koek!

Clarissa’s kedgeree

2012-01-12T23:53:00.000-08:00

Isn’t it nice when people offer to lend you their cookbooks?

Really? I don’t think so. In fact, I can’t stand it.

‘Oh, you’ll love this. Take it with you! There’s a pork ragu in there I know you’ll go berserk for.’

I accept the proffered tome with a brittle smile and the usual pleasantries (‘No, I couldn’t. Are you sure? Oh well, If you insist...’) — all the while thinking, ‘Oh. Great.’

You see, it’s not that the cookbooks people try to lend me are no good — well, not usually. It’s that they’re too good. I get too attached, you see. It causes me very real psychological trauma to have to return them. Particularly — and this is almost always the case — if they are out of print, or otherwise tricky to get hold of.

Usually I have a fairly firm grip on my financially crippling cookbook addiction; I know to avoid certain bookstores or websites when I’m not flush. I give myself over to a new cookbook only when I have the means to purchase it. But when someone lends me a book willy nilly, out if the blue, I am without my armour. (Not to be confused with my armoire, which is also very handy in a scuffle.)

At first, I’ll just leave the book somewhere I won’t have to look at it — under the bed, say — with the intention of returning it to the owner, unread, accompanied by a glowing review: ‘It changed my life. Really, I’ll never cook stroganoff any other way.’

But my curiosity always gets the better of me. It whispers to my subconscious, telling its silken lies: ‘Just a quick skim — no strings attached. You don’t have to commit. We can just go our separate ways tomorrow. I’ll still respect you in the morning...’

Ha.

I never learn. I always do it, thinking, ‘Just a quick skim...’ And there’s always that one recipe, isn’t there? You know, The One. With Your Name On It. It seems it was created Just For You. And that’s it. Down the rabbit hole I go — hook, line and sinker.

That’s how the Guinea Pig finds me: in bed, clutching the book, white-knuckled, eyes glazed, slack-jawed and quite unconcerned about the thin stream of drool making its way down my chin.

On that note, I’d like to introduce you to my latest obsession: Clarissa’s Comfort Food. It was lent to me by a very dear friend, handed over with the words: ‘Do try the kedgeree — you won’t be sorry.’ And what do you know? I wasn’t.

This dish has the kind of ingredient combination I can’t turn away from: eggs, lentils, rice, salmon, a bit of spice, friend onions, coriander, toasted almonds... I feel a bit of a bore to admit I’m mad about anything to do with legumes, but it’s true. I get far more excited about a bowl of dressed up lentils and brown rice than I do about roast lamb. If that says anything about me, I haven’t the faintest idea what it could be.

You may remember the author, Clarissa Dickson Wright, from that show ‘Two Fat Ladies’. She was one of them, and by God, if this book doesn’t prove that you should take cooking advice from a fat cook over a skinny chef any day, then nothing does. I am dying to try her onion, aniseed and tomato soup, and something called ‘Fuzdah’s eggs’ (involving boiled eggs, coconut milk, mango and spices — sounds weird but the recipe had me salivating) — she’s got some quite out-of-the-ordinary ones, as well as a host of gorgeously rich traditionals like cottage pie, fish pie, cheese soufflé, fish cakes (made with store-bought gnocchi, thank you), salads, stews and pies.

I’d never heard of kedgeree before, which isn’t saying especially much as I’m not that knowledgeable about food, but what a delightful discovery it was. Apparently it’s very British, and usually made with haddock, though Clarissa does it with salmon when no one’s looking.

When the time came to return the book to my friend, I found my hand would not let go, and there was a spot of polite yanking before it was restored to its owner. So I had to go out and procure my own copy... As if there was ever going to be any other outcome.

All I can say is, do try the kedgeree. You won’t be sorry.

Clarissa's kedgeree
Serves 8

1 tsp coriander seeds
½ tsp cardamom seeds
1 tbsp ground turmeric
1 tsp cayenne pepper
1 dried red chilli
4 tbsp ghee or clarified butter [I just used butter]
1 onion, ½ chopped, ½ slivered
500g long-grain rice
500g brown lentils
Salt
500g cooked salmon, flaked
4 hard-boiled eggs, shelled and cut into quarters
1 tbsp vegetable oil
1 tbsp slivered almonds
Coriander, to garnish

1. Pound the spices and chilli together. Put them in a saucepan with 1.2 litres water and simmer for 10 minutes. Strain and keep the water.
2. In a large saucepan, melt the ghee or butter and fry the chopped onion until coloured. Add the rice and lentils and cook, stirring continuously, for 2 minutes. Add the strained spice water and the salt and simmer until all the moisture has been absorbed and all is cooked and tender. Stir in the cooked fish carefully, along with the hard-boiled eggs.
3. Heat the oil in a separate pan and fry the onion slivers until brown and crisp, then drain well on kitchen paper. Sauté the almonds quickly in the same pan.
4. Turn the kedgeree onto a serving dish and scatter the onions and almonds on top. Garnish with coriander.

[To bulk out the recipe you can add cauliflower or potatoes.]

Super duper, easy peasy vichyssoise

2011-12-28T22:39:00.000-08:00

This time of year, for me, usuallyentails a trip to Calitzdorp — a sweet,not-too-pretty-but-filled-with-character dorp in the Klein (small)Karoo, just outside Oudtshoorn — to visit my folks. They retiredthere from Jo'burg about six years ago, and since then I've come tolook forward to my visits, not just because I get to spend time withthem, but because it always means lots of fun in the kitchen with thespoils form my dad's veggie patch, a lot of wine appreciation, andgenerally a lot of togetherness, laughter and good eatin'.

Huge home-grown carrots, gargantuanbeetroots, fresh salad leaves, lovely, earthy potatoes, snappy leeks,sweet cherry tomatoes and firm, shiny zucchini were all potentialingredients, but I decided to give vichyssoise (cold leek and potatosoup) a bash. I'm not sure why, exactly, because I'd only had it onceat a restaurant and I hadn't really enjoyed the taste or thetemperature — the merits of chilled soup eluded me. Perhaps, now, Icame to this recipe due to the baking Karoo temperatures, and thefact that I'd been on a steady diet of rich meats and carbs for abouta week straight... I needed a reprieve from the heat and heavy food.

I didn't want to leave the result tochance, so I consulted both Larousse and The Joy of Cooking — theformer called for a base of water with a bouquet garni thrown in,while the latter called for stock. So I used both (a stock cube, Iadmit), and boy, oh boy, was it delicious — thick, savoury andfilling, but quite light at the same time. I also didn't chill thesoup completely, but rather served it on the cool side of roomtemperature, and I think this allowed for more flavour. But if youprefer your soups icy, by all means.

This is one of those stupidly easyrecipes that yields fabulous results — and we all need more ofthose, don't we? Don't worry too much about getting the amountsexactly right, they're more of a guide.

If you happen to be experiencing a coldwinter right now, this soup is also — hey presto — exceedinglyyummy served hot.

(Side note: Vichyssoise was invented inthe US by a French chef, who named the dish after his home town,Vichy. So drop that into conversation, why don't you.)

Vichyssoise

Serves 4

12 leeks, white bits only, washed andfinely sliced

50g butter

600g potatoes, peeled and cubed

1 bouquet garni*

1 litre chicken stock (or just enoughto cover the potatoes)

1 cup cream

Salt and white pepper, to taste

Chives, to garnish

1. In a large soup pot, gently fry theleeks in the butter until soft and translucent — do not allow tobrown.

2. Add the potatoes and garni to thepot, as well as enough stock to just cover the potatoes. Give it agood stir, bring to the boil, then reduce the heat and allow tosimmer until the potatoes are soft.

3. Using a handheld blender (or anordinary one — which just means more washing up!), blend the soupto your desired consistency. I like it slightly chunky.

4. Leave the soup to cool, then plonk itin the fridge if you'd like it chilled, for about an hour.

5. Stir in the cream, season with saltand pepper, and divide between four bowls. Garnish with chives(snip-snip) and that's that.

*Two sprigs parsley, two bay leaves andone sprig each thyme and rosemary, tied together with a piece ofkitchen string.

Current addictions

2011-12-19T09:25:00.000-08:00

La Parmigiana

This pasta factory in Dean Street, Newlands, offers expertly made fresh and freshly frozen pasta so you can plonk it straight from the freezer into boiling water, and their prices put Woolies to shame. Their Napoletana and arabiata sauces make me want to take up poetry. If you take a baking dish to them they’ll fill it with virtually anything (pasta-related) you desire. 021 448 8852

Yoghurt, garlic, olive oil, salt

Okay, make that: 1 cup thick, diet-be-damned full fat yoghurt, 2 cloves super-fresh crushed garlic that perfumes your fingers (1 clove if you're squeamish), a few glugs of herby extra-virgin olive oil, and a generous helping of flaked Maldon salt, to taste (I like it plenty salty). Mix it all up until blended and allow to stand so the flavours infuse for at leat 10 minutes.

This sauce is heavenly. I love glooping it over poached eggs, sliced tomato, and anything with a vaguely Indian or Middle Eastern slant. Sometimes I just stand in the kitchen, staring into space, eating it by the spoonful.

Kuhestan Lemongrass and Ginger Cordial

This cordial has a delicate, fresh, floral, not-too-sweet flavour — I imagine this is what nectar tastes like to bees. I bought it at the Hope Street Market. Here's their website.

Hibiscus salt

I don't know if I can call this an addiction yet, because I'm in the process of making it — but I'm pretty sure all the signs of imminent addiction are there. I'll let you know how it goes.

White Saffron & Cardamom Chocolate

Whoever decided on this flavour combination should be canonised (it was a company called Chocolate Marionettes — I'm looking into the paperwork). Unfortunately the only place I know of that stocks it is the Peregrin Farm Stall on the N2 just over Sir Lowry's pass. But maybe if you contact them they can tell you where to get some.

real purdy: red cabbage & citrus chicken salad

2011-12-14T02:34:00.000-08:00

I am completely obsessed with red cabbage at the moment. Its crunch. Its colour. Its versatility (mostly in the salad department). On a nerdy note, it contains 36 different varieties of anthocyanins (or ‘thingies’), which have been linked to cancer protection. Plus, a large, violet, delicately veined globe placed artfully on a kitchen shelf is a viable décor item.

This vibrant salad screams summer. It’s full of flavour and super-duper good for your body, but more importantly, it’s delicious. The crunchy cabbage, the sweet citrus, the savoury chicken… If you have an aversion to grapefruit, replace with orange. (Actually, any sweet citrus works well.) It’s a great way to use up roast chicken leftovers.

Red cabbage & citrus chicken salad
Serves 6—8

½ head cabbage, shredded
2 oranges, peeled and sliced
1 grapefruit, peeled and sliced
3 cups shredded cooked (preferably roasted) chicken
2 cups pomegranate rubies

For the dressing:
½ cup extra virgin olive oil
1 tbsp English or dijon mustard
1 cup orange juice
Salt and black pepper, to taste.

Arrange the salad ingredients on a platter (fancy shmancy like). Combine the dressing ingredients in a jar and give 'em a good shake. Drizzle dressing over the salad, rejoice and serve.

Yotam Ottolenghi's aubergine cheese cake

2011-12-07T05:44:00.000-08:00

My bathtub is a death trap for ants.

For the few unfortunate ant-souls who find their way up the legs (it’s a ball & claw) and over the lip, there’s no escape.

In fact, the sight of them scrabbling up the sides, tumbling down, then starting all over again, is so existentially traumatising that I am compelled to rescue each and every one before I open the floodgates at bathtime. (I get the ants to crawl onto a piece of tissue, then airlift their asses out of there — I like to pretend I'm in an episode of Rescue 911.)

Sometimes I’m too late, and there are few lifeless ant corpses scattered about. I picture their families back home, holding vigil (with little ant-sized candles), ant toddlers innocently asking, ‘Mama, where’s Papa?’ To which Mama ant replies, ‘I don’t know baby, I just don’t know…’ before dissolving into tears.

And then I smile to myself, satisfied that — in the lives of those few ants I’m able to rescue — I've made a difference.

Of course, I think nothing of emptying a can of Doom over the thriving N1 ant highway that runs under our kitchen sink.

Life is full of contradictions.

Here is an extremely yummy thing I made last night, which I found here.

Yotam Ottolenghi's aubergine cheese cake
Serves 4

90ml olive oil
2 small aubergines, cut into 2cm thick slices
Salt and black pepper
150g feta
150g cream cheese
60ml double cream
3 eggs
150g baby plum tomatoes, cut in half lengthways
2 tbsp picked oregano leaves, torn
¾ tsp za'atar (optional)

Preheat the oven to 190C/375F/gas mark 5. Line with foil the base and sides of a deep, 19cm square baking tin (or a round, 22cm diameter dish), then brush lightly with oil.

Lay the aubergine slices on a baking sheet lined with greaseproof paper and brush all over with four tablespoons of olive oil. Sprinkle with salt and pepper, and roast in the hot oven for 40 minutes — the aubergines need to go soft and golden. When cooked, remove, set aside to cool, and lower the oven to 150C/300F/gas mark 2.

Put the feta, cream cheese, cream, eggs and some pepper in a bowl and whisk until smooth and thick.

Arrange the aubergine neatly in the baking tin — the slices should fill up the tray as they lean against each other, almost standing on their sides. Fill the gaps with tomatoes and sprinkle over half the oregano.

Pour in just enough of the cheese mix to leave some aubergine and tomatoes exposed, sprinkle over the remaining oregano and bake for 30 minutes, or until the "custard" sets. Leave the cake to cool down to room temperature, then remove it from the tin and cut into four squares (or into wedges, if using a round dish). Before serving, gently brush all over with za'atar mixed with a teaspoon of olive oil, or just olive oil.

Fried butternut with mint (OMF)

2011-12-01T01:12:00.000-08:00

I went a little nuts at Woolies the other day. They had a promotion on: a giant bag of butternut for R30, but you could buy three for R60. So of course I had to buy three — about 25 butternuts!

When I got home and stumbled through the front door with my booty, the Guinea Pig just looked at me and said, ‘Uh-oh.’

And he was right to be wary. The bags sat under the kitchen counter for a few days, untouched, and it began to dawn on me that I probably don’t have enough synapses to deal with 25 butternuts.

Butternut soup... Er, roasted butternut... Er.

Oh sure, I have plenty of cookbooks and recipes that include butternut/pumpkin, but they’re a bit too fiddly and, more importantly, only require a small amount of the stuff.

Enter inspiration, stage left.

I am lucky enough to work for a magazine whose food editor uses a test kitchen just down the corridor from our office. So quite often I’ll have finished stuffing my face with leftover pizza in the cafeteria at lunch time, only to have platters of gourmet concoctions plonked down in front of me, going begging. (Which is when my second stomach comes in handy.)

Yesterday was such a day, and one of the plates happened to contain an incredibly tasty, incredibly delicious butternut dish. Little blocks of fried orange yumminess. Sprinkled with mint.

You heard me: MINT.

I simply had to know how to make it, but a cross examination of the assistant food editor yielded only that the butternut was boiled and then fried in butter.

‘But there was more to it,’ I wailed to GP later that evening in the kitchen, poking the air with my sloshing wine glass. 'It was so tasty — I couldn’t have just been fried in butter with a bit of salt. It was sweet as well...'

And that's when I figured it out. And here it is — more or less approximating what I tasted in the kitchen that day. I’m not going to bother with amounts because, well, I’m too lazy, and it’s not really all that important.

If you’re a veggie lover, this is a little plate of heaven.

Fried butternut with mint

Butternut (duh)
Butter
Olive oil
Salt
Sugar
Fresh lemon juice
Mint, chopped

Boil up some cubed butternut until tender but still firm. Drain. Then melt a large (and I mean heart-attack LARGE) nob of butter in a frying pan with a similar amount of olive oil — you basically want enough to coat the butternut and make it nice and glossy. Turn the heat up really high, then add the butternut in a single layer (you may have to work in batches).

Okay, now you want to sprinkle a generous amount of sugar and salt (yes) over the butternut. Start with a tablespoon of each, then taste the butternut halfway through cooking and decide if it needs some more.

Fry the butternut until it's golden and the sugar is beginning to caramelise. Transfer to paper towel and drizzle with fresh lemon juice (to taste) and sprinkle with chopped mint.

Spring minestrone

2011-10-25T23:39:00.000-07:00

I recently took up hot yoga.

It was a tactic to cope with stress, because as effective as drinking several tall jugs of wine every evening is, I was finding it unsustainable.

Hot yoga, if you’ve never tried it, is yoga in a large room heated to about 40C — or, as some prefer to describe it, hell on earth.

It involves ingesting large volumes of your own sweat through inverted nostrils while your muscles cuss at you. Then there’s the humiliation factor of emphatically jumping to face your right when the entire rest of the class jumps to face the left.

It is deeply uncomfortable. It makes me feel like a motor function impaired gorilla. And yet... While I’m there, sweating like a hog in heat, I don’t think of anything else. I am completely present. One might argue that inserting rusty forks under one's kneecaps would have roughly the same effect, and I wouldn’t have to pay R60 a pop for the privilege. (Can’t fault you there.)

All I can say is, I guess you either get it or you don’t — I am certainly not trying to convince you to start hot yoga. But that hour at lunch time is like the eye of the storm of my life.

(Watch now as I deftly tie the topic of yoga to the spring minestrone recipe below.)

Making this spring minestrone is a bit like yoga...

(Impressive, huh?)

... in that it requires effort and commitment.

If, that is, you are going to be shelling farmer’s market peas and boad beans yourself, as I did. You could always just get the pre-shelled ones from Woolies if you like, I won’t judge you.

This minestrone is just so good for the soul — I mean, look how green it is. You can just tell it’s pure goodness. And it tastes even better than it looks. It’s the perfect way to combine all the lovely green things sprouting all over the place this time of year. (Feel free to add whatever you like — zucchini, beans, artichokes, or even chopped potatoes, pasta or cooked cannellini beans.) I'm sure I don't have to tell you that the success of this soup hinges on the quality of the stock.

Promise me you’ll try it.

Namaste.

Spring minestrone
Serves 6

Extra virgin olive oil
1 onion, finely chopped
2 cloves of garlic, finely sliced
1,5 litres good chicken, ham or vegetable stock
100g peas, podded
100g asparagus, chopped into 3cm pieces (separate tips from the woody stems)
100g broad beans, podded
100g spinach, chopped
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 small handful each fresh basil and parsley, finely chopped
100g Parma ham or pancetta, chopped & fried until crispy

1. Add a good glug of olive oil to a large heavy-bottomed pot and add the onion and garlic. Cook gently on a very low heat until the onion is nice and glassy (make sure it doesn’t brown), about 15 minutes.
2. Add the stock and simmer for 10 minutes. Add the peas and asparagus stems and simmer for 2 minutes. Then add the broad beans, spinach and asparagus tips. Cook for a minute, then stir in the ham. Season to taste.
3. Ladle the soup into bowls and top with a spoonful of chopped basil and parsley to stir through.

Broad beans, orecchiette, minty ricotta & anchovy croutons

2011-10-11T05:31:00.000-07:00

I have a few strategies for cheering myself up when I feel a little blue, a little uninspired, or when I just want to plak a smile on my face.

The most effective is to sing Eminem songs to myself in a Punjabi accent (‘The Real Slim Shady’ is a favourite).

A stroll on the mountain is also a reliable way to lift my spirits. Summer arrived in Cape Town this weekend (and then swiftly departed on Monday), and since I’m lucky enough to live within walking distance of Rhodes Memorial, I took an amble on Sunday morning. And some pretty pictures. Mooi, neh?

Apart from warm weather and extra daylight, nothing helps summer hit home quite like the glut of greens that flood the farmers’ markets around this time of year, none of which I anticipate more avidly than broad beans.

These beautiful emerald nuggets are impossible to resist. Although, after podding about a kilo of them, I thought I might have a little more success resisting them next year.

I concocted this killer recipe over the weekend. You could leave out the mint, if you like, or the anchovies, but I liked the combination. It was a glorious plate of summer.

Broad beans, orecchiette, minty ricotta & anchovy croutons

The amounts for this dish are not all that important (i.e. I am too lazy to figure them out). Just cook enough pasta (about 450g for four people) and take it from there.

Pod a whack of broad beans, blanch briefly (like, a minute or two), then remove the tough outer skin. Boil orecchiette. Cut some nice, crusty ciabatta up into little bocks. Heat some olive oil and melt some anchovies (about 5). Fry the bread cubes until golden brown and crunchy.

Mix up some ricotta and finely chopped mint, and season to taste with salt and black pepper. (Add a tablespoon of yoghurt if the ricotta is a little dry.)

Divide the pasta and broad beans between plates/bowls, dot with blobs of ricotta and top with croutons. Give a final sprinkle of salt and black pepper, drizzle with some good quality extra virgin olive oil and finish with a squeeze of lemon juice.

Et voilà!

The Table

2011-10-06T02:02:00.000-07:00

Russel Wasserfall and his wife Camilla Comins are probably going to have to take out a restraining order against the Guinea Pig and I.

We are their NBFs (New Biggest Fans).

Set in an old farm house to one side of a lush vineyard (De Meye, a family-owned boutique winery in Stellenbosch), it seems somehow misleading to describe The Table as a restaurant — it feels more like visiting old friends for a long, lazy Sunday lunch.

Russel is instantly likable — what's not to love about a man who has you quaffing rosé and chatting away less than a minute after arrival? (If his name sounds familiar, it’s because he’s one of the South Africa’s top food photographers.) Camilla works her considerable magic in the kitchen. She's a professional food whiz: trained chef, stylist, and food product developer.

Our meal at The Table was 100% pretention-free. It was nurturing, nourishing, delicious, transportive — the antithesis of what one might expect from Jardine or Dale-Roberts (#nothingagainstthempersonally) and the like, whose dishes leave me feeling nonplussed as to how, exactly, I am supposed to have benefitted from the experience.

For R200, the set menu included steamed mussels in a creamy sauce with homemade bread to start, then a main of large, thick slices of perfectly roasted beef with Béarnaise, a flawless Caesar salad and an enormous onion tart that I think the Guinea Pig could quite happily have scoffed all on his own in a dark cupboard. Dessert was a very generous portion of some yummy kind of coconut cake with chocolate ice cream that I was just too full to take more than a bite of. Our entire meal could have fed four people. (The leftovers fed us for three whole days.)

It’s no coincidence then that Russel’s keyword throughout our sporadic afternoon conversations was 'abundance'.

Of course, we each drank our own body weight in wine, and were the last to leave. (A tip: if Russel makes a wine pairing recommendation, go with it. I didn’t and regretted it.) The Wasserfall-Comins were very gracious about our slurring, stumbling, and somewhat-embarrassing-in- the-cold-light-of-the-next-day ardour, bless them.

We are already plotting our return to the scene of the crime.

The Table at De Meye
083 252 9588

Psssst: This week's menu is…
• Starter
Bushpig rillettes with caper berries and pickles, a baked mozzarella in lemon with bay leaves and crusty bread
• Main
Butterflied leg of lamb cooked with thyme and paprika, served with potato wedges, braised leeks and baby spinach with a hot mustard dressing
• Dessert
Strawberries with meringues and cream and a scoop of chocolate ice cream

Buttered prawns with tomato, olives and Pernod. Yea, verily

2011-09-15T09:35:00.000-07:00

I debated (and debated and debated) about whether to share this recipe — because, frankly, the pic I took isn't all that.

And nothing makes me click away from a food blog faster than an ugly-ass picture.

Thing is, god-damn it tasted good. It had the Guinea Pig and I licking our plates and groaning indecently (and not for the usual reasons).

Apart from Pernod, the ingredients are all kitchen cupboard no-brainers. (I used frozen peeled prawns from Woolies. There is no way in hell this working gal is going to be peeling and deveining after work.) It is a one-pan wonder.

If you have Pernod at home, you just have to make this. I mean, you just have to. For me. Do it for me.

Please?

Buttered prawns with tomato, olives and Pernod
(Adapted from Ottolenghi: The Cookbook)
Serves 2 as a main, 4 as a starter

4 large plum tomatoes, chopped (I used 1 can chopped tomatoes)
About 16 fresh shrimp (I used about 2 cups frozen peeled prawns from Woolies, so there)
3 tablespoons softened butter
About 20 Kalamata olives, pits removed
About 4 teaspoons Pernod, or to taste (I used close to 6 teaspoons)
3 garlic cloves, sliced very thin
2 tablespoons chopped flat leaf parsley
Coarse sea salt
Grilled or toasted whole grain bread or ciabatta

1. Prepare the tomatoes: Bring a small pot of water to boil. Using asharp knife, make a small cross at the bottom of each tomato. Drop thetomatoes in boiling water for 30 seconds. Remove and when they havecooled slightly, peel them. Core the tomatoes and cut each one into 4to 6 wedges. Set aside.
2. Prepare the prawns: Remove the peels, but leave the tail sectionin place. Using a sharp knife, cut down the back of each prawn andrinse away the dark vein.

3. Place a large frying pan over high heat. When veryhot, add one tablespoon of butter and sauté the prawns for 1 to 2minutes, shaking the pan or flipping them around with a spatula. Addthe tomatoes and olives, and continue sautéing foranother 2 to 3 minutes, until the prawns are almost cooked through.Drizzle in the Pernod. Let the alcohol evaporate for 1 minute beforequickly adding the remaining butter, plus the garlic, parsley and saltto taste. Toss to blend the flavors, then serve immediately withgrilled or toasted crusty bread.

Beetroot bashing

2011-08-25T09:13:00.000-07:00

I find the people’s adoration of beetroot utterly mystifying.

It tastes like earth, but not in a pleasant way, like oysters taste of the sea. I mean it tastes like soil, to me. Ground. With a little sugar added.

Sies.

It gives everything else on your plate a reddish tinge (which inevitably reminds me of the Mercurochrome my mom used to dab on our scraped knees).

It also makes your pee go pink.

I don’t know. Maybe I suffered some sort of humiliation involving a beetroot in my formative years. I'll ask my mom when she starts returning my calls.

I am well aware you are probably very fond of beetroot, and I’m sorry I can’t share your enthusiasm for such culinary revelations as beetroot risotto… or beetroot mousse… or pickled beetroot... or beetroot salad.

I can’t think of a single beetroot dish that wouldn’t taste better substituted with some other ingredient, or isn't an attempt to make the taste of beetroot more palatable — as opposed to enhancing its natural (theoretical) sapidity.

All this is my way of saying that today’s recipe is 100% beetroot free. BUT, if you do like your pee an attractive shade of rosé, I hear that Labneh is really quite a lovely accompaniment to roasted beets.

It’s a rad kind of yoghurt cheese, easy peasy to make, super yummy and versatile. (Don't you think this pic looks like a fairy did its business on a dishtowel?)

Mostly it’s best just spread on toast with some ripe chopped tomato and onion or garlic and herbs, for example, or in a frittata, or sprinkled over a lovely lentil dish, such as this one.

I made an unseasonably summery dish with zucchini that I found on one of my favourite blogs, Taste of Beirut. I mean, it’s not going to win any awards for imagination, but it is a lovely little reminder of how something simple can also be something thrilling (okay, maybe I need to get out more).

It was delicious though.

Labneh
You want about 500ml of good, thick, full-cream yoghurt. Mix in a tablespoon of Maldon salt (or ordinary salt, but, you know).
Place a sieve over a bowl and line the sieve with muslin cloth — or a dishtowel, I don’t care. Plonk the yoghurt into the sieve, tie up the corners of the muslin and twist so the yoghurt is naais and toit.
Place something heavy over the ball of yoghurt (I used a bag of dry beans) and leave in the fridge for between 12 and 24 hours.
Squeeze out any excess liquid and unravel your lovely ball of labneh.
To store, place it in a clean jar, cover in olive oil and store in the fridge. Add some dried herbs or paprika if you like.

Pasta with zucchini and labneh sauce
Serves 2

400g pasta (shells, penne, whatever you like really)
1 cup labneh
About 700g zucchini
4 cloves of garlic, mashed into a paste with some salt in a mortar
1 large handful each basil and parsley
Olive oil, as needed

1. Wash and dry the zucchini and slice.
2. Cook the pasta until nearly done, then add the zucchini to the cooking water. Cook for a minute, or until the pasta is cooked. You want to make sure the zucchini stays al dente. Drain, reserving about 1/2 cup of the pasta cooking water. Transfer the pasta to a bowl.
3. In the same pot, fry the garlic gently in a little olive oil, until fragrant. Add the labneh and warm it slightly so it mixes with the olive oil. Add the pasta and zucchini, and a little of the cooking water. Mix in the herbs, season with plenty of salt and black pepper, and serve.

Glory be: scrambled eggs with lentils and burnt sage butter

2011-08-15T22:49:00.000-07:00

For us working stiffs, there is no indulgence more achingly longed for — and, when the time comes, languidly savoured — than the Saturday morning lie-in. Particularly in winter.

Ensconced in fluffy duvets, I open my crusty peepers (woken by natural light — what a luxury!), and then it washes over me: the realisation that I don’t have to get out of bed; that for the next 48 hours (if I’m lucky), my only obligation is to do whatever I bloody well feel like.

Usually, this means staying in bed. Between my laptop, a pile of Donna Hay and Observer magazines, and a good novel, I could quite easily spend the entire weekend in my jammies. (‘You’re going to get bed sores again,’ says the Guinea Pig, bless him.) If you can manipulate your bed mate to make you a cup of tea or coffee every half-hour, more power to you.

Naturally, my thoughts only turn to breakfast at about noon, and so commences the internal struggle: ‘Oooh some lovely buttery eggipeggs would be just the thing now... But oh, its so warm and toasty under the covers — you mean I’d have to get out of bed and get dressed? That’s crazy talk, woman.’

So I procrastinate by pondering all the rude things I’d like to do to eggs for breakfast, until I can’t stand it any more and find myself in the kitchen, clanging pots and pans, looking like an escaped mental patient.

This morning’s brekkie for two was the sum of the following equation:

½ tin lentils (bought by accident, I didn’t look at the label properly and thought they were chickpeas — use ordinary home-cooked lentils by all means)
+
4 large eggs, beaten until fluffy, with about 2 tbsp water added
+
2 slices toasted seed bread
+
1 handful sage leaves fried in butter until crispy (the butter should go brown and nutty)
=
Scrambled eggs with lentils and burnt sage butter

Just drain the lentils, add to the eggs and scramble, plonk on buttered toast and top with the sage leaves and a drizzle of the burnt butter. Best eaten in bed.

Spaghetti recipe for retards

2011-08-11T01:08:00.000-07:00

I love food. Love it.

‘Well duh,’ I hear you say, but bear with me.

The thing is, even though I own a teetering pile of cookbooks, and have perused hundreds, nay, thousands of online recipes over the years, I still draw a blank when considering what to have for dinner on week nights.

The only explanation I can come up with is that, at the end of a busy work day, my poor brain just balks at having to make one more decision, especially if my livelihood is not dependent on the outcome.

Even after discovering this fabulous list of easy meals in under 10 minutes on the New York Times website, I was still feeling uninspired last night, so I decided to ask the Oracle: Twitter.

The feedback was immediate, and immediately inspiring. I asked for an unusual spaghetti sauce and got the following: this rocket and anchovy pasta from @Dr_Rousseau; mascarpone, lemon zest and finely chopped mint from @SoniaCabano2; puttanesca from @fredhatman; prawns with spinach, garlic, lemon zest and chilli from @TheFoodRoom; and lemon zest, olive oil and garlic from Tara_L_B. Thank you all for coming to my rescue.

However, it was this suggestion from @Enigmeg that I decided on. I went to Woolies intent on buying mascarpone, lemons and mint, but realised I couldn’t stop thinking about oozy, unctuous grilled Camembert.

This, people, is an infallible pasta recipe. If you can boil pasta and operate the grill in your oven, you can make this. In 20 minutes.

It’s stupidly easy, gorgeously rich and silky, and tastes as good as it sounds. The only risk is that you might get arrested by Weight Watchers.

Spaghetti with roasted Camembert and cherry tomatoes

All you need, for two, is enough spaghetti (about 300g), Camembert (2 wheels, tops trimmed off and set in foil), cherry tomatoes (about 500g), and rosemary (about four sprigs, leaves picked and chopped).

Plonk the tomatoes and Camembert in an oven tray, sprinkle with rosemary, drizzle with olive oil and grill until the cheese is bubbling and the tomatoes are ever so slightly charred, about 10 minutes.

In the meantime, cook the pasta in lots of salted boiling water and drain, reserving a little of the cooking liquid. Return pasta to the pot, spoon over the molten Camembert and scrape over the rosemary and tomatoes. Season to taste.

Mix it all up, adding some of the cooking water to get it nice and silken, then stick a forkful in your mouth, and sigh.

Supper, sorted.

Pretty, pretty, glug, glug

2011-07-26T23:22:00.000-07:00

I like to think I have above-average willpower. (Despite evidence to the contrary.)

I mean, I can resist flying into a rage when DVD Nouveau has rented out the next instalment of True Blood/30 Roc/Sons of Anarchy to someone else.

I can (occasionally) resist shouting ‘**nting retard!!’ at those who cut in front of me in the morning traffic.

I can even resist the (often quite powerful) urge to have scrambled eggs for both breakfast and dinner.

But I cannot resist a prettily packaged bottle of wine. I just can't.

In fact, I can’t quite fathom why more marketers haven’t cottoned on to this. I mean, the wine labels below could be stuck to a bottle of paint stripper, and I'd still... have to... buy them.

It’s a very real, very Alice in Wonderland ‘Drink Me’ compulsion.

Luckily, the ones below contain glorious wine, not paint stripper – I have tasted them all (except the Thunderchild).

I mean, just look at them…

Purdy, non?

I also quite like this one...

Red blend Alphabetical: get in touch with The Foodie, David Cope, at david@owlandvine.com
Secateurs: AA Badenhorst
Thunderchild: Lettie or Petro at the Herberg 023 626 3140
Kloof Street: Mullineux Family Wines
Six Hats: Citrusdal Wines

I hate food bloggers

2011-07-18T00:15:00.000-07:00

‘I hate restaurant critics. I hate restaurant reviews. I hate food bloggers. I hate all foodie commentators with their boring bloody opinions about everything, and their “accurately judged bisque” and their “uncertain seasoning” and their “muddled flavours” and their “distracted service”. It’s all bollocks! Do you hear me? It’s all total rubbish. You know nothing. Nobody cares. Your wretched evaluations are subjective, ill-informed, prejudiced, pointless, perfectly irrelevant and of no interest to anyone. You are boring. You are fat. You are pasty-faced and stupid and wear ugly shoes. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.’

I happened upon this rant by Giles Coren in a May issue of the UK Times Magazine. I think it’s the best thing he’s ever written (and about as close to writing like AA Gill as he’ll ever get, shame). And I found myself nodding (and grinning) in agreement.

Ironic, no?

Which brings me to an interesting piece on the Mail & Guardian website about the contention between food bloggers and bona fide (i.e. they get paid) food writers — the ‘contention’ part coming mainly from the food writers’ corner. It really irks them that bloggers get invited to promotional events.

Yes, I get it. I think food blogs, for the most part, are pretty annoying. Not only that — 95 percent of them are badly written, unattractive, or both. I especially loved this excerpt in the MG piece, taken from some unfortunate blog somewhere:

‘I have quite literally never tasted anything as good as the Persian love cake. I can see why it so aptly named — I wanted to do more than just love it. As Josh Groban profoundly stated, It raised me up so I could stand on mountains.’

Yikes.

The thing is, food bloggers are only annoying ... if you let them be. That is, if you choose to be annoyed by them. In fact, the more seriously you take them (er, us), the more annoying they (we) get. So just stop taking us so bloody seriously, okay? In fact, I recommend you stop reading this post right now and go read something we can all be acceptably sanctimonious about, like the situation in Libya. Or Julius Malema. Or hipsters.

Go on...

...

...

...

You might have stuck around to find out about the picture I posted. It’s a delicious chickpea salad recommended to me by a colleague. I served it with a pomegranate molasses and cumin marinated roast chicken, and it went down a treat. (Not that I can speak with any authority on the matter, mind you.)

Kisses.

Chickpea, feta and coriander salad
(From Falling Cloudberries by Tessa Kiros)
Serves 6 as a side

400g tinned chickpeas
250ml olive oil
1 large red onion, chopped
5 garlic cloves, very finely chopped
1 or 2 red chillies, seeded and finely chopped
250g crumbled feta cheese
4 spring onions, green part only, chopped
25g chopped coriander
30g chopped parsley
Juice of 1 lemon

1. Rinse chickpeas and place them in a bowl.
2. Heat 3 tbsp olive oil and fry the red onion gently until it is cooked through and lightly golden. Add the garlic and chilli and cook for a few more seconds, until you can smell the garlic. Take care not to brown the garlic. Leave to cool completely.
3. Add the feta, spring onion, coriander, parsley and lemon juice to the chickpeas and season. Add the onion mixture and the remaining oil and mix through.

Pea, ricotta and lemon zest risotto

2011-07-01T00:12:00.000-07:00

Everyone tells you (well, the ‘experts’, anyway) that risotto is one of the easiest dishes in the world to make — once you know how. And, of course, the kicker lies in those last four words. Unfortunately risotto is one of those dishes that refuses to be pinned down by a recipe. As with all things in life, experience is the secret ingredient. It is one thing to fling together one of Jamie’s salads or one of Yotam Ottolenghi’s roasts, but it is quite another to coax a gorgeous risotto from various combinations of stock, rice, onion and butter.

In Giorgio Locatelli’s restaurant, they set a timer for 17 minutes for the newbies learning to cook risotto, and it must be cooked within that time. I have never cooked risotto anywhere close to this time — mine usually takes about half an hour — but I did discover, after my first five or so attempts, that cooking the rice on the highest heat speeded up the whole process, and as you’re meant to be constantly stirring, it shouldn’t burn or stick to the bottom. Use the biggest heavy-based pot you own, and have the stock simmering in another pot on the stove as you cook.

And if you’re going to use crappy stock, you can just forget it. Sorry.

Everyone who loves to make risotto develops their own personal relationship with it. And like any relationship, it takes a little trial and error, a little time, but if you persist until you get it right (and try not to sulk or throw too many tantrums), the results can be, well, orgasmic.

I made this one chilly winter’s evening. It’s actually a spring dish — you’re supposed to make it with fresh new peas — but I used frozen and I thought they worked out just fine. (Better than fine.) It’s a lovely dish to make if you feel like something warm and comforting, but also not too dense or heavy. I also left out the vermouth as I didn’t have any, and thought the result did not suffer for it. I’m sure it tastes even more amazing if you include it though.

Pea, ricotta and lemon zest risotto (from the River Café Green cookbook)
For 6

3kg fresh young peas [or frozen!]
250g fresh ricotta cheese, lightly beaten
Finely grated rind of two washed lemons
1.5 litres chicken stock
Maldon salt and freshly ground black pepper
3 garlic cloves, peeled, 2 chopped
200g unsalted butter
500g spring onions, roughly chopped
400g carnaroli or arborio rice
2 tablespoons torn fresh basil leaves
150ml dry vermouth
50g Parmesan, freshly grated

1. Heat the chicken stock to boiling and check for seasoning. Bring a medium saucepan of water to the boil, and add half a tablespoon salt, the peas, half the mint and the whole garlic clove. Simmer for three to four minutes or until the peas are al dente. Drain, keeping back 150ml of the water. Return the peas, mint and garlic clove to this water and put aside.
2. Melt 150g of the butter in a large, thick-bottomed saucepan, add the onion and soften. Add the chopped garlic, then the rice, stirring to coat each grain for about two to three minutes. Add a ladle of hot stock and stir, adding another when the rice has absorbed the first. Continue stirring and adding stock for 10 minutes or until the rice is not quite al dente.
3. Add half the peas, keeping back the cooked garlic and mint and their liquor. Mash together the remainder of the peas, mint and garlic with the liquor in a food processor, then add to the risotto and stir. Stir in the basil. Add the vermouth, about 2 tablespoons of the ricotta, and the remaining butter. Test for doneness: the rice should be al dente. Serve with the remaining ricotta over each portion, sprinkled with lemon zest, salt, pepper and Parmesan.

Babel, Babylonstoren

2011-06-13T23:31:00.000-07:00

Oysters with radish sorbet (and little radish 'halos')

Here are some pics from a recent visit to Babel restaurant at Babylonstoren. Exquisite food, magnificent location, reasonable prices.

Highlights included fresh oysters served with radish sorbet. The taste was so strange and interesting that all conversation at our table halted while we tried to analyse what we were experiencing… Not exactly delicious, but certainly interesting, and memorable.

The 'red' salad (there was a green one and yellow one, too) was made with fresh produce from Babylonstoren. Simple, subtle, undisguised flavours — though my first mouthful struck me as a little bland, by the third I could not believe how delicious a plain (unadorned) warm salad could be.

Warm 'red' salad

There were also elegant details: large cabbage leaves in crystal vases, and poppy seed pods to shake over your salad.

Poppy seed pods

The only let down, if it was even that, was the ‘bacon and eggs’ themed crème brûlée 'dessert'. I ordered it against my better judgement, and will not do so again. The savoury egg custard with sugar lid and a slice of bacon on the side… Two very intimate concepts that should not go together — it just made me feel weird and uncomfortable. A bit like French kissing your grandfather.

I highly recommend making a day of Babylonstoren. Linger over lunch, then hold hands and wander the grounds. You will be hard-pressed to find a more idyllic package.

Tel:+ 27 (0) 21 863 3852

Let’s not get carried away

2011-05-26T00:37:00.000-07:00

I wonder if I am alone in finding it curious when a cookbook is described as ‘the only one you’ll ever need’. I’ve seen it fairly often, and it always occurs to me that the marketing brain behind such a claim must have precious little understanding of how the average cookbook-buyer’s mind works.

The idea of only ever owning one Indian cookbook, say, depresses me enormously. Gordon Ramsey said that Giorgio Locatelli’s Made in Italy: Food and Stories was the only Italian cookbook one would ever need. But what of it? Cookbooks — these days — are not about need; they are about desire. Gordon clearly has no inkling of the frenzied thrall that grips a foodie’s mind when passing the cookbook shelves at their local Exclusive Books.

The sheer pleasure of bringing home a new one, still crisp-smelling and splatter free, ensconcing oneself on the couch with a cup of tea or a glass of wine and something to nibble (NEVER read a cookbook on an empty stomach), is one of the greatest I know.

I could scold myself for not making more use of the multitude I already own, but I actually do make use of them. I can quite happily spend an entire morning paging through each one, getting reacquainted. Faced with the if-your-house-was-on-fire-what-would-you-save? scenario, I’d probably go for my grandmothers’ jewellery, but I would pause for one last mournful look at my cookbooks, with deep regret.

I own not one, but four River Cafe cookbooks, and the thought of picking a favourite is unthinkable — a bit of a Sophie’s Choice (aha, okay, let’s not get carried away) — but, if pressed (and you are pressing me, right?), I would have to say that the latest, the River Cafe Classic Italian Cookbook, is my favourite.

It came out about two years ago, and contains all the authors’ favourite recipes, with a little note on where and how they discovered each dish. If I feel like a quick trip to Italy (in my head), I open this book. But I am not going to do a review here and now. Perhaps another time.

I would, however, like to share with you a beautifully simple recipe from it that is quite breathtaking in its simplicity, and just plain scrumptious. The only catch is that you’ll have to get hold of some chickpea flour, but this should be available at a good deli or health shop. I got mine from Wellness Warehouse.

It’s basically a thick, savoury chickpea pancake, crispy on the outside and soft on the inside. Ideally served as a snack before a meal with a good red in winter, or some fizz in summer. Plus it makes your kitchen smell wonderful.

Faranita con rosmarino
Chickpea faranita with fresh rosemary
Serves 6

1 litre warm water
300g chickpea flour
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
approx. 200ml extra virgin olive oil
2 tablespoons chopped fresh rosemary

1. Pour the water into a large bowl. Sieve in the chickpea flour and whisk until the mixture has a smooth consistency. Add one tablespoon of salt and one teaspoon of black pepper and stir to combine. Cover with a cloth and leave to rest in a warm place for at least two hours.
2. Preheat your oven to 250C, or as high as it will go. Skim the foam from the surface of the batter and stir in 100ml olive oil. Pour one tablespoon of oil into a faranita pan, or a frying pan with an oven-proof handle, and place in the hot oven for about five minutes, until the oil is smoking.
3. Give the batter a good stir, then pour just enough into the pan to make a layer approximately 1cm thick, tilting the pan to spread it evenly. Sprinkle a little rosemary over the top, and return the faranita to the oven to bake for about 20 minutes. The top should be brown and the pancake should have a crisp texture, but be soft in the centre. Slice into wedges and serve immediately as an appetizer, with a glass of Prosecco, while you get on with making the rest of the pancakes. This amount should make three.

Risotto: Nature’s Prozac

2011-05-19T00:10:00.000-07:00

Last night I had the strangest dream. I was in the studio audience of a (fictitious) Australian TV talk show called ‘Doug’. I’m sure you can guess the name of the host; a portly, silver-haired man (if you’re interested, he looked a lot like the actor who played Muriel’s father in Muriel’s Wedding). Before he appeared, the audience started chanting ‘Doug, Doug, Doug’, Jerry Springer style.

Not a lot else happed in the dream. I got lost trying to find the bathroom, and the show never actually aired due to technical difficulties (on my less up-beat days, I imagine this could be quite an accurate summary of my life).

I’d much rather believe this dream was a sort of existential greeting from my subconscious (you know, the usual: ‘Hello! I’m over here! Quick, stuff four sardines up your nostril and jump out of this poodle-drawn chariot so I can stop spelling ESIOTROT backwards’), than a result of my dinner the night before. But there’s something dark (literally and figuratively) and a little mysterious about risotto nero — which is what I had for dinner the night before — so I’m inclined to believe the latter.

I was compelled to make it after I’d tasted an absolutely exquisite plateful at Societi Bistro. They’re doing a kind of culinary tour of Italy over the next month or so, offering a full-course dinner from particular regions, and I was invited to pop in and have a taste. The risotto was my favourite, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it, so I asked chef Stafan Marais for the recipe.

I found the result was fresh, gorgeously buttery and savoury, and the squid ink gives a delicate taste of the sea. Of course, you cannot make this without home-made fish stock, so I’ve included Giorgio Locatelli’s recipe. I get put off dishes that insist you have to make your own stock because I just don’t have time — but I was pleasantly surprised to learn that fish stock only takes a fraction of the time that other stocks do: no more than 30 minutes.

The other essential is squid ink, which you will probably only find at a good delicatessen, such as Giovanni’s or Main Ingredient (the only one’s I know of in Cape Town). If you don’t have any fish bones, your local fishmonger should be able to help you out — try The Little Fisherman in Muizenberg (in CT), or even your local Woolies, if it has a fish counter (like the one at Cavendish Square).

Of course, if you don’t feel like the hassle of creating this splendid meal, you could always pop through to Societi Bistro — I believe their risotto nero is on the specials list this week.

Pleasant dreams.

Societi Bistro’s Risotto Nero
Serves 4

1 x 300g squid, cleaned, tubes cut open and cut into pieces, tentacles cleaned (discard mouth & eyes etc)
2 sachets squid ink
2 tbsp olive oil
60g butter
1 onion, diced
3 cloves garlic, smashed
100ml dry white wine
350g risotto rice (I [Stephan] mostly use Arborio, but Carneroli is also fine)
1,8 litres warm, simmering fish stock (see below)

1. Melt the oil and half the butter. Add the onion and fry gently until translucent. Add the garlic and fry for another two minutes, then add the squid and continue to cook for a further five minutes, until the squid has coloured.
2. Add the wine and let it reduce by about a third. Add the rice and stir through thoroughly so it is evenly coated.
3. Add a ladleful of stock to the rice and continue stirring until it is absorbed. Add another ladleful, and continue stirring and adding until the rice is nearly cooked (so it’s al dente but still has a slightly chalky bite). You may not need to use all of the stock. Now add the stock with the squid ink (see TIP), stirring for half a minute, then remove from the heat and beat in the butter. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Serve immediately.

TIP: Wash the squid ink sachets thoroughly and then cut the packets open and submerge in about a cup of hot fish stock — otherwise loads of ink sticks to the inside of the packet and stays behind.

Giorgio Locatelli’s fish stock
Makes about 2 litres

The bones of flat fish make the best stock, as they give a good flavour but aren’t oily. If you want to give the stock a rosy colour, or a little more acidity, add a couple of smashed tomatoes.

500g flat fish bones, washed well to remove any blood as this will make the stock bitter
1 leek, roughly chopped
1 onion, roughly chopped
1 celery stalk, roughly chopped
1 bay leaf
a few parsley stalks
a few black peppercorns
100ml dry white wine

1. Put everything in a pot, cover with water by about two fingers (depending on how intense you want the stock to be — the less water you use, the richer it will be).
2. Bring to just under the boil (the lower you do this, the more flavour the fish stock will have). Skim the scum off the surface, turn down the heat and simmer for 20 minutes, skimming as necessary.
Turn off the heat and let the stock settle, then put through a fine sieve [or muslin cloth].

On the lamb: Jamie’s gorgeously minty, lemony tartare

2011-05-14T01:39:00.000-07:00

Autumn. It gets me every time.

I will be going about my business, and then it happens. Perhaps the light catches a vase of flowers just so. Or a break in the clouds illuminates the world so exquisitely that I can’t help but inwardly gasp — and then comes the intense, hollow longing; an unidentifiable nostalgia so acute that I tear-up, for no reason other than the autumn light is so beautiful, so tragic.

It only happens at this time of year, my favourite season. And it’s not a bad feeling, exactly. It’s ... bittersweet.

Maybe it feels tragic because it’s a portent of the cold months to come.

Or maybe I just need to refill my Prozac prescription (or should that be ‘Prosaic’?).

After reading one of Kate Liquorish’s posts,I decided to call on a butcher she recommended at the NeighbourgoodsMarket, where I relieved him of a beautiful piece of free-range lambloin. Later I roasted two thirds of it, but first I cut off a chunk andmade this molto delicious lamb tartare from Jamie At Home.Please do make it the next time you have a piece of good-qualityfree-range lamb. It is fresh (thanks to the mint and lemon juice),tasty and deliciously juicy and meaty. I far prefer it to beef tartare.

Justa note: I served the tartare with caper berries instead of cornichons,and only used lemon juice, leaving out the orange juice, and it workedout just dandy.

It’s the perfect dish — with a goodred — for an autumn afternoon, when the sunlight is thin andslanting... (Oh dear, there she goes again.)

PS: Check out my Q&A at iAfrica Food (if only to see a very unflattering photo of me eating an ice cream in Melbourne).

PPS: I have a new 'About' as well as a new masthead. What do you think? Prefer the old one? I'm undecided...

[Jamie’s] really very delicious lamb tartare
Serves 4

You might be surprised to hear this, but there’s absolutely nothing wrong with eating raw lamb, just as there’s nothing wrong with eating raw beef. Carpaccios and steak tartares are pretty common in France and Italy, and for quite some time now we’ve been featuring lamb tartare on our menu at Fifteen. It always goes like hotcakes and people clean their plates, so I’d love for you guys to give it a go. It’s quick to make, contemporary, slightly restauranty but absolutely delicious.

In Italy I tasted this with new season’s olive oil, which was just delicious. Try to get hold of some because a good oil can make all the difference, rather than using cheap gear.

As far as the cut of meat is concerned, the fillet or loin is traditionally used to make tartare, but with lamb you can use slightly tougher and tastier cuts like rump and leg, as long as the sinews are removed (this is really important, the butcher can do it for you) and you give the meat a good bash with a tenderising hammer, or something heavy, before you start chopping it up.

450g trimmed best quality lamb meat
1 fresh red chilli, halved and deseeded
a small jar of little gherkins
a small bunch of fresh mint, finely chopped, baby leaves reserved
1 teaspoon French mustard
Juice of one orange
Juice of one lemon
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
Extra virgin olive oil
8 x 1cm thick slices of ciabatta bread
2 handfuls watercress, washed and spun dry

1. Get yourself a large chopping knife. Put your meat on a chopping board and slice it up, then chop it until you have a coarse mince. Push this to one end of the board and finely slice your chilli on the other. Add the gherkins to the board and chop these up on top of the chilli, then add the mint on top and finely chop again.
2. Put the meat and all the flavourings from the board into a bowl and stir together, adding the mustard and orange and lemon juice. Mix up and season with salt and pepper to taste. Pour in a few glugs of olive oil. Mix everything together so that all the meat is nicely coated and dressed in the lovely flavours — have a taste. This is your opportunity to have a little more heat if you want it, with mustard or chilli, or a little extra lemon juice to cut through. Seasoning it well is also really important.
3. When the meat is tasting really good, heat up your grill or a griddle pan and toast the ciabatta slices. There are two ways I like to serve this dish. You can give each person a couple of ciabatta slices on their plate, topped with a spoonful of tartare, a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil and a little lemon-dressed watercress. Or, if you want to be a little more family style, you can put all the tartare onto a platter and drizzle with extra virgin olive oil. Place a couple of extra gherkins on the side and scatter over the reserved baby mint leaves. Serve with a bowl of lemon-dressed watercress and a basketful of toasted bread next to it, and let everyone dive in and help themselves.

Skye Gyngell’s fried egg with burnt sage butter, chilli and garlicky yoghurt

2011-04-26T01:26:00.000-07:00

This is a recipe I’ve wanted to try for ages because I found the flavour combination so intriguing, but never got round to because it seemed more complicated than it actually is — and I’m rarely in the mood for anything complicated in the morning. I made it for breakfast yesterday, though (and again today), and kicked myself for not trying it sooner.

I admit I was also wary of yogurt and a fried egg sharing the same plate — but let me assure you, it tastes like never wanting to eat eggs any other way, ever again. Just read the last sentence of the recipe and tell me it doesn’t get your juices going: ‘Spoon the warm sage butter over the eggs and serve at once.’

Spoon the warm sage butter over the eggs... I just want to say it over and over again.

Granted, this recipe is a little more effort than straight-up fried eggs, but your reward is a distinctive breakfast that will leave you with a glow of happiness (and a dopey grin). In fact, it was a real struggle not to make this again for dinner as well... I just can’t stop daydreaming about it: at 9am with some fresh ciabatta; at 1pm with toasted tortillas and a salad, perhaps; or at 7pm with fried polenta and roasted tomatoes. [Insert Homer Simpson drooling noises here.]

The key is to use really thick, creamy, good quality Greek-style yoghurt — nothing too thin or sour (please don’t even bother if you are going ‘low-fat’) — and very fresh eggs. Gyngell gives this rather useless (and weirdly pornographic) advice about how to tell whether your eggs are fresh: ‘Very fresh eggs have bright, shiny yolks that sit proudly on top of bouncy, thick whites as you crack them into the pan. Thin, runny whites are an indication that the eggs are less than fresh.’ I mean, by the time you’ve cracked them into the pan and discover they might be ‘less than fresh’, what are you going to do? Bin them? I dunno, Skye — I don’t think you thought that one through.

But back to the good stuff.

Say it with me now: ‘Spoon the warm ... sage ... butter...’

Fried egg with burnt sage butter, chilli and garlicky yoghurt
(From Skye Gyngell’s My Favourite Ingredients)
Serves 4

240ml good quality Greek-style yoghurt (thick and only mildly sharp)
2 garlic cloves, peeled and crushed
Sea salt
50ml extra virgin olive oil
80g unsalted butter
8 sage leaves
4 very fresh organic free-range eggs
1 red chilli, very finely sliced into rings (seeds left in)

1. Pour the yoghurt into a bowl with the garlic, a good pinch of salt and the olive oil. Stir well to combine and add a little more salt if necessary. Set aside to allow the flavours to adjust to each other while you brown the butter.
2. Place the putter in a non-stick pan along with the sage leaves over a medium heat. Cook, stirring gently, until the butter begins to separate firstly, and then brown. The sediment at the bottom will taste nutty and delicious. You can strain it to remove the sediment if you like, but I prefer to leave it in. Set aside in a warm place while you cook the eggs.
3. Place one large (or two) non-stick frying pan(s) over a medium heat. Add a teaspoon of the browned butter, without the nutty sediment, to each pan. When hot, crack the eggs into the pans and add the sliced chilli. Cook until the whites are firm and the yolks are soft. I like to spoon the hot butter over the whites to encourage the eggs to cook more quickly and to flavour them.
4. To serve, divide the garlicky yoghurt among four plates, carefully lay the eggs on top and scatter over the chilli. Spoon the warm sage butter over the eggs and serve at once.

Surprise rice

2011-04-21T02:32:00.000-07:00

When pomegranates burst onto the foodie scene a few years ago in South Africa, I’m sure most food stylists peed in their pants, because the seeds are just so gosh-darned purdy. I remember one particularly beautiful autumn spread in Taste magazine that had me longing for the fruit, but I held off buying it because I was indignant about the price.

Also, I just wasn’t entirely sure what the seeds were for.

I mean, you can sprinkle them over stuff for decorative purposes, but I couldn’t really perceive what was so special about them besides their looks. Until now, that is.

I can’t remember where I originally found this dish, as it was floating around in my recipe graveyard, which I excavate every so often. I was immediately intrigued, and couldn’t believe I’d just printed it out, filed it (i.e. stashed it between 101 other recipe printouts in no particular order) and forgotten about it.

But such is life.

The combination of textures is really quite unbelievable. You’ve got the lovely sweet burst of the pomegranate seeds, of course; then the soft, chewy rice; but you’ve also got the crunch of the raw fried rice — when you put a forkful in your mouth, the sensation is quite a (pleasant) surprise. And, unlike a lot of other dishes where pomegranates are included, their flavour and texture here are essential. The tart seeds are a perfect complement to the starchy, savoury flavour of the rice.

This is all quite apart from the fact that all the ingredients are basics you’re likely to already have in your kitchen cupboard (barring the pomegranate), and so it’s a pretty easy one to fall back on in a pinch, if pomegranates happen to be in season, which they are now.

I served this rice with a roast chicken, which it complemented beautifully, but it’ll work with just about anything savoury: red meats, curries, fish. It has the added bonus of looking way posh, but what I love most about it is that its appearance is not its strongest point.

The original recipe called for white jasmine rice, but I used brown jasmine rice, and also substituted shallots with a bog-standard onion, with good results. Also, I'm sure you could use veg stock instead of chicken. Have a bash and let me know what you think.

Pomegranate rice
Serves 4

1. Measure 2 cups of jasmine rice. Add a quarter of this (1/2 cup), to a nonstick pan with 2 tbsp unsalted butter. Cook this rice for 30 minutes over a very low heat, stirring occasionally, until it turns a nice, nutty brown color.
2. While that rice is toasting, heat 1/3 cup olive oil in a medium saucepan over medium heat. Add 2 chopped shallots, a 2-inch piece of ginger (peeled and grated), a cinnamon stick and the rest of the rice, and sautée for about 5 minutes, stirring frequently. To this add 3 cups chicken stock and 1 bay leaf, bring to a boil, then cover, reduce heat to low, and simmer for about 15 minutes. Turn off the heat and let the rice sit (covered) for about 10 minutes, or until all the liquid is absorbed.
3. Combine the toasty rice and the simmered rice in a bowl with the seeds of 2 pomegranates. You could add 1/2 cup shelled pistachios if you like. Serve and be amazed.

Baked garlic and herbed white cheese

2011-04-19T03:47:00.000-07:00

I am actually not much of an entertainer. And by that I don’t mean I’m bad at flame-throwing or playing the accordion, but rather that I don’t do my best work in the kitchen when I have to feed more than two people. Maybe it’s to do with volume, maybe it’s because I try too hard to come up with a dish I hope will impress guests (but which I inevitably can’t work up much enthusiasm for).

I’m not sure. After reading this post on The Wednesday Chef blog, I have vowed only to make food for guests that I, myself, feel like eating — the most practical advice ever (and somewhat obvious, I’m prepared to admit).

And if you need advice on entertaining (even if you think you don’t), I urge you to grab a copy of How to Feed Your Friends with Relish by Brit food writer Joanna Weinberg (recently given to me by my dear friend Steph as a wedding present). It’s not about how cutlery should be set out, or full of fancy-shmancy dishes and 10-course menus — ‘it is not a rulebook for the socially anxious; in fact, it dispenses with etiquette altogether.’ Marvellous!

So what is it about? ‘All the different elements that contribute to a great evening at home with friends.’ I particularly like these two intro paragraphs, which I think sum up the book beautifully, and put my own feelings into words (as the best books do): ‘[When I was younger] I read cookbooks with an eye to what was realistic in terms of my own life — as soon as they as they used the words “whiz in the food processor” or “fresh truffles”, I turned the page. I developed a loathing for intricate cooking that couldn’t be prepared in advance, or that could go wrong — curdle, burn, etc. — at the last minute. I wanted to know which recipes used the least kit and caused the least mess.

‘Having people over was my way of saying, hi, I like you, please will you be in my life. Gradually, I became aware that cooking was about people even more than it was about food. I became frustrated if recipes didn’t take into account the context in which I was cooking; many of them spoke to me as if money was no object and inviting people round was about impressing them, not spending time with them. In their enticing descriptions of asparagus glossy with Hollandaise, or pan-fried scallops with balsamic mash, they failed to point out that I needed to be standing over the stove for the final 45 minutes, stirring a boiling pot that would melt any make-up I’d attempted, or need to be dished up individually, so that I never got to sit down until the first person’s food was cold.’

The baked garlic recipe below is from Relish — simple, delicious and easy to prepare ahead. I ate it for lunch with a salad, but it would be ideal as a relaxed starter for a crowd.

I was also given a copy of Cookbook for Brides by Dorothy Malone (first published in 1947!). This was another wedding gift from friends, Tracy & Chenel, who know I have a fetish for archaic recipe books.

The chapter titles are hilarious (‘From wedding gown to kitchen apron’; ‘The bride considers vegetables’; ‘The bride meets meats’; ‘Fishing for compliments’), as is the (kind of) laughable sexism: ‘Moonlight and roses can make you a bride,’ says Malone, ‘with the help, of course, of that man among men who recognised a paragon when he saw one. But you can’t become a cook without a cookbook. This book is written, therefore, for the day when, in the natural sequence of events, you put away your white satin and orange blossoms and turn to ruffled plastic aprons and parsley.’ Indeed.

Jokes aside, there are actually a few interesting recipes I may have a bash at: Sherried sweet potato bake; Sole poached in Champagne; Brussels sprouts with green grapes...

I leave you now with this little titbit of advice from Mrs Malone, which I think applies to brides of all ages: ‘“Happy is the bride the sun shines on” and clever is the bride who is attractively dressed and nicely complexioned when the sun shines on her at breakfast time.

‘An intelligent and beautiful bride I once knew had an excellent plan of procedure. Setting her mind to it, she rose 15 minutes before her husband and slipped noiselessly into her dressing room. There she tinted her complexion and put on a beguiling breakfast coat. When her husband’s eyes rested on her, she looked as though she had just stepped from a freshly washed and rosy cloud. Breakfast proceeded happily, and at last check the marriage was proceeding securely.’

So there you have it. Clearly divorce rates are so high these days because women don't take care to be ‘attractively dressed and nicely complexioned’ in the morning.

Baked garlic with herbed white cheese
Feeds 4

4 whole garlic bulbs
2 sprigs thyme
25g butter
4 tbsp olive oil
Salt and black pepper
For the cheese:
150g creamy goats’ cheese
100g Greek yoghurt
3 tbsp chopped mixed herbs such as thyme, parsley and chives
To serve:
Sourdough bread

1. Preheat the oven to 140C. Cut around the head of the garlic and remove the outer skin from the top, exposing the cloves underneath. Place the bulbs in a baking dish just large enough to fit them in, and tuck in the sprigs of thyme. Dot with butter and pour over the olive oil. Season well, cover and bake for 40 minutes. Then remove the cover and continue baking for a further hour, basting every 15 minutes, until the cloves are soft, golden and sweet.
2. Meanwhile, remove the rind of the goats’ cheese, if it has any, and mash together (or blend) with the yoghurt and herbs. If you are doing it by hand it will remain quite lumpy, but it doesn’t matter.
3. To eat, squeeze out the garlic cloves and spread, along with the herb cheese, onto fresh sourdough or other peasanty bread.

PS: Please vote for my recipe in the latest issue of Crush, featured on the 'Rate your recipe' page. I could win a natty camera!

Das wedding

2011-04-13T04:27:00.000-07:00

Time passes very slowly here in blogland. (Or is it very quickly? I’m never quite sure. Either way, it is of an elasticky, chewing gum nature.) I know I’ve been gone a while, but then I’ve been redesigning my blog.

And changing jobs.

And getting hitched.

Yes, that’s right — the Guinea Pig decided to make an honest woman out of me. (Or so he thinks.)

Now, before you go thinking, ‘Oh crumbs, this post is going to be about blah blah blah, her wedding, blah blah blah, how fabulous she thinks all her friends are, blah blah blah, she’s probably going to thank people who have nothing to do with me, or food, blah blah blah and more crap I’m not interested in reading’ — just know that you’re, uh, pretty spot on.

This is basically going to be the food blog version of Sally Field’s highly embarrassing 1984 Oscar acceptance speech. If you are a subscriber, muchas, muchas apologies, feel free to delete this right now, etc.

Invite by Cristal Smith (www.misscris.co.za)

Even though, on 2 April, my synapses were so overloaded they probably resembled soggy Rice Crispies, it was possibly one of the best days of my life, and a lot of very special (and quite mentally unstable) people made that happen.

First up, thank you (x 1000) to Brad and Michael. Wow — your generosity, your time, your thoughtfulness... You played a huge part in making the day what it was — and it was better than we dared to hope it might be. The food, the stay at 15 on Orange, everything... Merci beaucoup. Grazie. Danke.

My bouquet. With a dolly in the middle.

Cristal — I got the impression you felt what you did for us was nothing remarkable, but it was. Thank you my friend. Even though ours was a small wedding, there was a lot of last-minute organising, and knowing certain things were taken care of was a major relief.

Mom and Dad... well, okay I’m not going to get all soppy here, but you know how I feel. You are brilliant, wonderful, fabulous, and I love you. We are hoping to have the Smeg stove installed this week. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Dad, I found the copy of Random Violence in which you wrote your speech, and it is now among my most treasured possessions, as is Dan’s pendant that holds the wedding photos of her and Hiya on their wedding day (thanks Mom).

My grandmother's pendant.

Ian, thank you for coming all the way from Australia! Which is practically a parallel universe, considering the transit time. It was brilliant to have you there. I love you a lot.

Gaelyn and Dave — you are the best! The pre-wedding lunch at Simonsig is one of our most cherished memories. (Though I think perhaps we can agree never to discuss what happened after sundown, or the comfort of our floors.) Thank you for your generosity and your friendship.

Café Paradiso

Sasha, Chris, Tabitha — I am so glad you came down from Jo'burg for the wedding. Having my oldest, dearest friends there was just mind-bogglingly wonderful for me, so thank you. I only wish I could have spent more time with you. Now please move down to Cape Town.

Thank you Chenel for my fabulous bouquet! It was perfect — quirky, cheeky, with a plastic doll in the middle. I couldn’t have asked for more.

Tracy... You remembered our chat at Caveau, and I am so grateful to you for that. Also, I am going to spend a very, very long time thanking you for making the manager at Café Paradiso almost cry (because she wouldn’t let us sit outside, even though the weather was exquisite and that’s where we had booked to sit). She did eventually move us outside. You really saved the day, and I am so grateful to you. Thank you for not taking no for an answer — and possibly making her an offer she couldn’t refuse. But the less I know about that, the better.

Canapés from The Art of Good Food.

To Steph & George, Roxy & Susan, Eunice & Geoff, Craig, Barry & Karen, Paige & Robert, Len, Karin S, Karen D, John & Janis... there was not a single one of you Patrick and I were not embarrassingly grateful to for being there. It was not a conventional wedding — we were ruthless with our guest list — and everyone who attended was someone we consider most special and loved. (Rainbows, violins, white doves, Michael Bolton, etc.)

Wild mushroom tarts.

Now, a note about the food (the caterer, not Café Paradiso). Oh my effing eff, it was good. If you ever want an event catered, please, please don’t ever let me find out you didn’t use Kevin Mink from The Art of Good Food. The Norwegian salmon drizzled with a gooseberry dressing and soya reduction... The crispy honey-glazed duck spring rolls with citrus soya dipping sauce... And don’t even get me started on the wild forest mushroom, caramelised onion and thyme tartlets topped with toasted pine nuts and Parmesan shavings. Please, call Kevin on 082 702 2810 for a good time. (And no, I am not required in any way to punt him on this blog.) (Also, the ‘good time’ you are thinking of may cost extra, you naughty reader.)

Finally, to my Angel...

Ha-ha, sucker.

And by that I mean, I love you so, so much, and I hope our life together continues in pretty much the same vein (i.e. squabbling over the pool/recycling/punctuality, lying in on Sunday mornings, lots of amazing food and wine, and, you know, that other fun stuff [insert vigorous throat clearing here]).

x

PS: Please vote for my recipe in the latest issue of Crush, featured on the 'Rate your recipe' page. I could win a natty camera!

Tahini and pomegranate molasses marinated lamb with mint yoghurt

2011-03-15T01:23:00.000-07:00

Alas, I don't have time this week for a longer post, but I would like to share this fabulously convivial spread with you. I made it over the weekend for friends, and it went down a treat. It's a very simple, throw-together meal but it’s tasty andsatisfying. The deep savouriness of the lamb is balanced by lots offresh lemon juice and creamy mint yoghurt, but be warned if you’resqueamish about garlic, because there’s a lot of it! Feel free to halvethe quantity or leave it out altogether (I am incapable of restrainingmyself when it come to the bulb). A great spread for balmy evenings andcasual al fresco eating with friends and family.

Okay, I lied. I do have time to write a longer post, but it feels weird to prattle on about my thoughts on nothing in particular when so many people's lives have been devastated by the tsunami. Every time I try to writing something, I just stop, stare at it, and then delete it because it seems so pointless, or hypocritical.

I promise to be over my existential crisis by next week. If your soul is in need of nourishment, as mine was, make this — to me it feels like the food equivalent of a long, warm hug from my imaginary Mediterranean mama.

Tahini, rosemary and pomegranate molasses
marinated lamb with mint yoghurt
Serves 4

About 1 kg free-range, deboned and butterflied leg of lamb,
trimmed of fat
Marinade:
1 cup tahini
juice of 2 medium lemons
1 tbsp pomegranate molasses*
Sea salt, to taste
1 red chilli, deseeded and finely chopped
two sprigs rosemary, finely chopped
3 cloves garlic, crushed
Mint yoghurt:
500ml thick, full cream yoghurt
1 handful fresh mint leaves, finely chopped
1 clove garlic
Juice of half a lemon
Sea salt, to taste

1. In a bowl, combine all the marinade ingredients. Before you rub the marinade into the lamb, make sure it is no thicker than 5 cm. If it is, place the lamb between two sheets of cling wrap and gently pound with a rolling pin until you have the desired thickness. Then, using your hands, rub the marinade into the lamb, cover and refrigerate for an hour or overnight.
2. Preheat the oven to 200C. Place the lamb and as much of the marinade as possible into an oven-proof dish and cover with tin foil. Cook for about 20 minutes, or until cooked but still very rare in the middle. Remove the tin foil and grill on both sides until golden (keep an eye on it, as the marinade has a tendency to char quite easily). Remove from oven, wrap the lamb in tin foil and leave to rest for 10 minutes or so (this will make the meat more tender and allow the flavours to develop). Reserve the leftover marinade in the oven-proof dish.
3. While the lamb is cooking, place the yoghurt, mint, garlic, lemon juice and salt in a bowl and blend using a hand-held blender.
4. Slice the lamb into strips and return to the oven-proof dish, sloshing them around to coat them in the marinade, which should be thinned by the juices from the lamb. Serve with the yoghurt, some pita bread and a bowl of what I like to call ‘deconstructed hummus’: 2 cans chickpeas, drained; one small red onion, finely sliced; ½ cup tahini; 3 tbsp extra virgin olive oil; juice of 1 large lemon, all mixed up in a bowl. Add a side salad of finely diced cucumber and tomato (not pictured), and you have the makings of a fabulous Middle East-inspired feast.
*Pomegranate molasses is available at most good delicatessens and Middle Eastern foods stores.

Pssssssst! If you're in Cape Town, join me at the Eat In Awards at the Old Biscuit Mill this Thursday: A night market, fabulous food and Dave Ferguson. It's going to be more fun than a bag of squirrels in a banjo, that's all I can say.

Also, if you have time (and a heart), please sign this petition for Woolworths, Spar, Pick n Pay and Checkers to stop stocking battery eggs and chickens, or using them in their products.

Call it supper: spinach, artichokes, chickpeas, poached egg

2011-03-04T01:38:00.000-08:00

Do you ever get the sneaking suspicion that you’re an unwitting guinea pig in some sort of sophisticated sociological experiment? (I think that’s actually pretty close to the truth about Life, but you don't need to hear about my Views On the Nature of Reality right now).

I like to go out for dinner on a Monday night, just to take the edge of the jolt of starting yet another week; to distract myself from the uncomfortable feeling that a thousand previous weeks have begun with precisely the same sense of repetition, and will continue to do so, ad infinitum, like a mirror reflecting into another mirror. This feeling of Monday, of another week beginning, another week having slipped by, is not really grounded in reality, because of course our lives do change — that is the only certainty. But it is, perhaps, a sign that one is stagnating, or has been in the same place, doing the same thing, for too long.

Luckily, it's Friday, which means I have more of a 'Hey! Everything's gonna be just fine... How you doin'?' kind of feeling. Also, I had a wonderful evening last night, at home.

We moved house a few months ago, and only in the last few weeks have we started to emerge from the chaos into a semblance of what our lives were like before. The first two months have been buried deep in the recesses of my subconscious (living in the lounge with all one’s earthly belongings piled up high next to your mattress-on-the-floor bed because the builder — who promised he would be finished before one moved in — is still busy with the bedroom floors, will do that). In the last few weeks, though, my dream kitchen has been taking shape.

Shelves were put in two days ago, which has made a spectacular difference, and next week my new (name-dropping alert) Smeg oven will be installed (a very generous, greatly appreciated wedding gift from my parents).

So last night we put on some Brian Ferry, opened a bottle (and then another) of wine, and toasted our shelving and each other as I concocted this dish from a hurried sweep through Woolies on the way home: artichokes, chickpeas, spinach, chilli and eggs. It's my take on a recipe I found on The Wednesday Chef blog.

It is a gem of a dish — but it's one of those which, when you see the ingredients, you either get or you don't. Those who think a meal is not complete without meat probably won't get it. But if you're the kind of person who understands why someone might feel compelled to write a poem about an artichoke, then you will get it. It's not showy, and not exactly exploding with umami, but it is delicious and satisfying. Served with some toasted, buttery sourdough bread... Well, try it.

Spinach, artichokes, chickpeas, poached egg
Serves 4

12 artichokes
400g baby spinach
2 x 400g cans chickpeas, drained and rinsed
Juice of one large lemon
1 red chilli, seeds removed and finely chopped
4 large poached (or soft boiled) eggs
Generous glug (about 4 tbsp) best-quality extra virgin olive oil
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

1. Add water to a pot (large enough to contain the artichokes) until half full, and bring to the boil. Add the spinach and cook for five minutes, then remove with a slotted spoon (reserving the cooking liquid) and plunge into ice-cold water to halt the cooking process. Drain and squeeze out the excess with your hands, then lay on a cloth or paper towel.
2. Add the artichokes to the large pot and top up with water to just cover if necessary. Bring to the boil, then turn down to a simmer and cover for 10 to 15 minutes, until the stems are tender and yield easily when you insert a fork.
3. Remove with a slotted spoon and plunge into cold water as before. When the artichokes have cooled, remove all the tough outer leaves and trim the stalks. Cut in half and removed the fury inner choke with a pairing knife (or you could read more sensible advice here). Cut in half again, so you're left with quarters.
4. Combine all the ingredients (except the eggs) in a large bowl and mix well. Divide between bowls, plop a poached (or soft boiled) egg on top, serve with buttery slices of toasted sourdough — and call it supper.

Cumin, garlic, walnuts and pomegranate molasses

2011-02-24T05:01:00.000-08:00

There are no waiters at the Cedar restaurant, only the owners, David and Marlene. And although they charge corkage, it's advisable to bring your own wine.

It's not a glamorous spot by any stretch of the imagination. You will park outside a very drab building (that always puts me in mind of my local police station) right on busy Sommerset Road in Sea Point, ring the buzzer and then climb a grotty stair case to the second level, where you will find the restaurant. You may have had low expectations about the decor to begin with, but even so you will probably be disappointed.

And yet...

And yet this is one of my favourite restaurants. Has been for years. I love the cloth that adorns the roof, bedouin-style. I love the plastic tables, the quaint 'big five' bronze artworks, the large mural of broken pillars and countryside. And the food... The fried cauliflower, soft homemade pitas, stuffed grape leaves, baba ghanoush, kibbeh, the most addictive hummus topped with coriander, garlic and olive oil, crispy sardines, eye-watering Turkish coffee...

But this isn't a restaurant review, believe it or not.

Last time we were at the Cedar, David sat chatting with us after the meal, keen to impart a little of his not insubstantial knowledge on Lebanese food. I inquired about the pomegranate molasses he uses and where he buys it, and he told me he imports it — and sells it. So of course I bought some.

It's thick and syrapy, obviously, but the flavour is quite extraordinary — a bit like sour figs.

Then David made me memorise four ingredients — walnuts, cumin, garlic and pomegranate molasses — that, when combined, can be used as a marinade for chicken and any kind of red meat.

So, a few days later, I crushed five cloves of garlic, toasted a generous tablespoon of cumin and combined these with 100g walnuts and about three tablespoons pomegranate molasses with a pestle and mortar.

I rubbed the paste all over a deboned leg of lamb and left it to marinade overnight, then roasted it to perfection. The result was a glorious, distinctly Middle Eastern flavour, which was beautifully complemented by lemony full-cream Greek yoghurt. I suspect it would also work a treat slathered over cauliflower florets before roasting.

Just putting it out there... Use it. Don't use it. It's an unusual combination of ingredients, one I'll be revisiting soon.

The Cedar: 021 433 2546

Pssst: I would like to apologise for an inaccuracy in this post that I've just corrected – I originally said that the Cedar does not charge corkage, when, in fact, they do. R30. A cheek, since they don't really have a much of a wine list, but there you go.

This one's for all the food bloggers out there... #fbi2011

2011-02-22T00:24:00.000-08:00

Warning: those sensitive to a little gratuitous self-congratulation and shameless link-love should avert their gaze.

The 2nd Food Blog Indaba SA happened on Sunday, and I must say it was jolly good. Idyllic venue Monkey Valley provided a meeting place for about 150 (I’m guessing) food-obsessed bloggers and Tweeters, and it was fun watching folks connecting with people they’d previously only had online contact with.

‘OMG! R u (insert blog title/Twitter name here)? I luv yr blog!’ and so on. (It is quite something to hear people talk in SMS speak.)

Personally, I was delighted to hook up with Ishay of The Food and the Fabulous, Matt from I’m No Jamie Oliver, Marianne of Cape Town By Mouth, Jane-Anne Hobbs of Scrumptious, Amelia of Notes From My Nest, and, finally, the one and only Colleen Grove (Brownie Girl), who organised the entire event. I don’t think there is a single person who attended who doesn’t feel a deep sense of warm, squishy gratitude to her for that (though I have a sneaky suspicion she has vowed never to do it again).

There were speakers. SA foodie legend Phillippa Cheifitz was a highlight, as was Abigail Donnelly, Eat Out's ed, whom I think we all agree has possibly the coolest job in the world. Jeanne of Cooksister’s dirty jokes were a hoot, while I think none there will ever be able to shake off the sneaking sensation that Jane-Anne Hobbs’s hilarious creation Bertie is looking over their shoulder when writing a blog post. Andy Fenner of Jamie Who? (who'd had just enough alcohol to be able to get up and speak, but not too much), gave me a lot to think about — with the help of two insane-looking cakes from Charlie's Bakery.

Yuppie Chef generously gave a Wusthof knife to all who attended, and it’s already my new favourite kitchen toy. Other gifts were kindly provided by Verlaque, Fillipio Berrio and The Greenleaf Olive Company. (There were a whole bunch of others but I couldn’t be bothered to list them.)

On the whole the event was a great success, though I think Monkey Valley’s publicist should be fired: +-150 food bloggers descended on their venue, and were fed greasy onion rings, limp, wilted salad leaves with smelly boiled eggs, chicken pieces (which actually looked okay), potato chips and some strange saucy vegetable substance that seemed to contain zucchini but beyond that was unidentifiable. Talk about a missed opportunity.

Okay that’s it. Thanks again to Colleen. Normal programming will resume shortly.

Tarragon and porcini sausage, figs, torn croutons, salad greens

2011-02-08T00:41:00.000-08:00

Sunday morning I innocently paid a visit to Cassis (Kildare Centre) to procure some of their addictive bread — two blocks from my house, and half-price on Sundays, don’tcha know. I was pleased to discover that they’ve taken over the premises next door and now offer a proper café where you can sit and eat a meal, rather than having to scoff the spoils from their patisserie at home.

I was just departing when my eye caught a little blackboard off to one side, proclaiming: ‘Prawns, whole duck, duck breasts, duck leg confit, petit poussin, whole quails, pasture-reared chicken’. There was a little doorway just behind it — an entrance I had never really been aware of, and above it was written ‘Gogo’s: biltong, braai meats and other delicacies’ (a title that, I admit, would not have hooked me were it not for the blackboard outside. I like biltong as much as the next person, but it’s more of a road-trip staple for me, rather than everyday eating.)

Inside I stepped, and lo, there was a tray or two of said biltong, but past that... Dear reader, how can I explain to you what I felt? Delighted surprise, sure, but also great gushing excitement, joy and relief — here now was a purveyor of duck legs preserved in duck fat (confit), whole fresh duck, leg of lamb, and a host of other carnivorous treats.

It’s not that these things are particularly difficult to get hold of, but to have such a selection — free range wherever possible, I am told by Sam and Deidre, the proprietors, and reasonably priced — virtually on my doorstep, made me rather giddy. (Later, the Guinea Pig gave me a worried look on my return home, noting the crazed glint in my eyes and sheen of cold sweat on my brow — unmistakable symptoms of early-onset obsession.)

On the spot I purchased two duck legs, and a packet of the most exquisite tarragon and porcini pork sausage, with which I made this salad (in the same trip I popped into Melissa’s, which had the plumpest deep purple figs). It’s quite a rich salad, so I recommend having it as a meal in itself, with lashings of chilled rosé (I do go on about rosé a bit, don’t I?).

Tarragon and porcini sausage, figs, torn croutons, salad greens
Serves 2 as a main

4 ripe figs, torn into quarters
About four good quality pork sausages (try to find something special – Giovanni's sometimes sells an amazing wild boar variety)
Half a loaf of ciabatta, torn into bite-sized chunks
100g salad leaves (radicchio, rockets, lettuce, endive... whatever tickles your fancy)
Dressing:
1 tsp honey
1 tsp English mustard
Juice of half a lemon
Salt & black pepper, to taste

1. Toss the bread with about a tablespoon of olive oil (use your hands to get each piece evenly coated).
2. Lay the sausages on a baking dish and place under the grill (but not right under — I use the middle shelf in my oven), and cook until half done, about five or seven minutes.
3. Remove the baking tray from the oven and push the sausage to one side. Add the bread pieces to the baking dish and move them around so they absorb all the lovely juices from the sausage. Return to the oven and grill until the croutons are golden and crunchy, about five minutes. Check that the sausage is done and cook a little longer if necessary (remove the croutons if there is a chance they'll burn).
4. Set aside the croutons and sausage to cool, then tear the sausage into chunks.
5. Arrange the figs and leaves on a serving dish, along with the sausage and croutons. Drizzle with the salad dressing and serve.

Gogo’s, Biltong & other Delicacies
Kildare Building
Newlands Village
073 578 0685
gogosdeli@gmail.com

Stanford: it’s delightful, it’s delicious, it’s delovely

2011-01-31T22:44:00.000-08:00

The terrace at Marianas

You know those mornings.

Your mouth tastes like it has been used in a series of illegal chemicalexperiments. Your face feels like a Picasso painting. You wake up withan urgent, insatiable craving for Coca-Cola. And, as you begin to moveyour body to assess the damage, aches and pains draw your attention toseveral UDIs (unidentified drinking injuries). You need a long weekendto recover from your long weekend.

Yesterday was one such morning.

I’d do it all again, though, because in the past few days I have had two of the best meals of my life.

First, Marianas. I am writing about this begrudgingly, as I reallydon’t want this restaurant to become any more popular. As it is, youusually have to book at least a month in advance.

We arrive at 12 and are greeted by Peter Estherhuizen,Mariana’s husband, who shows us to our seats on the sunny terraceoverlooking green lawn and Mariana’s vegetable garden. Bright, slightlyfaded 70s-style beach umbrellas and a vine provide shade. Bread isserved with homemade tapenade, and we order three starters: a light,creamy cheese tart, a refreshing watermelon, basil and goats cheesesalad, and tarentaal rillette (a rustic pâté).

Marianas

Melon salad

Tarentaal rillettes

For mains, plaashoender (farm chicken), slow-cooked to perfection, on abed of creamy carrot mash and roasted onions, with a sharp cucumbersalad and gravy on the side. Heaven. GP had an aubergine lasagne, whichhe ate in silent reverence: it was saucy but not too rich, and theincredible flavour of home-grown tomatoes made it. I honestly didn’tknow they could taste that good.

What I love, love, love about Mariana’s cooking is its complete lack ofpretension — they have no interest in manipulating their food (mostly sourced from their garden and localproducers), so what you get is completely uncompromised flavour. Noeffort is made to try and rescue the dish from its own ingredients.

In other words, it’s bloody good.

We wanted to know if Mariana and Peter would adopt the Guinea Pig and Iand raise us as their own, but they laughed and gave us some parsnipseeds and a hug.

Aubergine lasagne

Plaashoender

Mariana's garden

Inside Marianas

We saw Mariana and Peter again that evening at a local pub, Oom Stein’s(great burgers, FYI), which was buzzing as everyone wanted to catch animpromptu set by Valiant Swart, where Peter introduced us to JeroRivett, co-chef and co-owner (with his wife, Catch) of Graze: Slow FoodCafé. Exuberant and gifted with the gab, we soon learnt that Jero issomeone who finds it impossible to keep his passions to himself. (Foodpassions, you naughty reader, I mean food passions.)

Now let’s see — my interest was piqued when he revealed that he growsall the produce used in his kitchen in his own award-winning garden,and that he uses a R45,000 coffee machine. But when he told me of theJersey cow’s milk mozzarella (burrata) that he sources from Italianbrothers living in the Cape, a mozzarella to rival any buffalo-milkvariety, with a creamy centre that pours out when you tear it open, andthat he serves this as part of insalata Caprese at Graze, I knew wildhorses could not stop me from trying that cheese.

Try it I did, and oh my word, it was glorious: sliced tomatoes, pesto,basil leaves, balsamic, olive oil, and in the centre a great big ballof silky-soft, dreamy white mozzarella, which I tore open and ate withmy fingers. I daresay the other diners were shifting in their seats andraising their eyebrows because of all the groans of pleasure comingfrom our table.

We also had an equally delicious platter of bresaola with crisp, peppery rocket, sliversof grana padano, lemon juice and olive oil. Did I mentioned the bread?No? Jero makes it with sea water: pana di mare. The rosemary and olivefocaccia... Well, let’s just say that when he brought us a few slicesto try before we ordered, which we dipped in olive oil, I could quitehappily have had only a plate of it for lunch, it was that good.Olympia Café could learn a thing or two from this man about bread.

If you are ever in Stanford and do not go to eat at Marianas and/orGraze, I just want you to know what you’re missing. If you do go,though, try not to drink quite as many bottles of Raka Rosé as we did.

On the verandah at Graze

Inside Graze

Insalata Caprese at Graze

Bresaola platter at Graze

Crispy, creamy Parmesan polenta squares (i.e. heaven)

2011-01-27T03:38:00.000-08:00

I used to worry a lot about the books I read.

A great deal of my late teens and early twenties were spent reading the sort of books I thought I ought to (i.e. ones that gave myself and, I secretly hoped, others the impression that I was thoughtful, sensitive, deeply intelligent and avant-garde). So I ended up ploughing through a lot of Milan Kundera, Ayn Rand, Carlos Castaneda and Aldous Huxley. Don’t get me wrong, it was all great literature and I was certainly the better for it (because, of course, I am thoughtful, sensitive, deeply intelligent and avant-garde) — it’s just that, well, a lot of them were hard work.

Latterly, I’ve begun to realise that what really makes me happy is curling up in bed with a large packet of crisps and the latest Terry Pratchett/ Stephen King/Carl Hiaasen. There, my shameful secret is out. Though I experience little more than a twinge of guilt whenever my eye happens to settle on my unread copy of Nabokov’s Lolita, or Barbara Kingsolver’s The Lacuna, or Joseph Heller’s Catch-22 — because although I made a concerted effort, I could not get past the first 20 pages.

I feel a much stronger twinge when I catch sight of my copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking, which glares at me accusingly from my kitchen shelf (because I cannot bring myself to pack it away).

Like so many, I rushed out and bought a copy of MTAFC (exorbitantly priced, considering it was a paperback with no pictures) after seeing Julie & Julia. I made a fairly successful cheese soufflé from it about a year-and-a-half ago, and I haven’t picked it up since. You see, it’s one of those cookbooks I feel I ought to like, but really it just feels like hard work. It’s too prescriptive. Too... I don’t know. I just get the impression that I am being sized up by the ghost of Julia Child and found wanting.

Now, give me a copy of Giorgio Locatelli’s Made in Italy, A River Café book or anything by Skye Gyngell, and I am in seventh heaven.

This dish does not appear in any of my cookery books, and in fact I have never seen a recipe for it, which is somewhat surprising because I have paged through many, many Italian cookbooks.

Of course, everyone knows about grilled polenta, but this happens to be my own particular version and I’m rather proud of it, because it is addictive. Personally I don’t like thick slices of polenta, grilled or otherwise. These thin squares are beautifully crunchy and golden on the outside, soft and creamy on the inside, and, with the Parmesan and salt, deeply savoury.

If you like, sprinkle a little chopped rosemary or crumble some crispy proscuitto (or both) over the polenta before grilling, but I quite like them plain. Their simple, earthy, mealy, salty, cheesy flavour is at once comforting and convivial.

They are, perhaps, to proper hors d’oeuvres what Steinbeck is to Proust (ahem), and that is precisely what I like about them: they have not the slightest hint of pretension. Serve with pre-dinner drinks.

Grilled Parmesan polenta squares
Serves 6

220g polenta
2 litres water
4 (or more, if you like) tbsp freshly grated Parmesan, plus extra for sprinkling
4 tbsp olive oil
Maldon or other good quality sea salt, and freshly ground black pepper, to taste

1. In a large saucepan, bring the water to the boil and slowly whisk in the polenta. Be sure not to dump a large dollop in, or you’ll end up with lumps. A slow steady stream is best.
2. Cook on high heat for about 5 minutes until it thickens. Turn down the heat and cook for about 30 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the polenta has the consistency of porridge.
3. Grease a large baking tray with the olive oil, then pour the polenta on it and spread out with a knife or spatula so that you have a layer of polenta no thicker than 1cm and no thinner than 5mm (it’s not a hard-and-fast rule or anything, I just like it that way).
4. Leave to cool, and after 10 or 15 minutes the polenta will have set and be hard enough to cut into squares. Gently loosen the squares, sprinkle the Parmesan over them and season with salt and pepper. Grill for about 15 minutes, or until the edges are crispy and golden. (Just a note here: you want enough olive oil in your baking tray to gently fry the polenta, so it gets grilled on the top and fried on the bottom. If you think you need a little extra olive oil, by all means add some.)
5. Transfer the polenta squares to a serving dish lined with absorbent paper towel, and top with a nice thick layer of grated Parmesan. Prepare to be humbled.

Grilled aubergine, lentils, chilli, herbs

2011-01-18T02:39:00.000-08:00

We were just outside Wellington, on the edge of the desert, and the beers were still cold.

We were on our way to the Tankwa Karoo National Park. About 60km back the road had curved sharply to the left, leaving behind lush vineyards and green hills, taking us into the bleached, eternal landscape of the Karoo.

The Guinea Pig and I were elated — starting, as we were, on our second ice-cold Tafel lager. This was the stuff, being out here, in the middle of nowhere, leaving it all behind: stress, the rat race, the strain of city living — and, as it turned out, cell phone reception.

As we crested another identical hill, several gleaming 4x4s came into view, parked on the side of the road down below. There were hazy figures milling about. Approaching, we saw one was lying in the road. Another was standing waving his arms in the air for us to stop.

No one was hurt, though.

A group of generously proportioned gentlemen — faces like pot scourers, heads like anvils — had decided it would be a capital idea to pull over on the side of the road and imbibe a little ... er, what looked like Coca Cola (undoubtedly kept company by one of it’s close associates, rum or brandy).

These guys did not look drunk. They looked as though they had never been sober.

Somewhere just outside Wellington.

This is how we found ourselves surrounded by about ten large, drunk characters (salt of the earth, I’m sure), leaning on the bonnet, standing in front of the car, leering in through the open window (idiot!), insisting — sort-of amiably, sort-of not — that we get out and have a drink with them.

GP and I smiled. We mumbled things along the lines of ‘Ha ha, we’d love to but we’re late and we must be getting on. Thank you so much for the offer, though. Another time. Ha ha.’

Very, very slowly, we inched forward, smiling slit-eyed, nodding, waving, until we broke free, at which point we accelerated reassuringly. Over the hill, we promptly downed another Tafel each in silence. The Scary Men were out of sight, soon to be out of mind. Or so we thought.

‘Why are you slowing down?’

‘I’m not,’ says GP. There is an edge in his voice.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The car is losing power — it’s slowing down all on its own. Something’s wrong.’

Car trouble. Middle of nowhere. No cell reception.

‘We have to go back,’ says GP.

Although the prospect of having a bubble bath with Julius Malema held more appeal than turning back and passing our plastered friends again, proceeding further into the middle of nowhere was simply not an option.

So we turned around and made our way back towards Wellington. By the time the men came into view, we were not travelling faster than 20km/h, because we couldn’t.

Once again, one of them lay down in the road and they waved for us to stop. GP, bless him, simple took a little detour off the road and went right around the horizontal man. Very slowly.

There is a particular arrangement of ticks and pinched muscles your face assumes when your insides have gone goopy with fear, and even though your survival instinct has run off to hide behind a rock, somehow you know it’d be a very, very bad idea to let on that you are this close to incontinence.

Although we were careful not to make eye contact, we had time to observe one of them, propped up by a car door, lose the fight against gravity. Another appeared to be pleasuring himself matter-of-factly, glass in (other) hand. It was not outside the realm of possibility that one of them would take it into their head to rugby tackle the car, or simply hop on and provide us with the opportunity to cause offense.

The car slowed to 15km/h as we hit the incline, and dropped to 10km/h as we approached the crest. I had visions of the engine cutting, of the heart-stopping moment when the car would begin to roll back down towards the Scary Men.

By the time we got over the hill, my body was so rigid it could have been used to open crates.

We even managed to crest another hill before the engine finally died. At least we were out of sight.

Four hours later — after a kind couple of geologists happened past and towed us to the nearest patch of cell reception, and we were able to call for roadside assistance — we were back in Cape Town. We had a few laughs about the whole experience, about how our long-anticipated weekend in the wilds of Tankwa had nearly turned into Deliverance in the desert.

We laughed. But I will never forget it.

That night I made this dish. And we liked it very much, because it is comforting. And when you’ve been a little traumatised, you want reassuring food.

It has all the qualities I most desire in a recipe. Although I am a certifiable cookbook addict, I very rarely cook the actual recipes in any of the ones I own, because I don’t want to have to source za’atar or enoki mushrooms or kohlrabi on my way home from work in the evenings. I want to stop at Woolies or Pick n Pay and get everything I need in one go. Of course I get a bit more adventurous, usually on weekends, but it’s dishes like the one you see above that I adore — they get me excited, because it is their simplicity that makes them so brilliant.

Well, don’t take my word for it.

Grilled aubergine with lentils, chilli, herbs
Serves 2 as a main and 4 as a side dish

2 medium aubergines
1 cup black/brown lentils (green is fine too), rinsed
1 large handful each coriander and flat-leaf parsley, finely chopped
1 red chilly, seeds removed and finely sliced
2 cloves garlic, finely sliced
Juice and zest of 1 lemon
50g chevin (soft goats cheese)
3 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil

1. Slice the aubergines length ways into 2cm slices and spread out in a baking tray (they should not overlap). Sprinkle with salt and black pepper, drizzle with olive oil and work the mixture into the aubergine slices with your fingers so they are evenly coated.
2. Grill the aubergines until golden and cooked through (I put my oven on the highest setting and then place the aubergines at the bottom of the oven so they cook through without burning).
3. In the meantime, cook the lentils. Place the lentils in a saucepan with two cups water and bring to the boil. Turn the heat down and simmer until the lentils are tender but still firm, about 30 minutes. Set aside to cool. (I usually just whack the lentils into a sieve and run cold water over them — they don’t have to be cold, they just shouldn’t be hot as the heat kills the taste of the herbs.)
4. In a bowl combine the lemon juice, zest, garlic, chilli, herbs and the olive oil, then stir into the warm lentils. Cut the aubergine slices into quarters and gently fold them into the lentils, taking care not to mash them up.
5. Transfer to a serving dish, top with crumbled goats cheese and serve. (Yes, I took these pictures before I realised I’d left out the goat cheese!)

My go-to summer salad

2011-01-09T22:38:00.000-08:00

I have been making this salad all summer, and my obsession with is still growing. It’s incredibly fresh-tasting, perfect for feeding a crowd, and just unusual enough to impress. I used to make it fairly often years ago, but somehow I’d forgotten about it — until I started going through the Ottolenghi cookbook (a gift from my Guinea Pig). Old Yotam is a big fan of fresh coriander, and seeing his creations jogged my memory.

Not only is this salad stupidly simple (and I’m all about that), it’s also wondrously versatile. You could add pretty much anything you like — olives, avocado, salad leaves, croutons, red onion, roasted vegetables, chunks of grilled meat or tofu — and it goes brilliantly with seared tuna steaks or roast leg of lamb. Oooh my mouth is watering.

Pearl barley salad
Serves 2 as a main or 4 as a starter

125ml pearl barley, rinsed
1 large handful each fresh coriander, basil and mint leaves, finely chopped
1 clove garlic, crushed
Juice of one lemon
About 100ml extra-virgin olive oil
½ English cucumber, chopped into small cubes (roughly 5mm)
2 medium or one large tomatoes, chopped into small cubes (roughly 5mm)
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste

1. Add the barley to a saucepan filled with plenty of water and bring to the boil. Reduce heat and simmer for about an hour, or until tender. Drain in a sieve, then spread the barley out on a tray to cool and dry out a little.
2. In a small bowl combine the salt, pepper, olive oil and lemon juice, and mix until the salt has dissolved.
3. In a large bowl, combine the barley with the cucumber, tomato, herbs, garlic and dressing, and mix well to combine.
4. Set aside for 20 minutes to an hour to give the flavours a little time to develop, then serve.

Calming down to a panic

2011-01-04T01:20:00.000-08:00

When, dear reader, did life get so hectic?

It happens when you're not looking. When you're putting out fires, trying to calm down to a panic and just catch up with yourself.

Between moving (and renovating) house, going to an overseas wedding, insane deadlines, visiting the family for Christmas and doing the Whale Trail over New Year, it feels as though I've been running about 10 paces behind my own life recently.

And the fallout, when I finally found myself standing still, was a sense of 'What the hell just happened? Where am I? Who am I? What is the point?'

Ahem, sorry to burden you with these inner cogitations, but I am sharing them by way of explaining my absence (because I know that you have put your life on hold, waiting for my next blog post, right?).

No. I guess I'm writing this post to myself.

Life really is too short to place greater importance on what you feel you aught to do, than what you really want (need) to do. The trick is finding the courage to actually do it.

I want to write more. And cook more. And that is what I am going to do, deadlines be damned. (Please hold me to that!)

I haven't done much in the way of cooking for quite some time, as you may or may not have gathered, but I would like to share this stupendously easy pre-dinner drinks snack with you, which went with our Christmas dinner. It is stunningly simple and quite delicious, and while it may not win any haute cuisine awards, it has a certain rustic charm. It is ideal as a quick throw-together for impromptu gatherings of family and/or friends.

Okay, I know, I know. It's just posh toasted cheese. But doesn't it look good?

Anchovy toasts
Take one small tin of anchovies in olive oil and two cloves garlic, crushed, and gently fry over a medium-low heat in about 150g butter, until the anchovies have melted. In the mean time, chop up a large handful of flat-leaf parsley and lightly toast about 8 slices sourdough bread. Cut each slice in half and brush with the anchovy butter, sprinkle with the parsley, and top with a thin layer of grated cheese, such as Parmesan, Grana Padano, Pecorino or, my current favourite, Auricchio. (Heck, in a pinch, even cheddar would still give a pretty delicious result.) Grill the toasts and serve.

Moema's chocolate fudge cake

2010-12-19T23:39:00.000-08:00

I don’t really go in for chocolate cake. Or chocolate in general.

I know.

To be a woman and not care about chocolate is tantamount to admitting you don’t like puppies. I mean, what kind of freak doesn’t like chocolate?

It has been my secret shame for so long now. I haven’t deliberately tried to mislead anyone, but the above-mentioned confession has been met with reactions of disbelief, disdain and deep mistrust so often that I just started keeping it to myself.

And it’s not that I dislike chocolate — I’m just indifferent to it. I’m not generally turned on by sweet stuff. Gimme vinegar crisps, savoury seafood, cheesy crackers, sea-fresh oysters, crispy bacon fat, lemony guacamole, salty, buttery veggies... These are the flavours I dream about. I’ve always felt towards chocolate confections rather the way I feel towards other people’s kids: they seem like a nice enough idea, over there on the other side of the room, but it’s kind of a relief when someone takes them away.

And often I have to wash my hands after handling them.

Well no more. You see, I finally found a chocolate cake that I like. No, scratch that. A chocolate cake I adore. One I could quite happily scoff all on my own, in a dark cupboard. It’s somewhere between a mousse, a sponge cake, and velvety fudge — basically every chocolate fantasy in existence rolled into one.

The view from the Westcliff

A sunny bit of the Westcliff

I tasted it for the first time a few weeks ago at the Westcliff (afriend of a friend’s birthday). One of the guests told me about Moema’sand that was that — I had to have the recipe. As a matter of interestfor anyone who is a Yotam Ottolenghi fan (I am his numero uno, andI have the restraining order to prove it), Danielle — one of the owners of Moema’s and the kind lady who provided me with the recipe — workedwith the chef in London before moving to our shores.

So, without further ado...

Moema’s chocolate fudge cake
Makes 2

1kg 815 chocolate
200g 70/30 chocolate
870g butter
340g egg yolks
580g sugar (for yolks)
290g sugar (for whites)
530g egg whites
3 double espressos

1. Preheat oven to 155C. Line 2 carrot cake tins with grease-proof paper and grease the sides with butter.
2. Put the chocolate and butter in a bain-marie and heat until melted.
3. Place the yolks and sugar (580g) in a large food mixer andcombine until a sabayon is formed (I’m not sure what this is — I justread it as ‘combine well’)
4. Start mixing the egg whites. When they turn white add the sugar.
5. Fold the warm chocolate into the sabayon, along with the espresso.
6. Once combined, pour into each lined tin — 1200g of mixture into each (so you should have some left over).
7. Bake for 1 hour, until the mixture looks cracked and has risen.
8. Take out of the oven and allow to cool.
9. Add the remainder of the mixture to the tins (divided evenlybetween them, obviously) and return to the oven for about 10 minutes,until the top looks shiny.
10. And that’s that. Try not to eat it all in one sitting.

PS: This would make an excellent addition to your Christmas table — ifyou live in Joburg and you don’t feel like making one, you could alwaysjust pop in to Moema’s...

Eight days in Melbourne

2010-12-06T22:16:00.000-08:00

We interrupt this blog to bring you a briefreport on some stuff I ate in Melbourne. Okay?

My brother recently got married to aMelbournite (the lovely Bethany), so I got to spend eight days in thisbeautiful city. I’m not going to blather on about it because, unless you areplanning to actually go to Melbourne some day, I don’t see why it should be ofany interest to you. But the pics are pretty (I think — I’m not sure I have anyobjectivity on this matter). And I’m afraid I have to brag a little aboutgetting to eat at two amazing restaurants. I’ve decided to present you with apictoral essay to keep my bragging (and your yawning) to a minimum.

First stop: the Victoria Market. This is afoodie’s wet dream. This is a cook’s Mecca. This is heaven. In one large roofedarea the size of an aircraft hanger, you’ll find isle after isle after isle oftables laden with every fruit, vegetable, leaf or seed your greedy mind canconceive of. All fresh, all beautiful. Next door, there’s a sort of warehousefilled with countless types of fresh seafood, meat and poultry. And I meanfresh. Next door lies yet another warehouse where merchants sell artisanalgoods, from cheese to coffee, to wine to sweets, to the most incrediblebratwurst-and-sauerkraut-on-a-roll I have ever tasted.

I think my heart might actually still bethere, sitting on one of those tables, sulking next to a pile of organiccherries.

My brother, Ian, and Bethany took me to dinner at Attica, voted 73rd best restaurant in the world.The place itself was understated, but the food was unbelievable. We had thetasting menu of five courses. The one that stoodout the most for me was the potato cooked in its own soil. It was presented verysimply, and the sauce was quite subtle so you could really taste the potato,and although it did pretty much taste like a potato, the flavour was moreintense than any I’ve had before, and the texture was waxy and buttery. Plusthe goats curd sauce hada sprinkling of coconut husk ash in it. Apparently it’s one of the only types ofash that are not carcinogenic (so the waiter told us). I couldn't really detect any taste though.

Finally, I ate lunch at Jamie Oliver’s restaurant Fifteen with my parents the day before we left. I had pretty high expectations,and was not disappointed. The food was so simple, imaginative, fresh andflavourful, it is exactly what I had hoped (I’m abig fan).

To start: Grilled octopus, warm cannellini beans, chilli, mint andlemon. I went for this because I thought the inclusion of mint soundedintriguing — and it works. I’m going to try this at home folks, so I’ll let youknow how it works out. Then primi: Gnocchi ripieni with stinging nettles, goatscurd and marjoram butter. The flavours in this dish were subtle, but the more Iate the more delicious it became. (The pics are a bit kak as the lighting was inadequate.)

On the way out, my dad asked if the man himself ever droppedby, and we were told he only visited once a year. And sometimes he skipped a year. Hm. (Obviously he's too busy trying to save America.)

So there you have it.

Normal blogging will resume from the nextpost. (Don’t miss it — I have an unbelievable chocolate cake/mousse recipe Isimply must share, from a patisserie in Joburg who’s owners worked with YotamOttolenghi.)

PS: Check out my avocado and endive salad with creamy white wine and rosemary dressing recipe on the Kleine Zalze For the Love of Wine blog.

Four mini restaurant reviews...

2010-11-15T06:41:00.000-08:00

I'm not really into writing restaurant reviews, but I've built up a little collection of pretty pictures and wanted to share them with you. These are all great places to while away a sunny Sunday afternoon with friends.

Café Max

This is a charming, dreamy little spot in quiet Waterkant Street. The food is reasonably priced, and they sell an incredible wooded rosé made especially for them (it matches the shutters), and so I would recommend Café Max if you're in the mood to while away a sunny afternoon snacking and quaffing good wine in the City Bowl. More here.

Reuben's at the Robertson Small Hotel

To know Reuben's in Franshhoek is to love it, and the Robertson branch is even prettier — set, as it is, in a gorgeously revamped Victorian hotel at the end of a leafy street. The service was a little on the slow side on our last visit, but frankly it could be non-existent and I would still keep going back for the duck. It just has to be tried to be believed.

More here.

The Venue @ South Hill

The Venue, situated on South Hill wine estate just past Elgin, is a class act. Breathtaking scenery (think rolling hills and green, green, green vinyards), switched-on, friendly service and good food (the seafood chowder was the best I have ever tasted — I still dream about it).

More here.

Marianas in Stanford

This is only my favourite restaurant. In the world. Ever.

Mariana and Peter Estherhuizen are the nicest people — Peter an attentive host, always ready with a naughty anecdote, and Mariana makes food that, without fail, has me staring disbelievingly at my plate, thinking I have no business going near a kitchen.

Their philosophy might be summed up in a brief exchange I had with Peter once when I called to say we'd be late: 'Don't worry,' he said. 'Arrive whenever you feel like it, and we'll feed you whenever

we feel like it.'

It's a two-hour drive from Cape Town to Stanford, so make a day

— or a weekend — of it. More here.

A pretty scene in the Overberg...

PS: I've been selected as an ambassador for Kleine Zalze wines this summer. Just living the dream...

Penne with lemon, ricotta and peas

2010-10-31T22:34:00.000-07:00

Unfortunately I don’t have time to write a proper post, but I made this lovely pasta over the weekend and I just have to share it with you. It’s really very simple (as most good recipes are), and its success relies on the quality of ingredients (as most good recipes' do).

Buy decent ricotta (the kind that comes in its own little ‘basket’) — Woolies do a nice one. And try to buy fresh peas still in their pods if you can. It’s sort of the whole point of the dish: to have fresh spring peas.

I love shelling peas... I like to imagine I am a fifties Italian housewife, sitting outside, watching the world go by, gossiping, shelling peas over a large bucket.

Sometimes I even tie a little scarf over my hair, peasant style.

No I don't. I just made that up.

Be careful not to overcook the peas — they should be tender but still firm and bright green. Blanching is best.

Penne with lemon, ricotta and spring peas
Serves 4

400g penne
¼ cup freshly squeezed lemon juice
About 3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
2½ cups green peas, blanched
½ cup finely sliced basil leaves
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
500g ricotta cheese
Grated Parmesan, to taste

Place the pasta in a large saucepan of salted boiling water and cook until al dente. Drain and return to the pan. Toss the pasta with the olive oil, lemon juice, basil, peas, salt and pepper. Add the ricotta and mix gently. Spoon onto serving plates and top with an extra glug of olive oil and the Parmesan.

Artichokes Roman style

2010-10-24T22:51:00.000-07:00

I have always adored artichokes, even as child — which is fairly unusual, I think.

About once or twice a year (which may as well have been once or twice a milennia, as far as my preteen self was concerned), my dad would arrive home from work in the evening with a large, bulging brown paper bag under his arm, and my heart would leap, because I knew that evening we were in for a treat.

My mom would boil the artichokes until just tender (remaining admirably calm despite my wheedling demands to know precisely how much longer they’d take), and all four of us would sit at the kitchen table, peeling the leaves, dipping each one into a large bowl of salty, lemony melted butter and scraping the soft flesh off with our teeth. When all the leaves were gone, I would drop the heart into the bowl of butter until it was thoroughly drenched, and place the whole thing in my mouth. This was a solemn ritual — I concentrated very hard on appreciating and savouring the heart, putting off its ingestion for as long as possible, because it had an annoying habit of melting and slipping down my throat in a matter of seconds. We only got about three artichokes each, and who knew when we were going to have them again?

My childhood infatuation with artichokes was mostly due to their being an excellent excuse to eat gargantuan amounts of butter, which I wouldn’t ordinarily be allowed. Also, there was something ceremonial about my mother, father, brother and I sitting together, peeling the leaves, enjoying.

I have a similar love for asparagus, for much the same reasons. They were a rare treat, always served hot, slathered in salty butter. Once, on a family road trip, we stopped at the top of some mountain pass or other, and my dad hauled out our little gas cooker, a small pot and a big bunch of asparagus. The green stalks were tied with string and made to stand up in a few inches of water, then the pot was covered with foil (I remember this very clearly, even though I was only 7 or so, because I thought it such an overly elaborate method — couldn’t they just chop up the stalks, boil them and be done with it?). About 10 minutes later, there we sat, on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, eating perfectly cooked asparagus. Heaven.

Spoils from the farmers' market...

I have experiences like this (and my parents) to thank for my great love affair with vegetables. (Butter may also have something to do with it.) Basically, this is a very long-winded way of saying that, until recently, I thought the idea of preparing either asparagus or artichokes in any way other than the methods described above — and I don't say this lightly — a form of sacrilege. To my mind, nothing was going to make these greens attain a higher state of perfection than simple butter and salt. And perhaps a squeeze of lemon juice. Nothing. I couldn’t understand how anyone would want to ruin them by serving them with hollandaise, for example, or sticking them in a quiche, or (gasp!) a soup. You might as well just throw them away, I thought. What a waste.

Recently, though, having made a commitment to eating more seasonally, I have found myself doing my weekly grocery shopping at farmers’ markets, and buying artichokes and bunches of asparagus by the dozen, because, of course, they are in season and more affordable. Having glutted myself on them slicked in butter, I was horrified to find myself daydreaming about a nice artichoke salad (!) or asparagus mixed into a pasta (see last week’s post). And yes, even soup.

This makes so much sense, though, actually. We are supposed to glut ourselves on these veggies for a few months a year — spring — while they're in season, until we are kind of sick of them. Then we don’t mind so much going without for the rest of the year.

I tried this breathtakingly simple River Café recipe only after I got a little sick (from eating all that butter) and tired of the usual. I cannot recommend it strongly enough. It might even be my favourite way to eat artichokes (sacrilege!). The liquid reduces to an intense flavour, and although there’s a lot of mint, it loses its pungency when cooked and becomes quite subtle and creamy.

I did feel terribly guilty about discarding all those precious outer leaves though, so I ate most of them. Raw. But that’s just me. If you like, you can keep some of the more tender leaves to put in a salad. Just toss them in a little lemon juice to stop them discolouring and eat on the same day. If your artichokes are fresh and young, the inner leaves should be perfectly edible raw.

These are sensational as an antipasti with bruschetta, or served with fish.

They still have a habit of melting and slipping down my throat far too quickly though.

Artichokes Roman style
Serves 6
12 small or 6 large globe artichokes
Lemon juice
250ml olive oil
For the stuffing:
3 tablespoons finely chopped flat-leaf parsley
3 tablespoons finely chopped fresh mint
3 garlic cloves, peeled and crushed with sea salt
6 tablespoons olive oil
Coursely ground black pepper
1 1⁄2 lemons, quartered

1. Using a small, sharp knife, remove the tough outer leaves of the artichokes. If necessary, trim the spikes from the top. Cut the stalks, leaving about 5cm, and peel.
2. Using your fingers, gently prise open each artichoke, turn it upside down and, while pressing down with one hand, pull out the leaves with the other. The aim is to open out and flaten the artichoke.
3. For the stuffing, mix all the ingredients together and season well. Press this mixture inside the centre of each artichoke.
4. Pour the olive oil into a heavy stainless-steel saucepan large enough to contain all the artichokes. Place the artichokes inside, stuffed side down, jammed together so they stay upright. Scatter any excess stuffing over the top. Add enough water to come one third of the way up the globes, and bring to the boil. Reduce heat, cover with a sheet of grease-proof paper, place the lid on top, and cook gently for about 30 minutes until the water has evaporated and the artichokes have begun to brown at the bottom. 5. The timing will depend on the size and freshness of the artichokes. Test for tenderness using a sharp, pointed knife. You may need to add more water and cook for longer. Ideally, the result should be tender artichokes that have begun to caramelise in the oil. Serve with lemon quarters.

Spaghetti with spring greens

2010-10-17T23:36:00.000-07:00

Spring is a good time to stop and smell the rosebuds. I’m not going to warble on about renewal and the joyous mystery of the seasons (yea Gods woman — ‘joyous mystery’? Spare us!), but man, you’ve got to admit that visiting farmers’ markets around this time of year is like letting a kid with low blood sugar loose in a candy store. Especially if you’ve committed to buying more local and seasonal produce.

I recently finished reading Animal, Vegetable, Mineral: A Year of Food Life by Barbara Kingsolver (of The Poisonwood Bible fame), a memoire of her family eating only food sourced within a radius of 100 miles from her home for one year, and I am so inspired. I’d read about eating seasonally and locally before, but this book really put it into perspective for me. But more on that in my next post, I think.

Back to spring and the gorgeous glut of greens available now. Ivisited the Tokai farmer’s market last weekend, which is located in themost beautiful woodland setting (complete with grazing horses), and Ipicked up some gorgeous organic asparagus and baby squash (zucchini,patti-pans and gems). Perfect items for this spring greens spaghetti.

It might sound like there are a lot of anchovies in this recipe, butonce they’ve melted and coated the spaghetti, their flavour just fadesinto the background to give a subtle savouriness. You can leave themout if you prefer to keep it vegetarian. My only warning with this dishis that it is a very real and present temptation to eat all theasparagus before combining everything. So if you must have a taste, make sure your resolve is iron-clad!

I'msure you know that the quality of the pasta is rather important. NoFatti's & Moni's please! (That dreck is to proper Italian spaghettiwhat margarine is to fresh farm butter.) With a glass of chilled dryrosé, this, for me, is the perfect early summer lunch.

Spring pasta with asparagus and baby squash
Makes 2 generous portions

250g spaghetti
3 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
6 or 7 anchovy fillets
1 bunch fresh sprue (thin) asparagus
2 cloves garlic, crushed with sea salt
About 300g baby zucchini, patti-pans, or any tender spring squash, finely sliced (julienne-style)
Maldon sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
Pecorino, to taste
1 handful basil, leaves picked and chopped

1. Cook the spaghetti in plenty of salted water according to package instructions (al dente) and drain, but reserve about 1 cup of the cooking water.
2. In a separate large pan, heat the oil. Add the anchovies and fry gently for about 30 seconds, then add the asparagus. Continue to fry on a medium-low heat until the anchovies have melted and the asparagus is half-cooked, about 7 minutes. Add the garlic and cook for a further minute.
3. Toss the spaghetti with the asparagus, anchovy and garlic, as well as the julienned squash. Season to taste. Add a little of the cooking water if the spaghetti seems a bit dry — you want to achieve a silky, slippery, glossy effect.
4. To serve, drizzle with a little good-quality olive oil, and top with shavings of Pecorino and the basil (I used the tender young leaves from my sweet and purple basil plants — no chopping required).

Post script: I have enjoyed my time off (oh, I have tales — breaking down in theKaroo on a lonely dirt road with no cellphone reception is a highlight — more on those another time), but I must confess I missed youterribly. It’s good to be back!

Intermission

2010-09-21T01:54:00.000-07:00

I need a break.

You know, to stop and smell the roses (and the jasmine, and the frangipani), feel the sand between my toes, shoot the breeze, etc.

When this blog starts to feel like work, I know I'm doing something wrong, and that I need to take a step back and figure out what that is.

Because I don't want here — this beautiful space where I've connected with so many of you wonderful, crazy peeps (I don't care what your mother says about you!) — to ever, ever feel like work. It's far too precious to me.

So I'm going to go away for a while, probably a month, and in that time I am going to eat and drink and hang out with friends, paint my toenails, go to the beach, throw sticks at nuns, take that Taser training course I've been meaning to...

Generally just slather on as many hedonistic pleasures as I can bear until I've got the balance right again. I'll let you know how it turns out when I get back.

I know you are going to miss me, but you'll be just fine if you remember one thing...

So long then. See you on the other side.

You can go now.

I said go on...

Go home! There's nothing here for you! It's OVER!!!

I DON'T LOVE YOU ANYMORE!

Right, that should do it.

Robyn

x

PS: Thank you for voting for me in the SA Blog Awards... I wish I could give each and every one of you a big hug and a smacker (with tongue), but I won't because people fall in love with me far too easily as it is, and my heart belongs to the Guinea Pig.

Anyway, I didn't win, but I'm not as disappointed as I thought I'd be — which means I must have high self-esteem or something... But thank you for your support — I really had no idea so many of you would be rooting for me. Discovering THAT was far more precious than winning a silly award (unless, perhaps, that award was the Nobel Peace Prize, I think you'll agree).

Plenty of Ottolenghi...

2010-09-13T02:41:00.000-07:00

Saturday was Cape Town's first real taste of summer, and I decided the only appropriate way to celebrate was to run out and buy a tube of self-tan. Ah, there's nothing quite like the chemical aroma of dihydroxyacetone delicately singing one's nostril hairs to fill one with the joys of the season...

In 4-6 hours I would be a few inches closer to resembling a healthy, hot-pant-wearing, roller-blading native Californian, rather than something that lives at the bottom of the sea. I needed a venue. I needed to be seen. I needed to find a location where the sun meets the alcohol amidst discreet sycophants and white linen.

We brainstormed and, after a few heated disagreements, I remembered reading a review on Casa Labia in Muizenberg, so we decided to make a booking... Boy was that a mistake.

We got there to discover that they only served wine by the glass (one kind), and bubbly by the bottle (one kind), and the reason for this was that they do not have a liquor licence. They couldn't have told us this over the phone when we made our booking?

The service was disinterested, the food average, and in general I felt my new tan was just not getting the attention it deserved. For future reference, Casa Labia is probably safest for breakfast.

They do have a very pretty museum though, which is worth a look...

And an even prettier view...

On to more uplifting matters — Yotam Ottolenghi's PLENTY has infected my brain. I can't stop thinking about it, and it took me two full weeks to decide which dish to make first.

This is the one I chose. Green pancakes with lime butter. Beautiful for brunch. I really don't think I need to say any more than that.

Green pancakes with lime butter
Serves 3 to 4

250g spinach, washed
110g self raising flour
1 tbsp baking powder
1 free range egg
50g unsalted butter
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp ground cumin
150ml milk
6 medium spring onion (100g in total), finely sliced
2 fresh green chillies, thinly sliced
1 free range egg white
olive oil

Lime butter
100g unsalted butter, at room temperature
grated zest of 1 lime
1 1/2 tbsp lime juice
1/3 tsp salt
1/2 tsp ground white pepper
1 tbsp chopped coriander
1/2 garlic clove, finely chopped
1/4 tsp chilli flakes

1. First, make the lime butter. Put the butter in a medium bowl and beat with a wooden spoon until it turns soft and creamy. Stir in the remaining ingredients. Tip everything out on to a sheet of clingfilm and roll into a sausage shape. Twist the ends to seal the flavoured butter. Chill until firm.
2. Wilt the spinach in a pan with a splash of water. Drain in a sieve and, when cool, squeeze hard with your hands to remove as much moisture as possible. Roughly chop and put aside
3. For the pancake batter, put the flour, baking powder, whole egg, melted butter, salt, cumin and milk in a mixing bowl, and whisk until smooth. Add the spring onion, chillies and spinach and mix with a fork. Whisk the egg white to soft peaks and carefully fold it in to the batter.
4. Pour a small amount of oil into a heavy frying pan and place on medium-high heat. For each pancake, ladle 2 tablespoons of batter into the pan and press down gently. You should get smallish pancakes, about 7cm in diameter and 1cm thick. Cook for about 2 minutes on each side, until you get a good golden-green colour. Transfer to kitchen paper and keep warm. Continue making pancakes, adding oil to the pan as needed, until the batter is used up.
5. To serve, pile up three pancakes per person and place a slice of flavoured butter on top to melt.

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PS: I wish I could take credit for the image of the pancakes, but I can't — I scanned it from the book.

PPS: Don't miss out on this fabulous Eat Out competition — you could 'win the dining experience of a lifetime'. Doesn't that sound nice?

PPPS: Voting for the 2010 SA Blog Awards closes on Friday 17 September. I feel so dirty asking you this, but if you wouldn't mind voting just one last time... (you can vote every 24 hours) x

Societi Bistro's Aubergine Fettuccine

2010-09-06T02:36:00.000-07:00

A few months ago, seated and perusing the menu at Society Bistro — one of the most fabulous restaurants to ever happen to Cape Town's CBD — my eyes settled on 'Aubergine fettuccine: baked ricotta, chilli, fennel seed, cherry tomatoes.'

I read the line again and thought: 'I want to go to there.'

I have not been able to stop thinking about that dish, so eventually I asked for the recipe. I've never cooked with fennel seeds in a Mediterranean context before, but their subtle flavour goes beautifully with aubergine. I am so delighted with this recipe — and I know you will be too.

At Society Bistro they make their own fettuccine and their own ricotta — I used store-bought, and the result was even better than I remembered, but if you have homemade... Well, I'm sure I don't have to tell you.

The recipe is for one serving, because of course that's how they do it in restaurants, so just double or quadripple the quantities according to your needs. (I should just note here that SB did not provide ingredient quantities in the 'Assembly' section, so I just went with my gut.)

Aubergine fettuccine
Serves 1

For the aubergine caviar:
1 aubergine
1 tsp extra virgin olive oil
10g fennel seeds
10g dry chilli flakes
1. Cut aubergine in half lengthways, and score the flesh deeply to form diamond shapes.
2. Drizzle the olive oil and season with salt, pepper, chilli and fennel.
3. Wrap in foil and bake for 1 hour at 150C.
4. Allow to cool, then scoop out the soft cooked flesh.

Assembly:
1 clove garlic, crushed
2 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
100g cherry tomatoes
20g rocket
125g baked ricotta (I mixed mine with some chilli, fennel seeds, salt and pepper, and baked it along with the aubergine)
Fresh chilli, chopped, to taste
1. Warm a large frying-pan and add the olive oil and garlic, and then the caviar.
3. Cook for two minutes on a medium heat, then add the cherry tomatoes and cook for a further two minutes.
4. Season with salt and pepper and add the blanched pasta to the pan.
5. Add rocket and toss in the pan.
6. Tip onto a serving plate, top with the ricotta and fresh chilli. Grate a little Parmesan on top if you like.

On quite a separate note, I've made it into the top 10 in the SA Blog Awards (Best Food and Wine Blog) this year, and any notions I had about handling the whole affair with a sense of decorum have gone right out the window (thudding violently onto the street, reversed over by a McDonald's delivery van). So all I'm going to say is please vote for me (click on the widget in the top right corner). Pretty please.

PS: You can vote every 24 hours until 17 September — sounds exhausting, I know, but I'm just putting it out there...

2010 SA Blog Awards

2010-09-01T00:51:00.000-07:00

Golly, I made it to the top 10! Thanks so much to everyone whonominated me... I must say I feel quite queazy all of a sudden. Thewhole process is rather convoluted — not only does one have to benominated, then one has to be voted for as well. If you could see your wayto clicking on the widget on the right and voting for me, it would helpwith the nausea... (It's maclarty.blogspot.com, not Koek! — I must havethat seen to.) Seriously though, thanks, I really do appreciate it,deep down in a squishy place.

Borat also says thank you.

Robyn x

Zucca e funghi al forno

2010-08-31T01:33:00.000-07:00

Zucca e funghi al forno from Venezia: Food & Dreams — more on that later...

Dear Diary: I feel like I’m in a scene from Withnail & I, out here in the country. I wish I had a joint. I don’t usually smoke marijuana, but in this environment it seems appropriate — obligatory, even.

I’m sitting in a bed in a cabin, wearing 10 layers ofclothing, at the top of a mountain just outside Elandsbay.It’s 8:40am. The mist outside my cabin is thick as pea soup (I heardthat in a movie once — can't remember which — still not convinced ofits analogic merits). I can see only the faint outline of a fewpine trees just outside; nothing but opaque icy greyness beyond that.It’s isolated, stark, damp and freezing — I’m expecting Uncle Monty topop in any moment for a cup of tea and a fondle.

The day passes in a daze of sleeping, reading, aimless pottering and trying not to freeze to death ('Warm up? We may as well sit round this cigarette. This is ridiculous. We'll be found dead in here next spring').

I ended up playing Hearts on my laptop instead of writing, which was sort of the whole point of holing myself up in this cabin. Ah well.

My computer beat me 3/9.

The clouds broke just in time for a devastating sunset — and a counter-top-hot-plate dinner of puttanesca. God I love it when my fingers smell like garlic and basil... Or garlic and ginger. Or garlic and rosemary. I think the common denominator is garlic. God I love it. (That paragraph may have been inspired by a bottle-and-a-half of Laborie Cab/Sav, some mild chest-beating and proclamations of 'We want the finest wines available to humanity. And we want them here, and we want them now!' I'm pretty sure no one heard me.)

I was (inexplicably) rewarded the next day with no hangover and a sparkling summer's day: views from here to eternity and back. And the famous West Coast flowers are just starting to do their spring thing...

Truly, you could do a hell of a lot worse than spend a weekend at Mountain Mist.

Oh, you want a recipe as well? Very well...

I did spend a sizable portion of the weekend poring over a recent (treasured) gift from the Guinea Pig — Tessa Kiros’ tribute to Venice: Venezia: Food & Dreams. I am smitten. 'These are the things I ate in Venice,' she writes, 'Wonderful surprises let me say; things that you would never expect glancing at the menus of the many tourist-drained locali.'

I want to say it’s a feast for the eyes, but I won’t, because that’s a big fat cliché. But I will say that if you’re a cookbook-oholic and Italophile like myself, this is for you.

I like the recipe below because of its simplicity. Such easy-to-find ingredients, effortlessly combined, yet the result is something quite exquisite (perhaps you have to be a veggie-lover — the kind that can happily eat a bowl of buttery greens for dinner).

I made this dish with butternut and dried porcini mushrooms rehydrated for an hour in some hot chicken stock — and it all turned out beautifully — but fresh funghi and pumpkin are first choice, naturally. You could serve it with Parmesan-ey wet polenta (as I did), or with some crusty bread, or of course as a side dish to fish, chicken or meat.

You decide. For now I’ll leave you to contemplate this pearl of wisdom from Uncle Monty: 'I think the carrot infinitely more fascinating than the geranium. Thecarrot has mystery. Flowers are essentially tarts. Prostitutes for thebees. There is, you'll agree, a certain je ne sais quoi oh so veryspecial about a firm young carrot.'

Yes. Yes, indeed.

Zucca e funghi al forno
Roast pumpkin & mushroom

800g pumpkin
5 tablespoons olive oil
About 400g fresh porcini or field or swiss brown mushrooms, cut into chunks
2 garlic cloves, chopped
1 tablespoon finely chopped rosemary
About 3 tablespoons grated Parmesan

1. Preheat your oven to 180C. Peel the pumpkin, remove the seeds and cut the flesh into 5mm slices. You should have about 600g of pumpkin slices.
2. Drizzle some of the olive oil into your baking dish. Add the pumpkin slices, mushrooms, garlic and rosemary, and season with salt and black pepper, then drizzle over the rest of the olive oil. Turn well using your hands or a wooden spoon, then spread everything out more or less rustically.
3. Bake for 30 to 40 minutes, until the pumpkin is tender and golden in places, and the mushroom is crisp and golden here and there. Scatter with Parmesan and bake for another 5 or 10 minutes. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Spicy potato cakes

2010-08-16T07:12:00.000-07:00

There is a moment, just before I am about to tuck in to breakfast, when I experience something very close to enlightenment.

It’ll be the weekend. I will have taken a walk to a local deli and purchased some freshly baked bread (Cassis’ Provencal baguette — herbs, olives, tomato — is my current obsession) and perhaps a chocolate croissant. Back home I will then have put four eggs (two for me, two for the Guinea Pig) into a pot, just covered with water, and set it to boil on the stove. This is the equivalent of a stop-watch, because within this time I must carefully coordinated the toasting of bread, brewing of coffee and slicing of tomato to coincide precisely with the eggs reaching that alchemistic state of perfectly cooked (yolk runny, white firm).

In the final seconds, the plates are laden with toast soldiers, sliced tomato and expectant little egg cups; the coffee plunger is poised for action; the salt and pepper grinders are in their proper places; a magazine, newspaper or book is propped just so for ease of reading while eating; and finally, the cry which signals that the transcendental apex of Saturday morning bliss is about to be realised — ‘It’s reeeeadyyyy!’ — sees the whole production culminate in a moment, a glorious, single moment.

Me, sitting before my breakfast, teaspoon in hand, enveloped in smug contentment. I am content because I know exactly what the next hour holds for me: pure, unadulterated hedonism.

(Hedonism, to me, used to mean drugs, alcohol and late nights — now it's breakfast. How time flies.)

Know what I mean?

I once longed to be one of those people who are perfectly satisfied with a virtuous bowl of muesli and a dollop of low-fat yoghurt, but convulsive shuddering meant I could never quite get the spoon to my lips. I crave eggs, every day (I’ll let you know how that’s working out for me in 10 years time).

Now, if I were living in North India, I wouldn’t have any trouble getting used to these potato cakes for breakfast (which is how they’re served there, or so my Best Ever Indian Curry Recipes cookbook tells me). No eggs involved, but they are gorgeously savoury, stick to your ribs and still have that sort-of breakfast hash-brown thing going for them.

I had them for lunch. I was trying to replicate memorable starter I had at Masala Dosa — and I think I came fairly close (close enough!). The Bombay mix might seem an odd choice, but trust me, it works. These are ideal to make for a crowd as a starter or snack. Serve with chopped cucumber and tomato with yoghurt, and the sprinkles, and just watch people’s faces. It’s fun.

Spicy potato cakes
Makes about 16

450g potatoes, peeled, boiled, mashed and allowed to cool
1 tbsp white poppy seeds
1 tsp ground coriander
1 tsp cumin
2 tsp chilli
1 tsp mustard seeds
1 tsp turmeric
1 handful fresh coriander leaves, chopped, plus extra to garnish
2 cloves garlic
5 cm ginger, peeled and chopped
Sunflower or canola oil, as needed
1 tsp salt

1. Toast the spices until fragrant, then transfer to a mortar. Add the garlic, ginger and coriander and pestle the crap out of it until you have a thick, pasty mixture.
2. Combine the spices with the mashed potato and mix well. Using your hands, form into little patties, about the size of your palm.
3. Heat about a tablespoon of oil in a non-stick frying pan and fry the patties in batches until golden brown and gorgeous. Drain on paper towel.
4. Arrange on a dish, sprinkle with the salt and some coriander leaves, and serve with raita (I like a combo of chopped cucumber, red onion, tomato and yoghurt) and Bombay mix.

But before I go, I do have to tell you about the most divine little secret centre up the road from my house in Newlands — Montabello Design Centre. Well, it may not be much of a secret, but there's something about it that feels like a discovery, all tucked away just off Newlands Avenue.

It has an enchanting nursery, a forge, and various art and craft studios dotted all over the show. Best of all, there is wonderful café — Kwalapa — which is now one of my new favourite breakfast spots.

PS: Do please take a moment to nominate me for the 2010 SA Blog Awardsin the Best Food and Wine Blog category (click on the widget on the topright). You know, if you think I should win ... or if you just want to kill two minutes. I'd be much obliged.

Amazing avocado sauce

2010-08-03T09:21:00.000-07:00

This is a natty little sauce that is super-tasty and fool-proof/ lobotomy-friendly — I know you will fall in love with it. It was created one evening as I was concocting a makeshift salsa verde-cum-gremolata to go with some pan-fried rib-eye steak. I only had parsley, capers and anchovies, though, so I was going to make do with that, but then I spied half an avo at the back of the fridge, and (insert New Year's Eve fireworks and popping Champagne corks here) a star of a sauce was born.

It has all the punchy flavour of salsa verda, but the avo gives it a creamy, saucy quality that holds everything together beautifully... It also improves the texture. The trick is to chop everything up as finely as you can (you could use a food processor, but I think good ol' elbow grease and a sharp knife get a better texture).

Apart from being ridiculously easy to make, this sauce is amazingly versatile. You can take it in any direction you like by adding one or more of the following: chilli, garlic, lemon juice/zest, basil, and/or very finely diced red onion for a salsa-type effect.

Of course, it's only as good as the ingredients you use — I'm a fan of the bottled anchovies from Woolies, but tinned are even better; watery avo won't work for this, you want the creamy variety; capers... buy the best you can afford.

The sauce is unbelievable smeared over a seared, bloody fillet (particularly with some buttered ciabatta slices and this minty tomato salad with balsamic dressing), but it's also gorgeous on bruschetta as a starter, or tossed with al dente linguini and chopped tomato.

What do you think?

Is it as good for you as it is for me?

Amazing avocado sauce

2 large handfuls (about 60g) flatleaf parsley
6 anchovy fillets
1 cup capers, drained
1 medium/large avocado, mashed

Finely chop the flatleaf parsley, then the anchovy fillets, then the capers. Then chop everything together so it's well-combined. Add to the avocado, mix well and serve.

This makes enough to smear generously over four seared fillets, or mix in with enough pasta for four people (about 450g linguini).

PS: Do please take a moment to nominate me for the 2010 SA Blog Awards in the Best Food and Wine Blog category (click on the widget on the top right). You know, if you think I should win ... or if you've got nothing better to do. I'd be much obliged.

Chickpea and cauliflower salad with olive-anchovy dressing

2010-07-28T09:29:00.000-07:00

I invented this on the weekend. It's a bit of a weird salad, and I wasn't sure if I should post it. It's not often one sees cauliflower in a salad, and I think there's a good reason for that — if you cook it too long, it's going to be mushy, and you don't want anything mushy in a salad! (Except avocado, perhaps.)

In any case, this wasn't the most amazing salad I've ever had, but it wasn't bad. It wasn't bad at all. I think the combination of olives and cauliflower is highly underrated. And croutons are just great in any salad.

What do you think? Does this seem appetising, or a bit ... meh?

Don't hold back. I can handle the truth.

Chickpea and cauliflower salad with olive-anchovy dressing

1 head cauliflower, broken into florets
Half a loaf of ciabatta (sourdough/bread made with olive oil), crust removed and torn into chunks
Extra virgin olive oil, to taste
3 anchovy fillets
1 clove garlic
1 can chickpeas, drained and rinsed
1 cup black olives, drained and finely chopped
Juice and zest of 1 lemon
2 handfuls rocket

1. Lightly steam the cauliflower until just cooked (but still very firm), then plunge into icy water to prevent further cooking.
2. Arrange the bread chunks on a baking tray, drizzle with a little olive oil and season with salt and black pepper. Roast until golden.
3. In a pestle and mortar, mash the anchovy and garlic until you have a paste. Add the lemon juice, zest and a good glug olive oil, and whisk to create a dressing. Season to taste.
4. In a large bowl, combine the cauliflower, chickpeas, olives and dressing, and stir so everything's nicely coated.
5. Arrange the rocket on a platter and top with the cauliflower and chickpeas. Sprinkle with the croutons, drizzle over any remaining dressing and serve.

Radio Koek: Pesto Lentil Salad with Buffalo Mozzarella

2010-07-19T03:57:00.000-07:00

I must have had a childhood accident that rewired something in my head, and from then on my brain accidentally intercepted airwaves from music radio stations... I believe this because almost every morning I wake up with a different song in my head — a song so random and irrelevant to my life that this is the only explanation I can come up with. One morning it’ll be Rock the Casbah. The next, On the Street Where You Live from My Fair Lady. The next, a jingle I heard on The Simpsons years ago.

Life is a mystery.

I like Jack Handey’s take on mankind’s little idiosyncrasies: 'Maybe in order to understand mankind we have to look at that word itself. MANKIND. Basically, it's made up of two separate words: "mank" and "ind". What do these words mean? It's a mystery, and that is why so is mankind.'

The song running through my head today is Funky Cold Medina... actually now it’s Rock the Casbah because I just remembered it a minute ago when I was typing up this post. Damnation! If history repeats itself, if memory serves, this particular ditty stuck around in my head for about five days.

'What’s all this got to do with Pesto Lentil Salad with Buffalo Mozzarella?' you might be wondering. Well done. Excellent question. The link is subtle, but if you really think about it, it’s actually quite obvious.

This salad is very nice, by the way. It's gorgeous as an antipasti with some salami, as a side to chicken or fish, or on its own with some crusty bread. I don’t need a reason to eat buffalo mozzarella, but if I did, this salad would be it.

BM is just about one of the most gorgeous foods known to mankind (ahem). It’s got a clean, light taste that totally disassociates itself from the cow’s milk variety. It’s like the scent of fresh sweat on someone you’re really, really attracted to. Okay, so now I’ve probably put you off it for life, but I promise, it's worth trying — and you’ll see what I mean (in a good way).

God, it’s always a struggle not to end a post with the words 'Bon appetite!' You know, in a clichéd, ironic, post-modern Julia Child rip-off kind of way. Is it just me?

Pesto Lentil Salad with Buffalo Mozzarella
Serves 2

1 cup lentils
3 cups chicken or vegetable stock
1 large handful basil leaves
1 fat clove garlic
1 cup pine nuts, toasted
Juice of half a lemon
1 large tomato, roughly chopped
2 balls buffalo mozzarella
1 small red chilli, deseeded and finely chopped
Extra virgin olive oil

1. Toss the tomatoes in a little sea salt, and allow to sit for 10 minutes so that the salt can draw out some of the tomato juices. I find this doubles the flavour of the tomato (could it just be the salt?), but also, the tomato juices get mixed in with the dressing when it finally joins the rest of the salad, and this is a very, very good thing.
2. Simmer the lentils in the chicken stock until they are cooked, but still have a little bite. Drain and allow to cool a little.
3. In the meantime, chop the basil roughly, then bash it up in a pestle and mortar with the garlic and a third of the pine nuts, till it's nice and pasty. This isn’t proper pesto, but Parmesan doesn’t have a place in this dish (proper pesto usually includes Parmesan, as you well know).
4. In a mixing bowl, combine the warm (but not hot) lentils, tomato, pesto and chilli. Season to taste with sea salt and black pepper. Add the lemon juice, a good glug of olive oil (about 3 tbsp — okay, it’s more like 5, but I like to drown my salads in olive oil) and stir until the whole mixture is fragrant, glistening and evenly flecked with emerald.
5. Tear the mozzarella into chucks. (Resist the urge to pop a piece into your mouth just yet — it is nearly impossible to stop yourself devouring the whole lot before it’s even joined the salad. Or perhaps that’s just me... Better to err on the side of caution, don’t you think?)
6. Arrange the chunks on plates and spoon over the lentil salad. Top with a final drizzle of olive oil (you heard me) and serve.

The shareeeeef don’t like it... ROCK the casbah, ROCK the casbah...

Cardamom ice cream

2010-07-11T23:39:00.000-07:00

Dearhearts, this is going to be a short post. When visiting my parents in Calitzdorp recently, my father brought out a tub of this homemade ice cream after dinner. You just have to try it to believe it.

Amen.

Cardamom ice cream
For 6

500ml milk
1 tbsp cardamom seeds (about 2/3 cup cardamom pods), ground in a pestle and mortar
8 egg yolks
125g caster sugar
250ml double cream

1. Bring the milk to the boil in a pan and add the cardamom.
2. Beat the egg yolks and sugar in a bowl until foamy, then gradually pour in the milk, stirring constantly.
3. Pour the mixture into a bowl set over a pan of simmering water, and cook, stirring, until it begins to thicken.
4. Add the double cream, mix well, then transfer to an ice-cream maker and freeze. If you do not have an ice-cream maker, pour the mixture into a shallow bowl and place in the freezer for about one hour, until it is beginning to solidify around the edges. Whisk it well with a fork, then return to the freezer. Repeat this process three times and then freeze until firm.
5. Serve with fresh mint, if you like.

Chickpea soup forever

2010-07-04T02:58:00.000-07:00

I think I’ve met The One. The one that might even replace the River Café’s ribollita as my hands-down favourite soup recipe. And that’s saying a lot, because what I feel for ribollita is almost Biblical.

I’ve always had a crush on chickpeas. What is it about them that’s just so damned good? They’re not sophisticated or posh — in fact they conjure images in my mind of hardship and rural life (though probably not very accurate ones).

There’s something so romantically rustic about these plain beige grains. There’s no mistaking their honest, earthy flavour, and I have explored many, many chickpea recipes.

I like hummus, but I don’t love it. And while I had a brief, torrid affair with Orangette’s chickpea salad with lemon and Parmesan, and a fairly serious fling with Jamie Oliver’s summer chickpea salad, I have fallen irrevocably, head-over-heals in love with this gorgeous, chunky soup.

It’s easy enough to make, but the flavour is unbelievable — there’s the somewhat bland but reassuring flavour of chickpeas, but also a deeply savoury element which hits that umami button, and then hits it again. It’s not an elaborate or upmarket recipe (Italian peasant food at its best, in my opinion), but it will make your taste buds scream ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ ... and then ‘More’. The culinary equivalent of the headboard knocking against the wall. Ahem.

You don’t actually need to add the sausage — it imparts an extra something that only fried pork can impart — but the soup is plenty tasty without it. You could grate a little Parmesan on top instead if you like. Don’t skip the drizzle of olive oil at the end, though (so long as its virginity is intact). Trust me. Serve it with buttered slices of fresh crusty bread (I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I like to serve just about everything with buttered slices of fresh crusty bread) and a good red wine.

Do I take this recipe to be my dinner, to slurp and to scoff, until I’m so stuffed and giddy I can’t remember my own name?

I do.

Chickpea soup
Serves 4 (very hungry people)

2 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
1 small onion, finely chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 stick celery, chopped
1 carrot, chopped
1 sprig rosemary, finely chopped
1 litre chicken stock (or water)
3 x 400g cans chickpeas
200g small pasta, such as ditalini or conchigliette
2 tbsp tomato paste
1 small red chilli, seeds removed and finely chopped
150g spinach, roughly chopped
4 pork sausages

1. Heat the olive oil in a heavy-bottomed pot and add the onion, garlic, celery, carrot and rosemary. Cook on a very low heat until the vegetables are soft and the onion translucent, about 15 to 20 minutes (you want them to take as long as possible to go soft, without letting them brown — this is the secret to bringing out their flavour).
2. Add half the stock (500ml) to the pot, as well as half the chickpeas and all of the pasta. Allow to simmer until the pasta is cooked.
3. In the meantime, warm the remaining stock and chickpeas together in a separate pot, then liquidise using a handheld blender. Pour this into the main pot, as well as the tomato paste and chilli, and stir to combine.
4. Add the spinach and allow to simmer for 20 to 30 minutes.
5. While the soup is simmering, squeeze out the pork sausage filling into a non-stick frying pan and fry until nicely browned. Break up the pork mince into chunks (consistency doesn’t really matter; I like to have a combination of chunks and lots of little golden pork crumbs).
6. If the soup is too thick, add a little water or stock until it reaches a desirable consistency — you don’t want it to be watery, but you don’t want it to be stodgy, either. Season to taste.
7. Ladle the soup into bowls, drizzle with a little extra virgin olive oil, top with the pork and serve.

Spinach and ricotta gnudi with tomato-butter sauce

2010-06-27T23:31:00.000-07:00

Gnudi is basically ravioli without its knickers on. It means ‘nude’ in Italian, and refers to the ravioli filling without the pasta — you could also think of it as ricotta gnocchi.

Spinach gnudi and buttery tomato sauce had always been favourites of mine, but I only thought to combine them a few months ago. I wish it hadn’t taken me that long, because this is one sexy dish: silky, cloud-like ricotta pillows flecked with spinach, smothered in a velvety sauce.

The butter gives a subtle richness, and I find cooking the onion halves in the sauce and then removing them adds a savoury sweetness without imparting a detectable onion flavour (I eat the cooked onions on their own with a little salt, but if you’re normal you should probably just throw them in the bin, or your compost heap).

I enjoy this dish with just a few slices of crusty bread on the side, but you can serve it as a starter on its own, or over some cooked penne as a main.

Spinach gnudi with tomato-butter sauce
Serves 2 as a main, or 4 as a starter

For the tomato-butter sauce:
1 small onion, halved
1 clove garlic, crushed
1 tsp olive oil
1 x 400g can chopped tomatoes
100g butter

For the gnudi:
1 cup flour
60g spinach
1 egg
300g ricotta
½ cup freshly grated Parmesan

1. In a small saucepan, gently fry the onion halves and garlic in the olive oil until the garlic is fragrant (don’t let it brown).
2. Add the tomatoes and simmer, covered, for about an hour.
3. In the mean time, make the gnudi: In a saucepan, fry the spinach until just-wilted and allow to cool. Squeeze out any excess moisture and chop finely.
4. In a mixing bowl, combine the flour, spinach, egg, ricotta and Parmesan. Mix vigorously until well combined.
5. Dollop a spoonful of the mixture onto a floured surface and, using your (also floured) hands, roll into a cylindrical shape about an inch in diameter. Cut into 2cm or 3cm pieces and set aside. Repeat with the rest of the mixture.
6. Bring a large pot of salted water to the boil, and plop in about a third of the gnudi (you don’t want them to be too crowded or they may stick together – also, too may will bring down the temperature of the water). Let them cook for an extra minute after they’ve risen to the surface (about 3-4 minutes in total), then remove with a slotted spoon, set aside and keep warm. Drizzle with a little olive oil to prevent them sticking together. Repeat with the remaining gnudi.
7. While the last batch of gnudi is cooking, remove the onions from the tomato sauce and add the butter, stirring until it is incorporated.
8. Divide the gnudi between bowls and spoon over the tomato-butter sauce. Top generously with freshly grated Parmesan and serve.

Cauliflower with yoghurt, for Dan

2010-06-22T02:12:00.000-07:00

I love Dr Phil.

There, I said it.

I don't necessarily agree with everything he says (a lot of what he says, actually), but every now and then he comes out with a corker of a one-liner. My most recent favourite is: 'You can't cure life; you can only manage it.'

My grandmother died on Wednesday, at the age of 91.

It was very peaceful — my mother was with her, holding her hand when she drew her last breath. I am going to miss her terribly.

Her name was Dora Olive Rosalind Alexandra Cullen (you’ll notice her first four names form an acronym for ‘Dora’, but her father — apparently in a fit of patriotism — actually named her after the Defence of the Realm Act of 1914). My brother and I called her Dan. As kids, we tried to pronounce ‘Gran’, but only managed ‘Dan’, and the name stuck. We called my grandfather Hiya — this was my brother’s doing, as my grandfather had a habit of greeting him with a loud ‘Hi ya!?’

Odd but true.

Hiya died just over a year ago, on 7 June 2009. I was upset at the time, but I didn't realise that I hadn’t really mourned his passing until Dan died. They were a package, you see — one just didn’t make sense without the other. And while Dan was alive, it felt like Hiya was, in a way, too.

To know them was to know a great romance. After 64 years of marriage, they were still like teenagers — they really had the hots for each other, right up to the end.

And they were wonderful grandparents: My early memories include Hiya letting me have sips of his beer, taking me on birding trips, telling me the story of the London Werewolf as many times as I’d hear it; Dan dispensing chocolate biscuits, letting me play dress-up with her not-inconsiderable stash of jewellery, and telling me about her life during the War; plus countless hugs, smiles, laughs and love.

This is just off the top of my head. There is more — much more, of course — but this is a food blog, and I don’t want to get carried away (‘Too late!’ they cried).

My gran was a competent cook, but her repertoire was largely from the post-War, meat-and-three-veg era. A pescetarian, she loved fish but would often cook meat for Hiya, though she most enjoyed nibbling on a chunk of good cheese or dark chocolate with a glass (or two) of wine.

This cauliflower with yoghurt recipe is something I think she would have liked. I got the recipe out of the Angela Day cook book she gave my mother when she got married (as you can see, my 2-year-old self decided to use the page as a drawing pad). It’s a bit like cauliflower cheese, except you add yoghurt instead of cheese. I’d never heard of adding yoghurt to béchamel before, and I was a little sceptical, but it works. The sauce doesn’t have an obviously yoghurty taste, but rather a fresh, light flavour that works beautifully with this particular vegetable. I think the bacon is optional, though, and I might even add a little Parmesan next time I make it. And there will be a next time, because it's friggin' delicious.

Cauliflower with yoghurt

1 medium sized cauliflower
3 tbsp butter
3 tbsp flour
1 cup milk
1 egg yolk
2 teaspoons prepared French mustard
½ cup plain yoghurt
6 slices cooked and diced streaky bacon
Paprika

1. Break the cauliflower into flowerettes and cook in boiling salted water for 15 minutes. Drain and put into a warm ovenproof dish.
2. Makes a sauce by melting the butter, stirring in the flour to form a dry roux, and finally adding the milk.
3. When thick, remove from the heat and stir in the egg yolk, mustard and yoghurt.
4. Add the chopped bacon. Pour over the cauliflower, sprinkle with breadcrumbs and paprika, and brown under the grill.

Leek bread pudding

2010-06-14T00:45:00.000-07:00

Winter is not the best time to go on a diet. Although, as far as I’m concerned, there is no best time to go on a diet. It’s not that I disagree with the basic principals of dieting, per se — the concept of sticking to a particular combination of foods in order to lose weight — it’s just that the concept is so far outside my understanding that, in my head, it’s filed under the same category as ‘Islam sex shop’ and ‘silly string’ — i.e. utterly perplexing.

I don’t think people who diet are weird or silly — quite the opposite. I’m in awe of anyone who can exert even the smallest iota of willpower when it comes to food. That’s the part I can’t relate to. My resolve turns to (smooth, buttery) mashed potato whenever I encounter, er, temptation.

Fortunately I don’t have much of a sweet tooth (you’ll probably never find any dessert recipes in this blog), and I adore greens, fruit and the like. But I don’t go easy on the butter. I’m at my most depraved when in the grips of a butter binge.

Butter on toast. On veg. In Pastry. Things fried in butter. Roux. Pasta with butter (don’t knock it till you’ve tried it). Bread and butter pudding — but not the sweet kind.

In fact, this leek bread pudding has hardly any butter in it, but don’t let that put you off (assuming you’re an addict like me). It’s creamy, saucy and cheesy — perfect comfort food on a chilly evening. It goes well with grilled fish and chicken, or add some fried bacon or prosciutto for a main in itself and serve with a salad.

A word of warning, though: forget about the diet.

Leek bread pudding (from Epicurious)
Serves 12 as a side dish, 6 to 8 as a main course

2 cups 1/2-inch-thick slices leeks (white and light green parts only)
Kosher salt
4 tablespoons unsalted butter
Freshly ground black pepper
12 cups 1-inch cubes crustless Brioche or Pullman sandwich loaf (I just used whole slices of sourdough)
1 tablespoon finely chopped chives
1 teaspoon thyme leaves (used parsley)
3 large eggs
3 cups whole milk
3 cups heavy cream
Freshly grated nutmeg
1 cup shredded Comté or Emmentaler (I used cheddar and Parmesan)

1. Preheat the oven to 180 C. Put the leek rounds in a large bowl of tepid water and swish so thatany dirt falls to the bottom of the bowl. Set a medium sauté pan overmedium-high heat, lift the leeks from the water, drain, and add them tothe pan. Season with salt and cook, stirring often, for about 5minutes.

2. As the leeks begin to soften, lower the heat to medium-low.The leeks will release liquid. Stir in the butter to emulsify, andseason with pepper to taste. Cover the pan with a parchment lid, andcook, stirring every 10 minutes, until the leeks are very soft, 30 to35 minutes. If at any point the butter breaks or looks oily, stir inabout a tablespoon of water to re-emulsify the sauce. Remove anddiscard the parchment lid.

3. Meanwhile, spread the bread cubes on a baking sheet and toast in theoven for about 20 minutes, rotating the pan about halfway through,until dry and pale gold. Transfer to a large bowl. Leave the oven on.

4. Add the leeks to the bread and toss well, then add the chives and thyme.

5. Lightly whisk the eggs in another large bowl. Whisk in the milk, cream,a generous pinch of salt, pepper to taste, and a pinch of nutmeg.

6. Sprinkle 1/4 cup of the cheese in the bottom of a 9-by-13-inch bakingpan. Spread half the leeks and croutons in the pan and sprinkle withanother 1/4 cup cheese. Scatter the remaining leeks and croutons overand top with another 1/4 cup cheese. Pour in enough of the custardmixture to cover the bread and press gently on the bread so it soaks inthe milk. Let soak for about 15 minutes.

7. Add the remaining custard, allowing some of the soaked cubes of breadto protrude. Sprinkle the remaining 1/4 cup cheese on top and sprinklewith salt.

8. Bake for 1 1/2 hours, or until the pudding feels set and the top is brown and bubbling.

PS: Check out my guest blog post on The Moomie Blog: Chickpeas and spinach with poached egg.

PPS: A Knead store has opened in Newlands, a few blocks from where I live, in Dean Street. I am excited about this in a way that makes sweat break out on the Guinea Pig's brow...

PPPS: Have any of you seen the new Fair Lady How to Cook magazine? What do you think?

Pappa al pomodoro (I wish someone had told me about this sooner...)

2010-06-06T23:15:00.000-07:00

I've always hated tomato soup. The ‘cream of tomato’ sort, that is. Actually, I hate any kind of homogeneous soup — butternut in particular. Just the thought of it makes me want to gag. I realise I’m in the vast, vast minority here — most people adore butternut soup — but I’ve always thought of it as a bland, partially digested kind of baby food. Same with cream of tomato, potato and, well, any soup that has seen the inside of a liquidiser. I like soup with personality. With texture. Give me a rough and ready ribollita over the insipid Purity variety any day.

That’s why I put off trying this glorious Italian dish for so long. Whenever I saw a picture of pappa al pomodoro (bread and tomato soup), along with the recipe, I imagined the end result being something that stuck in the throat; stodgy and pasty — more like soggy marshmallow than soup. I wish someone had set me straight. I wish someone had told me the texture is more silky than stodgy; gorgeously textured, rather than pasty; and with a fresh, full flavour that’s difficult to describe. You have to try it for yourself.

I’ve experimented with three pappa al pomodoro recipes — one from The River Café Cook Book and one from Jamie’s Italy — but the one I’m sharing with you now is, in my far-from-humble opinion, the best. Whereas Jamie, Rose and Ruth have stuck to the basic formula of tomatoes, bread, basil, garlic and olive oil, the recipe below includes leeks as well as stock, which add an extra dimension of flavour without detracting from the essential nature of the dish.

The recipe is from Beaneaters & Bread Soup: Portraits and Recipes from Tuscany. The authors, a husband (photos) and wife (words) ‘tell the story of Tuscan cooking through 25 visual and written portraits of some of Tuscany’s most extraordinary gastronomic and food-related artisans’. This book will make you sick with longing for the way of life they are trying to preserve in its pages.

This version of pappa al pomodoro was supplied by Gianluca Paoli, chef and proprietor of Coco Lezzone in Florence. This is a recipe by a respected Italian chef, who lives and works in Florence, so it’s little wonder it is superior to the other versions I tried (by non-natives).

I didn’t use home-made stock (I have — oh the shame! — grown accustomed to the convenience of Nomu’s range of concentrated liquid stock), but imagine home-made would bump up the flavour to a whole new level. But don’t put off making this dish if you only have powdered stock at home — the recipe will still work. Of course, you want to use good-quality crusty bread made with olive oil, not the cheap and nasty square 'government' loaves. That is essential.

Delicious, cheap and easy to prepare. I really don’t know what more you could ask of a soup.

Pappa al pomodoro
Serves 6 to 8

250ml olive oil
3 garlic cloves, crushed
3 leeks, finely chopped
1 litre meat stock (made with beef and chicken)
2 litres puréed canned Italian tomatoes
500g day-old country bread (preferably unsalted), thickly sliced
Generous handful basil leaves, torn
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
Extra virgin olive oil to drizzle

1. Warm the olive oil and garlic in a medium cooking pot. When the garlic has coloured slightly, add the leeks. Saute over a low heat for 20 minutes, adding water as necessary to keep the vegetables from turning brown.
2. Stir in the stock and puréed tomatoes and bring to the boil, then reduce the heat and simmer gently for 20 minutes.
3. Turn off the heat and add the bread, pushing it into the liquid with a wooden spoon.
Stir in the torn basil leaves and season to taste with salt and pepper. Leave to rest for 30 minutes.
4. Now whisk the soup energetically until it has a porridge-like consistency. Taste and adjust the seasoning.
5. Ladle into bowls, drizzle with extra virgin olive oil and serve.

We had this soup for lunch, then reheated the leftovers for dinner and added chopped spinach and browned pork mince, and it was just delicious all over again.

Post script: I saw these gorgeous little Le Creuset mini cocottes over the weekend, and just had to take a picture. They are too adorable. I was informed by the shop assistant that they were only R500 for three. (Ahem.)

On the same occasion I encountered one of the Parlotones’ new wines. I couldn’t believe what they’d decided to call it — am I missing something? ‘Push Me to the Floor’ doesn’t exactly have the most desirabe connotations. What were they thinking? I understand it's probably the name of one of their songs, and I admit I didn’t read the label on the back, where there might have been a perfectly reasonable explanation for the title, but still... It doesn’t make the best first impression. Just saying.

Post, post script: check out my guest blog post on Chow and Chatter (love this blog): Chicken poached in rooibos with balsamic raisin relish

From the recipe graveyard, behold: Anchovy and walnut sauce

2010-05-24T23:29:00.000-07:00

Quick, who's your favourite chef?

Not such an easy question to answer, is it?

My immediate response would usually be Jamie Oliver. Mostly, I think, because when I first started to get excited about cooking, it was his cooking. But time has passed and my cookbook collection has expanded (modestly), and I've made room in my heart for a few others...

The River Café. Sophia Loren. Giorgio Locatelli. (Hm, I'm sensing a bit of a theme here...) Julia Child. Skye Gyngell. What's more, the way a cookbook is written has begun to appeal to me more than the pretty pictures.

Sometimes I just sit and look at the spines, wondering if I'll ever get around to cooking even a quarter of the dishes between those covers.

I also have a scrap book packed with recipes printed out from various blogs and websites over the years. (You too? I think we print-out kleptos should form a support group.) I've begun to refer to it affectionately as the 'recipe graveyard'. Most of the pages are loose, jammed in there haphazardly with the thought (more of a prayer, really) that one day I will actually sit down, order them and stick their asses down.

But yesterday was not that day.

In fact, I'm wretchedly grateful I hadn't got round to sorting that hellish mess of paper print-outs, because then I probably wouldn't have discovered this recipe for another five or ten... okay, fine: probably never.

I was reaching for another book entirely when the recipe graveyard went tumbling to the floor. Miraculously, only one piece of paper escaped, and on it was the recipe you see below.

Anchovy and walnut sauce. Let's just think about that... Anchovy. And Walnut. Sauce. I'm not particlarly religious, but in that moment I felt I was being called upon by a higher power to create something divine.

And now I'm going to spread the word.

Anchovy and walnut sauce by Skye Gyngell
Makes enough for 6

This sauce is best made on the day it is to be eaten.

2 good-quality anchovies
1 clove of garlic, peeled and finely chopped
1 small bunch of flat-leaf parsley
A handful of shelled walnuts, finely chopped
100ml/31/2fl oz extra-virgin olive oil

Pound all the ingredients except the oil in a pestle and mortar until smooth, then pour in the oil and stir well to combine. Spoon over any lightly cooked green vegetable, such as broccoli, spinach or chard.

[I spooned the sauce over lightly steamed broccoli and zucchini, but I can’t wait to try it on fish, crusty bread and even chicken.]

Pssst, by the way, I've created a recipe index, which you may have noticed, on the right, beneath my prattle about myself. I hope it'll make our lives easier.

Breaking the rules (and Jamie Oliver's summer chickpea salad)

2010-05-18T08:27:00.000-07:00

Sometimes you need to break your own rules in order to remind yourself why you have them in the first place...

There are a few that I will never, ever breach. For example, rule no. 7: Don't squash simmering whole cherry tomatoes with the back of a spoon — unless you enjoy a visit to your local ICU. But, sometimes, in my enthusiasm, I just forget.

And so recently I found myself trying out a recipe for a dinner party that — what you are about to hear is a true story ladies and gentlemen — I had never tried before. It's just one of those rules I have, because it simply N.E.V.E.R fails to end in disaster.

On this particular occasion, friends had invited me and the Guinea Pig over for dinner. Takeout pizza, in fact, at their place, because they are new parents and were just too worn out to bother with the cooking and cleaning that goes with a dinner party.

But I wouldn't hear of it. No, no, I absolutely insisted on coming over and cooking dinner for them — and if they raised so much as one word of protest, I would consider it a personal affront.

So that was that. Now... what was I going to cook? Then it hit me: of course. I'll make a dish I've only ever looked at in recipes books and thought, 'That seems easy enough...'.

When I arrived at said friends' house and began to extrude the ingredients for grilled sole with leeks and potato gratin from the shopping bags, I got an inkling that I hadn't quite thought this through. For starters, I don't know how their oven works — I'm used to my oven, treacherous, schizophrenic time bomb that it is — and my tools and my pots and pans.

It was a disaster. The potato slices did not cook through, even though I added an hour to the cooking time (during which the top charred to the appealing consistency of tar), and the sole and leeks melted into watery, tasteless mush

My friends, of course, were unfailingly polite, which made the whole ordeal much, much worse.

'Under-cooked?' one of them said, pushing a piece of glassy, too-solid potato around her plate. 'Not at all! This is the way we normally eat, uh... What did you say this was called?'

'Look, I'm sorry,' I said, 'this really isn't one of my best meals... Pizza would've been a much better idea!'

'Nonsense!' they cooed. 'We love it!'

But, of course, at the end of the evening, a plate of cold food that's only been nibbled at never lies.

'Who could possibly screw up a gratin?' you might be thinking — I know, I know, it's up there with botching 2-minute noodles.

That is why we all have our little rules (which need to be broken now and then, so we are reminded why we have them in the first place).

The following is a dish I should have made that evening. It's quick, fool-proof and just delicious, winter or summer. God bless Jamie. I added two chopped celery stalks because I like the crunch...

Jamie Oliver's summer chickpea salad
Serves 4

1 small red onion, peeled
1–2 fresh red chillies, deseeded
2 handfuls of ripe red or yellow tomatoes
2 lemons
extra virgin olive oil
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 x 410g jar or tin of chickpeas, drained, or around 4 large handfuls of soaked and cooked chickpeas
a handful of fresh mint, chopped
a handful of fresh green or purple basil, finely ripped
200g feta cheese

First of all, finely slice your red onion. Once that's done, finely slice your chillies then roughly chop your tomatoes, mixing them in with the onion and chillies. Scrape all of this, and the juice, into a bowl and dress with the juice of 1½ lemons and about 3 times as much good extra virgin olive oil. Season to taste. Heat the chickpeas in a pan, then add 90 per cent of them to the bowl. Mush up the remaining chickpeas and add these as well – they will give a nice creamy consistency. Allow to marinate for a little while and serve at room temperature.

Just as you're ready to serve, give the salad a final dress with the fresh mint and basil. Taste one last time for seasoning – you may want to add the juice from your remaining lemon half at this point. Place on a nice serving dish and crumble over the feta cheese.

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Early memories, evening events and porcini risotto...

2010-05-13T00:10:00.000-07:00

This blog post is eventually going to end with some copy relevant to porcini risotto and a simple little radicchio salad, but first let's take our clothes off and streak naked across the inner fields of our youth...

(In our heads. Please don’t really take your clothes off.

Oh alright, if you must.)

This morning, as I drove to work, I found myself clicking into that unconscious revery that only happens when you’re doing something you’ve done a hundred times before; something that requires only cursory attention (perhaps it’s a South African thing that might account for our high road accident rate — or perhaps my high road accident rate).

A train of thought (now forgotten) led me back to a small litchi farm just outside Nelspruit, circa 1985. I must have been 4 or 5. I remembered the grand old farm house we lived in around that time, girdled by the kind of extravagant viranda you hardly ever see outside of decor magazines these days. I remembered the many delights (a ready supply of ripe litchis, endless hiding places, highveld thunderstorms), terrors (snakes, spiders, BOP TV) and comforts (crickets at dusk...), but my memories of that time centre not so much on any of these, as on Mavis, who used to help my mom out with household chores.

And when I say help out, I mean inflict rampant destruction.

Once, she washed the toaster in the sink. With dishwashing liquid. Another time, she tried to defrost the fridge freezer with a chizel and hammer (resulting in a burst pipe)... I only learnt of these (among many) incidents later, when I was older, but I didn’t find it hard to believe that my mother couldn’t bring herself to send Mavis packing because she was just so, well, likable. (Plus, I think she actually lived on the farm, and was married to the gardener, so that might have had something to do with it.)

This fabulously large and jolly woman always (and I mean without exception) had a never-ending supply of Cadburies toffees in her pockets — you know, the ones with the chocolate centre — which she dispenced to my brother and I with flagrant disregard for our dental health. She taught us how to suck the nectar from honeysuckle blossoms, and which wild berries we could eat straight off the trees...

Later, in my early to late teens, I was exposed to various colourful (green noodles) and adventurous (black pudding) dishes through my parents’ passing infatuations with various cuisines, and I’m so grateful I was. Whenever I went to stay at a friend’s house, I was kind of perplexed by the bland, overcooked or plastic food they ate: tinned peas (ack!), Smash (people actually choose to eat this after they’ve left boarding school?), overcooked steaks (read: old boot), soggy cabbage (disturbingly redolent of men’s lavatory).

I guess I was one of the lucky ones.

What early food memories stand out for you?

On a completely unrelated matter, I feel I must share with you this rather fabulous one-man show I went to see two evenings ago. If you’re in Cape Town over the next week or two, do yourself a favour and check out Rumpsteak — especially if you love food, French food in particular (and let’s be serious — who doesn’t?). Actor Gaetan Schmid plays all the characters in an imaginary upmarket French restaurant: the slutty waitress; the snobbish maître d’; the camp pastry chef; the savage butcher; the ecstatic sauce-master; and a few others. The sound effects are brilliant, and the Gaetan himself is hilarious.

AA Gill has this to say about French food: ‘At its best, it’s like being massaged by a troupe of can-can dancers smeared in duck fat.’ While this observation might not quite prepare you for Gaetan’s particular brand of physical comedy, it certainly sets the mood.

Rumpsteak is on at the Intimate Theatre until 29 May (click here for details). (Plus you get a 15% discount on your meal at Society Bistro across the road if you present your ticket, so that’s nice.)

Just for fun I asked Gaetan to answer a few questions for our edification:

1. What is your earliest food memory?
Gaetan: A summer holiday with my mum, my dad and my brother when I was about 6 or 7.
We had chargrilled mielie on the beach … in St Tropez. Just thinking about it, I smile of contentment.
Probably that’s why I love going to the restaurant with my son Matteo.
And to look at his face when he tries something new... He gives me the thumbs up while chewing and his eyes not leaving his plate.

2. What is your favourite dish to cook and eat?
Gaetan: To eat: Steak Tartare. Or like we call it in Belgium: Américain Préparé. 'Prepared American'. Don’t ask me why. Whenever I go back to Belgium to see my parents, there is a lot of raw minced beef waiting for me in the fridge. For the first three days I eat it morning, midday and evening and my wife Lara winces.
To cook: Pollastra Catalan. Catalan Chicken. Lots of stuff to chop, fry and let simmer for a long time in a big round earthenware pot. And let magic happen. From when I was a penniless theatre student in Paris.
Whenever my Catalan buddy made a bit of money, he spent it in the food market to cook Pollastra Catalan with his Belgian buddy: me. Another smile on my face.

3. What inspired Rumpsteak?
Gaetan: During the Edinburgh theatre festival we had hectolitres of red wine late at night in an Italian restaurant. I sat next to the open plan kitchen. It was a high testosterone experience. Much more stimulating and inspiring than all the theatre I saw during the day.

4. Have you tried any traditionally South African food? What did you think of it?
Gaetan: I had a 'Smiley' (sheep's head) late at night in Langa [township]. Lots of heads to choose from in a big barrel full of boiling water... A bit like a witches brew. The 'chef' had a big laugh when he saw the two 'whiteys' arriving at his 'restaurant'. Mandla, my friend and host, offered us the best part: the eyes. A real delicacy. Tasted like bone marrow.
Luckily we had a lot of brandy before in the shebeen next door. When I couldn’t sink the balls anymore, Mandla said I was ready for a 'smiley'. He was smiling too, the bastard.

5. Sweet or savoury?
Gaetan: Savoury, definitely. I fell in the sweet cauldron when I was a child. Like Obelix.

6. Which food/s do you absolutely detest?
Gaetan: Raw green peppers. Meringue. And badly prepared 'andouillette'. I’ll let you Google that one to understand (and vomit).

7. Have you been to any good restaurants in Cape Town? Which was your favourite?
Gaetan: Societe Bistro for the great atmosphere and the only place in South Africa where I had a sexy black pudding canapé.
Den Anker (a Belgian restaurant at the V&A Waterfront) when I miss home, where I eat Duvel and Toast Cannibale (Américain Préparé on toast. Don’t ask). Willoughby for the oyster shooter — it beats a Bloody Mary when you have a hangover.

And now we come to the copy relevant to porcini risotto and a simple little radicchio salad. (Do I need more continuity in my bog posts? I’m beginning to wonder...)

Last night was a typical winter’s evening in the Mother City: thrashing wind and sheets of rain... And once I fixated on the idea of risotto, I was not going to settle for anything else. I know porcini risotto is about as original as a Hallmark card (yes, your first impression was correct: that doesn’t really make sense), but hear me out: I’ve had a rather fraught relationship with risotto.

The first one I made was a lemon risotto, on my own at home getting sloshed while watching Sideways for the third time (don’t delay, watch it today, one of my all-time top 10) — it was an epiphany. But since then it’s always gone a little awry: too stodgy; not properly cooked; chalky; bland... I’m not going to give you a recipe for porcini risotto (there are, like, a billion on the Net), but I will point you in the direction of an article in the Guardian that helped clarify a few things. For instance, I had not heard of carnaroli rice — it’s 100 times better than arborio in my books. Cooks quicker and more evenly. Also, beating the crap out of the risotto at the end when you add the butter and Parmesan helps to give it that lovely glossy texture.

I served it with a radicchio salad (dressed in crumbled Cremazola, red wine vinegar, olive oil and a little wholegrain mustard) and bruschetta – it was a perfect, perfect vegetarian meal.

Ode to autumn: Cauliflower fritters

2010-05-05T00:15:00.000-07:00

There's something about the light in autumn... It's less harsh than high summer light, which has a seering, bleaching quality. Autmun light is softer, more illuminating. It makes everything somehow sad and beautiful.

(I'm a poet trapped inside a writer's body — I don't care what my first-year lecturer said.)

And so it was that on the glorious autumn afternoon of this Saturday past, I decided to make these cauliflower fritters. I'd just received my copy of Taste in the post and came apon Bill Granger's recipe therein.

There's something so essentially autumnal about this dish — I'm not sure if it's the colour, or the comforting, mildly spicy taste, but it's just so appropriate for this time of year. Served with garlicky yoghurt, thin slivers of crunchy red onion, a sprinkling of Maldon sea salt and a squeeze of lime juice... Gosh, I'm salivating as I type. Do try it — it's easy as pie and, if you're a veggie lover like me, dangerously addictive.

Cauliflower fritters
Serves 4

1 couliflower (about 600g), cut into florets
3 free range eggs, separated
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
3/4 cup cornflower
1/2 cup water
1 onion, finely chopped
1 tsp ground cumin
1 tsp smoked paprika
2 tbsp chopped fresh coriander
olive oil, for frying
red onion, finely sliced, for serving

For the garlic-yoghurt sauce, combine:
1/2 cup thick plain yoghurt
2 cloves garlic, finely chopped
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

1. Blanch the cauliflower florets in salted boiling water for 3 minutes, or until tender. Refresh under cold water, then roughly chop. Whisk the egg yolks and season to taste.
2. Add the cornflower, a little at a time, alternating with a little water, and whisk continually until the cornflower and water have been incorporated. Stir through the onion, cauliflower, spices and coriander, and set aside.
3. In another bowl, whisk the egg whites until soft peaks form. Fold the egg whites through the batter mixture, in two batches, using a metal spoon.
4. Heat the oil in a frying pan over a medium heat. Drop 2 tbsp of batter at a time into the pan, being careful not to overcrowd the pan. Cook for 1 to 2 minutes on each side, or until golden brown and crisp. Remove and drain on paper towel.
5. To serve: Arrange the fritters on a platter. Drizzle with garlicky yoghurt, season to taste and serve with red onion slices.

Walnut, blue cheese and pear salad

2010-04-28T02:34:00.000-07:00

The Guinea Pig and I were lying in a log cabin in the Tsitsikamma National Park a few days ago, listening to the waves crash not five metres away. It was 2:04am on Day 6 of our East Coast camping trip (well, we weren’t technically camping any more because it started pouring with rain the previous morning) and we were having a bit of a crisis. We’d just discovered we don’t like camping. We never knew that about ourselves.

In the dark, our thoughts turned to our lives at large, and ourselves at close: Who are we? We don’t own property, we don’t have kids, or a pet, or even a small sedimentary rock collection. Are we figments of someone else’s imagination? Do we actually exist? What have we got to show for our lives!?

The logical cure for this particular type of existential hysteria, as you well know, is a box of Zoo Biscuits. Remember those? I saw them at a roadside store and couldn’t resist — they spoke too earnestly of my childhood, of a time when any conceivable affliction could be immediately alleviated (nay, vanquished!) through the process of deciding which colour, or animal, to eat first.

Our conversation that night turned to the holidays of our childhoods, and the typically South African treats we used to get. Liquorice Allsorts: my parents would dispense these to my brother and I on long road trips — and we would always fight over the ones that offered the highest icing-to-liquorice ratio.

Melrose cheese wedges were also (and still are) obligatory middle class road food — 5% cheese, 95% processed ingredients with mysterious names like ‘milk solids’. Biltong is another classic — something I only ever eat when I’m on holiday for some reason.

We did, on our East Coast odyssey, eat at two gorgeous restaurants. If you’re ever in Knysna, make an effort to lunch at Isle de Pain on Thesen Island, where I had the most exquisite fig and blue cheese tart: leeks and ripe mission figs roasted on a feather-light bed of pastry, dotted with creamy Gorgonzola and blueberries, and finally drizzled with a balsamic dressing. Oh, and their sourdough ciabatta is devastating.

In Plettenberg Bay, we ate at The Grand Café & Rooms. This is the predecessor to the Camps Bay and Granger Bay restaurants of the same name, and I think it has an old-world charm the others lack — probably because it’s favoured by Plett’s ‘mink and manure’ set. If you do go, book a table on the terrace, which offers a sweeping view over the bay, and I can highly recommend the lamb curry.

I wonder if Julia Child ever made a lamb curry? (Ha — how do you like that for a subtle segue?) Yesterday I received my long-awaited copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Yes *sigh* I only heard about Julia Child for the first time when the movie came out. This fact, I think, foists me firmly into the ‘amateur (perhaps even fraudulent) cook’ category.

So far I’ve enjoyed reading it, but I found the idea of actually cooking one of the recipes rather daunting — you see, they are rather elaborate, aren’t they? I find her insistence on absolute precision a little intimidating. Perhaps that’s why I’ve naturally gravitated towards Italian cooking, rather than French: there’s a lot more room for invention, for instinctive guestimation and personal taste when it comes to Italian food. Not so with la cuisine Francaise — at least, that is my impression.

Of course, each and every recipe in MAFC calls for enough butter to kill a small donkey, of which I wholly approve (the generous use of butter, not the killing of donkeys).

In the end I settled on trying her soufflé au fromage (cheese soufflé) — except I also really wanted to try the soufflé aux epinards (spinach soufflé), so I decided to combine the two. My first ever soufflé was not a failure — in fact, I was rather proud of it — but it was a little on the heavy side, which I put down to my lack of experience in the folding department.

Also, my oven’s thermostat has bipolar disorder.

On the whole, however, the result was quite delicious. I served it with one of my all-time favourite salads of radicchio, walnuts, blue cheese and pear, some crusty bread (slathered in butter, naturally) and a few gallons of Pierre Jourdan Tranquille Blush. You could do a hell of a lot worse for lunch.

Oh, and if you’re wondering what transpired from our 2am life audit last week, let’s just say that we’ve decided to take a few large steps in a new direction. A word of advice: don’t ever consult the Zoo Biscuits unless you want answers to Life’s Big Questions.

Walnut, blue cheese and pear salad
Serves 4

For the dressing:
1 tsp sherry vinegar
2 tsp Dijon mustard
Salt & freshly ground black pepper
50ml extra virgin olive oil

For the salad:
250g radicchio (feel free to include curly endive, wild rocket or romaine), torn into bite-sized pieces
2 sweet, firm pears
60g walnuts, lightly toasted
90g Cremazola (or Roquefort or Gorgonzola)

1. In a large bowl, whisk the dressing ingredients together until well combined. Adjust seasoning.
2. Slice the pears (it’s best to do this just before you dress them, as this prevents them from discoloring due to oxidation), then add them, along with the salad leaves and walnuts, to the dressing. Toss until every leaf and slice of pear is well coated.
3. Divide the salad between plates, crumble the Cremazola over the leaves and serve.

Roasted salmon with anchovy and caper butter (plus other stuff too)

2010-04-07T22:54:00.000-07:00

Have you ever read John Crace's Digested Reads on the Guardian website? If not, do yourself a favour. He takes classic(ish) books and then produces a satyrical shorter version — they're often hilarious. I'd like to share a few choice paragraphs from his take on Nigella Christmas. It begins...

'I'll be honest. I never thought I'd write a Christmas book. But then my publisher called to gossip about the credit crunch. "What's that got to do with me?" I yawned, stretching out on my chaise longue.
"Nothing, sweetie," she said. "It's us here at Chatto I'm worried about. We're desperate for a Christmas bestseller to help us make budget and we wondered if you could help us out."
"OK, darling, you've twisted my arm," I cooed. "But there are a few ground rules. My Christmas isn't some kind of austerity family hold-back affair. I want to be able to forget the sad, grey little faces of all my neighbours who have lost their jobs at Lehman Brothers and luxuriate in guilt-free greed and over-indulgence."'

... and then, a little later...

'You might be wondering what the "welcome table" is. It's a term I made up for the table in the hall that's laden with whole pigs and cold swans for all those guests who arrive feeling a little peckish and aren't sure if they can make it to the dining-room without dying of starvation. Anything can go here, provided it's got enough kick to give you a heart attack.'

... and finally...

'For the main event you need to get your staff cooking several days in advance to prepare the stuffings and marinades for the turkey. All cooking instructions are based on the assumption you have a double oven. If you don't, be prepared to have a shitty meal at 10pm! Be generous with quantities; allow at least 27 chipolatas per child.'

Heehee.

But on to more serious matters. I had rather a lot of salmon in my fridge this week (long story short, a dinner party that never happened), and came up with two quite stunning little dishes. The first is a salad that's simply superb as a light lunch. I'm not quite sure what prompted the inspiration for adding smoked paprika to the yoghurt dressing (I think it was just sitting right there next to the yoghurt or something, shouting, 'Look at me! I'm over here! Oh won't someone please notice me?! You with the lid, get my publicist on the phone!').

Something along those lines.

The second is roasted salmon with anchovy and caper butter — and it tastes even better than it sounds. I found the recipe on Epicurious, and it went beeyoootifully with creamy tomato spaghetti, but be warned: it's super-rich, so perhaps a side salad is a good idea. The original recipe called for a tablespoon each of cognac and chopped parsley, which I think would have been an excellent idea, but I didn't have any and it still turned out well. Better than well. (It wasn't very photogenic, though, but PLEASE don't let that put you off.)

Salmon salad with smoked paprika yoghurt dressing

Serves 2

1 salmon fillet, roasted and flaked
1 small head butter lettuce
1 can chickpeas, drained
1 large handful wild rocket

For the dressing:
150g yoghurt
1 tsp smoked paprika
Juice of one lemon
2 cloves garlic, crushed
1 tbsp extra virgin olive oil

Pretty standard: mix all the salad ingredients together in a big bowl, then mix all the dressing ingredients together in a small bowl. Add the small bowl to the big bowl, shake it all about, and Bob's your uncle.

Roasted salmon with anchovy & caper butter

Serves 6

4 garlic cloves
5 anchovy fillets
3 tablespoons drained capers
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

1/2 teaspoon ground black pepper
1 cup butter, room temperature
6 salmon portions

1. Blend first 5 ingredients in food processor. Add butter and process until well blended. Season to taste with salt.
2. Lay sheet of plastic wrap on work surface. Transfer butter mixture to plastic wrap and roll to form a log. Freeze until firm, about 1 hour. (Caper-anchovy butter can be prepared 1 week ahead. Keep frozen. Let butter soften slightly before using.)
3. Place salmon fillets on a baking tray and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Grill until just cooked through, about 8 minutes.
4. Place salmon on plates on a bed of creamy tomato spaghetti (see recipe below). Cut caper-anchovy butter into 1/2-inch-thick slices. Top each salmon fillet with 2 slices butter. Serve salmon fillets hot.

Creamy tomato spaghetti

Serves 6

500g spaghetti
6 ripe rosa tomatoes, halved
3 tbsp olive oil
3 tbsp mascarpone

1. Spread the tomato halves out in a single layer on a baking try, and grill on a low heat (about 150C) for about 2 hours, or until they've shrivelled a bit and gone all gooey and gorgeous.
2. Transfer the tomatoes to a mixing bowl and add the mascarpone. Using a hand-held blender, blend until you have a smooth sauce. Season with salt and freshly ground black pepper.
3. Cook the spaghetti until al dente in plenty of salted boiling water. Drain and return to the pot. Mix in the sauce until the spaghetti is well-coated, and serve.

But wait, there's more...

I just have to share this with you. The Guinea Pig and I went to The River Cafe (no relation to the London institution) in Constantia Uitzig for lunch on Monday and had the most fantastic meal. I started with a naughty little onion tart with balsamic reduction (highly recommended), and then grilled asparagus with bacon, a poached agg (agg?? You know I mean 'egg' of course... Just between us, I sometimes accidentally type 'reslut' instead of 'result', and giggle to myself. Don't tell anyone) and Parmesan shavings. Just scrummy. See?

Then we pottered down the road to La Colombe, and the afternoon light was just too gorgeous. See?

And they all lived happily ever after. The end.

A tale of two warm salads (and an old friend comes for dinner)

2010-04-01T04:47:00.000-07:00

One would imagine that when two self-styled foodistas (don't you hate that word?) get together for an evening of nosh and natter in the kitchen, that their combined knowledge, talent and enthusiasm would result in an extraordinary meal, one imminently worth blogging about. And so, when my oldest friend Sasha...

(INTERMISSION: Let us pause here for a moment to picture two girls in school uniforms, each just shy of their 10th birthday. One is fed up with her current gaggle of catty friends and in need of succor, and so ventures up to the other girl one break [little break], and says simply, 'Can I be your friend?' The other girl says, 'Okay,' and that, to quote Casablanca, was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Fast forward 19 years or so, and one of those girls is the editor of foodie mag Avocado, and the other has taken to publishing rants and recipes on her blog called 'Koek!' It is a mystery how these two — with their love of food — are still able to fit into size 34 jeans. END INTERMISSION)

... and I were trawling the food isles at Woolies, unable to agree on what to cook, it came as somewhat of a surprise that, when I tentatively suggested, 'Mashed potato?', she replied, 'Yes! Thank God! That's just what I feel like.' So that's what we did. In-between catching up on gossip and bad-mouthing women we deemed more attractive than us, we made and ate mashed potato and some sort of ready-crumbed fish. Oh and some broccoli — steamed, plain. We watched a dreadful movie called 500 Days of Summer, and went to bed, completely satisfied that we'd had hoot of an evening.

So go figure.

But I do not come to this blog post empty-handed. I have two scrumptious offerings that are guaranteed crowd pleasers. Enjoy...

Lentil, salami and feta salad

Serves 4

4 tbsp olive oil
4 chorizo sausages, sliced
2 cloves garlic, crushed
1 large handful fresh thyme,
leaves picked
2 cups green lentils, washed
11/2 litres chicken stock
1 tbsp Dijon mustard
100ml red wine vinegar
100g baby spinach leaves
120g feta, sliced

1. Heat the oil in a large, deep frying pan over medium heat. Add the chorizo and cook for 3 to 5 minutes, or until browned.
2. Add the garlic and thyme, and cook for a further minute (be careful not to let the garlic brown).
3. Add the lentils and stock, and cook for 20 to 25 minutes, or until the lentils are tender. Set aside to cool slightly for 10 minutes.
4. Combine the Dijon mustard and vinegar, and stir through the lentils. Season to taste with salt and freshly ground black pepper.
5. Add the spinach to the lentils and divide the salad between four plates.
6. Top with feta slices and serve with crusty bread.

Chicken salad with bocconcini and croutons

Serves 4

300g cherry tomatoes
Olive oil, to taste
3 tbsp red wine vinegar
1 loaf ciabatta, broken into chunks
1 roasted chicken, sliced
250g bocconcini, torn
30g basil leaves, torn

1. Preheat the oven to 200˚C. Place the tomatoes in a baking tray and drizzle with a little oil and the vinegar. Roast for about 15 minutes, or until the skin begins to wrinkle.
2.Add the bread chunks to the tray and drizzle with a little more olive oil. Roast for 5 or 6 minutes, or until golden and crunchy.
3. Remove from the oven and arrange the chicken slices so that they nestle between the croutons and tomatoes.
4. Top with the bocconcini, season with salt and freshly ground black pepper, scatter with basil leaves
and serve.

These photos were taken by Deryck van Steenderen for Psychologies magazine.

And life goes on... (with the help of cardamom honey chicken)

2010-03-24T09:36:00.000-07:00

Well, my brief foray into food styling has been enlightening, to say the least, but it's over now. What did I learn? Well, for starters, it's a lot of work. From sourcing props to deciding on recipes to buying the ingredients and making the dishes, and then at the normal point where you'd plonk the food down in front of a ravenous guest, the real work only begins. Carefully placing bits in bowls, arranging things just so, and then just so, and then just so... I won't even start on the cleaning up.

The second thing I learnt is that having a passion for food and cooking doesn't necessarily translate into a passion for food styling (this may be obvious to most, but it wasn't to me, devout food-porn addict that I am).

I discovered that I crave the instant gratification of being near someone who is eating my food, hearing their appreciation and request for seconds — even if that someone is just me. Or my dog. (I don't have a dog, actually, though I want one desperately. We just don't have time to look after one, and the Giunea Pig is allergic. I don't really know where I'm going with this, so let's just do the written equivalent of averting one's gaze and whistling awkwardly...).

Initially it was novel and exciting, but after a while I began to dread it, and — gasp, horror of horrors — my desire to cook for the simple joy of it began to ebb (as evidenced by my absence from this blog).

And so I'm back — with a recipe! A pretty darned delicious one at that, which I found at Simply Recipes. I styled this dish a few weeks ago — and it tastes as good as it looks (which is saying something, because not a lot of what I styled did).

Cardamom honey chicken

Serves 4 to 6
4 tbsp honey
2 tbsp sherry
1 tsp ground cardamom seeds
1 tsp ground peppercorns
6 chicken breasts
2 tbsp olive oil
1 lemon, thinly sliced
Sesame seeds, toasted

1. Preheat the oven to 180°C. In a saucepan, warm the honey, stir in the sherry, cardamom and peppercorns. Place the marinade and chicken in a large bowl, and stir to coat. Cover with plastic wrap and let sit at room temperature for 30 minutes.
2. Heat the olive oil in a large frying pan at medium-high heat. Sear the chicken, skin side down, until golden.
3. Place the lemon slices in a roasting pan. Lay the chicken pieces on top and brush with the marinade. Season with salt and pepper. Place in the oven and bake until done, about 20 minutes. Remove from oven and let rest for 10 minutes before serving. Pour out the drippings from the pan into a gravy boat for gravy. Sprinkle the sesame seeds over the chicken and serve.

This picture was taken for The Publishing Partnership: Life magazine.

POST SCRIPT: I'd like to thank Tracy, Susan and Deryck (who took these pictures) for being so encouraging. This experience has pulled me closer towards myself, and anything that does that can never be considered a waste of time.

Grilled greens with halloumi (and, at no extra cost, a moreish mint salad)

2010-02-17T01:56:00.000-08:00

There are many kinds of food lovers out there. Perhaps all can agree that we love to eat good food, but our relationship with its preparation can vary wildly. For example, I cannot conceive of working in a restaurant kitchen, preparing the same meals every day for strangers. It’s just not something I could derive any joy from — I can’t imagine there is any inspired alchemy going on, just predictable recipes with predictable results. And yet there are people who love it.

Then there are the Heston Blumenthals and Ferran Adriàs of the world — the deconstructionists. Now really, I challenge anyone to relish the idea of getting home in time to enjoy a nice plate of freeze-dried octopus with banana jus and cream of caper berry (okay, I made that up, but don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean!). It’s what AA Gill calls ‘Jabberwocky’ food.

There are those who like their food to look like a work of art (chefs, mostly). You know, the painfully arranged drops of various brightly hued sauces around the plate, the flourish of curled celery or whatnot, and my personal least-favorite: stacks. Why build a tower of food on a plate? It always puts me in mind of Richard Dreyfuss sculpting a mountain out of his mashed potato in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. I just want my food to look, well, appetising.

Mariana Esterhuizen, proprietor of my favorite restaurant of all time (Marianas in Stanford, Western Cape), describes herself as a cook, not a chef, and I can appreciate the distinction. There seems to be a certain amount of showmanship involved in being a chef, whereas a cook will focus on how the food is going to be experienced once it’s actually inside your mouth. Or perhaps I’m just playing silly-bugger semantics.

I like to be alone, in my own little world, with the dish I’m creating — first fantasising about what to prepare, mentally swapping ingredients until my imagination tells me I have the right combination. Usually it works out okay, sometimes it doesn’t, and other times it exceeds my wildest expectations. But, almost always, it is the spontaneous nature of the whole experience — the element of surprise, of anticipation — that I’m hooked on.

This happened last night. I just wanted greens (eating too much meat lately). But for some reason my default setting when it comes to veggies is: boiled, served with butter and salt. And while this is usually adequate, I wanted something a little different, a little more filling, and the dish pictured (top) is the result. Halloumi is a rather odd cheese — it can be rubbery, though this is a quality I strangely enjoy — but its savoury saltiness works so well with these greens, tempered by the earthy flavour of chickpeas. I ate it with some crusty, buttered ciabatta… As far as I’m concerned, this is heaven on a plate, and I’m quite confident any veggie fan will agree.

The second recipe is from my dear friend Gaelyn. She served it at dinner with a sort-of lamb fillet on Saturday, and I insisted we take a picture. No one could get enough of it (there was a lot of just-this-side-of-polite elbowing for seconds and thirds). The mint made it a brilliant accompaniment to the tender lamb, and the crunchy celery and salty olives cut by the clean flavour of tomatoes and balsamic… It’s just a gorgeous salad. I encourage you to make it the next time you have friends round for a braai (make a lot).

Grilled greens with halloumi

Asparagus

Zucchini, sliced

Petit pois

1 can chickpeas, drained

Olive oil

Dried chilly flakes

Grated halloumi cheese

Freshly squeezed lemon juice

I haven’t provided quantities because you can add as much as you like of whatever you fancy (broccoli would also work well). In a baking tray, simply coat the green vegetables in a little oil (just enough to coat — you don’t want too much as the halloumi releases quite a lot of oil when heated), scatter with some chilly flakes if you like, and season with salt and freshly ground black pepper. Grill for 5 to 10 minutes, until almost done. Then remove the tray, add the chickpeas and scatter with grated halloumi, and grill for a further 3 or 4 minutes, until the cheese is melted. Remove from the oven, squeeze a little lemon juice (some lemon zest might be nice, too) over the veggies and serve with crusty bread.

Minty tomato salad with balsamic dressing

12 bella tomatoes, quartered

12 baby rosa tomatoes, quartered

1 red onion, finely chopped

4 sticks celery, sliced

24 baby kalamata olives, pitted

4 tbsp extra virgin olive oil

2 tbsp balsamic vinegar

2 tbsp chopped fresh mint

Combine the olive oil and balsamic vinegar, then bang the rest of the ingredients in a large serving bowl, pour over the dressing and toss to combine.

Oh, and here's a pretty picture I took of a flower pot near my front door yesterday. Just because.

Holy guacamole

2010-02-11T23:41:00.000-08:00

I know. Guacamole — right? It's not exactly up there with beef bourguignon and lobster bisque… but it is pretty darned tasty if you're in the mood (and I get into the mood, oh, twice a week at least, especially if I’m hungover), and if it's made right.

Until a few years ago, I always thought of guacamole as something to be put up with at house-warmings and Mexican-themed birthday parties — it was either too watery (blegh), too chunky (no one will like you if you force them to bite down on a large chuck of raw onion), or brown (I'm sorry, it had to be said). I think it’s important to make sure you have really good corn chips (the handmade, unsalted kind) and really creamy avocados.

When the balance of garlic, onion, coriander, tomato and lemon juice is right, well it’s just gosh-darned delicious. I can’t think of anything better to share with friends over a few bottles of chilled rosé on a casual, lazy Sunday afternoon.

Guacamole

2 medium avocados, mashed
1 small red onion, finely chopped
2 cloves garlic, crushed
1 large handful coriander, finely chopped
1 medium red chilli, seeds removed and finely chopped (optional)
2 ripe plum tomatoes, finely chopped (I leave the seeds in
— it’s up to you)
Juice of 1 lemon

It’s pretty standard stuff: throw it all in a bowl and mix until pleasingly homogenised. Season to taste with plenty of Maldon sea salt, and serve with golden, crunchy corn chips. And rosé. Don't forget the rosé.

Here’s a something a friend emailed to me yesterday — I think the sentiment is something that resonates with us all…

Ricotta gnocchi with lemon and thyme butter (and a lentil frittata)

2010-02-04T22:51:00.000-08:00

I started making this ricotta gnocchi at about 8.30pm on Tuesday night, and we ate at around 10pm... The late start was due to too much wine and 'mucking about' (as my gran likes to say), and the late eating time was due to, well, more wine. I'm not entirely sure you needed to know that, but there it is.

I had recently become obsessed with the idea of making ricotta gnocchi after I saw it in an old issue of Donna Hay (I know, I know, I need to see other magazines). You see, I've never really understood the hype around gnocchi — the potato kind, that is. Whether this has to do with the cataclysmic temper tantrum I threw last time I tried to make potato gnocchi (the Guinea Pig is forbidden to ever speak of it),
or that I've just never tasted really good gnocchi, I don't know. But this ricotta version appealed to me, mainly because I love anything to do with ricotta, and secondly, the recipe just seemed too easy to be true. But it was true. (The pool of gorgeous melted butter didn't hurt its case.)

Then on Thursday, I made Molly Wizenberg's French-Style Warm Lentil Salad (I know, I know, I need to see other blogs). It was my new favourite dish before the gnocchi, and I've made it about three times over the last few weeks (I strongly urge you to try it just the way she presents it: with some gorgeous salami, gherkins, and crusty bread). The problem is, I always make way too much. Oh, of course I could just follow the exact quantity measurements, but what would be the fun in that?

So I had a few cups (about two) of this lentil salad in the fridge, and decided to make a frittata. I've never seen lentils in a frittata before, and I'm not sure why this is because they work really well. I cracked six beaten eggs into a bowl, grated in about half a cup (okay, maybe a whole cup) of Parmesan, a handful of chopped parsley and the lentils. Poured this into a pan and topped with bits of salami. It was ... delicious. If you ever have spare cooked lentils just lying around, not earning their keep, make this dish. We had it with a green salad and some crusty (buttered) bread.

Ricotta gnocchi with lemon and thyme butter

250g ricotta cheese
½ cup finely grated Parmesan
1 egg, lightly beaten
½ cup plain (all-purpose flour)
¼ cup flatleaf parsley leaves, chopped
Sea salt and cracked black pepper
Finely grated Parmesan, extra to serve

Lemon and thyme butter
80g butter
2 tsp thyme leaves
2 tsp finely grated lemon rind
2 tsp lemon juice

1. To make the lemon and thyme butter, place the butter, lemon rind, thyme and juice in a small saucepan over low heat, and stir until the butter is melted. Set aside and keep warm.
2. Place the ricotta, Parmesan, egg, flour, parsley, salt and pepper in a bowl and mix well to combine.
3. Turn out the mixture onto a lightly floured surface and roll into a 15cm long ‘rope’. Cut into 2cm lengths and press lightly with the back of a fork. Cook the gnocchi in batches in a large pot of salted boiling water for 2 to 3 minutes or until cooked through. Remove with a slotted spoon and place in serving bowls. Spoon over the lemon butter and top with the extra Parmesan to serve. Serves 4.