Nourish Me

Fennel

While espousing the benefits of a calorie-restricted diet, his wife by his side - the smiling, quiet sort of wife who, one suspects, doesn't often get a word in edgewise - my heart sank.

Occasionally, I turn the television on during the day. Just a few minutes, here or there, to break the silence of my working hours. Rarely satisfying, but a habit nonetheless, and one I'm not particularly proud of. The gentleman was sixty, but looked a young, impressive forty - egads! - as he preached, via video link, to Oprah's audience.

"It's science!", he exclaimed, "I eat 1900 calories a day. I have so much energy!"

Nothing makes my heart sink faster than the Scientific Eater. It's not that I don't think my own eating could improve, nor that I don't want boundless energy, youthful arteries or skin that glows from within. But for me, food is beyond mere fuel; my relationship with it imbued with other layers, other meanings.To limit it to mathematics is a depressing thought indeed. 

More importantly, and I know this is hard for some people to admit, I like food. I like the way it looks, the way it tastes, the way it feels. I like the reaction home-cooked food evokes. The way it looks matters more to me than ever before. These fennel bulbs, when I spied them at the market, made my heart sing. 

Is there a correct way to eat? Is there a correct way to photograph? My approach to photography is unscientific, too, stemming, no doubt, from an Art rather than a Science background. I like low lighting and the sometimes unpredictable nuances of film. There are trials, certainly errors, but all of it's instinctive, much like my (mostly) healthy eating. I like it that way.

I was recently invited to speak about photography at the inagural Australian Food Blogger's Conference, but timing has conspired, and I won't be able to attend. So I wondered if you'd like me to speak about it here, among these pages; to share some of what I've learned?

Some housekeeping if I may, while I have your attention:

Kathryn and I will only be offering the double Spring/Summer edition of An Honest Kitchen until the end of February. We've also set up a flickr group, where you can share your AHK photos and see what we're both up to as we work toward the upcoming Autumn edition. We'd love to see you there.

You'll also find Kathryn's emminently sensible nutrition advice on Two Fit Chicks, a podcast (ooo, how tech-savvy is that?!) she did with the hilarious Shauna and Carla a few weeks ago.  

Olive oil crackers

There are times when austerity and economy are good kitchen partners. These crackers come from Ottolenghi's excellent cookbook, and not only look impressive - they do - but they are incredible to eat. More refined if you use white flour, but a mixture of white and wholemeal is not a bad idea. Last time, I added a heaped teaspoon of chopped rosemary needles to the dough. Recommended.

Worrying about neatness when rolling here is not the point - the more irregular, the better. The blistered tongue shape is integral to their charm and each one should be unique. Rustic is good. Cheap is good. Embrace it.    

Olive oil crackers

From Ottolenghi the Cookbook. By all means, use the dough hook on your free-standing mixer. Lugging out the mixer each time I fancy a cracker seems ludicrous, so I find that making them by hand is just as successful and only slightly more work. My mixer, bought for looks rather than functionality, is bloody heavy.

Sift 250g of flour with 1 teaspoon of baking powder over a large bowl. Make a well in the centre and pour in 125ml of water and 2 tablespoons of olive oil. Work to a dough, then turn out and knead on a very lightly floured bench until smooth. Wrap in clingfilm or a clean tea towel and rest in the fridge for 1 hour. 

Set your oven to 220 C. Line a baking sheet with non-stick paper.

Dust the bench and keep the flour close to hand. Using a serrated knife, cut off walnut-sized knobs and roll them out in long, very thin tongues - you've no doubt seen how thin sheets of pasta need to be rolled, so use that as a guide. Dust heavily with flour as you go. Arrange on the baking sheet, brush liberally (go on) with olive oil and sprinkle with coarse sea salt. Bake in batches for 6-8 minutes with an eagle eye on the clock. Pale gold is good; deep gold is burnt. 

Cool on a rack and try not to eat too many.

Summer progresses

Our shed looms reproachfully at the end of the garden, a shiny, unused pitchfork propped against the wall, and bags of pea straw and manure wait, unopened, inside. Seeds that should now be thriving summer plants lie dormant, sealed in yellow envelopes, third shelf down in the fridge. A spicy stench of blood and bone is carried on the wind on warmer days, and, like the dog, I find it oddly alluring. The garden’s been calling.

Dark clouds are gathering this afternoon, and the tantalising promise of rain proper – thunder, so they say - hangs heavily in a still, expectant air. Waiting for the sky to rumble, then burst, on days of wading through humidity is something of a national obsession. My mother and I speak of rain in hushed, revered tones during phone calls. Rain is near religious. Rain is sheer bliss.

Tomatoes from the market have been spectacular this year, though my own are late to start. Nigel Slater says, ‘A tomato’s character is enhanced by a rough life, a certain negligence, a gasping thirst and the occasional drenching downpour’, most of which I’ve been able to supply in abundance as summer progresses. Unsure of Tender at first (though I think it photographer Jonathan Lovekin’s best work), thanks to two dishes, I’m coming ‘round.

The first was a dish of frankly beautiful pale green banana-shaped peppers, halved and stuffed very simply with nothing more than stellar cherry tomatoes, quartered or halved according to their size. Drizzled with oil and roasted in a furnace of an oven until their edges were charred, they were drowned, at the table, with a sauce of emerald green; handfuls of basil, garlic and oil blitzed to pouring consistency.

(Ganga has a beautiful version, here)

The second was even easier. Perfectly ripe, red tomatoes cut into large chunks, a bunch of basil leaves and a handful of grated parmesan. Tossed gently in a bowl with 2 tablespoons of olive oil, they get dumped in a gratin dish and baked at 200 C (400 F) for 25-30 minutes. It was stunning and stupidly simple to assemble, but somehow made the kitchen smell like heaven and me wonder why that particular combination, cooked in that particular way, had never occurred to, well, me.

Genius. And that, you see, is why we love him. However unwieldy the book.  

Kitchen light

The light in this kitchen make me inordinately happy. It shifts with the seasons and a glorious band of early evening light (above) arrives, illuminating the bench, a little to the left and a little later in January than it did at the beginning of December.   

Summer's a season of plenty, something I must try to remember when grumbling about hot days and nights. Tomatoes are spectacular; basil tastes of Mediterranean climes; and the garlic, unwilling to be parted from taught, rice-paper-thin skin, is purple and fragrant and cooked in heads rather than cloves. There's exciting news from the garden, too - the first of the jalapenos, dangling heavily on the lower branches, is turning a deep shade of red.

Think I'll stuff some and roast them in a hot oven. When the oven door is back on, of course...

* The potatoes above are the Home-made Wedges from the spring edition of An Honest Kitchen.