style and substance

Websites, social media, editorials, brochures and advertisements can all be effective marketing tools for businesses and organisations. However, in a market where potential customers and clients are flooded with information in a variety of media, it is important to select the right communication tool and get the attention of your audience. While the right media and eye-catching design can get the attention of your audience, the key to keeping their attention is developing excellent content.

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Read more about my services here, or contact me to discuss how I can help you!

You CAN make friends with salad!

I have recently begun a quest to try and become a more ethical omnivore. As someone who spends a great deal of time eating and cooking, and thinking, writing and philosophising about food, I feel that it is my responsibility to find out more about the origins of that which goes down my gullet; mainstream agricultural and food production practices and the impacts, social and environmental, which these have on the world. Food production is something that we take for granted. Every one of us daily consumes the products of animal and plant agriculture in Australia and overseas, and yet the processes by which the majority of our food comes to be on our plates is largely hidden, or obscured, from view.

The further I wade into this philosophical and ethical quagmire, the more I realise that there is no simple answer to how we should better, or best, make our choices. In Australia, we are increasingly concerned with the provenance of our food. Farmers’ markets are continuing to surge in popularity and consumers are increasingly demanding organic and free-range produce. These are better choices. But are they good choices? And why?

I am resigned to the knowledge that I will never have ‘the right answer’ and I will never be free of hypocrisy. This is something that pervades every aspect of my life; that is the human condition. However, like Jonathan Safran Foer, author of the powerful Eating Animals, I don’t believe that this should simply be a personal decision. I do not wish to tell others how they should better live their lives, but as a writer, I can share knowledge and information to help people inform their own choices. Just as there are magical stories to tell about my local prawn fishermen and the generations that have taken their trawlers out seeking the daily catch, there are powerful stories to tell about pig farmers who have adopted factory farming practices in order to survive in a marketplace which demands abundant and cheap meat, who are now being forced to change their practices by the same multinational corporations who demanded them in the first place. As an individual, I have decided not to turn my back on the ugly stories which make me feel uncomfortable.

One thing that is abundantly clear, only having scratched the surface of these issues, is that our current level of consumption of animal products and the agricultural practices used to produce them are both unethical and unsustainable. More on that in the future. Be that as it may, I have no intentions to turn my back on the delicious potential of the porcine species, or any of its other barnyard companions. I believe firmly, if not infallibly, in an omnivorous diet. However, I am willing to forgo my hitherto assumption that, as a comfortable middle-class white person who can afford to, I have the right to eat whatever kind of creature I want, whenever I want to. To this end, I am trying to increase my vegetable consumption, not relying simply on meat for my daily nutritious and delicious needs.

Vegetables are often seen as the accompaniment, the necessity for vitamins and minerals. But if you start with good produce and know how to make the most of their flavour, texture and colour, vegetables can be stars in their own right. If there’s one chef I know who can fondle an artichoke better than anyone else, it’s Jared Ingersoll of Danks Street Depot. It’s not that he doesn’t know how to handle his meat; it was in his coolroom that I first came face to face, literally, with a whole pig waiting to be broken down, the face itself destined to become ‘head cheese’ (a name, if not preparation, I still can’t come to terms with). My most fond Danks Street Depot memories are of vegetable dishes though. Most vivid is the memory of the first course served at a dinner to honour culinary luminaries including Margaret Fulton and Tess Mallos, which was a simple whole steamed artichoke served with a bowl of bagna caôda, a warm, creamy emulsification of anchovies, garlic and olive oil. For those of us, including me, who had no idea how to go about eating this beautifully simple preparation, which wasn’t immediately obvious, Jared explained that we were simply to use our fingers to remove leaves from the artichokes one by one, dipping them in the bagna caôda and using the teeth to remove the flesh from the coarser outer leaves, finally eating the tender inner leaves whole. It was joyful to see a room full of people, some of them considered food royalty, enjoying this multi-sensory experience and making a huge mess. The highlight of the same dinner was a simple panzanella salad of tomatoes, bread and basil, showing just what a good, ripe tomato can, and should, taste like.

The trick to bringing out the best in vegetables is to purchase quality produce, organic if possible, careful seasoning and not overcooking them. Invest in the best quality olive oil, vinegars and salt that you can afford, and your palate will be rewarded. While initially they can seem a hefty investment, these pantry items go a long way and will elevate your cooking to new heights. After a visit to the farmers’ market last week left me with some radicchio and a cauliflower to work with, I looked to Jared’s Danks Street Depot cookbook for inspiration and came up with this two-course vegetable feast. It was a triumph, with Papa Explody going back for thirds of the radicchio salad, high praise indeed!

Mother nature's son

Radicchio with fried onions, parmesan and balsamic for two or three (based on recipe in Jared Ingersoll’s Danks Street Depot. Signed copies are on sale at the restaurant!)

Radicchio with fried onions, parmesan and balsamic

1 red onion
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp sugar
vegetable oil, for deep frying
1-2 heads of radicchio, depending on size
50ml best extra virgin olive oil
40ml best aged balsamic vinegar
1/2 bunch flat leaf parsley, coarsely chopped
black pepper
a block of mature parmesan cheese

Thinly slice the onions, then place in a bowl with salt and sugar. Toss, then sit for a couple of hours (I didn’t read the recipe first, so I just did this for about 15 minutes and it still worked ok). Squeeze as much liquid from the onion as you can.

In a heavy-based saucepan, heat enough oil to deep-fry the onions (generally 1/3 to 1/2 full, no more). Put the onion in as the oil is warming up. Cook over a high heat, stirring often, making sure to keep an eye on it, as it won’t do much for ages, but colour quickly towards the end. When it becomes a pale golden colour (it will continue to colour after it’s removed from the oil), work quickly and carefully to remove with a slotted spoon and drain on crumpled paper towels. Gently toss a couple of times to ensure the pieces don’t clump together. When completely cool, taste for seasoning and add more salt or sugar accordingly.

Take the radicchio and remove and discard the tough outer leaves. Cut in half, shred finely, and put in a large bowl. Drizzle on the oil and vinegar, then sprinkle on onion and parsley. Grind in some black pepper, then using a vegetable peeler, shave in a generous amount of parmesan. Instead of tossing the salad, gently ‘roll it’ with your hands, which will incorporate the ingredients but keep it tidy. Taste, and adjust seasoning if needed. Serve with crusty bread.

Spaghetti with cauliflower strascicata for three or four (based on recipe in Jared Ingersoll’s Danks Street Depot)

Spaghetti with cauliflower strascicata

400g spaghetti
100ml extra virgin olive oil
1/2 head cauliflower, chopped into pieces about the size of a thumbnail
3 cloves garlic, thinly sliced
3 anchovy fillets, chopped
2 large red chillies, chopped (seeds optional)
50g salted capers, rinsed and chopped
100g pitted olives, chopped
1 bunch flat-leaf parsley, copped
60g toasted sourdough breadcrumbs
200g (2 cups) freshly grated parmesan cheese
1 lemon, cut into wedges

Cook the spaghetti in a large pot of boiling water until al dente. Drain, then cool; while cooling, drizzle with a little of the oil, then gently toss.

In a large heavy-based frying pan heat the rest of the oil over a medium heat, add the cauliflower and fry until just starting to colour. Add the garlic, mix well, then add the anchovies, chilli, capers and olives. When the cauliflower starts to become tender and has a rich golden colour, add half of the parsley and the cooked spghetti. When the pasta is hot, add the crumbs, parmesan and remainder of the parsley.

The parmesan will start to stick to the pan; use a wooden spoon to scrape the bottom of the pan (this is where the term strascicata comes from, meaning drag). Remove from the heat, serve immediately with a wedge of lemon.

Further Reading

The following books about the ethics of what we eat are well-regarded and a good overview of current thinking on the topic. I welcome comments and advice on your experiences and suggestions for further information!

Jonathan Safran Foer, Eating Animals, 2009

Peter Singer and Jim Mason, The Ethics of What We Eat: Why Our Food Choices Matter, 2006 (includes an examination of Australian practices)

Michael Pollan, The Omnivore’s Dilemma: A Natural History of Four Meals, 2006

The Raw Prawn

My recent two-month stay in Adelaide was full of pleasant surprises. One of them was meeting John Lethlean, one of Australia’s most highly respected food journalists, currently in the employ of The Australian and who, with colleague Necia Wilden, has established the News Limited broadsheet as a leading light in mainstream food writing in Australia. I met John (read: opportunistically introduced myself to him) following a panel session at the Tasting Australia festival titled ‘There’s a Critic in my Soup’ which pitted critics against chefs in an amicable verbal stoush. At the end of the session, the floor was opened up to the audience, and John was asked what he thought about the advent of food blogging and the idea that ‘everyone can be a critic’. In his response, John raised the point that bloggers are not bound by the same codes of ethics that require mainstream journalists to disclose freebies and which underpin the understanding that reputable food reviewers pay for their own meals.

In defence of bloggers, in my usual outspoken fashion, I took the mic and argued that some bloggers do not accept freebies, and that the ones who do, on the whole, declare it. I argued further that the advent of blogging means that readers have access to an unprecedented spectrum of voices and opinions free of editorial control. After all, it is the reader’s responsibility to decide whether or not a source is trustworthy, and this is true of traditional, mainstream media as well as new media.

Essentially, we agreed on all of these points. A few weeks later, he wrote a column about it. The important thing for mine is that there is a growing recognition that food blogs can be a serious and credible source of information along with mainstream media sources, and bloggers can be recognised as serious and credible writers. What also needs to be recognised is that this new platform of communication is accompanied by an ongoing discussion about the role of ethics and transparency in achieving recognition and credibility. On the whole, Australia’s leading food bloggers aren’t just individuals, but part of a community striving towards common goals.

One needs no further proof of this than the inaugural Australian food and drink bloggers’ conference Eat. Drink. Blog. held in Melbourne earlier this year. Unfortunately I was unable to attend, and I consider myself to be on the fringe of these discussions which are being led by some formidably passionate, prolific and talented people. Ethics was one of the topics discussed however, and by all reports, the general consensus among bloggers is that it up to individual writers to decide whether they want to accept freebies, but where they do, they should disclose the fact. Hooray: common sense and decency prevail (two things which, admittedly, the interwebs doesn’t have a great reputation for)!

This brings me to the second pleasant surprise I received in Adelaide: the offer of some complimentary Crystal Bay prawns following a blog post in which I waxed lyrical about Yamba prawns. The political suddenly became personal. Full disclosure: I accepted this generous offer. I blog about food because I’m passionate about it. I don’t get paid for the time I spend researching and writing this stuff. So when an offer of a couple of kilos each of cooked and sashimi-grade green prawns comes my way, are you kidding? Bring it on! Don’t get me wrong, I will work for money too. And I’m available. Just sayin.

In recent years, the branding of regional produce has increasingly become an important marketing tool for producers. Conversely, for the consumer, branding means reliability and consistency. Whether the quality is real or perceived, it can’t be denied that as a society we love to buy the brand. Brands of fresh produce familiar from menus, food media and retail that immediately spring to mind are Glenloth free range chickens, Thirlmere poultry, David Blackmore wagyu and Macleay Valley rabbit. And when it comes to chucking a shrimp on the barbie, there are two names that are instantly recognisable: Yamba prawns and Crystal Bay prawns. Crystal Bay claims devotees from Tetsuya to Neil Perry, and Matt Moran reckons of Yamba prawns ‘if there’s a better prawn in the world, I don’t know about it.’ Impressive endorsements indeed!

This led me to the question ‘what is behind the brand?’ I started with what I know: from experience, Yamba prawns and Crystal Bay prawns are good. Indeed, if they’re good enough for Tetsuya and Matt Moran, they’re good enough for me (marketing: win). I know they’re both king prawns. I know where Yamba is, because I grew up there. Yep. That’s about it. Not much, but a starting point.

So I did a bit of research, and what I discovered were two completely different products which exemplify the diverse practices in the Australian fishing industry. Crystal Bay prawns are a product of aquaculture, farmed in far-north Queensland to meet the demand for sustainable, top quality, fresh prawns all year round. In contrast, the brand Yamba prawns is owned by the Clarence River Fishermen’s Co-operative, and denotes Eastern King prawns caught in the wild off the seaport of Yamba by old-school fishermen and fisherwomen who head out in their trawlers every morning. While I am told the supply of Yamba prawns is steady, and only vulnerable to periods of inclement weather, the number of trawlers operating off the coast of Yamba has more than halved since its heyday as the biggest operating port on the east coast of Australia.

Overfishing is increasingly being recognised as an environmental catastrophe of epic proportions which demands immediate attention and action, and prawns are no exception. Environmentally, what is the sound choice? The Australian Marine Conservation Society advises that there are no easy answers, and that each species and fishery should be judged on its own merits. Crystal Bay promotes its environmental credentials. Of Yamba prawns, I am not certain.

To be sure, the availability and reach of the Crystal Bay product eclipses the Yamba prawn, hence the opportunity to enjoy them fresh from a fishmonger in Adelaide. Now back in the motherland, I will no doubt enjoy more Yamba prawns fresh from the source. I’m glad I know more about them now.

Meanwhile, back in Adelaide, with both cooked and green Crystal Bay prawns to work with, I came up with a two-course prawnanza which I shared with my Aunt and Uncle. I started out with a twist on a retro classic, the prawn cocktail. A homage to the memory of Don Dunstan, one of my political and culinary heroes, I donned (pun not originally intended, but noted) my green safari-style jacket and matching silk scarf. For the main course, I sought the advice of my Twitter consorts for something light that wouldn’t be overwhelming after the rich cocktail. As he so often does, Stefano Manfredi helpfully came to the rescue with a recipe for a prawn and barley stew. As we all know, it’s no secret that I adore Stefano and his cooking, but to be quite honest, my first thoughts were: prawn? Stew? Pearl barley? WTF? Dear reader, what utter foolishness to question such wisdom borne of experience. The dish was a flavour and textural sensation, light and fresh, the flavours bringing out the sweetness of the prawns without overwhelming the delicate flesh, yet satisfying and warming. I’m sure that my Aunt and Uncle would agree that it was the best dish I cooked during my stay.

Which brings us, finally, to the eating!

Prawn Cocktail (based on recipe by Neil Perry in Australian Gourmet Traveller)
Serves 4

1/4 iceberg lettuce, outer leaves and core removed, finely shredded
2 lemon wedges, plus extra to serve
2 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
20 cooked prawns, peeled with tails intact and intestinal tracts removed
1 avocado, halved and sliced

Cocktail sauce

140ml thick, good quality egg mayonnaise
1 tbsp tomato sauce
1 tsp Worcestershire sauce
1 tsp finely grated horseradish
Pinch cayenne pepper
Dash of tabasco sauce

To make cocktail sauce, combine ingredients and season with salt and pepper to taste. To assemble cocktail, divide lettuce among four plates or vessels of your choice (the more kitsch the better – I (ab)used Martini glasses), dress with juice of two lemon wedges and olive oil, top with prawns and serve with cocktail sauce and lemon wedges.

Prawntini

Prawn and Barley Stew (based on recipe by Stefano Manfredi published in the Sydney Morning Herald)

1.2kg shelled medium king prawns, de-veined
4 eschalots, peeled and sliced thinly
3 garlic cloves, peeled and crushed
4tbsp extra virgin olive oil
1/2 tsp smoked paprika
quarter tsp chilli powder
1 tsp fennel seed
3 banana chillies, de-seeded and halved
1 cup dry white wine
1 litre prawn stock
2 litres water
2 cups tomato “passato” (puree)
250g pearled barley
300g shelled peas
1 cup chopped parsley
salt and pepper

Prawn stock
Heads and shells from 1.2kg prawns
1 small leek, cut into 1/2 cm thick rounds
1 small carrot, peeled and cut into 2cm rounds
2 sticks celery
1 cup tomato puree
3 garlic cloves, peeled and left whole

Place barley in a sieve and wash quickly under running water to remove dust or dirt. Heat olive oil in a large pot and gently fry eschalots, garlic, paprika, chilli powder and fennel for a minute. Add wine, turn up heat and boil until there is almost no liquid left. Add prawn stock and passato, banana chillies and a litre of water. Bring to boil and add barley. Simmer for 15 minutes then add peas. Simmer for 15 minutes more then add prawns. Cook for 5 minutes then add parsley. Season with salt and pepper to taste and stir well. Serve hot.

Serves 8

Note: Leftover stew can be excellent a day or two after being made though the barley will have absorbed all the liquid. Reheat by adding a cup of water and a quarter cup of tomato puree and gently bringing to the boil. More prawns or other seafood can be added to make a substantial “leftovers” meal.

Prawn stock

Bring a pot of water to the boil and blanch the prawn shells and heads for 20-30 seconds. Drain and put the prawn shells into a stockpot with the leek, carrot, celery, tomato and garlic. Cover with cold water and bring to the boil. Turn down the heat and simmer for 1 hour, skimming any scum from the surface. Strain and it is ready to use.

Makes about 2 litres

Prawn and barley stew

North, South, Eat and Whet

We Explodys don’t muck around. While the Explody parental unit continues to eat its way through Spain and France, the junior Explodys have been covering all culinary bases back in the motherland. Over the past weekend, Brother Explody (aka Chris Watson, currently sous chef at Melbourne’s Cutler & Co) was in Queensland as Andrew McConnell’s right hand man at the Noosa Food and Wine Festival, while I represented the Explodys at the Tasting Australia Festival in Adelaide.

Tasting Australia by the River Torrens

Before I proceed, I need to get a food fangirl moment out of my system. No sooner had I arrived at the festival, than I walked past Ian Parmenter, my first ever TV chef hero! Back in the 1990s, before cooking and gastroporn dominated the media landscape, watching Ian Parmenter’s Consuming Passions was a weekly family event in the Explody household. Back in those days, Papa Explody bore more than a passing resemblance to Mr Parmenter and, being the head cook of the household, we constantly goaded him to grow his hair and don a beret to complement his moustache. While he refused to acquiesce, Mr Parmenter was an important culinary influence in a household which has ultimately produced a few good cooks and even a real life chef! So, of course I did not hesitate to wrangle him into a photo opp. He even complimented me on my outfit (ZOMG!)

Serendipitous sartorial splendour with Ian Parmenter

Moving on. I only had a tiny nibble at the broad programme on offer, heading to the second day of the Feast for the Senses event at Elder Park. After a short browse of the food and wine stalls, I met with fellow food bloggers Grab Your Fork and A Table for Two for ‘There’s a critic in my soup’, a discussion focusing on the current state of the restaurant industry from the perspectives of chefs (represented by England’s Antony Worrall Thompson and Ireland’s Paul Rankin) and critics (represented by Australia’s John Lethlean and Rob Broadfield).

Moderator Joanna Savill warned us (or perhaps the critics?) that Antony had brought his knives to the table, literally. Fortunately for all, the knives remained unsheathed as both chefs and critics agreed that, in general, the restaurant industries both in the UK and in Australia are in pretty good form despite recent global economic setbacks.

Critics to the right...

Chefs to the left...

While I enjoyed the exchanges between the cooks and the critics regarding the role of the critic to represent and inform the consumer, the highlight for me was a discussion regarding the three schools of cooking which currently dominate the global restaurant scene; their roles, their audiences and their influences. Initially outlined by Worrall Thompson, they can be briefly be summarised as follows:

1. Molecular gastronomy, a la Ferran Adria’s El Bulli and Heston Blumenthal’s The Fat Duck, which continue to be ranked among the world’s finest restaurants.

2. Produce-driven restaurants which champion local and organic ingredients, such as Alice Waters’s Chez Panisse, Skye Gyngell’s Petersham Nurseries in London and Australia’s own Stefano Manfredi’s Bells at Killcare.

3. The school of cooking epitomised by Denmark’s Noma, which recently trumped El Bulli and The Fat Duck to be named the world’s best restaurant, which to my mind, bridges the gap between the two aforementioned schools of cooking. While employing the scientific techniques used in ‘molecular gastronomy’, this school also champions the use of local, native and wild ingredients, with chefs foraging for ingredients in the most unexpected places. Here we see innovative interpretations of place, nature, history and personal experience. In the same way an artist paints a landscape, these chefs interpret the landscape on the plate and for the palate.

Worrall Thompson raised the point that the chef’s expectations and experiences of these temples of molecular gastronomy, rated as the world’s best restaurants, are quite different to those of the average ‘punter’, arguably represented by the critic. The Adrias and Blumenthals of the world push the boundaries of what we think of as ‘food’ and ‘eating’ to their absolute limits, but such dining experiences could perhaps be better categorised as ‘performance art’ than ‘having a feed’.

This led me to reflect on the Australian experience. Without a doubt, my culinary highlight of 2009 (aside from the, quite possibly kilos of, anchovy pastries I consumed at Cutler & Co) was a dinner hosted at Sydney’s Marque, showcasing the innovative cuisine of Marque’s Mark Best and Attica’s Ben Shewry to celebrate their invitation to attend the 2010 Madrid Fusion gastronomic festival alongside Adria and Blumenthal among other heavyweights of culinary innovation.

In the humble opinion of this eater, rambler, and occasional producer of cogent thoughts, Shewry and Best are currently at the forefront of culinary innovation and excellence in Australia (as well as being top blokes to boot). I’ve eaten at enough places to know what I like in top-end dining, and they deliver it: food which is a heady combination of culinary intellect, science, theatre, the highest respect for produce, generosity and most importantly the soul and personality of the chefs themselves. Not only this, a feed from these guys will leave you satiated but not overwhelm your appetite or palate. Flourishes of ethereal brilliance are comfortingly accompanied by recognisable and familiar ingredients on the plate, so often missing from food inspired by molecular gastronomy.

For me, the highlight of Shewry’s delicate dishes were the unfamiliar foraged ingredients: flowers, wild purslane and seaweed to name a few, now a trademark of his cuisine along with restaurants such as Noma. As an aside, I doubt that I am the only Twitterer in attendance who will never walk past a rosemary plant in flower without being reminded of that night. Indeed, I often pick a couple of tiny purple flowers and pop them in my mouth to savour the flavour and the memory, or rub a handful of them between my fingers to enjoy the fragrance.

The pinnacle of my gustatory delight came with Shewry’s famed dish ‘Terroir’, a textural sensation straddling savoury and sweet, featuring (to the best of my knowledge and recollection), beetroot, berries, sorrel granita and wild sorrel among other mysterious ingredients. Earthy, sweet, chewy, cold, melting on the tongue; each mouthful was a surprise, the dish changing moment by moment.

Ben Shewry's Terroir, Attica (courtesy of the charming Ed Charles of Tomato)

What can be concluded from this brief (albeit circuitous) glimpse of the state of all things culinary through the eyes of the critic, the chef and the consumer? All things considered, the industry is in a healthy state. Those of us who are lucky enough to live in the prosperous West are blessed with a culture of culinary excellence which appears to be entering a new phase of innovation.

Ultimately, food is fuel for the body, and yet, for those who wish to experience food on another level, like any fine art form, there are chefs who will challenge us and critics who will guide us. As I have discovered through my dining adventures at everywhere from Marque to Danks Street Depot (showcasing chef Jared Ingersoll’s superior understanding of seasonal, local produce) Australia’s restaurant scene is a microcosm of global dining in which we are literally able to experience the best of all worlds. How lucky we are!

Australian beauty

The Tree of Man, Flinders Ranges

The wild landscapes of Australia are routinely described as desolate and forbidding… [yet] for all the talk of hostility and harshness, there is nothing so bleak and forbidding in country Australia as the places humans have built there…
Tim Winton, 2009

So begins the introduction to the Smalltown exhibition of 2009, a collaboration between photographer Martin Mischkulnig and writer and small town dweller Tim Winton, hosted by the Historic Houses Trust of NSW. Smalltown is, by and large, a study of rural ugliness. While the fine art of photography lends a kind of beauty to its subjects, we are asked to consider the shortcomings of the built environment in the outback, from ugliness borne of hardship to ‘rough as guts gimcrack’.

This exhibition and its accompanying monograph is part of a recent resurgence of uniquely Australian fear and loathing. Smalltown, along with the fiftieth anniversary edition of architect Robin Boyd’s The Australian Ugliness and the recent re-release of Ted Kotcheff’s dystopian masterpiece Wake in Fright have lately brought the ugliness to be found in both urban and rural Australia to the fore.

Still from Ted Kotcheff's 1971 film Wake in Fright

I have experienced enough of rural Australia to know that the land of Ted Kotcheff’s Wake in Fright was, and is, terrifyingly real. But I have also seen another side of the outback outpost; a beauty which remains elusive in the art and literature which has contributed to the emergence of an Australian identity.

I recently took a mini-break in the Flinders Ranges. We stayed in a small cottage on a sheep station just out of Hawker, a country town in the central Flinders with a permanent population of about 300. It is situated on the plains, dusty, dry and spare, planned as if a miniature version of Adelaide: four blocks by four, surrounded by parklands.

While it is self-promoted as the ‘Gateway to the Flinders’, it bares no traces of the infiltration of tree-changers, a phenomenon which has transformed so many small towns on the fringes of urban centres and tourist destinations. There are no artisan bakeries, gastropubs, purveyors of carefully selected ‘fabulous things’, or cafes offering single-origin espresso and all-day breakfasts.

While the main object of our trip was to admire the grand beauty of the Flinders, as a passionate historian and curious observer of the lives of others, I can spend only so much time admiring natural landscapes, no matter how awe-inspiring they are. I therefore insisted on a short exploration of Hawker. Our first stop was Hawker Motors, the most charming service station one is ever likely to encounter, also being the town’s tourist information centre, a museum and seismographic station!

Hawker 5434, old post office

The change in my pocket purchased me a copy of the Hawker Heritage Walk. A format which would be familiar to most people, it contained a brief history of the town and a list of the town’s heritage items, mostly buildings of the nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries. Churches, the grand residences of mill-owners, the railway, pubs, boarding houses; all typical of Australian country towns, bearing the unique vernacular of their location.

Church, Hawker

As we began our walk following the suggested route, it was easy to pick these buildings, well cared for and obviously a source of community pride. As we moved through the town however, something far more startling caught my eye. Specifically, ordinary front yards.

Aside from the grand residences I previously mentioned, which largely retained evidence of their original landscaping, the residents of Hawker revealed themselves as creative decorators making the best of a dry and unyielding landscape, cultivating plants and decorating their yards with everything from bronze sculptures to industrial debris.

Celebrated Australian artists such as Rosalie Gascoigne and Robert Klippel have forged international careers celebrating the beauty of found objects such as road signs, wooden crates, industrial patterns and machinery, the detritus of life and work on the land.

The dusty front yard of a railway worker in Hawker is as metaphorically and geographically remote from the Venice Biennale as it is possible to get. What binds these rural dwellers to these great fine artists is a recognition that the ordinary, the Australian, can be beautiful. As a result, lives are enriched. We should embrace this pride in the ordinary and sometimes eccentric, a foil to the fearsome, desperate picture of outback living which characterises so much of our great art and writing. I will let my hastily captured pictures speak for themselves.

Happy are those who see beauty in modest spots where others see nothing. Everything is beautiful, the whole secret lies in knowing how to interpret it.
Camille Pissaro, 1893

The happy couple, Hawker

Phyllophallic? Ceramic insulators, Hawker

Plumbing and electricity, Hawker

Out of proportion, Hawker

Water feature, Hawker

Living sculpture, Hawker

Stealers wheel, Hawker

Rockery, Hawker

Out front, Hawker

International floral display

Magic realism

When I was ten years old, I bought my first packet of Wonka’s Everlasting Gobstoppers from the corner shop. Roald Dahl was my favourite author, so of course I had read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and by then had probably also seen Gene Wilder’s mildly disturbing interpretation of Willy Wonka, that alchemist and conjurer of confectionery.

Although I can probably be described as possessing a reasonably well-developed intellect, I have always been terribly naïve, and when I popped that first ball of iridescent, sugar-laced, chemically-enhanced goodness into my mouth, I honestly believed that it would last forever. I did not take pause to consider clues indicating anything to the contrary, such as the fact that, as a mass-produced item sold in boxes of 20 or so, consumers worldwide would generally be sucking on more than a few of them. Imagine my disappointment when, alas, it became smaller and smaller, until it was no more!

That day, a little bit of magic disappeared from my world. I’m sure that somewhere a fairy died and a unicorn fell off a rainbow. It was worse than finding out that Santa isn’t real. When you stop and think about it, the idea of Father Christmas is kind of creepy, and you still get presents anyway.

Fortunately, all these years later, my world is still full of magic. It usually appears unexpectedly and at times when I need it most. It takes many forms. Sometimes I suddenly remember the miracles behind the banalities of everyday life: when I flick a switch, the magic of electricity lights the room in a nanosecond! Excuse my language, but that’s pretty fucking amazing, is it not? Sometimes the magic of nature amazes me; a seed which has lay dormant can suddenly be nurtured and spring to life, transforming into a plant which may garnish next Tuesday night’s dinner or become a fig tree which outlives me by hundreds of years. Of course the ‘magic’ of which I speak can be explained rationally and scientifically, but I care not for that. I would rather these things remain mysterious pleasures. I am an atheist and do not know what it is to have a ‘religious experience’; perhaps this is my own version.

It grows from seed

As you can imagine, my favourite kind of magic takes place in the kitchen. This week I have been exploring the, quite considerable, magic of quinces. Indeed, as I write, I am stationed next to the hob keeping a watchful eye over a pot bubbling with future quince-paste. Today however, I wish to share with you a simple recipe for poached quinces, a quintessentially autumnal delight.

Cydonia oblonga

The quince is an ancient fruit which was once surrounded by myth and awe of a different kind, sacred to Aphrodite and Venus, goddesses of love, and a symbol of fertility and happiness. In their raw form, while beautifully aromatic, they are hard, floury and astringent, and not at all to be recommended for eating. When cooked however, over time they transform miraculously in flavour and colour. From a pale, inedible fruit, they slowly become soft, simultaneously sweet and piquant, and the most ravishing shade of deep red, like the finest shiraz. This, to me, is a magical transformation which never fails to delight.

Poached Quinces (based on a recipe from Stephanie Alexander’s The Cook’s Companion)

6 quinces, washed, peeled and placed in a bowl of water combined with the juice of a lemon to prevent discolouration
2.25 litres of light sugar syrup (2 parts water to 1 part sugar)
1 vanilla bean
juice of 1 lemon
spices to your taste, if desired (I used a stick of cinnamon and star anise)

Preheat oven to 150 degrees. Cut quinces into quarters or sixths. Cut out the cores and tie loosely in a piece of muslin. Return quince slices to the acidulated water as you go, to prevent them from browning. Put sugar syrup in a large enameled cast-iron casserole with other ingredients and muslin bag, then add drained quinces.

Before

Cover tightly and bake in the oven for at least four (and up to eight) hours (mine cooked for about six), until the quince is a deep red. Do not stir or the quinces will break up.

After!

Cool (I left them on the hob overnight). Split the vanilla bean and scrape the seeds into the syrup. Eat them on their own, with yoghurt, on muesli, or with ice cream. They keep very well in the fridge. You can do myriad things with the fruit and leftover syrup, but you can discover those things for yourself with the magic of the interwebs.

Breakfast in the garden in Autumn

The pleasures and sorrows of pasta

There is a growing movement in Australia promoting the awareness of the provenance of our food and other consumables. Everyone from Slow Food Australia to Woolworths is urging us to ask where our apple came from; what breed of cow we’re eating, where it lived and what it ate. Provenance has even become marketable, with Bangalow sweet pork and Yamba prawns gracing the tables of our top restaurants, while the descriptor ‘artisan’ is used for everything from dairy products to pasta.

And yet, despite our increasing attempts to connect with the products that we consume, both edible and inedible, we are still largely alienated from the processes by which the things which allow our everyday lives to function come to be. ‘Provenance’ is still a fairly abstract concept. We may know where our cheese comes from, but we often remain ignorant about the process by which it is made and distributed. It is tempting to imagine lush green meadows, cows being milked by hand each morning and cheese being prepared by an industrious family in a farmhouse kitchen. This, however, is unlikely to be the case.

In the first part of Alain de Botton’s latest work, The Pleasures and Sorrows of Work, he pays tribute to the processes and people that make the Western world function, but which remain invisible to many of us:

to observe the forgotten odysseys of crates, to witness the secret life of warehouses and hence to mitigate the deadening, uniquely modern sense of dislocation between the things we so heedlessly consume in the run of our daily lives and their unknown origins and creators.

This discussion culminates in an astonishing photo essay chronicling the journey of pre-packaged tuna steaks on the supermarket shelf, ‘caught by line in the Maldives’, from the ocean to the plate. This brings to life the abstract notion of ‘provenance’, highlighting the banal procedures which allow a fish in the Maldives to end up on a dinner table in Bristol in a mere 52 hours.

With this in mind I am trying to look at everyday things through new eyes and think more deeply about how things work. It is not practical to visit canning factories in Italy or slaughterhouses in rural NSW, nor do I necessarily wish to. Happily there are far less toilsome mysteries to be solved. This week I decided to discover the joys of pasta making. I had been eyeing off duck eggs for sale at the local farmers’ markets for weeks, and after consulting my favourite Italians Carm and Stefano, chose the suitably autumnal accompaniment of lamb ragout. The Nanna I bought the eggs from assured me that she uses duck eggs in all of her cakes and biscuits. Anything that comes Nanna-endorsed is just fine by me!

Egg of the duck

Pappardelle rustica with lamb ragout*

Lamb ragout

a decent slug of olive oil
2 cloves garlic, finely diced
1 brown onion, finely diced
1 stick of celery, finely diced
1 small carrot, finely diced
2 lamb drumsticks (as they are creatively called by my butcher)
1 tin crushed tomatoes
150ml chicken stock
3 sprigs of thyme
1 bay leaf
1/4 cup Sicilian (green) olives, pitted and halved
parmesan to serve
chopped parsley to serve

Preheat the oven to 150 degrees. Heat the oil in a cast iron casserole on a high heat, then brown meat on all sides. Remove meat from pan and rest on a plate. Add the vegetables to the saucepan, reduce heat and cook for 5-10 minutes until they begin to caramelise. Add the thyme and bay followed by the tomatoes and chicken stock, then return the meat to the pan. Bring to the boil, then cover and cook in the oven for about 1 1/2 hours or until the meat is falling off the bone. Remove the meat from bones (discard bones) and shred. Return to pan, add olives and heat through on a low heat while you cook the pasta (see below).

Duck egg pasta

1 duck egg per person
120g flour per person
1 tbsp olive oil

Using a mixer with a dough hook, add flour to the eggs and mix at a medium speed for about 5 minutes, until it forms a tight dough. If it’s a bit dry, add water, and if a bit wet, a little flour. If it’s the right consistency, no dough should be stuck to the bowl. Form a ball, wrap in clingfilm and allow to rest in the fridge for an hour or so.

Jamie Oliver knows what to do next, and his instructions here are far easier to follow than the palaver that took place in my kitchen.

Rollin' rollin' rollin'...

Once you’ve rolled your sheets of pasta, cut them into lengths of around 30cm and then into strips. Mine varied in shape and size, which, as Mama Explody assured me, added to ‘the rusticity’ of the dish. Bring a large saucepan salted water to a rapid boil, then cook pasta for a few minutes until al dente. Drain, adding to the sauce as quickly as possible.

A towel rack is also a useful kitchen accessory!

To serve, toss the cooked pasta through the lamb ragout. Sprinkle with a generous amount of parmesan and some freshly chopped parsley.

Pasta blaster

* I make no claim that this dish is authentically Italian in any way (though I am one-sixteenth Bolognese Italian if you must know) only that it is authentically delicious.