The Not-So-Tall-Tales of an Aspiring Gastronome

Spiced Christmas Rice Pudding Recipe

2011-12-23T01:45:00.000+10:00

The Swiss Cafe on Grafton Street (Cairns) used to sell small tubs of cold spiced rice pudding - ever so refreshing on a hot Summer's day! At one point I was treating myself daily. Last week, my neighbours urged me to purchase the Morrison's rice pudding, which was a right steal at just 13p per can (it's no secret that the Yorkshire man hunts bargains as well as game). I hadn't eaten rice pudding in over a year and when I called my mum in a flurry of excitement, she reminded me how much I love the spiced version. Today I tossed a few spices in and the result was nostalgia inducing. I happened to have a bottle of cherry brandy in the homestead, so sloshed in a few cheeky teaspoons BUT, I wouldn't say that this is mandatory for success. The spices are so Christmassy and it is lovely served either straight from the stove, or chilled with a cup of tea. I am supposed to be cleaning the house in anticipation of Kane's arrival home - but couldn't resist sharing my version of Spiced Christmas Rice Pudding. Bon appetit!

Spiced Christmas Rice Pudding

Ingredients:
2 cans of plain rice pudding
Small handful of sultanas
2 cardamon pods
4 shakes ground nutmeg
4 shakes ground ginger
7 shakes ground cinnamon
5 tsp cherry brandy

Method:

Heat the rice pudding and sultanas in a saucepan over low heat for 2 mins. Split open the cardamon pods and add only the small black seeds from within. Add all other spices and the cherry brandy. Turn up ever so slightly, so that the pudding is simmering gently. Stir frequently to avoid sticking. Allow to simmer for a further 5-7 mins until the sultanas are plump and the pudding is exuding a fragrant aroma. Either serve hot as a winter warmer, or chill in the fridge for a few hours and serve as a refreshing after dinner treat. I think it seems more than appropriate to serve this for breakfast also.

September 2011: Le Grande Maison, Loire Valley

2011-12-15T23:33:00.001+10:00

This blogging business is tough going! This morning I found myself reminiscing about an out-of-this-world macha and white choc chip cookie experience at Bob's Kitchen in Paris. This got me thinking - how could I possibly begin writing about our March 2012 visit to France, when I completely failed to recount on an equally memorable Loire Valley experience from our van trip last September? With a freed-up Monday bank holiday on my hands - I best take a crack at it. The last stop of our 2011 European van trip. Here goes:

It's funny isn't it? We are always in need of a holiday. And when we're on holiday? We're planning the next. After accidentally discovering a nudist colony in Port Leucate, choking on a fish bone in Arcachon, losing to a van-intruding spider in Saint-Gilles, bathing outside a toilet block using 2L plastic bottles in a town whose name I couldn't pronounce, and might I mention, sleeping in the back of a van for four weeks, we needed a holiday. Don't get me wrong, every destination...every experience, was memorable in its own right; I thrive on adventure and the unexpected. Hell - I believe in scheduling time for the unexpected! But the thought of a real bed for two nights at Le Grande Maison in the Loire Valley, inclusive of a five course wine tasting supper, sounded too good to be true.

On arrival, our English hosts, Sue and Mikaela, showed us to our room; a 17th century stone bakehouse still featuring its original oven. Kane and I spent the afternoon winding down in the estate gardens, with tea, biscuits and a light read; he researching the geography of the Loire Valley as a wine region and me, with Elizabeth David in hand. French Country Cooking - how fitting! Soon, we were ready to explore. We set off for a stroll through the vinyards. When immersed in such tranquil surrounds, it's difficult not to forget about everything. This is exactly what the doctor had ordered. Our reason for stumbling across Le Grande Maison became even more clear when we discovered a tree laden with plump, ripe figs. WIN!

That evening, we met with our fellow guests to admire the sun setting over the vinyards. The five of us stood in awe, sipping our aperitif and enjoying Sue's bite-sized cheese puff pastries. The supper to follow was perhaps just as impressive as the view - five courses, five impecably chosen wines, a triple-sec shooter and a coffee to finish. With personalised menus to welcome each party, we couldn't praise Sue and Mikaela more highly for their attention to detail and willingness to share information about the wine and growers (all local to the area). Infact, all five of us enjoyed the evening so much that we booked supper for the following evening, requesting that this time, our tables be pulled together. It was one of those perfect evenings - great food, great wine, great conversation. There we sat in the 17th century Maison dining room, sharing the day's wine-tasting highlights and ooh-ing and ah-ing over Sue and Mikaela's gorgous selection of local cheeses. Our Texan fellow-diners also shared a hot tip - Chevre topped with a drizzle of honey and a sprinkle of white pepper. OMG. Do it! This is a no-regret situation that you should indulge in immediately - if not sooner.

I couldn't recommend Le Grande Maison more highly. If headed toward Saumur in the Loire, you simply must book a room ( http://www.lagrandemaison.net/ ). Be sure to ask Sue and Mikaela about the history of the pigeon tower, as it is absolutely fascinating. More importantly, pick their brains about the region's wine-tasting hot spots. Saumur is known for it's unique sparkling red - and partnered with a generous slice of chocolate cake, you won't be disappointed. I promise.

Donostia, Basque Country

2011-12-12T22:39:00.000+10:00

Donostia-San Sebastian is Basque Country. A coastal city in the North of Spain, just a hop, skip and jump away from the South-West border of France. During our six days camped in the eastern beach car park, I saw a very cool seaside town mastering the balancing act between old world and new. Think: bustling street markets and Balenciaga, cobblestone alleyways and opulent architecture. We thought it was fantastic...and apparently, we're not the only ones. San Sebasian has been dubbed the European Capital of Culture for 2016. During this time, the city will host a multitude of events celebrating the similarities and diversities across European culture.

Kane and I were lucky enough to roll into town on the fifth day of the International Film Festival. I've always wanted to attend Cannes, so saw this as a 'warm-up', so to speak. We managed to snag tickets to a midnight screening of Steve McQueen's 'Shame' - a very raw drama about the life-shattering emotional struggles faced by a man with uncontrollable sexual urges and an addiction to pornography. Although the cinematography is very clever and the film received rave reviews, I have to be honest, in that I found it far too confronting. On day 2, I bought a pair of Tom Fords to replace my six-year-old sunglasses, which for the past year, had served the sole purpose of keeping hair of my face. In amongst the red carpets, blinding flashes, all-important festival ticket holders wearing lanyards, and cityscape swarming with paparazzi, I couldn't help feel just a little bit famous. Well - why not?

Our camp in the Eastern beach car park

But it wasn't all glitz and glamour. I mean, we were in San Sebastian. The major attraction? Surf, sun and sand. Having set up camp in the eastern beach car park meant that every day, we could wake up, whack on some togs and trot down to the beach (yes, with me, its all about the 'trot'). Once one became accustomed to dodging the White Pointers, it was easy to meld in with the crowds of people going about their way...sunbaking, picnicking, building sand castles and hitting the surf. It is during times like this that I wish I'd jumped aboard the 2002 Blue Crush phenomenon and been one of the those girls who learnt how to surf, just so that they could feel a little like Kate Bosworth riding her first wave.

For the lover of baked goods, San Sebastian is home to hundreds of gorgeous pit-stops overflowing with sweet treats. Everybody develops a favourite. For us, it was Barrenetxe. The family's link to confectionery and baking can be traced all the way back to the late 1600's - and the hard work has paid off. Their San Sebastian establishment is an absolute temple of confectionery - with macaroons, croissants, truffles and miniature cakes piled high on the counter-top, in constant view (and easy reach) of the coffee bar dwellers. We visited every day. Possibly excessive - but that's the way I roll. My absolute favourite was Txintxorros, almond and candied orange peel cake miniatures, topped with a thin layer of crushed almonds - made with eggs, sugar, flour butter, almonds, candied orange and water...ONLY to be found in Barrenexte. As a friend recently pointed out to me, cake for breakfast, is so underrated. To top off the entire experience, the manager (and barista) made a killer coffee. He had mastered the knack of steaming milk. How could I tell? Not only through the creamy, perfectly aerated result, but through the staccato bursts of air - a rhythmic, tightly-pursed-lips kissing sound, which occurs every second or two, when the jug is tilted ever so slightly. He always delivered a deep golden crema and, each shot was timed down to the second, resulting in nothing less than a perfect start to the morning. It wasn't all roses though. I should mention that on the occasion that his employee made our coffee, it was nothing to write home about.

Barrenetxe cabinet selection

Txintxorros @ Barrenetxe

As this is a blog about Basque country, I suppose that I should follow suite and mention the traditional Pintxo (pronounced 'pincho'). At home, this is what we would refer to as 'tapas', except, Pinxto are served in line with the Spanish translation of their name - 'Pincho', meaning 'spike'. That is, skewers are used to fasten typical Basque favourites such as croquette or stuffed peppers, to small pieces of bread. Pintxo are served from the bar. I love the idea of this style of dining, however, from our experience, pricing is not for the faint hearted. At around two euro a pop, it's easy to rack up an enourmous bill without noticing. For much better value, we dined at Restaurant Urbano, where I ate pan fried foie on green beans and a bed of mashed potato with truffle oil, followed by the most incredible squid done three ways (ink, with onions and grilled). Kane had an egg cooked at thirty degrees, served on a bed of fried peppers with sea salt. Sadly, I can't recall his main! This particular find has a few bad reviews on TripAdvisor but honestly, other than my pineapple and rum soufflé which was not a soufflé in any way shape or form, the service and quality were fantastic. If you want to escape the bars and get out for a nice dinner in San Seb., I would definitely pay Restaurante Urbano a visit.

View from our camp site and the picnic wall

When not dining out, we enjoyed simple picnics by the sea. One evening we picnicked on the rock wall overlooking the eastern aspect of the beach. Nothing compares to taking in the ambience with a bottle of red, locally marinated artichocke hearts, fresh bread, olive oil and balsamic. It was actually a very bizarre experience. Within five minutes of us settling on the wall, about twelve wild cats emerged from the shelter of the rocks. They sat just meters from us, watchful, proud and ... judgemental? I felt as though I had been teleported to a fairytale hearing and my case was being presented to a jury of cats. I wondered if their shiny coats were a result of a diet rich in omega-3. You know, from swiping sardines living solitary existences in rock pools. BAM. Mraauuuw!! Just like that.

On our final evening, we utilised our wheels to explore the rugged coast line. After taking a few turns too many, we ended up off the beaten track, on a road set into the cliff face. We managed to find a spot to pull off the road and set up our dining room (a tiny fold out table, 2 tripod camper chairs and a double hob gas burner). Overlooking the ocean, with what looked like Christopher Robin's Hundred-Acre-Wood behind us, the location couldn't have been more perfect. It was here that we cooked salted pan fried green peppers and a first attempt at paella. I am ashamed to say that we used frozen, pre-packed seafood, because we had been too late for the fishmonger! Despite the fact that I felt at risk of chipping my dentition on sand excreted from the cockles, it was an experience in itself - homemade paella, overlooking the San Sebastian coastline - complete with crashing waves, a beautiful sunset and the silhouettes of parachuters, making their way back to land. It was a surreal evening and the perfect end to our San Sebastian experience.

Preparing and snacking on salted green peppers. Note the incredible backdrop!

San Sebastian sunset on the final evening of our stay

The following morning, we were sad to say goodbye but make no mistake - next Summer, we are SO there!

Hasta pronto amigos!

When in Aix

2011-12-05T00:27:00.001+10:00

Situated in the south of France and once home to the post-impressionist revolutionary, Paul Cezanne, Aix en Provence may well have been my favourite van trip destination. If not for the endless supply of farm fresh chevre, for the patisserie windows filled with perfectly iced calisson, unmistakable aroma of Herbes de Provence, and boutique-lined cobblestone passageways. The city breathed a welcoming, South-of-Paris hospitality - from the owners of Arc-en-Ciel camping ground, to the retail assistant who made phone enquiries regarding a fine we had received on the toll road. Our visit also marked the occasion of a baker insisting that I have an oven-fresh baguette, instead of her day-old display stock. As though it happened yesterday, I can still see her wiping a few strands of greying hair from her sweating brow, giving me a cheeky smile and cocking her head toward the oven. Although we didnt speak the same language, words weren't required to highlight the importance of a fresh baguette. Yes, in Aix, generosity is everywhere. But perhaps the most notable act, was that of Anna, a road-side greengrocer assistant.

Kane and I met Anna on our first evening in Aix. I had wanted to try out a couple of dishes inspired by Elizabeth David's French Country Cooking. After collecting a few bits and bobs, we paid. Anna was astounded. For some reason, she was under the impression that the few items we had bought, would be the only and entire contents of our evening meal. We tried to convince her otherwise but she seemed dubious. After a lengthy discussion about where we had travelled from, she asked, "Do you like chevre? It comes fresh from a farmer four kilometres away, every single day". We both responded that we liked chevre very much. Without further ado, she wrapped two rounds (one natural and one coated in ground black pepper), in waxed paper. The cheese was unpriced. When we asked how much, she insisted that we take it as a 'gift'. I couldn't have been more delighted! How kind of her!

That night we enjoyed a camping feast fit for kings! We started with the chevre and fresh baguette. The goats cheese was gorgeous and creamy. Being in a whole league of its own, it would be rude to compare it to any that I have eaten before. We then went on to enjoy whole baby endives, stripped of their outer leaves to avoid bitterness and sautéed in salted butter. This was followed by a simple dish of poached button mushrooms in fresh, thickened cream. Whilst preparing the dish, I could hear Elizabeth David's voice in my head - "To have anything else with them, would be absurd!" As a main course, we prepared a soul-warming tomato soup enhanced with a vegetable and chicken stock, seasoned with fennel, thyme and bay, and heartied-up with half a cup of rice (added 15 mins prior to the intended serving time). It is the perfect dish for a couple of campers working from a teeny-tiny camping stove, with only one pot! What a memorable Autumn evening. There we sat, cupping our bowls of soup in both hands, to generate extra warmth, occasionally moving one hand to pick up our glass of local red. When we had finished our soup, we used up the last of the baguette to mop up the juices.

The following evening, we returned to buy some more fresh fruit and veg. We told Anna how much we enjoyed the chevre and that this time, we would actually buy a round! Again, she refused - this time, wrapping three rounds of goats cheese in waxed paper, insisting that we needed one of each variety! That evening, we were spoilt for choice, with the addition of chevre heavily coated in dried Provencal herbs (Anna's favourite). The following morning, we left Aix. To thank Anna her for her kindness, we stopped by the greengrocer, with a bottle of wine in hand. Our new friend wasn't in, so we left it with her boss. Without stipulating who we were, or what we were grateful for, we asked him to pass on a 'thank you'. I'm sure that Anna would have known.

Since our time in Aix, we have been eating young chevre as if it's going out of fashion (sadly, nothing compares!) About two-three weeks ago, Kane and I went out for dinner and although I'm unable to recall the restaurant's name, I am able to recall what was an ingenious entrée! Pan fried soft goats cheese, served on brioche, with caramelised onion and a side of tomato and ginger relish. It was nothing less than ridiculously incredibe. The following day I couldn't stop thinking about it, so decided to use up the tomatoes in my fridge and embark on an experiment of re-creation. Here is what I came up with:

Tomato & Ginger Relish

Ingredients:
Small dash of extra virgin olive oil for cooking
4 medium-sized ripe tomatoes chopped into quarters (the riper the better)
1 tbs sugar
1/4 large onion finely diced
1.5-2cm of a ginger knob (finely grated)
Pinch of nutmeg
Pinch of salt
2 cloves
Splash of port (be generous, if you must!)
1 tsp sweet balsamic glaze (I used an aged fig variety)

Method

In a small saucepan, cook onion and ginger over a low-medium heat in olive oil until fragrant and onion is soft with transparent quality. Add tomato and sugar and stir frequently until sugar has dissolved. Turn up heat slightly and add generous splash of port - let it bubble away so that the alcohol can sizzle off. Add all remaining ingredients and turn down to low. Allow to simmer gently, stirring every now-and-again to break up the tomatoes, until your relish has reduced to a lovely jam consistency. At this point, you must fish around for those cloves and whip them right out! (An appetizer quickly becomes UN-appetizing when one of your guests crunches on a clove!)

Refrigerate before serving as a side to a whole round of fried goats cheese on thick slice of fresh crusty bread, or even better, brioche. NB: Prepare your goats cheese by quickly pan frying over high heat in a non-stick pan on both sides until golden.

Keep any left over relish sealed in the fridge... no doubt you will be craving it the following evening and will be thankful that you didn't wash it down the sink!!

Reggio Emilia, The Little Province That Was Not

2011-11-17T21:28:00.001+10:00

As we drove along the Brenner Pass from Austria into Northern Italy, I was completely overwhelmed by excitement. The Dolomites competed heavily with the Deutsch Alpenstrasse for the most scenic driving route yet and I reveled in the delights of the eating experiences, which I knew were yet to come. Since visiting Florence, Bologna and Pasiano (Pordenonne) with my girlfriends in March, I hadn't stopped thinking about the carafes of vino, never-ending bread baskets, bottomless olive oil dispensers and multi-course meals. Beautiful people everywhere. How was this so? Antipasto, primi piati, secondi, insalata, dolce. Every. Single. Day. I swear - other than when we were scoping out one-of-a-kind leather garments and accessories, all of our time was spent meandering from one eating establishment to the next.

This time, Kane and I were confined to just 3 days in Northern Italy, as we needed to make it to a music festival on the south-west coast of France by September 17th (which, incidently, was later cancelled. Boohoo). Despite our time constraints, I was determined to take a self-guided foodie route through the province of Reggio Emilia. Geographically, Reggio Emilia is comprised of Modena (famed for its balsamic vinegar, as well as motor giants: Ferrari, Lamborghini and Maserati ), Parma (hello, Parmigiano Reggiano and Parma Prociutto!) and Reggio nell'Emilia (Lambrusco wine, Parmigiano Reggiano and interestingly enough, Max Mara fashion line, whose headquarters were established there by Achille Maramotti in 1951). To experience multiple food products with P.D.O status in the actual communes that they orginate? Living the dream. Or so I'd imagined....

What I did not imagine was this:

We arrived in Modena at 6.30pm, mapless and unable to find anywhere to set up camp. Our GPS was of no help whatsoever, because outside of the UK, it only identified toll roads. Epic fail. In desperate need of consolation we parked in the city centre and decided to seek out something delicious. This should't have been hard, as arguably, we were in the food capital of the world. 6.30pm on a Monday. Everything was shut. Perhaps one could expect this in Mareeba. But Modena? Really? We roamed the deserted cobblestone passages. Church bells echoed. Romantic? Nostalia inducing? Lonely? I couldn't decide. Eventually, we found a fast-food pizza joint. A chain. Ugh. I can't recall the details of our order. Nothing out of the ord. But it filled the pit in my stomach. I still find this concept extremely depressing - being in Italy and eating something not worth talking about...something which merely filled the pit in my stomach. Double Ugh. Not to worry though. One does not appreciate the simple things in life when all is smooth sailing. Case and point being that the very next morning, we were nothing short of ecstatic that the University of Modena guards had not 'moved us along' from our chosen camping spot in their campus accommodation car park. Things were lookin' up!

Modena, Day 2. After an espresso and croissant, it was all systems go. We set off to the Office de Tourisme in Piazza Grande to find out which Balsamic Vinegar producers would allow us to tour the premises. None, apparently. Yes, owners conducted factory tours, however, it was a blunt 'no' when the booking agent mentioned that we were an English speaking couple. We had not given enough notice. Pigs trotter! There we were, in Modena - home of Aceto Balsamico di Tradizionale. I could not let this rest. So, whilst at the Laundromat, I attempted to ask an elderly Italian man if he could direct us to a balsamic vinegar producer; "Poui arutarmi atrovare, Aceto Balsamico Tradizionale di Modena fabricca, per favore?" I have no idea whether my tensing or syntactical organisation was correct - but who cares about incorrect tencing when a nonno correctly interprets your question!? BINGO, BINGO, BINGO!! I could have jumped on top of the dryer and done a happy dance. Except, I can't dance. The nonno directed us toward a food market, however, at some point we must have confused right with left, or left with right. After 45 minutes, we gave up. Just when I thought it was all over, we spotted a balsamic vinegar specialty store. I ran in to ask whether we could visit their supplier. He seemed ticked off that I didn't buy anything but willingly handed over their address. To our dismay, the producer was located in a tiny commune on the outskirts of Modena, called Magreta, which we (and our not-so-trusty GPS) had never heard of. After another hour of searching and befriending service-station attendees who provided directions, we struck gold! Ahhhhhhh. We were exhausted - BUT - we had made it. As we strolled through the gates, it all seemed worth it. "I knew we could get here. I knew it!!" We knocked on the door and were unpleasantly greeted by a woman who told us to come back in two and a half hours. It was siesta. Ahhhhhh, of course. Siestaaaaa - how could I forget!!??? This was possibly, the most inconvenient siesta ever!! Well, having only a couple of days to get to south-west France, we didn't have two and a half hours. Bastards. I climbed back into our van, fighting back tears.

I felt a tad better after consuming what was possibly the best pizza of my life at Pizzeria D'asporto il Gatto & La Volpe (mozerella, radicchio, pancetta, Grana Pedano, Aceto Balsamico - just 6 euro including drinks). However, my mood plummeted for the umpteenth time that day, when we drove into Reggio nell' Emilia. There it was.... the Parmigiano Reggiano factory which I had dreamt of for months...maybe even years...SHUT DOWN. As in, broken glass windows, 'i-haven't-been-open-since-the-seventies,' shut down. I didn't comment. Just sat, in silence. The wheels of our van went round and round, round and round, round and round. As we drove through Parma, I didn't protest when Kane kept driving. It had been a long day and I doubted I could cope with any more disappointment. If bad things really do come in threes, we were destined to discover that the curing and preparation of Parma Prociutto had recently been banned in the region.

As we drove over the border, exiting The Little Province That Was Not, my tears fell. I felt like a small girl, who had run away from home to see the fair - but when she arrives, the fair is over...the carnies are packing away sideshow alley and sewer rats are feasting on stale popcorn. The more I thought of the small girl, the more I sobbed. I was so disappointed. And worse yet, was disappointed in myself for feeling so let down by...well...food. How ungrateful of me! A wretch! Poor Kane. What was he to say about all of this? Tears and all? Rather comical upon reflection.

I apologise. Today, I have presented you with the Oh-So-Sad-Tales of an Aspiring Gastronome. You're probably wondering why I haven't at least included some photographs of Reggio Emilia for a bit of a reader pick-me-up... but the truth is, I have no photographic evidence of my heart break. What I will share, though, is a picture of the sun set, which followed this day. A magical view from the Cinque Terre coast line. The kind of sun set, which makes you feel grateful that you are alive and kicking, remorseful for crying about food (ahem!), and above all, excited about the wondrous prospects that lie ahead.

Weisswurst: The Golden Rules

2011-11-17T07:15:00.001+10:00

Although my Opa Wolfgang is from the north of Deutschland, it was not long before my robust Germanic bones felt right at home in Munchen, further south. Conveniently, we were able to set up camp just a hop, skip and metro ride from the city. It soon became clear that we would need at least three days to even scratch at the surface of Munich's rich cultural landscape. Having covered little German history in my schooling, I was blown away by the beauty and revival of the Bavarian capital, which I learnt played such a significant role in the Thirty Years War, was once the Hauptstadt der Bewegung (capital of the [Nazi] movement) and was subject to seventy-one air raids over six years in WW2. Luckily for us, we were able to undertake a self-guided, mp3 tour. This allowed for plenty of breaks, during which we were able to feast on street vendor goodies to our hearts content. Yay!

For as long as I can remember, a big juicy Bratwurst with sauerkraut and mustard has remained somewhere between 1 and say, 7, on my top-treats list. So naturally, prior to this visit, my Deutschland-related day-dreams were mostly occupied by large quantities of wurst, served by Bavarians dressed in lederhosen, entertaining me with traditional folk dance, whilst smashing beer mugs together - exclaiming 'Prost!!' Not to have tested these expectations, would have been unthinkable!

I'm not really one for guided tours, however, I jumped at the chance to attend a Bavarian Food Tasting tour for just 22 euro, including all food and beverages. On meeting beneath the Rathaus Glockenspiel in Marienplatz, our local guide announced that there would only be 3 attendees. Brill.

Rathaus-Glockenspiel (New Town Hall, Munich, Germany)

My learnings from the half-day experience far exceeded my expectations surrounding the Bavarian culinary scene. Let's skip straight to the highlights. Weisswurst (meaning 'White Sausage'). Essentially, a short and stout, predominantly veal sausage, boiled and served in a bowl of hot water containing fresh herbs. Un-bloody-believable. Admitting this next fact of life is not going to be my classiest moment. They served me two; I could just about have inhaled twenty. When it comes to the degustation of Weisswurst, there are a number of time honoured traditions with which most Bavarians comply (NB: inhalation is NOT one of them).

Weisswurst: The Golden Rules

Must be eaten before the church bells strike noon.

This practise arose prior to the invention of ice-boxes and refrigerators, when the un-smoked meat was at risk of perishing and therefore, had to be consumed soon after production.

One draws/sucks the meat from the casing, using their teeth.

As the story goes, in 1957, a butcher was making Weisswurst in Marienplatz. Being Mardigras, the celebrating masses ate with hearty appetites. Eventually, the butcher ran out of wurst casings (made from sheep intestine) and sent his assistant to fetch more. However, when the assistant returned, he presented the butcher with much thicker, tougher intestine of hog. Being more difficult to chew, the patrons sucked the meat out, leaving the casings to be disposed of.

Weisswurst are boiled gently (for about 10 mins), not grilled, baked or fried!

When the butchers assistant was only able to obtain hog intestine casings, they were concerned that it was more susceptible to splitting if fried over direct heat. As a result, the decision was made to cook the wurst in simmering water. Weisswurst are usually served in hot water. This prevents them from becoming cold and unappetising!

Always served with senf, a sweet Bavarian mustard

My re-creation of the Weisswurst experience back at camp. Breaking the third golden rule because we didn't have an unlimited supply of serving bowls.

Aware of the fact that I am rarely able to beat my foodie experiences into neat, minimalist paragraphs, I have done my best to summarise the rest of my Bavarian culinary experience with a few [lengthily] captioned photographs Hooray!

Cheese deli in the Munich food markets.

I found it interesting that particular retail spaces in the food market will always be reserved for sale of particular products. For example, if this cheese seller had to close his doors, only another distributor of artisan cheese could take his place.

Sharing platter of cured meats.

Our guide had a good insight into the history and making of each and every one of these! Leberkase (located 12-3 o'clock on the plate above) is a fast food favourite throughout Bavaria. If ever in need of a quick bite, we would pull over and order a thick hot slice of leberkase on a bread roll with senf mustard. Really delicious.The name translates to 'liver-cheese' BUT, in actual fact, the product contains neither liver, nor cheese!! Our guide told us that the meat, which contains ground pork, beef and onion, gained its name through the word changing form a number of times. My university linguistics lecturer would have loved to have wrapped his teeth around that one! haha, pun intended.

Creating a campervan cookery masterpiece using fresh strawberries and raspberries from the markets

Tadaaaa!!! :D

Beer garden in the Munchner food Markets...just as you would imagine.

That's all folks.

Auf Weidersehen! Tschuss! Goodbye!

An Unfortunate Aspic Encounter

2011-11-02T11:47:00.000+10:00

Aspic, by the definition of Mastering the Art of French Cooking authors Julia Child, Simone Beck and Louisette Bertholle (1961), is "the whole decorated dish of various elements coated with or molded in jelly [Gelée]." They note that "gelée is the French culinary term for beef, veal, chicken, or fish stock which stiffens when cold because it contains natural gelatin, or because gelatin has been added to it." In essence, this means that an aspic is any edible matter suspended in a savoury jelly, which may or may not have been created through the extended soaking and rapid boiling of calves feet or cracked veal knuckles. Now, whilst I do enjoy a good knuckle cracking at the end of a long day, the thought of cracking veal knuckles, or harvesting the foot of a wee calf and reducing it to a liquid, for that matter, rubs me the wrong way. But i do enjoy sour worms, which I presume contain some form of gelatin and therefore, are probably derived from the same methods. Hmmm... this was an unexpected ethical twist. Let's save that one for another rainy day. Today, I wish to report back on my first (and most likely, last) aspic experience, which took place in the German metropolis, Frankfurt-am-Main (named after the Main River, pronounced 'Mine').

View of the Frankfurt cityscape and Main River from Maintower (200m)

Often to the great entertainment of my family and close friends, I exhibit nonsensical behaviours, characterised by what I like to describe as a heightened sense of cuiriosity.

Exemplar 1: Age 2 1/2; swallows a smooth precious stone after being warned not to touch the precious stone.

Exemplar 2: Age 14; Protrudes tongue, allowing it to make contact with dry ice covering rear aspect of standing fridge/freezer whilst no-one is in the house, despite sneaking suspicion that tongue may stick.

Exemplar 3: Age 20; Places raw egg in plastic bag and attempts....actually i'm not going to publicise that one on a public forum.

Evidently, elements of my intelligence are yet to develop beyond Piaget's preoperational stage of cognition. It is therefore, no surprise, that I so eagerly ordered aspic of suckling pig meat from a restaurant in Frankfurt, after being firmly warned by Julie Powell (author of Julie & Julia), that aspic jelly should be avoided at all costs. What she didn't say is: 'avoid even if sliced into triangles and arranged on a platter with traditional Frankfurter green herb sauce'. And P.S, I was already dying to dry the herb sauce after reading about it prior to our travels...and menu item 85 was the only dish in which the sauce featured.

The waiter seemed most delighted when I placed my order. He also reported that the dish was one of his own favourites (trust me, I already considered that this may have been a poor translation of what he actually meant to say -but no, he definitely spoke English as fluently as your average Australian man). Our meals arrived within fifteen minutes. Not bad.

Upon being served, I felt...tentative. I could see where they were headed with presentation but in actual fact, the triangular slices of suckling pig aspic bared an uncanny resemblance to piggy ears. You know...the kind that you see on headbands that college students wear to fancy-dress fundraisers. Needless to say, I was still keen to give it a whirl. My first impression was - 'OK, not bad. I could possibly get used to this'. The pieces of suckling pig were tender and on a whole, the aspic was well seasoned and flavoursome. The nature of the texture required 2 x mastication reps, at which point the jelly melted in my mouth. From what I've heard, a good aspic is one which does exactly that - melts in the mouth. So on a technical note - ten points to the chef. On a personal note, as a savoury, this was not a texture I had experienced before. Two slices in and too far out of my comfort zone, I politely pushed my plate to the side and began to contemplate: do modern-day beings actually enjoy eating aspic jelly or is society merely clinging on to a culinary practice of it's predecessors? I am certainly not one to disrespect tradition. I could cope with savouries being set in solidified consomme as a decorative measure at Christmas time - but to pretend that I enjoy the likes of meat set in a sliceable savoury jelly would be simply outlandish. No can do. As for the Frankfurter sauce, it wasn't the bang I was expecting but in fairness, the cold pig set in clear jelly probably didn't do it justice. Whilst I am pleased to have been exposed to the time-honoured art-form of aspics, I would not voluntarily subject myself to this experience again. If you, on the other hand, wish to ignore my advise and meddle with such madness, Mastering the Art of French Cooking devotes an entire chapter to aspics. Go on, have a crack.

Hi-Ho-Hi-Ho, On A Van Trip We Shall Go!!

2011-10-26T06:48:00.000+10:00

There is something exhilarating about hitting the road in a foreign land with five weeks on your hands, an anything-but-inconspicuous van, and little more than a vague idea about how to cross the English Channel.

Whilst browsing the web for a one way flight to Florence (where we had hoped to reside for two months), I got click-happy. It happens sometimes. Needless to say, our plans changed. As a born-and-bred resident of Cairns, Far North Queensland (one of the biggest backpacker hubs in Australia), I tuned in when I read that the spirit of the Wicked campervan was also alive and well in England. I had occasionally envisaged myself cruising along in a vehicle of such cheerful appearance; a dream catcher hanging from the rear-view mirror, a colourful string weave through my hair and Bob Marley's 'steer it up' droning out the warning sounds of a slipping fan belt. So, as you can imagine, when Kane and I heard that half price van rental was on offer, it seemed more than opportune. The prospect of an extended culinary expedition across Europe in a van was too exciting for words. It also struck us as the perfect opportunity to explore smaller regions, which become a thousand times more accessible when four wheels enter the equation . The verdict: an experience I could never put a price on. A couple in their twenty-somethings . 5 weeks. 5 countries. 6100 km and, a few showers short of hygienic (oops! apologies. That officially makes me an over-sharer!) Definitely not the first to conquer this voyage - but i bet no one else created a glorious fresh berry compote on the camper stove for tartlets which were then left to set in nature's elements. I wish to tell all!

3 weeks post-van trip and dare I say, blissfully unemployed, I sit perched on the sofa of our north England home - hot chocolate and note pad in hand. With the aroma of duck stock wafting through our abode, I can't help but revisit the recently lived memories of our time in Provence, where the scent of bouquet garni was ever-present and the luxury of farm-fresh chevre became common-place. Each memory invites another and before long, I find myself feasting on weißwurst in Munich, re-living an unfortunate aspic encounter in Frankfurt, preparing paella on a cliff side overlooking the San Sebastian coast line, and searching for an 'aceto balsamico traditionalle di Modena' production house in the Reggio Emilia region of Northern Italy.

From the mountainous terrain of the German/Austrian alps, to the grape country of the Loire, we saw... we explored. We cooked... we ate. We drank. We laughed. We learned. The link between each region's history and the food culture of today was evident everywhere. Food culture varied from one commune to the next and I couldn't help but acknowledge the significant role that it seemed to play in shaping the values, attitudes and daily routines of the people. When I really think about this, it makes absolute sense. All of these realisations certainly ring true in the case of my own family. My experiences have inspired me delve deeper into the anthropology, culture, history and ethics of food.

As a food blogger, I aspire for my writing to be anecdotal, yet well researched; entertaining, yet informative. I shall dedicate my next few entries to recounting the most memorable cultural and culinary experiences of our van trip, 2011. Enjoy amigos!

Squirrels and Berries and Ash, Oh My!

2011-08-29T09:13:00.001+10:00

In my first blog, ‘The F Word’, I pronounced that Kane and I would be relocating to Europe for two years, allowing me to take the reins on some culinary exploration, which I have been dying to embark on for some time. With this in mind, you will understand that I was gravely disappointed when only speckles of blog-worthy material could be drawn from my first five days in London. Although I was blown away by the works of the impressionists at the National Gallery and the photography exhibit at the Tate Modern, the coffee preceding these events was certainly not worth wasting film over. Who knows, perhaps it was my jet-lag...or perhaps the Brits really don’t take much pride in their brew! In any case, it was most disappointing and, might I say, rather unfortunate that Re:hab in Cairns couldn’t vac-pack me a flat-white on skim and pop it in the post.

Food-wise, it was only the home-made salmon and smoked haddock fish cakes at Lord Nelson’s (Great Ormond square) that blew me away. What a treat they were! I am now kicking myself for not whipping out Rick Stein’s Guide to the Food Heroes of Britain, which I lugged all the way from Oz! I have no doubt that it would have provided some juicy clues to the whereabouts of fine British cuisine.

Not to worry! On Saturday, Kane and I travelled two hours north of London, by train, to Deepcar (City of Sheffield, South Yorkshire, England). We are fortunate enough to be staying with Kane’s family friends, Betty and Gordon, in their four-hundred year old cottage, which hosts incredible views to the Wharncliff crags. I’d never heard of the crags until yesterday – you must Bing it! Haha, kidding! Google it. As for Betty and Gordon, they are an absolute hoot! In the most delightful way of course. I would post up a home-movie of their hilarity, however, all you have to do is close your eyes and imagine Hyacinth Bucket and Richard from Keeping up Appearances in 4D! And they assure me that I’m not the first to make this observation! Now, before I go on, I must share a little bit of history. Betty and Kane’s Nanna have been pen pals since eleven years of age. They wrote to each other (pen-to-paper/ Australia-England) for thirty-seven years, before meeting for the first time as married women with children. I have heard so much about Betty and Gordon that they feel like family already.

Last night, Betty served up hearty bowls of what she called Ash (the Sheffield equivalent of a beef and vegetable stew). Now, it must have potatoes to be called Ash, otherwise, it is merely known as a casserole. My friend Duncan tells me that in nearby Lancashire, this would be called a Lancashire hotpot. Now, I don’t mean to send you into a fit of jealousy - but - our Ash was served over traditional Yorkshire Pudding – light and fluffy casings, with a very slight crunch when your teeth first break the golden surface. Gordon assured me that it’s the additional egg which really gets them rising. Can you imagine?? Actual Yorkshire Pud, which you read about as a child, in actual Yorkshire?? Call me unusual if you like – but EXCITEMENT does not even begin to describe my emotional response to this scenario. For an after dinner sweet, Gordon served up gorgeous little English strawberries – nothing like the sour monsters which we sometimes luck-out with at home. Every mouthful was a real treat, sprinkled with sugar and evaporated milk. Gordon must have served us the equivalent to one-whole punnet each! My goodness gracious! If this is what living in England is all about, I’m in it for keeps! Since arriving, Betty and Gordon have exposed me to the quaint English life-style that I have always day dreamt about....surrounded by stone walls, fireplaces, squirrels and blackberries.

Blackberries in Derbyshire

Blackberries still on the bush - Can you believe it!? Today, Whilst visiting the site of the drowned villages of Derwent and Ashopton, at the Ladybower Water Reservoir in Derbyshire, I stumbled across plump, ripe blackberries! I’d never seen a real-life blackberry on a bush before! Had there been a plentiful supply, I would have retrieved a tartan-lined wicker basket from the vehicle to collect the foundations for a pie! All of this happening before a scenic background of heather on the moors; it took my breath away. Suddenly, for the first time since touching down in England, my tummy filled with the kind of butterflies that flutter in response to change...the kind which tell you that you’ve actually ventured away from home. I want to stay. Right here, with the berries and the puds and the heather on the moorland. Although we intend to move on to Italy in a few days/ week/ undefined amount of time, at some point during our time here, we will need to find a place to settle. Perhaps Deepcar, Sheffield, will be the place we call home.

Deepcar, Sheffield, South Yorkshire, England.

The Long Lunch

2011-07-31T22:13:00.003+10:00

There is nothing more delightful then spending a Sunday afternoon with our adopted Italian grandparents - Nonna Nina and Serge. I've always aspired to be an Italian! In March, I spent a week in Northern Italy and fell in love. In love with the culture; the people, the language, the architecture, the wine and ohhhhh my goodness, the food!! The people seemed to buzz with such a zest for life - and i felt...at home.

Today, as Kane and I were welcomed into Nonna Nina's kitchen, the same feelings of warmth rushed back to me. There is certainly no mistaking an Italian cucina! The central bench was crammed with bowls spilling over with home-grown seasonal produce; cherry tomatoes, passion fruit, lemons and eggplant. Although I had reminded her to keep things simple, I wasn't surprised when she unveiled her morning masterpiece; for antipasto, we enjoyed grilled marinated eggplant served with garlic toasts, shallow fried potato-anchovy-parmigiano fritters, and a mixed bowl containing the last of her son's home grown and marinated olives, artichoke hearts, pickled onions, semi dried tomato, and wedges of mature mozzarella. I was left aghast when she went on to boast that the cheese had been maturing in her fridge since Christmas time - but alas, no mould! I live on, 6 hours later, to tell the tale. Now, as for our secondi (main); we feasted on lasagna, roasted beef cheeks with seasonal vegetables, and chicken drumsticks marinated in lemon and oregano picked straight from their garden. Did I mention that this stupendous spread was to cater for four? Four adults, yes - but still - i would call this excessive! I like excessive. As usual, everything she served was melt-in-the-mouth, 'can I have the recipe?' worthy. BUT, as usual, Nonna Nina replied, "why darling, you know me better than to ask! I couldn't tell you the recipe - I added all ingredients to taste".

So that Kane and I could semi-tackle our expanding waistlines before dessert, we convinced our hosts to lead us on a walking tour of their property. We strolled through the orchard, admiring the lychee plantation, which once provided them with a source of income. Their property is also home to avocado, mango, citrus and macadamia trees. Serge muttered in frustration about the 'bloody - bloody white-tailed rats' getting into the macadamias. I couldn't help but have a little giggle. Nonna Nina explained that the macadamia is actually local to Queensland; it was originally known as the Queensland nut, however, it was re-named after its popularity began to soar in America. Who would have thought?

Upon return to the farm house, Nonna Nina whipped some cream in preparation for dessert:
Lemon - Passionfruit Tart served with freshly whipped cream and a Lemon Poppyseed - Sour Cream Cake, which I had baked earlier. Ohh Treat!! The Lemon - Passionfruit Tart was so sublime, that sadly, I had no room for any cake. Luckily, I had baked two and knew that another entire cake was waiting for me at home.

At my request, Nonna Nina attempted to recall the method to her magic:

I don't know darling...could have been 6, or 8, or even 10 passion fruit. I covered the pulp in water...it would have been about [this] deep in the pot...just a medium sized saucepan really. I left it to simmer and waited for the seeds to separate from the pulp. Then, I strained out the seeds, squeezed in the juice of a lemon, added to sugar to taste and while it stayed on the heat, I very gradually stirred in 3...or maybe even 4 teaspoons of custard powder. Then...I poured it into the tart shell and put it in the fridge to set, of course!

Yes...of course...

So there you have it. A late lunch at Nonna Nina's, after which, bellies full (and in despearte need of a siesta), we contently rolled out the door, as happy as two lambs in Spring! I shall experiment with the tart a couple of times and post a recipe!
Until then, Ciao!

Parma and Poptarts

2011-07-27T21:52:00.002+10:00

What a splendid way to spend a quiet Saturday evening; celebrating the arrival of our UK visas, with great food, great wine and even better company.

Kane and I admire the waterfront view, enjoying generous slices of Chèvre accompanied by the last of my bottle of Chablis - Bliss! I have been eyeing off Valli Little's recipe for Tomato Soup with Melting Bocconcini since pinching the May edition of Delicious magazine from mama's house; finally a large pot of goodness is simmering on the stove top.

It is in moments of contentment, like this, that i find myself reflecting. Today, reflecting on how plans and goals can change so drastically - yes as we mature, but more so in response to the twists and turns in our path (I believe that it's a wee thing called life!). However, for most, certain themes remain alive and constant. For a lifetime. No doubt you guessed that this next statement was coming but yes, my 'theme' is of an edible nature. At age seven, I dreamed of climbing half way up Enid Blyton's faraway tree, to share pop tarts with Silky and Moonface (just out of curiosity - didn't we all dream about that??). One decade and reality check later, my university break involved ten hour days de-handing bananas so that I could afford specialty delicatessen purchases during the semester. For those of you who have de-handed bananas for a living: you will understand when I say that I also became subject to a nasty case of RSI. For those of you who have not de-handed bananas for a living but have a burning desire to do so: it.will.be.the.death.of.you. Apologies - back to the theme. Four years later, graduated and earning, I find myself dreaming of navigating the canals of regional France on a non-commercial river barge, relishing in the delights of only the best local produce...or better yet, extended stays in the quaint B&B's of Parma, Italy. The wondiferous fact of life is that all of a sudden, these plans/goals/dreams are no longer a distant mirage - but a fast-approaching potential reality! While Kane and I are living in London, I will be utilising the opportunity to explore food culture across Europe at any chance possible. To put it into perspective, in a mere 25 days, 10 pound London to Parma airfares with Ryan Air, may well be at our disposal! Wheeeeeeeeeee!!!

If you aren't familiar with Parma as culinary haven, you simply MUST commence your research at once!! I first stumbled across the region when researching a prospective food-trail throughout Northern Italy - the motherland of Parmigiano Reggiano and Parma prociutto; how could it NOT have been on my radar? My research almost brought a tear to my eye! Did you know that it takes around 600L of cows milk to produce one 40kg round of Parmigiano? Incredible. What I love even more is how diverse it is! I grate Parmigiano for table use - yes - but also adore eating it in small wedges, drizzled with Balsamic vinegar. Just as I am overcome by disappointment that the wedge is finished, I remember that the rind can be saved and later, added to a minestrone for increasing depth of flavour. To waste any of this product seems such a terrible shame! I shan't be offended if you navigate away from my blog for 45 minutes to find out what all of the fuss is about, just so that we are on the same page. Infact - let me be polite and wrap my excitement, so that you can pop off to http://www.lonelyplanet.com/italy/emilia-romagna-and-san-marino/parma , or better yet, take a peek at http://www.taste.com.au/delicious/article/travel/parma+rome+milan,772

In the meantime, I will be researching potential modes of employment in London. It turns out that I must wait 18 weeks for my speech pathology registration to be processed by the UK Health Professions Council!

Until next time,
Ciau!....I hope that your next meal is Parma-inspired and Buonissimo!!

The 'F' Word

2011-07-15T00:28:00.000+10:00

I have often envisaged myself as a writer...a magazine editor, newspaper columnist or novelist, perhaps. However, 2010 has come and gone and still, there are no signs of a Pulitzer reaching the pool room! Suddenly, I take the title of 'blogger'. Yes, I believe that I have become one of 'those' - but in my defence, this is my first gig. There are no rules, no regulations. I want to write about the 'f' word and Google tells me that I don't stand alone.

'Foodies'; although not yet acknowledged by wiki.org, we have indeed, become a subculture. We live and breathe to eat; to taste, to touch, to smell. To wholly and fully experience food. Our obsession consumes us, both when we are awake - and in our dreams. Foodies come in many shapes and many sizes; he or she may wear the mask of lolly-pop lady, a detective, or even...a beekeeper. It now strikes me, that identifying a member of this collective may pose a challenge to the common Fuggle (not to be confused with 'muggle' - although,yes, this may have stemmed from an apparently not-so-well-hidden Harry Potter obsession). But in all seriousness - allow me.

Weetbix for breakfast makes us cringe (if not actually cry REAL tears) and whilst savouring the last of our lunch, we are mentally preparing at least two courses for dinner. Following a meal out, it would not be unusual to spot us on a private tour of the chef's cooking premises and a Saturday night may very well involve researching the use of products with PDO status defined under European Union Law (no judgement please!) Oh, and whilst we're on the subject, I should probably mention that many of us will have single-handedly photographed enough espressos to montage the remains of the Berlin wall.

Our reasons for blogging about food? To share the triumphs of executing our first canard a l'orange of course!!...Or the grave disappointment of a failed attempt at Baccala Mantecato (ok yes, I confess!) Perhaps we log in, hoping to extract secrets from the kitchen of an Oma or a Nonna; to explore time-honoured culinary traditions and to discuss recipes that could only be truly mastered through close observation, because they call for 'a medium sized pinch' of this, 'a few large shakes' of that, and need to be mixed 'like so'.

As for me?
Formal background in food: nil.
Passion factor: plentiful.
Unlike Julie Powell, my current form of employment is rewarding; stimulating; a challenge....but just like Julie Powell, I yearn for much more than the daily grind. I want to do what I love. "Unreasonable", you say? Pig's Trotter! Pessimism has no place on this page!

Recently, I had an epiphany; I'm one of the lucky ones. Lucky enough to have identified my passion. I want to...no, I NEED to harness it, explore it and push at all of the boundaries. I yearn for a career in the food industry and although this journey began in my Oma's kitchen nearly two decades ago, my commitment to this dream, begins now. University of Gastronomical Sciences, Italy - you had better be ready for me ;) - and that's a promise. Hungry for an adventure? Keep on visiting - I hope that you enjoy the ride!