Once every four years, I spend a month watching football. A month setting my alarm for the early hours of the morning, staggering up, bleary-eyed, turning the television on and surrendering sleep for the wonder of the World Cup. I love the crowds, I love the personalities (the countries! the haircuts! the celebrations! the heroes! the villains!), I love the drama, I love the football. And I love an excuse to cook for friends, like this Saturday, when Australia took on Chile at the entirely civilised hour of 8am Sydney time. I suppose I should have themed our meal to the cuisine of one of the countries involved, but really what it came down to was something I could make in between matches (Spain v The Netherlands - a cracker of a game - finished around 7am), so as not to miss a second of play. And so, shakshuka: a way to cook eggs for a crowd without being chained to the stove.
A staple of many Middle-eastern cuisines, shakshuka - traditionally made in a cast-iron skillet - consists of eggs poached in a tomato sauce enriched with onion and chilli.
This recipe, from one of my favourite blogs, Smitten Kitchen, adds smoky cumin and spicy paprika to the sauce and scatters fetta and parsley over the top. Served on a slice of toasted sourdough, it's utterly delicious - as satisfying as a Tim Cahill header into the back of the net in the second half... no matter what the final scoreline.
Since I made the decision to get rid of my car, my grocery buying habits have changed. Rather than a big weekly shop, I tend to go more regularly, every couple of days even, on an as-needs basis. A friend of mine described this as "very European" which makes it sound more glamorous than the reality of "there are only so many tins of tomatoes/pumpkins/bags of rice I can carry at once". Another six year old friend of mine (who technically wouldn't call herself a friend as kids can't be friends with adults apparently) recently opened my fridge, scrutinised its contents (or lack thereof) and proclaimed that I needed to go shopping. Though my fridge might be frequently bare, there are some things that are pretty permanent residents. Carrots for one. Greek yoghurt for two. Eggs for three. All these things last for ages which for someone lugging groceries home on foot, is nothing but good news.
A bit like an Indian pakora, these carrot pancakes - from LA café Sqirl, the recipe for which I came across in this month's Bon Appétit - are an explosion of colour and flavour. The carrots are sweet, the yoghurt tangy, smooth and salty, complementing the crispy crunch of the pancake and the peppery bite of the rocket. And best of all, all I had to get from the shops to magic them from the pages of a magazine to my plate was rocket and coriander. Both of which are an easy carry home. Win win.
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.
On Friday night I flew down to spend the weekend in Anglesea with two friends I've known now for nearly twenty years. There was porridge (with apples, roast almonds and homemade dulche de leche). There were pies (from the local bakery). There were walks on the beach. There were dogs. There were antihistamines (I'm allergic). And, of course, there was cake. I'd spotted this Frank Camorra recipe in the Sydney Morning Herald a few weeks ago and ripped it out thinking it would be the one for this weekend: a sturdy shape (handy for carry-on), seasonal (autumn pears), and nuts and dark chocolate for post-surf (or post-surf watching) indulgence.
I love the beach in winter. Or, better still, almost winter, when it's still pleasantly walkable but free of beach umbrellas and flying frisbees, when you can see for miles and it's moody and misty and the surfers in their wetsuits bob black like seals in the water - my friend Gill among them! - waiting for a wave. And we were waiting for her when she came in. With cake. Like Gill, it's worthy of applause. The pears are silky, the ground nuts buttery-smooth and the chocolate chunks a sweet surprise crunch. And it's made with brown sugar, which lends a deep caramel to the colour and flavour of the loaf. Not to mention a lovely (almost) winter warmth.
Way back when I was a student and working part-time in cafés, muffins were big. Literally. Huge, puffed-up, cricket ball-size sugar bombs. There was always some sort of vague attempt to present them as a healthy option (often by just placing them next to cheesecake, mudcake or caramel slice), especially if there was fruit involved. Apple cinnamon was popular, as was blueberry, and banana, but the hot seller was triple chocolate. There would have been more nutritional value in eating the tin. While all this was going on, my mother was having a muffin moment of her own. And hers couldn't have been more different. As a teenager, it's your duty to treat with deep suspicion anything a parent makes and tries to sell as good for you. My mother's version of the muffin was dense with bran, and wholemeal flour and fruit and just about anything else she had lying around and needed to use up, causing me to not-so-affectionately refer to them as compost muffins. Mum, I'm sorry. Especially when now as a fully-fledged adult, I'm drawn to a recipe that looks not so different to yours. Plus or minus a bit of brown sugar. And buttermilk. Deb Perelman posted this recipe - from Brooklyn's Blue Sky Bakery - a few weeks ago on her blog Smitten Kitchen,
and ever since I'd had a craving. And, after a few failed attempts to
find wheat bran, I finally got to satisfy it Saturday. I wasn't
disappointed.
These muffins may not be quite as virtuous as the ones my mother makes, but they're a nice in-between: chewy bran, fresh fruit, and a satisfying sweetness. You can use any fruit you like (fresh, frozen, overripe, underripe), they come together in five minutes, bake for not much longer, and freeze well, which means... I can save some for my mother's next visit. It's the least I can do.
This week, it got cold, and I got a cold. Let me start by saying I am no good at being sick. By this I mean I am not stoic in suffering. Because I know this, and don't like to be around sick me as much as anyone else, I throw everything I can think of at getting better. This means gargling with salt water, drinking copious amounts of ginger tea and grapefruit juice, swallowing spoonfuls of Manuka honey and raw garlic, dabbing dots of tea-tree oil at the back of my throat, steaming my bowling ball head with Vicks Vapour Rub, and soup. Lots of soup.
The restorative powers of chicken soup are well-documented. It's clear, and comforting and well, clean, which, when your body feels like it's been overtaken by germs, is no small thing. This recipe, by Australian cookbook doyenne Margaret Fulton, poaches a whole chicken in an onion-infused water or broth, then takes it out to remove its skin and bones, chops its white flesh into bite-size pieces and adds it back to the pot with fat rounds of leek and carrot. With a bit of parsley torn on top and a few grinds of black pepper it's simple and satisfying and just feels like it's making you better. At the very least, it makes you stop, and sit and savour, while you peruse the official FIFA World Cup Guide and decide which team you will support after Australia (Argentina!) and flip through cookbooks deciding what you will cook when you get up at 2 and 4am for a month to watch matches. It's going to be a busy June/July. Lucky I got the cold out of the way. And some soup in the freezer. Whether you're sick or well, or just crazy enough to forgo sleep for four weeks of football once every four years, it's always good to have on hand.
American cops - or, more accurately, American cops in American movies - are renowned for their great love of doughnuts. The Danish police force, on the other hand, are synonymous with the more romantic-sounding lemon moon cake, or citronmåne. To be fair, it's a cake that's most readily available in long-life form on supermarket shelves, but even still, the flavours are a little more complex than deep-fried dough (much as I love a doughnut). It's citrussy and lightly sweet and in colour, pale gold, like the Scandinavian sun.
When I came to Copenhagen I wanted to learn how to cook something Danish. And one night, in Hellerup, in the cosy kitchen of a lovely Danish family, I was taught how to make this cake. Like a lot of Danish desserts and baked goods, it's made with marzipan, something I'd previously only associated with the icing on wedding cakes. Though you can get it in Australia, I tucked a small package of it in my suitcase to take home with me, just in case. Because I needed to have this cake again. It's that good. This recipe comes from the organic bakery chain emmerys, whose wares I sampled widely while I was in town. The quantity makes one large cake, which traditionally are cut in two to make half-moons, hence the name. Each half moon easily feeds six people, or (as the joke goes) one Danish policeman.
