Chez Moi

May 2, 2017

Masochist’s Chicken Pie

The idea of Chicken Pie has been on my mind for a while. It started when Lucy posted this photo of a gorgeous pie – complete with beautifully puffed pastry and bespeckled ceramic bird – her planned Christmas lunch all the way back in December 2013. Then two years later my sister gave me the most adorable little pie funnel: a blackbird with a bright yellow beak. It simply begged to be baked in a pie, but you know, I like to take my own sweet time with some things.

Lucy’s image was compelling because it conjured memories of the chicken pies I ate with Colin many years ago; caught up in what passed for love, sweet young things that we were. For a while we had the habit of piling into Colin’s first car (a Mark V Cortina) and driving to the coast to buy pies from Cable Bay dairy. Colin favoured smoked fish pies but I always bought the outstanding chicken pies, with their velvety cheese sauce and tender chunks of meat. We ate them out of white paper bags, sitting in the car overlooking the beach with the sound of seagulls swirling. Maybe it was the first, tantalising glimpse of adulthood that made them taste so good, but they are still the best pies that I’ve ever eaten.

So many recipes for Chicken Pie have been considered and discarded. Carrots and peas have no place in the chicken pie of my dreams, shortcrust pastry would be wrong (and so sad) here, and what is this obsession with “lightening” everything? It’s a PIE! Give me all the butter and cream, make my pastry flakey and golden, let it be luscious and comforting and just once let me re-live my youth! Finally, and with great relief, I spotted a recipe for Ultimate Chicken Pie in a recent Jamie Oliver magazine. It involved a spectacularly decadent sauce and homemade puff pastry(!), which I had never made before. Here was a chance to relive my teenage pie memories and learn a new skill! Tingles. All. Over.

The Easter four-day weekend was the chosen scene for my labour of love, and (spoiler alert) what a labour it turned out to be. It was so time-consuming, tedious and frustrating that I’m still saying to people, “I’m glad that I had the experience“, just to make myself feel better about losing two days of my life to this pie. What follows is less of a recipe and more a demonstration of how stubborn and stupid I can be when I set my mind to something. It’s about recording what happened for the sake of prosperity, because I am never, ever making this pie again.

Masochist's Chicken Pie

1 rose-tinted memory of Chicken Pie
1 recipe for Ultimate Chicken Pie
16 cups of single-mindedness
1 neighbour to lend you the flour that you forgot to buy
1 friend to help roll the pastry
2 days free of commitments
3 bottles of wine
Coffee, strong and bottomless
To serve: a plate, fork and a couch (you’ll be too tired to set the table, let alone make a salad)

Start by luring friends to your house with the exciting promise of homemade chicken pie for dinner. This is going to be epic!

First, poach a whole chicken in a deep saucepan, surrounded by chopped celery, onion, carrots, leek, garlic, thyme and peppercorns, and covered in cold water. Bring to the boil slowly, over a low heat. After simmering for 40 minutes, switch off the heat and let the contents cool in the liquid for as long as you can bear it, or for a minimum of 2 hours. Remove the vegetables and throw them out. Remove the cooked chicken to a plate, separate the flesh from the bones and discard the skin. Place the bones back into the cooled stock and simmer for another hour. Remove the bones and discard. Strain the stock into a clean saucepan. Bring to the boil and simmer until the liquid has reduced to 750ml, which takes, yes, another gloriously long hour. Leave to cool.

Realise that even though six hours have passed, you’ve only made one full component of the pie (cooked chicken) and one part component (the stock for the sauce). Feel overwhelmed. Sit outside with your friends and have a glass of wine (ok, it’s probably your third by now if you’re being honest).

If you’re clever (and you know that you can be), you will have saved some time by making the pastry while you prepared the stock. First beg 250g flour from your neighbour and then mix this with finely grated parmesan (50g), 1 tsp mustard powder, salt and pepper. Pastry has an obscene amount of unsalted butter in it (150g), which makes your heart sing. You cube the chilled butter, rub it into the flour a little, then use a knife to mix in 125ml cold water and 1 tsp apple cider vinegar. The recipe says “don’t over-mix”, and you don’t (winning!). You gather the lumpy pastry into a ball and chill it for 30 minutes. With the help of your friend, you roll and fold and roll and fold and chill for 30 minutes…and then repeat twice more. Thank goodness for the alarm feature on your phone, because two bottles of wine are gone and this pastry is some technical shit. You guys need to be kept in line.

Eventually, the pastry is done and the stock is done, but everyone got sick of waiting and ate bits of this and that hours ago. No-one wants pie, which is just as well because there’s still the sauce and the leeks to cook and it’s all getting a bit much. Let’s just go to bed and think about it tomorrow.

The next day dawns and we are going to get this pie cooked! Open the fridge and check on the pastry. It has completely dried out and cracked (you should have wrapped it in plastic). Consider using it anyway; consider hard. Try to roll it out. It’s a lump of concrete and in the bin it goes.

Make the pastry again. Don’t think about it.

It’s not the right flour this time. Don’t think about it!

It’s time to make the sauce. Get your stock out of the fridge and notice that it’s become a quivering jelly. Feel a twinge of accomplishment for the first time since you started this damn pie. Feel that twinge disappear as you get the tarragon and realise that you’ve bought the wrong kind (it’s the coarse Russian rather than the delicate French variety). Chop that shit anyway (2 Tbsp) and set to the side. Finely grate 150g gruyère (which is really quite a lot and finely grating takes three times as long as regular grating, so yes, you’ve just lost another 10 minutes that you can never get back).

Make the sauce by melting 50g butter in a saucepan then stirring in 50g flour until it bubbles. Spoon the jellied stock little by little into the butter and flour, whisking briskly and admiring the smooth glossiness of the sauce. When all the stock is added, stir in 2 Tbsp dijon mustard, 150g crème fraîche, that big mound of grated gruyère and the chopped tarragon. Season with salt and pepper. Taste. It’s good enough to pour all over your lover’s body just so you can lick it off.

Leave the sauce to cool down, and while you’re there, swear repeatedly at the author of this recipe because there is SO MUCH cooling and resting and half the time involved is waiting for things to sort themselves out just so that you can move on. Go to a yoga class to de-stress. Come home and make a strong coffee to give yourself the strength to carry on. You’re on the home stretch; let’s do this.

The fresh batch of pastry still needs to be rolled and folded two more times and in between it’s time to cook the leeks. Wash and trim 2 leeks and cut into 1 cm slices. Cook in boiling salted water for 6 minutes until tender. Drain and spread on a clean tea towel to absorb excess moisture and (you guessed it) cool to room temperature.

Does the pastry need rolling and chilling again? Yes. Do you need a glass of wine now? Yes, and yes, you’ve earned it.

Shred the cold chicken, marvelling at how juicy it is. Put the chicken into the cooled sauce along with the leeks. Mix together gently and voluptuously.

It is time to assemble the pie, but you’re not excited anymore: you’re a mindless automaton. Put the pie flute into the pie dish and spoon the filling around the little bird. Roll out the pastry and cut a circle that is 4cm bigger than your 24cm pie dish. Cut a small circle in the centre so your little bird can breathe. Take the scraps of left over pastry, cut them into 1cm wide strips and glue these with water all around the circumference of the pie dish – a seemingly pointless step, but of course you do it (you’ve got that good-girl complex going on). Transfer the pie lid to the pan, and smoosh the edges together to make a seal. Use any further leftover scraps to make decorations. This bit is supposed to be fun and creative, but your eyes are glazing over. You form a few crappy leaves and slap them on. Part of you is thinking, why leaves on chicken pie? Why not a little pastry chicken? Oh, too much reality maybe? Just stop. Have some more wine.

The pie is assembled, but don’t get too excited. It needs to be brushed with a beaten egg and chilled in the fridge for 20 minutes. While that’s happening, heat the oven to 180°C / 350°F and start to clean up. You’ve used every single pan and spoon in your kitchen, so this is going to take a while…la la la la…

Bake the pie for 40 minutes, except of course your pie needs much longer (nearly double) to cook the pastry properly. You’re worried that the top of the pastry might burn so you fuss around with an aluminium foil tent (more faffing, but this is not the time to give up).

It’s done, or done enough. Take the pie out. Your husband immediately wants to ruin the beautiful veneer of your pie by tearing off a chunk of pastry. You get it; it does look delicious, but that is NOT HAPPENING and hasn’t he noticed what you’ve been through? Give him “the look” (the testicle-shrivelling death-stare) until he backs down.

The verdict: it’s not even close to your memory of ultimate chicken pie. Sure, it’s pretty f-ing good, but not “two days of pain” good. You’re over it. You eat, with abandon, knowing that you’ll never, ever taste this pie again.

April 10, 2017

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Mendoza, Argentina | Wine + Road Trip

Mendoza is Argentina’s premiere wine region, and as such, there was no way that we were going to miss a short stopover to indulge in one of our favourite pastimes. Our flight back home departed from Santiago, so we knew that we had to make our way back to Chile at some point. Mendoza is located at the foot of the Andean Mountains and sits virtually parallel to Santiago. It was the perfect place to relax and unwind before making our way back to Chile by bus, through some of the most incredible scenery we have ever seen.

Mendoza itself isn’t the most spectacular town, and to be honest, after the beautiful architecture and vibrant atmosphere of Buenos Aires, Mendoza seemed dull and unattractive. We later learned that it had been levelled by a devastating earthquake in 1861, which destroyed the colonial architecture that we had expected to see. The town was subsequently rebuilt utilising sturdy construction techniques aimed at minimising the damage in possible future earthquakes – this explains why the buildings are uniformly squat and plain and why the extra-wide streets are organised around large, flat squares. It might not be an architectural destination, but what Mendoza lacks in beauty it makes up for in multiple other ways. The proximity of the Andean mountains and the surrounding desert and valleys lends itself to adventure sports (such as rafting, skiing, mountain climbing, fishing), and the presence of so many quality wineries in the area attracts wine connoisseurs who must be catered to with excellent restaurants, spas, hotels and luxury retail outlets.

With a late arrival, early departure and only a single full day up our sleeves, we were forced to focus our activities in Mendoza. We were there for the wine, number one, but after a whirlwind two weeks on the road we also needed a rest. We took care of that with an indulgent massage in the hotel’s chilly spa, ate a hurried and forgettable lunch, then joined an afternoon wine tour. Our first stop was the bodega (winery) Cavas de Weinert situated south of Mendoza in Luján de Cuyo. Paired with a guide who spoke English, we were treated to a tour of the atmospheric winery and underground cellar, which was originally built in 1890. Cavas de Weinert has preserved the beautiful architecture and conserved many old methods of wine-making such as hand-picking the grapes and ageing the wines in huge casks as opposed to smaller barrels. At the requisite tasting it was immediately obvious that we were sampling very special, complexly layered, old world wines. We tasted three vintages of their signature blend of Malbec, Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot, marvelling at the intensification of mellow, Christmas-pudding-like flavours as the wine had aged. A bottle of our favourite, the gorgeous 2006 vintage, cost a mere $300 ARD (approximately $25 AUD) and subsequently found its way home, buried deep in our bags.

We moved on to a family-run olive oil business, Pasrai, in Maipú where we toured the factory and tasted the delicious products. My favourite was an unfiltered extra virgin oil where the presence of finely ground olive puree gave a cloudy appearance and concentrated grassy flavours. After a pleasant hour, we then drove to another bodega in Maipú, Vistandes; this time a relatively young winery that was established in 2006. The modern facilities, stainless steel tanks and designer lighting were in stark contrast to the old world charm of Cavas de Weinert, but it was still an atmospheric place. As the sun set we tasted wines in front of towering glass windows that looked west, over the vines towards the Andes. The wines at Vistandes were pleasant, but decidedly underwhelming given our earlier, far more memorable experience.

The next morning we rose brutally early, ate a hurried breakfast and made our way in the dark to the local bus station. We departed at 7am to begin our nine-hour journey over the Andes and back to Chile. We had pre-booked our tickets, choosing seats right at the front on the upper deck in anticipation of the stunning mountain scenery. We needn’t have worried; the bus had a total of 14 passengers and most of them promptly fell asleep so before long, we spread ourselves right across the four front seats, enjoying the panoramic view as we sped along the highway. As the elevation began to rise the windows misted up which caused much frustration. We rubbed and tissued and wiped and cursed, struggling for quite some time to get any decent photos – even so, I quite like the painterly effect that resulted in some of the shots:

The bus wove along the narrow road, through tunnels, over bridges, climbing higher and higher towards the snow-capped mountains in the distance. The windows stopped misting as the sun burned off wisps of cloud, revealing a brilliant blue sky. The Argentinian side of the Andes is much drier than the Chilean because the mountains form an effective barrier to the precipitation that sweeps in from the Pacific Ocean. The arid plains and red rock formations made for spectacular viewing, and when we weren’t snapping cameras, we were simply absorbing the incredible view. Our fellow passengers had clearly seen it all before as they continued to snore in the background, or pass comments about the Spanish film playing on a tiny television mounted above our heads.

After several hours of driving we suddenly hit snow. The bus passed through several tiny settlements, including one which was clearly a local army base with troops training in the dense snow. The traffic had been steady the whole way and it gradually increased as we neared the border. Although the road was narrow and conditions were harsh, it was clearly an important distribution route between Argentina and Chile.

When we finally arrived at the border, Paso Internacional Los Libertadores, we were initially confronted with a long line of backed up traffic, but our driver soon pulled out to the right and drove past truck after truck loaded with cargo. Arriving at the customs station we then waited for nearly two hours before beginning the relatively quick process of getting our passports stamped. There was so much waiting around that we snuck off to use the bathroom at what turned out to be a critical moment. Despite the frontier feel of the place, the staff took their roles very seriously indeed. While Colin was still occupied, our busload of passengers were shouted at to form a line in front of our bags. Stalking along the row, our driver demanded to know where my compañero (companion) was, and my response, baños (bathroom), was met with a torrent of Latin fury. No-one spoke any English and I was very relieved when Colin returned. As soon as he joined the line someone barked an order and we were marched past three guards and sniffed at by large Alsatians, while our bags were sent along a creaking conveyor belt to be x-rayed. After this frenzy, we re-boarded the bus, drove a short distance and passed into Chile.

After the long and gentle ascent from Mendoza (to a peak of 3, 207m/10, 521 ft above sea level) the descent into Chile was incredibly fast thanks to a stretch of road known as Los Caracoles (The Snails). This extremely steep road includes a total of 28 hairpin turns (each numbered Curva 1-28). Each time we swung around a curve we felt suspended in the air; an excitingly unnerving effect of our seats at the front. In the icy conditions, in the proximity of heavily loaded trucks and lacking any form of guardrail or barriers, it must have taken intense concentration for the driver to descend. Fortunately we were soon driving past an aqua lake and then down through the familiar cactus-dotted valleys that we had seen on our previous trip into the Andes. Some of the passengers got off the bus to travel south to Santiago, but we continued through the town of Los Andes and on towards the coast. After a total of nine hours travelling we arrived in Valparaíso, found our hotel and headed out for steaming bowls of seafood soup. We slept so well that night.

April 3, 2017

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Rummaniyeh | Aubergine, Lentil, Pomegranate

Last week Cyclone Debbie signalled an abrupt end to summer. The storm hit North Queensland as a category 4 tropical cyclone, devastating Bowen, Ayr, and the popular tourist destinations of Airlie Beach and Hamilton Island. The force of the wind soon reduced, but the storm continued a slow path south, dumping such a quantity of heavy rain that widespread flooding was experienced across south-east Queensland and northern New South Wales. It was a dramatic, intense week and for many people it’s not over yet; some areas are still flooded, and where the waters are receding the clean up now begins.

I was off work on Wednesday while Debbie was ravaging North Queensland. Down in Brisbane we didn’t experience the torrential rain until the next day, but even so, the weather was dark and foreboding (the photos give a good sense of what the natural light was like). At such times I only wish to be in my cosy kitchen and so I made Rummaniyeh, a Palestinian stew of lentils boiled together with aubergine (eggplant). This might not sound appetising but I can assure that it is delicious. The aubergine becomes silken and savoury, providing a luscious textural contrast to the lentils, which retain a little roughness. The stew is spiced with ground cumin and fried garlic, and the whole thing is lifted with the addition of tart pomegranate molasses and lemon juice. In fact, Rumman means pomegranate, so this dish literally means “pomegranatey”. This is emphasised by the addition of fresh pomegranate seeds sprinkled over the top like little jewels.

This was the second time I had made the recipe. The first time was a complete disaster, probably caused by a misprint in the original source, which calls for 150ml pomegranate molasses. This rendered the dish inedible due to mouth-puckering sourness, so the second time around I reduced the quantity to a mere two tablespoons (30ml). I’m glad I persisted because at this quantity (with increased aubergine and slightly less salt), it made perfect sense. The stew is light, fresh and comforting, with a flavour so mesmerising that it is difficult to believe that it’s made with such humble ingredients.

On gloomy Wednesday my freshly cooked Rummaniyeh went down so well with a hunk of flatbread and a glass of red wine. On stormy Thursday, when we were sent home from the office at 9am due to safety concerns, another bowl warmed my stomach as I monitored newscasts and waited to hear that friends and colleagues were safe. It was hardly chilly during the Cyclone (in fact Brisbane continued to steam with the increased humidity) but Rummaniyeh was the ideal psychological fit; a nourishing dish for unsettled times, for stormy days, the waning sun and the promise of cold days ahead.

A few notes for the cook: choose lentils that will hold their shape somewhat after cooking. I was able to find Persian red lentils at my local deli, but brown or green lentils should also work. You don’t need to soak the lentils before cooking, but I like to do this anyway (for 3-4 hours) to help increase their digestibility. Don’t be tempted to skip the pomegranate seeds. Yes they are ridiculously over-priced, but these ruby nuggets provide little bursts of juicy tartness that elevate the dish from good to incredible. Good olive oil drizzled generously over the top is another key to the utter deliciousness of this stew. The stew is traditionally served with taboon or khubez bread, neither of which are readily available where I live. I used Lebanese flatbread instead and one day I might try this recipe for taboon bread.

My very best wishes to everyone in Queensland and New South Wales as the clean up from Debbie begins. If you would like to support Queensland communities impacted by the Cyclone, you can donate here.

Rummaniyeh - Palestinian Lentil & Aubergine Stew

Servings: 4-6
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Adapted from Joudie Kalla via The Guardian

250g Persian red lentils or brown or green lentils
1 Tbsp ground cumin
600ml water
2 medium aubergine, peeled and cubed into 1-2cm dice
2-3 tsp salt (the original recipe calls for 3 tsp (i.e. 1 Tbsp) but I prefer it a little less salty)
50ml olive oil
4–6 large garlic cloves, finely chopped
2 Tbsp pomegranate molasses
Juice of 1-2 lemons
1 Tbsp cornflour

To serve:
1 pomegranate
Flat-leaf parsley, chopped
Good extra-virgin olive oil, for drizzling
Flatbread (Taboon or khubez is traditional; Lebanese or pita are more available)

Wash the lentils well using the technique described here, then soak them for a few hours if you wish.

When ready to cook, put the clean/drained lentils in a saucepan along with the cumin and water. Cover and bring to the boil and simmer for 10 minutes. Add the chopped aubergine and two teaspoons of salt, then leave to simmer for another 25 minutes.

While the lentils and vegetables cook, chop the garlic and then heat the olive oil in a small pan over medium heat. Add the garlic to the hot oil and cook for a few minutes until it begins to turn golden. Pour the oil and garlic into a small bowl and set aside to cool.

When the lentils and aubergine have cooked for 25 minutes, add the fried garlic and pomegranate molasses, stir through and cook for another 5 minutes. In a small bowl mix the cornflour with the juice of one lemon and then add to the lentils. Stir through until the sauce has thickened. Taste the lentils. If you would like a more sour flavour, add the juice of the second lemon. Adjust the salt at this time too, adding up to a further teaspoon until the flavour tastes right to you.

Ladle the lentils into a serving dish and drizzle generously with extra-virgin olive oil. Remove the seeds from the pomegranate by slicing it in half, then holding each half upside down as you slap the outside with a wooden spoon. The seeds should release and rain down onto the awaiting lentils (remove any bits of white pith that become detached). Scatter over the chopped parsley and eat with hot flatbread of your choice.

March 6, 2017

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How summer feels

Summer is the season that appears universally revered. In the southern hemisphere the warming weather means that Christmas is on its way and the annual round of parties, barbecues, beaches and sunscreen. It’s no wonder that we long for summer all year round. The thought of warm nights rolling into bright mornings into long, lazy afternoons seems so good, so right and so essential as we grind our way through the long year. Summer is as summer does.

Sadly, I can only write fondly of summer because it’s on its way out. Brisbane has just experienced its hottest summer on record, which included 30 consecutive days of temperatures over 30°C. This year, summer has been about getting through and constantly making ice to chill the water that emerges warm from the tap. Even now when it is officially autumn I’m lying here on the couch, clothes askew, beer within reach, resenting the heat of the laptop on my thighs.

The saving grace of this challenging summer has been three mini-holidays away. Just before Christmas we had a weekend in Coolum Beach where we took long walks on the beach and unwound after our busy year. After Christmas we had a few days down in Stanthorpe, Queensland’s only wine region, where we sampled some excellent local wines and gleefully pulled up the duvet at night when the temperature dropped wonderfully low. In late January we had a glorious week back in New Zealand, enjoying the long twilight hours and the novel sensation of comfortably wearing jeans. Summer might have been a write-off back in Brisbane, but these three experiences reminded me of just how good summer can be. The following collection of photographs tries to capture this feeling of Summer 2016-17.

Coolum Beach, Sunshine Coast, Australia
Coolum Beach is one of our favourite spots on the busy Sunshine Coast. Unlike other beaches nearby, Coolum is relatively undeveloped which has helped to preserve its natural beauty and chilled out vibe. Things to do: hike up Mt Coolum for spectacular 360° views, shop for beachy clothes along the shopping strip, walk for hours along the white sandy beach, eat at Raw Energy for breakfast and Harvest for dinner.

Stanthorpe, Southern Queensland, Australia
Queensland’s mild winters and heavy summer rainfalls aren’t conducive to wine making, but Stanthorpe is located just north of the border with New South Wales in the high country area of the Granite Belt. The elevation means that Stanthorpe is hot (but not humid) in summer and cold in winter; in fact, it even snows at times. We took a great half-day winery tour with Granite Highlands Maxi Tours, learning that wine has been made in the Granite Belt for nearly 150 years. Unfortunately, Queenslanders tend to prefer beer above all else, and for years the region produced sweet, unremarkable wine to cater to the underdeveloped palate of locals. The region now boasts several award winning wineries and we were impressed by most of the wineries we visited. Highlights included the excellent Tempranillo at Moonrise Estate, Malbec at Whisky Gully, Shiraz at Ballandean Estate and the delicious Viognier at Ridgemill Estate, where we also stayed.

Other things to do in Stanthorpe: wander around town, try the famous apple cider and apple pie at Sutton’s Farm, visit local potters, and look out for the McGregor Terrace Food Project (which was sadly closed when we were there).

Far North, New Zealand
The Far North of the North Island is a little off the beaten track. It’s a solid four hours drive north of Auckland; more if you’re unused to the narrow, winding roads, but it will always be home to me. We spent a wonderful few days visiting family, soaking up the beautiful and familiar views and eating home grown produce from Mum’s garden. The highlight was a family outing to Lake Rotopokaka on the Karikari Peninsula, which is referred to locally as Coca Cola Lake due to the deep reddish-brown water (the colour is due to leaching minerals and tannins from peat). While the thought of brown water might sound off-putting, the water is clear and sparkling and is even considered to have healing properties. After a dip in the lake we drove over the hill to nearby Tokerau Beach and enjoyed a picnic on the beach while the sun gradually went down. It was after 9pm when we finally left and it still wasn’t completely dark (love daylight savings!). Sun, fun and fresh air – we all slept well that night.

Other things to do in the Far North: hang out at Ahipara to watch local surfers in action and visit nearby winery, Okahu Estate, take a walk in the quaint village of Mangonui and eat fish and chips at the infamous Mangonui Fish Shop, travel up to Cape Reinga, the northernmost tip of New Zealand (where it is said that the souls of departed Maori pass on their way to their spiritual homeland, Hawaiki), book a fishing charter out of Mangonui or Houhora, or simply find a beach (you’re never far from one) and relax.