Nourish Me

cherry tomato gratin

A few weeks ago - can it really have been a few weeks ago? where does the time go - Kathryn came to stay, a visit that was part just catching up but also, because we so rarely get time to see one another in the flesh, part work. An Honest Kitchen may be quiet from time to time in a public sense, but privately, there is always a lot going on, in and among other bits of work of course, but it's a happy constant in our lives. Pens and diaries poised, we planned a full year and a half ahead at the red table, then we cooked - Kathryn sliced, then roasted thick rounds of eggplant from the garden (and skillfully worked the knife around the bug-nibbles) while I worked on a dill, miso and leek (again, from the garden) pesto for squidging into them.

Huge fun, let me tell you.

So it’s not been all about the garden around here, not a chance, even though this space may be light-on for recipes of late. Cooking is and shall always be the reason for the work, for the energy, for the precious time invested. That there’s been so much talk of garden is simply because we have never stayed put anywhere long enough to establish anything lasting; here I am able to put down roots, to build something permanent, something in which to grow ourselves – indeed, MY-self - a more fulfilling life. It's a complete change of pace for us. Physically exhausting, yes, but deeply - deeply - rewarding.

By some sort of strange coincidence nearly all of the tomatoes I picked out from the catalogue were small, not-quite cherry but near enough to be called thus, the exception being the heart-shaped cherry tomatoes which were, obviously, cherry-sized (not quite as romantic as they seemed in the photograph) and the Tigerella, a small tomato with a taste delicious to humans and, unfortunately when the rains came in February, the slugs. All were prolific, but I found myself longing, from time to time, for a thick, ripe slice of something heartier, from one of dad's plants, more classically Italian, to sprinkle with a good crunch of salt and then eat, with knife and fork, outside in the sun. They are slowly ripening now, but they would have been so much better planted 2 months earlier. No harm in trying, I say. No harm at all.

cherry tomato gratin

Offered because it is simple enough to adapt to what you have (or not, accordingly) and was utterly delicious. Nothing beats cooking (and eating) tomatoes while they are in season. This gratin by Georgeanne Brennan came along late in the piece, a recipe copied haphazardly out of a book of mum’s over Christmas, but it was perfectly placed in the latter part of the season. I was beginning to tire of tomatoes, one of the odd joys, I should think, of growing over 35 kilos (that's correct!) of one’s own.

Arrange cherry tomatoes in a single(ish) layer in an olive-oiled gratin dish.

Chop a few cloves of garlic, a good handful of basil and tear up a few small slices of bread. I used a loaf loaded with seeds the first time, and it was particularly noteworthy. Blitz in a food processor with salt and pepper. Scatter half of the crumbs over the tomatoes.

Whisk a cup of fresh ricotta OR ½ cup of crumbled feta and enough milk or cream to make it all loose, with 2 eggs and another handful of basil, sliced as finely as you can be bothered – this should all be done rather quickly; a meal for the end of a busy day.

Pour mixture over dish. Scatter with the rest of the crumbs and drizzle generously with olive oil, then in to a 200C oven for 20-30 minutes. Good hot or at room temperature and really quite good, I must say, eaten out of the tin with a spoon at breakfast the following day.

last minute

Yesterday afternoon, soaking up the sun while shelling broad beans slowly on the back step, a familiar tune wafted into the space, made me stop and listen. I knew the words instinctively - Christmas carols were ingrained in my childhood - and I found the simple joy of voices singing Peace on earth and mercy mi-ld in real time somewhat humbling. A short burst, just a couple of refrains and off they went, but it was sweet and delicious to my ears, a great surprise. It made me think of how we should feel at this time of the year, that even an unbeliever like me needs to take stock, to be glad of what she has, to go about her end-of-year business with a song if not in her heart, then at least in her head. A flatmate once told me that I sing like a nun (it's true!) and as I rather like the melancholy notes of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, I'll use it in place of all that harking of heralding angels stuff.

This post by my lovely friend Gill is full of great ideas for stress-less gift giving. Shopping just isn't my thing these days, something I put down to years of working retail. The notion of giving a gift of your time is tops, I say. 

Kathryn has more great ideas over here, not least of which is that we've made gift vouchers available for An Honest Kitchen. Perfect for last minute (like moi) shoppers. She explains the purchasing process far more carefully than I will if I try, so instead of repeating her words, I'm going to send you over to her. (Thanks, K!)

How are your plans shaping up for the holidays?

cooking for one

For some time now a post has been sitting in draft, staring out contentiously each time I log on, one in which I set out to explore the drudgery of cooking for four. That wasn't the original intention - not at all - it was intended as a helpful guide for feeding teenagers (boys, in particular) good, simple vegetarian food, a skill I've been honing for the past ten years which makes me something of an expert, even if I do say so myself, but about halfway through I stopped. I was making the task sound abominable.

A few weeks later I found myself cooking alone. Bliss.

These days, I cook for myself at least one night a week. It's a task I relish, a chance to cook the kind of food I like. I almost always eat well, but even I - a cooking obsessive - am not immune to repeating the sameold, sameold.

Cooking for yourself should be a joy, not a drag even though that is what we are led to believe the task should be, but it should also, as my friend Jo says, be about keeping up standards. A little bit of self-respect, a little moment to step away from things and treat yourself well, to feed whatever it is that your good self requires. A meal that is, if you get my drift, about more than mere fueling alone. Kathryn came along with another excellent idea for An Honest Kitchen - Cooking for One - at just the right time. All of us will cook for ourselves at some stage in life, for all the different reasons that exist, and all of us will need a little inspiration from time to time.

I'm really proud of the work we've done on this edition; the 3 recipes are delicious (there is a KILLER dressing in there that I've worked into at least one meal a week since) but there are also lots of thoughts about how to make leftovers into something fresher, on how to eat well. But the thing I'm most proud of is that it's a budget-friendly edition, so that eating solo will not, if you follow Kathryn's advice, cost you the earth.

Also, I DREW! Very nearly fainted when I realised that I'd enjoyed it too...

And so, here she is: An Honest Kitchen, Cooking for One. It'll set you back a mere $3 (AU). TOTALLY budget friendly. 

AU$ 3.00

honestly

we're working away on another edition of an honest kitchen, one i'm actually rather excited about as kathryn and i are trying new things, giving it all a fresh new look. we decided on using film for the photographs because, honestly, apart from the occasional picture taken with my phone (not an iPhone) it's how photographs get made 'round here.

an outtake, this, but one i've a particular affection for. stay tuned.

soup (and a little housekeeping)

 

Soup weather's upon us in these parts, settling in for the next few months, so Kathryn and I decided to put together a mini-collection of soup recipes from previous editions of An Honest Kitchen. You'll find 4 of the soup recipes we like best, each chosen to keep you warm and happy. It'll set you back just $3.00AU and we hope you'll love all 4 of them.   

Almost as easy as opening a tin and way better tasting, these are soothing little recipes for the cold, tired cook.  

$3.00 (AU)

In other news, I've been thoroughly enjoying working my way through some of Penguin's new Great Food series. Reviews are now up on the ever-entertaining Gastronomer's Bookshelf. 

Chickpea salad

 
You'd be forgiven for thinking that it's all freshly-pulled veg and jolly trips to the market for this kitchen, but seriously, it ain't. Some nights it's late, we're busy, and the only option left is the supermarket, which sounds better (and funnier) if you call it the supermarché, the way the French would, but with an Australian drawl to make it sound more like souper-maarshay, which instantly makes me feel happier about stepping over the threshold of any brightly-lit temple to shopping.

Anyway.

Kathryn and I, as you probably know by now, value Honesty in food pretty damn highly, and there's been a few instances of late when I've found myself reaching for cherry tomatoes and bunches of coriander at the supermarket without thinking. And honestly? Some of those dinners have been great. Grreat with a rolling double 'r'. We've both taken a break from An Honest Kitchen duties over the last couple of months, but we're still thinking, doing, talking and dreaming about where to from here. Watch this space; there's more AHK to come.

My point is that, honestly, sometimes the supermarket is where dinner comes from, and there's nothing wrong with that. The clever shopper (read desperate-to-get-outta-there shopper) can do a quick whip 'round, avoiding the lure of the junk food aisles and dodging all the marketing spin, and still manage to come out on top. This salad's pretty much the bees knees as far as supermarket-friendly meals go. It's something I fall back on often during the warmer months. 

Roasting supermarket cherry tomatoes makes them taste so, much, better; their previously-hidden sugars concentrate in the heat of the oven, especially if helped along by adding a sprinkle of soft brown sugar, a dribble of olive oil, some salt and pepper. The world doesn't need another recipe for roasted tomatoes, so I reckon you can wing that bit on your own, but Shula's recipe is tops.   

 

Chickpea salad

Feeds 2-4, depending on what you serve it with. I like this with a couple of slices of pan-fried haloumi or tofu. Truth be told, I don't mind which. Around here, we like to chase the dressing around the bowl at the end with a bit of crusty bread because, as Nadine Abensur says, sparks fly when paprika - sweet or smoked - meets cumin. Adapted from Enjoy. (p.s. the spice quantities aren't a mistake.)

1 small clove of garlic

1 tablespoon of sweet paprika

1 tablespoon of ground cumin

2 lemons

Extra virgin olive oil, something you like

Tamari

2 x 400g (15oz) tins of chickpeas

1 large bunch of coriander

1 large bunch of parsley

Cherry tomatoes, halved (roasted with sugar, pepper, salt & oil if you've time)

Peel and finely chop the garlic. Pay attention here; noticable chunks of garlic will not make you popular. In the base of a roomy bowl, mix the garlic, spices and the juice of 1 of the lemons. Pour in roughly 3 times as much olive oil as there is lemon juice; the oil is heavy handed here, but trust me. It works. Add a teaspoon of tamari, a little more to taste, then whisk with a fork. Drain the chickpeas and toss them in next, turning over and over, letting them luxuriate in the dressing. Leave for at least 20 minutes, as long as all day if you can.

Chop the coriander and parsley - stalks, too - and add just before serving, adding more lemon juice and tamari to taste. The flavours should be bright and sparkling, with rich, spicy Moroccan undertones. Pop the cherry tomatoes in and serve. 

Emerging

Pomegranate honey, via Katrina. Delicious, nutritious and medicinal. Can't ask for more than that, 'cos winter's arrived a week early.

Just popping in to let you know that An Honest Kitchen is having 15 minutes of fame over at the Emerging Writers Festival. Head over and see what else is happening, all of it online, naturally.

Honeycakes

(Click on the image - it's better, bigger)

I bake when I know the boys are coming. The simple act of sharing the sugar out keeps me sane. If Corinne, Oscar’s raven-haired, rosy-cheeked girlfriend is with us, all the better, so I leave cakes or cookies or, come winter, puddings for weekends (my childhood favourite is lemon delicious; a puddle of lemon custard pooling beneath an airy puff of cake). It’s the kind of kitchen activity that punctuates a Friday afternoon’s work with a welcome, sugary full-stop or defines a pottering-about Saturday morning post tea, an attempt at the crossword and a long-distance chat with mum. Baking heralds the arrival of the weekend in our house and it’s something I must – finally - admit to loving.

By nature, I am greedy and have been since early childhood. This is less comfortable to admit to, yet I continue to make no apology for enjoying food and its rituals. Constant vigilance is required to tame that greed, and though there are bad days in and among the more prevalent good, I am working hard at adopting restraint. Kathryn’s piece on pudding in the autumn edition of An Honest Kitchen (you can read it by viewing this sample) struck a slightly-uncomfortable chord deep within...and set me quietly on a path of re-thinking. Restraint may be unfashionable, but damn it – restraint in the 21st century can only be good.

Why then, I hear you ask, is she offering a recipe for Honeycakes? Because, quite simply, these are Good. Unforgettable-good. Each honeycake is small, sticky and nutty; a perfect, buttery bite to be nibbled slowly (not absent-mindedly) with a cup of tea and company (be it a book, the dog or your beloved – not while checking emails). This approach satisfies in just the right kind of way. Your brain needs to be present lest you eat the whole tray. A second one won’t hurt - this I know - but a third one begins the slippery slope. Take your time and enjoy the moment.

It’s the absent-minded greed that I battle against daily, but I am learning.

However slowly.

 
Honeycakes
Copied out, almost word for word, from my friend Ali’s email. Ali and I talk about “slow” being a state of mind and way of living worth attaining. Her recipe is slow at its charming best. Makes a lot. Freeze half of the dough or give some away if you do not trust yourself – a box or tin make a thoughtful, celebratory gift.  

2 ½ cups of plain flour (I use a mixture of spelt and wholemeal)
¾ teaspoon of coarse sea salt
1 ¼ cups of very coarsely chopped walnuts
250g of unsalted butter, softened (2 sticks for U.S. readers)
¼ cup of sugar (I like soft brown or, better still, rapadura)
1/3 cup honey, plus more for glazing

Preheat the oven to 120 C (250 F). Toast the walnuts, spread out in a single layer on a baking sheet, for 10 minutes. Cool on a plate.

Pulse the flour, salt and ¾ of the nuts in a food processor until fine.

Beat the butter in a mixer until fluffy – about 5 mins should do it. Add the sugar and beat for 2 minutes, then drizzle in the honey. Beat for 30 seconds or so, then reduce the speed to low. Gradually add the flour mixture until the dough just comes together. Shape into a disk, wrap in greaseproof paper and chill in the fridge for at least 1 ½ hours.

Preheat the oven to 170 C (325 F). Pinch off 2 tsp of dough, roll into a ball and place on a lightly greased baking sheet. Repeat, leaving 2 ½ cm (1 in) between each, until the sheet is full. Carefully press a walnut piece into each honeycake and flatten, just a little, with the floured base of a small glass.

Bake, rotating halfway, until the edges are pale gold, about 20 minutes.

Line a cooling rack with paper. Warm a few spoonfuls of honey over a very gentle heat. When the honeycakes are ready, transfer them to the racks and brush – quite generously – with the warmed honey. Cool before placing in a tin – one you can put away, up high if necessary – for up to two weeks.        

An Honest Kitchen: Autumn

Here goes: The autumn edition of An Honest Kitchen, full of easy, healthy recipes and some delicious desserts to get you through the season is ready to go. It's $19.95 (Australian dollars) and is, I think, our best edition yet. 

You can download a free extract of the autumn edition by clicking here:

Download Autumn SAMPLE

And, if you like what you see, you can securely buy a copy via Paypal by clicking the button below.

The winner of our AHK flickr comp is....Webbmeg, whose adaptation of the Spiced North African Chicken from our winter edition was truly inspired. Congrats, Meg - a copy of the Autumn edition is on its way to you!

Honourable mentions go to Wendy, Elaine, Mariana, Yvonne (hi mum) and Johanna. Thanks to all who entered. 

And a very large - VERY - thank you to Kathryn. We make quite a team, Ms Elliott. Ta, and muchly.

Roast onion soup

Autumn is pottering, puttering weather. After months of feeling disinterested in the kitchen, and despite the bounteous nature of summer produce, the arrival of the first cool weekend changes everything. I want the smell of slowly cooking vegetables – especially onions, baking to a deep, deep gold – to fill the house, but I’m not ready quite yet to spend all day tied to the stove even though skies are grey. A simple soup then, as Nigel Slater says, to invigorate. Adapted from his whimiscal and lovely book, Real Cooking. 

Roast onion soup
Though it won’t win any prizes for good looks – it’s all a bit, well, brown – there’s a lot of complexity, fragrance and texture happening here that will convince anyone to dive in. The photo above might suggest that red onions are the kind to use here, but no, brown are best. The washed-out shade of violet-grey that roasted red onions take on won’t win anyone over - this I know. Enough for four.

4 brown- or white-skinned onions
4 fat cloves of garlic
1 teaspoon of oil
6 kaffir lime leaves
A thumb-sized knob of ginger
1 red chilli
1 litre of vegetable stock (see below)
1 tablespoon of fish sauce (nam pla) or tamari
The smallest tin of coconut milk you can find
½ - 1 cup of rice milk
1 lime

Heat the oven to 200 C (400 F) and halve the onions, skin and all, from root to tip. Tip them into a baking dish with the garlic and toss to coat lightly in the oil. Flip each onion half so it sits cut-side-down and roast for 45 minutes, maybe a little longer. Turn them at about the 30 minute mark.

Start the vegetable stock (see below) if you’re making it yourself. You’re in the kitchen anyway, and the onions will take at least 45 minutes...  

Remove the spine from each lime leaf and, very carefully, very patiently, shred them into fine ribbons. Peel and grate the ginger. Halve the chilli and deseed it; you want warm heat, not searing pain, here. When the onions are ready, peel them – the skins come away easily – and slice the softened layers very roughly. Spiking them with a fork and using a serrated knife helps this procedure along enormously. Remove each garlic clove from its skin.

Pop the onion, garlic, lime leaves, ginger, chilli, stock and fish sauce (or tamari) into a deep saucepan and bring to a boil. Lower the heat to a burbling simmer and cook for 20 minutes. Tip in the milks, squeeze the lime over the pan and bring back to a simmer. Discard the chilli. Taste for seasoning, adjusting with more fish sauce or tamari, before ladling into deep bowls. Your house will now smell wonderful.  

A basic – very – vegetable stock

Roughly chop the following: An onion; 2 small carrots (no need to peel if they are young and sweet); 1 or 2 stalks of celery (including a few of their leaves); and a few cloves of garlic.

Fry these with 2 bay leaves and the stalks of a half a bunch of parsley in a teaspoon of oil over a high heat, letting it all catch here and there on the bottom of the pan. Add a big sploosh of white wine or mirin, let it evaporate (seconds, really), then pour in 1 ½ litres (6 cups) of water. Bring to a boil and simmer for 30 minutes. I add 1 teaspoon of an excellent, low-salt vegetable stock powder, but, honestly, a pinch of sea salt is just as good. Set a colander over a large saucepan or bowl and strain the stock. Press with the back of a spoon to get the most out of things. Easy, but only if you have the time. 

Before relegating the vegetables to the compost, I sift carefully through, blowing on burning finger tips as I go, picking out large lumps of carrot. A quick rinse to remove any onion, and I put them aside for the dog’s dinner. Poppy quite likes cooked carrot, you see, and I feel far less wasteful. A win-win situation.

P.S. Don't forget our An Honest Kitchen flickr comp! Entries close this Sunday.

P.P.S. I've just realised (thanks, Johanna!) that this soup fits perfectly with Jacqueline and Lisa's No Croutons Required event of this month. This, therefore, is my submission.