Recently in Recipes Category

After the freakish hailstorms we experienced over the weekend, I think it's safe to say that summer has well and truly left us. That coupled by the fact that we are now in our warmer pyjamas of an evening and we had to turn the heating on this morning.

After I dropped the children off to school yesterday morning I began to hear stories of flash flooding and emergency evacuations from other parents. I soon realised that our measly leak was nothing but a mere trickle in contrast to some of the more ruinous stories. One school family with three young boys under six, have had to move out of there home indefinitely as their house has been severely damaged by the flash floods.

I must say it has not been the kindest of transitions, but rather an aggressive ripping away of what has been. Nevertheless, seeing that summer has all but departed from Melbourne, I thought I'd mark her passing with one of our favourite, yet simplest treats - fresh strawberries doused in rosewater served with some lemon ricotta cream.

We often have this for breakfast or as a mid afternoon snack or a light dessert in the evenings. Hence, the absence of plump, juicy strawberries are one of the things that Fussy truly laments about summers end - well that and the end of day light savings.

One of the great things about living here in Melbourne is that we are surrounded by a rich and diverse food landscape. Hence, Melbourne has often been referred to as a 'melting pot' as the subsequent waves of immigration over the last century have contributed to the wonderful ethnic mix that exists in this city today.

In terms of food and more specifically ingredient sourcing, the surrounding  suburbs are like an eclectic larder that I can pick or choose from as both the need and inspiration arises. Thus, if I need to source Middle Eastern ingredients I need to look no further than Sydney road, Brunswick. If it's chicken soup and matzoh balls I'm hankering after, then I'll head down to Carlisle Street in Balaclava. Or if it's a bottle of Limoncello I'm after then I know that I need to head towards the general vicinity of Carlton.

And so last Saturday, Hoover and I jumped into the car and headed toward Lygon Street in search of that brilliant Italian scarlet liqueur called Alchermes. I was fortunate enough to find a bottle at King and Godfrey, which just so happened to be my first guess. So that gave Hoover and I some time to chill at Brunetti before heading back home to prepare and assemble our Zuppa Inglese.

I've been making Marcella's simple, yet exquisite tomato sauce for years, but never thought to blog about it until recently. You see I just so happened to mention on twitter that I was about to throw a tin of San Marzano tomatoes into a saucepan with an onion and a rather large amount of butter and was instantly inundated with recipe requests via my facebook page.

I naively assumed that you were all making your pasta sauce this way, because this is the *only* way to make tomato sauce, right? But I was soon to discover that some of you have yet to discover Marcella's sublime tomato sauce with onion and butter.

I kid you not, once you try this luxurious tomato sauce you'll probably never revert back to the garlic, olive oil and basil version that you were raised on. This dear reader is how tomato sauce ought to taste - pure, honest, sweet, rich and buttery.

One thing I will insist upon is that if you are going to make this sauce then do use San Marzano tomatoes. Sure you can use any old tinned tomatoes, but there is just something extraordinary about San Marzano tomatoes. Oh and if possible try and get your hands on some good organic butter and while you're at it why not grab some good quality sea salt too?

 

My sister and I recently spent a lazy Sunday afternoon in Brunswick Street, Fitzroy. It was lovely to catch up and chill and have a decent, uninterrupted conversation minus our children! Oh and to drink wine mid-afternoon, how so very non-maternal and decadent is that?

Anyhow after hitting our usual haunts - Kleins Perfumery, Brunswick Street Bookstore, Flowers Vasette and Il Papiro we finally ended up at Mario's for coffee and cake. My sister insisted that I try some of the meringue, nut, and fruit torte thingy that she was having. Upon tasting the torte I then insisted that I needed just one more mouthful so to confirm that it was in fact *amazing*!

It was so incredible that I shamelessly hailed down the nearest unsuspecting waitress and enquired as to whether or not 'there were any eggs in the mix'? She stared back at me blankly, unaware of my surreptitious attempt to garner a list of ingredients so that I could replicate this little beauty at home at a later date.

 

I was thrilled when I eventually stumbled across Anissa Helou's recipe for pistachio nut ice cream, because her recipe is one of the few that doesn't use almond essence. I have no idea why people insist on adding almond essence to pistachio ice cream, because in my opinion the sickly, synthetic almond flavour overwhelms the delicate flavour of the ice cream.

Anissa wisely uses rose water to subtly flavour the pistachio nut ice cream, which in turn gives it that authentic Middle Eastern edge. The only liberty I took was to add the faintest hint of green food colouring, so to make the pistachio nut ice cream all the more appealing to my incredibly fussy eight-year-old son.

I'm happy to report that he loved it!

In fact, he inhaled it!

During the Summer holidays Hoover was determined to learn how to knit. Both my mum and my sister knit, I on the other hand don't. I'm almost embarrassed to admit that I haven't knitted in almost twenty-five years. I know it's a crying shame and my mum reminds me just how much of a crying shame it is every time Hoover asks me to show her how to knit, sew or crochet. So rather than continue to lament about my domestic failures I suggested to mum that maybe she should have Hoover over at the farm for a little nanna-grand-daughter-knitting-bonding time.

And so a couple of weekends ago Hoover had a sleepover at her Nanna and Nunnu's farm in Kyneton. It was a special time for my parents and Hoover as they all realised that with the advent of school impromptu visits and sleepovers at the farm will become less frequent. Mum made sure that the weekend was special in that she not only taught my girl how to knit (left handed I might add), but Hoover got to take home her very own pair of smilie face candy pink knitting needles and the beginnings of a very impressive scarf.

We were only in Nice for a couple of nights, yet there were two very important things that I wanted to accomplish in that short space of time. Firstly, I wanted to visit the Cours Saleya Market in the heart of Old Town and secondly, I desperately wanted to fall into a heavenly big bowl of Moules frites.

That morning while we were at the Cours Saleya Market we just so happened to walk past a very, chic looking bistro called Le Pilou. Yet it was not the brightly painted interior or smart looking waiters that prompted me to make a dinner reservation right there and then. What sealed the deal for me was the humongous bowls of Moules frites that were being rapidly consumed by the satisfied and content looking patrons.

So later that evening just before dusk Gillian, Brendan, Stephen and myself walked along the Promenade des Anglais and headed towards Le Pilou au Cours Saleya. The reality is, you could have blindfolded me and I would have still found my way to Le Pilou as I could smell the intoxicating aroma of the Moules à la Marinière a mile off!

One of the ways I deal with rejection is to busy myself with multiple tasks and numerous new ventures. Yes, some of the more enlightened ones among us would refer to this as 'denial' but hey, it's my denial so I guess I'm entitled to outwork it my way.

Cooking is yet another 'coping mechanism' that I employ so to avoid feelings of loss and despair. Hence, the last couple of weeks leading up to D-Day have been a bit of a baking blur for me. Again, the more highly evolved mothers out there will probably laugh at my efforts to cope with the inevitable, but I find that the process in itself takes my mind off the obvious and the end result gives me something tangible and warm to fall into.

Hence, it's currently 11am here in Melbourne and my house is devoid of children, calamity and clamour, yet I will still bake as if I have a cast of thousands to feed. Plus later this afternoon I know beyound a shadow of a doubt that I will have two ravenous school children clawing at the pantry door, so my efforts and this roasted cherry tomato pie with crispy pancetta will not go to waste.

My first attempt at Violet Crumble was a dismal failure as the honeycomb refused to set and harden despite following the recipe to the letter. I poked and prodded at the gooey mass for a good half an hour before calling Stephen in desperation for advice.

'How long do I need to wait until this "whooshing cloud of aerated pale gold" turns hard'? I asked

'Anywhere between 20-30 minutes' he replied

'Well it's been that long and then some' I added in frustration 'and it's nothing but a billowing mass of goo'!

'Did you follow the recipe' ? he asked.

'Yes' I replied glibly.

'Was it Grandma's recipe'? he inquired.

'No' I replied 'I used whats-her-names recipe, you know the one with the convincing smile and TV series to match'. 

'OK why don't you go ahead and make the ice cream and I'll make Grandma Jean's honeycomb tonight when I get home from work'?

'Ok' I muttered, my pride barely in tact.

'You make the honeycomb and I'll make the ice cream'.

I love the way these big, beautiful pasta shells hold pesto and all sorts of other flavours inside their cavity. Each mouthful is hidden with surprise, bursting with texture, taste and crunch.

Even my most pernickety child loved this dish, so much so that he put down his knife and fork mid-meal and began to use his hands, so that he could neatly stuff the creamy goats cheese and crunchy garlicky chilli crumbs into the enormous shells.

Upon Fussy's insistence I decided to follow his lead, and so I too downed my cutlery, rolled up my sleeves and began to stuff the conchiglioni with goats cheese and chilli breadcrumbs.

It's simple moments like this that fill my heart with such delight!