Notes on Mallow / Green Salad

 

I first moved to Brunswick almost twenty years ago. I was a student, living with friends; and we moved here because it was close to the university and, at that time, affordable. After a childhood in the more affluent leafy suburbs and an adolescence in the tree lined suburbs of Virginia, I was shocked by my new neighbourhood. There were no trees. There were no nature strips. There was no shade, and that first long hot summer I saw mirages everywhere. Each long wide road shimmered with heat; and cool blue pools, tricks of the eye, rippled and beckoned. I remember sitting on the end of my bed and sobbing, sure that I had landed in hell.

Since then, of course, I have fallen in love. For one, the suburb has changed: trees have been planted; parks have been tended; cafes and bars and interesting little shops have proliferated. But for the most part, I have acculturated. I have learned to drink my coffee thick and black; I buy my groceries at the Lebanese and Middle Eastern and Mediterranean wholesalers; I have turned my yard into a food garden. And, between grabbing milk thistles for my chooks and herbs for my family while I'm out and about, I am beginning to resemble one of those Greek grandmothers who wander our streets carrying bunches of leaves.

I keep a plastic shopping bag in my pocket to grab choice weeds, and more and more shun the floppy flaccid foliage that is for sale at most greengrocers. I've been aided by a little book which I recently picked up, Edible Weeds and Garden Plants of Melbourne. It is a photographic guide to the most common edible weeds, along with notes on their nutritional value, growth habit, and the best ways to eat them. I had already eaten many of the weeds in the book, but I was delighted to discover some new ones.

 

In particular, I am now eating mallow. It's a ubiquitous weed, one of the first colonisers of bulldozed blocks and something often found growing in dry dirt; it doesn't seem to need good soil. The chooks avoid it; and I've pulled it out of our garden a thousand times on the assumption it was useless. But now I discover that it's edible, and not in the way dandelion greens are edible but so bitter that you know they must be Good For You, but edible in the sense of mild, soft and delicious. It has been eaten since Greek and Roman times, and is packed with vitamin C, calcium, iron and other nutrients. It often grows in the company of fat hen, another tasty edible weed.

Mallow is everywhere you look. It has a flat, wide growth habit, and the leaves are very distinctive, whether they are an inch across or the size of the palm of your hand. We always have small plants in the garden; but now I also whisk it out of roadside plantings, people's front yards, and wherever else seems a reasonably safe place to pick it. I've been eating it Indian style; I've cooked it up with and without borage leaves in horta; and I've been tossing the smaller soft leaves into salad.

When I'm not wandering the neighbourhood looking for mallow and other goodies, I'm in the garden assembling a salad of soft leaves. You can mix baby mallow leaves into any salad; the photograph shows mallow with salad burnet, two types of rocket, and land cress for a bit of a kick. Salad burnet has a light soft cucumber-y sort of flavour; and land cress, for all its heat, is also reminiscent of cucumber; they go very well together, two themes on a motif.

Such a salad doesn't have a recipe, of course; instead, it's just a gentle reminder that there is a world of good things to eat growing just outside the door – and, if you spend a weekend planting edible herbs, you'll have even more choice. There is little you can eat that is more sustainable than a handful of weeds and herbs dressed with a squeeze of lemon from the tree; and little else that tastes so clean, fresh and good. And it's all growing right here, in the concrete jungle that is Brunswick.

Green Salad - 1 handful baby mallow leaves - 1 handful salad burnet - 1 handful rocket (any type) - 1 handful cress (land or water) - a good pinch salt - a nice drizzle extra virgin olive oil - the juice of half a lemon, or to taste Wash the leaves carefully, and spin or pat dry. Do not refrigerate. Cold leaves lose their softness and delicate flavour; thus a leaf salad should always be served at room temperature. Of course, if you must wait hours between picking and eating, refrigerate, but allow enough time beforehand for the greens to come to room temperature before you serve them. Sprinkle a good pinch of salt into your salad bowl or platter. Add the lemon juice and a nice drizzle of olive oil. Taste for sharpness, and adjust as necessary. Throw in the dry leaves and, using your fingertips, toss gently but thoroughly until each leaf is glistening. Serve immediately. Best eaten with fingers (nyuck nyuck), or a local organic traceable rump steak, bloody juices drizzled over the salad. Yes, I do eat a steak from time to time. Shocking, isn't it? I bought my copy of Edible Weeds from Bee Sustainable, a fantastic shop which sells all sorts of tools to make your own stuff (bee hives, olive presses, Fowler's preserving kits and parts etc); local honey, jams, panforte, candles and soap; open pollinated seeds; and lots of good books. You can also order Edible Weeds direct from www.hellolittleweed.com. The author hosts weed walks all over Melbourne, for which you can book on the website. If you're not sure what exactly is edible, you may wish to do a weed walk before you go out foraging. If you do decide to forage on the basis of this blog, use your common sense. Eat only what you know to be edible, avoid areas which have been sprayed, and don't eat anything that is near a steaming pile of doggy doo! All care but no responsibility is taken for the information on this blog. (Backyard / gleaned: all salad leaves, lemon. Wimmera: olive oil, salt.)

Apple Snow

 

Several years ago we visited Berlin in winter and it snowed every day. Snow covered cars and bicycles; snow heaped up in the streets. Cafés and bars left their outdoor furniture on the pavement, and snow was piled foot high on the tables and chairs. Snowploughs focussed on the main roads, so our suburban street packed down into ice and the cars drove through at a very cautious 10 kph. All was quiet and still; bliss.

We went to the playground and rode the flying fox into a snowdrift, laughing and screaming; we borrowed a sled and went scudding down the local hill. We watched a giant snow fight set to house music between two suburbs, and laughed at adults running to the fight clutching readymade snowballs in their arms. We sat for hours watching the snow fall outside the window of our apartment. To snow neophytes like us, we were in heaven.

 

It doesn’t snow in Melbourne except at our house. The new season’s apples are ripe, and we are making snow – apple snow, that is. Apple snow is a lovely light English classic, and a great way to use up egg whites. Even better, it takes about five minutes and your three year old can do most of it. Just supervise her with the mix master and she’ll be fine!

Apple Snow - 400g smooth apple purée - the whites of two large eggs - 120g caster sugar (I often use raw caster sugar for the extra flavour, but it is at the expense of a pure white snow) - pinch of cinnamon Place the eggwhites into a mix master or a large stainless steel bowl*. Beat until they resemble soft peaks. Sprinkle in the cinnamon and then, very gradually, add the sugar tablespoon by tablespoon, until it has all been absorbed and the egg whites resemble stiff peaks. Very gently fold in the apple purée, taking care not to knock out the air which you have just so painstakingly introduced into the egg whites. Spoon the mixture into large glasses or bowls, and serve. You can refrigerate it for an hour or two, but no longer as the apple will begin to separate from the meringue. Use the leftover egg yolks to make hollandaise sauce or mayonnaise. *Note: Egg whites will not stiffen if there is any residual fat in the bowl. Plastic bowls are porous and always hold traces of fat, so do not use plastic. Aluminium bowls turn the whites grey, so do not use aluminium. Copper bowls are unbearably expensive, so do not use copper. Glass is a possibility, but the whites slip and slide down the sides. Ergo, stainless steel. Adapted from the ever charming Apple Source Book, a cornucopia of information about English apples including recipes for food and cider, orchard advice, and a comprehensive list of apple varieties with notes on their provenance, history and usefulness. (Backyard: eggs. Gleaned from Gembrook: apples. Nasty stuff: sugar. Question: is it better to buy organic sugar from Brazil, or conventional sugar from Queensland? I can’t decide, so I fluctuate. Organic: cinnamon.)

Darebin Homemade Food & Wine Festival - Talking Food

 

Come hear me chat about food, family and sustainable eating with Ed Charles of Tomato Melbourne and Anh Nguyen of A Food Lover's Journey, then check out the homemade tomato sauces, wines and beers at the rest of the festival! See you there!

Chestnut and Lentil Soup

 

I recently had a piece published about the act of peeling chestnuts which came out, ironically, just as I missed the annual chestnut harvest day at a friend's property in Gembrook. Thanks be, other friends made it and came back with an extra bag they had collected just for me.

I'm sorry to have missed the harvest, but I must admit I'm also a little relieved. Collecting chestnuts is not unmitigated fun. They drop from the tree in prickly bundles, which you must roll with a sturdy boot to open up and then, with gardening gloves, you fish the nuts out. Spines slip through the weak points in your gloves, leading to much sucking of fingers. One child or another always manages to fall in the chestnut grove and land knees first on the prickles and, cold hearted mother that I am, I find the annual screams a little tedious.

Meanwhile, there are so many chestnuts lying around that I find it difficult to collect only what I can reasonably cook. Some years I come back with a long labour of peeling chestnuts ahead of me, too many to be enjoyable.

But this year, thanks to my friends, I have a couple of kilos, just enough to eat this week. No little kids have had to shout about the prickles in their knees, and my fingers are unscathed. Next year, my kids will be older, my gloves will be thicker, and we will go again.

Chestnut and lentil soup is one of our favourites. The sweetness of the chestnuts is beautifully balanced by the earthiness of the lentils; the result is simple, nourishing and deeply satisfying. I like to keep the elements separate, so that one experiences little explosions of sweet chestnut; but it is also good as a purée, if rather unfortunate in appearance.

Chestnut and Lentil Soup - 1 kg chestnuts in their shells - 1 cup brown lentils - 1 tbs olive oil - 1 brown onion, chopped - 2 cloves garlic, chopped - 1 stalk celery, chopped - 2 medium sized carrots, chopped small - 2 cups chicken stock or vegetable stock, or water - 1 cup extra water - 1 bay leaf - ½ tsp salt - 4 or 5 stalks parsley - extra virgin olive oil to finish Prepare the chestnuts. To do this, using a small sharp knife cut a cross in the rounded side of each chestnut. Drop the chestnuts into a pan of boiling water. Simmer for fifteen minutes, then turn off the heat. Remove the chestnuts from the water a few at a time, and peel them. Do not let them cool down too much, as in cooling the skin adheres to the nut. Discard any hard or discoloured bits as these will be bitter. Chop roughly. Soak the lentils in hot water for ten minutes. Warm the olive oil, then add the onion. Cook over medium heat for ten minutes, but do not let it brown. Add the garlic and celery, and cook for another minute. Add the carrot, and cook for a few more minutes or until the vegetables look shiny. Drain the lentils and add them to the pan. Add the stock or water, plus an extra cup of water, the bay leaf and the chestnuts. Cook for 15 minutes with the lid on. Test a lentil. If it is soft, salt and turn down the heat; if it is still hard, give it a few more minutes before salting. Cook for another 5 to 10 minutes then turn off the heat. Let it sit for an hour or so for the flavours to meld. You may need to add a little more boiling water to get the consistency you like. (I like it very thick, more stew than soup.) Remove the bay leaf. Chop the parsley and throw that in. Serve with a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil. (Backyard / gleaned: bay leaves, parsley. Gembrook: chestnuts. Wimmera: lentils, olive oil, salt. Other bits of Victoria: onion, celery, carrot. Mixed sources: homemade stock. Can't remember but it might have been Colac: garlic.)

Peeling Chestnuts / Mindful Parenting Magazine

[P]eeling chestnuts has unlooked-for gifts. Ours come from a friend’s place in Gembrook. As I sit in my inner-city kitchen, peeling and listening to the traffic, I recall the gently rolling fields, the way the chestnut trees are tucked into a valley below a slope of proteas. I remember picnics under their dappled shade, and relive the stroll across a meadow to persimmons aflame with colour. Our neighbourhood may be dominated by traffic, but the glossy brown nuts, so smooth in my hand, remind me of a quieter landscape. Memories of trees and green shadows descend.

***

To read more, follow the link and flick to page 60, or click on the embedded magazine below - and don't miss the other fantastic articles on mindfulness, creativity, and children!

If you feel inspired to cook with chestnuts, check out my recipes here.

Open publication - Free publishing - More children

Hot Cross Buns

When I was a child, we’d go to church first thing on Good Friday, and then the entire congregation would descend on Dawn’s house. Dawn had been up since the crack of, well, dawn, making hot cross buns for a hundred people. Endless steaming trays came out of the oven; then the buns were slathered in butter and passed around. I’d normally knock off six or seven – I have never met a hot cross bun the equal of Dawn’s and there were always more than enough.

Sometime during the Easter festival, my family also dyed eggs, drawing on them with wax crayons then dipping them in bright Greek egg dye. But very early one Easter morning, I had an idea. I’d read how you could dye eggs by boiling them in onion skins, and decorate them with the image of parsley by tying a sprig tightly against the egg with a stocking. My parents were still sleeping; my sister and I were bored; so we found some old stockings, picked parsley from the garden, then peeled all the onions in the pantry. We tied the parsley against the eggs, and set them to boil in a small saucepan with the brown onion skins.

Being children, we left the ends of the stockings dangling out and so, of course, they eventually touched the gas flame and caught alight. After flapping our hands around for a while, I thought to turn off the gas, and happily for everyone the flames soon went out.

When everything had cooled down, we fished the eggs out, and they were so pretty. But the ends of the stockings had melted to the saucepan and when my parents finally woke, we got into Deep Trouble. It is one of the times that I felt that I had done something terribly, terribly stupid.

Now I am an adult and developing traditions of my own. When it comes to eggs, I can’t be bothered fiddling around with stockings and onion skins. Well, I can be bothered but that memory of fire at six o’clock in the morning is enough to make me a bit anxious even now, and so I have gone back to using the Greek dyes when we meet with friends every Good Friday to dye eggs and make hot cross buns.

Meanwhile, I have engaged on a decade-long search for buns as good as the ones from my childhood. This year I tried Nigella Lawson’s recipe from Feast. The buns are scented with orange peel and cardamom, making kneading the dough a heady exercise as fragrant wisps of cardamom curl up with every push. They were delicious, not quite as good as Dawn’s perhaps – but then, I suspect a thirty year old memory will always taste better than reality. The recipe is available here.

Our kids breathlessly anticipate Easter. Between dyeing eggs, baking buns and staying up for Saturday night’s church service – which is followed by champagne and a midnight feast – there’s lots for them to think about. I hope that one day they will look back fondly on their Easter traditions and tell stories about them, too.

Vine Leaf Bhaji (Pakorhas)

 

I would have grown up in a boring suburban home but for the influence of the church over my mother. She was a bright girl; and in the fifties, as every conservative Christian knew, bright girls didn’t marry. Instead, they because missionaries. My mother showed no interest in nursing but quickly proved herself a linguist, and so it was clear to all and sundry that she would go translate bibles somewhere. I never worked out whether she herself had really wanted to do this; all I know is that she told me she used to kneel every night and pray, ‘Anywhere but Africa, God, anywhere but Africa.’ Why Africa didn’t appeal is a mystery to me; but there you go.

When she was nineteen, as part of her discernment process she travelled to India to visit missionary friends. In her bag she smuggled boxes and boxes of tampons, then unavailable in India; and under the tampons, a replacement fender for a small van. The van belonged to the missionaries, who had inadvertently collided with, and killed, a holy cow. It was a hit and run. Nobody but the missionaries knew who had done it – to hit a cow in those parts at those times meant your life was forfeit.

My mother’s friends didn’t really want to give up their lives for a pagan cow that had been sitting in the middle of the road just around a sharp bend, but there were telltale marks on their fender. So the van was in hiding until they could replace the fender; there was nowhere they could get a new fender without exciting comment; and so my mother was smuggling one in from Australia.

She was stopped at customs and asked to open her very large and surprisingly heavy bag. The first things to be questioned were the tampons. The customs officer opened a box, pulled one out, unwrapped it, and held it aloft. Clearly mystified, he asked her, in sign language, what it was; and in sign language, the terribly shy girl of nineteen communicated by pointing at the moon, at women, crossing out men, and finally miming the insertion of a tampon. The customs official turned bright pink, zipped up her bag, and urgently waved her through. Thus the fender was delivered safely and the missionaries lived happily ever after.

***

My mother never became a missionary. Instead, she married, had kids, and fought her way to become a minister (priest), one of the first Baptist women in Australia to be so ordained. But she did extend her cooking repertoire to Indian food. Chappatis, bhaji (also known as pakorhas), rice and dal, aloo gobi, brinjal bartha, chicken curry, banana pickle, various chatnis – all these appeared regularly at the family dinner table.

When I cook them now, they taste of home, perhaps even more than the standard fare of the early 80’s that she also served: lamb chops, tuna mornay, beef stews.

 

And now it’s early April. The larger leaves on the grapevine are turning red even as the smaller leaves at the ends of the stems are still soft, fresh, and bright lime green. It’s our last chance for vine leaves, so this week I pruned back some of the long straggly stems, picked off the young leaves, dipped them in bhaji batter and shallow fried them. The leaves cooked in seconds, the batter puffed and golden around them. Each hot crisp bite melted in the mouth; the kids loved them; and I remembered these stories about my mother.

Vine Leaf Bhaji (Pakorhas) - ¼ cup chickpea (besan) flour - ¼ cup rice flour - ¼ tsp turmeric - 1/8 tsp bicarb soda - ½ tsp salt - 20 or so fresh young vine leaves - flavourless vegetable oil (not olive oil; enough to shallow fry) Pick the vine leaves and pinch out the base of the stem. Wash if necessary, and pat dry very carefully as any drops of water left on the leaf can cause the oil to spit. Sift the flours, turmeric, bicarb and salt together. Make a well, and add the water in a thin trickle, whisking all the time to ensure a smooth batter. Gradually incorporate all the flour from the sides of the bowl into the batter. It should have the consistency of thin cream. Warm a couple of inches of canola or other flavourless vegetable oil (not olive) in a deep pan. It is ready when a mustard seed added to the oil pops. Dip a leaf into the batter, dab it against the side of the bowl to remove any excess batter, and drop it into the oil. It will float. Cook for about ten seconds, or until the underside is puffed and golden. Flip and cook for another few seconds, then remove. Drain on scrunched up paper bags. Don’t use paper towel, as that will render your lovely crispy bites soggy. Sprinkle with extra salt if you wish, and demolish. Don’t burn your tongue! Very good with beer (or more properly with some sort of dal and rice). If you wish to save the oil, I find that letting it cool then running it through a paper coffee filter placed in a funnel cleans it enough for a second use. Adapted from a recipe in Madhur Jaffrey’s magnificent tour of regional Indian cooking, A Taste of India. Sadly, it is out of print, but her Ultimate Curry Bible looks very tempting! Recipe easily doubled or quadrupled; there is just a limit to how much fried food I will make, and that limit is very low. Incidentally, I also tried baby chard leaves, but while they were still good, they were so juicy that they lacked the requisite crispiness. I’d recommend you stick to vine or other thin leaves: sorrel, or baby spinach perhaps. You can also use this batter for thinly sliced vegetables: potatoes and potato skins, pumpkin, cauliflower, eggplant, zucchini, and even squash flowers. But I like it best with leaves. (Backyard: vine leaves. Victoria: canola oil (non GMO). Somewhere in Australia: chickpea flour, salt. From many miles away: brown rice flour, turmeric. A complete mystery: bicarb soda.)