As with any major city in the world, you could probably mention their home specialties and turn-offs from the top of your head: Naples has its pizza and its gypsies, London has its double-decker buses and infamous weather, New York with its skyscrapers and unpleasantly rude locals. But no matter what bad things we hear or say about capital cities, we all pledge to visit them someday and tell our friends and family all about it. So, what about Sydney? What is the shining jewel and the pitfall of the city that stands out above all else?
That’s just the thing: the major city of Oz is so difficult to fault by visitors that the traffic keeps coming back. Sure, there’s cricket and football and television and music and a myriad of other elements to talk about when asked about Sydneysider’s pastimes (not to mention to the deplorable transport system and the congested roads), many of which shared with other nations.

With its proximity to seven beaches and a UV index almost permanently stuck to ‘Extreme’ in the summertime, it is perhaps not suprising that the true jewel of Sydney is as dime-a-dozen as they come: the good ol’ fashioned fish and chips. Take a ride by the coast, stop by any of the beaches and you will be inundated with the number of shopfronts all offering their house specialty, their home recipe, their winning catch or boasting their proximity to the sea. What makes for a truly wonderful dish of fish and chips is difficult and highly sought after by visitors and locals alike: the quality of preparation, the freshness of the catch and how clean the fry before serving to you. Combining these tenets into a mantra in their daily operations, Ocean Foods on Lyons Road, Drummoyne has much muscle to flex and a plethora of awards with which to emphasise their credibility and success. For over 10 years in a row, this gem of the west has stunned the local council food competitions with successive medal wins and featured in a variety of press coverages online and in print. And there’s little doubt in my mind as to why. If you’re keen to hear about the best of the foods of the deep blue, scroll down and pucker up your appetite!

My initial visit to Ocean Foods took me off guard. I had not expected the long queue that stretched far outside the door and along the laneway. The bustle and impatience, the scatter of ice across the freshly plucked oysters, the shock at the prices on the menu board were all negated by the thrill of moving forward into the queue, where each step meant coming closer to that delightful aroma of freshly cooked shellfish and prime fillets. A thirty minute wait eventually saw us reach the cashier, who greeted us curtly and scribbled down our order, only to disappear into the next room with a few boxes ready to be filled with our order. We spent a few minutes standing idly by, staring at the faces in the crowd, drawing conclusions about the true locals and the sheepish visitors who were too afraid to break the status quo of the queue ettique.

A little bravery helped us nab a few shots of our position in the queue and a good glimpse of the menu board that seemed to stretch into infinity. We were so spoilt for choice that it was hard for us to make up our minds. Putting my indecision behind me, I opted for the weekly special of the filleted, boned, skinned and fried snapper with a side of chips for $10.90. The others ordered calamari rings and fish cocktails with a side of chips, while the temptation to order potato scallops and a side dipping sauce (approx. $3) of tangy tartare meant we were well-satisfied by the time it came to pick up our order.

We took a seat by a bench in a nearby park and shooed the seagulls and pigeons from our way before we tucked into our feast. As expected, the snapper was a delicious and smooth fillet of fish, perfectly flaky and coated in just the right amount of batter and went perfectly with the vinegar of the tartare. The fish cocktails were creamy morsels of soft, salty fish that were gently fragrant of the sea and washed down exceptionally well with the fresh squeezed lemon. After devouring several handfuls of the crisp and oily chips, we made our mark upon the calamari that was tender and tasty, followed by a slice each of our shared Catch of The Day fillet that topped off our palate.

By the end of our meal, we were certain that our eyes were certainly bigger than our belly for we had overpurchased and overate. Unlike other fish and chip shopfronts which must rely on a different kind of oil, we did not feel overburdened or particularly sick after being satiated. The delicacy of the meal and the piquancy of the lemon cut through the heaviness of the oil (which I am informed, is changed daily) and merely complimented the fish rather than overpowering it. Since our first visit, we have seen three or four repeat visits on special occassion, to sample different varieties on the menu. Given the pace of throughput coming through their door, there is little reason to rate their customer service, except to mention that where there is a rush as there always is, you shouldn’t come expecting the red carpet treatment. You are best set preparing yourself for the grilled fish burger with chips or sinking your teeth into the marinated cooked prawns, breaking apart the boiling red-orange lobster or slurping the juicy oysters from their shell.

By all means and merits, if you aren’t a fan of fish, a visit to Ocean Foods will definitely change your mind indefinitely and give you a solid benchmark to use to compare against anything else on offer. Within a few months, a sit-down eatery component will be added for visitors to park themselves and enjoy an alfresco element as they bask in the afternoon sun., and conveniently request fish fresh from the grill if they are waiting on more to fill their stomachs.  With a combination of cooked and raw, fresh and frozen, you are bound to satisfy your seafood desires here or at least discover the best venue for a day out with the family (or alone), to indulge in Sydney’s best on-offer.

Still not convinced? Eatbility has showcased its overall rating of 7.3, added to 55 recommendations from Webmenu, #3 of 43 from Tripadviser and a lengthy review by The Sydney Morning Herald. The best reviews are always going to be the ones made by yourself, so make an effort to visit when you can!

Ocean Foods - Lyons Road. 154 Lyons Road, DRUMMOYNE. Sydney. Ph: (02) 9181 4336

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.

INGREDIENTS
125g butter
2 whole eggs, beaten
450g (or 500g) mixed fruit
1 tablespoon boiling water
1 teaspoon mixed spice
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1 teaspoon vanilla essence
½ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon bicarbonate of soda

1 cup caster sugar
1 cup self-raising flour
2 cups plain flour
pinch sugar

1. Preheat oven to 180°C, preparing the middle rack for use.
2. Measure and mix aforementioned ingredients, wet and dry, in a mixing bowl and until roughly combined. Be sure to introduce flour first and liquids last.
3. Your mixture should be sufficiently moist and pliable before continuing. Boil mixture for 5 minutes, stirring occasionally.
4. Prepare a bain marie of the sink with cold water. Place pot into the sink and add extra vanilla essence. Stir vigourously and allow to cool.
5. Beat two eggs with a pinch of extra sugar and extra salt. Pour into pot and stir until combined.
6. Grease and line a baking tin, stir mixture and carefully pour and line the base of the cooking pan.
7. Place on the middle rack and allow to cook for 1½ to 2 hours; check to see if cake bounces back. If so, then more cooking is required.

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.

You see, the family tradition for Christmas runs as deep as gold veins in solid stone: you eat… and then eat. And eat some more. You gather at Nonna’s (grandmother) place and fill your plate almost skyhigh with warm potato and artichoke garden salad, pork sausage and rump steak, seasoned potato salad, warm green beans and of course, some crispy Vienna breadrolls. Don’t even start on dessert, where cashew nuts and blanched almonds are scattered across the table, along with overfilled glasses of Cinzano, Tia Maria and Frangelico to toast the platter of fresh fruits in the centre of the table.

You wash it down with some sanguine house wine that is heavy and hearty enough to feel like the kick of a mule, compliment the palate with some fennel leaves drizzled with warm olive oil, chow down the leftover chorizo and voila! You have one highly satiated patient, who is expected to finish a second serving.

With a sob and a guilty tremor to my typing, I courageously explain the source of my sorrow. Santa’s sleigh was very generous but largely expected of this time of year, with a buttery Panetonne, a bag-full of bumpy lemons, several handfuls of parsley, the sweet top-sprigs of basil, dried oregano, some moulded mozzarella and a box of Baci. Every morning I would have a slice (okay, I’m lying through my teeth - I would have one piece in the morning, one for lunch and one after dinner) of Panetonne with my Earl Grey tea or my cappucino. The lemons would be squeezed into a large jar of water for consuming during the day, sprinkling over meats and preserving the other fresh fruits from turning brown. The parsley surrendered to a sumptuous folded omelette, while the basil and oregano topped a bruschetta. As for the Baci? Let’s just say that they never really saw the light of day.

All the while, my fridge holds a large Tupperware container full of chickpeas that are growing frost from being left too deep in the fridge for too long. I honestly surprise myself with wonder as to what exactly it is that we eat every night, but whatever it might be, it never leaves me hungry for long.

Thankfully, given that the family’s ‘child generation’ have now all become adults, we decided to give ourselves a little bit more autonomy and break-away from the purely Italian roots of our celebratory Christmas. Amidst the traditional five-course meal of cold meats and starchy mains, this Christmas Day will serve up a snapper fish with garlic-lemon olive oil, roasted in its own juicies. Dessert will see us having warm rum-custard with jelly and cinnamon and as for the after-dinner refreshments, I’ve heard a rumour that someone will be bringing the Nintendo Wii for some gaming fun in the backyard.

Somewhat of a Christmas culture lost in translation, no? If you’ve a similar (or stranger) experience of Christmas tradition to share, I would be happy to publicise it.

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…

For a now working-class suburb, Dulwich Hill has much to offer to an inquisitive soul, searching for impulsive snapshots of unexpected occurrences and delightfully spun yarns about a broadway streetscape that existed some fifty years earlier. Elderly Greek and Italian men bicker and share commentary of their wartime efforts, flailing their arms and walking canes when gesturing directions to passerbys (who are much to their own dismay, shocked and never to return) quote their ailing families and complain about the price of gourmet cheeses, amidst the consuming smoke of their hand-rolled cigarettes, and in tolerance of the sickly stench of espresso strained just a minute too long. Etched deep in their scarred hands, dug deep with callouses and blood-blistered fingertips from replanting far too many times the same olive tree, or perhaps the boyish smiles they pass to you as you walk through their conversations, oddly comforting and never devoid of that gentlemanly demeanor to strangers, who always know to leave the bench beside the tobacconist vacant for them while they tell stories about their tribulations.  This is a story about economy, a bakery and a garden - all viewed through the sepia-tinted lens of a suburb.  This is aptly said, a yarn told with absolute economy about Luigi’s Bakery and how, like Nick Calloway in The Great Gatsby, Luigi and his baked goods turned out alright in the end; they were never there to be the focus of our scorn. It was the foul dust of that island of ashes caused by the overdevelopment of the area, of the demolition of its grand history and how Luigi’s love of tradition oversaw the overdevelopment.

If we could only get out of bed a few hours earlier, we would be enjoying Luigi’s baked goods every single weekend. By 8 a.m., the queue for Luigi’s has stretched around 15 people long, fidgeting and playing with change in their pockets, glaring at any who dare push in front of them. If you are as fortunate as my grandmother (or perhaps anywhere near as cunning), you will learn one of the tricks of the trade: if you want to be served first, you have to learn the ‘lingo’. She will shamelessly push in front of others in the queue and upon their retort, she will exclaim, “It’s okay! I have an order to pick up”. This, of course, is completely untrue and by the time she has made her way to the front of the queue, she will say her compliments to the staff of the shop and quickly put through her order — all in her rapidly spoken Italian, that the crowd of non-speakers are oblivious to hearing.

There has been no other bakery in our knowledge and locality that has produced such a variety of quality baked goods at true value for money, and a proud heritage in the making: the baker’s are not sparing with the olive oil, rocksalt, rosemary and Kalamata olives and the density of Australian wheat compliments the finesse of the baking method, mouthwatering sourdough and rustico breads; locking in the aroma, the heatiness of the oven, the crackling texture of the roll and preserving the delicate and tender juices inherent in a fluffy bread. Even if you were to make a trip especially to see Sydney, make a quick drop-off to Dulwich Hill for a true taste of locality: how they live, where they go for their groceries and the hybridised culture brought to the city.

Many of the homes within the neighbourhood bear sombre reflections of their economic challenge by the shoddy materials of rusted corrugated iron fastened with five inch nails and the past through a longing for home with the grandiloquent style of their high-perched roofs and ceilings. Given my youth and inexperience, I feel blessed to have been able to partake in the magic of the yesteryear before the grasp of ‘true’ modernisation came over the city: some of my fondest memories recall the giant oxheart tomatoes that came from my grandmother’s garden, amongst the many other treasures of yield that spawned from that platonic soil. I called them ‘Mr. Oxheart’ and assumed that their gargantuan size could easily be attributable to the status of a monarchy: these giant, rich and fleshy tomatoes strained the very vines that they were suspended from and made the delectable truss tomatoes merely dwarfed in comparison. These tomatoes, string beans, lively ears of corn, zucchini flowers anxious to be battered and fried were a part of that magic of the past and were a celebration of the meaning of good eating and strong culture. Never missing a heartbeat, my grandmother would insist I pluck one of these scrumptuous tomatoes and she would quarter it, sprinkle it with a dash of salt and line it with virgin oil. There can be no more sublime a sight than a garden like an oasis in the heart of the city, metallurgic and caustic in temperament and detrimental to our spiritual lives, and the enveloping our gentle buds of taste.

Need some convincing? New York Times has done a write-up about this fantastic suburb here, whilst The Sydney Morning Herald praises Luigi’s Bakery here. Dulwich Hill has known my grandmother for more than half a century and has many, many stories to tell for tourists and Sydneysiders alike, looking for a decent change from the status quo.

While writing this post, I listened to ‘Tenderly’ by Art Tatum.

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!

The Ten Top Tips from Wild Thyme and Sweet Pea: Secrets to a Thin Crust

1. One of the most common problems I have come across personally and while watching others making pizza on our pizza nights’ is the amount of yeast they use in their mixing bowl. Use too much and you end up with a fluffy and boisterous gooey dough that is not malleable at all and only sticks to your counter. Use too little and you will find yourself eating a very dull slab of wheat. Experiment carefully and use a teaspoon at all times - never rely on rule-of-thumbs or trust your bare hand.
2. Water and flour are also very important to get right. In the many cookbooks on the sidebar here, you’ll read the same tip I am about to offer you - you can always add more water, but you will find it hard to add extra flour if you’ve carefully budgeted it and have already got dough all over your fingers. Add the water into the bowl slowly, mixing it in as you go, and making sure that your surface is clean and free of obstructions so that you are able to dust it with flour for rolling out.
3. Be sure that you never leave your dough out in direct sunlight for extended periods of time, unless you enjoy eating Australian damper that is devoid of moisture and flavour: it’ll cook in there!
4. Oil your pizza pan evenly - not too much, not too little, and use your rolled-out dough to push and mould the dough to the shape of the tray. That way, you won’t struggle with the same issues of having to transfer it over.
5. When rolling out the dough, use a combination of a rolling pin as well as your own push-pull-knead procedure, as this will most effectively release trapped air bubbles and ensure a finer consistency with less bumps and bubbles.
6. Soggy, rolled-out pizza dough is your worst enemy. If your topping is too laden, then you are going to experience an unpleasant time when trying to serve it to your guests.
7. Make sure you are using good quality flour and fresh yeast; so often you will find that expired yeast gets you nowhere and that poor quality flour tastes awful, refuses to properly rise and has a terrible consistency. Bread-making flour or triple-sifted plain flour is the way to go. For extra flavour, try using a bread mix with soy and linseed or another combination of seeds.
8. When baking, don’t be tempted to open the oven to take a sneak peak; the sudden escape of heat and inducement of cold air means that extra air bubbles get introduced into the dough, which manifest in a negative way to the presentation — ever had a delivered pizza with strange ‘air-craters’ on it? That’s why!
9. Put in a fresh farm egg along with tepid water when you are making the mixture, along with a splash of olive oil. These instructions will be in the recipe list, but it’s important to note that using olive oil will add to the taste, warm water will help with mixing and an egg will help obtain a golden baking colour as opposed to a pure white.
10. Gas and natural wood ovens work best; if you can’t make do with that, purchase a baking pizza stone. They make a real difference in the crispness of the crust when popped into the oven.

INGREDIENTS
330g tepid water
500g all-purpose white flour
1 whole egg
1 tablespoon of virgin olive oil
1 small zucchini, halved and quartered
1 small eggplant, thinly sliced
2 green-red Roma or egg tomatoes
250g of fresh grated mozzarella cheese
jar of crushed fresh garlic paste

THE SEVEN SWEET PINCHES OF THYME™
pinch of ground sea salt
pinch of Greek oregano
pinch of wild thyme
pinch of white sugar
pinch of ground white pepper
pinch of rosemary
pinch of marjoram

1. Preheat oven to 200°C/392°F, preparing the middle rack for use.
2. Advance-prepare or sudden-prepare the zucchini and eggplant by frying or grilling them until tender. Cook and keep to the side for the moment.
3. Prepare a clean and clear counterspace for use. Dust briskly with flour to stop the dough from sticking.
4. Add the required amounts of ingredients to a large Pyrex® bowl, making sure that water is added last and in careful increments.
5. Stir with a strong steel spoon until thoroughly combined. If dough is too sticky, add more flour. If it is too dry, add a touch more water. Remove from bowl.
6. Kneed and plough dough with push and pull motions across the benchtop until reaching an elastic consistency that is slightly sticky to the touch but not wet.
7. Oil a non-stick, flat baking tray and flour lightly. Push and pull dough over the length of the tray until all the corners are met. Use a thumb and forefinger creasing method to stretch.
8. Use the prongs of the fork to create a pleating effect downward and outward, folding inward. You are given creative license here to make the crust of the pizza as thick or thin as you like; for thicker, use small pinching actions, for thinner, be sure to flatten the curves and push the excess dough inward. Oil flattened dough lightly once more.
9. With a culinary brush, stroke the  with the garlic paste liberally. Spread the tomato sauce over the dough with a spoon and finish with cheese and other condiments.
10. Place into oven for 30-45 minutes, or until desired baking colour and flavour is reached.

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.

BASE INGREDIENTS
1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
3 garlic cloves, diced
1 large brown onion, diced
1 head of iceberg lettuce
pinch salt, pepper

OPTIONS
cucumber
carrot
artichoke
cacciatore (salami)
prosciutto ham
mortadella ham
bocconcini cheese
mozzarella cheese
Parmesan cheese
Grana Padana cheese
chicken breast
tomato
olives
Jarlsberg cheese (or vintage cheddar)
anchovies
marinated, grilled eggplant, zucchini
chorizo sausage

1. Dice the garlic and keep it aside for the moment. Prepare vegetable ingredients, beginning with dry and being sure to remove vegetable moisture spots, such as seeds from tomato and cucumber.
2. Rinse and de-core the lettuce head, being sure to remove dirty outer layers. Wash each leaf thoroughly under running water and shake to release excess water.
3. Arrange layers of the lettuce leaves on the platter. First cover the base with two sets of lettuce leaves for strength. Make a ‘U’-shaped cut at the base of each lettuce leaf to loosen the elasticity and allow the leaf to ‘cup’.
4. Carefully scoop your ingredients into each of the lettuce leaf pockets, being sure to segregate dry and wet ingredients from each other. Use weight strategically to hold down stray lettuce leaf edges and also be sure not to overburden each cup with excessive ingredients.
5. Finish your arrangement with a sprinkle of freshly prepared dressing of olive oil and garlic combined with salt and pepper. If not being served immediately, place into the refrigerator with a covering of cling wrap.

It’s the first day of December; the last month of the year and the beginning of the warmer season. Standing upon this weathered plateau that has seen the turbulent year passing, we commemorate and reflect upon our achievements during the year and perhaps some of the regrets and concerns along the way. Before I had the chance to stow away those fuzzy jumpers and pullovers from the transient winter-spring hybrid season that just ended, the mercury has risen to its resting point of 31 degrees centigrade, meaning that public transport to and from the city bustles, booms in the peak hours and beyond, swelters and swells, with smells of body odour from those returning from gym sessions and nervous students awaiting their examination results.

These days (which seem to keep stretching on longer and longer), I’m kept busy by my commitments at the University of New South Wales, providing my nine-to-five of technical support for the Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences and a small cache of personal projects on the side. For example, Sevendales.net is due to see a revamp as I finally knuckle down to get those anthologies written, those photographs uploaded, the forums powered up and a few personal ballads recorded in good time. Of course, in between all of that, I am visiting with friends I haven’t seen in a long while, queuing for make-it-yourself salads at work and discussing existentialism with colleagues over a thick slice of ciabatta. And who could forget, writing, editing and planning all of those recipes and reviews to come. Some would say it’s all in a days work. Just between me and you though, the ratio probably resembles two parts cooking and documenting to four parts ordering in take-away and procrastination. There are moments when I stop to pick up fallen flowers like dandelions, frangipani and azaleas (as seen above), not to mention the indulgence of Christmas lights which I still haven’t come around to hanging up on the inside of our window, facing the carpark. The residents might have a good laugh at our Chrissie cheer, even if they are Scrooges’ themselves!

Given the immense heat that has us under a spell, commuters face the flies by the dozen and by the retiring night, the mosquitoes biting. Nobody can deny it any longer for it’s as official as it gets; the Southern Hemisphere has turned its pasty white limbs lethargically toward the Sun to greet the dawn of summer, the beginning of December and the rebirth of thousands of saplings and tender troops of seeds eager to burst forth from the earth, ready for another season of yields. Thanks to Eastern Daylight Savings Time, Sydneysiders are enjoying their extra few hours of sunlight beyond 4pm and are roused in the morning by the happy chirp of birds in their trees rather than the sound of a monotonous alarm clock. Did I mention the dazzling, succulent fruits on sale? Bananas, cherries, raspberries, strawberries, currants, lemons, lychees, mangoes, melons, dews and passionfruit, pineapple, rambutan, starfruit and apricot have all poked their noses out for the consumer market to take advantage of the best on offer.

And as with every season, there is a bounty of goodness to enjoy in the great outdoors with family and friends, pulling out and dusting off those old recipe books hastily crammed away while we braced ourselves during the winter months. And whilst the author will be sipping sangria and feasting on fruit salads, he wishes to remind his readers that Wild Thyme and Sweet Pea will not let a moment of good food and inspiration pass through the sieve of time. So what are you waiting for? ‘Tis the season to cast off the shackles of the gloomy time past and brew up a pot of inspiration, while spending other times chilling with a kind of careful contemplation. Stay tuned for our unfolding catalogue of delicious weekly updates and anecdotes to come.

Frankly, it’s no longer possible to just ‘buy a dozen eggs’. When you place a carton in your shopping trolley, you are declaring open war. You pledge your allegiance to a choice that rules your conscience and guides your egg-buying pattern. Walking down the fresh produce aisle, you are bombarded with the selection available and must make an educated decision motivated by ethical or economic concerns, or both. Who in their right mind, for example, would understand what ‘carrot eggs’ are or who might be conned into purchasing carb-conscious eggs, omega-3 enriched eggs or even as outlandish as olive oil eggs? In the most epic struggle since The Battle for Middle Earth, the fate of the dominant dozen eggs will be decided. Will you choose to support the parties whose hens produce seventy percent marketing verbiage and only thirty percent nutrition, or those whose nutritive benefits are supposedly like those descended from the Golden Goose herself? Read on and find out why the newly crowned organic eggs are truly worth their weight in gold.

Once upon a time (and indeed commonplace in many poorer nations), eggs never came in pretty cartons with designs and emblems and scrawls of text purporting their superiority. If the shells themselves weren’t permeable to ink, I’m sure that the middlemen would have probably put all sorts of weird and wonderful taglines on each of their eggs to make them more appealing to the consumer. After all, it’s an unspoken rule that everybody opens the carton of eggs before they purchase it to make sure they are all present, all pretty looking and not cracked or spoiled. That being said, back in the good ol’ days, eggs were a lot fresher; we didn’t have cryogenic technology and storage racks that keep the eggs in suspension until a batch of orders is to be fulfilled. In fact, I still remember the days when access to a coop was no problem at all and in one single visit it was possible to gather as many fresh eggs as you could carry. The real concern now is with the depleting quantity of quality eggs (what a mouthful!) as well as a few other negative side effects of battery-farm eggs.

A recent argument in many ‘good food’ magazines is that the nutritional profile of cage eggs are lacking in comparison to organic eggs, which apparently sport higher mineral and vitamin deposits from the kind of feed they eat and the environment and exercise they receive. In my opinion, the fundamental nutritional profile of an egg will not change unless genetically modified. If you think about it, marketing claims here are perhaps suggesting that by giving an enriched or ’special’ feed, they are able to naturally modify the DNA of their hens to pass to their unborn kin more nutrients, and thus a more nutritious egg to you. Sound a bit silly to you? To be fair, give a hen better feed and you’ll find a tastier, healthier egg, but don’t expect the miracles the middleman promises.

Cartons of the old days also never purported such catchwords as ‘organic’, ’sustainable’ and ‘ecosystem’ that are rife upon packaging of the modern day. I’m sure that if the hens themselves had their way, they would prefer that their unborn kin were not selectively labelled as we choose to do! At the end of the day, too much choice is simply taxing and overwhelming. What does it mean to be organic?

My attempts to define this term on Dictionary.com were futile, returning with an overwhelming 15 definition results! In egg terms, we are here referring to where marketing is made cleverly pitched to the consumer market. Organic eggs can refer to any number of the following: feed that is rich in grain, corn or millet as opposed to steroid enhanced live-feed, pastures which are pesticide, fertiliser and herbicide free or even so simply as eggs which are produced using sustainable agricultural methods.

The Issue: The word ‘organic’ is very broad and can loosely group a number of factors about a product which may be misleading to the public. A carton of eggs stating its product as organic might follow sustainable agricultural practice for example, but widely use steroid enhanced grain. In order for a product to be organic, it usually must carry this title as a license from a certified body that proclaims the product has fulfilled a stringent product quality and integrity check. Alas, the organic debate is long-lived and a loophole is clearly known for most producers: absolutely everything is organic. That’s right, even that shiny new aluminium and glass iMac on your table is an organic product, where its raw materials were sourced from the same Earth you live and breathe on. Even when we’re talking specifically about artificially synthesised chemical bonds made under contrived clinical settings, everything has an organic basis at some stage.

What does it mean to be free range? Free range eggs are, strictly speaking, produced by chickens not confined in cages or coops and are at liberty to graze and feed in open pastures. Choosing free range eggs is often motivated by ethical concern for the treatment of the chickens, and a rejection of coop-confinement. Dictionary.com gave me a helpful two definition results. Where free range is concerned, it would seem that either your eggs are roaming free or not at all.

The Issue: Though producers might like you to think so, not all free range eggs are the same. The size of the pasture to the number of chickens ratio is very important in determining the happiness and space for activity for the chickens. Many producers hide the fact that they have inadequate sizes of their pastures for their chickens, sometimes suffering the same crowding issues as being in a coop. Finally, not all pastures are free from predators, attacking the chickens directly and taking away with the eggs themselves.

In essence, the problem with selecting the best possible egg from the best possible supplier really comes down to using a bit of critical thinking in the supermarket. Analyse the packaging closely and be sure that it meets your own internal check-list, matching ethical and economic concerns. Is it certified organic, so that true tenets of better practice have been followed? Is any mention made of the agricultural practices, the type of feed used, whether hand-picked methods are used for selecting eggs, and so forth. You will eventually find yourself satisfied with your decision that best matches your wallet and your stomach.

Could these be the perfect eggs? An example of prolific advertisement of a branded eggs' superiority.

Most important of all is the element of taste. Many laboratories and third-parties (CHOICE), chefs and restaurants (Billy Kwong) and even cookbooks are purporting the pros and cons of organic eggs, stating cost as a major turn-off, but edibility a major plus. The only way to know for sure is to try them for yourself and see if you can notice the difference.

Personally? Take a closer look at the picture at the start of this post. What do you see? The egg on the left is certified organic and free range, given natural organic feed mix with rotated pastures to encourage regeneration and sustainable practice. The yolk is plump and mellow orange and bright yellow, somewhat indicative of a more well-formed egg that has had plenty of exercise and contact with the elements of the outdoors. It is a very tasty egg with an almost vinegared taste and texture, tasting very similar to the scent of where it is raised. The egg on the right is battery-coop produced and is consequently cheaper and easier to source. It is more uniformly shaped in its yolk and is a darker in colour, with splotches of minor brown throughout. This is a less exercised egg and coincidentally a less tasty one; it has a heavy feeling on the palate of metals and slight acid. Organic and free range eggs that proudly display their credentials of good practice are the better choice by your kitchen and by your conscience - make the switch if you haven’t already!

Chilli paste. Humble but mighty, fragrant but feisty. It’s strong enough to peel the chemicals off a stainless steel knife, it can tingle your tastebuds until they can tango no longer, it will make your mouth water and your eyes sting and swelter like a gaudy neon sign. It is a force to be reckoned with, a force capable of causing an 8.8 on the Richter Scale and sending your heart into hyperdrive. But most surprising of all is that everything I have just mentioned has been blatantly disregarded in the past as though it were a practice fire drill. Of all people on the suspect list, my grandfather admitted readily to the crime of contradicting the urban legend of this fiery paste, stating his alibi as a man who habitually reaches for teaspoon after teaspoon of his chilli paste to spread through his soups and steaks as though it were a mere trifle to his defiant will for spiciness. Perhaps the man is more a legend than the recipe itself, for he is well-known in my family for his iron stomach that has survived all known attacks of food poisoning and a palate so strong even the fieriest of dishes are a mere tickle to his incredible heat threshold. On several occasions, he would leave plates of cooked food out and forget to put it into the fridge. His profile? He has been confronted about this terrible habit on many accounts, and his excuse is always the same: “It’s a cold day, why does it need to go into the fridge so quickly?”. Other times it was that lovable forgetfulness that had him stow away a plate of canned mackarel into the cupboard for days without cling wrap, leave the gas stove running while bargaining in the delicatessen about the rising price of salami or even pouring in so much red wine into his pasta sauces, the colour would shift unevenly to an eerie, glowing purple.

Amidst all the commotion I have made about a seemingly simple recipe for chilli paste, two questions are probably stinging you right now: ‘is it really that hot?’ and ‘is it really worth trying?’ To tell you the truth, I could never understand why he would boast about the large plastic bags he collected and filled to the brim with dried chilli seeds, until they were made into paste, jarred for a few months and applied liberally to his spaghetti al’olio. It was an experience my tongue has not forgiven me for. Even to this very day, his outside office is stocked with recycled jars of chilli so dense and so hot that the liquid will stain your spoon and holds a vivid brown consistency when held to the light. This is a tribute to his art for the spiciest meal that somehow retains an intoxicating flavour. One day, if I can sneak through the mess of his backyard patio, I might take a photograph or two of that syrupy stuff that the Devil himself would advocate. Perhaps only then will you, the reader, truly believe me when I say that this recipe is an inspiration of the original, but by no means will ever reach that same zenith of perfect product.

In this instance, I have relied upon the natural acidity of fresh lime the with coerciveness of the salt and chilli to prevent an overuse of oil that is known to overpower meals. It is even versatile enough for grilled fish and chicken. Just make sure you aren’t fussy about garlic, because this paste will leave you warding off vampires long after the Gothic era of literary history.
EDIT: Choice of chilli? Long slender Mexican kind; don’t be tempted to try your odds with bell peppers or worse or you will end up with more spice than flavour.

INGREDIENTS
5 large fresh red chillies (10 small chillies)
7 garlic cloves, roughly diced
40mL lime juice (preferrably fresh for more biting flavour, or concentrate for less biting flavour )
70mL pure olive oil
pinch of sea salt and thyme

1. Prepare a skillet with oil and keep on medium heat.
2. With a pair of latex gloves (preferably clear food approved kind), arrange chillies horizontally across chopping board and chop the head and stems off each.
3. Using a paring knife, carefully slice each chilli lengthwise, before holding the halves between the thumb and forefinger and thinly slicing with seeds intact. Place in a separate bowl.
4. Pour or squeeze lime juice into a measuring jug, ensuring that the citrus pith is filtered.
5. Crush the peeled garlic cloves with the flat of the knife blade and dice. Combine with lime juice in measuring jug.
6. Carefully add the chilli into the skillet and sautée for 5 minutes or until noticably soft. Reduce heat.
7. Add garlic and lime juice mixture into the skillet and sautée again for another 10 minutes.
8. Allow to cool completely before storing in airtight jar or covered bowl. Refrigerate until needed, or cover in a heavy layer of salt, jar and store in a cool and unchanging environment.

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In those long lost days as a fresh-faced, scruffy and scrawny wee cherub of those distant childhood years, I recall that any time that salad was served on the table it was prepared in such enormous proportions as to almost compete with the main meal. My grandmother would select the choicest of tomatoes from a mound of equally appealing, tender and firm-skinned fruits, slice one quarter for me to sample (and be sure it was of my approval) and use the remainder for the salad. To this day, I believe she guards some divinely inspired method for preparing fresh produce and some secret number of stores she visits to gather only the cream of the crop. Today? It’s a sad truth that I can no longer revel in those same wonderful flavours from yesteryear, but at least this recipe can stand as an ode to that basic regime and perhaps inspire me to evolve the side dish for the tastes of the next generation of family.

In keeping with the traditions of good style and edibility, I believe a salad should follow a few simple tenets to ensure the hungry visitors came back for seconds: always mix up an eclectic medley of colour, don’t be sparing with the olive oil and vinegar and never subject the tastebuds to old ingredients. Forget those horrific visions of heads of lettuce at the supermarket, which look as though they have been submerged in several months of cryogenic preservation. Be sure to give this salad a stir only when you have the finest of fresh ingredients on hand, or else leave it lingering upon your curiosity.

In keeping with that tradition of “self-sustaining living”, this recipe is an ode to the vivacity and youth in each of its ingredients, literally plucked from the earth moments before being washed and prepared for the table. Unfortunately, we don’t all have the luxury of making a salad from vegetables so young and sweet as they were happy in the earth moments before. Nevertheless, propagating the image of healthy and fresh eating upon that tightrope of a shoestring budget, this recipe aspires to give its readers a taste of wholesome but simple and well-balanced eating without needing a visit to the Vegetable Patch of Eden.

Give this salad a stir and a whirl and surprise yourself — you choose the fresh and palatable ingredients with a light and tantalising dressing to follow, and the dish itself will make sure it converts any non-salad lovers into a diehard fan with the first bite. All this, and you can assure your guests or family with a 7 day money back guarantee if they did not feel positively revitalised by this healthy, unique spin on the outdated notions of salad as ‘boring’ and ‘tasteless’.

INGREDIENTS

Dressing -

Salad dressing is very much so a matter of personal preference, as we have all grown up in different environments and been exposed to a variety of differing tastes and scents that we are more familiar and comfortable. My favourite dressing style is a stir of malt vinegar, garlic and salt with a splash of olive oil and rosemary — here, the balance of sweet barley are complimented by the savoury aspects of salt and rosemary and the garlic adds extra palatability. Balsamic is very common and fine to use, though it can be difficult to find authentic imported barrel-aged Modena vinegar. Red wine vinegar also works a treat when complimenting stingy and starchy ingredients, such as warm green beans and potato, but easily overpowers more subtle flavours. Brown, white and apple cider vinegars are usually off-limits when it comes to salad, though when diluted with olive oil, apple cider vinegar can make for very appealing, crisp-flavoured Caesar salads.

head of cos or quality iceberg lettuce; washed, torn and tossed
1 mid-sized Lebanese cucumber, diced or sliced (as per preference)
1 large carrot, sliced
1 garlic clove, diced
teaspoon eggplant relish
3 firm, ripe truss tomatoes (or green-red Roma if more seasonable)
sprinke of thyme, oregano, rosemary
small bunch sweet basil leaves, roughly ripped
sprinkle of salt to taste
(Optional) sprinkle of grated Parmesan

1. Prepare the lettuce leaves first, retaining some of the water from rinsing and being sure not to discard sweet inner leaves close to the core.
2. To a small Pyrex® bowl, add the dressing ingredients with solids first and liquids second. Combine in a whisk with a fork, adding salt and sugar last and allowing the liquids to seperate.
3. Place the lettuce leaves into the bowl in haphazard order and drizzle with dressing. Once dressing has settled to the bottom, cover bowl in cling wrap loosely, invert it and shake it.
4. Remove cling wrap and stir a final time with utensils, ensuring garlic, onion and cucumber are well mixed.
5. Serve, optionally, with a sprinkle of Parmesan for a sharp flavour. Otherwise, garnish finally with light spray of water for added sheen.
6. Once satisfactory firmness and taste of beans has been reached, top with grated zucchini and pepper.
7. Serve contents of pan evenly on a bed of pipping hot rice smoothed over the plate and finish, optionally, with a sprinkle of authentic Parmesan or Romano grated cheese.