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.
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.
What comes to mind when you think about the humble, uniform egg? Probably not much; you might consider cooking a few for breakfast on the weekend, what they taste and look like, how much that bald guy on the morning train really looks remarkably similar to an irritable poached egg and disguse a chuckle beneath the daily paper. Perhaps it might interest you to know that eggs have remained a hot topic for a while now (unless of course, you have been living under a rock in Antartica), especially in titillating office conversation when peering into your colleagues lunch box to see if they are having ‘the same old devilled egg sandwich’. A subject of much commotion and contentiousness in recent times, eggs, which we all acknowledge as the primordial symbol of (re)birth and a staple for all our mighty nations, has never seen such diversity as that which is presently thrust upon them by marketing middlemen, speaking on behalf of the farmers tending to them in the first place. We’ve all thought about them at some point in our lives, perhaps dwelled upon their mysteriously perfect shape, marvelled at their cohesiveness as a birth capsule of nutrients and studied the paradox of its solid shell perforated with minute holes for micro-respiration (please say that you’ve thought about these things, otherwise I’ve exposed my inner geek!). A food of the ancient world and a commonplace sustenance of the modern world, present in a myriad of food products from Apple Pie right down to Zwetschgenkuchen. So if eggs are so common, tasty, versatile and nutritious, what’s the problem? Well, they’re getting a little expensive and they’re becoming unusually diverse with too little difference in between - supermarket aisles are bombarding consumers with too much choice on the market, making it harder to discern the ‘forest for the trees’.
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.
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.
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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.
