Bits and pieces

Here's a post I wrote on the literary blog Writer Unboxed, about writing this blog!
http://writerunboxed.com/2011/09/21/food-for-thought-2/

Also, for those of you who read French, a lovely little piece on marketing cassoulet beyond the South of France, from the Toulouse newspaper La Depeche. In it, a chef describes the three varieties of cassoulet as 'If it's from Castelnaudary, it's the father; if it's from Carcassonne, it's the son; if it's from Toulouse, it's the holy spirit'! Otherwise said, observes the newspaper, it's 'baby Jesus in velvet pants..'
Non-French people, be aware: thee's nothing blasphemous about all this, it just expresses great love and the highest compliments that can be paid, in traditionally truffled and pungent language!
http://www.ladepeche.fr/article/2011/09/26/1176467-le-cassoulet-se-deguste-a-la-tour-eiffel.html

A taste of Malta

Last year, my youngest sister was living in Malta with her family and we went to visit them there, for a week(from France, where we were based for six months). It was a revelation: not only because of the striking natural beauty of this nevertheless densely-populated little country, but also its long and fascinating history, its gorgeous architectural heritage, from the most ancient and complex of Stone Age temples anywhere in the world to the forts of the Knights of Malta and thousands of quaint little terrace houses set on charming, steep streets; a laid-back atmosphere due to its engagingly modest and friendly people, who all, it seems, know about Australia, as so many Maltese migrated there—and many of them have come back to their beloved island and started up little businesses recalling that history, with such places as 'the Australia Butchery', and the bus proudly labelled 'Toongabbie, NSW! And its delicious food.
Malta is an island nation, with three major islands as well as some smaller ones, and that is very much reflected not only in their love of the sea's bounty. There is a big fishing fleet, with lots of small operators passing down brightly-painted boats from father to son(boat-building is also quite an industry, if small-scale, in Malta.) Fish especially features strongly on the menu, and a large range is sold by harbours, in fish markets and from mobile stalls, and octopus and calamari also often appear. Rabbit is also beloved, with one of the national dishes being a delicious garlic and red wine rabbit stew(we had one of these in the beautiful ancient town of Medina, and it was spectacular.). Pork is popular, and Maltese peppery pork sausages are particularly delicious, with the same kind of meaty, coarse texture as a Toulouse sausage. The nearby island of Sicily has heavily influenced the cuisine, with olives, herbs, anchovies, tomatoes, pomegranates, garlic, ravioli and red wine common ingredients, but there's also many other different influences, from Arabic(Malta is pretty close to Arab North Africa, though very much resolutely turning its back to Arabic culture, not only because the Maltese are very strong Catholics but also because of historical enmity after the Arabs conquered the islands in the eleventh century and enslaved its people) to French, Spanish, and even German, because of the many different backgrounds the Knights of Malta came from. British influence can also be seen with such things as Worcestershire sauce readily available. Capers are an island speciality and are sold in every little shop and in the markets, and favourite vegetables are eggplant, artichokes and zucchini. Sweets betray a strongly Arabic influence, with nuts, honey, and sesame seeds, orange flower and rose water common ingredients in a variety of cakes, and there's also sweet ravioli. A quirky island speciality is also jam and liqueurs made with the prickly pear which proliferates in part of the country, and the Maltese also make very nice ricotta style and other white cheeses, some fresh and creamy, others hard and salty or peppery(these mostly come from the island of Gozo, which is renowned for its cheese), and a range of delicious liqueurs, from jewelled pomegranate liqueur to chocolate liqueur(chocolate has a long history in Malta—it's thought that along with Spain it was one of the first places where chocolate was first tasted outside of Central America.)
If you live in Australia and you're interested in trying Maltese food, there's a few suppliers here(we've bought Australian-made Maltese sausages in a big butchery in Seven Hills, for instance), but also a Brisbane-based website where you can order quite a few Maltese specialities, from sausage to cheese and more. It's at www.maltesefood.com.au

Simple but lush: scallop and avocado salad

A recipe of my own invention, for a simple, yet colourful and intriguingly delicious entree: (proportions are for two people). Take one ripe avocado, one medium-size ripe tomato or two small ones, six scallops with coral on, some chopped coriander, chives and Vietnamese mint, a teaspoon of Tokay wine(you can substitute sherry, but the Tokay gives a finer flavour), salt, pepper, some crushed garlic or young garlic(which we had in the garden)chopped up, olive oil, red wine vinegar and a dash of mustard. First, sear the scallops in some olive oil, add some garlic, salt, pepper, the Tokay, and the coriander and Vietnamese mint. Cook till done(no more than five minutes) and the sauce is well reduced. Let the scallops cool. Cube the avocado flesh, cut up the tomatoes, toss with a little garlic, and a vinaigrette made from olive oil, mustard and the red wine vinegar. When the scallops are cool, serve on an entree plate, surrounded by the avocado salad. Spinkle with chopped chives. The unusual mixture of flavours and textures is absolutely mouth-watering. Enjoy!

Marvellous mustard

Australia's got great food these days but there's some things I miss from France: proper crusty traditional baguettes (though our own home-madebread is pretty excellent, a proper baguette is hard to make at home); really tasty creamy butter; really good charcuterie--from air-dried saucisson sec to gorgeous peppery Toulouse sausage to a range of pates and terrines that are cheap but delicious; wonderful patisserie cakes(I never get tempted by cakes in Australian bakeries); and a bewildering range of cheeses. And mustard. OK, you say, but there's mustard here, and yeah, sure, there is. There's 'French' 'German' 'American' 'English' mustard, all rather perfunctory versions of each country's traditional style. There's even Maille's lovely classic Dijon mustard(which we buy all the time.) and even sometimes their wholegrain mustard. But even in such hallowed palaces of food as the David Jones food hall, there's nowhere near the range you get in any ordinary French supermarket. For in France, the mustard is no mere humble condiment, but a star in its own right. Not only do the brands compete, but the styles. They're nearly all from Dijon, mustard capital of the universe, and nearly all very long lasting firms(eg Maille from 1747, Edmond Fallon also from the 18th century.) But they all have different styles, a different feel. Edmond Fallon mustards, for instance, are much more peppery and harsh(to my taste)than the smooth, creamy-winey Mailles. And they feature an extraordinary range of flavours and of ingredients ranging from herbs and spices to fruit, nuts and mushrooms. Nowhere is the ultra refinement of French culture more exemplified than in this amazing list of mustards.
Just in the Maille range, there's my personal favourite, Estragon(tarragon). There's the beautiful Cassis(Blackcurrant); Basilic et parmesan(basil and parmesan)Citron et Harissa(Lemon and harissa spices; Chablis et Morilles(white Chablis wine and morille mushrooms); even Noisettes et Trompettes de la Mort(Hazelnuts and Death trumpets, also a kind of mushroom--and non toxic in small doses, despite the name!)There's mustard with cognac and mustard with blue cheese; with gingerbread and honey, with pears, with chestnuts, with champagne; with figs and coriander, with Thai spices and mango and lots lots more. Of course these aren't all available in supermarkets, but you get at least a good selection, and as to going to one of the specialist stores, well, there you're in mustard heaven! (Have a look at
http://www.maille.com/achetez-en-ligne/moutardes.html)

I use mustard in all sorts of ways. Always in vinaigrette(with a Dijon mustard added to virgin olive oil and good vinegar, and well-shaken together in a jar, you don't need any salt). Always with cold meats, with grilled pork sausage and black puddings and home-made hamburgers. A bit of mustard with bacon is delicious too, and with boiled egg, and it's beautiful on steak. I use it in lots of different sauces, its aromatic tang going well with lemon, sour cream, white wine, cream, tarragon, sage and egg yolk, but also with the less obvious anchovy, garlic, red wine, onion, and pickled herrings. Added to vegetable stocks, it also lifts the taste, and it's a must with rabbit and all sorts of game(great on kangaroo steak and with venison, for instance). In fact it's just marvellous and I don't know what I'd do without it!

We did try to grow it one year but it didn't really work out. But it's fair to say we didn't really try very hard. It was not only difficult getting enough mustard seed to supply more than one jar, but the whole process of turning it into an edible product was much more fiddly than it appeared. Maybe this is the year we should try again instead of sighing nostalgically over the Maille website with its tantalising displays!

The start of the asparagus season

In the last week or so, the daffodils have been going mad, the sorrel is getting new leaves, the coriander is looking happier than it has been for a while. And the first of the asparagus spears are poking their paint-brushtip noses out of the ground. It's got to be spring!

This is the time of year when the asparagus is infrequent enough on our plates to be a source of delighted comment. Soon enough, we'll be harvesting bundles of it, so much that David at least will cry for mercy(I find it hard to be completely fed up of asparagus!)But right now each spear is a singular pleasure. We don't hill up our asparagus as we prefer the green variety to the white one so beloved in France, but which to us taste somewhat pallid and watery. Our asparagus have a beautiful, clean, green taste, juicy and distinctive. They are wonderful just steamed and served cold with a simple vinaigrette, or with a dressing I made up, of one teasoon olive oil, one teaspoon sour cream, a smidgen of vinegar, and a mashed anchovy, with pepper. They're also delightful hot, just with a little butter, salt and pepper, or a tomato salsa. They go well in omelettes, in stir-fries, in quiches, and they make wonderful soup(once we have those massive amounts later on in the spring.)

Artichoke Fields--an essay

It is a hot day in the early seventies, and we children are fighting in the back of the car. Dad is driving steadily, smoothly, as he always does, driving as if he is anticipating all kinds of possible dangers, as if twenty-five years or so of driving have not innured him to the myriad possibilities of change. When I am older, it comes to me that this is how he has lived his whole life, on the brink, never taking it for granted, trying hard to keep control of it yet painfully aware of the knife-edge of life, of the way in which, in a second, things can change forever. When I am older, it comes to me that I am similar, driven to achieve, pursued by the awareness of life's fragility, the swiftness of time passing. But at the time, his careful driving is merely another of the traits, the shorthand of experience, which, together, make up "Dad"-- a person you accept unthinkingly, as you accept your mother, or your brothers and sisters. Dad is careful yet can also be awesomely impulsive; Maman is impulsive yet can also be icily logical. You don't think too much about those uneasy conjunctions; as a child, you rely on signs, on the known, and somehow accomodate those things, together.
But here we are, driving. The vinyl of the seats sticks to our thighs, and the warm closeness of a brotherly or sisterly leg leads to sotto voce quarrels about the most ridiculous things possible. It's summer, and we are driving for what seems like hours, to the other side of Sydney, into the wildness of Blacktown. As we approach its rural outskirts, Dad sits up more in his seat. Even though--or maybe because--he is city born and bred, he loves the country with a fervour born of happy memories of his great-grandparents' place in the Aveyron. He says, "It's astonishing, isn't it, to see how hard these people work, " and his tone is gentle, wondering, filled with the pleasure of its simplicity. It is traditional for him to say this, here; yet always Maman nods, always we hear him without wondering at its repetition.
We stop in front of the house. It is a very simple fibro house, and we have only been further than the kitchen once or twice. But the house is unimportant. What is important is beyond it, in the flat fertile acres that surround the house, making it an island out of time, its Australianess an incongruity in the Europeaness of cultivated fields. For here are not acres of wheat, or of the other large, fullscale crops we associate with this vast land; but the smaller, denser patches of vegetables: lettuce in serried rows, tomatoes, ripening in sunrise colours, spinach and leeks and, especially, most especially, the artichoke fields. There they stand, tall and fierce in their greens and purples, acres of them, their tightly-packed heads swaying on their strong stems. Some of them are already going to flower; and their perfume--a strong, sweet smell, like wild honey--fills the air. They are beautiful, beautiful and wild as a Van Gogh painting. The sight of them always catches at my throat, so that even now, years later, I can see them, smell them, and wonder at the selectiveness of memory that will keep such pictures and not others. And, like a Van Gogh painting, if you don't simply stand on the sidelines, admiring, but venture inside them, the artichoke fields will reveal all kinds of unexpectedly painful things.
The farmers come to greet us, their very brown, very wrinkled faces split by their smiles into a thousand more tiny rivulets. I never learnt their names, and to me, at that age, they look immensely old, agelessly old, like peasants in an old picture. They are small, both of them, both dressed in black: but he is lean and wiry, with wild grey hair and sharp pale eyes, while she is round as she is high, her breasts like enormous soft pillows under her dress, her hair done up in a floppy bun, her eyes like lively brown birds in their nest of wrinkles. She is Maltese, he is a Yugoslav. Dad, accustomed, at the building sites he supervises, to working with men insisting on their Croatianess, or Serbianess, or Bosnianness, wonders at the farmer's calm avowal of being 'Yugoslav'--what does this show about his politics?--but does not press the point. But on the way home, he will say, "Hmm, say what you like, I've always found Yugoslavs difficult people to fathom. It's really the extremity of Europe, you know. . " And I wonder at the need of adults, too, for shorthand, for second hand wisdoms.
But Dad finds the woman farmer, the Maltese, very sympathetic. "Eh, paysan!" she says, or that's what it sounds like, in her shrill voice. Her voice, too, is ageless; we have heard, on a record at home, Portuguese peasant girls singing in exactly the same kind of shrill voices, voices you never hear, otherwise, in Australia. I think that her version of 'paysan' means something akin to friend, or compatriot, fellow-spirit, perhaps. Whatever it means, Dad is immensely proud of it. He preens under the accolade which she shrewdly--but not insincerely--gives him. Maman is more circumspect; she is closer--only one generation removed--from a peasant origin, and she has few illusions about it. "She's a good saleswoman, " is all she will say, later, when Dad, talking nineteen to the dozen, drives us back to our somnolent, rich suburb where ennui attacks his restless spirit like a physical pain.
They talk in a mixture of languages; some English, mixed with Italian, Portuguese, Spanish and even a bit of patois, the Occitan-derived dialect of the Toulouse area. Dad is always thrilled when the two farmers prove to understand some of the patois; he sees a connection between all kinds of European languages (or at least the Latin ones)and to hear this confirmed, especially here, the patois under the alien sky, is a source of joy.
We walk with them down the paths that lead away from the incongruous Australian house(where their only child, a daughter, sits eating biscuits in front of the television) and into the European preserves of the farm. Here, before you reach the hand-cultivated fields of vegetables, are neatly-arranged poultry runs, with chickens running about, and rows of rabbit hutches, where blink fat rabbits. There are no pets or superfluous things; in this setting, away from the house which diminishes them, the farmers are tough, witty, their tenacity written in their faces, with none of the bewilderment which must seize them, more than once, in this country. I look at them and think of their daughter and how it must be for them all when they have to come up to the school. When my parents come, I am in agony of fear, hoping they won't say the 'wrong' thing in the 'wrong' sort of accent. There are other people we know, Italians, whose attitude towards their educated children is humble, frighteningly so. My parents aren't like that, at all; yet I wonder how these two, these farmers, and their daughter, must feel like, when they have to leave the artichoke fields and go to the school, or the supermarket, or the myriad things one must do in such a society. It makes me squirm, this thought, and so I turn away from it, and towards the fields. It never occurs to me , of course, that maybe it did not touch them, that the shame may only be in the minds of self-conscious children.
At first, we look in the hutches, say, "Isn't that one sweet?" and the farmer smiles, showing bad teeth, and says, in her appallingly accented English, "Good eating, that one!" We are at the age, in the place and time where such statements appear callous; so we are silent, and ignore Dad's I-told-you-so-grin. He has often said we are becoming too soft, sentimental, Australian; Europeans are tough people who look reality in the face. You like lapin a la moutarde? Right, well then you must be ready to first catch your rabbit and kill it. . Or to plunge your hands without disgust into the freshly-killed carcase of a chicken and make it into an objet de table, a dish, rather than a once-living thing. We are tenderhearted; but our feelings never extend to the nicely trussed, carefully jointed meat dish that appears on the table. . .
Now she is walking in the artichoke fields, talking shrilly, a mixture of salty comment on current events, and wild praise of her vegetables. He is silent ("Taciturn, like all Yugoslavs, " Dad is delighted to say, and I wonder a little at how adults seem to need the shorthand of second-hand wisdoms, too). But he smiles quite a bit, and touches the plants, gently, as if he is greeting each. That, surely, is folly. He and his wife are unsentimental, without fancy or falsity, honest, as the French saying has it, as ‘du bon pain’. But that, surely, is a sentimentality, too; for I have heard Maman saying that these two never lose ‘le nord’, always stick to what they know they want, and are not above using cajoling or even a judiciously-placed marketing ploy to sell their vegetables. They are not doing this for fun, for ‘du folklore’: that is the mistake of urban people, throughout the ages. Simplicity is in the eye of the beholder.
Every so often, the farmer stops. She throws an arm out to her husband: this one. She stoops, cuts the stem, throws the vegetable into the basket he is carrying. Dad trots just behind her, asking her all kinds of questions. She answers with aplomb and humour, in her shrill voice, while her husband fills the basket and smiles what my mother would call a 'corner' smile; half-sceret, enigmatic. We children and Maman follow behind desultorily; the smell of the big vegetables fills our nostrils with a heady odour, their sharp thorns prick the unwary child who leaves the narrow paths between the rows. We all love artichokes; some Sunday nights, that's all we've eaten, an enormous tureen filled to the top with the boiled vegetables, served with vinaigrette on each person's plate. The table would fill up with mountains of discarded leaves, plundered for their bit of sweet flesh, then put aside for the next one. There is something addictively wonderful about artichokes; the more and more frenetic peeling-back of leaves, till you get to the 'straw' inside, and peel that off as cleanly as a bandage, to reveal the succulent flesh of the heart. We ate the stems, too; the Blacktown farmers always sold us young, fresh artichokes, so that their stems were as tender as asparagus. Occasionally, we'd eat them with butter and garlic, or tomatoes. But the simple one, the boiled-and-vinaigrette ones was what we preferred.
We always lingered in those fields, dodging thorns, and in areas where the purple flowers were really out, the bees as well, maddened, as we were, by the heavy smell of the artichokes. Once, I remember, the farmer picked one of the flowers and gave it to me. The unexpectedness of the gesture made me blush, and for the rest of our time there, I couldn't resist putting my nose as close as possible to the flower. I've always been sensitive to smells, finding them powerful evokers of emotion and place, and now, I try to think what it was that made this smell so heady. Roses smelt sweeter, muskier, richer; vanilla smelt more homely and tender; the thick brown smell of meat made me feel hungrier. This was a smell of almost-wildness, of something only just tamed, and only dimly understood, something whose discovery was concealed under layers of half-meanings. It was not the smell of careful, cultivated Europe, neatly arranged, tamed and civilised, the Europe of the mythologisers or the nostalgic. Rather, it was the smell of the Europe whose inheritance was mine, which seeped into me like instinct, but was submerged, like instinct, for a long time. A Europe--a France-- not only of the mind or of the comfortable senses; but also one of the blood's leap, of the pain of rejection. The France my father felt in exile from, the France my mother followed him from, despite her own rather less ambivalent feelings. A corner of Europe forever elusive, never pinned down, half-wild, half-tame, of heady, unforgotten smell, uncomfortable at times, maybe never to be fully understood.

Marvellous vinegar

Vinegar—vinaigre in French(literally, 'sour wine') is one of my favourite things. I love tangy sharp tastes like citrus and sorrel anyway, but vinegar's even better because there's so many flavours and styles it comes in! I love trying out new ones in vinaigrettes to go with all sorts of different salads, and I love adding it to dishes—from a splash of balsamic vinegar near the end of cooking a rich Bolognaise sauce to the stewing of red cabbage in red wine, brown sugar and either red wine or cider vinegar, to the glorious chicken in vinegar sauce that's one of my favourite classic French bistro dishes(the pieces of chicken are first cooked in a little butter, moistened with stock and simmered, then a tablespoon of white wine vinegar or cider vinegar is added, about five minutes before cooking ends, and then a mixture of Dijon mustard, tomato paste and a little sour cream is stirred in and heated through. Absolutely delicious!) And of course we pickle all kinds of garden vegetables—beetroot, cauliflower, sweet corn, tomatoes and more—in a mixture of vinegar and water. Vinegar is also excellent to cut down salt if you've overdone it in a dish; or to moderate the reaction that cabbages and other brassicas can have on the digestion(I add a splash of vinegar to the water they cook in)and apparently, as I read recently in an article, it can even cut down on the starch and thus the calories in potatoes(also added to cooking water or sprinkled on baked dishes). Vinegar is also good for getting clothes completely clean—with a little added to the rinse cycle--and cider vinegar is renowned too for its glossing effect on hair a little added to the rinse water when you're washing your hair!
There are so many delicious vinegars available: from red and white wine vinegar to cider vinegar, herb-flavoured ones like tarragon vinegar(in white wine vinegar base); fruit-flavoured vinegars, like the lovely raspberry vinegar, all of which are very popular in France; classic Italian red balsamic vinegar but also the white balsamic(which I prefer to the red variety); Asian vinegars, such as the rice wine vinegars popular in Japan and China, and the cane sugar vinegar traditional to the Philippines. When my parents first arrived in Australia in the early 60's, they were horrified to discover that the only vinegars available were the brown and white malt vinegars, which they felt to have little character or taste. Cider vinegar was occasionally available, but rarely. These days though even our supermarket shelves are groaning with different varieties, though apart from the cider vinegars of Tasmania, and malt vinegars(which are made from beer), I don't think any of them are locally-produced.
But we have our own very locally produced vinegar to use in vinaigrettes and dishes this year, thanks to a brilliant fruiting season and the huge harvest of pears we had from our orchard. David made two big batches of perry(like apple cider, except made from pears, and a beautiful light flavourful drink, with an alcohol content pretty much like cider) and devoted one batch to turn into vinegar(the other batch was bottled for drinking—a great drop!)
Once that designated batch was ready as perry, he simply exposed it to the air to sour it. It made a nice pale yellow vinegar but it was a little weak so he followed a great tip in the classic household cookery book of the 'Russian Mrs Beeton', Elena Molokhovets, about leaving home-made vinegar in a container outside overnight in winter then bringing it inside in the morning, taking out the lump of ice that had formed at the top—and hey presto, underneath would be the concentrated liquid vinegar. Well, our winters are pretty cold but not quite as severe as in Russia, so instead we put our container in the freezer, took it out the next morning, and just as Elena had said, there was the lump of ice at the top,taking away all the water in the vinegar, and there underneath was the concentrated item, with a vastly improved strength and flavour.