A few years ago now, I visited Copenhagen and discovered there was nothing about Denmark I didn't like. From the exquisite care taken in the design of every little thing - whether a chair in a furniture museum or a rake in a hardware store - to the open-face sandwiches on dark rye bread. The neat cobblestone streets of the pedestrian-only city centre, and the flocks of bicycles coursing by in specially designated lanes (ridden by impossibly tall, good-looking Danes) outside it... In this comparatively tiny country, there's a palpable and understandable sense of national pride among the population. So much so that it's traditional to festoon birthday cakes with miniature versions of their distinctive red and white flag. Red velvet cake is in no way Danish and alas neither am I - though I'm hopeful there's some Viking mixed up in my Scottish ancestory somewhere - but this week it was my birthday. I got a bicycle, so a picnic in the park was in order. We wheeled around on the grass, climbed trees, and played cricket with a tennis ball. It seemed only appropriate to add red food colouring to the mix. Besides, this particular cake with its startlingly red interior and pale cream cheese frosting perfectly matched these sweet little flags, carted back from Denmark as a souvenir. Clearly, it was meant to be. Even if, in my haste to document my slice so I could eat it, I neglected to orient the flag the right way around. If you're Danish, I do hope you're not offended. But I feel confident you'll forgive me if you make this cake.
Transcending novelty value, red velvet cake is seriously good: moist, sweet and tangy. From the outside, and in taste, it ressembles a chocolate cake, emerging from the oven cocoa-brown. It's not til you cut it that you understand the meaning of its fabulously decadent name. I can assure you, it more than lives up to it.
Though I love berries, I’ve
only ever really been able to cook with them when I’ve been overseas as their
cost here in the less-than-hospitable growing climes of mainland Australia discourages me from using them for anything much more than a garnish. That’s
til I fortuitously found myself in Tasmania again last week at the height of
blackberry season. Though this time I was down there for work, I was lucky enough to be able to squeeze in a weekend with my Hobart friends beforehand. So on
Saturday afternoon, we piled in the car with gumboots and empty containers
in search of free berries. We didn’t have to go far.
When it came to deciding
what to make with our huge haul, there were a number of important criteria: something quick (when you
spend the afternoon painstakingly picking berries one at a time and braving thickets of
thorns to do so you deserve some instant gratification), something delicious
(naturally), and something whose preparation benefited from multiple pairs of hands (as I
had two small, eager, purple-stained assistants).
Cobbler is less fiddly than
pie, needing only a top crust and no refrigeration period (or rolling!) before assembly. It requires
nothing more than a few everyday ingredients and best of all, is assembled in a
pleasingly slap-dash fashion by grabbing handfuls of dough, smooshing them into
flat patties and placing them patchwork-style on top of the fruit. That there are gaps, all the better, as the berries bubble
up through the cracks while cooking, oozing sweet, dark juices. In half an hour, we had dessert. And the satisfaction of having earned it.
There are some days when I've had enough of freelance life. Usually on public holidays when I'm working or when, months later, I still haven't been paid for that work. Then there's not having anyone to share a mid-morning coffee with in my office, which is next door to my bedroom. But on a day like last Friday, when I got up early, made a lemon tart to take to a friend's place for dinner, sat down and finished a piece of work, and spontaneously decided to go for a swim at 11am without having to ask anyone's permission or fill out a form, I remember that it's not all bad. To my great shame, I recently realised that I could probably count on one hand the number of swims I've had this summer. This is made worse by the fact that I live within easy walking distance of not one, not two, but three beautiful Sydney beaches. So I set out to rectify this.
Like a good splash of salt water, lemon desserts are wonderfully refreshing. This one I particularly love because it uses the entire lemon - every single bit of it (well, minus the pips) - to give a deep, sharp, full-bodied citrus hit. With its darkly caramelised top, and gloriously golden, jammy interior, it distinguishes itself from the usual lemon tart, which quite literally pales in comparison. You'll want to dive straight in.
Every week when I come to write my post I feel like I'm repeating myself. Inevitably at some point I'll have to go back to check if I've used the phrase "these come together in no time" or "this takes no time to prepare" too recently. This week is different. This cookie - while certainly not difficult in any way - is a little bit more complicated than the usual mix-a-batter-and-drop-by-spoonfuls-onto-the-baking-sheet type of affair. There's more of a process involved. But I'm here to tell you it's totally worth it. I had rugelach for the first time at Zabar's
(which for my money is every bit as good as any museum by way of
cultural experience) in New York, when I was looking for something small
and sweet to accompany my mid-morning coffee. I probably didn't know
how to pronounce it (and still kind of don't) but just pointed dumbly at
one of the little rolled cookies in the display case. Biting into it, I
tasted fruit and nuts and jam and some sort of tang in the crumb that
beautifully cut through the intense sweetness. It was chewy
and sticky and, in its elegant swirl, a thing of great beauty. I
was so absorbed in my enjoyment of it all that I almost missed seeing
Bill Cunningham (the eternally youthful, 80-something fashion
photographer for The New York Times and subject of a great documentary)
ride by on his bike. I was not photo-worthy but had he seen the
rugelach, he surely would have stopped. But it was too late. I'd eaten
it all.
Whenever I visit friends at their homes, I like to take a cake. To get to my friend Gill's house for a weekend with our mutual friend George, however, I had to fly, so the cake in question had to be something I could pack as carry on. Nothing fussy with frosting or layers. Something that could easily be stowed in the overhead bin or under the seat in front of me. And, most important of all, (for my own standards) it had to taste amazing. Fortunately, I had just the recipe. I've been making lemon yoghurt cake as long as I've known Gill, since we were film students together, and George and I were working part-time in the same café while sharing a house in a leafy pocket of Brisbane. All these years later, much has changed. For a start, none of us live in Queensland anymore. I'm in Sydney, George in Melbourne and Gill... well, she's just bought a little shack on the Great Ocean Road on the Victorian coastline. But I'm still making lemon yoghurt cake and we all still like hanging out.
...which is lucky, because hanging out with Gill these days means getting up early to check the surf, watching her paddle out into that cold dawn water, then waiting patiently for her to come in for breakfast. But it's no hardship posting to be sitting on a beautiful, almost deserted beach watching the sun come up, or your friend catch a wave all the way in to shore, or to be rewarded afterwards with her house speciality - a doorstop of a bacon sandwich, which wouldn't taste nearly as good if you hadn't been up for hours, breathing in all that sea air. It makes you HUNGRY, I tell you. Which is why that lemon yoghurt cake came in handy.
This is absolutely the best kind of everyday cake: sweet and tangy, the colour of sand and sun, light yet sturdy - perfect for carting on a plane or on a picnic, packing in a lunch box or just tucking into when returning ravenous from a day at the beach, sand between your toes and skin sticky with salt water.
There are a million reasons not to invite people over for dinner. Your apartment is too small. You don't have enough time. Or nice enough plates. Money for fancy ingredients. Mastery of complex cooking techniques. It doesn't help that the top-rated shows on television at the moment are ones featuring so-called "home cooks" poaching salmon in temperature-controlled olive oil baths, or constructing edible towers strewn with micro-herbs or native berries. If that's your idea of a good time, then great. For me, having people over is about being together, and it should be easy and fun, generous and relaxed. I love to cook but I want to spend time with my guests, not be stuck in the kitchen all night, then into the early hours of the morning with the washing up.
So on Saturday I had some friends over. One of them was a vegetarian. I made pasta. Most of the ingredients I already had on hand (except celery, which I purchased for the grand total of 69 cents), which is the beauty of this particular dish by Israeli-born, London-based chef Yotam Ottolenghi. It's as if he'd came up with it by pulling random grocery items from his fridge and cupboards and throwing them all together. It's a crazy combination of flavours and textures but it works - salty, sweet, crunchy, soft, strident, subtle... It takes no time to make, tastes good hot or cold (one of my favourite parts of having people over are the leftovers the next day) and makes everyone happy. Even those who hate raisins... of my four guests, there were two of these, who both enthusiastically dug in for seconds.
Even if this cake had wood chips in it (it doesn't) I would have made it. The name alone was enough. I've long harboured not-so-secret fantasies about living in a cabin in the woods. Recently, I was lucky enough to realise this dream during a six week writing residency in New Hampshire, working and sleeping in a wooden cabin surrounded by tall trees, falling snow and the brightest of bright stars. I had a fireplace, a rocking chair and deer grazing outside my windows. Unlike a lumberjack, however, I had a lunch basket delivered to my door each day, along with clean linen and a ready supply of wood for the fire. Not to mention central heating, running (hot) water and a grand piano. Not that I'm complaining. My hands were not made for hewing pine, but for tapping on a keyboard and, clearly, making this cake.
So what does a lumberjack put in a cake you might ask, if not wood chips? Well, pantry staples like dates, flour and sugar for a start. Little luxuries like a single egg (they're not for wasting), one apple or pear (whichever you might have come by in your travels), and butter (a fair whack of it to be honest, but who ever heard of a vegan lumberjack?). The wildcard ingredient, the one you really wouldn't expect though, is coconut. Just half a cup of snowy white flakes, enough to give the cake a bit of added interest, something to contemplate while enjoying a slice with a cup of black coffee after a morning's work in the forest, or on your laptop.
