And LOVING the first broad beans of the season, and the promise of asparagus.

Which leads me to this silky, slippery, shimmery little steamed custard; the perfect foil for broad beans, peas, asparagus, spring onions, fennel fronds, you name it.

Chawanmushi is a savoury custard that you eat with a spoon. Traditionally it is made with dashi (kelp/bonito stock) and a touch of soy and mirin, whisked with eggs and lightly steamed until just set. It might include small pieces of seafood, chicken, shiitake or enoki mushrooms, kamaboko fish cake, spinach or other green leaves. Or not.

I love the texture of the custard so much I prefer to put any additional flavourings on top instead of inside. You get better control over the cooking times, and no danger that anything will leak moisture as it cooks, and make things too runny.

With the right ratio of eggs to liquid, it’s quite adorable to eat; delicate, soft and light. And yet there’s a richness there, and a sense you are being nourished from the inside.

The right ratio is 1 part egg to 3 parts dashi. Here I’ve used 4 x 65g eggs which gives me 4 x 50 ml of egg = 200 ml. Therefore the stock should be 600ml. If you have no idea what your eggs are, weigh their contents and add 3 times that in dashi. Or don’t worry about it and stay as close as you can to the 1:3 without the paranoia.

Dashi has an unmistable flavour that makes Japanese cuisine taste Japanese. Above all, it is light, and not heavy. You can make your own, or just keep packets of instant dashi in the cupboard so you can spring into action whenever you like.

Chawanmushi makes a beautiful first course for dinner, or a part of a light lunch. Do it the next time you bring home take-away sushi instead of a miso soup, and thank me later. But the really good news is this.

IT IS SPECTACULARLY EASY TO MAKE.

You’ll need dashi, soy, mirin and eggs. Make your stock first, and let it cool and infuse before combining with the eggs.

Key to getting that delightfully fine texture is to strain the mixture through a fine sieve. Line the strainer with dampened cheesecloth for further refinement.

That’s the custard done. Now you can add anything you like as a garnish to serve – right now, I like prawns and broad beans, which can both be cooked in the time the custards are in the steamer, which is about 8 to 10 minutes. If you prefer asparagus – slice and blanch in simmering salted water for 1 minute. If you want frozen peas, just pour boiling water over half a cup of them, leave for 20 seconds and drain and they’re ready to go. Prawns – just peel and blanch in simmering salted water for 45 seconds.

If you have a steamer, it’s easy. Traditional chawan mushi bowls have chic little matching lids but don’t fret - you can just lay a sheet of baking paper or foil over the custards as they steam. I don’t bother covering them at all, but I do wrap a tea towel around the lid of the steamer, which stops any condensation forming and dropping into the bowls. If you don’t have a steamer, you can place the little cups in a water bath and cover with foil; it will take longer but still give a good result.

Also – aim for a light steam. Bring the water to the boil, then add the bowls and turn it to low. If you think it’s still really hot, then vent the lid by placing a chopstick between steamer and lid. The first ones I made were covered in small bubbles, a sure sign of having the steamer too high. (I had seen some advice to start on high and then lower it – nah, didn’t work. Still delicious, though). The second lot I did were at a much gentler temperature. On the left: too high a heat. On the right: just right .

TIPS:

Make sure your four chosen cups or Chinese bowls (around 180/200 ml capacity) will actually fit in your steamer or water bath first, hehe.

The custard is cooked when a thin bamboo skewer inserted into the centre comes out clean. Or gently tilt the bowl - if the liquid that appears is clear and not cloudy, the internal temperature has reached the required 75C to 80C, and you’re good to go.

I’ve seen recipes call for everything from 8 to 20 minutes of steaming time, but I’m happiest around 9 to 10 minutes, allowing it a few minutes resting time afterwards to get over the sauna treatment.

Chawanmushi is lovely hot, but also amazingly good when cooled and served chilled on a sunny spring day; like eating a really interesting hiyayakko, or iced tofu.

You can relish in its purity and simplicity, or go to town with accompaniments. Here it is with chilli crisp oil, nori/sesame seed sprinkles, enoki mushrooms, you name it.

If you think this all sounds very nice but might be too bland for your taste (it isn’t), then add a spoonful of white miso paste to the mix as insurance. Suddenly it’s like drinking a rich miso soup only in custard form.

CHAWANMUSHI

Serves 4

• 20 g instant dashi powder

• 2 tsp miso paste (optional supercharging)

• 1 tbsp soy sauce

• 2 tsp mirin

• 4 x 65 g eggs

Set up your steamer and get the water in the base boiling.

To make the dashi, bring 600 ml water to the boil.

Whisk in the instant dashi powder, miso paste if using, soy and mirin and simmer gently for 30 seconds, then turn off and allow to cool.

Lightly beat the eggs in a bowl then pour in the cooled stock and lightly mix with chopsticks.

Strain through a fine sieve and divide between four cups or bowls (pop any air bubbles with the tip of a knife).

Place in the steamer, cover with a sheet of baking paper and reduce the heat immediately, allowing the custards to steam lightly for 8 to 10 minutes or until they tremble slightly when moved.

Carefully remove, place on a serving plate, and garnish with the below.

TO COOK THE BROAD BEANS AND PRAWNS

• 4 or 8 raw medium-sized prawns, peeled, tails left on

• Broad beans from about 12 broad bean pods

• half a teaspoon sesame oil

Pod the broad beans and cook in a pot of simmering salted water for 2 minutes, then scoop them out and cool in cold water (keep the hot water for the prawns).

Peel off the outer layer, revealing the bright green inner beans.

Drop the peeled prawns into the simmering salted water and poach for 1 minute until just pink, then remove; they will keep cooking as they cool.

Toss the prawns and broad beans in a little sesame oil, and arrange on top of the custards.

IF USING A WATER BATH

Seal the tops of the cups or bowls with foil, place in the roasting pan, and pour boiling water into the pan to come 2cm up the sides of the bowl. Carefully place in an oven heated to 190C and allow to cook for 25 minutes or until they jiggle gently when moved. Carefully remove from the water bath with tongs, and leave to sit for 5 minutes, then remove foil and serve.

Thanks for dropping by! And thanks for your comments and suggestions. Special thanks to Terry for bringing home the broad beans that inspired this idea.

I would like to acknowledge the traditional owners of the lands and waters upon which I work, live, cook and play; the Gadigal people of the Eora Nation. Thank you for sharing your culture, traditions, knowledge, spirit, art, music, humour and food traditions, allowing us all to experience a sense of belonging in this ancient land.

A warung – usually a small, family-run roadside stall or eatery - is exactly where you should eat nasi goreng, and this is a very good one. A big, casual open pavilion of tables, random fans to keep the air moving (it’s very hot) and a really good kitchen and great staff – bright and fast - and a brilliant picture menu. They specialise in pork ribs, which I totally ignore, but the mixed satay is great, because it comes sizzling on its own brazier, the only way one should ever eat satay. And Terry’s big bowl of steaming hot oxtail soup felt counter-intuitively right in the heat, as did a couple of Bintang beers in stubbie holders.

My nasi goreng with chicken came in the classic bowl-shape on the plate, which I quickly re-styled into something more casual. Over-analysing the rice on my plate, I could see strands of carrot, some wilted greens and maybe cabbage. On the side, pickled carrot, and the ubiquitous cucumber and tomato. A fried egg on top, of course.

Nasi means rice, and goreng means fried, but it’s so much more than fried rice, and I’m damned if I know how they get it so good and savoury and yet so light. The secret behind every nasi goreng is, of course, kecap manis, Indonesia’s caramelly sweet soy sauce. Potentially it is also the funk of shrimp paste (terasi, belacan, etc), and possibly Bali’s own fish sauce, and loads of shallots and garlic and galangal, and maybe turmeric.

I was in Bali as a guest of The Legian (old-school luxury at its best), on assignment for the Australia Financial Review, and not really there just to eat nasi goreng. After being a Bali nay-sayer for many years, I loved revisiting this beautiful island and meeting so many brilliant chefs, artisans, artists and creative people who are helping to formulate the future of Bali. (Thanks to The Legian’s own Budiman Tanto, for your great care in curating my itinerary - the story of that particular odyssey will appear in the AFR’s Friday section, Life & Leisure.)

Then of course I get home craving nasi goreng, because if you come home from Bali not craving nasi goreng than you haven’t been to Bali. So off I go, shopping for shrimp paste and krupuk prawn crackers; cooking up a pile of rice and having a ball.

I’ve teamed my nasi goreng with roast duck, in a token nod to one of Bali’s most famous dishes, bebek betutu, duck smothered in a spice paste and wrapped in leaves. But left-over roast chicken is also excellent, or pork, or prawns. And a jar of sambal oelek makes a most elegant sidekick.

First I did it with shredded duck through the rice, topped with a fried egg:

Then with the egg through the rice and the duck on top. Both versions are excellent.

NASI GORENG WITH ROAST DUCK

Pick up half a roast duck from Chinatown and roughly shred the meat and skin to toss through the rice, or save some to serve on top. Serves 3-4.

• 3 cups cooked jasmine rice (from 1 cup of raw rice)

• 1 tbsp light soy sauce

• 2 tbsp kecap manis (sweet soy sauce)

• 1 tbsp fish sauce

• 2 tbsp neutral oil

• 3 to 4 red shallots, finely chopped

• 1 red chilli, finely sliced

• 3 to 4 garlic cloves, finely sliced

• Thumb of fresh ginger, peeled and grated

• 1 tsp shrimp paste, if using

• Half cup green veg, chopped eg cabbage, green beans, snow peas

• Half Chinatown roast duck, meat shredded (or chicken, pork etc)

To serve:

• Half Lebanese cucumber, finely sliced

• 2 or 3 cherry tomatoes, halved

• 1 to 2 tbsp deep-fried shallots

• 1 lime or lemon, cut into wedges

Mix the soy, sweet soy and fish sauce together and set aside.

Heat wok or fry pan until hot and add the oil.

Add the red shallots, chilli, garlic and ginger and fry for 1 minute then add the shrimp paste, if using, and fry for 2 or 3 minutes until fragrant.

Add any chopped green vegetables, and shredded duck, tossing well.

Increase the heat to high, and add the rice, breaking it up with your hands.

Pour the sauce mix over the rice and toss well over high heat.

Scatter with deep-fried shallots and serve with lime, tomato and cucumber.

TIPS:

Krupuk (kerapuk, kroepoek) prawn or fish or cassava crackers: Heat 2 cm of oil in a small pan, and when hot, add the crackers three at a time, whipping them out as soon as they fluff up, which is pretty much instantly. Drain on paper towel until needed.

Note: In this recipe, I’ve just fried the shallots, garlic, etc, but feel free to chuck them in a mortar or food processor and pulverise them first, and then fry, for a thicker base.

I LOVE this with shrimp paste (terasi in Bali, belacan in Malaysia, rich and funky-smelling anywhere). It’s best to buy it as a paste in a tiny container, and needs to be gently cooked first, not just added at the end as if a condiment. Don’t use too much. And keep the lid on unless you want the cat to go crazy wondering where the fermented shrimp are hiding.

Add some julienned carrot if you like, at the same time as the aromatics. Use any greens you want – I did bok choy stems and leaves, and a few snow peas. If you don’t have any, just add a big handful of spring onion green stems, they wilt beautifully.

Why the high heat? Because you want the kecap manis to caramelise to make the rice delicious. I often stop the tossing and just let it sit for 10 seconds on the heat once or twice, to help with the browning process.

If you don’t serve fresh cucumber and tomato on the side you will be questioned at Customs at Denpasar Airport as to why. (This is a joke, okay? You will not be questioned) Chilled shredded iceberg lettuce is also good.

Your choice: add a sunny fried egg on top of each serving, or do a quick omelette, cut into shreds and toss through at the end. Fried shallots are fabulous on top – use more than you think. Coriander, lime or lemon, why not.

THE WARUNG SHARED ITS RECIPE!

I had seen that Warung Nia was set up for cookery classes and approached Mufu the owner to see if I could get their recipe for nasi goreng. It was a yes! (Such nice people).

It’s worth going through their recipe before you do mine, in case you can sub in any of their tips and sort of smoosh the two together.

And do book into their cookery class if you are in Bali, I reckon it would be great fun, especially with partners and/or kids.

WARUNG NIA’S NASI GORENG AYAM

Kindly shared by owner Mufu of Warung Nia and Nia Cooking Class; thank you!

• 6 tbsp coconut oil

• 6 garlic cloves, finely chopped

• 6 shallots, finely chopped

• 2 large red chillies, finely sliced

• 100 g white cabbage, finely chopped

• 1 tbsp sambal tomat (spiced tomato sauce, see note below)

• 200 g fresh raw chicken, chopped

• 2 tbsp light soya sauce

• 2 tbsp sweet soya sauce (kecap manis)

• 2 eggs, beaten

• 600 g rice (cooked, day-old)

• 25g celery, finely sliced

• 50 g leek, finely sliced

• 50 g caisin (mustard greens, choy sum), chopped

• Pinch of salt

• 2 tbsp fried shallots for serving

Heat the oil in a wok or heavy frying pan, and add shallots, garlic and chillies.

Fry for 1 minute or until shallots and garlic are golden brown.

Add cabbage, spiced tomato sauce and chicken, and fry for 1 minute, tossing.

Season with soy sauces and fry until it feels dry.

Add the beaten eggs and toss well to scramble, then add the rice, breaking it up with your hands.

Cook over medium heat, tossing well then add celery, leek and mustard greens, mixing well.

Season to taste with salt as necessary, scatter with fried shallots and serve.

Note: Sambal tomat is one of the most popular and versatile sambals – just tomatoes, chillies, shallots and garlic, cooked down with shrimp paste, coarsely pureed, salted (and sometimes palm sugar as well) and finished with lime juice or tamarind. There’s a top recipe here from Janet De Neefe, Bali-based author, restaurateur, hotelier, and food and literary festival founder, and all-round amazing woman, reprinted with permission.

The tangy tomato flavour is reminiscent of ketchup mixed with chilli sauce so theoretically ... heretically ... if you were time poor, you could just add a good splash of tomato sauce mixed with your fave chilli sauce. (Did I say that? Did anyone see my mouth move?)

Snapped by paparazzi by the infinity pool at The Legian. Thanks for dropping by! And thanks for your comments and suggestions. Special thanks to Terry for the Bintang.

I would like to acknowledge the traditional owners of the lands and waters upon which I work, live, cook and play; the Gadigal people of the Eora Nation. Thank you for sharing your culture, traditions, knowledge, spirit, art, music, humour and food traditions, allowing us all to experience a sense of belonging in this ancient land.

This isn’t an austerely dry curry, it’s a wet one; nice and stewy and winter-warmy with a touch of sweetness from cinnamon, loads of onions, ginger and garlic, and an undercurrent of cardamom and cloves. It’s a bit of a mongrel of a recipe, but like all good mongrels, it’s a faithful friend.

If you have time, marinate the shanks in yoghurt and garam masala for a few hours; it gives them a bit more spice, and the yoghurt forms an interesting crust when you brown the shanks, only to soften in the long, slow cooking.

This pic is early in the cooking, just to show you the crusty shanks.

The base of onions, garlic and ginger gives the sauce its foundation flavours and a good texture at the finish line.

And here’s where you meet my curry slurry.

I was wondering how best to introduce all the spices – usually, it’s a matter of frying them in oil to bloom them a bit – but I often feel a bit different about ground spices, so I stirred them into liquid to create a paste or slurry and added them all at once. Neat.

Much about this recipe - like the traffic lights in Naples, say - is a suggestion. A framework. Your shanks may be big and fatty, or small and overly trimmed by a manic butcher. Use enough liquid to almost cover them and you’ll be fine either way. You may not be able to find the star anise. No matter.

All will be forgotten when you are in the kitchen and lift the lid on your simmering lamb shank curry, and ladle it out onto waiting plates, wreathed in spicy come-hither aromas and accompanied by a pile of golden rice flecked with tiny mustard seeds.

To potato or not to potato? I threw some in to see how necessary they were, and let’s face it, they all got eaten, but they may not have been missed had they not been there. We’ll never know. Here it is with potato:

And without potato:

LAMB SHANK CURRY WITH GOLDEN TURMERIC RICE

Make up your own mind about potatoes, and add one or two, diced - they will cook in the same time. Or add thickly sliced zucchini for the last 15 minutes of cooking, or a pile of spinach in the last two minutes of cooking, until wilted. Serves 4.

• 4 medium-sized lamb shanks, trimmed and washed

• 100 g yoghurt (or 5 tbsp)

• 2 tsp garam masala

• 3 tbsp vegetable or olive oil

• 2 to 3 onions, finely sliced

• 2 tbsp grated fresh ginger

• 3 garlic cloves, crushed or finely grated

• 2 cinnamon sticks

• 4 cardamom pods

• 2 star anise

• 4 cloves

• 400 g canned tomatoes, chopped

• half bunch fresh coriander

CURRY SLURRY:

• 2 tbsp tomato paste

• 1 tsp ground turmeric

• Half tsp freshly ground pepper

• half tsp chilli powder or dried chilli flakes

• 1 tsp ground cinnamon

• 2 tsp ground cumin

• 1 tbsp ground coriander

• 1 tsp salt

Stab a few slits in the meaty part of the shanks with the tip of a knife.

Mix the yoghurt and garam masala and massage into the lamb shanks.

Leave for two hours or overnight.

Heat half the oil in a heavy pan and wipe any excess yoghurt from the shanks.

Brown the shanks in the oil for around 5 minutes, turning occasionally, then remove to a bowl and set aside.

Heat remaining oil in the pan, add the onions, and fry for 6 to 8 minutes until lightly tanned.

Add the ginger, garlic, cinnamon sticks, cardamom pods, star anise and cloves, and cook for two minutes, stirring.

In a small bowl, make the curry slurry - combine the tomato paste, turmeric, pepper, chilli, cinnamon, cumin, coriander and salt with half a cup of water or stock to make a paste.

Add the curry slurry to the pan and gently cook for 3 minutes, stirring.

Add the canned tomatoes, stirring.

Return the shanks to the pan, add 500ml hot water or stock to just cover, and bring to the boil.

Reduce heat, partly cover and simmer for 2 hours or until the meat is tender and comes away from the bone.

Remove the lid for the last 10 minutes of simmering, skimming off any excess oil on the surface.

Taste the sauce, adjust seasoning and serve shanks and sauce in warmed pasta bowls.

Scatter with roughly chopped coriander and serve with turmeric rice.

Tips:

Serve with a bowl of natural yoghurt – maybe add some finely diced cucumber, chopped mint, a touch of ground cumin and salt; bam, you have raita.

If your shanks are fatty, you might like to cool the finished curry and refrigerate overnight to allow the fat to rise to the surface and be removed.

Aim for a lot of sauce; it’s so good with the rice. If you have too much, drain it into a small pan and reduce by boiling over high heat for 5 minutes, stirring, then return the reduced amount to the pan.

I was going to finely slice some shallots and frizzle them in hot oil until crisp, to add to the end as a garnish. Forgot.

Garam masala is a rich, warm masala (ground spice mix) of cloves, cinnamon, cardamom, cumin, coriander, nutmeg, bayleaf and black pepper.

From the Health & Safety Department - This curry contains whole spices; some of which you will see on your plate, such as cinnamon sticks, and others that you may inadvertently bite, such as cardamom pods. It won’t kill you. You’re welcome.

GOLDEN TURMERIC RICE

Serves 4

• 300g basmati rice

• 1 tbsp ghee or vegetable oil

• 1 tsp brown mustard seeds

• 1 cinnamon sticks

• half tsp turmeric powder

• half tsp sea salt

• 1 lemon, cut into wedges

Wash the rice really well in cold water and drain..

Heat the ghee or oil in a heavy lidded pan, add the mustard seeds, cinnamon stick, turmeric and pepper, stirring for 1 minute until the mustard seeds pop.

Add the drained rice and toss until well-coated.

Add 550 ml boiling water and sea salt, and bring to the boil, stirring.

Reduce the heat to very low and cover tightly.

Cook undisturbed for 16 minutes, then rest for 5 minutes off the heat.

Fluff up the rice with a fork and serve with lemon wedges for squeezing.

Tips:

Serve with a handful of toasted cashew nuts. All the mustard seeds will rise to the top of the cooked rice - just fluff it up and they’ll be redistributed throughout.

NEED TO KNOW: A NATIVE AUSTRALIAN CURRY.

And then I went out for lunch and had another curry, a very different one, cooked by Mindy Woods at a Sea Gathering presented by the ASC (Aquaculture Stewardship Council) in partnership with the Sea Museum (Australian National Maritime Museum) and Sydney Restaurant Group, and it made me stop and smile.

Mindy made the most beautiful ‘native green curry’ as a home for Humpty Doo Saltwater Barramundi from the Northern Territory. She completely Australianised the idea of curry, using native herbs and spices for the curry paste (I’m guessing pepperberry and lemon myrtle among them), and velvety macadamia cream instead of coconut milk for the sauce, and crunchy, juicy karkalla and crisp-fried saltbush for the greens - and bloody hell, it was good.

Her reasoning, as a proud Bundjalung woman, chef, restaurateur and educator, is simple. “We need to lean in on that ancient knowledge from our elders, the solutions that have always been there, the ingredients that can teach us so much about the future of our food systems.”

You can download a copy of Mindy’s recipes for ASC here, and details of her own cookbook, Karkalla at Home, are here. Another pic from the lunch is below, of Yumbah Aquaculture Greenlip Abalone, flash-fried with macadamia miso butter and crisp enoki.

Thank you, Mindy. I love the idea that we can Australianise the dishes we love to cook, letting them connect us closer to the land and the sea.

Shanks for dropping by! And shanks for your comments and suggestions. Special shanks to Terry for the curry leaves, a surprise last-minute addition.

I would like to acknowledge the traditional owners of the lands and waters upon which I work, live, cook and play; the Gadigal people of the Eora Nation. Thank you for sharing your culture, traditions, knowledge, spirit, art, music, humour and food traditions, allowing us all to experience a sense of belonging in this ancient land.

I’m back from a few weeks trippin’ around the world, and everywhere I went there were anchovies and lemons and wonderful dishes made from one, the other, or both.

I know that trying to recreate a magical moment from dining overseas is madness, but hey, we have anchovies and lemons when we get home, too.

So I started thinking about the tagliolini with butter, anchovy, lemon and breadcrumbs that I had (twice) at La Posta Vecchia on the Italian coast near Rome.

This is all mildly ironic, because traditionally it is a dish from cucina povera, a poor dish, a way of using very few ingredients to help the pasta fill everyone up. And here we are in the lap of luxury, paying a mozza in order to eat it at the hotel’s beautiful Da Aurelio restaurant while overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea. But duality is my middle name (after Edith), so I was fine with that. I just want to know how they made it taste so perky and bright and sunny.

Both Terry and I have made something similar a hundred times over the years, melting the anchovies in olive oil, throwing in some chilli, frying breadcrumbs until golden for the crunchy topping. It’s always been good, but never this good.

So I buttonhole the executive chef, Andrea Barcia, the following day to find out why. Basically, the answer is butter.

“I don’t like to cook the anchovies in the pan,” he says. “They taste different when they are cooked. Instead we make an anchovy butter and put it on the pasta at the end of the cooking, so there is a freshness there.”

Aha! I tease out of him that there is also lemon zest, lemon juice, colatura di alici (a very magical anchovy essence that is a distant cousin to the ancient Roman’s garum), and - surprise - preserved (salted) lemon as well. As he speaks, the memory of eating it the night before resurfaces until I can almost smell the dish in front of me. Then he leans forward as if about to reveal a very big secret.

“And of course, we finish it with trombolloto oil.”

He doesn’t trap me on colatura – I have a bottle of that in my suitcase from the Antica Salumeria Russo in Naples from a few days earlier.

But my world tilts on its axis when I hear there was an Italian condiment I had not come across before.

He explains that it comes from Sermoneta, high in the hills above Latina, south of Rome, where the locals grow a special ancient lemon called the trombolotto. Now get this (this is spectacular).

They grind the lemons to make the sauce the old way, pressing them between heavy stones, as they do olives for olive oil – but they actually press them alongside the local olives as well so the juices mingle. Insane. Then they infuse the potion with up to 14 herbs from the scrubland around the village – wild oregano, nepitella (a wild mint), etc – along with local porcini mushrooms, garlic, shallots and salt, then store it for 30 days. “It’s almost like a curry, but it isn’t,” says Andrea Barcia. It’s a special glimpse into Italy’s ageless food culture and the crazy, stubborn artisans who keep it alive.

Home again and I have to go it alone and trombolotto-less. Let’s try the butter. I whiz up some Pepe Saya butter and fold in chopped Consorzio anchovies, chilli flakes, diced preserved lemon and lemon zest (wow, how good would that be on hot toast?), roll it up and freeze it.

Then I cook the pasta, and when it’s nearly ready, soften a few rounds of the anchovy butter in a hot pan, then chuck the drained pasta in with as much pasta water as comes with it and toss it furiously to help it all come together, and serve it with loads of crunchy breadcrumbs.

It’s very nice, but there are no trumpets. I haven’t done the chef’s original dish justice, it doesn’t have oomph.

So I start again, the old-school way, using just a couple of influences from La Posta Vecchia to lighten and brighten - the addition of preserved lemon, and a little butter at the end. And there are trumpets. (And terrible light for photography, sorry).

As for the trombolotto oil, I shall just have to return to Italy to journey to Sermoneta and get some from Simposio, the people who make it there. Needs must.

PASTA WITH ANCHOVY, LEMON AND BREADCRUMBS

Serves 3- 4

• 300 g spaghettini (thin spaghetti) or tagliolini

• 2 tbsp extra virgin olive oil

• 6 to 8 anchovy fillets, chopped (save the oil in the can)

• 1 garlic clove, finely grated

• 1 wedge of preserved lemon, diced

• good pinch dried chilli flakes

• 1 tbsp lemon zest

• Sea salt and cracked black pepper

• 1 tbsp butter (or anchovy butter)

• 60 g golden fried breadcrumbs (see below)

• 1 tbsp parsley, finely chopped

Cook the pasta in plenty of boiling, salted water until almost ready (spaghettini will take 5 mins).

In the meantime, gently heat the olive oil with the anchovy and garlic, allowing the anchovy to soften in the oil.

Add the chilli flakes, preserved lemon, half the lemon zest, sea salt, pepper.

Just before draining the pasta, reserve 1 cup of pasta water and set aside.

Drain the pasta and add it to the pan with half a cup of pasta water, tossing well.

Serve on warm pasta plates, add some butter, scatter with garlicky breadcrumbs, remaining lemon zest and parsley and serve.

Tip: This is one pasta that really needs its pasta water added to help emulsify everything, and get that sort of creamy, coating glaze you want. Keep the pasta moving as it all fuses together, and keep it quick, before the sauce has time to evaporate, and serve immediately.

Also, drizzle the oil from the can of anchovy on top, if you remembered to save it.

THE GARLICKY, CRUNCHY CRUMBS

Good stale sourdough bread is perfect. Cut off the crusts, cut or tear the bread into pieces, and pulse in a food processor until you have decent crumbs, not too fine.

Gently heat 2 tbsp olive oil in a frypan and fry a little sliced garlic in it until it lightly tans. Add the crumbs and keep them tossing and moving as they turn a dark golden – but not brown, and certainly not dark brown. Toss with sea salt and pepper and drain on paper towel. You’ll need about 60 grams of crumbs for 3 or 4 people.

If you can’t be bothered, then fry up some Panko Japanese crumbs, but be aware these are already fried, so keep it snappy - just enough to brown them then out.

OH YEAH, THE ANCHOVY BUTTER.

It’s amazing, and nice to know it’s in the freezer. I’m serving it on broccolini or wilted silver beet and on the weekend with fried eggs on toast. No effort is ever wasted.

If you want to have a go: Whiz or beat 100 grams of softened butter, then fold in 6 chopped anchovies, 1 diced preserved lemon wedge, 1 tsp lemon zest, a touch of chilli e.g. flakes and black pepper. Roll up on a sheet of baking paper and twist the ends. Freeze or refrigerate until firm.

FOOD SHOP ALERT: ASTAKOS FISH MARKET.

If you love fresh fish and you live in Sydney, you will love Astakos Fish Market. It’s one of the most exciting displays of wild and line-caught fish I have seen, immaculately filleted and left gloriously whole.

I love the one at Chatswood Chase, but they have fish shops at Marrickville Metro, South Village Kirrawee and Oran Park Podium as well. Dad Con Astakos started filleting fish at 14 years old, later running a small stall at Paddy’s Markets, according to son Michael, who pivoted from construction management to build a type of fish retail business that is a huge leap of faith - in the supply chain, and also in us, the people who buy fish to cook at home.

It is truly world class, and such a celebration of the very best we have in our seas, and the very best of the people, too, who catch and handle fish and shellfish at every step of the way. The whole red gurnard, the coral trout, gold spot rock cod, the john dory, the blue mackerel, the flounder, the flathead. Sashimi-quality tuna, sturgeon caviar, crabs and picked crabmeat, Loligo calamari, you name it. Everything just shines.

So far this week, I’ve cooked john dory with potatoes, lemon and white wine; roasted a whole snapper as mentioned above, smashed some pan-fried NZ Mount Cook salmon into lup cheong fried rice with some incredible cabbages I bought for $1 bunch at the Tong Li Asian supermarket next door. Tonight is cutlets of Spanish mackerel.

It’s not always easy to buy great produce in Sydney and I’m afraid the new Sydney Fish Market and the new David Jones food hall both make it that little bit harder to access. So big thanks to team Astakos for turning the art of food shopping into an absolute joy. (And to Chatty Chase for the rest of the fun - the mighty Vic’s Meats, Yangga Korean deli (amazing!) Lode Pies, Sandoitchi, Fabbrica, Quattro Deli and more.)

Thanks for dropping by! And thanks for your comments and suggestions. Special thanks to Terry for surviving all the variations on a theme of anchovies and lemon. (Correction: And to one of my Italian readers who very kindly corrected my spelling of colatura, thank you!)

I would like to acknowledge the traditional owners of the lands and waters upon which I work, live, cook and play; the Gadigal people of the Eora Nation. Thank you for sharing your culture, traditions, knowledge, spirit, art, music, humour and food traditions, allowing us all to experience a sense of belonging in this ancient land.

There were many culture shocks for this little Australian upon moving to London in the year 2000. The slow descent by endless escalators into the depths of the London Tube. The way people standing waiting for a street to light to turn green, would edge away if you spoke to them. Not nervously – it was more that we hadn’t yet been properly introduced by a third party.

And the way Northerners, on the phone, would greet you with “You allright?” as if they have heard you are not. And the bluebells! The layers and layers of history in every building, every statue, every park. The weak egg yolk of a sun giving up the ghost at three in the afternoon. Not to mention the fact that Brussels sprouts grow on stalks, good grief.

And dates!

At Egyptian and Middle Eastern stores, I could buy them as golden baubles on stems, or ‘strings’, as if they were vine-ripened tomatoes; or pick up a frighteningly large jar of gooey, dark date paste, or choose from so many different types of semi-dried dates - Wadi, Gondela, and the prized Deglet Nour.

And so this leads inevitably to a date with dates, in the form of a loaf cake packed and stacked with dates and walnuts. I’ve thrown in some dried cranberries as well, hoping their slightly more assertive flavour would counteract some sweetness (it does), and also chia seeds because it’s a very delicious way to get more chia seeds into my body.

Dried dates, the type we can easily buy in Australia, are soft but firm, with a wonderfully dark, honied sweetness. I love the Medjools, which are long, plump, wrinkled, fudgy, chewy and deeply caramel, almost butterscotch, and come at a premium price. For this recipe, however, any decent pack of dates will do, because you start by softening them into a date syrup that forms the liquid component of the cake.

At its simplest, use boiling water. For more flavour, make a strong tea or coffee instead; but really, there’s enough going on.

This is not a super-rich and super-sweet sticky date pudding or sticky toffee cake, although it’s definitely a relative. If you want good old sticky toffee pud, go here.

This is a more modest offering, proudly domestic in attitude. A cake that came to Australia by way of British tradition and tea-time culture but uses as its major flavour component a fruit that binds ancient cultures across the Middle East, symbolising their centuries of hospitality.

DATE, WALNUT AND CHIA LOAF

• 300 g dates, roughly chopped

• 50 g dried cranberries

• 100 g light or dark brown sugar

• 1 tbsp butter

• 1 tsp bicarbonate of soda

• 250 ml boiling water (or tea or coffee)

• 225 g self-raising flour

• Half tsp fine sea salt

• 2 large eggs, beaten

• 100 g chopped walnuts

• 1 tbsp chia seeds

Heat oven to 180C (fan-forced 160C).

Spray or lightly oil a 24cm x 10 cm loaf tin and line with baking paper, leaving overhang on either side for easy removal.

Combine dates, cranberries, sugar, butter, bicarbonate of soda and boiling water in a bowl.

Mix well, cover with a plate and leave for 20 minutes to cool.

Add sifted flour, salt and beaten eggs and mix with a spatula.

Fold in the chia seeds and most of the walnuts.

Pour into the prepared tin and gently tap the tin on the counter to discourage any air bubbles.

Scatter remaining walnuts on top and bake for 45 minutes, or until a bamboo skewer inserted in the centre comes out clean and the top springs back when lightly pressed.

Remove from the oven, leave in the tin for 5 minutes, then gently lift out onto the wire rack and leave until cool.

Or eat while still warm, with butter.

Tips:

Don’t over-mix, and don’t over-bake; both will lead to heaviness.

If it’s a traveller, cool the cake completely, thickly slice, then re-assemble back in the cake tin for travelling.

Yes, it freezes well.

Yes, it toasts well, for breakfast.

TIPS FOR BAKING IN A TUBE TIN. WHICH I DIDN’T DO.

IF you still have your mother’s 20 cm x 10 cm tube tin, and IF you can find the two ends, then grease the inside of the tube and two lids with a well-buttered piece of baking paper, then tear paper in half. Use one half to cover one end of the tin, and jam on the lid.

Place lid-side down and fill the tin to two-thirds with batter. (Any leftover batter can go into a few buttered muffin tins or cupcake papers and cook alongside for 20 to 25 minutes.)

Cover the top end of tin with remaining baking paper and jam on the lid. Sit the tin upright on a baking tray, and bake for 1 hour. Remove from the oven and leave for 20 minutes before easing out of the tin.

Thanks for dropping by! And thanks for your comments and suggestions. Special thanks to Terry for getting up on a chair to reach the loaf tin in the back of the top cupboard. At least I didn’t ask him to shimmy up a tree to get me some dates as I would have had we been back in Palma, Mallorca. (Zoom in to see the fruit - isn’t it glorious?)

And yes, I know this is not the first Thursday of the month - that’s next week, but that would also mean five weeks since my last post, and not the usual four weeks, and I couldn’t cop that, so I brought the date forward. Entirely appropriate, considering this is all about being forward with dates.

I would like to acknowledge the traditional owners of the lands and waters upon which I work, live, cook and play; the Gadigal people of the Eora Nation. Thank you for sharing your culture, traditions, knowledge, spirit, art, music, humour and food traditions, allowing us all to experience a sense of belonging in this ancient land.

It says Easter, it says the weather is turning and the nights are drawing in and the leaves are turning golden. That might suggest a warm, dark autumnal sauce, but no.

This is also my farewell to summer; so I want something lighter and brighter; a deeply vibrant sauce vierge that uses the last of the summer tomatoes, gently nudged with garlic.

This boldly simple sauce was created by chef Michel Guerard in 1976 as part of his endeavour to lighten classic French cuisine. It calls for just tomatoes, garlic, olive oil, and fresh herbs, left to ripen and mature before serving.

I think it’s the garlic that makes it go so well with the lamb. Usually the lamb itself is loaded down with garlic and strong herbs such as rosemary. This leaves the lamb as lamb, and brings in the scent of garlic later, at the table. A more subtle move.

In my ancient copy of Michel Guerard’s Cuisine Gourmande, the tomatoes are both peeled and seeded. Not necessary; every part of a tomato is great. I even save the juices so they can mingle with the olive oil to create a more spoonable dressing. His herbs of choice are chervil, parsley and tarragon, and he adds a pinch of ground coriander, which is charming.

Zucchini has pushed its way into this feast as well, because there is so much of it about. Okay, so HERE’S where I said never to cook zucchini in water, because they are 94% water to begin with and you will only end up with sog. And here, today, is where I ignore my own advice and cook them in water for just 2 minutes, before tossing them into a dressing of olive oil, lemon juice and a bucketload of dill. Simple, effective, still-green, and tasting almost buttery.

There we have it.

Slow-cooked lamb shoulder. Bowl of sauce vierge. Platter of zucchini with lemon and dill. And another bowl of creamy whipped feta, which you can deploy with the lamb, the tomatoes and/or the zucchini at will. And lemons, you must have lemons.

SLOW-ROAST SHOULDER OF LAMB WITH SAUCE VIERGE

• 1.8kg/2kg bone-in shoulder of lamb

• 2 tbsp olive oil

• 1 tsp dried oregano

• 200 ml white wine or water

Heat the oven to 150C (fan-forced 130C).

Bring the lamb to room temperature, and rub it all over with olive oil, then rub with the oregano.

Place lamb in a roasting tray lined with a sheet of baking paper, add wine or water to the base and drizzle the lamb with extra olive oil.

Completely seal the roasting pan with kitchen foil, and bake for 2 hours.

Reduce the temperature to 120C (fan-forced 100C) and bake for a further 3 hours.

Remove the foil and carefully tip the pan juices into a bowl.

Raise the temp to 200C (fan-forced 180C) and bake uncovered for 20 minutes until the fat on top has browned nicely.

Rest the lamb in a warm place, covered, for 10 minutes, then use two forks to pull the meat from the bone; it should fall away as soon as you look at it.

Serve with sauce vierge, zucchini with lemon and dill, and a bowl of whipped feta. Serves 4.

# Look for oyster-cut or banjo-cut lamb shoulder, which keeps the shoulderblade (scapula) intact. If you find only square-cut bone-in shoulder, no matter, still great.

#The lamb cooks for 5 hours, plus 20 minutes at a higher temperature to brown the top. If you’re doing this for an Easter weekend lunch and want to serve around 1.30pm, put it on by 8am. If you’re doing it for an evening meal, feel free to bake it earlier and reheat to finish; it’s pretty forgiving.

# Potatoes will never go amiss. Boiled chats, in the skin. Baked red-skins. A bowl of mash.

# If you can’t cope with the idea of non-garlicky lamb, then chuck a few smashed cloves in with the lamb before you seal it in foil.

# That bowl of pan juices you poured off? Put it in the fridge overnight until the fat comes to the surface and sets. Discard the fat and freeze the lamb stock for making gravy next time.

# Tip: the following night, take the cold hunk of lamb out of the fridge and thickly slice it while cold, when it holds together. Then gently pan-fry the slices in a single layer – no oil or butter – until they start sizzling. Turn once to warm through, and serve with lemons for squeezing, and maybe some lemony baked potatoes.

# Make more sauce vierge and whipped feta than you need and serve all weekend. Great with any form of barbecue, and rather excellent with fried eggs for brunch.

SAUCE VIERGE

• 6 small to medium vine-ripened tomatoes

• 1 tbsp fresh parsley, basil, chervil or chives

• 2 garlic cloves, peeled and smashed

• 4 tbsp extra virgin olive oil

• 1 tbsp lemon juice (to taste)

• Sea salt and pepper

Finely chop the tomatoes (keeping the juices) and chop the parsley or herbs.

Place in a large bowl with the garlic, olive oil, lemon juice, sea salt and pepper and toss well.

Leave at room temperature for a couple of hours, give it a big swirl, and serve alongside the lamb.

ZUCCHINI, LEMON AND DILL

• 4 or 5 medium zucchini

• 2 tbsp extra virgin olive oil

• 1 tbsp lemon juice

• 2 tbsp chopped dill, or more

Trim the zucchini, and thickly slice about 1 cm.

Cook in simmering salted water for 2 to 3 minutes – softened but still green.

Drain well and toss in olive oil and lemon juice, sea salt and pepper.

Add half the dill and toss, then scatter with remaining dill.

WHIPPED FETA

• 150 g block of feta in brine, drained

• 1 tbsp extra virgin olive oil

• 2 tbsp natural Greek-style yoghurt

Place the yoghurt in a fine strainer and hang over a bowl to drain for an hour or so.

Break up the feta and whiz in a mini food processor until crumbled,

Add the drained yoghurt (discard the whey) and whiz briefly until smooth.

Add the olive oil and whiz briefly.

Scrape into a bowl and refrigerate for an hour or two until using; it will thicken up.

Thanks for dropping by! And thanks for your comments and suggestions. Special thanks to Terry for heading out into gusting winds and stormy rain to get the lamb; he would have made a good shepherd.

I would like to acknowledge the traditional owners of the lands and waters upon which I work, live, cook and play; the Gadigal people of the Eora Nation. Thank you for sharing your culture, traditions, knowledge, spirit, art, music, humour and food traditions, allowing us all to experience a sense of belonging in this ancient land.

Fate also intervened, in the form of a social enterprise called Two Good. I know many of you are familiar with their work in supporting women in crisis and gently walking them towards a future of worthwhile jobs and safe and secure homes.

Last week, Two Good launched an important collaboration with Australian fashion brand Alemais that tells the story of Marina, who went through their Two Good Work Work programme. Her story, as she pushed herself from desperation and hopelessness to a place of security and independence, is also a story of the strength and resilience of women.

One of the ways in which Two Good helps empower the women in their kitchen programme is to ask them to cook a recipe of their own (that’s pretty scary stuff for anyone). In Marina’s words, “the day Two Good handed out the dates for us to cook our own recipes for the team, I saw that my date was my mother’s birthday; I decided I had to cook her minestrone.”

She made a big pot of the soup her mother had made for the family in their home town of Ravascletto in mountainous Udine. “I remember eating so much of it when she used to make it; I’d have two or three bowls and be so full and happy.” Even as a child, she knew this soup would be important to her. “I asked her to show me how to make it, and she walked me through each step: when to add water, which veggies to blend up and which to leave whole.”

As the sweet height of the tomatoey broth wafted across the Two Good kitchen, and the rain came pelting down on the roof, Marina said she could feel her mum looking down at her. The raindrops, she said, were tears of happiness, to see her daughter in such a safe place, with a clear future ahead of her.

No wonder head chef Pru Besser says, “it was quite the moment for all of us”. Marina immediately became known as Marina-strone, and so did the soup, which is now regularly cooked by women participating in Two Good’s employment program and served as donated meals to women’s refuges across Sydney.

Thanks to Alemais and some particularly nice producers and retailers, a beautiful tote has been created and filled with the main ingredients of the recipe and made available as a fund-raising exercise for Two Good (see below for deets).

As a proud member of the Two Good extended family I immediately put one of the totes to good use; hence today’s minestrone – sorry, Marina-strone. I thought I might make it ahead and freeze it, but it smelt way too good. We cancelled dinner plans, stayed in, grilled lots of sourdough bread, and feasted on bowls of Marina-strone instead – acutely aware of how lucky we were to be able to do so.

My kitchen is a sanctuary, a place of fun and chatter or quiet, satisfying industry; a creative outlet where I can go a bit mad and dream big while I’m wiping down benches, stirring soup with a wooden spoon, and burning the toast.

It’s hard for me to comprehend that for some women, a kitchen can be a place of uncertainty, fear and danger. That’s why I love that Two Good has chosen the kitchen as their pathway to training and employment; where women can work alongside other women, learn new skills, have a quiet chat and perhaps a laugh, and sit down together for lunch. Reclaiming the kitchen as their happy place.

It’s a place I associate with my mother and grandmother and so many amazing women in my life; a place I always feel good, even when I’m doing the dishes. That’s why this campaign hits home for me. Mum and I still spend Sunday nights on the phone talking about what we’re about to go off and make for dinner. At 97, she’s chopping up veggies, devilling eggs and frying tomatoes as if she were still cooking on the sheep farm for four kids. But there will come a day (sorry, Mum) when, like Marina, I will look for a sign that she knows that I’m doing okay.

The simple act of women supporting women is something that plays out daily at Two Good. Even with this campaign - Alemais is owned by Australian designer Lesleigh Jermanus, and the campaign story is proudly told by ambassador Melissa Leong. Both incredibly strong, creative women with an intuitive understanding that women throguh no fault of their own do not always get the quality of life that they deserve.

SO HERE’S THE RECIPE.

I know that Marina would agree, however, that such a beautiful, heart-warming soup as minestrone is something that we can all own, incorporating the ideas handed down to us and improvising as we go.

It calls for both vinegar and sugar, for instance, which work to soften the acidity of tomato paste and bolster the sweetness of the vegetables. It calls for potato, pasta and borlotti beans – I threw in a can of lentils as well to bulk it up further. You do what you like and make it yours – the Jane-erone, Lauren-erone, Lynette-erone.

After all, the queen of Italian home cookery, Ada Boni, listed 12 different regional recipes for minestrone in her definitive Italian cookbook Il Talismano di Felicita, or The Talisman of Happiness – and they’re all good.

Had she known about Marina-strone when she wrote that book in 1929, it would be in there, too. Thank you, Marina, and Marina’s mum, for such happiness and goodness in a bowl.

MARINA-STRONE, THE RECIPE

• 100 ml extra virgin olive oil, plus extra for drizzling

• 1 large brown onion, chopped

• 3 garlic cloves, finely chopped

• 1 large potato, peeled, cut into 2 cm dice

• 150g orecchiette or other small pasta

• 1 celery stalk, trimmed and cut into 1cm dice

• 2 carrots, peeled and cut into 1cm dice

• ½ bunch spring onions, thinly sliced

• 2 heaped tablespoons tomato paste

• 10g (¼ cup) Two Good Marina-Strone Herb Mix (see note below)

• 1 x 400g tin chopped tomatoes

• 2 bay leaves

• 50ml apple cider vinegar

• 1½ tablespoons brown sugar

• Sea salt, to taste

• 1 x 400g tin borlotti beans, drained and rinsed

• 2 zucchini, trimmed and cut into 1cm dice

• 50g baby spinach leaves

• ½ bunch basil, leaves picked

• 100g shaved parmesan

Heat the olive oil in a heavy-based saucepan over medium heat.

Add onion and garlic and cook, stirring occasionally or until onion has softened, but not coloured.

Meanwhile, cook the potato in simmering salted water until tender, but not falling apart then drain and set aside.

Cook pasta according to packet instructions, then drain, rinse under cold running water, toss in a drizzle of oil to coat, and set aside.

Add celery, carrot, spring onion, tomato paste and Two Good Marina-Strone Herb Mix to the onion mixture and cook, stirring for 10 minutes.

Add tinned tomatoes, bay leaves, vinegar, sugar and salt and cook for 2-3 minutes.

Add 1.5 litres of water, beans and zucchini, and simmer until vegetables are just tender.

Add the cooked potato, pasta, spinach and basil, stirring, and check and adjust the seasoning.

To serve, ladle the soup into bowls, drizzle with a little extra virgin olive oil, then scatter with shaved parmesan.

Two Good notes: If you don’t have the Two Good Marina-Strone Herb Mix, add 1 1⁄2 tablespoons dried oregano, a good pinch of finely chopped rosemary, freshly ground black pepper, 2 bay leaves and 1 tablespoon vegetable stock powder.

The Limited Edition Two Good Co x Alémais Marina-Strone Collection is now available for purchase via the Two Good website.

The market tote is a beauty – strong, sensible, big and beautiful. Each tote is filled with a Marina-Strone starter kit including Olsson’s sea salt flakes, Mr. Olio extra virgin olive oil, Mutti tomato paste and tinned tomatoes, Carmelina borlotti beans, Two Good Co Marina-Strone herb mix, and Maestri Pastai orecchiette, giving you – or the lucky recipient of your gift – a chance to join in the time-honoured family rituals of cooking and feeding and nurturing. The purchase ($150) also includes a meal donation to a women’s refuge, so you’re not just providing for yourself…

There is also a VERY beautiful Alemais woven jacquard throw that essentially comes as a pair -- when you buy one ($390), another identical one is gifted to a woman in a refuge. It’s the fourth in Two Good’s #Buy1Give1 blanket campaign, and it’s heavenly.

When I imagine the comforting weight of that beautiful throw resting on the sleeping body of an exhausted woman in a single bed in a refuge - someone with lived experience of homelessness or domestic violence - it’s hard not to want to buy them all and give them all. It’s definitely the woven equivalent of a bowl of soup.

Thanks for dropping by! And thanks for your comments and suggestions. Special thanks to Terry for always supporting women supporting women, whether it’s lugging a tote around Carriageworks market on Saturday or finding just the right wine to go with minestrone. xx

An early edition of this post was headlined “Maria-strone” rather than “Marina-strone”; my mistake, and apologies, Marina!

I would like to acknowledge the traditional owners of the lands and waters upon which I work, live, cook and play; the Gadigal people of the Eora Nation. Thank you for sharing your culture, traditions, knowledge, spirit, art, music, humour and food traditions, allowing us all to experience a sense of belonging in this ancient land.

GET TO THE RECIPE, JILL.

Never mind, for I am back with a lovely late-summer fruit galette that seems just right to take us from ditzy January to a more focussed February.

Love a galette. Rough-as-guts pastry, no trimming, no fiddling. You drop the fruit on top any which way – we are not going for Instagram spirals here, let’s leave that to the amazing French patissier Cedric Grolet. Then you bung it in the oven until it looks adorable.

All that means it’s easy on the cook, because the more rustic it looks, the better.

It’s also easy on the fruit, which is allowed to retain its shape and colour and not be covered up by pastry and get all steamy and pale.

And it’s very easy on the eye, because the pastry border – just lifted up-and-over to form a rim – frames the fruit like a portrait, leaving room for the steam to escape in the centre.

MERCI, JACQUES PÉPIN

The pastry is a technique I learned from Jacques Pépin, author of my vintage copy of La Technique (a ground-breaking book for the 1970s that illustrated the hands-on foundations of cooking with photography; no recipes), and one of the most enduring and celebrated of America’s classic cookery teachers.

It literally takes 10 seconds to bring it together - five seconds to whiz the flour, salt and butter, and another five seconds to incorporate icy-cold water. The speed also ensures you don’t overwork the pastry and hence make it tough. The end result is biscuity to the bite, with an almost cobblerish quality, if you know what I mean.

There is a lot that this galette doesn’t need, that other recipes call for. The fruit does not need to be dotted with butter – there’s enough in the pastry, for heaven’s sake. The base does not need to be spread with jam– there’s enough sugar already. Nor do you need to garnish with toasted almonds or nuts, unless you want.

My favourite little trick is to first scatter the pastry base with a mix of ground almonds and a touch of flour; an almost-frangipane mix that succeeds in soaking up the fruity juices as they seep from the fruits.

The fruits? Use what you have – peaches, nectarines, plums, figs, berries, cherries. A mix is best.

I went for the romantic beauty of dark red stone fruits and berries (France’s fruits rouges) to transition us from late summer to early autumn. In winter, use apples and pears.

Or if you’re feeling more savoury than sweet, go for one I did earlier - this zucchini and cheese galette from Good Food.

HERE COMES THE METAPHOR.

The rustic nature of this galette is, of course, a metaphor for how to go through life in 2026.

It is free to be itself. It does not compare itself to others. It does not struggle to be perfect or consider itself a failure for being a bit different. It’s a bit rough around the edges, open to new ideas, and embracing anything that might come along.

It admires and respects the skill, craft and paranoia behind technically perfect tarts and pies, but it is for people with better things to do. Which actually makes it perfect.

THE ANTI-PERFECT FRUIT GALETTE

Serves 4

• 4 or 5 red plums

• Punnet of blackberries or raspberries

• Handful of cherries if around, halved and pipped

• 2 tbsp granulated sugar

• 3 tbsp ground almonds (almond meal)

• 1 tbsp plain flour

• 1 egg, beaten

Pastry:

• 200 g plain flour, sifted

• 150 g butter, chilled and diced

• Half tsp salt

• 75 ml icy-cold sparkling water

To make the pastry, place the flour, diced butter and salt in a food processor and whiz for 5 seconds.

Add the icy-cold water and process for another 5 seconds – you should still be able to see bits of butter. It won’t be pretty.

Tip the contents onto a large sheet of baking paper on the bench and gently shape into a ball, then cover with cling film and refrigerate for 1 hour.

Heat the oven to 220C (fan-forced 200C).

Cut the plums into wedges or rough chunks (ditch the stones) and cut the berries in half or leave whole. Toss them all in 1 tbsp of the sugar.

Unwrap the pastry and place on a floured bench or a big sheet of floured baking paper.

Using a floured rolling pin, roll out to a rough round or oval shape about 23 cm wide.

Mix the ground almonds with 1 tbsp flour and a pinch of sea salt and scatter over the base, then arrange the fruit on top to within 5cm (2 in) from the edge.

Use a spatula knife to help you lift the pastry edges up and over – fold and crimp, fold and crimp - to form a border of about 5 cm (2 inches), as rough as you like.

Place the galette on a baking tray lined with baking paper.

Brush the pastry border with beaten egg and scatter both fruit and pastry border with remaining 1 tbsp sugar (if the pastry has softened, bung it in the fridge for 10 minutes to chill).

Turn the oven down to 200C (fan-forced 180C) and bake the galette for 40 to 45 minutes or until the fruit is bubbling and the pastry is tanned.

Remove to a wire rack (use the baking paper to help slide it off) and cool for 15 minutes before serving, because the juices are super-hot.

Serve warm or at room temperature with cream, ice-cream, yoghurt.

TIPS

• The secret to great pastry is to keep the butter as cold as you can, because it’s those tiny pockets of butter in the flour that makes the pastry flaky. I accidentally froze my diced butter for half an hour before whizzing it with the flour, and it was perfect.

For the same reason, if the pastry gets warm at any time – you might be constantly shooting it for your newsletter? – just put it back in the fridge for ten minutes. It should enter the hot oven as cold pastry.

• The butter in the pastry might ooze out onto the tray as it melts in the heat of the oven – just blot it with paper towel. The fruity juices might also ooze out – let them, unless you think they might burn.

You may not have ground almonds (almond meal). No problem – just whiz whatever nuts you have, from almond flakes to hazelnuts, walnuts or macadamias – to a powder and continue.

• No real need to make your own pastry. Buy puff pastry and cut it into a rough round and go forth. It’s not perfect, and nor are we.

Thanks for dropping by! And thanks for your comments and suggestions. Special thanks to Terry for the fruit sleuthing. Under strict instructions to buy anything dark red, he came back with the most divine plums, cherries and blackberries, as well as – against orders – the brighter pink of raspberries and golden-fleshed plums, which actually added a lot of charm.

I would like to acknowledge the traditional owners of the lands and waters upon which I work, live, cook and play; the Gadigal people of the Eora Nation. Thank you for sharing your culture, traditions, knowledge, spirit, art, music, humour and food traditions, allowing us all to experience a sense of belonging in this ancient land.

It seems to me that makes ‘relish’ as good a word as any with which to enter the new year.

Writers have relished the word ‘relish’ for centuries. I offer more recent proof with a 1966 Star Trek episode in which the alien Balok says “We must drink. This is tranya. I hope you relish it as much as I.”

A relish is also defined as a piquant pickle that will jazz up the plainest of foods. That could also be handy to have at one’s side throughout 2026. One of my favourite relishes is piccalilli, also known as sweet mustard pickles, and also spelt as piccalilli and picalillo - and according to The Old Foodie*, as paco-lilla, peccalillo, piccalillo, pickalilly, and pickylilly, and formerly also called Indian pickle. The first reference given by the OED, says TOF, is from Hannah Glasse’s Art of Cookery (6^th ed., 1758.)

As a pickle, it’s pretty easy to put together, as long as you’re happy to chop the veggies. Then you toss them in salt and add cold water to create a brine and leave them overnight in the fridge.

(This will give you time to either find the brown mustard seeds in back of the cupboard or go out and buy them.)

The next day, you bring the vinegar and sugar to the boil and add the drained veggies for a minute or two. Then you just whisk the fun bits together in a bowl –turmeric, mustard powder, brown mustard seeds and cornflour for thickening. Spoon in a bit of the vinegar to create a runny paste, pour it slowly into the pot of veggies, stirring, and cook for a few minutes until it looks exactly like piccalilli - gloopy, bright, luminous with a fluorescent turmeric glow.

a/ ready for the brine, b/ in the hot vinegar-sugar mix and c/ with the spice paste added.

NOTES.

Use a good vinegar of 5% acetic acid concentration or higher. Rice vinegar, for instance, is not acidic enough (3% acidity) to prevent the growth of bacteria or mould. Apple cider vinegar, distilled white vinegar and clear malt vinegar are recommended. I like to use a clear vinegar and a white sugar to keep the colours bright, but by all means go for brown malt vinegar and brown sugar instead for a darker, moodier, more rustic outcome.

It feels weird that you don’t really cook the vegetables, although the process of brining softens them a bit. I give them 5 minutes, which is longer than most, but they still retain a nice soft crunch.

HOW TO USE: WITH RELISH!

Take a jar to your next barbecue, slather piccalilli into sandwiches, pack it for a picnic, and pop the top any time there is cold meat around. Perfect for a ploughman’s lunch with chunks of cheddar, crusty bread, boiled eggs. Surprisingly good with a hot dog, according to Terry.

Here’s to a happy and healthy 2026. I hope you relish it.

PICCALILLI.

Makes 1 kg or 4 medium-sized jars

• 800g cauliflower

• 300 g white onions, peeled

• Half red capsicum, trimmed

• 150g green beans, topped

• 1 small red chilli (optional)

• 1 medium cucumber, unpeeled

• 50g salt

• 500 ml clear vinegar

• 250 g white sugar

• 3 tsp turmeric

• 4 tsp dry mustard powder

• half tsp curry powder eg Malaysian

• 2 tsp brown mustard seeds

• 1 tsp salt

• 2 tbsp cornflour

Cut the cauliflower into small individual florets and cut the smaller stems into small pieces as well.

Dice the onions and capsicum, chop the beans, and finely slice the chilli.

Cut the cucumber in half lengthwise and scoop out the seeds, then dice.

Combine all the veg in a large non-reactive bowl and scatter with salt.

Add cold water to cover and refrigerate overnight.

To make the piccalilli, drain the vegetables (if they taste super-salty, rinse them well, otherwise leave).

Bring the vinegar and sugar to the boil in a large non-reactive pot, stirring. Add the drained vegetables and bring back to the boil.

Mix the turmeric, dry mustard, curry powder, mustard seeds, salt and cornflour together, and whisk in a couple of spoonfuls of the vinegar mixture to make a runny paste.

Gradually add the paste to the vegetables, stirring constantly until it boils and thickens, and simmer gently for 5 minutes.

Spoon into warm, sterilised jars, leave to cool, then seal.

Cool and store for up to three months.

Ideally, you should leave the jars for a week to settle and mellow before opening, but that’s never going to happen. I kept out a small bowlful for immediate eating purposes and it was fab.

You can use almost any kind of vegetable – this recipe is based on 1 kilogram worth.

Also good additions: 1 tbsp coriander seeds, 1 tsp ground ginger, a sliced garlic clove or two.

HOW TO STERILISE JARS.

First, choose your nicest, cleanest jars, no labels, airtight lids. I favour the dishwasher method, also known as Getting The Machine To Do It For You. Put them through the dishwasher on its hottest cycle, then remove while still finger-burningly hot and place on a tray lined with a clean tea-towel. If you’re not sure the lids will cope with the dishwasher, place them in a clean bowl and pour a kettle of boiling water over them, then drain and leave to dry naturally.

Thanks for dropping by! And thanks for your comments and suggestions. Special thanks to Terry for saying, with a mouthful of ham, cheese and piccalilli, “this is even better than the bought stuff.”

* The Old Foodie. I would normally have put a link in here, but it said the site was not secure. If interested, google The Old Foodie and Piccalilli, and have a read.

I would like to acknowledge the traditional owners of the lands and waters upon which I work, live, cook and play; the Gadigal people of the Eora Nation. Thank you for sharing your culture, traditions, knowledge, spirit, art, music, humour and food traditions, allowing us all to experience a sense of belonging in this ancient land.

There is nothing trivial about the things that move us, feed us and make us feel part of a bigger world.

Especially at this time of the year, when we gather round, gather in, enjoy each other, sit too long at the table, wrap up the year and, gently, make plans for the new year.

My plans are gentle enough. I’m keeping with this newsletter, because I love doing it; it’s a part of my life. I love the connections it brings; the rabbit holes it sends me down, and the ability it gives me to google my own recipe when I’m in the kitchen and can’t quite remember how it goes. So handy!

But, going gently into the new year, I’m moving it from once a week to once a month for six months, so that I can be a little less frazzled and a little more present for the other work I do, for the Australian Financial Review - another joy in my life - and a little more absent (as in ‘away’) for the travelling I want to do.

Mind you, this comes with a disclaimer. If I get excited about something I’m cooking, I’m just going to send it to you anyway whether you like it or not, because a good recipe is bossy and demands to be shared.

As I have learned, over the last five years (almost exactly!) and 263 (precisely!) newsletters.

And just because I’m going monthly, don’t expect I’m going to build it into anything more rigorous, researched or comprehensive. It will still be a bit random, scrappy and within the available limits of my intelligence. Sorry.

In the meantime, I gently offer you a recipe for potato latkes.

Latkes are easy enough. All you have to do is grate, toss, form into patties and fry in a pan. But they’re also rather nice because people aren’t necessarily expecting them.

Do them as an entrée and pile blue cheese and rocket leaves on top.

Serve a piled-high heap of them with the Christmas turkey, duck or chook (they’d be magnificent soaking up the gravy) or the leg of ham.

Or go meat-free with a spoonful of sauerkraut or a melty cheese on top.

Here they are with some New Zealand smoked salmon and a green, fresh, velvety green goddess sauce. Tasmanian salmon continues to be a problem in terms of environmental impact and animal welfare, so l always look for New Zealand salmon, which comes at a premium price, for good reason. The cold-smoked Aoraki from the glacial waters of Mount Cook is delicious ( at Harris Farm outlets in NSW). Bellarine Smokehouse uses NZ’s Ora Salmon exclusively, and will be at farmer’s markets this weekend at Albert Park (20 Dec) and Alphington (21 Dec).

The full recipe for the green goddess sauce is here on Good Food, but you don’t actually need it. Just whiz half an avocado with half a cup of buttermilk or yoghurt, parsley, spring onion greens, maybe some rocket, a little grated garlic, a spoonful of whole-egg mayo to enrich, and lemon juice and honey to taste.

If you prefer a cream cheese topping, mix 200 g cream cheese with 100 g sour cream to plop on top, then scatter with black poppy seeds. Here’s some cocktail-sized latkes I did earlier, for delicious magazine. I like their straggliness - don’t try for neat.

NEED TO KNOW:

Grate the potatoes, etc, on a sturdy box grater, aiming for long actions rather than short ones, to get a bit of length on the gratings.

Potatoes and onions are watery, and water is the enemy of crispness. Once you’ve grated them, pile them into a clean tea-towel and wring it over the sink. (I got 50 ml out of mine!)

Latkes and their close cousins potato roesti are wonderful when crisp and crunchy, but don’t kill yourself; they’re also wonderful when they’re not. I use as little oil for frying as possible – about 4 tbsp for the lot – which isn’t ever going to get me a knock-knock-hard crunch on the outside as deeper oil or deep-frying would, but I’m happy with the compromise.

This makes twelve latkes. If you’re sitting down to four people for brunch, consider dividing the mixture in four, doing one bigger one for each person (use two frypans for efficiency) and serve with a fried egg and cold ham off the bone.

Yes, you can make them ahead. I cooked these during the day so I could shoot them, then threw them into a hot pan with a little oil to reheat for dinner, and they browned and crisped beautifully. (Not shown, because - eaten).

POTATO AND CARROT LATKES

Makes 12

• 500 g red-skin potatoes, peeled

• 200 g carrot or sweet potato, peeled

• 1 small onion, peeled

• 1 large egg, whisked

• 2 tbsp plain flour

• half tsp sea salt

• 1 tbsp chopped dill or parsley

• 4 tbsp vegetable or olive oil for frying

Coarsely grate the potatoes, carrot and onion.

Squeeze out excess moisture (best done in a clean tea towel you can wring over the sink), then return the mixture to the bowl.

Pour the beaten egg over the mixture and scatter with flour, sea salt and dill, mixing well with your hands.

Heat 2 tbsp of the oil in a good heavy frypan until hot.

Take a tablespoonful of the mixture and again, squeeze out any excess juices into a small bowl, then place in the oil and lightly press flat, leaving the edges rough.

Repeat with another three latkes and fry each one for 2 minutes or until well-browned on one side.

Flip and cook for another two minutes on the other side (you may have to reduce the heat).

Lift with an egg flipper and drain on paper towel. Keep warm.

Heat the remaining oil and make the remaining latkes.

Scatter with extra sea salt and extra dill and serve immediately.

Thanks for dropping by! Special thanks to Terry for the grating, and for ALL the things he’s done to support this newsletter (and me) for the last five years of never-missed weekly posts. And VERY special thanks to everyone who has been part of this journey until now and wants to still hang out in the future. We’re family now, so that’s it, you’re stuck with me, on the first Thursday of every month.

Thank you also (this is a later edit) for those of you who quietly acknowledged and understood my choice of a recipe for latkes, after the atrocities on Bondi Beach last weekend targeting our local Jewish community. They have played a long, strong, continuous role in Jewish culinary tradition, which is something that enriches all our lives, that we love dearly, and that we should never take for granted. Especially now.

Have a lovely festive season, one and all. xxxx thanks, Jill.

I would like to acknowledge the traditional owners of the lands and waters upon which I work, live, cook and play; the Gadigal people of the Eora Nation. Thank you for sharing your culture, traditions, knowledge, spirit, art, music, humour and food traditions, allowing us all to experience a sense of belonging in this ancient land.

I don’t usually follow the big celebrity chefs, but Andres is different; he’s a world-changer. In 2010, he founded World Central Kitchen, a non-profit organisation built to provide meals in the wake of natural disasters - it has since provided an extraordinary 500 million meals. He and his crew are often the first on the ground anywhere in the world after earthquakes, floods and war. (The story is well-told by director Ron Howard in a 2022 National Geographic documentary called ‘We Feed People’ on Disney+).

Back to the hummus. He bakes the butternut squash until the flesh is soft, then whizzes it with tahini (sesame seed paste) and olive oil, thinning it out with water and seasoning it with salt. It’s served, rather sweetly, with crisp-roasted pumpkin seeds, a dusting of za’atar, and a drizzle of pumpkin seed oil.

All good, I thought. Then - wait, where are the chickpeas in this hummus?

Like, I’m not saying I FIXED Jose Andres’ recipe, but I do think it should have had chickpeas.

So now we roast the butternut squash until soft, scoop it out and puree it with tahini and CHICKPEAS, garlic, lemon, cumin and sea salt, and finish whizzing it with the liquid from the chickpea can, known as aquafaba, when it all becomes mesmerisingly soft and smooth and lightly fluffy.

Essentially, the butternut squash puree lightens the heavy richness of the tahini, and everything balances out very nicely.

I now propose this dish to be one of those life-savers that will get you through the next few weeks of cooking and entertaining.

• Make it for yourself first - it will go with anything from grilled sausages to pan-fried salmon (see last pic below).

• If friends drop in for drinks, serve it as a dip, with grilled flatbread.

• If you’re cooking for a non meat-eater, you’re in – maybe top it with some roasted carrots or grilled haloumi and a few extra toasty chickpeas.

• If you’re doing a fancy dinner party, you can scoop out a perfect quenelle of it to place alongside coral trout or rib eye.

The science: Don’t be tempted to speed up the roasting of the pumpkin by steaming it instead or covering it with foil. It needs time to dry out and lose its natural moisture, because nobody wants watery hummus.

I push that idea by baking it in the half or quarter piece, which has the added advantage of not having to peel or chop or remove seeds. If you’re happy to peel and chop into smaller chunks, at least you’ll save on baking time – just toss them in a little olive oil and bake until tender, without allowing them to brown too much. We’re going for bright here, not brown.

The tahini: Love tahini (sesame seed paste), but don’t love the oil that sits on top? Pour the oil out of the jar and into a bowl, scoop out the tahini you need and place it straight into the food processor, then return the oil to the jar and seal.

The seeds: I’ve never been able to reconstitute the seeds of a pumpkin deliciously enough for my fussy-bitch requirements; but let us know in the comments below if you have, and how. Instead, I use packaged pumpkin seeds (pepitas), tossed with a teaspoonful of olive oil and sea-salt and either pan-fried or baked - but only for a few minutes, until they start to tan. They will crisp as they cool. Very moreish.

The paprika oil: Consider drizzling something smoky and spicy on top. I gently heated half a teaspoon of smoked paprika in 2 tbsp olive oil and a pinch of sea salt and loved it, but Someone Else thought it was gritty.

The butternut: Half a large butternut can weigh up to a kilogram, which will feed six or eight. If hordes are descending, do two halves.

Thanks Jose Andres, for the recipe, and for the World Central Kitchen.

BUTTERNUT HUMMUS

• 1 kg butternut squash, halved, quartered or chunked

• Olive oil and sea salt for the butternut

• 200 g chickpeas, drained, reserving 150 ml liquid

• 3 tbsp tahini

• 1 garlic clove, finely grated

• Half tsp smoked paprika or 1 tsp ground cumin or both

• Sea salt and lemon juice to taste

• 2 tbsp pumpkin seeds, toasted

• Any random herbs lying around, chopped

Heat oven to 200C.

Brush the cut surfaces of butternut with olive oil, scatter with salt, and bake on a tray lined with baking paper for 45 minutes to over an hour, until tender.

Allow to cool, then scoop and scrape out the tender flesh, discarding seeds and skin.

Whiz the butternut flesh in a blender or processor, then add the chickpeas, tahini, garlic, cumin or paprika and sea salt, and whiz until smooth, scraping down the sides if need be.

Add the chickpea liquid and lemon juice and whiz for 2 minutes until it feels light and fluffy.

Taste for lemon juice and sea salt and adjust.

To serve, pile the hummus onto a plate and use the back of a spoon to gently swirl it in a circular motion.

Scatter with chopped herbs, toasted pumpkin seeds and drizzle with a touch of olive oil (or keep in a covered container in the fridge for up to five days).

Tip: If it’s still too thick, add water a tablespoon at a time until you like the texture. Need chilli? This would eat up some dried red chili flakes.

Thanks for dropping by! And thanks for your comments and suggestions. The original recipe of Jose Andres and Michael Costa is in their book Zaytinya and shown here.

Special thanks to Terry for eating butternut hummus in three different ways on three consecutive nights. This makes a lot.

A note I should probably have put here years ago: oven temperatures are conventional. For fan-forced ovens, reduce the temperature by 20˚C. I’m in Australia, so teaspoons are 5 ml, tablespoons are 20ml, one cup is 250ml and kangaroos actually do hop down the main street.

I would like to acknowledge the traditional owners of the lands and waters upon which I work, live, cook and play; the Gadigal people of the Eora Nation. Thank you for sharing your culture, traditions, knowledge, spirit, art, music, humour and food traditions, allowing us all to experience a sense of belonging in this ancient land.

“Howdy, how are you going? What are you up to tomorrow?”

“Heading to the beach with a ham sandwich.”

Talk about Christmas Day goals. I reckon if you’re on a beach with a ham sandwich in hand instead of making gravy and setting the tinsel alight, you’ve got it made.

I’ve followed up my own suggestion from this time last year, and slathered the Christmas ham with Dijon mustard, showered it in breadcrumbs, and baked it just long enough to get a crisp crust. Well, that worked.

Here’s the before-the-oven pic:

No scoring the fat. No glazing the ham. Just a crunchy breadcrumb crust informed by Dijon mustard, which, when you think about it, is just about perfect.

It’s a simplified version of the much-loved Swedish festive ham, julskinka, which calls for a paste to be made of egg, mustard and sugar, with a massive amount of breadcrumbs pressed into it, and a fast, high bake in order to brown it into a crust. I skipped the egg and went a bit easy on the crumbs, but don’t feel you have to.

If you prefer a traditional baked ham with a smoky, tangy glaze of mustard, maple syrup, soy, and tomato sauce, then go back to last Christmas here.

That idea of bringing Boxing Day forward to Christmas Day is looking better all the time.

Here’s the baked version. Because I used Panko crumbs, they’re super-crisp and crunch in the mouth.

CHRISTMAS HAM WITH A MUSTARD CRUST.

• 1 smoked, bone-in, rind-on half leg of ham baked ham (around 4.5kg)

• 3 tbsp Dijon mustard

• 1 tbsp soft brown sugar

• 4 tbsp panko-style crumbs

• 1 tbsp cloves for studding

Use a sharp knife to cut the rind around the shank bone to release it, then run the tip of the knife (or your finger) around the rim of the rind to help loosen it.

Gently pull and tease the rind away from the meat, scrabbling your fingers beneath it and leaving as much fat as you can.

Peel off the rind (use later to cover the finished ham in the fridge).

Place the ham on a board on top of a spread-out newspaper or whatever you use if you don’t buy newspapers.

Heat the oven to 200C (180C fan-forced).

Mix the mustard and brown sugar in a small bowl until the sugar is dissolved.

Slather the mixture over the fat of the ham like icing a cake.

Scatter the panko crumbs over the top, lifting the ham strategically to cover the mustard areas with crumbs.

Push cloves into the crumbed fat in diagonal lines (no need to score the fat).

Bake the ham for 20 minutes, turning around (not over!) once during that time, to ‘set’ and lightly tan the breadcrumbs, then remove and cool ( don’t leave in the turned-off oven).

Carve the ham so that each slice has a fringe of crisp crumbs, a layer of fat, and glorious ham.

TIPS

If the crumbs aren’t browning, turn the oven up, but keep an eye on it.

This isn’t like a sugary glaze that needs time to do its thing, so get the ham into the oven and out. Don’t leave it to cool in the turned-off oven, either - you don’t want to have much of an impact on the internal temperature.

If you have a half ham, as I have here, protect the cut side from drying out in the oven by covering it with a sheet of foil and securing it with toothpicks. (Foil is your friend at Christmas time! Buy an extra roll now!).

Store the ham in a calico ‘ham bag’ or clean pillowcase. Soak the bag first in a mix of 2 parts water to 1 part vinegar, then squeeze out the mixture and store the ham inside, in the fridge. Resoak the bag every two days, and you can store the ham for over a week. I also keep the rind draped over the carved parts inside the bag, for extra protection.

NOW FOR THE HAM & PINEAPPLE TEST.

Some people love ham and pineapple and others hate it. This is different, though - a fresh, tangy, sweet, savoury, spicy, juicy relish that just happens to be pineapple, and seems like a natural pairing with a festive leg of ham.

It suits the Australian summer to a tee (open a can of crushed pineapple if in the northern hemisphere); and takes 5 minutes to throw together.

Unexpected bonus: it’s bloody good in a ham sandwich, to take to the beach.

PINEAPPLE & JALAPENO SALSA

• 200 g fresh pineapple flesh, finely chopped

• 1 tbsp finely chopped red onion

• 1 tbsp finely chopped coriander

• 2 tbsp finely chopped mint

• 2 tbsp lime or lemon juice

• 2 slices pickled jalapeno, diced (optional)

• Half tsp sea salt, freshly ground black pepper

Mix all ingredients together in a small bowl, tossing well.

Spoon over the sliced baked ham or serve in a bowl to the side, or smash into your ham sandwich.

Tip: This relish is also good with pan-fried crisp-skinned salmon

And here’s Terry with a hands-on demo of prepping the ham.

Thanks for dropping by! And thanks for your comments and suggestions. Special thanks to Terry for the handiwork.

If you are new to doing the Christmas ham and need some more hand-holding, there is a brilliant step-by-step here from Australian Pork.

Big thanks to Australian Pork and all the hard-working pork farmers of Australia for bringing us such bounty. The best thing you can do for them is buy a bone-in ham, which guarantees Australian origin (we import a lot of ham, but it has to be bone-free to get into the country). Even if you’re buying a small boneless ham, make sure it’s Australian, and happy days.

If you’re unsure about how and where to buy your ham, there’s a really good guide here on Gourmet Traveller by Monique Foy.

I would like to acknowledge the traditional owners of the lands and waters upon which I work, live, cook and play; the Gadigal people of the Eora Nation. Thank you for sharing your culture, traditions, knowledge, spirit, art, music, humour and food traditions, allowing us all to experience a greater sense of belonging in this ancient land.

Gran had Scottish heritage; born as Reid and wed as Campbell; a country woman who wore dark green cashmere and the Campbell tartan for most of her life. She put on a grand afternoon tea, and shortbread was always present, along with fruit cake.

“And finger sandwiches,” she would say. “Always have something savoury, for the gentlemen.”

My mother inherited her baking gene, and my childhood was a trail of crumbs from scones, chocolate slices, anzac biscuits and my favourite, the Simplicity Chocolate Cake, whose recipe pages were stuck together with drips of chocolate cake batter and had to be carefully prised apart each time it was on the agenda.

And now we have reached the shortbread time of year, when it feels sad not to check in with its familiar soft, sandy, tender crumb.

This style of shortbread contains no eggs; it’s all about the butter. The addition of a small amount of rice flour helps the biscuits crisp a little and softens the texture.

I tried them out on a few people, and they all said they reminded them of ‘melting moments’ or yo-yo biscuits – that’s how ‘short’ they are, in terms of butteriness.

(The term ‘short’ in relation to dough is used when the fat content is high and the mixing or kneading is kept to a minimum, which helps keep the strands of gluten ‘short’ rather than long, a big contributor to the tenderness of the bite.)

By all means, pretend that you are baking these as gifts for others, then keep them for yourself and go and buy them something instead. I did.

SHORTBREAD

Makes 24.

150 g good butter, at room temperature
75 g icing sugar
Pinch of sea salt
175 g plain flour
50 g rice flour or cornflour

Combine the softened butter, icing sugar and sea salt in a food processor and whiz until pale and creamy, which could take 3 or 4 minutes.

Sift in the flour and rice flour, and pulse off and on, scraping down the sides once or twice, until the mixture gathers into a crumbly ball. Don’t overdo it.

Turn out onto a lightly floured bench and form it into a ball with your hands, gently kneading for a minute or two until smooth.

Cut the dough in two, wrap in plastic and refrigerate for a few hours or overnight.

Heat the oven to 160C (fan-forced 140C) and line two baking trays with baking paper.

Leave the dough out of the fridge for 15 minutes, then place one half on a floured bench and pat or lightly roll out the dough to roughly 1cm high.

Cut into 4 cm rounds with a biscuit cutter or liqueur glass and arrange on baking trays.

Repeat with the second half of dough, then reshape and roll out the scraps and cut out more rounds.

Prick each biscuit with a fork and bake for 10 minutes, then swap the trays over, turning each tray 180 degrees as well.

Bake for another 5 to 10 minutes until the base is a touch golden and the top is the colour of blonde straw.

Remove from the oven and leave to cool for 5 minutes on the tray, then transfer to a wire rack.

When cold, store in an airtight container for up to 2 weeks.

# Dust with icing sugar or caster sugar if you like, once they are out of the oven.

# Or dip each cooled biscuit into melted dark chocolate and leave until set.

#If they start browning on the edges, drop the temperature to 150C and/or take them out of the oven earlier.

For delicate biscuits such as shortbread, I love my palette knife, which allows me to slide underneath each biscuit and transfer it, raw or cooked, without causing any damage. They are genius; get one for yourself for Christmas. I’m not sure I could bake anything at all without it.

Ironically, the name of this nail polish is Strawberry Macaron. I’d rather have shortbread.

Thanks for dropping by! And thanks for your comments and suggestions. Special thanks to Terry, who also loved my grandmother. When she first met him, she then walked me to the car, leant over and whispered “marry this one”.

I would like to acknowledge the traditional owners of the lands and waters upon which I work, live, cook and play; the Gadigal people of the Eora Nation. Thank you for sharing your culture, traditions, knowledge, spirit, art, music, humour and food traditions, allowing us all to experience a sense of belonging in this ancient land.

I suspect most people just look at them longingly but won’t buy them because they think they will ruin them. We all have memories of tough little rubber-balls skittering around a hot pan hissing and refusing to brown. Or that could be just me.

But they are one of our best shellfish; creamy-hued, buttery-sweet, with a luxuriously silky lobster-like texture.

I recently took receipt of a big pack of scallops (thanks John Susman of Fishtales) from the Richey Fishing Co in Tasmania and decided to sear them quickly and serve them on white beans laced with ajvar, a wonderful ready-made red capsicum and eggplant sauce.

Did it work? Oh, yeah, it worked.

Scallops aren’t shy about big flavours, and can stand up to all sorts of good partners on the plate. Ajvar is a favourite of mine: a spread, relish, dip, creamy salsa sort of thing that wants to hug grilled sausages, chicken, fish, pork, asparagus, fried eggs, you name it. Pronounced ‘aye-varr’, it hails from Serbia and Northern Macedonia, and it’s smoky, fruity, tangy and very delicious.

Here it is with a can o’ beans.

Here’s how to make your own ajvar. Or just buy a jar from a good supermarket or deli and live off it for weeks. (The jars are quite big, so if you don’t have the opportunities to use it all up, decant into small plastic containers and freeze for later; saves it going off).

A NERDISH ACCOUNT OF HOW TO COOK SCALLOPS.

The best way to ensure success starts way back, when you’re buying scallops. Avoid those swimming in water, as they will just throw a hissy fit in the pan. Your best bet are fresh, dry, plump, premium-grade scallops; your EQUALLY best bet are frozen, dry, plump, premium-grade scallops.

The best scallops are dry-shucked, and never washed or rinsed in cold water. Look for the premium Flinders Island scallops or anything with the Richey name on it, as their purpose-built vessel, the Dell Richey II harvests without causing either damage to the sea floor or stress to the scallops, and they are handled like the luxury shellfish they are, instead of as a commodity.

Mine came with corals attached, and I spent a little time snipping and peeling off some of the brown gut while managing to keep the corals attached, which was worth it. As the authors of the definitive Australian Fish and Seafood Cookbook spell out: if you can eat the scallop meat and roe together, it’s glorious. The roe, they say, is like an accompaniment that makes the meat sweet and saucy.

But if you find good scallops cleaned and ready to go without their coral, go for it.

The ever-helpful Richard Cornish in his greatly missed Brain Food column suggests “if they are brilliant white, shiny and are sitting in a pool of liquid, they may have been plumped up with sodium tripolyphosphate to allow them to retain more water and give a better return to the retailer.” Use these inferior scallops in a fish pie, he suggests, but don’t try to sear them (see: hissy fit).

Likewise, never wash a scallop. Paper towel is your friend. Pat the scallops dry with paper towel to remove as much moisture as possible, or they simply won’t brown. Rest them on mor epaper towel until ready to cook.

Some cooks lightly dust the scallop with flour to assist in browning; I prefer to do without in case it goes pasty. But here’s a good trick – to help the scallops caramelise in the pan, lightly brush with a bit of the ajvar juices (not the solids, just the loose juice around the edges), and whoah - keep an eye on them or they will burn.

You’ll know when they’re perfectly cooked and ready to be taken out, because they tell you. They sort of rise up in the pan as if they’re puffing up their chests and have something self-important to say. They have: get me outa here. Now.

SCALLOPS WITH WHITE BEANS AND AJVAR

• 400 g can of white beans, drained and rinsed

• 3 tbsp ajvar

• 1 tbsp tomato passata (puree, not paste) or sugo

• 12 scallops

• Sea salt and pepper

• 1 to 2 tbsp olive oil

• Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

• 1 tbsp chopped parsley or 2 tbsp quick salsa verde (below)

Combine the white beans, ajvar and tomato passata in a fry-pan or saucepan, and heat thoroughly, adding a dash of water to loosen if you need to.

Trim the scallops if necessary, pat dry with paper towel and season with sea salt and pepper.

To cook the scallops, heat the oil until shimmering (not smoking) in a heavy pan over high heat.

Here’s the trick – brush the top of each scallop quickly with some of the ajvar sauce, then place the brushed side down in the oil, without crowding the pan.

Cook on the presentation side for 45 to 60 seconds until browned, pressing down lightly with an egg slice, then turn and cook the other side for 20 seconds, leaving the inside glassy.

Divide the beans and ajvar between warm serving plates, arrange scallops on top and scatter with parsley or with a quick salsa verde. Serves two.

TOP TIPS.

Taste-test the white beans and ajvar mix, and adjust seasoning with sea salt and pepper.

The tomato passata is there just to add a touch of acidity and loosen the ajvar.

Don’t overcrowd the pan, or the scallops will steam instead of sear.

Don’t be scared to undercook. If you’ve ever had scallop sashimi or scallop-topped sushi, then you know how good they are raw.

QUICK SALSA VERDE

Gather a good handful of parsley leaves, fresh basil leaves and coriander or rocket leaves and whiz in a food processor with a crushed garlic clove, 1 tbsp salted capers, 1 tbsp diced gherkin, 2 anchovy fillets, sea salt and pepper until mulchy. Scrape down the sides then whiz again while adding 100 ml extra virgin olive oil. Refrigerate, covered, for up to three days. Just before serving, stir in a teaspoon of red wine vinegar or squeeze of lemon juice to freshen it up.

Thanks for dropping by! And thanks for your comments and suggestions. Special thanks to Terry for keeping me in ajvar, and to JS for the scallops.

I would like to acknowledge the traditional owners of the lands and waters upon which I work, live, cook and play; the Gadigal people of the Eora Nation. Thank you for sharing your culture, traditions, knowledge, spirit, art, music, humour and food traditions, allowing us all to experience a sense of belonging in this ancient land.

And you’re heard of spaghetti al tonno, in which pasta is tossed with canned tuna (minus the can).

Now, think of your favourite pasta tossed with that creamy tonnato sauce.

Oh wait, I have already done that for you - and I now have a really fun recipe that you can throw together while thinking about something else entirely.

The sauce hasn’t been whizzed into a cream as it would for a tonnato, but simply deconstructed so that the tuna still has texture. You just whisk the ingredients in a bowl to bring them together, drain your hot pasta and toss it with the sauce, then shower it with herbs and golden, toasted breadcrumbs.

I also think it solves a problem inherent in pasta with tuna. I love the idea of it, but a/ I am always horrified by the amount of oil it takes to create a sauce for it, and b/ no matter how quick you are, the tuna will be over-cooked and dry.

Spaghetti is the people’s choice for this technique, but really any pasta that picks up sauce would be good; nothing too big (pappardelle, large penne). The cavatappi (corkscrew) shape used here has excellent ridges for picker-uppering.

It doesn’t necessarily look amazing, but I can’t tell you how good this tastes (she says as she shovels it into her mouth while she is meant to be shooting it for this newsletter). It’s creamy but it’s still very much a tuna-first sauce, amped up with anchovies and capers, freshened with parsley and lemon juice, with those magic crumbs on top.

PASTA WITH TUNA AND ANCHOVY SAUCE

Serves 2

• 200g (or thereabouts) tuna, in good oil

• 2 anchovy fillets, chopped

• 1 tbsp salted or vinegared capers, rinsed and drained

• 2 tbsp good whole-egg mayonnaise (eg Best’s, S& W)

• 2 tsp Dijon mustard or horseradish cream

• 1 tbsp lemon juice

• Sea salt and black pepper

• 1 tbsp extra virgin olive oil

• 2 to 3 tbsp Panko dried breadcrumbs

• 150 g pasta of choice (I used cavatappi)

• 2 tbsp finely chopped parsley

• 2 lemon wedges for serving

Drain the tuna, reserving the oil and breaking up the tuna gently.

Combine the tuna oil, anchovy, capers, mayonnaise, mustard or horseradish and lemon juice in a large heatproof bowl and whisk together into a cream.

Gently stir in the tuna, taste for lemon juice and punchiness, season as required.

To toast the breadcrumbs, heat oil in a small pan, add the breadcrumbs, and watch like a hawk, moving the crumbs around until they are tanned golden, then tip out into a bowl.

Cook the pasta in simmering salted water until al dente, still a little firm to the bite.

Add 2 tbsp of the hot pasta cooking water to the sauce and whisk through.

Drain the pasta and tip it immediately into the tuna sauce, turning until well-coated.

Divide between two warm pasta plates, scatter with chopped parsley and golden breadcrumbs, and serve immediately with a wedge of lemon.

NOTES:

If you don’t think the tuna oil is up to scratch, use extra virgin olive oil instead.

Fresh garlic would be good - you could gently heat it in the oil for the breadcrumbs. Dried chilli flakes, also good.

You’re putting hot pasta into a room temperature sauce, so do it quickly and serve it quickly; don’t let it get cold.

If you are weirded out by the idea of mayonnaise in the sauce, relax, it works exceptionally well, and you wouldn’t know it was there. (Besides, what is mayonnaise but olive oil, egg yolk and lemon juice or vinegar?)

This would make an AMAZING pasta salad for a summer lunch, with the additional crunch of finely sliced celery and a few celery leaves and a lot more lemon. Just make it ahead of time and leave to cool, then give it all a big toss, shower with toasted crumbs and serve at room temperature.

Thanks for dropping by! And thanks for your comments and suggestions. Special thanks to Terry for bringing home the cavatappi corkscrews - although you’d think the Italians would have come up with a screw-cap pasta by now.

If you just want a straight-up tonnata sauce and a few ideas of what to do with it, check this out.

I would like to acknowledge the traditional owners of the lands and waters upon which I work, live, cook and play; the Gadigal people of the Eora Nation. Thank you for sharing your culture, traditions, knowledge, spirit, art, music, humour and food traditions, allowing us all to experience a sense of belonging in this ancient land.

And it’s always chicken, bashed out, crumbed and fried, then topped with tomato sugo and a massive amount of cheese and baked until gooey and bubbly.

Consider this an intervention, for the common good.

I’m stepping in here, in a non-threatening manner, because I think that parmigiana is better with eggplant. I also believe it is vastly improved when not crumbed and fried in oil, but baked in the oven.

Not like lasagne or moussaka, however. Just baked until the slices are tanned and meaty, then stacked and sandwiched with fresh mozzarella and a nice tomato sugo and re-baked. That way, you have something that’s creamy and rich, but also fresh and light.

It ends up tasting like moussaka, but without all the kerfuffle.

DO I HAVE TO SALT THE EGGPLANT FIRST?

No, you don’t, because today’s eggplants are far less bitter than they used to be.

But I do it anyway, because it makes the flesh creamier, and because occasionally I get what I call “eggplant burn” (an unpleasant sensation known as oral allergy syndrome, in which the brain apparently confuses the proteins in eggplant with pollen, and tells the mouth off for eating it). Salting helps reduce the chance of that occurring so I can just enjoy my eggplant in peace without missives from my brain.

To salt: Just slice, scatter 1 tsp salt on top and leave for 30 minutes, then pat dry.

Or try brining, which you would think would make the flesh soggy, but instead makes it even creamier.

To brine, dissolve 1 tbsp salt in 1 cup boiling water, then stir in 1 litre cold water, and drop in the sliced eggplant. Place a saucepan lid on top to keep them submerged, leave for 1 hour, then drain and pat dry.

Or as I said, skip the salting altogether and get stuck straight in.

WHY BAKE THE EGGPLANT?

Because frying uses too much oil. And because you only need to use one baking tray. Once the eggplant slices are baked, you just add the cheeses and tomato sauce layers while on the tray, then stick it back in the oven until bubbling and gooey.

I have to warn you that I’m a bit mean-girl when it comes to adding the cheese. Normal people seem to like an enormous amount of cheese on this sort of thing, but I think it has a job to do – melt, make everything creamy and cheesy, glue everything together – without taking over. It’s not a cheese course, it’s an eggplant dish. Feel free to argue.

FURTHER THOUGHTS.

Don’t cut the slices too thinly, as the eggplant will shrink in the oven and you’ll end up with eggplant chips. If you look closely, you can see mine are too thin. They were nice, but it would have been more of a meal if they were thicker, and maybe Terry wouldn’t have added a sausage to his.

Reducing the tomato passata will make it nice and thick, which will help it cling to the eggplant and not go watery. Make heaps and serve the eggplant on a pond of remaining sauce.

Mixing the grated parmesan with some dried breadcrumbs is a neat trick that helps absorb the juices as it bakes.

Also, these look great when served en masse – consider doing three or four eggplant, making buckets of sauce, deploying much cheese and setting them out for a weekend lunch for everyone to help themselves.

EGGPLANT PARMIGIANA FOR TWO

• 2 medium eggplant, stems trimmed

• 500 ml tomato passata eg Mutti

• 2 tbsp extra virgin olive oil for brushing

• 1 ball fresh buffalo mozzarella, drained and sliced

• 60 g parmesan, grated

• 1 tbsp panko breadcrumbs

• Handful of basil leaves

Cut off the cheeks on either side of the eggplant and slice the body lengthwise into three thick slices.

Brine or salt the sliced eggplant according to the notes above, or keep going.

Heat oven to 220C. Arrange eggplant on a baking tray lined with baking paper, and brush with olive oil.

Scatter with sea salt and bake for 20 minutes, then flip each slice over and bake for a further 20 minutes or until nicely tanned.

Simmer the passata with some of the basil in a small pan until reduced by one-third.

Remove the tray from the oven and allow to cool for 5 minutes.

Mix the parmesan and breadcrumbs together in a bowl.

Smear some sauce on top of each slice, then scatter each with the parmesan mixture and top with mozzarella.

Carefully stack the loaded slices to form two very attractive parmies.

Scatter with remaining parmesan and bake for 20 minutes or until bubbling.

Cool for 5 minutes to allow everything to settle, and serve with any left-over sauce, and a flurry of basil.

Tip: Add a teaspoon of brown sugar to your passata if it tastes a bit sharp. I baked the eggplant cheeks as well, and added them to the top of each parma.

Thanks for dropping by! And thanks for your comments and suggestions. Special thanks to Terry for bringing home so much basil I could be flagrant with it.

I would like to acknowledge the traditional owners of the lands and waters upon which I work, live, cook and play; the Gadigal people of the Eora Nation. Thank you for sharing your culture, traditions, knowledge, spirit, art, music, humour and food traditions, allowing us all to experience a sense of belonging in this ancient land.

Such innocent times.

It’s the dish most associated with Queen Elizabeth’s Coronation in 1953, served at a celebratory luncheon to honour the Commonwealth Heads of State.

The catering team of Constance Spry and Rosemary Hume chose to include such ‘foreign’ ingredients as curry powder and mango in a creamy dressing for poached chicken - with mango chutney and flaked almonds, no less - in a salute to the international nature of the heads of Commonwealth countries present. It is now a much-loved cliché of the British summer season, and has a compelling and inherent reason to make it one of ours as well. The sauce.

Unexpectedly faced with a very fine lobster this week ( more on its provenance later; a good-news Australian produce story to come); I whizzed up the curry cream sauce to slather on top of each cut half.

The chutney brings sweetness, the curry brings spice, the turmeric gives it a nice tan, the whipped cream makes it velvety and pillowy - and the fresh mango makes it Australian.

The only cooking takes about 30 seconds, as you heat the curry powder in a little oil to soften it. If you chucked it straight in as a powder, it can feel gritty on the tongue, unless it has enough time to soften in the sauce.

It’s a great little sauce to have in your back pocket when faced with any good seafood, and would be a fine thing with a platter of crisp crudite vegetables. Also fun with a pile of pappadums. Here’s one I did earlier - a share platter of prawns, shredded lettuce, mint and cucumber salad and lime.

I’ll circle back here once my AFR story is out in late November, to let you know more about the lobsters and where to get them. It’s tricky when you have an idea for a recipe that you want to share but you need to protect the news value of the story you have scheduled - is that the journalistic equivalent of insider trading?

CORONATION CURRY CREAM SAUCE

• 1 tsp curry powder (I used Ayam Malaysian)

• 1 tbsp olive oil

• 2 tbsp thick Greek-style yoghurt

• 1 to 2 tbsp good mayonnaise

• Half tsp turmeric

• 1 tbsp mango chutney (or regular chutney)

• Half tsp sea salt

• 150 g thickened cream

Heat the oil in a small frypan, add the curry powder, and allow it to gently heat through until the powder is softened by the heat, about 30 seconds.

Scrape the curry oil into a bowl and cool.

Add the yoghurt, mayonnaise, mango chutney, turmeric and sea salt, and whisk.

Whip the cream until pillowy and holding peaks, and fold through.

Adjust taste and texture according to your own desires.

Refrigerate until required, then slather on lobster or serve with prawns.

Tip: serve with some diced fresh mango on top, for freshness.

Thanks for dropping by! And thanks for your comments and suggestions. Special thanks to Terry for his mango prowess.

I would like to acknowledge the traditional owners of the lands and waters upon which I work, live, cook and play; the Gadigal people of the Eora Nation. Thank you for sharing your culture, traditions, knowledge, spirit, art, music, humour and food traditions, allowing us all to experience a sense of belonging in this ancient land.

Tangy, salty, and often fiery ceviche appears throughout Latin America, particularly Mexico, Ecuador and Colombia. Peru also has tiradito, with its Peruvian and Japanese (Nikkei) influences, and Mexico also has aguachile (chile water in Spanish), often done with prawns as well as fish. Tahiti has its own Frenchified ceviche, the Philippines has kinilaw, and Fiji has kokoda.

It’s pronounced kokonda, because the Fijians love to sneak a random ‘n’ or ‘m’ into their favourite words, just to trick you. The capital, Nadi, is pronounced Nandi. See?

I’ve just spent a few days on a tiny island off Suva and Nausori called Toberua, for a very beautiful and heart-warming family wedding (thank you Max & Lynette for getting married in such a wonderful part of the world). No shoes, no watches, no devices - just sleep, swim, snorkel, eat, drink, talk with an amazing bunch of humans, and then more sleep.

As for putting the lime in the coconut, as Harry Nilsson so memorably sang in 1971 - I had a coconut oil massage that nearly put me into a coma, and lime and coconut in a cocktail that woke me up again. But the best iteration was the kokoda served as part of a barbecue buffet.

It’s such a simple, lovely idea that I feel we should adopt it for the 2026 summer brunch season.

As a recipe, it’s really a series of guidelines and suggestions. Some people don’t marinate the fish at all (hello, Adam Liaw). I like what the lime juice does to the fish, but I peg the marinating at 1 hour - just enough to turn it translucent and not be too citrussy. That’s for fish cut into 1cm to 2cm pieces – any larger, and you may need longer.

Then there’s the coconut. Being realistic, I use canned coconut milk. Coconut cream is thicker and sweeter, but gets a bit too thick, and ‘lite’ coconut milk is too runny. Give the can a big shake first, then open it and pass the contents through a sieve, pushing it through with a wooden spoon to make sure it’s smooth.

People who live with fresh coconuts will be laughing at us by now as they grate the perfumed flesh and squeeze the sweet, silky cream from it. That’s fine. With no palm trees in sight, opening a can is fine, too.

The best additions are the simplest - tomato, cucumber and red onion. Bit of chilli is nice, too. What you’re aiming for is something so surprisingly delicious that you can’t stop eating it; that balances heat and acid in a creamy, sea-salty mouthful.

Some Kokoda I saw in Fiji was more like a chilled soup – Fijian gazpacho – swimming in coconut milk. I prefer a more austere outcome, in which the fish is coated rather than floated, and every mouthful has a harmony of high and low notes; a little sweet and a little sour.

The chef at Toberua marinates the fish - mahi mahi or tuna - for half an hour, and grates the onion rather than dicing it, which also works well. His real secret is in the limes he uses - tiny orange-fleshed, green-skinned calamansi limes that are so sharp, he advises rinsing the fish before tossing it in the coconut cream.

Here’s another good idea, from the Hilton Fiji Beach Resort’s Nuku restaurant on Denarau – reserve a tablespoon of the diced tomato, cucumber and onion to spoon over the top to serve, which gives the whole thing colour and crunch.

You can make kokoda ahead and refrigerate it before serving, but I think it’s at its best when its tossed with its accompaniments and served immediately, after being marinated and drained. That way, it’s as fresh as an ocean wave rolling onto the sand. As fresh as putting the lime in the coconut.

KOKODA (FIJIAN CEVICHE)

Serves 3 or 4 as an entree, or 2 as a meal, with a green salad and some boiled corn on the cob.

• 400 to 500 g fresh raw white fish fillets, eg snapper, mahi mahi

• 4 tbsp lime juice, plus 1 lime for serving

• 1 tsp sea salt

• 1 tomato, halved and de-seeded (or a few cherry toms)

• 1 small cucumber, halved and de-seeded

• Half small red onion, finely diced

• 1 fresh red chilli, or part thereof, finely sliced or diced

• 150 ml coconut milk (shake can well before opening)

• Sea salt and freshly ground pepper

• 1 tbsp chopped coriander

Trim the fish of any blood lines, cut into lengths, then cut across into 1.5cm dice.

Toss with the lime juice and sea salt in a non-reactive bowl, cover and refrigerate for 1 hour, tossing once or twice.

Finely dice the tomato and cucumber; and finely slice or dice the chilli according to taste.

When ready to eat, drain the fish through a strainer, discarding the lime juice.

Lightly squeeze any excess juices from the fish, and toss the fish through the tomato, cucumber and chilli (reserve a tablespoon for garnish if you remember - oh dear, too late).

Add the coconut milk and coriander, tossing well, and taste for sea salt and lime.

Serve with any reserved garnish, and extra limes for squeezing.

POSSIBILITIES.

Add half an avocado, diced or serve in half an avocado, as above.

Add half red capsicum, de-seeded and diced

Add more red onion, finely sliced, as garnish ( or spring onions).

Add small school prawns, cooked, as garnish.

Serve with a bowl of corn chips or something crunchy.

TO SKIN FISH FILLETS:

Place the fillet skin-side down on a chopping board and wiggle the blade of the knife between skin and flesh at one end, then slide the knife at a slight angle along the skin, separating it from the flesh. It’s a feel-as-you-go situation.

Thanks for dropping by! And thanks for your comments and suggestions. Thanks for the headline-inducing song, Harry Nilsson, it’s been worming its way around my ear all day. Thanks for the inspiration, Toberua (and Max and Lynette). Special thanks to Terry for bringing home the snapper, as well as a pile of school prawns for lunch that went straight into a sandwich as well as into a second helping of kokoda.

I would like to acknowledge the traditional owners of the lands and waters upon which I work, live, cook and play; the Gadigal people of the Eora Nation. Thank you for sharing your culture, traditions, knowledge, spirit, art, music, humour and food traditions, allowing us all to experience a sense of belonging in this ancient land.

Turns out, I’m not the only one.

With hours to kill at an Italian domestic airport one day back in the 1990s, I spent the time running around all the cafeterias. It struck me that each one was a tavola calda, the Italian answer to offering take-away hot food in a very civilised manner.

They don’t have them any more at the airports - all the food outlets are now franchises and chains - but back in the 1990s, there was still a legion of proud, aproned women behind each counter dealing with some seriously good home-cooking in huge industrial quantities.

One tray, a metre long, was packed with small, whole roasted chickens; wings tucked in and oregano seared onto their golden skins. Another was baked pasta in a meat sauce topped with a cheesy bechamel sauce, ready to be scooped out onto waiting plates. Green vegetables cooked with soft, juicy lemons. Tomatoes stuffed with rice. Zucchinis, halved and stuffed with lemony rice and minced pork in the Roman style. Tiramisu for miles.

And the best thing? A bloody big tray of potatoes baked with tomatoes for hours, until the whole thing was scorched on top and soft and juicy below.

I brought the idea home and put it in my next cookbook; a commission from a United States publisher who wanted in on the ‘Simple Food’ books I had been writing for Quadrille in the UK. Called Good Cooking, it turned Airport Potatoes into a star.

I added a few things to the original - olives, capers and anchovies – which turned the topping into the first cousin of a pizza. You could take that idea further and play with the toppings of your favourite classic Italian pizza – how good would it be with mozzarella and basil on top, or frizzled pork salsiccie and broccoli florets? Or you could just leave it alone.

Here’s a pic of it before it goes into the oven; all bright and beautiful.

Serve it with grilled fish or chicken or build in a few more veggies and a final shower of cheese and make a meal of it. And always keep an eye out for good recipe ideas when you’re travelling. They’re much better value to bring home than duty-free.

AIRPORT POTATOES

I’ve added roasted red peppers to the topping as well. Serves 4.

• 1 kg all-purpose potatoes

• 1 white or red onion

• sea salt and pepper

• 1 tbsp olive oil

• half tsp dried oregano

• 200 ml water, white wine or stock (or a mixture)

Topping:

• 400 g tinned chopped tomatoes

• 2 tbsp extra virgin olive oil

• 2 garlic cloves, finely sliced

• Half tsp dried oregano

• 1 tbsp salted capers, rinsed

• 2 tbsp finely chopped parsley

• 10 cherry tomatoes, cut in half

• 4 anchovy fillets, torn into bits

• 10 strips of roasted red pepper, cut into strips

Heat the oven to 200C, and oil the base and sides of a roasting or baking tin or large gratin dish.

Peel and finely slice the potatoes and onion, and arrange them in layers, scattering each layer with sea salt, pepper and oregano.

Pour 200 ml water, wine or stock down the sides, cover the pan securely with kitchen foil, and bake for 30 minutes or until the potatoes are tender when pierced with the tip of a knife.

In a bowl, combine the chopped tinned tomatoes, olive oil, garlic, dried oregano, capers, sea salt, pepper and half the chopped parsley.

Raise the oven to 220C.

Remove the foil and spoon the tomato mixture over the potatoes.

Arrange cherry tomatoes, anchovies and red peppers on top and drizzle with a little extra olive oil.

Bake uncovered for 30 minutes or until the juices are reduced and the potatoes are beginning to scorch and crisp at the edges.

Leave it to sit for 10 minutes, scatter with remaining chopped parsley and serve.

TIPS.

By all means layer sliced large tomatoes with the potatoes as well, or make a double batch of the topping and use half to layer with the potatoes.

You need enough liquid to bake/steam the potatoes in the first cooking so don’t cut it back - and may end up with too much liquid after the second baking. If so, just spoon some out and save it for when you reheat the left-overs.

Thanks for dropping by! And thanks for your comments and suggestions. Special thanks to Terry for the recipe request; I’m glad to have this recipe back from the mists of time.

I would like to acknowledge the traditional owners of the lands and waters upon which I work, live, cook and play; the Gadigal people of the Eora Nation. Thank you for sharing your culture, traditions, knowledge, spirit, art, music, humour and food traditions, allowing us all to experience a sense of belonging in this ancient land.

I like how they expand to up to ten times their size when soaked, and how they transform from gritty little seeds to soft, gelatinous little balls.

I like how they are good for my gut; high in dietary fibre, delivering protein, omega-3 fatty acids and a truckload of anti-oxidants.

But what ARE they? They’re the black or white seeds of the plant salvia hispanica, a member of the mint family (they’re not remotely minty). They’re crunchy like poppy seeds when dry, and slippery like sago when soaked.

I like how they go so well with other things I like, such as yoghurt - and blueberries, which are SO GOOD right now; big and firm and sweet and actually quite blue.

I also like the idea of adding chia seeds to bashed berries to create a sort of instant jam for toast, and tossing them into muffins, fruit cakes and pancake batter.

Or consider adding a spoonful of chia seeds when you soak your oats for a bircher muesli, then tossing with yoghurt and honey, ready to serve with fresh fruit.

Or just scatter a teaspoon of chia seeds over your breakfast – they’re nice and crunchy, like poppyseeds – and put up with the fact that you have to brush your teeth afterwards.

What I don’t like is how I have tested and tested different liquids and quantities for the perfect chia pudding, and they didn’t set sufficiently to be called a pudding instead of a gloop.

I really, really wanted to give you a recipe that called for whisking chia seeds into a blend of yoghurt, coconut water and honey or maple syrup, refrigerating it for 30 minutes then serving it with fresh mango and blueberries.

Didn’t happen.

I mean, I ate all the ‘failures’ for breakfast, because they were delicious, but it was pretty annoying.

After subsequent testing – and in spite of 3 million recipes online telling you to soak them in whatever you like - I am here to say that boring old water is the most consistent soaking liquid, at a ratio of 1 part chia seeds to 4 parts water.

SOAKING CHIA SEEDS IS A THREE-STEP PROCESS.

1/ Soak 1 tbsp chia seeds in 4 tbsp water, stirring, then set the timer for 10 minutes.

2/ Come back in 10 minutes and stir or whisk to avoid clumping, and leave for another 10 minutes.

3/ Stir or whisk again, then serve, or leave to set further until you want to serve.

Here’s what they look like at this stage, unsweetened but still quite nice, before I decided to stir in a little yoghurt and honey as per recipe below.

By all means soak them in coconut water, apple juice, cranberry juice, almond milk, straight milk or whatever you like and they will still soften and expand – but not necessarily set thick. Well, not for me.

If anyone is more successful, please spill your secrets in the comments below.

CHIA PUDDING FOR BREAKFAST

Serves 2 as a small serving, because it is possible to have too many chia seeds.

• 1 tbsp chia seeds

• 4 tbsp water (80 ml) (edited from original post)

• 1 tbsp natural yoghurt

• 1 tsp honey or maple syrup

• fresh fruit for serving

Soak the chia seeds in the water, stirring, and leave for 10 minutes.

Return in 10 minutes and stir or whisk to avoid clumping.

Leave to set for another 10 minutes.

Stir in the yoghurt and honey and serve in small glasses or bowls with blueberries, strawbs, raspberries, mango, banana, you name it, or refrigerate for later.

TIPS.

1. I like topping it with another dollop of yoghurt to help anchor the fruit.

2. Don’t leave the spoon in the bowl when soaking, or the seeds that cling to it will stick to it like glue.

3. The longer you leave it to set, the firmer it will be. Yes, overnight is fine, in the fridge.

4. If you’re just starting on chia seeds, take it easy and don’t overdo it. They can impact your digestive system and affect bowel movements. Drink lots of water, to give them something to absorb internally as well.

Thanks for dropping by! And thanks for your comments and suggestions. Special thanks to Terry for eating all the failures.

I would like to acknowledge the traditional owners of the lands and waters upon which I work, live, cook and play; the Gadigal people of the Eora Nation. Thank you for sharing your culture, traditions, knowledge, spirit, art, music, humour and food traditions, allowing us all to experience a sense of belonging in this ancient land.