There was a personal joke within the family that my grandmother had the best recipes and everything else she might have needed to start her own takeaway business – except, perhaps, for an enterprising spirit, the financial capital and the desire to see her cooking hands made common and expendible. I have always wondered where these recipes stemmed from, and suggested to my mind that perhaps it all started with the mentality of her home-town, where vegetables were plentiful and meat was dear, refridgeration non-existent and food never went to waste.

Whatever the reason, for as long as I can remember her cooking philosophy has revolved around the tenets of sharing, of copious quantity and outstanding quality. There was the familiar hum of Elvis Presley’s “Suspicious Minds” playing on the radio by the windowsill, a dusty double-threaded apron held up by a makeshift knot, the steady lick and hiss of olive oil heated above a gas stove and even the good company of family. Like any well-prepared venue, early in the chilly winter morning the starchy tablecloths would be brought out of the cupboards and laid out over the tables beneath the pergola. With a deft toss of the hands, they would burst from their pleats and gracefully glide over the table, settling over like an ironed petticoat.

We worked a production line together with flour and egg and mess, each person kept to a predefined role worked until perfection, to make sure that the food was ready for our demanding customers. That is, the fathers’ and the uncles’, neighbours and their children eager and well-baited by the aroma and mirth.

Once the food was cooked, we displayed our goods proudly on large platters lined with paper towels and filled bags made of greasing paper with the leftovers. Even friends of relatives and distant strangers from the farthest parts of the neighbourhood converged and indulged in what we had to offer – parcels and plates filled with simple fare that mimicked and perhaps even rivalled a take-away shop from the olden days. I even recall bringing the leftovers to school and being the envy of all my friends. 

In this series, I will present to you three of the delicious meal and conversation starters that I have learned from my grandmother in the hope that you might bring together your own friends and family in the same spirit. As always, you are welcome to take away as much or as little of these posts as you like — recipes born at home and made for taking away from the kitchen.

INGREDIENTS
copious olive oil (preferably pure, not virgin, or pomice)
copious bunch of parsley
copious sprinkle of oregano
1 large head of cauliflower
5 garlic cloves, diced
5 fresh eggs
300-500g breadcrumbs (preferably unfried)
small tub of parmesan cheese (approx. 100g)
ground white pepper to taste
sea salt to taste

1. Break five eggs into a mixing bowl. Roughly chop the parsley, finely slice the garlic and add to the egg along with the salt, pepper and parmesan cheese. Whisk vigorously.
2. Rinse and cut the cauliflower into bite-sized florets and place aside. Heat a frying pan on the stove to medium heat and cover with a layer of oil.
3. Prepare a deep plate or bowl and pour in the breadcrumbs. Gently soak the cauliflower florets in the egg mixture and transfer to the breadcrumbs. Roll and press until well-adhesed.
4. Arrange the cauliflower in the frying pan and cook until crisp and slightly charred. Resist the temptation to remove the cauliflower too early, as the tenderness and the softness is not released until cooked through.
5. Once the coating is hardened and crispy, transfer to a plate with a paper towel for absorbing the excess oil. Sprinkle with sea salt and serve immediately.

I remember when the basil grew beneath the tomato vines. With the slightest passing breeze, the anxious, peppery-green sprouts of basil would tickle the downturned blossoms of the vines, teasing out their pollen in a minute shower over the soil. During the crisp early morning, it was a pleasure to visit the garden where the air was replete with the metallic smell of sunshine and bliss as the sun stirred the morning dew upon those delicate, cherubic tomato buds. As for the lazy summer afternoon, when there was little more to do than count the number of tendrils and minute hairs swaying upon the vines, mother-basil would stir a tempest by tempting the worker bees with her flamboyant bunch of flowering seeds.

As a boy, I never understood why my grandmother went to such painstaking lengths to buy her Roma tomatoes from selected suppliers in embarrasing bulk quantity (somewhere along the lines of 30 kilograms during the winter time), nor did I understand the esoteric methods she frequented for flavour-extraction and preservation. It all seemed a little bit too ”ethnic” to me and I dared not let my friends know that this was our Sunday pastime. At the time, I felt that the procedure of making passata from fresh tomatoes was a silly and archaic practice, where often overripe bulbs were manually processed through a table-mounted mechanical pulper, cooked for hours over low heat and stored in ridiculously hot jars. Nowadays in my mind, I appreciate that there is a particular and very unique taste associated with only the pampered tomato afforded the right care; only with the right dousing of water, the correct spread of fertiliser and the secret elements of love and care.

It makes sense to me only now that the best passata comes by following the traditional methods and the deliberate search for only the best local produce. It is my pleasure to share with you all that I have learned.

You would have noticed that I love to harp on about the fact that our modern-day is without the economy of pace that we had in the “olden days” and that quality in fresh produce is becoming a rarity.  I feel that many suppliers (yes, supermarkets, this means you) have succumbed to satisfying the consumer demand for overtly ripe-red tomatoes induced with hormones and pesticides to ensure a consistently visually appealing and shelf-hardy product. Oftentimes with these shortcut procedures for the end-goal of making a quick sale, the true character of the tomato is lost and the end-product is a rubbery, flowery and tasteless tomato that is only here in body but not in spirit.

But sometimes you just can’t help it and have to rely on what you have on hand. Don’t despair.

I will admit to you that Roma tomatoes are not always easy to find, are never cheap and often come at the bargain of quality for quantity: you’ll need a polystyrene box of at least 10kg before you are assured of good produce. Rest assured, the truth is that you can get away with just about any kind of red, fleshy tomato, it is merely that the Roma variety is esteemed for holding its flavour and content when boiled down and preserved. And when it comes to the secret in releasing the delicious aroma of the tomato, regardless of the variety, the reality is skin-deep. Peel and core your tomatoes and simmer the flesh with a healthy dousing of salt and strain this through the peeled tomato skins and seeds about three or four times. The skin (and the seeds) are the first point of contact with the sun and is thus jampacked with the unique essence of the tomato that cannot come from the inner-flesh alone.

The best tasting passata is only as good as the best tasting and highest quality pasta. Fresh-egg pastas such as fettuccine come to mind, which work wonders in “clinging” the sauce and giving a thorough mouthful in every forkful. The secret of the sauce is the naked tomato that has never been refridgerated and is cooked in its skin and its seeds over a low-heat for several hours: at this point introducing a quality sea salt, for the salt draws the bitterness out and brings the tartness to the surface.

Remember: your passata is the best reflection of how you like to eat. A mechanical pulveriser makes light work of a heavy load of tomatoes, ensuring an even, paste-like product that is useful for lasagne and canneloni, or even a lovely sheer sauce for spaghetti. The mechanical method has been the technique of my family for as long as I can remember, for two reasons: the first is that a reasonably thin-liquid tomato base stores remarkably well in flute-neck beer or wine bottles that can be preserved with a layer of olive oil and kept in a temperature stable environment for around three years. Second, the sweetness of the tomatoes is accentuated perfectly by the garlic, basil and salt that are also introduced into the pulverising process. You would be surprised how delicious this can be.

Nevertheless, don’t be discouraged if you prefer a chunkier sauce or if you simply don’t have a pulveriser on hand. The below recipe is written in lieu of the expectation that you will work with my preferred method of stovetop peel-and-simmer. It is a great way of bringing family and friends together.

INGREDIENTS
3 tablespoons pure olive oil
1 cup of water
5 garlic cloves, diced
1kg Roma (or other variety) tomatoes
dash of red wine
small bunch sweet basil leaves, roughly ripped
sea salt to taste
pinch of freshly ground black pepper

1. Rince and strain the tomatoes. De-core and peel, discarding the cores and preserving the seeds (optional) and peels for later use. If the skin is too firm, allow tomatoes to sit in a basin of warm water for 15 minutes.
2. Add oil to pan and swirl to evenly distribute. Scrape garlic from chopping board into the pan and sautee until lightly brown. Reduce heat.
3. Slice tomato into quarters and place straight into the pan. Cover with a generous amount of salt and pepper. Add any herbs at this point. Stir vigourously.
4. Add the water and stir through - it may be necessary to add more depending on your tomato quantity. Place a lit over the pot and allow to slow cook for 10 minutes on medium-low heat, stirring occassionally.
5. With the lid still on, bring the heat down to low and allow to simmer – not boil – for several hours, until flesh and pulp have reduced into a paste-like consistency. Add wine at this point and stir occassionally.
6. Strain the sauce through the skins and seeds (optional) several times. The skins may be left in the sauce if desired. Return the sauce to the stove and server immediately or place into a sterilised jar.

Last year, around the same time of our current cusp of autumn and winter, Wild Thyme and Sweet Pea featured pesto gnocchi as the crowning dish and theme of the month, for its wholesomeness, simplicity and deliciousness.

This year, for the months of May and June, I have decided to keep with my tradition and feature another simple rustic speciality: before breaking into the soups, stocks, pickles and desserts characteristic of the season, I have chosen pasta and passata as crowning dishes. I’ll literally be coring and kneading an ode to the winter season!

Meet flour and tomato; the raw ingredient or the Adam and Eve of the empty plate. Unlike the warmer months where the dough dries out and becomes elastic too quickly, the winter months are an ideal time for keeping warm by eating fresh pasta, for the air is sufficiently crisp and cool to make kneading, guiding and processing your dough much easier. Thus it has become a tradition for me, at the first cold snap of May, to respond by breaking the seal on a few jars of well-preserved sauce to accompany my neatly layered lasagna sheets, my delicate coils of fettuccine or silky strands of angelhair.

The initial aroma from the jar of sauce, once the air-seal is popped and the olive oil has settled from its three-month hibernation, is strong enough to blanket the house for the rest of the afternoon. Not to mention the intense flavour that lingers on your palate long after the plate of pasta. Be warned; though it sounds tempting to ‘shake’ your jar of sauce to ‘circulate’ the flavour, you will almost certainly end up with an explosive oily tomato cocktail once the lid is removed. The most effective technique for preparing your sauce for the pan is to invert the closed jar and leave it this way for a moment or two, before settling it in a basin of lukewarm water for about 15 minutes.

Whatever you do, do not settle for anything less than certified ’00′ flour for your pasta and farm-fresh eggs. This grade of flour is always triple-sifted and extremely finely ground to make it malleable and palatable when being prepared and boiled, not gluggy and sticky. Farm-fresh eggs ensure a smooth consistency and appealing colour and texture. And perhaps most importantly, ’00′ flour has wonderful bite without the excessive chew factor. In other words, you can sink your teeth into a firm and moist strand of pasta and not a clump of dense, stringy dough!

INGREDIENTS
500g ’00′ flour
4 large free-range eggs
pinch of salt and pepper
tepid water as needed

1. Simplicity is key, so keep any additional ingredients to a minimum and exclude any moisture-adding ingredients (e.g. olive oil, sauce).
2. Combine all ingredients (except water, which should be added gradually and as-needed) into a large mixing bowl.
3. Add around 30mL of water to begin with. Mix in a kneading action with your fingers and roll with the palms of your hand.
4. Continue to mix and add water as necessary. Remember – you can always hold-back on the water, but there is only so much flour that you can add.
5. The dough should not longer be sticky but smooth and glossy. Cover with a tea-towel to sit in a draught-free place for 30 minutes.
6. Dust a countertop and place the dough upon it. Knead with a rolling pin, with your hands and with the force of your fingers for at least another 30 minutes, until elasticity is obtained. Add extra flour if dough is too sticky.
7. Roll out the dough with the rolling pin into the shape of a flattened soccer ball. Do not aspire for a perfect circle, this is very difficult to obtain.
8. Roll the dough into a ball and repeat. Continue rolling-out pressure with the rolling pin until the dough is spread vertically and wafer-thin. Carefully remove it from the counter and place it into your hands.
9. “Guide” the dough by holding one end of the dough sheet, allowing gravity to pull the pasta from one end to the other. Be gentle or the dough will split.
10. Add extra flour to the pasta dough one last time – thoroughly, until all moisture is taken from the dough – and feed the pasta into a pasta machine.
11. Separate and flour the end-product pasta and immediately bring to a boiling pot or carefully aligned on floured, greaseless baking paper for freezing or refrigeration.

I’ve learned recently that tending to a herb garden is all about the awakening of the seedling from its perfectly encapsulating pod, the teasing of the sapling to the sunshine and the careful shaping of the sinuewy stalk by plucking and twining. It all begins with the formidable potion prepared in your apothecary – a modest pot of soft earth and hard water - and the sunken seeds beneath the surface of the soil, eager for favourable growing conditions and the passing of time. If you love your food full of flavours, enjoy getting your hands dirty and are keen on meditative therapy on a shoestring budget, then growing your own herbs is definitely the the right way to go. Following my example through the blossoming, beautiful herbs of my garden showcased in this post, you are amply satsified to try for yourself.

A backyard is an enviable thing in this day in age: if you don’t have one, you wish you did, and if you do have one, it’s a case of always wanting bigger. But in truth, being too mindful of the size of the garden easily distracts you from making the best of the space available to you – and investing your time into the growing of herbs rather than the harbouring of hesitations!

I clearly remember my grandmother’s backyard as a crudely constructed trench of soil reaching a good two metres in depth and width, perpetually cooled and moistened by the shade and the crumbly clay and double-brick. The herbs grew wild and strong, vivid in their scent and colour and ambition for the sunshine. It was a routine for several Sundays in my childhood, to bring a pair of household scissors to the tendrils twined over the chickenwire mounted upon the wall and the bunches of seeds budding and swaying in the breeze. By the time the herb plant had gone to seed, my grandmother would remind me, it was time to give the plant a ’haircut’ nearly down to the roots of the plant – to encourage healthy and sustained growth throughout the transition of seasons.

I also clearly remember how terrified I was of the stream of the wind through the pipes, channeling through the windowpanes and lifting the corrugated iron sheets of the pergola like a delicate leaf of gold. It was within the herb garden that I came to understand the genesis of plants and the kingdom of small creatures dwelling within and above the soil. Like the unravelling of a great mystery after a long period of contemplation, I was awed; there was something innately appealing about the makeshift garden and all the qualities that made it memorable. The mortar that had been sloppily applied to bind the bricks together, the bitter peppery scent of the parsley and the aroma of the soil - a cloying cold, metallic wetness.

These days, without a backyard of my own, as an apartment-dweller, I don’t have the same luxury of the olden days to gather from the backyard everything in plenty and easily replenisible supply. This hasn’t stopped me, however, from growing and sharing everything I can within the space of my home and it also hasn’t stopped me from encouraging my family and friends to grow herbs of their own. There is a unique, enlivening experience in ‘reaping what you sow’ and a reminder of how even the biggest things have the humblest beginnings.

I’ll be very happy to document my success (or failure) in growing the latest addition to the family – petite marjoram – in a future post!

If there were to a quote of the month summarising my ruminations, this would be it:It’s not the size that matters, it’s how you use it. Since we are all fairly aquainted with this saying, so I will get straight to the heart of this month’s affair: let’s talk about keeping firmer and less limp, growing larger and lasting longer and most importantly, satisfying that voracious hunger. Best of all, let’s have a lesson how to heat things up and get a great boost of endorphins to boot. If this sounds like the void that’s built walls within your life and started to charge you rent, then you’ve come to the right place.

All you need to do is put your excuses aside and achieve fantastic results with a sunny corner space, a bag of potting mix and the seeds for your sowing. That is to say, I don’t blame you for avoiding many of the fruit and vegetables that should be filling your shopping trolley. They really should be firm and crisp and last longer than a few days in your refridgerator. But the reality is, supermarkets offer such an incredibly lacklustre selection that severely wants in variety, quality and value.

But enough talk, let’s see about loosing the limpness, gaining the firm flesh and fastening up — in the department of vegetables, that is! (Goodness knows where your mind has been so far…)

When it comes to where you live and how you wish to fit an active lifestyle, in my opinion, size really doesn’t matter. After all, this year marks my tenth consecutive year as an apartment dweller, cast back andforth between Sydney’s Inner West and Eastern suburbs, meanwhile managing a bountiful garden within limited space.

While gardening herbs and tending to vegetables sounds like a pursuit in pure self-interest, my experiences have found it can actually open the barriers once closing you in to your neighbours, family and friends; I believe that there is true altruism in garden-tending and growing, because any surplus stock can easily become the stock of the giving and sharing – emblemising a sense of true community spirit.

During this time, I have read through numerous gardening books for inventive ways to recycle natural and renewable resources to house and grow vegetables. Indeed, there is a growing trend for a certain prized resourcefulness that is learned from working within cramped spaces, and through this recipe and post I have demonstrated my attempt to utilise the most of my dwelling space to capitalise on sunshine and celebrate a late-Summer harvest with the newest beet in town: my very own bunch of home-grown spinach.

Now is the time to discard any bitterness you have ever heard before, compost the criticisms in a box soon to sprout new life and keep only the fleshy, crisp memories on your plate. Gardening at home, for simple crops and herbs, has a therapeutic effect in the copious release of endorphins, gives you the chance to sample your own tending and keep you feeling full and satisfied. It is much quicker and easier to accomplish than you might think. And in the case of spinach, versatility is never questioned: bake it, steam it, fry it, paste it, you name it!

INGREDIENTS
packet of puff pastry
500-700g fresh silverbeet (don’t worry, it reduces when it gets cooked)
3 tablespoons pure olive oil
bunch of shallots, sliced roughly
punnet/packet of Greek feta cheese, cubed by 0.5cm
grated ginger to taste (optional)
1 tablespoon tepid water
4 eggs
3 cloves garlic, diced
pinch of paprika
pinch of nutmeg
plenty of sea salt
pinch of black pepper

1. Preheat oven to 230c. Defrost and lay-out two sheets of puff pastry for use.
2. Lightly grease a deep-dish baking pan and carefully lay flat the puff pastry bottom layer.
3. Rinse and chop your silverbeet by clumping it into tight bunches and slicing with the guidance of your off-hand.
4. Place the silverbeet into a large mixing bowl. Chop the garlic finely the shallots rough and place both into the bowl.
5. Whisk three whole eggs in a bowl, with 1 tablespoon of olive oil, until suitably aerated. Pour over the silverbeet.
6. Add paprika, nutmeg, sea salt and black pepper to taste, and finish off with a tablespoon of tepid water.
7. Chop and add feta to the bowl, rinsing under water if not in-brine version.
8. Mix contents of the bowl thoroughly with your hands.
9. Scoop the entire contents of the bowl onto the bottom layer of the puff pastry in the baking pan. Level the surface with a spoon.
10. Place final layer of puff pastry over the top of the silverbeet and press down firmly. Allow the liquid from the silverbeet to penetrate the pastry and make it soggy; this is of no consequence to the stability of the pastry.
11. Gently compress the contents of the baking tray and lattice around the edges with a fork.
12. Whisk the remaining egg leisurely and brush over the surface of the pastry. Dust with any choice of seasoning for decoration, such as paprika.
13. Cook for approx. 25 minutes, or until top pastry is flaky and moist and a knife-skewer returns with condensation.
14. Serve immediately or microwave over the next week – it is delicious the day-after baking.

Have you witnessed the remarkable perseverance, the pep-in-the-step, the joie de vivre of the basil plant? Perhaps you have watched basil growing precariously by the curbside resembling a hardy bushy moss, undisturbed by time and traffic and the torment of water deprivation, while its leaves sway by the breeze and swell with peppery bite, advertising the time that is ripe for the plucking, its flowers ready to be taken at the whim of the winds or by the tender gathering of the worker bee. Being something of the hopelessly romantic gardener that I am, I admit to being witness to the dehydration and death of even the hardiest, most woody of basil plant to a return to infancy. It is truly remarkable to witness the cycle of basil from seeding to hanging seed, dusty branch to succulent soil, the idle dried flowers laden with the promise of re-growth in the new season…

My love affair began with several unforced visits to the growing sites of many basil plants in my grandmother’s home, during the seemingly endless school holidays beneath the scorching sun. It was truly amazing to watch the progress of growth from the shooting of limbs toward the sunshine like green darts from the gaps in the pavement. The tactful blueprints of the seedling rapidly became evident by the scrawling, haphazard roots coming into effect over the glaze of a cracked, sun-baking terra cotta pot.

It wasn’t enough to see some infant plants coming into fruition, my fascination with the resilience of basil intensified after being introduced to an overwhelmingly dense basil plantation. Having had grown into such proportions and demonstrating such liveliness, I was at first skeptical that this bushy shrub was a herb; I was very quickly convinced after tearing a leaf and sampling it over a slice of oxheart tomato.

Waste is never produced and never tolerated in my grandmother’s house. With rations of food, cloth and dairy scarce during the wartime, waste was a symbol of arrogance and a sign of utter thriftlessness – for a poor seamstress knowing neither her way about the country nor having the work to support herself, this tradition became a necessity for survival on a shoestring budget.

To distract herself from the stories of conscription and civil unrest and scarcity of resources, she familiarised herself with recipes from the region focused on making the most of the least possible. Thus, with the abundance of garlic cloves from the fruit market, freshly grated pecorino cheese replete with green and black whole peppercorn, the numerous cans of olive oil left to mature in the garage and the basil leaves left over by the near-end of the summer season, I learned the secret golden combination of the season’s best through pesto, illuminating the spark of a new love affair.

These days, given the constraints of apartment living so close to the city and bordering by the wayward west, my basil and thyme and parsley share their growing space and fight for dominance and sun exposure to strengthen their rickety, woody arms in three deep plastic troughs. But no matter your circumstances, the making of pesto is a story in itself that will unravel the passion of the summer season and make you covet pesto as the most proud ode to the basil plant and the kingdom of small things; germinating and growing. Pesto works wonderfully as an accompaniment to pasta, as a tapenade or even as a dip for your favourite raw vegetables.

INGREDIENTS
2 generous handfuls of fresh basil leaves
5 garlic cloves, roughly sliced
70g grated Parmesan or Pecorino cheese
5 tablespoons virgin olive oil
1/4 cup toasted pine nuts
pinch of sea salt
pinch of black pepper
pinch of nutmeg

1. Rip the basil leaves by hand and place into a blender or food processor. Follow with a drizzle of olive oil.
2. Crack fresh pepper, sprinkle salt and a dash of nutmeg. Finish with grated cheese.
3. Blend contents on lowest setting for 30 seconds, slowly adding the remainder of the olive oil into the mixture.
4. Once thoroughly blended, crush pinenuts with a mallet or the flat of a knife and place into mixture.
5. Blend contents a second time on lowest setting for 30 seconds. Stir with a wooden spoon to loosen particles.
6. Serve immediately over piping-hot pasta or freeze for up to three months in an airtight jar, covered with a layer of oil.

Christmas truly makes December a coveted month because it brings food, family and friends together and closer to our hearts than any other time of the year. Cooking by recipes endemic to the season is a perfect example of how we celebrate the spirit of togetherness, for we bring down the once-a-year cookbooks from hibernation, oil the baking tins and ready pouches of flour, punnets of strawberries, ladels of sugar and bundles of eggs for the sweets our guests will enjoy. As a child, the first day of December traditionally meant I could put the hedonism switch on for all the hard work was done already, the presents and food were on their way and the laughter came easier than any other time of the year. I distinctly remember the simple joys of decorating and celebrating, in hanging candy canes from the highest reaches of our synthetic tree, storing bonbons from the ends of branches, draping tinsel and hooking nativity scenes and the golden star upon the top point of the tree. It was a tree we loved, even for its fatal flaws; it was awfully unstable and unpleasant tree, supported on the base by a cast-iron clamp and a few dirty bricks concealed with a tablecloth, with unsightly power-coated bristles and branches that would cut, scratch and itch the skin. But it was well worth the effort since it involved plucking carefully hidden chocolates from inside the tree.

The Sydney Christmas as a whole is now largely celebrated as a secular holiday in the summer season, representing the exchange of presents as a token currency of the deliverance of a goodwill; in the minds of many, gift-giving is a practice largely foregoing its pre-existing religious significance. Nevertheless, regardless of religious inclination, you will agree with me that Christmas is a particularly special and memorable time of year, because it is one of the few seasons of the year where our traditions and memories are renewed, reflected upon and practiced. We bubble fruit cakes in the pot, glaze our turkey roasts, drink some delicious aged port and most importantly, reflect upon how our families and friends have grown with us, grown as individuals and also reflect on how arguments and dissent have perhaps drawn loved ones apart.

In my eyes, December is the month of the celebration of communion and here on Wild Thyme and Sweet Pea, I wish to introduce to you to the almond as a traditional Christmas dish that is sure to aid your get-togethers and gift-giving ideas. In the weeks leading to Christmas, my mother would pour one kilogram of dry-roasted almonds into a large pot of boiling water, let it cool for fifteen minutes and call us from our rooms to partake in an activity colloquially known as “losing one’s fingerprints”. To this day, I am unsure why it was known this way to us, as I have never permanently lost my fingerprints nor my sense of touch from dipping my hands into the hot, almond-laden water. The almonds were blanched by carefully squeezing and peeling of their skins, arranged on a baking tray without any oils or glazing agents and roasted in the oven until golden-brown. It was a sublime pleasure to smell the aroma pour through the house on a hot, summer day.

Since the earliest days of this recipe, I have tried many variations and practiced many times and decided in recent times by preparing the oven-baked almonds with a soft, sweet coating made from a simple solution of caster sugar, water, golden syrup and cinnamon, gently combined over a stovetop. If you are feeling adventurous enough, I have even made separate batches using natural food colouring – one in green and the other red, to make an appealing and festive-looking medley. The almonds – still hot from the oven – are then coated in this rich coating and left to cool in the refrigerator. Once hardened, the the contrast between the coating and the almond makes for an absolute delight. Try them wrapped in waxy baking paper and tied up with a piece of wrapping string for a rustic-looking present. It is a good idea if you wish to create individually colour-themed almonds, to create seperate small batches of almonds for colouring, so that you don’t mix up the colours in one great pot of mess!

INGREDIENTS
1kg dry-roasted almonds
2.5 litres boiling water
100g caster sugar (optional)
pinch cinnamon (optional)
red and green food colouring (optional)
non-stick baking tray or containter (optional)

1. Pre-heat the oven to 200c.
2. Pour boiling water into a pot and follow with almonds.
3. Allow to sit for 15-20 minutes, until the skins on the almonds are soggy.
4. Pinch each individual almond between the thumb and forefinger with pressure to force the almond from its skin.
5. Place the ‘skinned’ almonds on a baking tray neatly and place in oven. Cook for 10-15 minutes or until golden but not brown (as this will lead to a very firm nut!)
6. Remove from the oven and allow to cool before placing in air-tight container.
7. (optional) Pour cool water into a small pan and place over the stove on medium-heat.
8. (optional) Once water has heated slightly, whisk in sugar and cinnamon and adjust stove for low heat.
9. (optional) Continue to agitate the mixture vigourously, preventing coagulation and dissolving the sugar crystals, until mixture becomes gloggy, clear and thick. Add food colouring last and to your desired quantity.
10. (optional) Arrange cooked almonds in the baking tray. Carefully pour mixture over the almonds, mix and place in the refrigerator overnight.
11. (optional) Once chilled and hardened, seperate the almonds from the cluster carefully by hand and serve as a gift, wrapped in baking paper or as part of a platter.

This post contains a cheeky surprise – something overwhelmingly vivacious, perhaps something slightly audacious and saucy, conjuring dazzling images of succulent culinary delights — lasagne is, undoubtedly, my personal favourite dish, a meal that I am most confident in preparing. And yet it a dish I learned to make and perfect by observational learning in the kitchen of my mother and grandmother. No amount of recipe books purchased, however detailed and exquisite, were able to impart their wisdom to me. So if you have been too shy to build a pasta masterpiece in the past, take note of the fact that lasagne is fiendishly difficult at first, but like moulding clay, becomes easier and more malleable with time has the potential to become a creative medium to accommodate your imaginative whims. Thai chicken lasagne? I’ve heard of it before!

In the writing and the preparation and photography of the dish, I had placed upon the table many awful, soggy excuses that were barely passable as a final product. With a grimace, my housemates would assure me it was edible and praised the effort. But not meeting one’s personal potential in culinary adventures is I decided to get right into the nitty-gritty, rolling up my sleeves and rolling out the sheets and spreading over the sauce. I spent hours on quiet contemplation with a mental scouring brush, seeking recollections of family moments crowded around the gas stove, as the dented steel deep-dish overflowing with lasagne bubbled under the gas flame and oozed a crimson river of mozzarella and tomato.

Forget your preconceptions of lasagne as difficult, time-consuming and hardly filling: as I don’t believe in the widely propagated image of ‘the perfect lasagne’, I set out a mission in this post to present a time-and-trial tested recipe and tout it as the  best and easiest home-made version, that is certain to keep you coming back for more.

As for the perfect lasagne, what metric could we possibly create to determine perfection of this pasta, whose base recipe means something different to every family and every taste? I would hope that whoever should rise up to the challenge and invent the generic measure for a length of string would be wise to translate this knowledge to ‘how long is a string of melted mozzarella from a lasagne’ and put this mystery to rest!

It is somewhat upsetting to think of lasagne as a dish reborn in modern times solely from clever marketing techniques, manipulation of food presentation and finesse in standardisation principles and mass-manufacturing processes. The real and great appeal of this dish is the home-made quality, the attribute of heartiness and the true reflection of the love and care invested in the selection of ingredients and the preparation.

It would seem that the roots of the humble lasagne have perhaps been forgotten by many and the original recipe lost, or re-invented for the changing palate of a new generation of families.

But this isn’t necessarily a bad thing. After all, although pizza, pasta and lasagne — arguably forming the triad of the culinary culmination for main meals in Italy — left the mainland to travel the world. It became inevitable to witness the transformation — or perhaps metamorphosis, into a spiced-up, local variation now found all around the world.

There’s really no need to feel sad. The graceful Sister Spaghetti and Brother Lasagne knew a turbulent life await them beyond the pasta convent – facelifts and adaptations were merely a trade-off to ensure the survival of the Italian culinary hallmark in the new century.

Therefore, In this recipe you will find a protest against manufactured and processed  lasagne dishes, to instead share my zeal for the home-baked pasta, which highlights the ending Spring season and the yearly all-rounders brought into singing harmony. Gather your herbs, your cents and your senses and get ready to make your kitchen smell wonderful and feel more homely.

In this lasagne instance, I have chosen to stick with egg lasagne for a thicker pasta pastry layering (it also always gives the best results at higher heat without turning stiff), and have constituted the bulk of the filling for steamed and finely sliced broccoli and spinach and asparagus braised in garlic and olive oil. Of course, while the vegetarian option always comes to my mind first and foremost, especially since ground mince is easily a substitute.

In a divine duo of sauces, a sprinkle of salt, a handful of Kalamata olive cheeks, a few young buds of basil and thyme makes the tomato base, while the white sauce is constituted by cooking cream enlivened with virgin olive oil, Spanish onion, nutmeg and a medley of ground green, red, white and black peppercorns.

INGREDIENTS
1 cup of broccoli
fresh bunch of silverbeet
2 medium-sized brown 0nions
250mL cooking cream
3 cloves garlic, diced
1 can of diced tomato
150g sliced Kalamata olives
1 large brushed potato
pinch of sea salt
pinch of parmesan cheese
pinch of black pepper

1. Pre-heat the oven to 230c.
2. Parboil and peel your potato. Slice very finely and place aside and allow to cool completely.
3. Steam or boil broccoli and silverbeet until tender, but not overcooked. Place aside and allow to cool completely.
4. Dice onion, potato, broccoli, garlic and olives and put aside. Put two stove elements on medium-heat.
5. Butter the sides of a ceramic deep-dish baking container. Mix chopped garlic and olive oil with salt and lightly brush sides with culinary brush.
6. Add oil to pot and, rotate to cover the base and heat. Add and cook onion until golden brown.
7. Pour cooking cream into pot slowly and cook for five minutes on low-heat, stirring frequently. Add pepper and salt to taste. Do not allow to boil.
8. Add oil to the pan, rotate to cover the base and heat. Add and fry garlic until golden brown. Fry canned tomato over medium-heat and allow to simmer.
9. Blend silverbeet and cooking cream in a food processor until well-combined.
10. Begin bottom layer of lasagne with a tablespoon of tomato, follow with initial sheets of lasagne and a sprinkle of mozzarella.
11. Add equal quantities of béchamel and red sauce to each subsequent layer, smoothing and mixing the sauce paste.
12. Sprinkle potato and broccoli into each layer and finish off each layer with cheese.
13. Bake in the oven for 45 minutes, or until top is crispy and sides of lasagne are bubbling.
14. Serve with a fresh garden salad and a dry white wine.

We knew we need only follow our nose and glimpses of the teasing dappled light of paper lanterns, flailing in the wind, hung to tents like bobbypins holding myriad iridescent petticoats, to know we had reached The Night Noodle Market. Had we been oblivious to the many signs and songs, the parades of Chinese dragon dances and, perhaps not surprisingly, beer cans and bottles, it would have been easy to know we were in Hyde Park by the crowds. Masses of hungry patrons descended upon the stalls, queuing irregular and fiercely impatient three-laned lines, all the while fiddling with their twenty-dollar notes and chatting about the working week.

I took the opportunity to take as many candid photographs as I could from all angles and perspectives, trying to realise the event from the eyes of somebody truly taking part in everything that was on offer. It was well worth the change in viewpoint, especially in the numerous instances in developing the courage to visit the chefs at their stalls in the restriced area. At first some were a little shy, others somewhat hostile, the chefs gradually warmed up to me and allowed me to take a few close-ups of their craft. It seemed only fair that I ask permission first, thank them for their co-operationand make a silly gesture about being ravenously hungry. Don’t worry, I did the right thing; I went to buy some curry puffs and spring rolls from the same tent.

It was a treat to see stalls from some of our favourite restauraunts on showcase, from East Ocean to Chat Thai and beyond, as well as the sample-sized yum cha offerings, dim sum and even a stall vendoring an exclusive Belgian liquid chocolate and espresso coffee. Never before have we known a single event to house some of Sydney’s best noodle and yum-cha vendors in a single place, and neve before had we known the startling popularity maintained by these establishments.

Sadly, it was not an evening and an event that truly lived up to its potential. It was however, disappointing to sample an array of commonly found dishes from Thai, Chinese and Malay restaurants with marked-up prices and cooked and served without succor. Overlooking the quality and the variety of food, we were also taken aback by the clear lack of planning of navigation and seating. Getting to and from stalls was like running a samba or being stuck in a traffic jam; bumper-to-bumper and constantly being jostled aside and affected with flinging food flotsam from careless passersbys.

Perhaps this is merely all part of the fun.

We nevertheless took to our experience an open mind and a desire to see the City of Sydney in its night colours. We tangoed from the train station, skipped the stepping stones and fox-trotted the foggy footpaths in our attempts to arrive in style. Imagine the light of the moon, the celestial body of a cresent smile in the sky, brooding beneath a stormy veil. Picture twilight having just descended and smothering the leaves of trees and the outstreched branches in an eerie azure hue, ebbing, glowing.

We were not disappointed with the early-evening ambience, when the fairy lights swayed and glistened, live music carried and being in the company of those who are only the dedicated to staying on. The chefs of the stalls even took to enjoying the night lights, closing their shop fronts for a moment at a time and smoking, chatting, drinking from coconuts while sitting contendedly on milk crates.

And before I sign out on this post and pass your reading eyes back to you, I hope you have a spectacularly spooky Halloween. Remember to only over-indulge on premium sweets – after all, if you’re going to be taken hostage by your tastebuds, you would be wiser to obey the calling for being spoiled.

I’ll certainly be back next year to see what else the city chefs have to offer us.

On any given bright Saturday afternoon, when the working week is over, I tend to look to the promise of the yielding, infinite goodness of the weekend proper to entice myself from home and the daily humdrum. ‘Let’s do something exciting’, I recall telling myself, ‘This weekend needn’t be as aimless as the last!’.

During moments of procrastination in the working office, my mind (and I’m sure yours does, too!) tends to imagine the ‘what ifs’ and the ‘if only’ scenarios, lost in dreaming mode, while those stolen glimpses outside the window remind me of the fresh air and sunshine that I am totally missing out on. The reality is, when you have exhausted and over-exerted your mind in search of something novel and interesting to prepare and have emptied your wallet in a Thursday evening grocery shop, it seems only fair that someone else should take the responsibility to cook. And why shouldn’t we have a break? Day-to-day, you think only of the mounting obligations arising from home and work and find yourself lost for energy and ideas and lacking the impetus to even open the fridge and put together some ragtag of ingredients.

Tired of the myriad of Thai restaurants along your streets cafe strip? The local Chinese takeaway store closed or the gourmet pizza bar leaving you out of pocket? It’s time to forget such worries that have taken hostage of our mind. There’s good news to be had in saying that there is no need to dash for the local saloon or the midnight bar for pub grub, for a different kind of watering hole in town, one that won’t leave your stomach wanting for exercise after a few drinks, your brain wanting for stimulation after some awkward smalltalk and your tastebuds craving for an after-dinner mint.

Look no further than Malay-Chinese Takeaway, a genuine-to-recipe laksa oasis moulded after the Singaporean/Malaysian hawker-centre style of eatery, located on Hunter Street in the heart of Sydney City. It’s a tiny trek to take up a climbing hill, dodging suits and briefcases along the way, and the queue outside the restaurant is somewhat daunting in erratic Spring weather. Nevertheless, with the expectation of formalities aside, it’s up to you to pull up a seat and watch the ceiling fans circulate the steam from pots and pans or, while waiting, to be hypnotised by the stirring beads of sweat pouring from the brows of those braving the fronts of extra chilli with their soup.

Don’t expect waitstaff to serve your every whim in this informal setting nor a cordial response to some banal chatter from the cooks behind the scenes; simply place your order to to the staff behind the counter, take a seat and wait merely a few moments for your food to arrive. It’s as good as it gets. There is enough seating and such a broad variety and demographic of soup-slurpers that you needn’t worry about arriving in your flipflops and singlet top. In fact, your mother will be thankful that the stains from the curry powder used extensively in the food, won’t leave a mark on that favourite silk tie.

You’re bound to be pleasantly surprised by the skinless chicken laska ($9.20) with healthy chunks of ingredients and a savoury chicken-broth bite, or perhaps the king prawn laksa ($11) that fills the palate with a delightful likeness to a seafood marinara. Of course, the title of the restaurant is really a dead giveaway to the variety of dishes available, including the delicious and rather famous Hainanese chicken rice ($8.20), chicken, beef, prawn and satay varieties of Malaysian curries brought in excellent taste and spice (ranging from $7.10 to $11.60) and even a handful of fried noodles, such as the personal favourite char kway teow ($9).

Within minutes, you are hailed to the counter and drawn to a delicious speciality dish. Feeling game? Give a try to one of the mouthwatering weekly specials.

At a modest average of ten dollars, you can drown your worries in a porcelain bowl beaming with coconut milk soaked in crimson chilli jam, ornate with flotsam of prawns, noodles, beansprouts and shredded cabbage. When you’re done or perhaps only half-way through, surrender your chopsticks to your bowl and succumb to a slur: it’s almost expected that you will soak up the ambience of chatter and the chiming of bustle from the kitchen and have a chat with your nearest neighbour.

Why shouldn’t you have a break? Day-to-day, you think only of the mounting obligations arising from home and work and find yourself lost for energy and ideas and lacking the impetus to even open the fridge and put together some ragtag of ingredients. But mental and physical exhaustion should never stop the avid culinare from an appreciation of good food consisting of a great variety, zest and substance. While it might not be as alluring as a sweet-and-salty Katong laksa, it’s definitely in a league of its own that is well worth the wait and the return visit.

Shop 1, 50-58 Hunter St, Sydney NSW 2000

phone: 9231 6788
fax: 9231 6799
website: www.malaychinese.com.au

Open: Monday to Friday 11am-7.30pm
Saturday 11am-6pm
Sunday Closed