Last Friday night a dear friend of ours, who has recently split up with his long standing girlfriend came over for dinner. This was the first time we had seen Marco since the break-up and I thought that 'comfort food'  was required as nothing hits the spot like a bowl of homemade spaghetti and meatballs.

I had anticipated that our post dinner conversation would most likely centre on the complexity and fragility of human relationships and that we were going to require something special for dessert, as a fruit platter in this instance was just not going to cut it - hence the chocolate-lined lemon tart!

I'm confident that in the midst of heart break and painful self discovery our dear friend is on the difficult but necessary journey towards integration and wholeness. Marco is an wonderful person who not only has a heart of gold, but is an amazing friend to both Huxley and I.

And the chocolate-lined lemon tart - well it was a revelation and a comfort!

As a child I went to school with Maltese, Italian, Polish, Croatian, Greek and Australian kids. Lunch time was a kind of smorgasbord as we would pull all sorts of stuff out of our brown paper lunch bags that would make our Australian friends grimace with disgust.

There were speck and pickled gherkins on rye bread for the Croatian kids and mortedella and capicola sandwiches from the Maltese & Italians. The Greek kids came with their taramasalata sandwiches and one Polish kid insisted on having lard sandwiches everyday despite our collective protests.

Amongst our cosmopolitan tribe were a couple of Egyptian girls, who as far as I was concerned had the most interesting lunches of us all. They would feast on falafels with hummus wrapped in pita bread. Back in the 70's pita bread was virtually unknown, yet Miriam and Silvanna would munch away oblivious to all the stares from the Vegemite sandwich eating Australian kids.

I always looked forward to Miriam & Silvanna's birthday parties as there was not a party pie or sausage roll in sight. Their birthday tables would be laden with dolmades, falafel, pita bread and bowls of hummus bi tahini and my favourite dish of them all - Eygptian Rice!

As kids we affectionately referred to this Eygptian rice as 'gypo' rice and I must admit that I still call it that to this day. It's basically fragrant rice with toasted vermicelli noodles through it. I often add nuts to it and sometimes I even add brown lentils and caramelized onions. Gypo rice is so easy to make and it's a fabulous accompaniment with kibbeh and all kinds of roasted meats and grilled fish.

 

I love kibbeh but have never bothered to make them before. I guess when you live in a city that has so many wonderful Middle Eastern restaurants you kind of get lazy. I don't know what possessed me to make kibbeh the other day, but I suspect it had something to do with the half a kilo of lamb mince that was starring at me when I opened the fridge trying to figure out what to make for dinner.

I served the kibbeh with a simple yogurt sauce and some fragrant nut rice. Now before you get ahead of yourself and ask for the rice recipe I just want to say that I promise to post the recipe tomorrow - truly I will. It's been a little more hectic than usual around here this week with Hoover recovering from a rather nasty chest infection and in the midst of all the clamor there is an animal costume to organise for Fussy to wear to the book week parade at school this Friday.

It's times like this that I wish I had paid more attention to mum as a young girl and learnt how to sew, crochet or knit. If only I had a tenth of Amanda, Nikki, Pip or Claire's ability. Sure I can cook and bake and I can now make really good kibbeh, but I'm feeling a little out of my depth when it comes to safari animal costumes for book week.


 

I tend to be one of those people who seek refuge in rich, dark, decadent, chocolate dessert. Hence, Saturday marked the joyous return of Huxley but also the culmination of ten long days of flying solo with the kids while he was in Kansas City and San Francisco working (and living it up)! Needless to say I was slightly frazzled by the end of it all and was in desperate need of comfort. Thankfully my trusty Green & Black's Chocolate recipe book was close at hand.  

Recompense was found on page twelve in the form of a Chocolate and Pear Clafoutis. I was looking for instant gratification and simplicity so I decided to do away with the lofty notion of red wine jelly as an accompaniment and just make an effortless clafoutis. Besides there was a tub of crème fraîche in the fridge begging to be paired with this marvelous, gooey, mass of chocolate contentment.

The Cittadella is a small fortified Medieval town situated in Victoria, the capital town of Gozo.  This natural occurring fortified hill was chosen because of it's obvious vantage point for it provided visual control of the coastal areas.

The climatic Turkish raids of 1551 were tragic for both Gozo and her population. After a short siege a strong Turkish naval force carried off the entire Gozitan population (5000 men, women and children) into slavery. Only forty elderly citizens remained. It is said that it took nearly fifty years to re-populate Gozo and thus rebuild the besieged Cittadella.

I've been getting a bit edgy of late as a result of the general lack of sunshine and warmth in Melbourne. In saying that, there has been a slight hint of spring in the air with the early appearance of blossoms and the distant chirping of birds. The other suggestion that spring is almost upon us is the return of that loud, annoying squawking family of birds to the big old gum tree outside our neighbours house.

Once spring arrives for real in Melbourne these birds will resume their 4.30am ritual which usually lasts for a good hour and a half - every morning, without fail! I remember one morning Huxley rolled out of bed just before 5am and stormed out the front of our house in his birthday suit and turned the garden house on full blast and aimed at the gum tree. To his utter annoyance, the birds remained in the gum tree and began to squawk even louder in retaliation.

Despite the early arrival of our feathered friends the tail end of winter always seems to drag and I find myself pining for just a glimpse of sun and a handful of lush summer berries. The other day something inside of me just snapped and I decided to grab a box of frozen mixed berries (*yes* you're allowed to gasp) and I made an apple and mixed berry shortcake.

Let me tell you - it was tart, bright and lively and it was so good!

I have lied about my age since my early 30's as I am the Queen of Denial when it comes to the 'ageing processes'. For years I have been telling Fussy that I am thirty-two. Hence, one of the obvious downsides to obtaining a formal education is the acquisition of skills - math's included. Alas it didn't take Fussy long to figure out that something was amiss when I declared that I was 32 yet again last year! Once he figured out my real age he then kindly told his little sister. It was all downhill after that, as Hoover being the extrovert that she is would greet people in the street by saying 'hello my name is Hoover and I'm four and I live at such and such address and my mum us 38'!

Although I love that my children are growing and are gaining independence I still find it difficult. Deep in your heart you know that once the sun goes down you can never get that day back again. When I pack away that special dress or gorgeous pair of shoes that they have out grown - it is gone for good. The milestone has been reached and conquered and that particular stage of development is now over. The season no matter how turbulent and joyous has now come to an end.

I'm feeling it all the more with Hoover because not only is she fiercely independent, but she is also my last child. Most days I vacillate between feeling quite central to her life and then with one determined word or action I am left feeling utterly redundant. Thankfully Fussy is still rather moochy and occasionally still asks for my help and opinion.

Tired of eating chicken the same old, boring way? Well look no further as this simple marinade is the answer you've all been waiting for. I kid you not it's dead easy to prepare and even the most fastidious of eaters will love it. Yes - Fussy devoured this chicken despite the obvious presence of green!

Will wonders never cease?
 
Had I known the chicken was going to be such a hit with the kids I would have made twice as much. Luckily I had the foresight to make a tonne of roasted lemon potatoes to go with the chicken. I easily washed, peeled and chopped up eight large potatoes and at the end of our meal there was nothing left but the semolina crumbs.

I stumbled across these two in Qala's piazza last summer. No doubt they're at that table most days solving the world's problems as they drink their morning espresso whilst playing Briscola.
 
When I return to Gozo late September, I hope to find them just as I left them. Maybe this time I will pluck up the courage to go and introduce myself to them. Who knows they may even let me join them in a round of cards.

'Thursday night dinner' was the brainchild of three desperate mothers, born out of frustration some three years ago. Corrie, Ava and I all have at least one fussy eater, so rather than suffer in isolation we decided to have a combined kid's dinner once a week for moral support. Very early on we found that the kids all ate better when they ate together. Was it group dynamics, peer pressure or the sheer fact that they all talked so much that they failed to realise that they were eating broccoli? Who cares, so long as they all eat!

Ava, Corrie and I usually pool our resources (and alcohol) and take it in turns to host dinner on a Thursday night. During the warmer months we usually end up consistently having Thursday night dinner at Corrie's house as her house and backyard are bigger.


The last couple of years Ava has been slumming it in Paris as her husband Steve was transferred to IBM's Paris office. Despite Ava and Olivia's absence, Corrie and I have continued with 'Thursday night' dinner.  

A couple of weeks ago Ava, Steve and Olivia returned from Paris, so last Thursday Ava bravely declared that Thursday dinner was at her house. In usual style we pooled our resources and headed over to number 92. Corrie came well armed with two bottles of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc and Ava raided her stash of Pommery. I came bearing a decadent Chocolate Nemesis cake for the kids to have for dessert.

I've been making baba ganoush for years as I love to slather it on fresh pita bread, barbequed meats and fresh, crisp vegetables. One afternoon while I was making baba ganoush, walking that fine line between taste and consistency I accidentally added too much lemon juice to the mix. Rather than add more tahini to thicken the baba ganoush I decided to add almond meal instead. What followed was nothing short of perfection. Hence, I have been adding almond meal to my baba ganoush ever since.

The other important thing to remember when making the perfect baba ganoush is to char grill or barbeque your eggplants, as that is how you get that smoky flavour to permeate through the dip. Most common to baba ganoush is the addition of fresh parsley. I on the other hand prefer to use lots of fresh mint as I think it works beautifully with the smoky eggplant and the lemony, garlic flavours.

Ġbejniet are individual cheeselettes formed in little plastic baskets made from fresh goat or sheep milk. In Malta you can buy them fresh, dried or peppered. On many Gozitan rooftops you can still see homemade ġbejniet drying in specially made open air cages.

Fresh ġbejniet are often added to soups and are also served with fresh local bread. Dried ġbejniet can be grated and used instead of parmesan. Both Hoover and Fussy love the peppered ones and are happy to eat them on their own or with a thick slice of buttered bread.

This photo of Hoover starring longingly at some peppered ġbejniet was taken a couple of years ago in Gozo when she was just two. Hoover would drag her papa out of bed early in the morning to go get freshly baked bread and peppered ġbejniet to have for lunch.

Hoover is no respecter of persons or shapes when it comes to gingerbread cookies. Unlike  most little girls who prefer their gingerbread in the shape of a fairy or doll, Hoover is quite happy to munch on gingerbread boy, boat, car, star or dinosaur so long as it is iced. Hence, over the weekend we decided to have a go at making our own gingerbread cookies.

I've never made gingerbread before so I decided not to deviate from this simple recipe. So to avoid the obvious gender biased argument I opted for simple, generic round gingerbread cookies. Both Fussy and Hoover thought these gingerbread cookies were fantastic and managed to deplete the entire supply of cookies by late Sunday afternoon. I on the other hand found them to be a little bland. So the next time I make them I will definitely up the ante with regards to the spice quantity and blend. The recipe below has now been modified accordingly.

The first time I met my Nana Marija was the summer of 1977 when my parents took us back to Malta for four months. This particular childhood memory is by far my most memorable as it was marked by a whole lot of 'firsts'. It was the first time I flew on an airplane, the first time I drank Kinnie, the first time I saw fireworks for real, the first time I caught a ferry, the first time I swam without floaties and the first time I tasted my Nana Marija's ricotta pie.

It just so happened that this summer holiday also coincided with the passing of Elvis Presley. Hence, I distinctly remember walking into my nana's house that doleful day in August to find all my aunts sobbing and wailing and about to border on hysterics. My understanding of Maltese at the time was minimal, but you didn't need to understand the language to realise that someone had just died. I vaguely remember someone trying to explain that the 'King had died'. Seriously, the whole island went into national mourning shortly thereafter. Well maybe not the whole island, but my dad's family definitely did and probably still are to this day.

Most days I feel like banging my head against a hard wall in sheer frustration as the often repetitive nature of parenting can be downright tiresome at best. 

And then there are times when I am quite overwhelmed by the sheer brilliance and intensity of my children and all the nagging, arguing and negotiating pales into insignificance. 

A couple of weeks ago I saw this quote on a wall at the Art Factory and thought to myself that I ought to tattoo these words of wisdom to my forehead, to help me during those times when I'm feeling utterly exasperated with my children.