Nana’s Chocolate Fudge Cake

I’ve lost my son’s birth certificate. There! I’ve said it. It’s been missing for a while but being a positive person who genuinely believes everything works out in the end, I honestly thought it would turn up with a more concerted effort on my part to hunt it down. He called from the outback on his adventure around our big island recently asking if I’d found it, plotting adventures further afield. “No problem,” I assured him, “it’ll be here somewhere.” Spontaneously, one morning recently, I set about pulling my room and closet apart convinced I’d be imminently victorious. As the morning dragged on and the mess of my efforts grew it became painfully obvious that my positive attitude may well have been misplaced on this occasion. A birth certificate is perhaps the most important document we carry through life, A document denoting the moment in time of our entry into the world. Whilst I’m not the first mother in the world to lose one and certainly won’t be the last after, what was stretchin out to a full day of hunting, I was becoming deflated and frustrated and frankly very disappointed.

Always one to look for silver linings however, I was spring cleaning (in Autumn) as I went through things. The piles of donate, keep, dispose of were growing and if nothing else that alone would make the search worthwhile. As the hours ticked by and I moved from one shelf to the next box my focus was waning and the effort to keep searching methodically leaving me rapidly, until I opened a camphor chest that sits in a corner. One of those big, in interior decorating in the late 80’s early 90’s, that I’ve hung onto for its practicality if nothing else. It’s filled with my Nana’s recipe collection amongst other curio. It’s one of those piles carefully stored though, if I’m honest, in desperate need of curating. Easily distracted particularly at this point of the search, I sat down to have a little peruse through the collection. Small snippets from magazines and newspapers fell from books heavy with text but scant with imagery. Retro recipes featuring ingredients and concoctions not enjoyed readily today brought a smile to my face. I scooped up all the little cuttings as they fell from the well thumbed pages replacing them from where they tumbled except for one small frail piece of blue notepaper. As I reached for the faded scrap of paper the old fashioned handwriting caught my eye enveloping me in nostalgia. I could imagine her in her humble kitchen sitting at her table, back warmed by sun through the kitchen window as she jotted down the recipe on a small piece of paper possibly cut into note paper size from an old envelope or other packaging, a habit from her frugal ways. She could never have imagined, at the time, the jou this quicky penned list would bring me so many years hence. Though acutely unwell she left us quickly and unexpectedly. I wrote about her here and the legacy of memories she left us and indeed reflected on the lost recipes and regret I carry not having spent more time in the kitchen with her as an adult. I wish we’d cooked together as women, my young sons at our feet, her instructing me and imbuing me with her wisdom both food and life. I wish I hadn’t been consumed with misplaced confidence that we had time and that I truly appreciated the hands of time taking moments from us. Seeing this little slip of paper fluttering from between the collected pages of other clippings she’d accumulated was like pennies from heaven, life a feather fluttering down gifting me this sweet creation of hers and a gentle hand guiding me, one I miss immensely.

The irony of this find is not lost on me, while looking for the birth certificate of my first son, born 14 months before my Nana’s premature departure a handwritten note of hers finds it’s way into my hands serendipitously. As excited as I was to find her little note from the past, I couldn’t remember having enjoyed chocolate cake at that white laminate table. None the less, following her instructions to the letter that first time I cooked her cake making sense of some measurements and instructions translating them to modern quantities and techniques. After a not so patient wait for the completed cake to cool I took my first bite of the buttercream topped cake and was flooded with memories of a flavour and texture as familiar to me as the handwriting that had guided me to this point. It’s a strange thing the memories our senses carry and the visceral feelings and emotions they evoke, almost like the familiarity long seen handwriting carries, the knowing and identity ever present.

I’ve followed and shared Nana’s recipe to the letter, though I’ve doubled the cocoa and increased the butter a little. Unlike her suggestion I’ve cooked it in a loaf tin rather than a lamington pan, doubling the cooking time. She’s a sturdy loaf with a rich fudgy centre and sweet crisp crust. I have taken nana’s suggestion of a butter cream adornment though have added some melted dark chocolate for a smooth luscious frosting. It’s a meeting of the minds if you will, across the decades, her delicious creation with my embellishments.

Now to make a cuppa and have a slice of cake while I contemplate what to do about that missing birth certificate.

**If you’re lucky enough to still have a treasured elder in your life maybe you could make them a chocolate fudge loaf, take it with you to visit and ask them all the questions you’ve wondered about. Trust me It’ll be an afternoon well spent xx**

Ingredients:

80 gm butter softened

1 c caster sugar

½ c milk

1 egg beaten

1 ½ c self raising flour

2 Tb coco ( dutch process, unsweetened)

¼ tsp salt flakes

¼ tsp bicarb soda

¼ tsp baking powder

1 tsp vanilla paste/extract

¼ c boing water (I leave the kettle to cool slightly while I’m mixing. Adding that boiling water to a mixture containing an egg still scares me)

Method:

Preheat oven 180c. Grease and line a loaf tin with a few cms overhang each side to lift cooked cake from pan later.

In stand mixer with paddle attachment beat butter until colour is beginning to lighten and it’s starting to turn fluffy. Add sugar mixing on low until just combined, increase speed to med-high and cream until light in colour and fluffy. Pour in milk, vanilla and egg mixing on low until combined to prevent splashing, increase to medium for a minute once it looks like it wont splash out of the bowl. Stop mixer, tip in dry ingredients and again mix on low until everything’s mostly wet then increase to med-high and pour in boiling water. Whip for a minute until it reminds you of the smooth creamy consistency of a packet cake mixture. Pour into prepared tin and bake for 40 minutes.

Do not open the oven door before the 40 mins. If left alone this cake with rise to a pleasing even rounded top with a fine crack down the centre when ready. Open the door too early and she’ll collapse slightly in the middle. Still delicious but lacking that smooth satisfying top.

I’ve topped mine with a butter cream recipe adapted from Emelia Jackson’s most excellent book Frist Cream the Butter and Sugar. You might like to try it with a Ganache or even a simple chocolate glaze

Buttercream:

40 gm dark chocolate melted and cooled. Do this first an allow to cool while completing the other steps. It needs to be properly cooled with setting as it may set into fine grain like pieces of chocolate when combine with cool butter.

80 gm icing sugar

1 scant Tb cocoa

60 gm soft butter

2 tsp of full cream milk.

Pinch of salt flakes

Like the cake whip the butter to lite and fluffy. Add the dry ingredients, melted chocolate and milk, mixing on low until combined then increase heat to high for one minute or until increased in volume, fluffy and spreadable.

Autumn Drop Scones

When life gives you lemons, make cake, though in this instance not the cake you’re probably expecting me to describe.

I must be in some kind of existential mood during autumn days marked by morning fog, afternoon sunshine and showers of red, gold and orange leaves. Between last week’s cat and mouse metaphor and this week’s ‘lemon’ like week in the kitchen.

It all started with the purchase of a baking book by famous author and chef Alison Roman. It’s a most luscious book with a plethora of gorgeous recipes I’m dying to try. One in particular, featuring raspberries, seemed like a pretty good place to start. The juicy little ruby like jewels are my favourite fruit and always draw my attention in any baked good or dessert and indeed any recipe, so what better place to start. Well somewhere else seemed to be the answer. It was an epic fail. No reflection on Ms Roman’s delicious sounding recipe, indeed it’s known as the cake that started it all. Trying to nut out what went wrong sent me down a rabbit hole reminiscing about another raspberry cake recipe I used to love and how I could give it a new twist. After a lot of reading, I was convinced I was onto something and gave my idea a go. Two attempts later, two cakes in the bin and I was starting to think I was jinxed where raspberry cakes were concerned. Google suggested one of two problems would be responsible for blonde bakes, not enough sugar or too low an oven temp. Neither appeared to be a problem, then, in what felt like a scene out of a Hollywood sci-fi movie, moments from the preceding raspberry cake episodes and a somewhat blonde roast chicken of a few days prior flashed before my metaphorical eyes. It had to be the oven. Like a tenacious dog with a bone I dropped everything and ran to the store to purchase an oven thermometer. Armed with this most vital instrument inserted front and centre on the middle rack I turned the oven on, perched on the floor watching through the glass door of the oven like a child watching their favourite tv show, I waited for the patiently for the all-important click to tell me the oven had reached the set temp, but as you’re probably expecting we weren’t even close to the required heat.

After a few days wait, expecting to be rewarded for my patience with an immediate repair, the technician casually informed me I had another ten days to wait for the part to arrive and a return visit. Like a child who’s lost their favourite toy I felt bereft, like part of me was missing. Dramatic? Much! But seriously, this was akin to having my camera removed from my grasp (yes it needs a service and a clean as much as my oven door but I can’t bring myself to find a week or two to live without it). You’ll be happy to know I drove to the warehouse to collect the part myself and as you read this it’s being installed…but I digress.

Not normally a naval gazer I found myself ponderous. A lot of people would be relieved to not be able to cook. I can cook my around a problem and usually enjoy a challenge so what was driving my foot stamping angst. Was it the technician’s casual ‘oh ten more days’ comment? Given my 30 minute proximity to the spare parts warehouse and frustration, quite possibly. Was it my unfulfilled love of creating for you guys? Well absolutely, yes. But more importantly losing the oven or indeed my camera for a service, should I actually unhinge myself from it, also takes away my pull to creativity. I was both stifled and frustrated by a lack of integral instrument for creation. One friend mentioned she could go weeks without using hers which made me realise mine is on most days, used for all manner of cooking. Like my camera that often travels everywhere with me I often walk into the kitchen and turn on the oven while a recipe idea unfolds and this made me realise how creating of all manner is integral to my joy and fulfillment.

This is so for many people with a plethora of ways in which they express their creativity. The creative arts, performing arts, gardening, food, writing, the list is long and varied as are the reasons.

Creativity can free your mind from the everyday allowing your brain and body to enter a different realm from that in which you dwell on a daily basis. Often our routine lives can be mundane or lacking fulfilment. Creating can deliver this to us in big and small ways whether it be as an act of meditation keeping hands busy and minds distracted or the ‘return’ of joy when our creativity comes in the form of something we can share with others like cooking or gardening. It can obviously offer yields in the form of income too, when one chooses to follow creative careers but most importantly as Elizabeth Gilbert says in her book Big Magic, “In the end, creativity is a gift to the creator, not just a gift to the audience.”

Gilbert also suggests that living a life of creativity is one driven more by curiosity than by fear. This notion of curiosity brings me back to my cooking dilemma, wanting to concoct a sweet treat for you, dear readers, that you’ll enjoy and that is interesting and not too difficult and one that doesn’t require an oven. Autumn sunshine warmed my kitchen, glowing through my one and only deciduous tree ablaze in red leaves. Mandarins, bright, shiny, glowing orange orbs adorned the fruit bowl atop my kitchen bench and an idea took shape. I recalled this cake from last year I still love and wondered on a notion of reforming it into a small bite size snack with a cuppa. Gazing fondly on china in my Nana’s crystal cabinet, a notion took shape into the form of Autumn Drop Scones, or Pikelets depending on where your Nana is from….but that is quite possibly another essay for another day.

I hope you enjoy my fluffy and buttery drop scones dotted with plump little currants and warming citrus notes from early season juicy mandarins.

Ingredents:

¼ c currants

Rind and juice of 1 mandarin

25 gm unsalted butter

1tbs honey

1 c self-raising flour

¼ c caster sugar

¼ tsp salt flakes

¼ tsp ground cardamon

50 gm Greek yoghurt

1 egg

¼ c milk, any milk is fine, I use almond but you do you

1 tsp vanilla paste/extract

Method:

In a small bowl, combine currants, juice and rind, butter and honey. Stir a few times to just combine and microwave 40 seconds. Yes you read that correctly, just a quick zap in the microwave until butter is barely melted. Stir well and leave to return to room temp while you prepare the rest of the ingredients.

Combine dry ingredients in a large bowl, give them a quick whisk to aerate and combine and set aside. In a third bowl (sorry) whisk together yoghurt, egg, milk and vanilla. Pour into the butter and currants mixture, stir then fold into the dry ingredients mixing until just combined as you would for a muffin mixture.

Heat a large heave based fry pan over medium heat with a greasing of neutral flavoured oil and a dob of butter. When just foaming drop dessert spoons of mixture into the pan shaping and lightly smoothing. Flip when edges are cooked and underside is browned.

Serve warm with a spread of butter. They’re also delicious with some honey or even some marmalade. They’ll keep well for a few days in an airtight container…if they last that long.

Vegetable and Chickpea Dhal

When the cat’s away the mouse will play. We’ve all heard that one right? We’ve all been both the cat and the mouse and when we’ve been the mouse, ‘play’ could mean many things.

This week I’ve been the mouse…again. For the entirety of my marriage my husband has travelled for his job. His travels have taken him far and wide both frequently and in frequently. For large chunks of time he’s all but been a fifo member of our family though more recently, thanks Covid, a far more regular member of team Frawley. While jaunts through Asia, Europe, USA and every corner of Australia sound glamorous it’s proven mostly exhausting and not as exciting as it sounds. Long days in oil refineries and meetings, difficult long travel journeys and no time to absorb the sites and sounds of his destinations have made those workdays just that. Normal long days like any other workday with no one to come home to, no home cooked meal and missing family.

Meanwhile at home the boys and I always just got on with things like millions of other parents in my position or indeed on their own full time. It’s just what we did and was always that way. The kids knew no different nor did I. As time marched on and the boys grew, it obviously became easier and indeed became special time to hang out with them just us. We’ve enjoyed many memories and adventures of our own during Mr F’s absences, these times proving a gift of sorts for the most part amongst the frustrations and bumps in the night that woke me.

When I reflect on these time one thing that invariably always come to mind is the food. For the most part my husband eats nearly anything with a few key exceptions, pumpkin and creamy things just don’t float his boat. There’s a few others but for the most part they’re not biggies. So when Dad was away our palettes would play. Mac and cheese frequently featured. A childhood favourite of mine and my kids my husband just doesn’t love it and don’t get me started on pumpkin. Bowls of fast comfort food was always my go to in his absence in those early days, both for ease of preparation on days that were busy and indulgence to enjoy those things not at the top of his list when he’s home. The kids could almost predict what would be on the menu, knowing those little food treats enjoyed while the ‘cat’ was away acting as a salve for two little lads who often missed their dad.

These days, with the boys gone, it’s just me at home when he travels. Home alone I often say. Whilst my shenanigans don’t reflect those of the movie by the same name, I do still enjoy meals I know he wouldn’t and enjoy streaming marathons of cooking shows and chick flicks. It’s almost like being in my twenties again…..almost.

This week, while he’s travelled, winter arrived early. Icy winds have swept through bringing days of rain and bone chilling temperatures. The kind of weather that makes you yearn for food that warms you from the inside out. After Mr F left early this week, tummy rumbling and teeth chattering I knew what had to be on the menu, Chickpea and Vegetable Dhal. A sturdy stew of pulses delicious spices and of course pumpkin is the best kind of warming comfort food. Maybe I’ll make it for him soon and call it Carrot and Chickpea Dhal (insert winking emoji).

Ingredients:

1 Tb extra virgin olive oil or neutral flavoured oil, it really doesn’t matter which

1 onion finely chopped

1 large carrot peeled and diced into cubes

1 c pumpkin peeled and similarly cubed

2 large garlic cloves crushed

1 Tb grated fresh ginger

¼ tsp ground fenugreek

¼ tsp ground cardamon

1 Tb Tandoori Masala spice mix ( remember the one we made for the lamb curry?)

½ tsp ground turmeric

½ c red lentils

1 c chickpeas drained

3 cups vegetable stock

1 tsp salt flakes

2 tsp tamarind puree

Method:

In a medium sized saucepan over a medium heat briefly warm the oil. Add the onion, carrot and pumpkin, reduce heat to low and cook gently for 5 minutes stirring frequently. Add garlic, ginger and spices and cook, still on low, a further 3-5 minutes until fragrant. Keep everything mobile at this stage to prevent catching. Tumble in the lentils and stir vigorously ensuring everything is well combined and the lentils coated in all the spices. You may need to drizzle a little extra oil in at this stage if the mixture is becoming too dry.

Increase to medium and pour in stock. Stir well and bring to the boil, reduce heat to medium low and simmer 20 minutes. Taste the lentils to make sure they’re nearly done. Stir through the drained chick peas, add the salt and tamarind past and simmer a further 10 minutes. If the mixture is reducing too quickly you can add a little water extra for this last part, do so ¼ c at a time, you shouldn’t need too much extra if at all.

Serve with a dollop of Greek yoghurt, your favourite chutney such as mango and a srinkle of any little extras like dried chilli flakes, herbs or nigella seed.

Chicken Cottage Pie

***Warning no chicken soup was made or consumed in the creation of this story or recipe***

I listened to this episode of Lindsay Cameron Wilson’s podcast, The Food Podcast on my walk recently. It’s one of my favourites so you’ll have heard me refer to it before. In the episode Lindsay takes us behind the creation of her podcast and storytelling. One of her centrepoints was the history in her family and that of others of chicken soup. While the podcast was a brilliant listen for those interested in podcasting, writing and sharing stories the chicken soup thing is the one that swirled in my mind as I walked that day, a brain worm if you will. For Lindsay’s family and Fanny Singer, her guest, chicken soup presented mixed feelings and memories of everything always smelling of broth and the constant of its aroma in her recollections. It got me to thinking about my own memories of chicken soup.

I’d never tasted chicken soup until perhaps my early teens. I’ve mentioned before my mother’s disdain for cooking, thus her small repertoire. Perhaps she brought to adult hood the recipes she remembered from her own childhood, perhaps my grandmothers didn’t’ make chicken soup for her. As a girl, at my friend’s house one weekend, offered lunch, I looked in the pot curiously at the chicken and vegetable soup offered. The pool of golden broth jewelled with finely grated colourful vegetables, noodles and tender poached chicken looked and smelled enticing eliciting a dutiful rumble from my stomach. Later that day I promptly reported back to Mum asking if she could make some, instead of our usual scotch broth or pea and ham. I’m not sure if she sought advice from my friend’s mum Joan or she winged it but it was just as lovely and joined it’s soup cousins on high winter rotation. It also began a love affair with chicken soup and indeed all soup for me.

When you fall down the rabbit hole of chicken soup it’s like a culture all it’s own. It’s a dish that in each cuisine in which it dwells tells a story of that cuisine’s characteristics and culture. The Thai’s combine theirs with noodles and spices, the Greeks their distinctive lemon threaded Avgolemono, the Italians Brodo, the Chinese the inspired union of chicken with Corn and of course the iconic mother of all chicken soups Jewish Penicillin, the answer to all that ails. One that’s perhaps not tied to a particular country of origin but rather of the culture of the jewish faith for whom all tradition revolves around food.

One commonality weaves it’s way through all chicken soup culture is the comfort it brings. That gentle golden flavour of a broth slowly simmered with the flavours of whichever vegetables, seasonings and herbs chosen to build the layers is unique in cooking in it’s universal ability to provide a sense of home, comfort and nourishment.

What, I hear you ask, does any of this have to do with Cottage Pie? Well my friends as much as I love soup I also live in a house full of men, though two are absent at the moment, and soup sometimes isn’t enough. One, in particular, calls soup flavoured hot water *insert eye roll* and the other two while soup lovers are quite partial to another traditional comfort food, cottage pie and there my friends is the intersection of chicken soup and cottage pie. All the flavours of salty chicken broth finely diced veg and chicken topped with a blanket of mash baked in the oven until the sauce ozoes and bubbles at the edges is the perfect marriage of the comfort and flavours of chicken soup with the heartiness of pie.

Ingredients:

1 kg potatoes cooked and made into mash. Just like you normally would for dinner with

loads of butter and cream.

500 gm Chicken Mince

2 Tb Extra Virgin Olive Oil

1 leek, white part only chopped

1 carrot diced

½ stick of celery finely diced

1 corn cob, kernels sliced from cob

1 garlic clove crushed

2 Tb chopped flat leaf parsley

3 sprigs fresh thyme leaves stripped from stalks

40 gm butter

3 Tb plain flour

625 ml of chicken stock. Fresh, made from stock cubes, premade, however you like it

½ c frozen peas

1 tsp salt flakes and fresh cracked black pepper

2 Tb almond flakes

15 gm butter extra melted.

Method:

Make mash and set aside.

In a large heavy based pan, cast iron if you have it, warm 1 Tb of the olive oil over a med-high heat. Cook the mince both sides then breaking up until almost cooked through. Remove from pan to a bowl and keep warm.

Reduce heat to low, adding the second tablespoon of oil. Add the Leek, carrot and celery to pan and cook gently on low for 5 mins, until leek and celery translucent. Stir regularly to prevent any browning. Pop the corn kernels in and stir through leaving to cook for another five minutes. Add garlic and herbs and cook briefly until fragrant. Stir butter through veg until melted and completely combine. Increase heat to medium and sprinkle over flour. Stir thoroughly again and cook flour off like you would for a white sauce, 3’ish minutes. Reduce heat to low again and slowly drizzle in stock stirring constantly to combine well and prevent any lumps. Allow to simmer for 15 minutes so the sauce reduces a little and thickens. Stir through the frozen peas and cook for a further 3 minutes. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

Preheat oven to 180c. In a suitably sized ovenproof dish spread the chicken and veg mixture evenly. Cover the top in the spoonfuls of mashed potato, spinkle over almonds and drizzle the whole top with the extra melted butter.

Bake for 35-40 minutes until the potato peaks and almonds are crispy and sauce is bubbly and oozy on the edges.

Anzac Bicuits

**For the purposes of this story I’ll be using the Australian word “biscuit” for the baked treat I’ll discuss otherwise known outside Australia as cookies**

As autumn descended on the battle-scarred fields of the western front and cold winds began to blow through the trenches signalling an impending third winter in the elements, my grandfather’s war came to an end. Enlisting early in the four years of the great war he served the bulk of his nearly four years of service in France Via Cairo. The failure of the Gallipoli offensive, that he thankfully was spared from deployment in, saw his battalion broken up, reformed and moved to the emerging theatre of the French western front. By the time his service concluded, he’d spent 22 months in the often muddied, overcrowded and stench ridden trenches of the Somme with only three days of R&R. He’d served in other theatres of war in Franco offensives with a couple of periods of convalescence from injury and ill health spent in Britain, his birthplace, but the greatest period of his time away was served in the relentless conflict of area famously referred to as The Somme.

He was a gentle man, loyal to a fault, softly spoken, kind and endlessly patient. He was never boastful and rarely spoke of his time in the army. Signing up was a rite of passage at the time, service in the great war seen as a young man’s adventure. Something hard for us to imagine through a modern lens of instant information and 24 hour news cycles where live images of war are streamed globally, but an adventure it was to the young men of the early 20th century. It was the first war of modern times to traverse years, not months or weeks. It was a relentless conflict who’s breadth seems unimaginable by today’s standards and one that changed the lives of many.

Papa’s time at war came to an end three weeks before the signing of the armistice that brought the fighting to an ultimate end. Three weeks before quiet descended on the devastated landscape of the French countryside, when young men looked to each other in shock and awe that what had probably felt never ending was suddenly over. When adrenaline ebbed away in floods and exhaustion took it’s place. Perhaps shock and quiet descended on their souls too before the joy of a return home bloomed, a sense of doubt that it could possibly have come to an end.

As children we saw our Papa as a hero and somewhat of ‘celebrity’ of sorts having fought in the First World War. But his personal reflection of his time away was anything but that, indeed he never spoke of it, deflecting anyone’s interest with comments like war is nothing to celebrate or look back on. This was the way he lived his life for all 66 years of the life he lived after the war. Except for two days each year in which he allowed himself some reflection. One of those days, his annual battalion reunion, when together, servicemen gathered at the tree planted in their honour at the Avenue of Honour in the forecourt or our Shrine of remembrance. And the other day, our national day of remembrance and honour ANZAC Day, when ex-servicemen from the joint Australia and New Zealand forces reflect on the many conflicts they’ve contributed to, a day born out of that first modern conflict. It’s a day deeply ingrained into my soul and the DNA of Australians. It’s written on our culture and history and is the one way we hold dear, in perpetuity the service of those who went before us to build the freedom we enjoy today.

One of the many ways our military history has instructed our culture is, as always, through food. The ANZAC biscuit was one sent by those left behind in care packages to the troops as small acts of love and nurturing from home. The first love language perhaps. The original recipe is a little different from the one we’ve come to know and love. Oats and coconut were not in the iteration of the Anzac, perhaps a reflection of the lack of provisions and a nod to the innovation of home cooks. In the years after the war as prosperity returned oats were introduced to the recipe followed by coconut. The bones of the recipe though remained, butter and golden syrup, golden caramel flavours of comfort. A formula that survived the long journey across the oceans to the battle fronts and the tyranny of time to today, still forming the foundation of the iconic bake we know and love.

My Grandfather never shared his very personal story of the conclusion of his service, ironically only weeks before the end of the war itself. It’s one that emerged through research since his passing. It’s a deeply personal story that would resonate with servicemen through the ages and one I wish I’d known when he was still with us. I wish he’d been alive to see what we know today of the effects of war on our service people and know that his service is as respected and honoured as every comrade he served with. It’s his story and not mine to tell, one that always brings a tear to my eye.

But next Tuesday on ANZAC Day after watching the march on TV I’ll have a cuppa and a couple of ANZAC bickies and reflect with pride on his treasured legacy.

My version of the iconic Anzac Biscuit is inspired by a well-thumbed Australian Women’s Cookbook purchased for me when I was a child. It’s the seed of the one I baked for him growing up and have baked for my own children as they grew up and enjoyed the many storied our my wonderful Papa.

Ingredients:

1 C (100 gm) rolled oats

1 C (150 gm) plain flour

1 C brown sugar (200 gm)

½ C (50 gm) desiccated coconut

½ tsp salt flakes

1 tsp vanilla paste/extract

150 gm butter

2 Tb golden syrup

1 Tb water

½ tsp Bicarb soda

Method:

Preheat oven to 150c. Line two baking sheets with baking paper.

In a large bowl combine oats, flour, sugar, coconut and salt, whisking well to combine thoroughly and break up any lumps. Set aside.

In a small pan, over med-high heat, melt butter pushing it to just browned (you can pop over here to see a short link on how to do that if browned butter is new to you). Remove from heat and quickly whisk through syrup and water. Return to a low heat and sprinkle soda into butter mixture. It will foam quickly, remove from heat immediately and pour over dry ingredients. With a light but efficient hand mix ingredients until thoroughly combined. Roll into small bowls the size of walnuts. Space out on the two trays and cook 20 minutes.

Allow to cool five minutes on the trays before moving to a rack to cool completely.

Parsnip and Cashew Soup

As I sit in front of my computer writing, gazing out my window intermittently, autumn rain and cold winds blow through drawing winter nearer. Rain doesn’t always find us here, indeed where I live it often splits around us, moving to the north and south of our little valley, something about the topography of the area perhaps. Not so the Mornington Peninsula, a beautiful stretch of land bordering the eastern side of Port Phillip Bay on which greater Melbourne is settled. Home to market gardens and vineyards her soil is rich and productive, rainfall plentiful and the coastal fringe framing the region home to generations of holiday makers. It’s also the home to creative and cook Amy Minichiello.

I first met Amy in 2018 during an online course hosted by Sophie Hansen. Whilst the course focussed on sharing food stories on social media, it’s participants gathering from many fields. Amy and I lived relatively close (an hour and a half) and just clicked. Encouraged, during the course, to build relationships and collaborations Amy generously allowed me to photograph her at work in her beautiful cottage kitchen at the end of the peninsula. Her sweet boy toddling at our feet she cooked us a lunch of potato soup, bread and chocolate cake. A grateful reward at the end of our shoot on a day where wild Southern Ocean weather lashed her windows howling through the gnarly old tea trees who’s twisted branches are like a narrative of the coastal squalls they’ve witnessed. Abundant vignettes of fruit and vegetables adorned her bench, a collection of old wares and china sat proudly on the shelves and treasured books fondly perched up high, watch over all while she floated around her cosy kitchen oozing warmth and bringing life to the ideas that whirl in her creative mind.

We went on to work together a couple more times all the while building a body of work towards Amy’s dream of creating something grand with her ‘Recipes in the Mail’ project. Every time I visited Amy on the peninsula cooler weather, sometimes rain and always a canopy of clouds, prevailed. Never dampening spirits, it somehow always added to the cosy atmosphere that envelops you as you wander through the vegetable and herb garden towards a warm welcome at her front door. Greeted by rose perfumed air and sweet giggles from her little ‘assistants’ and sometimes a crackling fire, a visit to the tranquil oasis in which she weaves her magic is always a balm for the soul and always one for the appetite too.

Amy called on her social media community to send her their food memories from their families along with the recipes inspiring the reminiscences. She was flooded with beautiful letters all pouring their hearts out and of course much-loved delicious recipes. As she slowly ploughed through them, inhaling the love in the stories and recreating the recipes, an idea bloomed in her heart and gathered momentum. Surely if she loved reading and cooking from these recollections, others would too. Her community enjoyed her posts, entranced by her whimsical prose and images, pushing her forward. I was privileged to be invited to capture Amy in her happy place and the passion she holds for this wonderful time capsule of food memories she’s created.

So as the scene outside my window reminds me of those days creating, and I procrastiscroll, I stop and smile. It’s happening, her dream is coming to life with the publication of her book Recipes in the Mail finally announced in her morning post.

No one leaves her seaside cottage, hungry and no one leaves without feeling like they’ve been wrapped in a blanket of warmth and friendship. Her food is wholesome, comforting and earthy. Never fussy yet always layered with flavours. So as I reflect on all that this book will be, I’m inspired to create the same comfort and earthy nourishment for my own lunch, to both warm the soul and body. Silky smooth Parsnip and Cashew soup topped with a foil of sour cream and chives should do the trick. Perhaps if you need some wholesome comfort or warming today a hot bowl of soup in your hands and belly will do the trick for you too.

Ingredients:

500 gm parsnip peeled and trimmed, roughly chopped into large chunks

2 garlic cloves, one kept whole one peeled and crushed

2 Tb extra virgin olive oil

25 gm butter

1 leek, white part only sliced

½ tsp freshly grated nutmeg

1 tsp fresh thyme leaves

150 gm whole natural cashew nuts

1 litre chicken or vegetable stock

2 cups of water

Sour cream and chives to serve

Method:

 Preheat oven to 180c and line a medium roasting dish with baking paper.

Toss parsnip chunks and whole garlic clove in 1 tb of the olive oil, spread in a single layer in the roasting dish, sprinkle with a generous pinch of salt flakes and bake in the oven for 45 minutes until edges are caramelising, turning half way through.

 While the parsnip cooks melt butter and warm remaining tb of olive oil in a large heavy pot like a cast iron over a medium heat. Reduce to low and add the leek cooking gently for 5 minutes. Stir frequently to prevent the leek browning. Sprinkle in the nutmeg and thyme and add the crushed garlic clove briefly cooking off until fragrant. Increase heat to medium and tumble cashews into the pot stirring constantly, cooking them for a few minutes, again preventing anything from browning. Squeeze roasted garlic from its skin and add to the pot with roasted parsnip and stir to combine. Increase heat to med-high. Pour in stock and water again stirring and bring to the boil. Reduce to heat to low and simmer for 30 minutes or until everything is soft.

 Allow to cool to hand hot, not steaming. If you have a stick blender you can blend straight into the pot until smooth. I use a high-speed blender. Ladle the soup into your blender or food processor and blend until silky smooth. Return to wiped out pot warming up again and adjust seasoning to taste. I use white pepper but you do you, black will also be delicious. With the salting of the parsnip and stock I find the soup salty enough for me but you may like to add some salt flakes. I suggest you do this in small pinches at a time stirring between each addition.

Top with a spoonful of sour cream and a sprinkle of fresh chives and enjoy. With the addition of cashews this is a hearty meal and will serve 4-6 hungry tummies well.

Chocolate Coffee Slice

I live in the coffee capital of the non-italian world. A somewhat arrogant self-appointed moniker but deserving none the less. Café’s and roasteries abound on what feels like every corner, queues spilling out the doors of the most popular ones, a beacon to where to hunt out a quality morning brew. Everyone has their favourite, both for an ‘on the go’ cup and many, like myself, a favourite ‘dealer’ for the best beans. Indeed it’s a language all it’s own rivalling the finest wine tasting experiences with ‘tasting notes’ and notes of this and characteristics of that. The list of orders for a takeaway coffee is just as long and complex, and a language of it’s own with it’s own dialects from country to country, something that tripped me up on one visit to San Francisco many years ago, but I digress. Like many of my fellow Victorians I too have become a coffee tragic, though I don’t really speak the language, and no I can’t taste notes of passionfruit or blackberry in my coffee. What I can taste is morning bliss in a cup and like anything, I can taste what I like and what I don’t.

It wasn’t always like this however. Like many countries born of British heritage we were a coffee wasteland. Under the influence of British culture we were once staunch tea drinkers. My own parents, though the offspring themselves of tea drinkers, were coffee drinkers. Monthly they would buy a large tin, the size of a paint can, of powdered instant coffee. A fine brown powder that dissolved instantly in boiling water creating a watery drink with a flavour reminiscent of coffee but only vaguely so. Some even had ‘percolators’ elegantly presenting them at the table with what was considered the height of continental sophistication.

Whilst many remain with the whimsy of tea drinking the influence of mid-century migration from European countries brought with it a plethora of culinary delights creating an evolution in our own eating and cooking culture and preferences, and notably our beverage culture. Not only have we enjoyed the influence of Mediterranean cuisines from Italy and Greece amongst others, but also the delights of accompaniments with those meals of wine and coffee. We have one of the largest and most respected wine industries in the world and of course our coffee culture.

With only instant coffee at home I remained a tea drinker until my late teens. I was however curious enough to keep trying having enjoyed a sip of my mums ‘fancy’ cappuccinos complete with froth moustache and coffee and walnut cake at her tennis afternoons as a child. A burgeoning career in hospitality and the accompanying long hours made caffeine a necessity. And in love with coffee I’ve remained.

The origins of this slice remain under some dispute. It’s my take on an old recipe of my Nana’s which always appeared at the heaving Christmas table. Her version, sans coffee and with another flavour I’ve never been able to pin down. In my memory I called it Caramel Slice though it bares no similarity to the much loved gooey caramel slice we all know and love. So I’ve take a turn towards coffee and hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

Ingredients:

Base~

100 gm butter

60 gm castor sugar

1 Tb cocoa powder ( unsweetened, dutch style)

1 egg beaten

150 gm wheatmeal biscuit/cookies crumbs ** (We aussies call cookies bisuits, these ones are commonly known as digestive or granita biscuits)

45 gm dessicated coconut

30 gm chopped pecans

Filling~

90 gm softened butter

1 tsp vanilla extact/paste

500 gm icing sugar

20 gm custard powder

40-60 ml espresso coffee

Topping~

180 gm dark chocolate

50 gm butter

Method:

Grease and line a pan measuring 19cm x 29cm. Extend the length of the baking paper some length up the side on each side in order to be able to use those lengths to pull the slice whole out of the tin.

In a small saucepan combine butter, cocoa and sugar and stir over a low heat until butter is completely melted and sugar is dissolved. Remove from heat and, working quickly, whisk through the egg until completely combine and smooth. Stir through biscuit (cookie) crumbs, coconut and pecans. Press into prepared tin and smooth out to a flat surface and refrigerate until very firm.

When base is firm, cream butter and vanilla until light and fluffy. Add 1/3 icing/powdered sugar and combine on low speed until combine then increase to high whipping until fluffy. Add half the coffee and combine slowly increasing once combine and until fluffy again. Repeat with remaining sugar and coffee until all combine finishing with sugar. Spread evenly over base again refrigerate until firm.

Finally melt chocolate in a bowl over gently simmer steaming water. When nearly smooth add butter and stir constantly until smooth and butter completely melted and combined. Spread evenly over slice and again refrigerate until completely firm.

Cut evenly into slices of sizes of your choice and keep refrigerated.

**Do this in a food processor or blender if you have one. If not pop them all in a bag and take out the day’s frustrations on those cookies with a rolling pin bashing them until finely crumbed.

Classic Chicken Sandwich

Growing up, Saturdays always dawned busy. Weekends didn’t begin with lazy lie ins and a leisurely breakfast served at a table warmed by morning sunshine. Rather I’d wake to the sound of a vacuum cleaner and mum urging me to hurry up and get ready for dance class. Three hours on Saturday mornings when I’d flex, twirl, point and stretch my way through rigorous ballet and tap classes that I loved all while Mum would dash about performing all the normal life tasks of a family and household. Cleaning completed she’d whizz through the local supermarket stocking up for the week no doubt exhausted by lunch time at the frenetic end of week demands of adulting and mothering after a week of work.

Whilst she didn’t enjoy cooking, no doubt feeling like it was just another thing to do at the end of busy and often draining workdays she did enjoy a delicious meal. A vexing contradiction but one that did motivate a couple of signature dishes of a throw together pastry free quiche and a one pot hearty beef and pasta casserole of sorts. Whilst not drawn to the kitchen, time was anchored, for her, in traditions around food. Fish on Good Friday, Ham on Christmas day, Hot Cross Buns, Plum Pudding all the menu points that anchor us to time on the calendar, a particular holiday, its traditions and memories. 

Perhaps it’s this anchoring sense of food at the table at particular points on the calendar that motivated her unwitting establishment of traditions outside those more notable days across the year. Little edible signposts we could rely on during the week, a meal to look forward to. Saturdays were highlighted but one such tradition. I’m not sure if this little reward of a favourite lunch after all the hubbub of life tasks was something for mum to look forward to and offer her an edible pat on the back for the morning’s hard work or for us all to look forward to. Our family’s love of a traditional pastie runs deep and for a long time this was what we all looked forward to on Saturdays. Not the home-made variety like my Nana made and which motivated my version but ones from our favourite local bakery. Warm steaming vegies and meat encased in handmade flaky pastry that rained down on the plate with each bite just like a home-made one and almost as good, and that little pleasure at the end of all the rushing. Another Saturday lunch that featured regularly was one that remains a firm favourite of mine and one I offer you my riff on today.

Arriving at the deli counter at the supermarket for the weeks sliced ham and bacon the comforting smell of roast chicken emerging from the rotisserie was one that drew oos and ahhs from shoppers and one my Mum loved. Stopping at the bakery on the way to the car with her laden trolley she’d pick up fresh bread, loading everything up, rushing to return to pick me up and get home for lunch with all the bulging brown paper bags in the back (remember those?). Skipping down the path towards my mum waving form the driver’s seat, I remember being greeted by the aromas of fresh bread and roast chicken mingling together wrapping me in anticipation for the empty tummy I carried, that tummy rumbling the whole way home. Rushing to carry bags inside we’d pop everything away before the chicken cooled too much. Rewarded for our haste we’d then sit down to thick, fluffy slices of fragrant, still warm, white bread sandwiched around miraculously still steaming succulent chicken pulled from a just roasted bird. Such a simple sambo is not one I make very often these days but on the very odd occasion when I do I’m still overwhelmed with the memories and nostalgia of those very simple lunches shared by mum and I after our very different but busy Saturday mornings. 

But I do still love a chicken sandwich and as is my want I’ve embellished the simple version of my childhood to something a little more sophisticated though still somehow quite simple and still evocative of oos and ahhs.

Ingredients:

200 gm cooked cubed chicken cooled **

100 grams chopped bacon fried off to just crispy, cooled

2 Tb garlic aioli

2 Tb plain mayonnaise like Kewpie

1 Tb sour cream

1 Tb finely chopped fresh chives *

1 Tb roughly chopped pistachios

Freshly ground black pepper to taste.

Bread or bread rolls and embellishments such as cheese and salad accoutrements of your choice. I’ve used crusty Italian style ciabatta rolls, cos/romaine lettuce, swiss cheese and fresh tomato.

Method:

Combine all ingredients mixing well. You can adjust the aioli, mayo and sour cream to your preference tasting as you go but I do suggest you maintain the proportions to preserve the flavour. I prefer this amount to help hold everything together well and because, well frankly, it’s DELICIOUS!! The mixture can be made ahead and stored in an airtight container until ready to make your sandwiches. You may like to make ahead like this to take to a picnic or away on a weekend jaunt.

This amount makes 3-4 rolls/sandwiches generously filled. If the chicken is chopped more finely you can make a more delicate sandwich for a refined affair or luncheon shared table perhaps, with some finely sliced iceberg lettuce or cucumber slices.

Notes:

** I’ve used a store bought roast chicken known in Australia as BBQ or Chargilled BBQ chicken and overseas as Rotisserie Chicken.

*If fresh chives are unavailable you can use ½ Tb of dried chives or even one spring onion/scallion finely chopped.

Lamb and Carrot Tandoori Masala

Today, Wednesday, dawned cloudy, foggy and damp from overnight rain. Humidity hung gently in the air, not too overwhelmingly so but enough to signal sunshine behind the foggy shroud. A weather metaphor for the morning ahead couldn’t have been more apt. Birds chorused outside and a hum buzzed throughout the house. Today was the day, the culmination of years of hard work, planning and anticipation. Today was the day our eldest son, his girlfriend and friends set off, cars loaded to the gills, on their round Australia adventure on a quest chasing sunshine, sea spray and the red dirt of the outback.

They’ve planned this journey since the start of their apprenticeships. Days starting before dawn on cold mornings trudging through mud or when morning humidity warned of a hot work day ahead toiling on building sites. Days when muscles ached from hard physical labour. Days of working through the uncertain months of a pandemic and lockdowns while the rest of world sheltered in fear in their homes when enjoying the rewards of the daily grind were impossible. All the days of one foot in front of the other motivated by a dream, finally culminating in today.

We started the day enjoying breakfast together, a meal my husband called my last ‘fix’ of mothering. Bacon and eggs with oozy yolks, thick crusty slices of toasted sourdough and hot coffee. A last few moments to relax together, chat and hear about all the plans one last time. I peppered him with questions desperately trying to commit their initial itinerary to memory, imagining their toes wiggling in the sand of rugged isolated beaches, glowing young faces warmed by sunshine. In my mind’s eye I could see them watching sunsets over the Indian Ocean their hearts happy and full. I couldn’t stop looking at him soaking him in for these last hours. I was taken back a few months ago to when his brother set off on a similar adventure following the Pacific Ocean and was reminded how fleeting our time is, nurturing them and preparing them for the world.

Things went quickly from there as he rushed inside and out packing last necessities and triple checking everything and grabbing a few last supplies from the fridge including some meals I’d cooked for him, vacuum packed for safe keeping. Ensconced in his home on wheels for the next while he set off from home for the last time for who knows how long, us following along for last goodbyes at the home of his girlfriend. Greeted by birdsong coming from high in the eucalyptus canopy above, our Boy, his girl and her family gathered in the driveway in high anticipation as the minutes ticked down to departure. All chatting amicably, parents avoiding the inevitable, the travellers signalled the time for goodbyes. Many tears many many hugs and many orders to drive safely, travel well, look after each other….all the wishes and all the anxieties bubbling forth while tears were wiped and extra hugs snatched…. and off they roared, up the hill in the yonder to see visit all the dots along the map of their imaginings and follow the sun and their hearts and dreams.

I’m immeasurably proud tonight a little melancholy, but proud. Proud of the strong, resilient, caring and capable men our boys have become. Though they feel far away tonight they’re in my heart. Tonight, we’ll sit down to a dinner of the other half of one of the meals in those vacuum packs. A Lamb and Carrot Tandoor Masala Curry split in two, shared by us and them apart but together and in my heart I’ll feel just a little closer, the goodbye a little easier.

Ingredients:

2 Tb extra virgin olive oil

1 kg lamb cubed in large chunks. I use shoulder or boneless shanks

2 onions chopped into rough chunks or sliced

3 garlic cloves minced

2 Tb minced ginger

2 large carrots peeled and chopped into large chunks

3 Tb Tandoori Masala spice mix **

1 tsp sweet paprika

½ tsp allspice

½ tsp ground Szechuan pepper or ¼ tsp black pepper ground

2 Tb tamarind paste/pulp

3 cardamon pods bruised

1 400g can crushed tomatoes

2 C beef stock

Method:

 Preheat oven to 180c.

In a large ovenproof pot (that has a well-fitting lid) heat the oil over a med-high heat. Season lamb with salt flakes and brown in the warmed pot until just sealed. No need to do this in batches or to brown too much. Remove with a slotted spoon or tongs, leaving the moisture in the pot. You can add a little more oil here if needed. Reduce heat to low and add the onion and carrot cook for 5-10 minutes until onion is translucent. Increase heat to medium and add garlic and ginger and saute briefly until fragrant. Sprinkle in all the spices and cardamon pods and cook off for 1-2 minutes until aromatic. Pour in tomatoes and stock and stir until everything is well combined and bring to the boil. When gently  bubbling return meat to the mixture and add tamarind and stir again. Cover with the lid and pop in the oven for two hours stirring half way through. The meat should be falling apart and the sauce lovely and thick.

Notes:

 **I use Gewerzhaus Tandoori Masala mix however I, more often than not, run out and have  my own version. As follows

 2 Tbs ground coriander

1 ½ Tb ground cumin

1 tsp each:

ground ginger     

ground garlic

ground cloves

ground fenugreek

grated nutmeg

cinnamon

black pepper

cardamon

ground fennel

cayenne pepper

turmeric

½ tsp ground dried chilli powder

Combine all in a jar, shake until well combined and store sealed with a secure lid in a cool dry place.

 This is a zingy and tangy curry. If your palette is a little sensitive to spice or you’re cooking for kids you might like to make it with half the masala spice mix the first time to get a feel for the flavour. You can also serve it with cooling yoghurt as a condiment.

White Chocolate and Vanilla Cookies

As you cross the freeway from one side of the verdant hills of Gippsland to the other the landscape opens up. The road becomes a little rough reminding you that you’re on that ‘road less travelled,’ pot holes and bumps slow you down, the road narrows and the hum of commuter traffic recedes. Fields stretch out left and right, dairy and beef farms, wineries and small hamlets dot the landscape as you climb in to the hills and towards one of the area’s loveliest bush walking destinations.

We’d set off in this direction a second day in a row having checked out a winery in the area the previous day. Visiting dear friends who’ve embarked on their own tree change we were keen to get out again, explore the area and stretch the legs. My husband suggested this jaunt, one, taking us up into the gentle rolling hills of Bunyip State Park. Through winding roads lined with eucalypts and ferns the route ascends the park’s eastern trail with views sweeping out across to the west horizon. The route is shaded by the canopy of towering mountain ash and fringed with stunning emerald green fern forming home to a diverse range of small wildlife. You quite literally feel yourself breathe out reaching to let the car window down a little taking in the birdsong and cool forest air as you drive the sweeping bends. After a small disagreement with google maps we found our destination, setting off, the Mr, myself, our friends and their three adult daughters found the small opening in the roadside growth and began our walk. Lush rain forest greeted us only a few steps in, the music of waters gently meandering the bordering streams, our soundtrack. We naturally break into two groups, the young and fit up front and those preferring to take in the scenery at a gentler pace, shall we say, bringing up the rear. Fallen leaves form a carpet for our footfall and release an earthy fragrance with each step up the slope of the trail. Moist earth creates a home for fungus and cools the air as we walk, talking, solving the problems of the world and also just taking in the forest calm…whilst inhaling the fresh mountain air….or puffing and panting labouring up the hill side climb….whichever way you want to look at it. Sometimes the forest is silent but as the path twist and turns forward the whooshing of bubbling waters encourages us onwards, the occasional sound of a distant car reminding us we’re not too far from civilisation. Before too long the sounds of gushing water grow nearer and the happy voices of the forward party rejoicing at reaching our destination become louder as we approach, edging us to our destination. We’re rewarded with the stunning view of waters cascading over boulders, a soft mist moistening our faces and a breeze coming off the rushing torrent. After stopping a while taking in the view we start the trek back. Taking the view from the reverse perspective always shows a landscape in a different light. I stop to take more photos having already shot many along the walk in. The walk back a seemingly easier one, a trek that feels like it’s all downhill, in the best possible way.

Or maybe the walk back to the car and picnic ground was easier, with the knowledge that a morning tea picnic awaited. Whilst beautiful, our walk did get the legs working, filling our lungs with fresh forest air and working up a bit of an appetite and one deserving of the cake and bickies I’d baked the day before. Thinking about those treats on the walk back, hungry, I started imagining some other ideas for baked goods I could try. Remembering a can of condensed milk in the pantry at home I considered a slice perhaps, but then wondered if you could make cookies with it.

We gobbled up the goodies I had made but over the next couple days, many baking trays and a few large jars full of variations on the theme I’ve come up with the quickest, yummiest vanilla white chocolate cookie I’ve ever made. One you can throw together in a hurry when an impromptu country drive and bushwalk beckons.

Ingredients:

150 gm of soft butter

½ C sweetened condensed milk

¼ C brown sugar firmly packed

1 tsp vanilla paste/extract

2 tsp miso paste

300 gm SR flour

150 gm white chocolate chopped

Method:

Preheat oven to 160c (fan forced). Line two large baking trays with baking paper and set aside.

In a stand mixer or large bowl using electric hand beaters, combine butter, milk, sugar, vanilla, and miso. Mix on low until everything has just come together then increase speed to med-high and beat until light and fluffy. Stop beaters, add flour and mix on low speed until just combined. Add chopped chocolate and continue folding together with a wooden spoon until completely combined.

Roll into walnut size balls spaced on the trays to allow space for a little spread. Pop in the preheated oven and bake for 12-14 minutes. Remove from oven and allow to cool for a few mins before laying out on a wire rack to cool completely, though quality control tasting while still warm is always ‘essential.’

Makes 40 small cookies

Notes:

*For a different flavour you can add peanut butter in place of the miso.

*Soft butter? Let’s face it, most of us don’t plan for butter creaming and whipping indeed the call to bake something yummy usually comes out of the blue. If you’re like me and not an organised baker you can slice up the cold butter, pop it on a small plate and warm it in the microwave on 10 second bursts, checking after each 10 seconds to make sure you don’t overdo it and melt the butter. But hey if you do, keep going until you brown that butter and make this instead.

Sunshine Tart

Does the colour of the food we eat affect its flavour? When you google this question, the rabbit hole of the internet elicits 304,000,000 responses. I’m clearly not the first person to ponder this. There’s a plethora of studies researching the impact of colour on flavour from a molecular perspective, the science of the visual and indeed its interaction with the other senses co-mingling to form an impact on the palate is not new. Findings from such research is used far and wide by food producers and manufacturers in an attempt to entice our dollars from our wallets, food scientists wanting to manipulate ingredients to whet our appetites more and visual creators like myself to draw the eye in and evoke emotions and feelings around the food featured in the imagery we create. And it’s on this last piece where my intrigue sits. If colour does indeed influence flavour does it do so by affecting the emotions and visceral reactions it sparks when we see a dish featuring particular reactions?

We use colour to judge food every day, often times without even realising. Imagine, if you will, that piece of steak in the fridge no longer a shiny, healthy, blood red denoting freshness and flavour, it’s lack of fleshy shine and colour making us turn our noses up instantly before we’ve even ventured a smell to check. Fresh herbs who’s emerald green chlorophyl fuelled verdancy as they age, wilting and fading to a dull earthy green immediately switching our thoughts to imagine a lack or perfume and vigour when sprinkled onto a hot dish as a final flourish. And those strawberries and raspberries who’s glistening ruby tinge have lost their lustre waning to a dull garnet shade turning our thoughts away from berry jewelled desserts and leading us to fruity flavourful smoothies. The march of a few days in the fridge or pantry pushing prime harvest colours to different shades on the one hand can take our minds from one dish to another even though at times such maturity can also signify an evolution of flavours held by that piece of produce.

But it’s not just the knowledge of the food colours that drives our thoughts on how to use them and what they’ll taste like there’s also a strong connection to how they’ll make us feel as we consume them in whatever dish we create. There’s a theory that the colour blue for example is appetite suppressing. For me, however, it sparks memories of visiting my grandmother who always kept a stash of the uniquely Australian milkshake syrup blue heaven in the pantry. A combination of vanilla and raspberry flavouring tinted with blue colouring (quite possibly not at all good for us) it does indeed always bring a smile to my face and strangely if I’m asked to describe the flavour of blue that’s precisely what comes to mind. Or the rich red of a plump tomato still warm from summer’s glow forming the base for a bowl of spaghetti making me think of both my child self and my own sons as small children wrangling wiggly strands of pasta, filling our bellies with a traditional hearty and comforting ragu. Hungry tummies sated by a bowl of what feels like love, ironically a food, the same traditional colour of love. And of course the beautiful colours and tones of sunshine, from yellow all the way through the spectrum to orange. Tones that evoke feelings of joy through to cosiness crossing seasons from summer’s sparkling sunshiney days to autumn’s days of shinking daylight, falling leaves and cosy nights. Where squash and pumpkin appear on the menu and fruit snacks feature a selection of mandarin and figs as one orchard fruit wanes in favour of the next and summer’s harvest draws to an end mingling on menus with the burgeoning harvest of the dawning season. The two coming together always puts me in mind of comforting food, ones which immediately bring warmth and contentment to mind. Think pumpkin and tomato soups, peach and raspberry galette or perhaps my Sunshine Tart.

A simple tart of gently cooked creamy leak, butter and thyme under ricotta and egg whipped together, dotted with cubes of caramelised roast pumpkin and the last of summer’s cherry tomatoes encased in flaky filo pastry bridges the two season as one shifts to the next. When you crave more than the light salads of summer but are not quite ready for the heartier fare of the cooler months a tart can be just the thing. The flaky filo pastry gives this tart satisfying crispness of pastry without being heavy, the ricotta filling a smooth salty foil for the sweet luscious veg and she’s delicious both warm for dinner and cold in a lunchbox or picnic enjoying the last of the temperate warm days.

And you’ll feel warm, cosy and joyful at the end of a colourful slice too. Indeed maybe next time you see those autumnal tones in nature you’ll think about sunshine tart and smile just a little.

Ingredients:

150 gm of pumpkin cut into cubes of roughly 2cm

1 leek white part only, sliced and washed if necessary

1 tsp fresh thyme leaves, roughly chopped

1 tb Extra virgin olive oil

10 gm butter

500 gm fresh ricotta ( the firm one shaped like a dome not the spreadable variety in a tub)

2 eggs beaten

20 gm finely grated romano or parmesan cheese ( please grate yourself it does make a difference. The pre-grated style is very coarse)

½ tsp salt

Freshly ground black pepper

2 Tbs sour cream

100 gm cherry tomatoes halved

4 sheets of filo pastry

Extra melted butter for layering pastry

1 tsp dried sweet bell pepper flakes

½ tsp of dried oregano

Method:

Preheat oven to 180c. Toss pumpkin cubes in a couple teaspoons of olive oil spread in a single layer on an oven tray lined with baking paper and roast in the oven for 15 minutes. They won’t be completely good but that’s fine, they’ll finish in tart.

Warm a medium pan on the stove over low hear with the olive oil and butter. Tumble in the leek and thyme and cook gently until soft and almost creamy, 5-10 minutes over a low heat. Remove from heat and cool on a plate to speed up the cooling process.

Combine the ricotta, crumbled, beaten eggs, grated cheese salt and pepper. Whip together with a whisk and set aside.

Grease a 24 cm, loose bottomed flan tin. Without cutting to shape lay one layer of fil across the tin gently moving it into the edges. Lightly brush with melted butter. Lay a second sheet perpendicular across the first and again a light brush with butter. Repeat twice more turning 90 degrees each time until all four sheets are layered in the tin. Lightly dot butter on the edges and gently scrunch to form a crust edge.

Spread the leek evenly across the base. Spoon the ricotta mixture over the leek and gently smooth over. Dot the cooled pumpkin pieces and tomatoes over the ricotta and sprinkle over the red pepper flakes and oregano. Pop in the oven for 45-50, turning 90 degrees halfway through to ensure the pastry crust edges cook evenly.

Allow to cool for at least 10 minutes before serving.

Afternoon Tea Loaf

I’m 51. I dwell in the middle, the space between the seasons, between two phases of life. The one where summer’s glow shrinks away awaiting a new dawning in spring, towards summers of the future and the next phase.

I wake nightly, eyes springing open, alert. I toss and turn searching for a return to slumber, desperately trying to keep my mind in the inert state of the wee hours and rest. Though I fight earnestly my brain springs into action, alert awake. The hours pass, thoughts trawl, the ‘problems of the world’ turned over tenfold solved and rehashed. Oudtside my window in waving eucalypts the birds start to stir, their song rising from a murmur, the rousing call of a kookaburra calling the chorus to a crescendo. Then the choir recedes and the dawn emerges as my eyes heavily fall into the nothingness of sleep. I wake soon after, the the day slowly gathering it’s usual cadence. Reluctantly flinging the doona off I arise and start the day expecting fatigue and exhaustion to sweep over me. Though in need of coffee the wave of fatigue hasn’t quite found me. I’m tired but awake, not as tired as I expect my mind is alert though foggy the night’s strange mix of wakeful sleepiness hanging from my shoulders like a cape I’m not keen to wear. Ideas sparked through excite me though I need to reach through holes in the fog to grasp them and bring them to life. Joints ache and waves of ‘summer’ sweep over me making my hand flap like a fan to relive the sudden flush of heat. While my mind and heart remain in a youthful place my body gently reminds me I’m entering an autumn of sorts. One where deep restful sleep eludes me and bright sparkling sunshine begins to wain to make room for the waxing of a new type of sunshine and life’s second summer.

It's no surprise then that I reflect on life in such a metaphorically manner this week. The warm balmy summer days drawing to a close here making room for the shift in seasons. Nature begins her pack down in preparation for hibernation and rebirth this week. Autumn started here yesterday. It’s a topsy turvy season, a space in the middle. Where some days dawn cool and brisk, the world moving a little slower and things a little less bright. Then as if to remind us nature hasn’t quite shifted yet our weeks are punctuated with days illuminated with warm sunshine and vigour until eventually the hibernation arrives and the earth settles down for a rest preparing for spring’s bud and summers bloom.

It's in the space in the middle, in the wee hours when my mind decides rest is for the young and the old and not the ones in the middle, that if I allow it, ideas are born. Where I imagine the next chapter and my next bloom that I also imagine what that will look, feel and taste like. Renewed energy and vigour, fresh ideas and ambitions and days filled with different flavours.

I imagined this Afternoon Tea Loaf during one such interlude in sleep. Where a mixture of summer’s fruits dried in dry parched sunshine were plumpled with dark malty sweetness and salty melted butter folded together with spices and a combination of flours, eggs and yoghurt to form a rustic loaf to compliment a moment of down time in the afternoon, perhaps with a pal or on a picnic adventuring in the wild. She’s dark flavourful, rustic, nutty and just a little spicy, sturdy and resilient she’ll last and brighten your day and make you smile.

Ingredients:

210 gm mixed dried fruit chopped.

200gm butter

¾ c (180gm) dark brown sugar (regular brown is fine if that’s all you have)

2 Tb treacle

2 tsps cocoa (unsweetened, dutch style)

1 c flour

½ c spelt flour (the wholemeal type is tastier)

½ c almond flour/ground almond

1 tsp ground cardamon

½ tsp allspice

1 ½ tsp baking powder

½ tsp bicarb soda

2 eggs

½ c Greek style yoghurt

1 tbs oil (neutral flavour, I’ve used grape seed)

1 tsp vanilla extract.

Method:

Preheat oven to 180c (fan forced) grease and line a loaf tin, 9.5cm x 20cm.

Combine butter, fruit, sugar treacle and cocoa in a medium saucepan over low heat until butter is melted and sugar mostly dissolved. Pour into a bowl to cool.

In a large bowl combine dry ingredients and whisk together with a balloon whisk to thoroughly combine and aerate.

I another small bowl combine eggs, yoghurt, oil and vanilla and whisk together to completely combine.

Pour all the wet ingredients over the dry ingredients and fold through to mix together until just combined. Tip into the loaf tin and pop in the oven for 50 minutes or until a skewer in the middle comes out clean. You’ll need to check the cake at the 30 minute mark and perhaps cover with foil. There’s a lot of sugars in the mixture which burnish and form a lovely crust quite quickly but will burn if left uncovered.

Allow to cool in the tin for ten minutes before using baking paper to gently lift from the tin and cooling on a rack. Serve with or without butter…but it’s much nicer with butter…or even a thick spread of ricotta.

Cauliflower, Carrot and Chickpea Fritters

I’ve come across a new phrase recently “February, the Mother’s New Years.” I loved it and had a rye chuckle to myself accompanied by a knowing nod. No doubt a revelation and saying arrived at by some clever clogs Mum somewhere who’s exhalation and sigh of relief waving kids off to a new school year registered with the weather authorities as a brief gale of wind. One, women, Australia wide, also identified with also nodding along as they surveyed their lives on those first few days of the school year as routine resumed and we all hopped aboard life’s treadmill for another lap around the sun.

I recalled this time vividly reading this. Both excited for the return of some routine and quiet during the day as much as I was also sad to have to resume the early mornings, the rushing around and those lunchboxes. I always quite enjoyed the languid slow pace of those 6-8 week summer holidays kicking off with the festivities of Christmas and followed by sunny summer days spent by the sea or in the bush. The bored kids and all that results from that were always a small price to pay for all that Aussie summers gift us. Camping trips, time in nature, sleep ins and family time were always the weeks that rejuvenated and refreshed me ready for the year that awaited.

January was the time for plotting and planning and all those resolutions and best intentions for the months to come. Amongst all the normal plans and promises to self I always used to want to up my lunchbox game for my kids. I’d collect all the ‘special lunchbox edition’ magazines that would populate the shelves at the dawn of each year, flicking through their pages folding the corners of ones I planned to try while relaxing in a deck chair under summer skies supervising skylarking kids on holidays. February was always the annual golden age of lunchbox fodder with all the savoury muffins, frittatas, pasta salads and wraps. March saw the return of sandwiches some days and on the year would go until term four arrived and as with every other Mum I’d limp over the finish line with whatever I could muster.

My kids are adults now and make their own lunches, but I still love a tasty lunch, more interesting than the basics. I like taking a few moments from all the other elements of busy days to assemble something delicious and healthy to break up the day. As with most busy people, though, I also don’t have a lot of time in my day to pull anything too extravagant together so if I can make something that lasts a few days, all the better.

And so I give you Cauliflower, Carrot and Chickpea fritters. Suitable for all manner of lunches, picnics, stand up ones while you empty the dishwasher, desk lunches while you plough through the work day or maybe even lunchboxes if you keep ‘mum’ about all those veggies.

Enjoy!!

Ingredients:

1 can chickpeas drained, half fork mashed half kept whole.

2 cups of small cauliflower florets, either from leftovers or blanched.

1 large carrot peeled and grated

1 spring onion/scallion finely chopped

1 tsp thyme leaves chopped or ½ tsp dried

1 garlic clove crushed

½ C milk

½ plain flour

1 tsp baking powder

1 egg lightly whisked

1 tsp salt flakes

Freshly ground black pepper to taste.

Oil to fry. I prefer extra virgin olive oil

Method:

Combine vegetables, chickpeas, thyme and garlic in a large bowl.

In a second bowl combine milk and egg and whisk together. Add flour, salt and pepper and combine until almost smooth.

Tip over veg and chickpeas, fold together until thoroughly combined.

Heat a large fry pan over medium heat with enough oil to cover the base. Drop heaped ¼ c full dollops of mixture into the warmed pan cooking 2-3 minutes each side flipping after the edges are cooked as pictured. They’re done when firm in the middle and golden brown on both sides. I cook 3 at a time to give you an idea of how big to make them.

Serve warm or cold with your favourite condiment.

Rocky Road

It was always the sweet smell sugar and chocolate that alerted me first. Small hand ensconced in my mother’s, eyes darting around for the entrance. The sweet heady aroma of chocolate and assorted sweets would waft from the shop door always drawing hungry shoppers in. My mum had a penchant for liquorice all sorts and straps. A bit of a monthly indulgence on our Saturday shopping trips she’d stock up ensuring there was always a jar of soft squishy liquorice black straps in the cupboard and a smaller one of cubes of all sorts. Not a liquorice girl myself I was always more taken with the mountains of chocolate. Jars and jars of it, all available by individual piece and more, wrapped in brightly coloured crinkly packaging invitingly displayed just within a child’s reach. I would always delight in the small offerings of the sales assistants keeping me occupied while mum stocked up…or quite possibly enticing me to pester mum for something yummy for me as well. They wore long full skirts that would swish with each step around the store they took and billow sleeved blouses, adorned with equally long bib and skirt aprons and full bonnets that reminded me of shower caps all as a nod to the heritage of the brand. They were the type of local brand who’s wares were coveted, indeed my mother in law always cherished a gift of a box of assorted chocolates.

Alongside her love of liquorice mum also loved rocky road bars. Come xmas she’d stock up on these some cut into bars in individual clear bags their squishy shiny marshmallow and jewels of Turkish delight shining out from the rich chocolate coating and others cut into cubes piled abundantly in bags with small fragments of nuts piled at the bottom like prized debris. She loved having a basket of goodies at hand that she could gift people. Generous to a fault she hated the thought of not showing her fondness for those around her at Christmas time. From the postman, to work colleagues, school teachers and friends everyone was thought of and many the recipients of treats from our favourite chocolate shop.

To be honest I’m a bit the same. I love small offerings of love at Christmas and do indeed include as many of those in my life as I can. Spiced cookies, shortbread, mince pies and fruit cake all feature prominently but his year I wanted to include something a little different. I was reminded of Mum’s rocky road love and as always my fondness for putting my spin on a recipe. I recall my small fingers as a child picking the individual jewels from the chunks and licking my fingers of the melted chocolate as my mind darted around with ideas for my version of Rocky Road. I’m particularly enamoured with these marshmallows, large cubes like small sugary pillows and fragrance that bursts from the packet. Tumbled with floral Turkish delight jellies, golden caramel popcorn and crunchy cashew nuts I like to encase them in dark chocolate to balance out the sweetness with a few pops of tart craisins for little bursts of sour. I’ve also kept the big, lovely pieces of marshmallow and Turkish delight jellies whole because it’s one less thing to do and then when I’m eating it and then enjoy chunks with each delicious ingredient. You could chop marshmallow and Turkish delight into smaller chunks if you prefer to have candy cocktail with each bite, it’s entirely up to you. You may also prefer milk chocolate or even white, it will all be delicious and loved by all those in your life to whom you make a small offering of chocolate love this Christmas.

Ingredients:

250gm turkish delight (rose flavoured, the pink one)

140 gm marshmallows

1 C dry roasted whole cashews

2 C caramel popcorn (remember Lolly Gobble Bliss Bombs?)

½ C craisins

725 gm of dark chocolate (I use this one.) roughly cut into small pieces

2 Tb grape seed oil or other neutral flavoured oil.

Method:

Line a 30cm x 19cm straight sided slice tin with baking paper leaving a few centimetres overhang on each side so you can easily lift the slice out for cutting when set.

In a large bowl combine all ingredients except chocolate and oil. You can cut up the marshmallow and Turkish delight if you wish. I like to leave it whole, saves time and the gives you pieces with big chunks of favourite ingredients.

Bring some water to a simmer in a small to medium sized saucepan suitable for a glass bowl to sit on top ensuring there isn’t too much water that it will lick the bottom of the bowl when placed on top.

Put chocolate pieces in a second large bowl big enough to fit over the saucepan you have simmering on the stove. Place the bowl on the saucepan keeping the water at a gentle simmer. Melt the chocolate until just smooth remove immediately. Stir through oil until well combined. This should help the chocolate cool a little so we can add it to the other bowl with melting the marshmallow and Turkish delight. Once cooled to room temperature, pour over first bowl and stir through until well combined and all the ingredients are coated. Tip into prepared tin, smooth out until mostly well distributed and pop in the fridge uncovered to set for at least one hour or until firm.

Cut into chunks of your own size preference and gobble up!

Warm Chorizo and Potato Salad

So it’s the first of December, perhaps the official start of the silly season, or is it? More and more each year the season dawns ever earlier. Major sale days now have become major sale weeks with us all hunting bargains and ticking off shopping lists smugly celebrating the completion of parts of or whole shopping lists. Company Christmas parties now dot squares in the November page of calendars and diaries. Christmas trees and decorations adorn our homes in November festooning every corner with festive cheer. And of course our social plans fill with all the annual Christmas catch ups with family and friends.

It's a funny thing really, we’re all so busy feeling like our personal bandwidth has reached capacity yet we feel compelled to load up even more. Don’t get me wrong, the social side of the festive season is actually one of my favourite parts of farewelling the year. Life, in the thick of the year is busy, we’re distracted by all the weekly commitments and demands on our time so making the effort to commit to time with special people feels all the more precious. December seems to bring with it a slow sense of curtains slowly drawing to a close. It’s an atmosphere well suited to a time of year marked by gatherings with loved ones. Likewise, a time of year here, where the weather mellows and warms and we’re drawn outside, dining under gently waving trees, warmed by sunshine and serenaded by birdsong and chirruping crickets. In amongst all these events though life still tumbles along taking us with it. Indeed alongside this period of reunions can be a sense of frenetic lists to tick off. Work tasks to close out for the year, maybe holidays to pack and plan for and all the other commitments we feel compelled to fulfill. Would I change it? Not on your life! I love the atmosphere of all these fun lunches and dinner dates. We’re all a little reflective, reminiscing on all the milestones and events and hopefully excitedly looking towards what the year to come brings. Corks pop, barbecues sizzle, laughter fills the air and shoulders, set firm with tension start slowly descending.

In the midst of that festive paradox the last thing I need is to struggle with what to cook or bring to a dinner when asked to contribute while still trying to fill hungry tummies. Where I can keep it simple I will, relying on a few loved flavours and filling, hearty ingredients. Spuds, or potatoes more politely, are where it’s at aren’t they. No matter how they’re prepared, nearly everyone loves them, they’re cheap and filling and will be the thing that will get passed between diners the most. What better way to keep the conversation flowing and cater for everyone.

Ingredients:

1 kg potatoes unpeeled in large cubes/chunks**.

¼ c extra virgin olive oil

½ tsp smoked sweet/mild paprika

2 tsp dried oregano

Salt flakes

3-4 whole unpeeled garlic cloves, lightly bruised with a lite bash.

2 cured chorizo sausages chopped into large chunks

¼ c garlic aioli or sour cream (choose your own adventure) or more depending on you’re preference

2 spring onions sliced to serve

Method:

Preheat oven to 180c.

Line a large roasting tray or dish big enough to hold potatoes in a single layer. In a large bowl whisk together oil, paprika and oregano. Add the prepared potatoes and stir to coat well. Tumble the mixture in the lined baking tray and sprinkle with the salt flakes. Pop into the oven and bake 30 minutes. Remove and stir and sprinkle over the chopped chorizo and return to the oven for 10 minutes or until potatoes are golden brown and sausage caramelising on the edges.

Now here’s the choose your own adventure part. Dollop over the top either the garlic aioli or sour cream and sprinkle the sliced spring onions. We prefer the aioli, it’s just that little bit richer and we love the extra garlic flavour it imparts, however if you’d prefer a lighter flavour try sour cream. As it melts down over the warm potatoes it will melt into the flavoured oil now infused with the chorizo flavours and form a delicious sauce to scoop up and drizzle over whatever protein you’ve served alongside.

**Floury potatoes are usually preferred for baking but don’t get hung up on that, if you only have white or waxy potatoes just go with it, they’ll be fine.

GF Almond Spice Granola

The alarm gently trills from my watch. It feels loud this morning ‘til I realise its right next to my head. I fumble for the button to quieten it, snooze a few more minutes. It trills again, I know today I can’t hit that button again. Magpies warble at my window sill, I hear my husband moving around getting ready for his day, run through the day in my head, I fumble for the button and turn off the alarm. Blinking a few times forcing sand from eyes I reach for my glasses check my phone (I know) and surrender to the inevitable. The day begins, showered ready to go. After squeezing in an early morning appointment I’m off for jaunt down the coast to work on a wonderful project, it’s going to be a big day. With my photographer’s hat on, my mind is ticking through all the wonderful possibilities for today’s shoot, the creative joy of working with a like-minded soul on a shared passion coursing through my veins. I wander downstairs very grateful for yesterday Sally who prepared brekky for today Sally. What a clever gem she was, because no matter how invigorated I feel I’m still not a morning person. I try, I want to be, I make plans to reach that goa, but I never quite make it. I’m also a brekky lover, indeed it’s the only way to get me fired up, that and a strong almond milk flat white coffee….very strong. The delicious spicy crunch of nuts and seeds held together with honey burnished in the oven to crisp the mixture up to little clusters atop creamy thick Greek yoghurt and the tang of fresh berries is one of my favourite ways to start the day, and when I know I have big schedule ahead of me a delicious meal I can make ahead and ignite my mind and body.

Whilst I’m lucky enough to not be a coeliac sometimes a brekky heavy in grains can still feel a little heavy in the morning for me. With that in mind I’ve leaned on gluten free ingredients for a satisfying and nourishing mix to top my yoghurt with a little crunchy sprinkle. A nice little handful of clusters also makes a great snack or even a lite sprinkle over ice cream to almost give a feel of a crumble type dessert. If not with fresh fruit this compote is perfect alongside the granola both at breakfast with yoghurt and of course at the other end of the day over ice cream.

Ingredients:

1 ½ c raw buckwheat

2/3 c whole raw almonds skin on

2/3 c slivered raw almonds

½ c raw macadamias either halved or roughly chopped

¼ c pumpkin seeds

¼ c sunflower seeds

2 Tb sesame seeds

1 c coconut flakes

2 ½ tsp ground cinnamon

¼ tsp ground allspice

½ tsp ground ginger

½ tsp ground cardamon

1/3 c olive oil

1/3 c honey

1 tsp vanilla

2 tsp brown sugar

Method:

Preheat oven to 160c (140c for fan forced).

Line a tray large enough to hold the ingredients in a single layer. Use two if you need to.

Combine all dry ingredients in a large bowl, set aside. Combine Olive oil, honey and vanilla in a bowl whisking until combined. You can zap in the microwave for ten seconds if you need to loosen it.

Pour over drive ingredients and mix well to combine. Spread evenly on tray in a thin layer. Bake 15 minutes taking out to stir and turn well half way through cooking.

Remove and cool on bench. I like to slide the paper off the hot tray onto the bench. It’s coolness shock the granola and stops the cooking process.

Whiskey and Orange Cake

My Dad, always loved a little nip of whiskey after dinner. Not a big glug or many glasses of such just a little splash, neat, to relax him and warm him up he’d say. He had his own bottle on the bar at his local footy club and a bottle at his local freemason’s lodge. It was part of his persona and one of the things his friends and I remember fondly about him. He also loved cake, until the day he passed away he fondly enjoyed a ‘sliver’ of cake. The nostalgic flavours of his favourites remained one of the things his dementia addled brain never was unable to ravage as I reflected on here.

Waddling around these last couple of days with a stiff sore back needing heat packs and a little something to offer some comfort I was reminded of my dad’s small daily rituals of a dash of warming scotch whiskey and cake, usually enjoyed separately. Well I’ve rolled them together. Warming rich malty whiskey and fresh squeezed orange juice warmed with honey and poured over dark squishy sultanas and currants. Combined with brown sugar and butter and the usual cake suspects I’ve created a light fluffy cake that feels like a warm hug.

Both warming the whiskey and cooking it again in the oven cooks out any alcohol content so if for any reason you need to avoid that this is will still work for you. The whiskey creates a richness to the flavour rounding out the almost caramel like notes of the dried fruit and honey rather than that usual harsh burn of a strait drink of the spirit. This cake is also dairy free for anyone needing to avoid that too.

Ingredients:

80 gm sultanas

80 gm currants

Juice and zest of an orange

100 whiskey

1tb honey

½ tsp bicarb soda

2 eggs

120 gm brown sugar

1 tsp vaniaa

75 gm butter melted and cooled

180gm self raising flour

¼ tsp salt flakes

½ tsp freshly grated nutmeg

Method:

Preheat oven to 180c. Line and grease a 19 cm springform pac.

Combine dried fruit, orange zest, nutmeg and bicarb soda in a medium bowl set aside. In a small saucepan combine whiskey, juice and honey and warm over medium heat until small bubbles begin on the edges of the surface. Immediately pour over fruit mixture and set aside to cool to room temperature.

Using a stand mixer with whisk attachment mix eggs, sugar and vanilla on medium high until lighter in colour and frothy. Drizzle the melted butter in while still whisking and mix briefly until its combined but before it splits, mere seconds.

Gently tip flour and salt in and using a hand balloon whisk fold into egg mixture until almost combine. Pour in fruit mixture and all the liquid and continue folding together briefly.

Pour into prepared tin and bake 40 minutes.

Cool in tin five minutes then remove from spring form. Served dusted with icing sugar and if you’re really feeling fancy a drizzle of caramel like this one.

Many hours sitting in waiting rooms this week means many hours scrolling, I don’t want to think what my iphone screen time report will look like this week. A few beauties stopped me in my tracks and are on the to cook list. This spicy easy dinner will be a hit with my lot. Not sure if this veg number will be but I’ll love it and will come back to it for Christmas entertaining. Likewise this dip which is my husband’s idea of food hell, and my idea of food heaven, venus and mars right there. Reading is the other great way to keep busy in those busy waiting rooms. I finished this much anticipated stellar sequel this week and LOVED it. I also whizzed through this light aussie read this week. I’ve enjoyed all of the authors book previously and this was no exception.

Herbed Beef and Macaroni

Nostalgia has been front of mind lately, like a chain, all it’s elements individual links forming its reach. I’m not sure what’s motivated it but I know it started with a conversation with Mel and our joint quest for an old high school home economics text book, both of us coincidentally in pursuit of a seemingly simple but comforting recipe for apple dumplings. It was a strange happenstance that we should both be motivated by the same recipe and that it should come to light quite deep into the conversation. It’s the comfort that such nostalgic recipes bring that motivates such a hunt and a big reflection and metaphor for who I am really.

At the nursery this week looking for new season herbs I came home with three bright pink fuchsia plants to fill a spot in my garden needing a lift. They were my Nana’s favourite plant and featured frequently in corners of her garden cascading from hanging baskets like ballerinas dancing in the breeze every spring. They fascinated me as a child their little buds popping with a gentle squeeze revealing the stamen and pistil ready to erupt. As a little ballerina myself I always ‘saw’ fairies and ballerinas fluttering their wings or pointing their toes from the jewel-coloured blooms. I can’t wait for the little buds to burst in my little fuchsia patch and hope somewhere somehow they make my Nana smile.

Pottering in another part of my garden bright green buds almost reminiscent of fresh figs with ruby red centres had just started opening on one of the many orchid plants from my father’s collection. A hobby he took up in retirement, the accumulation, nurturing and sharing of his collection became a passion. I always smile fondly when they flush making sure to gather the long lasting stems and bring them inside to enjoy their elegant adornment almost like having my dad around again, popping in to visit.

They’re simple pursuits that consume me and occupy my mind and time. Nothing too fancy and definitely not particularly sexy. Indeed some may find them mundane and hokey, perhaps even frown on them. I’ve often looked on my passions myself that way even answering questions in polite conversation about them in hushed tones, brushing over them, trying to seem more intellectual and interesting. It was whilst listening to this episode of my favourite podcast this week that this came to mind and indeed I almost felt like Lindsay and her guest were giving me permission to remain elbow deep in the flour and soil and creativity. Noting their love of their individual interests motivated by nothing else but their love of them rather than any societal presumptions of them that can sometimes superficially be attached to such simple pastimes gave me pause. These pursuits bring comfort be they born from nostalgia like mine or otherwise. No matter how simple nor highbrow they may seem to others I realised that they really are like a soft crocheted blanket from nana ( did I mention my love of a blankie? ) tucked around your lap on a cold evening, they allow you to breathe out feel ‘warm’ in all the ways and offer you escape and indeed an intellectual flex in a way that’s meaningful to you…and that really is the thing that matters most.

Much like my simple pursuits beef mince is a simple ingredient often forming the basis for simple meals. There’s usually always a tray of it in my freezer, so much so I could almost write a book of mince recipes. It’s an ingredient often associated with nostalgic meals like this one and more often than not comfort food. Maybe it’s that air of nostalgia that’s prevailed recently that reminded me of this dish from my childhood. Herbed Beef and Macaroni was one of my mum’s specialties from her Women’s Weekly Recipe Card Collection box. Remember those? They were a prized collection taking pride of place in thousands of Australian kitchens in the 70’s and 80’s. As was the case in that cooking era it featured a few convenient hacks using tinned soup and packets. Working from memory and a preference for working from scratch, I was keen to reconstruct this family fave. I was thrilled to plunge my fork into a warming bowl of this hearty dish and even more so to taste a dinner that tasted just like it did at mum’s hands.

Ingrendients:

1 Tb olive oil, you know the drill, extra virgin

1 brown onion finely diced

1 carrot peeled and very finely diced or grated

1 garlic clove crushed

150 gm bacon chopped in chunks

500gm beef mince (not the low fat stuff, it’s dry and flavourless)

400g jar of tomato passata/puree + a jar of water

1 Tbs dried mixed herbs – the old school variety

1 tsp dried oregano

1 beef stock cube

1 ½ cups of small shaped dried pasta like macaroni or elbows

1 c frozen peas ( I use baby peas, they’re much sweeter)

Method:

In a large frypan, that has a well-fitting lid, heat the olive oil over medium heat. Add the bacon and fry off until the edges start to caramelise, about five minutes.

Reduce heat to low and add onion and carrot and cook gently until softened but not browned, another five minutes.

Increase heat to medium high and add the garlic cook briefly until the garlic aroma wafts up. Push all this to the edge of the pan and add the pat of mince allowing it to brown whole for a few minutes each side like you would a whole piece of meat. After you’ve browned both sides break it up and continue browning the meat. You don’t need to cook it through completely but rather brown it mostly.

Sprinkle over the herbs and stir briefly allowing them to warm and release their fragrance. Pour in the passata and using that jar add a jar full of water. Crumble the stock cube over the mixture and stir to combine.

Tumble the pasta shapes into the mixture and stir to combine well. Turn heat back down to low, pop the lid on and cook for ten minutes stirring half way through to ensure it doesn’t catch on the bottom.

Remove the lid, stir again and taste check the pasta for doneness and check for seasoning. Add salt and black pepper to taste now. Try not to do this earlier as both the bacon and stock cube add a lot of flavour and needs time to cook down a little before you taste and season. Allow to simmer for a few more minutes with the lid off to let some of the liquid reduce. Finally add the peas and simmer a further five minutes or until the pasta is tender but not too soft.

I like to serve it with a sprinkle of gremolata to freshen up the flavour. Chop a small handful of flat leaf parsley, grated rind of a lemon and a garlic clove together until fine and sprinkle to taste.

Spiced Apple Loaf

Though this blog and blog may lead you to believe otherwise I’m actually not a big sweet tooth. I do however love home made sweets.

There’s something about cakes and pastries made by hand that hold a magical quality all their own. Many are recipes passed around families like a favourite auntie’s sponge cake or others like this one that become family favourites. Some hold historical value like the scones I’ve shared with you before or the delicious persian love cake we enjoyed on our holiday last week….quite apt really on an anniversary trip but I digress. Persian Love Cake was first created by a woman madly in love with a prince. In an effort to bewitch him with her culinary wiles she concocted a cake flavoured with spices and rosewater. Perhaps she imagined the spices, used as currency in ancient cultures, would offer a suggestion of wealth, perceived as an attractive attribute. Or perhaps in the true spirit of a way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, she hoped to entrance him with her culinary skills.

As I sat with my husband sharing cake and coffee in a dreamy country café last week (more about that below) I was taken with heady yet subtle mix of spices and it occurred to me this is what I love most in baked goods. Indeed when I mentally scroll through other cakes and the like I’ve shared with you this became even more evident to me. Likewise as we communed over cake and reacquainted ourselves with each other I was reminded of our mutual love of apple in baked goods. He loves a sweet old school aussie bakery apple cake which weirdly is not cake at all but rather a round overgrown hand pie type dish of apple encased in a shortbread like pastry and topped with a thick layer of simple vanilla icing. I, as we all know, love a warm apple dish like a crumble but at apple we meet. It got me to thinking about a dish that could be sweetened in a more subtle way, laced with spices for interest and threaded with apple. Maybe I should call it Frawley Love Cake…..or maybe not….too cheesy? Probably lol.

Spiced Apple Loaf is all the things for me. My favourite spices, sweetened with caramel like brown sugar and honey all come together all wrapped around chunks of tart granny smith apple have come together in this moist loaf. Served warm with lashings of butter I can’t promise it won’t be gobbled up before it’s cooled completely but if it does it will last a few days. Served cool it makes a lovely breakfast in the same way as banana bread does perhaps topped with ricotta and a little drizzle of honey or even some persian feta and a sprinkle of pistachios.

Ingredients:

3 eggs

1/3 c brown sugar firmly packed

1 tsp vanilla

180ml neutral flavoured oil. I’ve used grape seed here.

¼ c honey

1/3 c Greek yoghurt. You can sub in sour cream or buttermilk.

220 gm plain flour

80 gm wholemeal spelt flour

2 tsp baking powder

1 tsp ground cardamon

½ tsp ground ginger

1 ½ tsp cinnamon

Pinch of salt flakes

3 apples 2 chopped one grated. I’ve used granny smiths but any baking apple is fine.

Method:

Preheat oven 180c non fan forced (160 if using fan forced)

Grease and line 20cm x 10cm loaf tin ( check the link below in finds and forays for a hot tip on lining).

In a large bowl combine flours, spices and baking powder. Dry whisk with a balloon whisk to combine and aerate and set aside.

In a stand mixer fitted with whisk attachment, combine eggs, sugar and vanilla. Mix on medium until combine then increase to med-high for 5 minutes or until lighter in colour, thick and frothy. Th sugar will be almost dissolved if you rub some mixture between your fingers. Reduce speed to medium and add oil pouring in a thin stream until completely added. Increase speed again and mix for one minute until combined. Add honey and yoghurt and mix again until well combined.

Tip apples into dry ingredients and gently stir to even distribute though the dry ingredients.

Pour wet mixture over dry ingredients and gently fold through until just combined. Like when making muffins, don’t overwork it as it will toughen the texture. Spoon into the prepared tin and bake 50 minutes or until a skewer comes out clean. Check the cake after 30 minutes to make sure the top isn’t browning too quickly. Pop a loose sheet of foil over the top if you need to protect the crust.

Blueberry and Spiced Frangipane Galette

In the way I spoke about creative block a few weeks ago, this week the creativity was free flowing but the frustration ever strong. I knew what I wanted to create and I knew the basics and mechanics of those elements and was sure it should have worked. Sadly though the frangipane wasn’t set. The flavour was exactly where I wanted it but the texture was all wrong. Falling away from perfect at the outer it was sludgy in the centre and frustratingly oozy. I love Frangipane and have made it many times so you can imagine how annoyed I was. It took me back to my twenties when I was trying all sorts of new cooking techniques and recipes in my own home and my own first small and humble kitchen. With a much narrower skill base but boundless interest and motivation the breadth of things I would try and create was almost as great as the depth of failures. I would have, what amounted, to tantrums almost. Sitting at the table with my then boyfriend (now husband) sullenly eating a meal I could see in my mind’s eye but not taste at the end of my fork, almost annoyed at his fervour for the meal he had been presented with and his lack of acknowledgement of my ‘catastrophe.’ This frustration was most probably the catalyst for my cookbook collection and my passion for cooking. An interest and persistence born out of frustration pushing me ever forward.

The irony is not lost on me that blueberries feature at the core of the frustration of a few weeks ago rising up as the resolution to my rut then and this week as the source of my frustration. Their sapphire like spherical form are one of nature’s cleverest creations. Rich deep hues, sweet almost lolly like flavour reminiscent of blue heaven milkshakes and crowned with a flower like window where the bud has bloomed into berry. Likewise their delicateness is frustrating farmers at the moment as their buds soak up the relentless rain. Though they remind me of giant cabochon gems they’re not quite as tough. A reminder that whilst eating seasonally can be fraught with the fragility of being at the mercy of nature.

They require a gentle touch in cooking. My first attempt at this tart was laden with fruit it’s flesh collapsing to a jamlike puddle in the centre. Whilst this sounded like a good idea it’s ooze moistened the frangipane hampering it’s setting. Much googling and a few tweaks and we have a moist set frangipane, or almond cream as it’s also known. I’ve also used rye flour in the pastry to add a delicate nuttiness to the flavour of a short crisp casing. While the blueberries are indeed flavoursome at the moment, they can always be enhanced. The marriage of blueberries and rye had a Nordic air about it which led me to lace the frangipane with cardamon and lemon zest, creating an almost citrusy fragrant freshness.

You can enjoy still warm with a lovely vanilla ice cream, drizzled with a thin stream of lemon ice swished all around like ribbons or plain with cream, my favourite.

Ingredients:

Pastry:

120 gm plain flour

80 gm rye flour

20 gm caster sugar

100 gm cold unsalted butter, cubed

60 gm sour cream

1 tsp vanilla paste or extract

1 egg yolk

Pinch of salt

Frangipane:

80 gm butter softened

125 gm caster sugar

Finely grated rind of 1 lemon

½ tsp of ground cardamon

1 egg beaten

1 tsp vanilla

125 gm of ground almond/almond flour

30 gm plain flour

Pinch of salt flakes

200 gm fresh blueberries

1 egg extra beaten with a splash of milk for pastry glazing

1 tsp demerara sugar

Method:

Pastry

In a food processor or blender combine flours and butter and pulse on high until combined looking like breadcrumbs, some lumps are find. Beat together sour cream, egg yolk, vanilla and salt and add to food processor/blender. Pulse again until just combined. Tip it all out onto floured bench and bring together with your hands. Need briefly until just smooth and form into a thick disc. Wrap in cling wrap and refrigerate for at least one hour.

When ready roll out to a round sheet roughly 30 cms round, this should be roughly 3-4 mm thick. Gently lift using the rolling pin and lower onto a tray lined with baking paper, set aside.

Frangipane/Almond Cream

In a stand mixer beat the butter on med-high on it’s own until lighter in colour and starting to turn fluffy. Add the sugar, vanilla, lemon rind and cardamon and cream together until light and fluffy again. Add egg and beat until it resembles custard. Remove the bowl from the mixer and gently fold in the flour and almond.

Spread the Almond cream mixture over pastry in a circle roughly 2-3 cms from the edge of the pastry disc. Evenly sprinkle blueberries over the cream and fold edges up as pictured.

Brush pastry edges with egg wash and sprinkle with demerara sugar.

Bake 45-50 minutes checking half way through cooking time.