lemon
Juice of half an orange
1/2 Tbs tamari or soy sauce
1 cup fresh mint leaves roughly chopped
1/2 cup dried figs roughly chopped
3/4 cup toasted walnuts roughly chopped
1 cup roughly chopped crumbled fetta

Preparation

Preheat oven to 200°C /400°F

Cut the eggplant and zucchini into 1-inch cubes and put in a large bowl. Sprinkle lightly with salt and set aside for about 15 minutes or until juices start to come out of the eggplant. Rinse in cold water, drain and pat dry.

In the meantime, combine olive oil, vinegar, honey, paprika, cumin, lemon zest, half the lemon juice and chopped garlic. Stir into the salted and washed eggplant and zucchini.

Spread the mixture onto a large baking paper lined baking dish and roast in the preheated oven for 45 minutes, or until very tender and browned. You will need to check on them and give them a toss halfway through the cooking. Remove from the oven and allow to cool slightly.

Place roasted veggies in bowl and add tamari, orange juice and the last half of the lemon juice. Toss. Stir in the mint, figs, walnuts and feta and enjoy.

Serves 4

hello 2013

I was camping at the Grampians for new years, watching birds and stars, climbing mountains and drinking lots and lots of tea. It was such a peaceful way to start 2013, and I feel like this year is going to be great! It is just a feeling, which is perhaps more important than any materialisation of the thought, but that’s ok too.

This festive time of year always makes me think of my mum and her bean salad. It often ends up on the table on special occasions and Christmas and new years are no exception.

As easy and very simple dishes often are, this has always been one of my favourites.  This year however, I have started making it with some fresh apricots chopped up and thrown in too. There is something lovely about the tartness of the vinegar with the sweet freshness of the apricots and the greenness of the beans and basil. Below, I have put mum’s recipe but feel free to add some apricots if you would like.

Mum’s Green Bean Salad

2 huge handfuls of green beans
A splash of olive oil
A few splashes of balsamic vinegar
A good sprinkle of sea salt
A very good handful of roughly chopped basil

Top and tail beans, cut in half and steam until fluorescent green and crispy.  Take off the heat and rinse in cold water to stop the cooking. Whilst the beans are still warm add the olive oil, vinegar and salt and mix in. Once the beans are cool add the basil.

This salad can be served straight away or left to marinate for a couple of hours and served at room temperature.

the way I like it

I have always taken on a rather flippant character in the kitchen and I have always been very hopeless at following recipes. It’s a bit like an uncontrollable desire to not do as I am told. But I think this also comes from being an impatient kind of person – I can never be bothered to measure things properly, I can’t stand all those different sized measuring spoons, and never seem to be able to find the measuring cup in our chaotic and unruly cupboards.  I’m also impatient enough to forget that it is this very nature that is the reason for unruly cupboards in the first place. Things get thrown on shelves with doors slammed and a quick prayer that nothing will come tumbling out when displaced by the new object that has descended upon its turf.

I admire those people, who don’t seem to notice the things that slow them down, those that can measure flour down to the milligram, who level a cup with the scrape of a knife, who follow a recipe methodically.

The recipe below for beef rendang is one I first ate at my friend and colleague Noel’s house. Noel and his wife Jenny are amazing cooks. The recipe came out of an old and battered book, with pages yellowing and crinkled at the sides. They picked it up when they were in Indonesia, perhaps more than 30 years ago, and they have been cooking out of it ever since. It is very much my kind of recipe – humorously vague with a few Indonesian words for ingredients thrown in here and there. It leaves much to the imagination. But it is also an absolutely beautiful recipe. The meat becomes lovely and tender with hours spent cooking and the flavours are rich and creamy.

Below I have written the recipe directly from the book, but with some added notes in honour of people who like things more precise, and in an attempt to be more like that myself.  I hope you enjoy.

Rendang Padang

1 lb steak (I used 600g)
2 – 4 tsp chilli
1 scant tsp laos (galangal powder – I used fresh)
1 medium onion grated
1 small clove garlic crushed (I used 2)
1 bay leaf
1 tsp salt
3 cups thick santan (coconut cream)
1 knob ginger (I used about 1 inch)
½ tsp turmeric
1- 2 stalk/piece lemon grass pounded (and chopped)
Asam (juice of half a lemon)
(I also added 2 small potatoes and a small sweet potato)

Cut the meat into serving size pieces and place in a wide saucepan (with hot oil – brown the meat).
Crush Ginger and add, with onion and garlic and other spices (stir until fragrant).
Add Santan (coconut cream).
(Add potatoes and sweet potato)
Bring quickly to the boil, stirring frequently to prevent catching until the oil comes out.
Continue the slow cooking until the oil is re-absorbed. This can take 2-3 hours told, even up to 8 hours (I cooked for about 2 hours, being impatient offcourse).
The dish should be completely dry when served (I think they mean thick here).
(Serve with rice)
Note: New potatoes, red beans (previously soaked over night), or pieces of young jackfruit, can be added to this dish when the santan has come to the boil.
Instead of beef – can use chicken, prawn, duck, liver, egg, goat, or kangaroo meat.

there’s time

Hello…

Well, I made it. I am on the other side of something quite big, something that has kept me rather distracted from myself and all the other things I have wanted to do for the past two years. I have finished my masters! And there is a very peaceful knowledge that time is now on my side. It belongs to me again. This is nice. Well very nice actually. Overwhelmingly fantastic!

So here I am with some space, to do something for myself, slowly and how ever I want to. Thats a lovely feeling.

The garden is caught between winter and summer and remains positively neglected and wild. But, this is not so bad, because I know that it doesn’t have to be that way.

Its wonderful to know I can now spend more time taming broad beans, if thats what I want to do. But perhaps more importantly, more time nourishing my wicked taste for very fine delicious things.

Thanks to a very delicious breakfast eaten here and to Jamie Oliver for the idea for this recipe.

Smashed Broad Beans and Peas

2 cups fresh podded broad beans
1 cup fresh podded peas
a decent handful of fresh mint
a decent couple of splashes of olive oil
juice of one lemon
about 1/4 of a garlic clove crushed
Salt and pepper to taste

Cook the peas and beans in boiling water for no more than two minutes, drain and rinse in cold water immediately. Pull the outer skin of each podded broad bean – and puree all ingredients together.

Its that easy

Serve on toast with a poached egg and a smattering of finely grated pecorino.

kimchi

Here is a vegetarian version of kimchi, a korean type of sauerkraut. I have had a craving for this for a while now, so yesterday I headed on down to the CERES market to pick up the ingredients .

What you will need

6 cups shredded cabbage
2 cups grated carrot
2 cups grated daikon radish
1 Tbsp grated ginger
2 cloves crushed garlic
1/2 – 1 tsp chilli flakes or chilli paste
1 Tbsp Salt
4 Tbsp Tbsp whey (or alternatively use an extra 1 Tbsp salt)

Place all  ingredients in a very large ceramic or glass bowl. Pound with a heavy spoon, potato masher, or a meat hammer to release the juices. Sterilise, a wide mouthed 2 liter jar. Place the pounded ingredients inside the jar and push down firmly so there is a layer of juices above the vegetables. There should be at least 1 inch between the top of the jar and the vegetables. Cover tightly and leave at room temperature for 3 days before transferring to the fridge. You can eat straight away, however it will improve after another week or so.

I have always loved cardamom biscuits the most

I don’t think I have ever made these biscuits the same way twice. They seem to evolve from feeling and what is in the cupboard at the time. Here is a version that is close to what I always start out wanting to make  but am usually too stingy or don’t have all the ingredients at hand to pull it off. You can choose to add less almond meal and more flour if you like – the nuttiness makes them very rich.

Recipe for cardamom biscuits
100g butter
3/4 cup rapadura or brown sugar if you want
½ tsp baking powder
1 tsp cardamom
1 tsp vanilla essence
½ tsp cinnamon
¼ tsp nutmeg
zest of ½ orange
1 egg lightly beaten
1 cup almond meal
¾ cup wholemeal spelt flour sifted

Pre heat oven to 180°C. Cream together butter, rapadura and spices. Add and combine the egg and vanilla. Then stir in the flour, almond meal and baking powder until just combined. You don’t want to over stir once the flour  has been added because it will stimulate the gluten and make your biscuits tough

Place spoonfuls on a greased baking tray making sure you allow room for them to spread. Cook for 15-20 minutes or until golden brown.