July 11, 2012
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One year on: Party + cake

I‘ve just had to remind myself that blogging is not always or only about photos: it’s about telling a story.

Last Saturday night Colin and I had a party to celebrate one year of living in Australia.  On 8th July 2011 we flew into Gold Coast airport from Kuala Lumpur via Bali, tanned from three months in Asia, with calloused feet and not enough clothes to cope with the Australian winter.  One year on, we did something that we rarely do – we marked an occasion that was personally significant, and invited others to share it with us.

There was an invitation, which went out to every awesome person we have met since arriving here (and there have been more than a few).  It’s kind of funny that a few hours before the party I was struck with terror that hardly anyone would show up (I needn’t have worried).

Image credit here

There was the venue, our favourite Brisbane bar, The Hideaway, complete with bowls of fruity punch, the relaxed and groovy atmosphere that we love, and the promise of a funky band later in the night.  Jimmy and Chris accommodated our group with their usual hospitality, blending professionalism with wry humour (qualities also present in their cheeky-yet-sophisticated Ginny Hendricks cocktail).

There was also cake, over which I agonised for weeks before deciding – definitely – on Tiramisu Cake, because who (really, who?) doesn’t like tiramisu?

And then a few days before the party, I got sick.  All week I avoided acknowledging a persistent cough and headache, only to awake on Saturday morning feeling really unwell.  My plan for the day had been to shop for remaining cake ingredients, make the cake while photographing each step, then spend the afternoon resting, washing my hair, and painting my nails blue.  What actually happened was that I dragged myself nauseously around the supermarket, dosed myself up on Sudafed and cough medicine to get the cake made, and wouldn’t have even taken one photo if Colin hadn’t insisted that I take a few (and moved the table and opened the blinds; practically everything but hold the camera).  More Sudafed enabled me to get out the door and sustain a semblance of normality for the evening.

I didn’t think I could write a blog post about the cake and party without a selection of images, which is silly, because bloggers post image-free text all the time.  In my mind I guess I saw a great post, with visually appealing photos (that hinted, oh so modestly, at my skill as a cake-maker), accompanied by a carefully written recipe with a bit of wit and story woven through.  That wasn’t to be, and control-freak though I am, I’ve just become ok about that.  Because whatever happened that day, and no matter how sick I was, the party on Saturday night was right up there amongst the most fun and memorable nights I’ve had over the past couple of years.

So, here’s the story.

Colin and I aren’t big party people.  Gemini’s (both of us) are supposed to be sociable, but we’ve always known ourselves to be fairly reclusive – enjoying other people’s company, but never tiring of our favoured cocoon of home and each other.  We’ve only ever thrown a few parties in our adult life, and haven’t, admittedly, always been the best at attending those of our friends.

A few years ago someone taught me that only you can really celebrate you; that happiness will sometimes come, but on the whole, you need to do what you can to create it.  This includes marking the passing of time and special events, in special, celebratory ways.  I’m a cynical type that easily dismisses this kind of thing as so-much-cheese, but the whole need for ‘change’ that prompted our travels was partly an experiment in this very sentiment.  The chance to re-new, re-make, to see what would happen, well, it has been freaky, exhilarating, exhausting, and just plain good.  This transition – the construction of a new home – was worth celebrating.

It was also, let’s be honest, an excuse to make cake.  On the night that Colin and I first discussed the idea of the party, it was taken as a given that I would make cake.  Not long after, I started to worry about what cake to make, worrier that I am.  I’m fond of making humble cakes, constructed of rustic ingredients and simple methods.  But a celebration clearly required something more, something fancy.

I considered Deb’s Tiramisu Cake for a while, before temporarily losing my cool and searching the Internet for alternatives.  I have never made a layer cake, for a start, let alone one with as many components and steps as Deb’s recipe.  However, her recipe would not leave me alone, and I eventually surrendered, comforted by Deb’s meticulously described steps, by the pedigree of the recipe (via Deb, via Dorie Greenspan), and by the aforementioned conviction that this cake was bound to be a crowd pleaser.

And what do you know, I/Deb/Dorie was right. I made it exactly as specified, with the only alteration being to double the recipe.  This wasn’t intentional, but when I made the first batch of sponges, Colin and I were both concerned the cake wouldn’t be big enough, so I made another batch, turning the cake into three delicious layers (using the fourth sponge to make a mini-cake for Colin and I to feast on while hung over on Sunday).  The cake received several compliments, I’m not going to lie; in fact I suspect that I might have gotten a marriage proposal if I hadn’t already been married.  Not bad, especially considering that I somehow managed to plant my left boob right in that tasty mascarpone frosting while transferring it from car to bar.  Not my classiest entrance to a party.

Sickness and cake mishaps aside, it was a great night, made more than wonderful by the people who went out of their way to come.  Thank you, seriously; I hope you know how much it meant to us.

And because I just can’t post without a photo or two (no matter how bad they are), below is a picture of the cake (sans the chocolate star decoration (à la Deb) that was applied shortly before leaving our apartment), and a photo of the Aussie-themed surprise gifts we received from Maria (Vegemite and Buderim Ginger Marmalade), Gary and Karen (Australia-themed tumblers), and Angela (a basket of Nerada Tea, Ozenuts Peanut Butter, honey from Victoria and Carmen’s muesli bars).  We’re pretty lucky, Colin and I.

* Virtual hug to Ying-yue, celebrating her own one-year anniversary.


July 2, 2012
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Green lentil and roasted beetroot salad

Sometimes, all I need is lentils, but it wasn’t always this way.

I first ate lentils in my early 20s and heavily into my experimental-vegetarian phase – experimental in the sense of sampling a whole host of new foods, such as tofu, tempeh, miso, soy milk; most of which I found rather challenging until I learnt how to prepare them properly.  My first attempts with lentils and other pulses weren’t very successful.  As a child I detested the iconic New Zealand meal of Watties Baked Beans, and as an adult, I continued to find the texture of pulses coarse and unappetising.  But tiny, fast-cooking, no-need-for-soaking lentils didn’t take long for me to like, and once I had acquired a taste for their subtle flavours and dense, fibrous texture, they quickly became essential.

Lentils are humble and everyday; ancient, earthy and basic.  I crave lentils at times, especially when I’ve been busy and not eating well.  There comes a point at which I recognise a feeling of being off-kilter – over-tired, over-stimulated – when it’s important to re-adjust, ground and nurture.  A lentil-based meal feels (to me) like ingesting pure health.

This salad originates from a recipe in Dish magazine.  I have no idea which issue or who authored the recipe, since all that remains is a piece of paper pasted into my recipe scrapbook.  In the original, the lentils are du puy, regarded (somewhat oxymoronically) as the caviar of lentils, whereas I generally use the more readily available “French-style” green lentils, grown in Australia and easily obtainable in most supermarkets.  Also in the original, the lentil salad itself serves as something of a backdrop to poached Cotechino sausage, which I have never been successful in tracking down.  Not that I’ve tried very hard; I made a vegetarian version of this recipe the very first time I attempted it, and it has continued to stand alone as an extremely satisfying dish with no further need of embellishment.  It can even stand up to the absence of goat’s cheese, if this is unobtainable or if a vegan version is desired.

Green Lentil and Roasted Beetroot Salad

Adapted from Dish

Beetroot:
4 medium beetroot
Olive oil, salt and freshly ground black pepper
Dressing:
6 Tbsp olive oil
3-4 Tbsp white wine vinegar
1 clove garlic
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
Lentils:
1 1/2 cups green lentils, du puy if you can get them
3 cloves garlic
1 bay leaf
To finish:
Handful of chopped flat leaf parsley
1/2 cup lightly toasted almonds
100 grams soft goat’s cheese

First, prepare the beetroot.  Preheat oven to 200°C/390°F.  Trim the leaves away if your beetroot has them still attached, then scrub them and place in a baking dish.  Rub with a small amount of olive oil, and sprinkle with salt and black pepper.  Cover the dish with foil then roast in the oven until tender – around 45 minutes or longer, depending on the size of your beetroot.  Once cool, use a small knife to peel away the skin, then cut into chunks.

While the beetoot is roasting, prepare the other elements of the salad.  Wash the lentils, then place them in saucepan along with the garlic (peeled and lightly smashed) and the bay leaf.  Cover with cold water to about 1 centimetre above the lentils, and bring to the boil.  Turn the heat down and simmer until tender, which could take anywhere between 15-45 minutes depending on the age of your lentils.  The lentils are done when they still hold their shape but can be easily squashed against the roof of your mouth using the pressure of your tongue.  Drain away any excess liquid, discard the garlic and bay leaf, and stir the dressing through while the lentils are still warm.

While the lentils and beetroot are cooking, prepare the almonds.  I usually toast the almonds in a small pan over a low heat in a few drops of oil, but you can also roast them in the oven in a small dish alongside the beetroot. When the skins begin to split, remove them from the pan or oven, set aside to cool, then roughly chop.

For the dressing, crush the garlic, and whisk together with the olive oil and 3 Tbsp white wine vinegar.  Season with salt and pepper, then taste.  Add a fourth Tbsp of vinegar if the dressing seems to need an intensified tang, and adjust the salt, pepper and garlic levels as required.  Pour dressing over the warm, drained lentils and set aside until all further elements of the dish are completed.

To assemble, spread the lentils over a large, flat dish.  Top with chunks of roasted beetroot, crumbled goat’s cheese, roughly chopped parsley, and finally, with the chopped almonds.  This is a robust, filling salad, easily a meal on its own.  It is just as good eaten immediately as it is consumed from a container the following day at work.  The quantities given should feed four people, or one woman for dinner, lunch, dinner, lunch (until she feels restored).

Filed under: Eat
June 23, 2012
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Small things, recently

The happiness of life is made up of minute fractions — the little soon forgotten charities of a kiss or smile, a kind look, a heartfelt compliment, and the countless infinitesimal of pleasurable and genial feeling.

— Samuel Taylor Coleridge


Figs: I thought I didn’t like figs, but what do you know, I hadn’t given them a chance.  I still find them slightly underwhelming raw, (although they are growing on me) but all through March and April I enjoyed eating them baked.  There’s no right way to do this, but I took to cutting crosses lengthwise into the figs and squeezing the base to reveal the tiny pink seeds. I  drizzled them with a little honey and a light dusting of cinnamon and baked at 180C for about 15 minutes until a syrupy liquid was produced.  Warm or cold, eaten with plain yoghurt or without, these figs have most defintely won me over.


Afternoon sun on the balcony: winter in Brisbane is bright and beautiful, but I’ve waxed lyrical about this before.  Colin and I had to check ourselves this morning when we complained that it was slightly chilly – we both had only T-shirts and light pants on.


Strawberries: astoundingly, fresh strawberries are already available here.  We couldn’t help ourselves at the market last weekend, and spent an astronomical sum on this over-sized punnet of perfect specimens.  They were at the peak of ripeness, and this necessitated rapid, greedy, consumption of the entire kilo over two days.  Strawberries were one of my three favourite fruit as a child – the other two were grapes and watermelon.  I recall pledging many times that I would grow all three myself as soon as I grew up, which I clearly have yet to do (grow them and grow up).


Blue stool, shining jewel-like on a grey Sunday morning: at Flamingo Cafe on Winn Lane.  Soon after I took this photo a colourful couple sat here.  The black-haired girl wore an emerald dress, and her partner, who sat on the blue stool, had on a bright yellow T-shirt.  The waitress served them water in ruby red tumblers.  Did they have any idea how perfect they looked?  I have yet to master the skill for covert photography (which is probably 99% nerve), so this particular image remains mine alone.


Coffee: at Bellissimo on Wandoo St.  Delicious coffee, pity about the service.  Campos, you’re still my favourite.


Recent reads: twice daily train commutes ensure that I continue to chip away at many a good book, most purchased from second-hand bookshops, a few borrowed from the lovely Maria, and the odd Penguin classic, usually bought at an airport bookstore.


New friends: not exactly a small thing.  These are Sylvia’s ricotta pancakes – an Austrian dessert.  After a leisurely dinner, we dug into these thin crepes baked until crisp on top.  Baking dehydrated the ricotta filling a little, so that its cheesyness was emphasised.  A touch of lemon and cinnamon rounded off the flavours, and a drizzle of warm plum jam provided a hint of tang.  Heavenly…

Free art exhibitions: at GOMA.  I forget the name of this artist, but loved the shimmery  effect of watery films projected onto several small screens, in a darkened room.


Irish Moss: after stupidly suspecting that I would escape the winter cold/flu free, I came down with a shocker that took me three weeks to recover from.  I haven’t seen Irish Moss cough syrup for years. I recall having it as a child a few times, but I don’t think it was something Mum bought regularly.  Anyway, those few times were enough, and I have retained a memory of dark brown, richly flavoured syrup that I found quite delicious.  When I spied this at the local superette on the way home one day, I obviously had to get it.  The taste fell far short of my memory, which leads me to think it was probably the name that I fell for.  It turns out that the mixture does contain an extract of Irish Moss, or Chondrus, which is a form of edible seaweed.  This syrup helped me through several meetings, including one teleconference, during which I surreptitiously sipped from the bottle every 2-3 minutes.

June 8, 2012
comments 6

Autumn in Brisbane, and Spiced Pear Cake


While it’s officially winter already, I’m having a difficult time associating these coolish, dry Brisbane days with what I know and remember winter to be.  Back in Auckland, winter was about hunkering down, staying warm and fighting the damp that would inevitably seep its way into carpets and wardrobes over the course of long, rainy months.  Fortunately, Colin and I both share a love of rainy weekends – the harder the rain and the colder the wind, the more inviting it is to snuggle up on the couch to watch movies or read books.  It’s like falling asleep to the sound of rain on the roof; that privileged feeling of being cocooned and protected from the elements.

On either a Friday or Saturday night, my winter ritual was to make a large dish of apple crumble to see us through weekend desserts, breakfasts, and the occasional spoon or two directly from the fridge.  The crumble topping I make borrows heavily from my mother’s, and features rolled oats, brown sugar and cinnamon, in addition to a base of butter rubbed into a small amount of flour.  Mum always added sunflower seeds to her crumble topping whereas I most often use roughly chopped almonds.  In addition to the apple, I like to sometimes include persimmon (with lemon zest and coconut in the crumble topping), or a handful of frozen blueberries or blackberries.  But there is always an apple base, stewed a little on the stove-top first before being adorned with crumble and baked in the oven until browned and caramelised.

The signs of winter are all around me here in Brisbane, in the predominance of apples and pears at the market, the coats and gloves of people walking to work, and the colds and flu felling my colleagues.  But it’s just not cold enough to take it seriously.  Granted, we attended the Florence and the Machine concert at an outdoor venue a couple of weeks ago and found it to be a frigidly cold night, despite wooly scarves.  But last weekend, we walked in the sun to the local organic shop, wearing nothing more than jandals, shorts, and T-shirts.  Don’t get me wrong – I absolutely love this beautifully clear weather – but I also miss those cold, dark, wet, batten-down-the-hatches-and-stoke-the-fire weekends.  How ungrateful am I?

In my defense, as the apple crumble story above attests, this clearly has something to do with winter providing the justification and the means for the best kinds of comfort food.  When it’s cold outside, there is nothing better (to me) than to potter and stir, bake and chop, to consume and feed others.  Summer is for being outdoors and eating quick, simple meals of BBQ and salad.  Winter is what sets my creative juices flowing, when the kitchen truly becomes home’s heart.

Lets settle for ‘autumn’ shall we?

Last weekend I made a very autumnal cake for friends who were coming for afternoon coffee.  This Spiced Pear Cake is exactly the kind of cake that I love to make – rustic, not too sweet, and with a hearty, wholesome texture.  There is only the barest suggestion of rising agent, and the resulting dense and heavily spiced crumb is the perfect match for the sliced pears, rendered slightly leathery by the oven’s heat.  The recipe comes from one of my favourite food blogs, Nourish Me.  Lucy takes photos that I can only dream of one day emulating, and many of her recipes have become part of my repertoire.  Usually, I make this cake exactly as Lucy specifies, but this weekend I found it impossible to track down allspice.  Fortunately, my substitution of 1/4 tsp ground cardamom worked rather well, and I might just continue to make it this way forever more.

Spiced Pear Cake

Barely adapted from Nourish Me

3/4 cup of almond meal
1/2 cup of polenta
1/2 cup of plain flour
Large pinch of baking soda
2 teaspoons of ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon of ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon of ground cardamom
125g of unsalted butter, softened
3/4 cup of white sugar, plus extra sugar for sprinkling
2 eggs
1/3 cup of plain yoghurt
2 teaspoons of vanilla extract
2-3 pears, cored and thinly sliced (I used Packham and Buerre Bosc pears)
Raw sugar, for sprinkling on top of the cake

Butter and line a 25cm spring form pan.  Preheat the oven to 160°C/320°F.

Tip the almond meal, polenta, flour, baking soda and spices into a large bowl and whisk to aerate.  (I used to grind my own almond meal for this recipe using almonds that I had blanched and peeled myself.  I did this while genuinely loving the excuse to extend the ritual of cake baking.  In the current absence of a food processor, I used purchased ground almonds which shortened the preparation time immensely – I fear there is no going back now…)


Cream the butter and sugar together until pale and fluffy – at least two minutes. Add the eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition. Add the yoghurt and vanilla and stir through.  The mixture can look as though it has split at this stage, but just continue.

Gently fold in the dry ingredients until well mixed (I find a spatula is best for this job).  Scrape the mixture – which by now should be smelling so good that you want to bury your face in it – into the prepared cake tin, smoothing it out with the spatula.  Arrange the pear slices on top. Sprinkle a little raw sugar over the pears and bake for 45-50 minutes, or until a skewer inserted into the cake comes away clean.  Cool in the tin for a while before removing.  Eat with yogurt and strong coffee, in a T-shirt, in the winter sun.

Filed under: Eat