I don’t know if it’s the change of season, a change in attitude brought on by impending fatherhood, or just something that’ll need to be treated with a course of anti-fungals, but I’ve found many of my recent kitchen exploits have involved the manipulation of yeast. From brewing beer, to kneading dough for pizza bases, to growing my own sourdough culture from scratch, these beneficial little bacteria have been weaving their magic on much of the food coming out of my kitchen.
The sourdough is the most exciting thing I’m doing at the moment. I got the recipe from a great cookbook called Moro, which has fantastic dishes from around the Mediteranean coastline, with a particular focus on Moorish Spain and Morocco. It involves combining a bunch of organically grown grapes with a certain amount of unbleached flour and rain water, then allowing it ferment in an air-tight container over a couple of weeks. The naturally occurring yeasts that live on the grapes’ skins start to feed on the flour and, with careful nurturing, they’ll eventually grow into a population (your yeast “culture”) large enough to make bread rise.
Although the first stages of the process demand continuous attention, with the culture needing to be fed twice a day, every day for up to six weeks, it’s worth the slog. Once you’ve established a healthy, thriving culture, it only needs topping up (feeding) once a week and has the potential to last generations and even centuries if treated well. I’ve heard stories of women in some cultures being gifted with a portion of their mother-in-law’s family sourdough culture on their wedding day. What better way to say “welcome to the family” than incorporating the newcomer into a tradition spanning back centuries?
There’s also a sense of smug satisfaction to be derived from creating a whole new organism that has such a practical application in the workings of a household. Actually, the yeast is a particular species of bacterium, so the sourdough culture is made up of billions of individual organisms, all working in concert to a common end. It’s a real symbiotic relationship between culture and host, and as long as they’re regularly fed with a bit of flour and water, they’ll happily continue to do their thing long after I’m gone from this earth.
This cultivation of a sourdough culture ties in closely to my… I guess you could call it a “mission statement”, of aiming to instill as much ‘integrity’ into my cooking as possible. That is, the origins of all the ingredients are traceable, and as much as possible can be proven to have been produced using ethical and ecologically sound methods. To this end, I try to use Lauke’s Wallaby Flour, as it is produced nearby in the Barossa Valley, along with my own sourdough culture grown from local organic grapes and rain water collected in my own tanks (if only it would rain again). In this way, I can ensure my contribution to harmful farming practices that employ unsustainable irrigation methods or destructive chemical fertilisers or pesticides is minimised. Not only can I sleep better at nights, my health and that of my family’s is to some extent protected, while local ethical industries are supported.
OK, I’ll climb down off my high horse now. The most convincing argument I can make in support of raising a sourdough culture is the quality of the bread it produces. Although my efforts are still in their infancy and I still have to master the intricacies of my wood-fired oven, the bread has a unique and truly satisfying characteristic and lasts much longer than its shop-bought counterpart. It’s also far cheaper than buying a loaf of bread at your local mega-market, as well as far more satisfying at a really basic level. You’re producing a staple of the household diet, rather than relying on said conglomeratefor your basic needs.
For more information, check out this great website, dedicated to all things sourdough . I'll try to photograph the process as it evolves and will post the photos as they come.
Watch this space...
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Summer Holidays
This article was written upon returning from a coastal odyssey with my wife last Christmas, while we were on our honeymoon.
The first question on everyone’s lips when they heard that I was moving from Byron Bay to Adelaide was inevitably “why?” Well, it’s a long story and not one that I’ll go into here, but suffice it to say that, with taunts about great white sharks and serial killers still ringing in my ears, I chucked the dog in the car, strapped the surfboard to the roof and headed inland and South towards a strange land where people annunciate properly and the sun sets into the ocean.
And I must say that after a full year I’ve yet to find cause to regret my decision. Why? As someone for whom the last fifteen years have revolved around the discovery, production and appreciation of food and drink, moving to Adelaide has been like a spiritual homecoming for me. I mean, you make Cooper’s here; need I say more?
My lovely wife and I, with a surfboard, two fishing rods and a tent, set off on our honeymoon about two weeks before Christmas, just before the onset of the school holidays. We followed the coast from Adelaide all the way round to the North Coast of NSW then cut straight back through the middle, a journey of over 6000km all told, that took us just under a month to complete.
We only broke down once, fought properly once and caught one lonely legal fish the whole time we were away; not a bad record really (except for the lack of fish; that was disappointing). As well as that, we managed to skirt around the edges of a startling variety of natural disasters including; bushfires then snow on Christmas day in Gippsland, king tides on the south coast of SA, gale force winds that blew us north out of Victoria then floods in Broken Hill just days after we’d passed through. Either it’s climate change in action or I’ve done something that really pissed the weather gods off.
Anyway, summer holiday food… hmmm. Well, I did catch one fish, so I’ll tell you how I cooked and ate that. For a start, it was a bream…
Pan-fried Bream on Saffron Rice – feeds 2
Ingredients
Fish Stuffing
- 1 brown Onion
- 3 cloves Garlic
- 1 bunch Coriander
- 1 small knob Ginger
- 1/2 teaspoon each of…
* Paprika
* ground Coriander
* ground Cumin seed
Saffron Rice
- 1 cup Basmati rice
- 1 small pinch Saffron strands
- 1 generous pinch of salt
Flour Mix
- 1 cup Plain Flour
- 3 teaspoons Paprika
- 2 teaspoons ground Coriander
- Salt & Pepper
After gutting and scaling the fish, finely chop the onion, garlic, ginger, coriander stems and chilli, then sautée (‘fry in a pan’ in French) all that with the paprika, ground coriander and cumin seeds. Once this softens and the aromatic spices had blended together nicely take it off the heat and stuff it into the fish’s cavity (where the guts had been until five minutes before).
At this point put the fish to one side and put the rice on to boil. That done, make up the flour blend. Dip the fish into this mix, being careful to not spill any of the stuffing, so that it is evenly coated all over; this helps to stop the fish from sticking to the pan when you cook it and creates a delicious crispy layer on its skin. Once this is all done, heat olive oil over a medium flame in the same pan you used before and, once it‘s hot, place the whole fish in the pan, cooking it on each side for about 7-8 minutes.
When the rice is about 30 seconds away from ready, drop in the pinch of saffron and stir it in gently. Strain it off without mixing it around too much, so the saffron strands only bleed a little into the rice. This is a bit of chefly showing off and totally unnecessary to the final meal but sometimes I can’t help myself. It means that as you’re eating it you come upon patches of brilliant yellow in the rice and get a hit of the distinctive saffron flavour that goes quite well, incidentally, with freshly caught bream.
We ate the fish plonked on top of a pile of the saffron rice, stripping it back to bare bones in a matter of minutes. It wasn’t a huge fish but it was easily enough for two, in combination with the rice.
The first question on everyone’s lips when they heard that I was moving from Byron Bay to Adelaide was inevitably “why?” Well, it’s a long story and not one that I’ll go into here, but suffice it to say that, with taunts about great white sharks and serial killers still ringing in my ears, I chucked the dog in the car, strapped the surfboard to the roof and headed inland and South towards a strange land where people annunciate properly and the sun sets into the ocean.
And I must say that after a full year I’ve yet to find cause to regret my decision. Why? As someone for whom the last fifteen years have revolved around the discovery, production and appreciation of food and drink, moving to Adelaide has been like a spiritual homecoming for me. I mean, you make Cooper’s here; need I say more?
My lovely wife and I, with a surfboard, two fishing rods and a tent, set off on our honeymoon about two weeks before Christmas, just before the onset of the school holidays. We followed the coast from Adelaide all the way round to the North Coast of NSW then cut straight back through the middle, a journey of over 6000km all told, that took us just under a month to complete.
We only broke down once, fought properly once and caught one lonely legal fish the whole time we were away; not a bad record really (except for the lack of fish; that was disappointing). As well as that, we managed to skirt around the edges of a startling variety of natural disasters including; bushfires then snow on Christmas day in Gippsland, king tides on the south coast of SA, gale force winds that blew us north out of Victoria then floods in Broken Hill just days after we’d passed through. Either it’s climate change in action or I’ve done something that really pissed the weather gods off.
Anyway, summer holiday food… hmmm. Well, I did catch one fish, so I’ll tell you how I cooked and ate that. For a start, it was a bream…
Pan-fried Bream on Saffron Rice – feeds 2
Ingredients
Fish Stuffing
- 1 brown Onion
- 3 cloves Garlic
- 1 bunch Coriander
- 1 small knob Ginger
- 1/2 teaspoon each of…
* Paprika
* ground Coriander
* ground Cumin seed
Saffron Rice
- 1 cup Basmati rice
- 1 small pinch Saffron strands
- 1 generous pinch of salt
Flour Mix
- 1 cup Plain Flour
- 3 teaspoons Paprika
- 2 teaspoons ground Coriander
- Salt & Pepper
After gutting and scaling the fish, finely chop the onion, garlic, ginger, coriander stems and chilli, then sautée (‘fry in a pan’ in French) all that with the paprika, ground coriander and cumin seeds. Once this softens and the aromatic spices had blended together nicely take it off the heat and stuff it into the fish’s cavity (where the guts had been until five minutes before).
At this point put the fish to one side and put the rice on to boil. That done, make up the flour blend. Dip the fish into this mix, being careful to not spill any of the stuffing, so that it is evenly coated all over; this helps to stop the fish from sticking to the pan when you cook it and creates a delicious crispy layer on its skin. Once this is all done, heat olive oil over a medium flame in the same pan you used before and, once it‘s hot, place the whole fish in the pan, cooking it on each side for about 7-8 minutes.
When the rice is about 30 seconds away from ready, drop in the pinch of saffron and stir it in gently. Strain it off without mixing it around too much, so the saffron strands only bleed a little into the rice. This is a bit of chefly showing off and totally unnecessary to the final meal but sometimes I can’t help myself. It means that as you’re eating it you come upon patches of brilliant yellow in the rice and get a hit of the distinctive saffron flavour that goes quite well, incidentally, with freshly caught bream.
We ate the fish plonked on top of a pile of the saffron rice, stripping it back to bare bones in a matter of minutes. It wasn’t a huge fish but it was easily enough for two, in combination with the rice.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Some Past Articles
Only two posts in and I've already slipped into a pattern of complacency and procrastination. I must snap out of it.
Instead of writing something new this time, I've decided to include some articles I wrote last year for my university magazine. Adelaide's currently in the grips of an extended heatwave and drought, which is not conducive to creativity, particularly after a bottle or two of my homebrew have begun to exert their influence over things.
The first is a blasphemous allusion to two of my favourite cookbooks...
I’m not a religious man by any stretch of the imagination and although I’m no Richard Dawkins (The God Myth), I do have some fundamental issues with the way religion has made a mess of so many things in our world (I won’t go into them here though, this is a cooking column). Having said this, however, there are some elements to our society’s attitude towards food that border on the religious. The ritual of food preparation, the gathering of family and friends around the dinner table, the elaborate uniforms and fancy hats worn by professionals (not to mention the secret languages and alleged deviant sexual behaviour).
Continuing with the religious metaphor, I’ve found during my own career in the kitchen two books have been indispensable, which I refer to as my Old and New Testaments. The Old is the enduring classic, Larousse Gastronomique. First published in 1938, this tome is the first and last stop for many chefs and home cooks if they want to reference anything French or generally European. It’s the Encyclopaedia Brittanica of Euro food, from Abalone to Zuppa Inglese, and one of my most valued personal possessions. It is, however, somewhat mired in tradition and the pompous superiority of French cuisine, and falls short on other, more exotic cuisines. The wide and diverse Asian cuisines, for example, are definitely under-represented.
This is where the New Testament comes into play. My esteemed colleague, P Chi, referred in the last edition to the compendium of culinary wisdom that is Stephanie Alexander’s The Cook’s Companion. Alexander dispenses with all the fire and brimstone of the gourmet tradition, producing a guide that’s far more accessible to the average domestic cook, written in plain, no nonsense language that successfully conveys the author’s love and lifelong commitment to all things culinary. The caption on the Back of the book says it all; The book for a lifetime of cooking. I can picture myself teaching my children, when they eventually arrive, from the pages of the Prophet Stephanie. The last time I opened the book was just after I’d harvested my in-laws’ Satsuma Plum tree. Two days and a quick flick through the pages of The Cook’s Companion later, two dozen jars of plum jam were cooling happily on the kitchen bench (not to mention 25 litres of plum wine aging in the cellar, but that’s another book for another review).
To sum it up, if I was looking for the definition of an obscure French culinary term, or the name of a three Michelin-starred chef from Lombardy, it’d be Larousse Gastronomique all the way. If, however, I wanted to cook a meal with readily accessible and recognisable ingredients, that I knew would have people drooling the minute they walked in the door, I’d go every time to The Cook’s Companion. For one, it’s Australian, and we should all support Australian businesses and industries, but also because it’s unpretentious, amazingly comprehensive and (I say this without a hint of exaggeration) one of the most important works of culinary literature ever produced, in this country or any other.
Instead of writing something new this time, I've decided to include some articles I wrote last year for my university magazine. Adelaide's currently in the grips of an extended heatwave and drought, which is not conducive to creativity, particularly after a bottle or two of my homebrew have begun to exert their influence over things.
The first is a blasphemous allusion to two of my favourite cookbooks...
I’m not a religious man by any stretch of the imagination and although I’m no Richard Dawkins (The God Myth), I do have some fundamental issues with the way religion has made a mess of so many things in our world (I won’t go into them here though, this is a cooking column). Having said this, however, there are some elements to our society’s attitude towards food that border on the religious. The ritual of food preparation, the gathering of family and friends around the dinner table, the elaborate uniforms and fancy hats worn by professionals (not to mention the secret languages and alleged deviant sexual behaviour).
Continuing with the religious metaphor, I’ve found during my own career in the kitchen two books have been indispensable, which I refer to as my Old and New Testaments. The Old is the enduring classic, Larousse Gastronomique. First published in 1938, this tome is the first and last stop for many chefs and home cooks if they want to reference anything French or generally European. It’s the Encyclopaedia Brittanica of Euro food, from Abalone to Zuppa Inglese, and one of my most valued personal possessions. It is, however, somewhat mired in tradition and the pompous superiority of French cuisine, and falls short on other, more exotic cuisines. The wide and diverse Asian cuisines, for example, are definitely under-represented.
This is where the New Testament comes into play. My esteemed colleague, P Chi, referred in the last edition to the compendium of culinary wisdom that is Stephanie Alexander’s The Cook’s Companion. Alexander dispenses with all the fire and brimstone of the gourmet tradition, producing a guide that’s far more accessible to the average domestic cook, written in plain, no nonsense language that successfully conveys the author’s love and lifelong commitment to all things culinary. The caption on the Back of the book says it all; The book for a lifetime of cooking. I can picture myself teaching my children, when they eventually arrive, from the pages of the Prophet Stephanie. The last time I opened the book was just after I’d harvested my in-laws’ Satsuma Plum tree. Two days and a quick flick through the pages of The Cook’s Companion later, two dozen jars of plum jam were cooling happily on the kitchen bench (not to mention 25 litres of plum wine aging in the cellar, but that’s another book for another review).
To sum it up, if I was looking for the definition of an obscure French culinary term, or the name of a three Michelin-starred chef from Lombardy, it’d be Larousse Gastronomique all the way. If, however, I wanted to cook a meal with readily accessible and recognisable ingredients, that I knew would have people drooling the minute they walked in the door, I’d go every time to The Cook’s Companion. For one, it’s Australian, and we should all support Australian businesses and industries, but also because it’s unpretentious, amazingly comprehensive and (I say this without a hint of exaggeration) one of the most important works of culinary literature ever produced, in this country or any other.
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