Peach, raspberry and almond cake

 

 

A few weeks ago I went to Brisbane. It was my first trip in over a year because of all the border closures that have characterised COVID in Australia. In the whirlwind of catching up with all the people I hadn't seen in so long in a short space of time, I spent a delightful afternoon with my friend's daughters (one a high schooler, one primary) making a cake. It's a tradition now - every time I come up we cook. Once it was these little Ottolenghi teacakes, a total hit. Another time it was this pie. This trip, it was a peach, raspberry and almond cake. 

 

 

To be clear, I actually do no cooking, only supervision. My friend sits back with a coffee and watches with amusement as I adjudicate fights over who gets to crack how many eggs, or fold in the flour. I get a swim or a gymnastics/trampoline/diving/clarinet show while whatever it is is in the oven, then - best of all - we eat it afterwards with their parents. This time I didn't take photos, so when I got home I made the cake again myself.

 

I've been trying to make the most of the stone fruit while it's in season, and this cake is an excellent vehicle for it. The juiciness of the fruit is soaked up by the ground almonds, and its softness contrasts beautifully with the sprinkle of chopped nuts on top. The orange zest rounds it all out and as my story attests, it's absolutely not difficult to make, as long as you fairly distribute the cracking of the eggs among all parties (one each for the girls, and I did the third). The reviews were excellent, from the Queenslanders, to the bush turkey who stole some slices I took on a bush walk on the weekend, to my 85 year old neighbour returning the Tupperware that contained a wedge I left on her doorstep. Couldn't put it better myself: such good cake.

 

 

 

Granola

I took a break. I took a plane. I took granola. Easy to make, possible to pack, granola is a simple breakfast that seems a little more luxurious than the everyday. There are a million recipes out there, but this one came recommended by a friend I trust in all things cooking. I'd made it before, for another friend just home from hospital, but never for myself. While many such cereals are overwhelmingly sweet, this one skews almost savoury, the maple syrup providing the sugar balanced with an almost equal amount of olive oil. There's shredded coconut and oats for chewing, nuts for crunching, and a fat dollop of Greek yoghurt to smooth it all out. It's breakfast to make you feel like you're on holidays, no matter where you are - a good start to any day.

Roasted almond thumbprints

I hung out with an eight year old on Friday night. I had several half-empty jars of jam in the fridge. We made thumbprints. What's not to like about cooking in which you're required to stick your thumb into a soft mound of dough? What's not to like about filling each little crater with different shades of sweet, sticky jam? What's not to like about something you can make quickly and not have to wait too long to eat? The appeal, really, is universal.

As a rule, the thicker the filling in the thumbprint, the better - the homemade raspberry jam I had was a stunning colour but its runny consistency meant it leaked into the cracks of the cookies, which though delicious, was somewhat less visually enticing. Particuarly successful was lemon curd - a puckering pop of bright, sour sweet against the nutty, buttery base of the cookie. Vegans, if you're feeling hard done by reading this, skip the lemon curd, stick to the jam and check out my friend Elizabeth's recipe for an egg and butter-free version. They're delicious. The ones I made also use nuts - in the form of roasted almonds - which make them slightly more labour-intensive than your basic butter/sugar/flour/egg thumbprint, but I would argue more subtle and satisfying. The cookie tastes of almond rather than sugar, so you're able to appreciate the jam more, and importantly, the combination of the two. Like someone with small thumbs and someone big enough to use an oven. Together, they make one great cookie.

Chocolate and almond cake

I really didn't intend to post another chocolate recipe this week. I was hoping to share one for a rather lavish lemon meringue cake, which I set out to make for a friend's birthday on Saturday. But it was a disaster. Operator error I think, I can't blame the cake. Fearful of scorching the meringue, I took it out of the oven too early and when I came to assemble it, realised that the centre was gooey and not in a good way. In an uncooked batter, make you feel sick kind of way. I know because I ate a fair bit of it, as I assessed whether this was a salvagable situation. Could I cut out the middle and fill the centre with cream and lemon curd? In the end, I decided against it and at the eleventh hour, chose to start from scratch. I didn't have the nerve for another lemon meringue. I didn't have much time. I needed something fail safe. Something simple, but still special enough for a birthday. Stephanie (Alexander) was my salvation. Her recipe for chocolate almond cake to be precise. That my butter was fridge-hard wasn't a problem as it was melted down with chocolate. It didn't have layers, didn't need frosting. The cooking time wasn't too long. In about an hour, I had a cake. Derived from the French reine de Saba or Queen of Sheba's cake, essentially this is a flourless chocolate cake (and thus gluten free) but with lots less butter than the traditional sort which is far richer and more oozy in texture. This version is bolstered by ground almonds, which means it keeps nicely should there be leftovers and holds its shape packed in a lunchbox. Stephanie says it's easy to make on a whim, or in my case, in a blind panic about having only an hour to make a replacement birthday cake. Both are valid motivations, both result in a cake that's light, not too sweet yet satisfyingly chocolatey. Dust with icing sugar, dollop with cream. Done.

Granola bars

On Tuesday I travelled to Newcastle, a port town 160km or so north of Sydney. My train left at 7.15am. The friend I was meeting was making me breakfast on arrival at 10am. I didn't want to set the alarm so early to make myself a pre-breakfast breakfast. I didn't want to spoil my actual breakfast with some overpriced, underbaked muffin from Central Station. So I packed a granola bar, for a snack as good as the view.

Sure, I could have bought one, but making them (the day before) had the advantage of using up all the bits and pieces of dried fruit and nuts I had in my pantry. Plus, these taste way better than any that come out of a box. You might say, on reading the recipe, that that's because of the butter and sugar involved, to which I'd say - wouldn't you rather know what you were eating rather than puzzle over some indecipherable chemical on the side of a packet? You might say, don't those mystery ingredients make them last longer? But I'd say the homemade sort freeze beautifully and defrost quickly. Not that you should rush to that storage solution - if you're a regular snacker, these will last at least a week in an airtight container out of the fridge. Provided you don't eat them all at once, as you may well be tempted to do.

You can use whatever combination of fruit and nuts you like. In this batch I tumbled in almonds, pepitas, dried apricots, dates, shredded coconut and raisins. The chunkier ingredients I chopped roughly. Feel free to improvise any way you like. Swap fruit for dark chocolate or cacao nibs, nuts for chia or sesame seeds. Put in peanut/almond butter or leave it out. It's entirely up to you. And that's the best reason of all to give them a go.

Baked nectarines with almond crumble

I wasn't going to post anything this week. Somehow rambling on about food didn't seem appropriate in light of the sad events in Sydney of late. It's been a sombre start to summer here, first with the death of cricketer Phillip Hughes during play at the SCG, and this week, the siege at the Lindt cafe in the city. I found myself in tears at each of these tragic events, but the show of humanity in the aftermath of both had the same effect - from cricket bats left outside houses, to the #illridewithyou campaign to show solidarity with Muslims. That's life really - awful and beautiful all at once - and regardless of which end of the spectrum you're at, you've got to eat. And if you've got to eat, it may as well be something good. So here I am, rambling on about food. Summer fruit is, in my opinion, the best thing about summer. Mangoes, peaches, plums, apricots, cherries, nectarines... They don't need a thing done to them really - they're magnificent all on their own - which is lucky because usually it's so hot that the last thing you feel like doing in summer is cooking. This recipe allows the fruit to shine, and keeps you from getting shiny under a film of sweat in the kitchen. Just a few ingredients combined for a dessert to celebrate all the good (and goods) of summer. 

Gingernut rhubarb crumb bars

I grew up in a house without store-bought biscuits. Before you start to feel too sorry for me, I should qualify by saying that my mother made any biscuits we ate. With maybe one exception. The only packet of biscuits that could ever be found in our pantry were gingernuts - dark, spicy and rock hard... and as such, totally uninteresting to children. I only started to appreciate gingernuts when I began drinking tea - they're ideal partners, especially if you're partial to dunking. And this weekend, I discovered something else they're brilliant with: rhubarb. 

Sydney's been out of sync seasonally the last few months. The summer sun has barely receded and my winter coat has languished in my wardrobe. You could be forgiven for thinking it's spring, not autumn. Especially by the look of the rhubarb - rich red fat stalks, bundled in bunches and impossible to resist. This recipe sandwiches wonderfully pink fruit between a layer of dense, spicy biscuit crumb and a comforting, cinnamon-flecked oat and almond crumble. It's pretty near perfect as far as bar cookies go: sweet and tart and crunchy, with the gingernuts providing a peppery punch. Another reason to keep a packet in the pantry. And the first slice for the cook.

Ann's biscotti

Certain food I associate with certain people. Chutney, for instance, is my mum's domain. My friend Tammy is famous for her croissants. And my cousin Ann for biscotti. I first had her version of the sweet, dry Italian biscuit on my first trip to the United States, back when I was just twenty-one. When I had an Arts degree with a double major in French, a suitcase full of borrowed winter clothes, and no clue about what direction my life was to take. I didn't know much back then, but I knew I liked those cookies. Previously, the only exposure I'd had to biscotti was the wafer-thin kind found (mostly crushed) in packets in delis where I'd worked. These were the polar opposite - chunky, generous, studded with thick slivers of almond, and perfumed with the aroma of anise seed.

This part of the world with all its mountains and water holds many memories for me. Learning how to make biscotti one rainy winter afternoon - watching hands I know so well make something I love - adds another. I hope sharing the recipe doesn't mean Ann will stop making them for me. I'm priviliged to be on the receiving list at all. It's an exclusive club this biscotti one, comprised of a select few. Some of us with international membership. 

When she bakes them, Ann usually makes a double batch. She's tried tripling the mixture but doesn't recommend it (all works to keep things exclusive). What she does recommend is dunking them in vin santo... or coffee, or tea, as their structure is hardy enough to absorb the liquid without disintegrating into a soggy mess. That's their genius. This cookie doesn't crumble. Not even packed in a suitcase. Lucky me.

Polish honey cake

Last week, I flew halfway around the world to make a cake with my friend Linus. Linus is four and the son of my extremely talented and very dear friend Dorka, who I was at film school with in Brisbane what seems both a long time ago and just yesterday. She and Linus and his dad Kevin now live in New Orleans, which is a long way from Sydney, which means I can't see them as much as I'd like to. This is the case with so many of my good friends who are scattered all over. Many of them have kids now and it's hard not to be more a part of their lives, to be there for things like birthdays and growth spurts and school concerts. So when I do get to hang out with them, I like to bake. It gives us something to do together, a way to get to know each other, and something for us both to remember. I know every time I make this cake, I'll think of Linus, and hopefully when he (and his mum or dad) make it again, he'll think of me. 

Linus is American, of Hungarian-Chinese heritage. I'm Australian, of Scottish-Irish stock. We came together in New Orleans, a Southern US city with distinctly French Creole influences. So naturally, we made a Polish cake. It's a melting pot this city, what can I tell you? Only about streets lined with grand timber houses and long-limbed, leafy trees, thunderstorms that go on all day (and all night), catfish po'boys in bars in back streets, slow-moving streetcars, the bottom of a bag of beignets filled with (I swear) about a pound of powdered sugar, fork lightening on the Mississippi, and, of course, jazz - on street corners, in bars, in the very rhythms of this place... 

But back to Linus' cake. That's what I'm going to call it anyway. Just like its namesake, it's a keeper. Lightly sweetened with honey (and very little additional sugar), its flavour is rich and deep, its top crunchy with almonds and its exterior deliciously sticky. If you can't make it with a friend, at least share it with some... or be warned: you may eat the whole thing yourself.