Nourish Me

outside the magic square: a review

By mid-May growth in the kitchen garden slows r-i-g-h-t down. Things that, even a month ago, were progressing well are now almost dormant, sitting quietly in the cold soil, waiting for the winter solstice (about a month away, people) to return to us longer days and shorter nights, however incrementally. Gardening is both gymnasium and therapist as I once heard a woman on the ABC suggest, but it's nice, from time to time, to put your feet up to rest for a while as the winter quiets things down, to read and plan your next garden moves. Increasingly, growing your own food, on whatever scale is available to you, is being seen also as something of a political act in ever-widening circles. Cue Lolo Houbein's Outside the Magic Square: A Handbook for Food Security.

The challenging times that lie ahead of us collectively climate-wise are beyond the scope of discussion on this blog - I am not a political writer, but my thinking and conversation with friends and family is deeply immersed in that sphere and yet, here I am, a somewhat informed individual, who is ultimately as confused as the next. And frankly, in my (egads!) middle age, I feel helpless. I know that I'm not alone. Houbein's book manages to tackle these issues head on - there's no beating about the bush, here - but with one fabulously focussed difference; she offers real, practical solutions, so many in fact that the book is not likely to sink in over one sitting. Doom and gloom be gone! 

In How to use this book, Houbein says you can, "of course read the book cover to cover. Or take a dip and read the parts that appeal." I took the latter approach, reading my way through the ideas which are grouped thematically. Following the various trails of thought you'll find out that even one square metre of garden space - the premise for her first book, The Magic Square - can introduce a little something fresh to your diet each day, you'll learn about the future of food production in Australia (and beyond), the plight of farmers (shocking given 2012 is the Year of the Farmer), how to grow your plot without chemicals, what to grow, how to do it and when, how to build drought-proof beds, how to cook and preserve the food you're producing and loads more. There's a LOT to take in, so do it slowly. What I found particularly refreshing was that any questions she raises are answered, something lacking in many drier, more academic books. Not only that, but Houbein's enthusiasm is so infectious I dare anyone who reads it NOT to want to get their hands in the dirt immediately. 

This was our kitchen garden in November of last year. Much has changed, and much has been learned along the way (as is always the case, no?) and it provides so very much, without the use of nasty chemicals. One story, that of a fledgling nursed back to health by wildlife rescuers is particularly poignant:

...Ken fed it broccoli from the garden which the little bird gobbled up daily. When the broccoli ran out Ken bought it some, but the bird retreated to the corner of the cage and wouldn't touch the shop bought product. When organic broccoli was obtained the bird ate it again with gusto. This story alone is enough to make me an organic gardener!

Outside the Magic Square brims with practical, if not a little scattered, information, but the author is deeply involved in her message and her enthusiasm makes me yearn to live with my garden full-time. Yes, she may well be preaching to the converted, but I found the book both timely and encouraging. One of the best and most positive on the subject I've come across. And a-men to that.    

a sorrel and lentil soup

A weekend of very good eating: a barley risotto, one made with the properly pearled stuff, stirred slowly while dancing (as best one can) to Van Morrison at the stovetop. Almost better the next day made into almond-crusted croquettes with quick-pickled radishes and steamed carrots on the side. Salads straight from the garden each lunchtime, and a tray of tiny jam tarts, some filled with the incredible lime curd that mum brought from her kitchen to mine, for afters.  

While mum and dad were here last week I cooked a dish not dissimilar to this, consequently ending up with too many lentils. Long ago I'd bookmarked a recipe from Elizabeth David's Summer Cooking, a soup of lentils, properly seasoned and made into a thin purée then simmered, for about 10 minutes, with a handful of finely chopped - not sliced - sorrel leaves. A spoonful of cream goes in just before serving, but I often think it optional with soup. There's something to be said, from time to time, for restraint. David says, "This is one of the best of the sorrel soups" and I couldn't agree more. Simple, restorative, and rather a nice, somewhat ascetic, beginning to the weekend.

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.

plenty

The Thursday before the Easter long weekend is always a happy jumble of  madness and excitement and, in our part of the world, a feeling that, at last, the harvest is in. That Good Friday this year just so happens to fall on the same day as the first Seder of Pesach meant that an early morning visit to the organic vegetable shop was crazy-good. A beautiful older woman sidled up next to me, basket heavily laden, and asked if I'd ever made chicken soup. We discussed the pros and cons of peeling the carrots and parsnips, whether swede would be a good addition (I think not, but perhaps I am wrong) and it was one of those gorgeous food chats I so love. 

Made my morning, truth be told. That and the visual plenty that boxes overflowing with apples and pears, quince and persimmon, fennel and celeraic (andandand) can make a cook feel.    

Right at the end I spied fresh horseradish, in a bucket  just beneath the herbs - if we didn't have so much parsley, I'd've gone nuts for the autumnally-fragrant dill draped softly above it. Only the loveliest of specimens came home. Horseradish is an essential part of the Seder plate, you see, represents the bitterness of the Jews' slavery under the Egyptians. That I grabbed it knowingly made me happy upon reflection; means I've been with these blokes long enough to have absorbed at least some of their 5000-year plus culture.

The light here is beautiful right now. This season of plenty is by far my very favourite. 

Happy break, guys. May it be energising and renewing for all.     

P.S. YOU guys. Thank you for all of your mint suggestions - I feel as though I am armed, now, with some of the best ideas. Wonderful stuff, people.   

mint

A small cry for help, today.

The Bog, which runs halfway along the eastern side of the property and which, now that the rain has subsided a little is no longer technically a bog, is home to not one large, out of control bed of mint, but two. We tame them periodically by either mowing over them or, far more excitingly, by cutting them down with our industrial-strength whipper-snipper. SO much fun, let me tell you. The smell alone is divine... 

Anyway, I like mint, but I do not completely love the stuff. Any ideas on what I can do with it all? 

pickling

Conversation, Salvation Army-bought jars in arm, in the carpark at Woodend on Friday afternoon:

"You picklin' things too, love?"

"Yep. Runner beans - if there's enough - and another batch of tomato-chilli jam. You?"

"Yeah, everyone loves me pickled shallots. Makin' more today." 

He tipped his hat to me and opened the door of his ute, and, as an afterthought, turned back for a moment. "Me own shallots, that is. That I grew."

He didn't need to offer that up, but I am super-glad he did.  

Have I told you how much I love life right now? The sunflowers are over - yanked out, composted, kaput - but there's still some of their high-summer cheer about.     

hot days

Just perfect for sunflowers and corn, standing tall, next to one another on these hot days. 

SUPER-excited about the corn as well you might imagine, but it's the sunflowers that have stolen the show.   

Just look at that lazy snoozer, in between the rows. Jo called her a (scruffy) child of the corn. Should be ready for the pot or grill this long, hot weekend.  

(the corn, not the dog)

tomatoes

We ordered a lot of ready-grown tomato seedlings from Diggers last year, spent what felt like a fortune because I'd missed the rather critical timings starting from seed requires. Seemed like the sensible thing to do. Thing is, and this is not the fault of the lovely people at Diggers, that Australia Post,"don't deliver parcels of that size" to country addresses. Interesting, right? More interesting is that also don't deliver the notices that tell you that said large parcel is awaiting collection. Hmm. I got them just in time, unpacked them, gave them light and water and love, then managed to get them in on the traditional date of Melbourne Cup Holiday. They just - just - survived.      

In early December, in Sydney for my nephew's baptism, Dad bundled up what heirloom (a bit over the endless overuse of this word) tomato seedlings he hadn't been able to put in their garden and you know what? Even though they too had a rough ride home (carry on baggage a-hoy) once in, they grew into far superior specimens. Thanks, Dad, and you are right: the Brandywine is a ratty looking plant, but I can't wait to sink my teeth into a fully ripe one.  

making it up as i go along

The recipes to which I am most drawn are the simplest, those that do not require a great deal of faffing to prepare, and which deliver every single time. Whereas once I had the knack of choosing complication over simplicity, those recipes that took hours to make, that developed skills, impressive in their many-ingredient-laden glory (i.e. show-off food), since my mojo upped and left, its more recent return means I've now a new knack that makes me happy: that of seeking out the sophisticated but wonderfully straightforward. Complicated still wends its way through my cooking, a recent tart involving sage and garlic-rubbed wedges of pumpkin, sauteed leeks and fennel, pastry making, custard-making (see? who really wants to read all of that within a recipe?) being an obvious example, but those sort of meals tend toward complexity because I'm making it up as I go along.

I don't set out that way. If I did, dinner might never - not ever - arrive. 

We planted loads of broad beans (favas, for my American friends) this year, mostly as a manure crop for the dry, empty bed that lines the pathway to the front steps, but also because I don't think there's a crop around that delivers more - visually, edibly - than the broad bean. Standing tall in their cane and string structure, they cheerfully greet visitors and birds alike, the latter using my connecting sticks as a worm-spying perch. I like them as a plant so much (and had so many seeds from the previous owner) that I grew another crop in the kitchen garden.

I think it safe to say we've a proper, PROPER crop on our hands.

The hunt for new recipes is underway. This weekend, I consulted the books (as you do) and this idea - beautiful for its brevity - from Anna Del Conte leaped out. I've no intention of rewording, by the way. Perfect as is. From her incredibly useful Amaretto, Apple Cake and Artichokes. 

pecorino con le favre

"This is hardly a recipe. It is the way Tuscans start their meal in April when the broad beans are still young and their skin is tender.

All you have to do is buy 450g (1lb) of pecorino, preferably seasoned and Tuscan, and 1.5kg of young broad beans. 

Cut the pecorino into wedges and put them on a dish. Put the unpodded broad beans in a bowl and let everybody get on with it. The drink must be red wine; a good Chianti Classico would be perfect."

Ideal for when my beans are a little further along, just in time for the holidays. The essence of simplicity, to be eaten on our dilapidated red table beneath the spreading arms of the oak tree out the back while the sun shines. I think a big block of feta would work here, too.

Of course, there are other edible uses for this long-cultivated plant. You need to pinch out the tops when pods begin to form, and, in an act of waste-not want-not, let me tell you, they are a revelation when stir-fried with new season garlic and stuffed into the folds of a fat omelette (an idea gleaned from Colin Spencer and Jamie Oliver's gardener, Brian Skilton (who I may just be a little bit in love with)). And then there's the fact that they fix nitrogen to the soil, look stunning, make me happy...what more could one ask for?  

bessara

the first thing andrea did upon arrival was to get podding. i grabbed the cumin and ground it none too finely as she prepped her broad beans - picked just an hour or so before - and we chatted, as folk who grow and cook do, about our respective gardens, about composting, about what we've been doing in our kitchens. swapping fresh broad beans for dried, andrea's bessara was completely different to any i've had, whipped to a buttery paste of soft jade, the peaks dressed in the bowl with a heavy dusting of paprika, falling in red clumps in the hollows, just the way i like. we ate outside, feet stamping against the cold, dipping and cooing over the flavour. cultivating gardeners as friends seems to happen effortlessly these days. i feel inordinately lucky.  

my own broad bean crop went in too late - end of july, she notes to self - planted out in surprisingly organised rows by the front door, something i vow to do yearly from now on, and in a mass planting, one week later, out the back in the kitchen garden proper. they are thriving, fixing nitrogen to the soil, standing hip-high and looking gorgeous, but i have my doubts. when d. saw them a few weeks ago, he had his, but i can and indeed do live, as ever, in hope.

you live a little. you learn a tonne.

it occurred to me this weekend that i've not shared much in the way of progress of late here. correcting that now. above is how things looked in the kitchen garden one sunday late in september. the broad beans (far left) have grown a lot since then, and the rhubarb (front left) is coming along brilliantly after being ruthlessly divided mid-winter. changes and additions you'll need filling in on soon, but for now, this rather bad 'blad shot's the best i can offer.

i've just felt so...busy. i'm no longer afraid to tell you it's been a tough year, yet somehow, in and among it all, my cooking mojo returned. it'd been gone for so long that i'd almost forgotten just how good cooking can make one feel.  

the garden is full of pleasant surprises. the rocket has grown hilariously huge, some stalks almost as thick as my wrist, sturdy bases amid a sea of edible white blossom. i like that it bolts just so. the coriander is about to follow suit, and the balm that i cursed for its invasive bastardry so often last year is, this, wonderful in all manner of things that mint might go in to, just gorgeous in salsa verde. i've learned to tame it, to rip it out by the handful, knowing full-well it will come back. relaxing about the weeds means less planting, i've decided, so now we just go with the flow. i made a salad with tiny blades of sheep sorrel from the front lawn this weekend as if to prove just that. it was very good.

but what, after all that, of andrea's bessara you ask?

andrea's bessara, a moroccan broad bean dip

simmer 2 mugs-worth of shelled broad beans in a saucepan for about 10 minutes. chop 2 cloves of garlic and grind a little cumin - a teaspoon or so - while they cook. drain the beans. whiz in a food processor with the garlic and cumin, about 1/3 of a cup of olive oil and thin, if need be, with a little stock (powdered stock, thank god) until the consistency of hummus. season to taste, whiz again, then dust liberally with sweet paprika (so pretty against the green) and eat with a trace of warmth still clinging to it.