by Kate on September 21, 2011
This is a tweaked version of a recipe that was published in The Sydney Morning Herald’s Good Living yesterday, in my column The Minimalist.
Braised lamb is a quintessential spring dish that can be a real celebration of a new season, or unbearably heavy. The difference has a little to do with the lamb, and a lot to do with the vegetables and other additions. Here, cinnamon and eggplant turn would-be lamb stew into a spiced, light dish that sings in the new season. I had a version of this dish in Morocco, where the vinegar-drenched sweetness of raisins cut through the richness of the lamb, while lemon juice and fresh mint kept things positively joyous.
One of the great paradoxes of the modern grocery shop is that the best cuts of meat are sometimes the cheapest. The fat-marbled lamb shoulder cut is forgiving for being able to cook more or less forever and still be soft enough to cut with a fork. Most pantries are stocked full of the basic spices used here, which are worth having on hand.
The challenge in this dish comes with the browning of the lamb, essential for any flavoursome one-pot meat dish. Most braises begin with browning, and this is no different. The addition of stock also bumps up the flavour. The easy technique comes in the long slow cooking, and once all browning is done the dish can be left alone for more than one hour to do its magic.
1/4 cup raisins or dried apricots, chopped
2 tbsp red or white wine vinegar
5 Lebanese eggplants
2/3 cup extra virgin olive oil
500g lamb shoulder (boneless meat)
2 large onions, finely chopped
2 garlic cloves, finely chopped
1 x 400g can tomatoes
1/2 cup chicken stock
1 tsp ground coriander
seeds
1 tsp cayenne pepper
2 tsp paprika
1 tsp ground cumin
1 tsp ground cinnamon
1/2 bunch mint leaves, roughly chopped
Mint leaves, to garnish
Juice of ½ lemon
Marinate the raisins in the vinegar in a bowl, set aside. Cut the eggplants into 2cm thick slices, then sprinkle with sea salt and let stand for half and hour in a colander to draw out the bitter flavours.
Heat half the olive oil in a heavy-based frying pan and fry the eggplant in batches until golden on all sides. Drain on paper towel and set aside. Trim the lamb, if your butcher has not done it for you, and cut into 4cm dice. Heat the remaining oil in a heavy-based saucepan with a tight-fitting lid and lightly brown the lamb in batches. Remove lamb from the pan and set aside.
Sweat the onion in the same pan over a very low heat for about 10 minutes, or until soft and translucent. Add the garlic and some sea salt and cook, stirring for a minute, then add the tomato, raisin mixture, browned lamb, stock and spices. Bring to a very gentle simmer, cover and cook for 1 ½ hours, or until the lamb is soft and easily pulls apart with two forks.
When ready to serve, add eggplant, lemon juice and chopped mint to the pan, and toss together until well combined. Divide the lamb among 4 large bowls, garnish with mint leaves, and serve immediately with cous cous.
by Kate on February 10, 2011
How sweet it is to visit Kangaroo Island’s colony of Ligurian bees, writes Kate Gibbs
Perhaps its their renegade status that keeps us enthralled with the bee: hard workers, mass producers, a sense of social order, the mystical ability to turn an egg into a queen, and a violent sting to boot.
“Next to humans, bees are the most studied living things on Earth,” the manager of Island Beehive and a quietly spoken authority on all things honey, Peter Davis, says.
[FULL STORY here: 8 February 2011, The Sydney Morning Herald]
by Kate on February 10, 2011
Watching produce being created builds up an appetite, writes Kate Gibbs.
It’s milking time at the station and children are counting the sheep. This is culinary adventure tourism on Kangaroo Island, where you can walk with the animals, talk with the producers and watch soil, sea and man turn things into food.
A litre of milk, taken from each ewe every morning and mid-afternoon, is transferred to a refridgerated vat in the factory to be pasteurised and turned into Island Pure fetta, haloumi, Kefalotiri and yoghurt, either plan or swirled with local Ligurian honey.
This paddock-to-plate theme is the general premise of the island’s gastronomic attractions. The tourism mainstay of farmers and food producers is showing visitors exactly what they do and then how it tastes.
[FULL STORY here: 8 February 2011, The Sydney Morning Herald]
by Kate on February 10, 2011
This cooking school is the perfect opportunity for beginners to get their hands dirty, writes Kate Gibbs.
It’s a wet, monsoon-like morning in the Adelaide Hills and at 9.30am I have shrimp paste pushed under my nose to smell. It’s followed by coconut milk, coriander and fish sauce, each scent more powerful than the one before. It’s a less on how to cook a Thai feast and a lesson in the virtues of spices to shock you out of a morning blur.
Guest chef Kelly Lord, head chef at Noosa’s Spirit House, is leading the Thai Feasts for Friends class at the Sticky Rice Cooking School.
He explains the five elements of Thai cooking: hot, sweet, salty, sour and bitter. Above him, a wall is scrawled with the autographs of chefs who have gone before and in front is an impressive array of gnarly roots and fragrant herbs, 18 sharp knives, 18 plastic boards, 18 aprons and 18 eager students.
[FULL STORY here: 8 February 2011, The Sydney Morning Herald]
by Kate on February 10, 2011
Harry Trotter is snorting and his bristled face is caked with mud as he ambles up to rare-breed farmer William Marshall. ”Good pig,” Marshall says to the animal and gives him a pat.
Trotter is a Large Black, one of 27 breeds of rare animals Marshall painstakingly raises on Kangaroo Island in an effort to save them from extinction and bring new flavours to the plates of Australia.
I’m the Indiana Jones of rare breeds,” Marshall says of his ability to track down pigs, cattle, sheep and poultry either facing extinction or being inter-bred with other strains of animal that will threaten their future as pure breeds.
[ FULL STORY here: 8 February 2011, The Sydney Morning Herald]
by Kate on January 9, 2011
The omelet is an oops-we’ve-run-out-of-everything lifesaver. If all you have are a few eggs sitting alone in the fridge, you have dinner, or breakfast. A traditional French omelet of two-to-three eggs per person should be beaten, cooked and served in 90 seconds, the experts say. In respect of this culinary folklore, have the filling completely ready before you cook the eggs. An omelette should be served baveuse, cooked by still soft, never well-done.
Ages 7-12: I heart eggs omelet
This is the height of culinary chic, seven-year-old Ava learns as she gently beats the eggs with a fork. This is the most essential basic skill for any budding chef and the cornerstone of French gastronomic tradition. If you can master the art of a perfect omelet, you can step proudly forward in any kitchen, knowing that you can create a masterpiece out of a few simple ingredients. “I don’t know about all that,” Ava says. “I just like eggs.”
4 eggs
1 bunch asparagus
2 teaspoons butter
1/3 cup freshly grated cheese
Beat the eggs with a fork just enough to blend the yolks and whites. Season to taste. Meanwhile, blanch the asparagus in a saucepan of boiling, salted water for 3-5 minutes. Refresh under cold water, cut stems in half and set aside. Melt the butter in a medium-sized non-stick pan over a medium heat, tilting the pan to film the base and sides with butter. When the butter starts to colour, pour in the eggs. With a fork, pull the edges of the egg towards the centre as it thickens. Let the liquid part run into the vacant spaces. Quickly repeat so there is no more liquid, but the eggs are still soft. Scatter the cheese and asparagus over the eggs. Lift the handle of the pan so the omelette rolls over itself and on to a warmed plate, then serve immediately. Serves 2.
by Kate on November 30, 2010
Boys at elite English school Eton invented this dish. Apparently the top-hat wearing children smashed the school pudding of meringues, strawberries and cream to make this downright Eton mess. Let the juice of the crushed strawberries and raspberries dribble down the inside of glasses, and add less cream for a healthier version.
Ages 3-7: Downright Eton Mess
Three-year-old Lulu looks up at me as if I’ve done something incredibly naughty. With mouth open and eyes wide, humoured and worried at once, she says: “You broke them!” The second she cottons on to the fact we are allowed to destroy the perfect meringues we’d made, she’s all-hands-in embracing the task, only slightly withholding her obvious delight at the mess we were making. As luck would have it, this recipe combines two of Lulu’s favourite things, “raspberries” and “pavlova”. Close enough.
Whites from 3 large eggs
1 pinch cream of tartar
1 cup castor sugar
1 punnet fresh strawberries
1 cup frozen raspberries
250 ml cream, whipped
To make the meringues, preheat the oven to 120C and line two baking trays with baking paper. Using an electric mixer, or a whisk, beat the egg whites until frothy. Add the cream of tartar and beat on the highest speed, until stiff peaks are formed but still soft and a little wet. Gradually beat in two tablespoons of sugar and beat for two to three minutes, until very stiff. Fold in the remaining sugar using a metal spatula or spoon, until lightly mixed. Using two large spoons, dollop the mixture onto the trays to form meringue shapes, leaving a space of at least two centimetres between each. Bake for 1½ hours, then remove from oven and let cool. To make the Eton mess, place four meringues in a plastic bag and crush until broken into two-centimetre shapes. Combine half the strawberries and all the raspberries in a bowl and mash with a fork, until juicy and pulped, then add cream and broken meringues. Carefully spoon the mixture into six glasses, then top with remaining strawberries, sliced, and serve immediately. Serves 6
by Kate on October 12, 2010
Peas are a do-able vegetable in the kingdom of kids. They’re small, round and sweet and can be chased around the plate with a fork or thrown at your sister. What’s not to love? Stirred into this other old favourite, macaroni and cheese, it’s a win-win recipe for mini chefs.
My Kitchen Cadets column in The Sydney Morning Herald’s Good Living covered the ever-reliable Mac and Cheese last week. Check out today’s Kitchen Cadets column, where Ava (7) makes raspberry pikelets. Pretty cute.
But meanwhile, from last week, Archie (5) makes herby Mac and Cheese… “Oh, so I have to basically just make a roux. That’s easy,” says “five-and-three-quarter”-year-old Archie as he reads through the recipe before embarking on cooking. “And then we just put everything together and then put it in the oven basically. Easy.” And when he wasn’t making the roux and slowly adding the milk, he’d check his iPod to make sure the embattled soldiers in some game were where they should be. And then back to adding the peas and ham to the sauce, then back to the iPod. There’s a lot to balance in life when you’ve got to cook dinner and beat your top score.
by Kate on September 29, 2010
When the sneaky “little trees” metaphor no longer flies and broccoli is just not finding its way into dinner, mushing it up beyond recognition with other green vegetables may just be the answer.
Three year old Lulu’s immediate reaction to the concept of “mean, green bruschetta” was “yuk”. But we steadfastly continued with our cooking plan. She was less interested during the cutting and blanching, somewhat distracted by the fridge magnets instead. Her interest heightened during the whirring and blending, keen to hold the noisy machine, and she was positively engaged by the idea of grating garlic on toast. And the final verdict? “Not yuk at all, actually.”
Kitchen Cadets, published in Good Living (The Sydney Morning Herald) looks at Lulu’s “mean, green bruscetta”. Every Tuesday in Good Living..
by Kate on September 21, 2010
A Sicilian will tell you cannoli has to be filled with sheep’s-milk ricotta and they must be eaten the day they are made. There may be chocolate-cream filled, custard loaded, coffee creme varieties sold in Australia but a real cannolo, Sicily’s most famous pastry, is something quite different.
In Sicily, crisp-fried pastry shells are filled with a not-too-sweet mixture of dense and creamy sheep’s-milk ricotta – either plain or laden with candied citrus, usually blood orange – a pinch of cinnamon, crushed pistachios, a few drops of orange blossom water and bittersweet chocolate chips.
Story published in The Sydney Morning Herald today.. by Kate Gibbs
pics.. not exactly cannoli but they’re sweet and Italian and still very delicious…
