As a child, I was a mortal enemy of this “gross” cake, because it was decorated with “shiny red things” and was full of “yucky tasting” dried fruits (glace cherries and dried fruits). That didn’t stop me from sticking my fingers into the batter and trying it for myself, however. It was a dense and brothy mixture, mildly bitter and slightly creamy that just hit the spot with a seven-year-old, who is perpetually hanging out for something sweet and oily to please the palate. If the time and scene was right, I would also stuff my face with a helping of the dried fruits, sifting through to make sure that I had collected only the juiciest raisins, dates, sultanas, cherries, citrus rinds and papaya pieces. It seems fairly silly that I enjoyed the dried fruit and the cake batter, but not the final product itself. When we’re young, these treasures of good times are scarcely truly appreciated, and I am thankful that I have grown to admire this traditional recipe and to hold its oath by presenting it here for you. My earliest recollections of this recipe include a large cauldron of bubbling, foaming syrup with swirls of candied fruits and the measuring container that always had to be precisely measured with the quantities of caster sugar, unsalted butter and vanilla essence. My mother would repeat to me the same things time and time again; she would tell me to stir it vigorously or it will burn, to calibrate the measuring device before using it, to grease the pan carefully and a reminder to make a bain marie out of the kitchen sink with cold water, not boiling hot.
What makes this particular boiled fruit cake special is all given in how light but filling the final product turns out. Many experiences with store-bought Christmas cakes, from $15 to $45, find that they are full of unnecessary ingredients, emulsifiers and fats, on top of being overcooked and laden with sugar, which collectively make for a parched-dry, sour and bland slice. It is my personal belief that our Christmas cake turns out so well because it contains only the simplest ingredients of the kitchen, the most basic of baking methods and a liberal application of fun, festivity and love. This recipe stands as a crux upon other Christmas cakes and treats because of the tradition it is backed by: a dedication to pouring in the good things and being versatile enough to accompany the winter and summer Christmas seasons by either being served cold (with a dash of icing sugar or, preferably, without) or served warm, with a generous helping of warm brandy or rum custard.
In the spirit of the season, my mother and I would bake several of these same boiled fruit cakes to give to family and friends as presents, who would have placed an order with us as early as a month before. On baking days, the oven would be set to a high temperature and all the windows and doors would be open, meaning that we sweltered in a Sydney summer over the stove, the countertop and still managed to pour our festivity into every mixture. We would serve them in baking paper to preserve the aroma and advise them to not eat it all as soon as it arrived — it was much harder than it sounds! To this day, my grandmother places her order in before anybody else and usually orders two or three cakes instead of one: that way, she can devour the first, serve the second to her friends and keep the third one in an air-tight container so that the ageing process would mature the sugars and cream and make for a sumptuously moist, crumbly and fluffy cake. In fact, at the time of writing I am preserving my fruit cake in the cupboard in an air-tight container… though I have been less successful than my grandmother this year, given that I have been too impatient and decided to have a few slices now and leave the rest for later!
It all began, as my mother says, in home economics class. As she had been paying attention as studiously as possible, this recipe has withstood the test of time and as the teacher promised, brought many, many returns now and into the future. Of course, a few important rules need to be followed when making this cake as great as it is: when popping the mixture in the bain marie, a common problem is letting the egg to ‘cook’ in the flour and fruit mixture before it has been given enough time to cool down.At high temperatures the egg, water and flour bond and begin to coagulate in a stubborn, sticky mess. The vanilla essence always goes into the cold mixture, not the cooking mixture, as the flavour is lost rapidly over the stove. Finally, without the best quality of ingredients, including the most expensive and close to natural (meaning sulphite-free if possible) dried fruits are necessary — too many times have we tried to get away with substandard brands for our fruits and been disappointed with the result. Timing and consistency are the key to this recipe being a success, time and time again.
A scene from Nonna's garden in the summertime.
It was late November. A Sunday. Unseasonably cold at ten degrees below the average. The door chimed, a happy mother entered, unloaded her Santa sleigh of goodies, blew a kiss and said goodbye. The next day, a jolly fellow (not dressed in a Santa suit, sadly) repeated the aforementioned. Three kilograms later, I write the post about the arduous journey in progress to remove this excess weight. It is proving more difficult than I could have ever imagined.
Day one began with a game of tennis for one hour: the time passed so quickly and I barely broke a sweat. Day two saw a short jog that ended with a delightfully unexpected craving for McDonald’s. Day three found me more interested in playing Theme Park on the Nintendo DS. Day four was like a sauna in the office, and because of this dehydration, I decided against any further exertion. Day five was the last day of that weight-loss routine, and given my mental exhaustion I decided that a delicious dish of fish and chips was in order. Little did I know that a secret, unannounced dinner invitation had already been made. Soon I found myself burying my stomach deeper and deeper in the specialities of the festive season, Italian-Australian style.
Time, passing, history and a hopeful dose of nostalgia. So often are these elements found bordered within the smallest of confines; as small as, say, a suburb backdating some one hundred and fifteen years. Who would have thought to consider their local neighbourhood and its unspoken story of adaptability and reformation; the winding timeworn roads rendered by the broken backs and dime-a-day ethic of our forefathers, the period-style freestanding homes whose facade changes with every successive generation of family or the scrawlings of high-school nothings into the streetside paths leading into the heart of the metropolis. Approximately nine kilometres from the Central Business of Sydney, the unassuming suburb of Dulwich Hill, Sydney has quietly seen the ebb and eddy of aimless immigrants with little more than a few cheeky, broken words of English, a charming demeanor exemplified in their roughly woven, patchwork suits and their skills for building their homes upon Australia’s stable earth. Countless times have my family repeated to me the story of ‘afterschool beatups’ that were supposed to happen down by Caves Lane, the noble five cents that could buy the biggest bag of sweets known to a seven year old and the arduous mile-long stretch of road that lead, unwinding and unrelentingly, from their doorstep to the promenade of their school.
Through the tree-lined streets whose ancient, aching roots have lifted the gravel road like an old folk stretching his tired limbs, the behemoths of an era past stand perched upon that gently curving hill, breathing sighs as the westerly winds pass through their corrugated iron roofs and tamper with the brickwork; the work of labourers whose hands and hearts are long retired from their love of European-descent homes. Many amongst us (apartment-dwellers) are awed by the size of the private backyard, many of which containing their own garden as my my grandmother does. Following a carefully planned seasonal rotation roster, the best yielding fruits and vegetables are grown, from strawberries, mangoes and lemons to zucchini, broccoli, eggplant and string beans high enough to reach beyond the clouds. But after all this, we are not concerned with one single residence but the magic of the history of the shops and the suburb it resides in…
Picture a pizza as you know it, inclusive of all toppings and a delicious, crispy base that has been baked to perfection. Sounds almost drool-worthy if you get the combination right. But did you ever think that your mental image of a pizza could be dramatically different to that of another person? There’s no telepathy involved, but I can almost guarantee that if we compared that picture to a local from another country, it would be completely different. What makes me so bold about this prediction? Let’s consider what comes to your mind first when you think of a pizza. Perhaps it would be any number of the adjectives yeastless, hand-tossed, thin-crust, deep-dish, pan-fried, cheese-crust, 12-incher and even ‘magic dough’ - all of which are non-existent in the most traditional sense of a pizza recipe, but are so prolifically advertised by commerical pizza companies. In truth, pizza, one of the world’s most popular take away foods, has as many varieties to choose from as there are varieties of coral in the deep blue sea. But did you ever think about how it has been received around the world, how the locals of a country have adapted it to their local fare and daily diet? Sydneysiders are blissfully unaware of the dense variety of their favourite home-delivery food, though slowly they are becoming more and more familiar with the New York, Chicago, Greek, French, Mexican and Lebanese versions among others, and at a crawling pace, are also rolling up their sleeves to add their own variation to the mix. And by showcasing this easy-to-follow recipe, hopefully you’ll soon be inspired to give it a try yourself.
But before we dive straight into the details, a little bit of history into this recipe to tantalise your tastebuds. My grandmother and my mother each have their own unique knack for making pizzas that I am still unable to parallel. In their wisdom and experience, the tricks of the trade have been passed down and only by applying a bit of observational learning have I been able to collect their best secrets for the best results. While my grandmother will choose a non-stick stainless steel tray that has been liberally coated with quality oil and spread over the pizza top evenly with concentrated tomato paste, anchovies and Spanish onion, my mother will instead make sure that the toppings meet the edges of the pizza topping and ensure the bottom is dusted well with flour with garlic granules. When I asked my grandmother politely one day in my youth, she passed me a cheeky grin and simply said, “You gather this, that, and the other, and mix them in a bowl.” Of course, she never mentioned what ingredients were needed, what quantities or even the method for bringing it all together! Although she wouldn’t tell me what goes into a great pizza, my mother was delighted to give me a few pointers that I have built upon with practise and insight into better edibility and nutrition (Okay, maybe not the second one). In my opinion, what makes the best pizza is time and thyme. Time is needed to let the flavour of the oil, sugar, salt and herbs soothe the dough as it rises in the right setting for the right amount of time, while fresh or dried thyme add a unique pepper-savoury flavour to cheese and tomato bases — the quintessence of the classical Margherita.
By far the best pizza I have ever experienced was home-made from a wood-fired oven in a open bushland setting in regional New South Wales, with a pizza dough that was golden-brown from baking beneath the fresh air and warm sun, with the perfect amount of yeast and a rubbery consistency. The natural aroma of the wood, the smoky residue of the warm brick, the rural town air and the freshest ingredients made for a delightful tasting experience that - quite surprisingly, is more easily replicable in a city setting than you might think.
So, if you care to hear some of the secrets and techniques to a great pizza night or pizza party, you’d best keep reading on to gather all I have learned about this finnicky but rewarding art. A sneak peak? As always - use only a pinch of yeast and a lot of love and you’ll see the difference in your final product!
We sweated in contemplation, salivated in desire and strained our eyes to envision a feast of succulent fruits, thinking long and hard about the sweet things on offer during the summer season in our previous post. Thus, it seemed only right to introduce the more dominant and exciting flavours and colours of the warmer weather, with a herald offering of boastful bites in a recipe for an ostentatious, delicious and decorarative antipasto. For a starter that is so appealing and so wonderfully diverse, the best methods in making a mouthful involves more than just good style; you’ll notice first upon this post the antipasto pictured above, in a setting more picturesque than the one beneath. It’s not an eye-test nor a game of spot the difference, but rather a demonstration of the versatility of this starter in providing what your guests crave most of all.
It all started one stinking hot summer day, during the birthday of a relative celebrated at our grandmother’s home. Amidst the plethora of dishes on offer from chilled and cooked seafoods, scintillating salads with grilled meats and warm potato salad with a drizzle of virgin oil and freshly churned cream and chives, I made a decision that would change my life… for a few minutes. A giant antipasto dish occupied the centre of the table and put on offer some of the most exotic-looking meats and most pungent smelling olives I have ever encountered. Being young and thus impetuous as I was, I decided that waiting for the communal dinner time was not worth it; who wouldn’t be tempted to reach for a small sample of that mysteriously tasty looking selection? In what I suspected to be a bundle of fennel (aniseed) layers, which I chewed greedily, actually turned out to be a bundle of coarsely cut uncooked brown onion. My eyes watered, my mouth burned, my fingers tingled. Reaching for water or soft drink seemed to be my only option, but it didn’t help. So in my desperation, I decided to fill my mouth with even more of the offerings on the platter regardless of what it was. And in a moment reminiscent of Lady and The Tramp, the combination of subtle and strong flavours counterbalanced the bitter, biting attack of the onion and made for a miniature barbecue in my mouth instead. Come to think of it, you could call that unusual taste combination a kind of gourmet delight, where the mushiness resembled a spicy olive tapenade and the counterbalancing agents acting through the Swiss cheese and cured pork sausage.
Now, not to get the wrong idea here. Antipasto is there to be savoured and enjoyed, nor devoured as I have shown myself incapable of resisting. But when the antipasto is as tempting as the first platter (the foremost photograph of this post), arranged and prepared with ingredients that seethed, marinated, bubbled over the chilly winter months, some depths beneath my grandmothers’ house… there’s little resistance left over. It put on offer some juicy, freshly plucked vine-ripened tomato, tender, thin slices of prosciutto ham, seasoned chicken breast, Jarlsberg cheese, homemade cacciatore salami and home-made bottle-aged green olives. The latter was prepared in my kitchen with a focus on supermarket provided goods and an obvious departure from the traditional roots of the dish with a continental array of fresh vegetables. Essentially, it doesn’t matter so much how closely you stick to the “original” recipe, for after all the concept of antipasto means for a few appetizing bites before proceeding to the next course. Various regions of Italy (and even countries around the world) will mention their own variations by including artichoke hearts, anchovies and even a few spicy pieces of whole garlic cloves. So whatever your taste, whatever your desire, an antipasto dish can cater perfectly to your ‘appetizing’ needs.
