Lebanese Style Chopped Salad with Sumac (and how to turn it into Fattoush)

 

Who wouldn't love living here? We've been at our new house just a few months, and already the neighbours are handing food over the fence. On a recent Saturday afternoon I was knee-deep in dirt, happily digging out couch grass. I still had bed hair. And then my reverie was interrupted by a deep 'yo!'. I looked up and saw a great hand waggling a loaf of pita at me; the pita was wrapped around a dozen kefta skewers. 'My mum said your kids like these,' said the unidentifiable eyes barely skimming the fence.

When one's neighbours have eight adult sons, all married with children, and most who come to eat at mum's at least one night a week, one tends to lose track of who has come to visit and whose eyes might be attached to the kefta-holding-hand. But the eyes grinned at me; so I smoothed down my bed hair to no effect, grinned back, and whisked the kefta out of his hands while they were still hot. They were fragrant with cinnamon and parsley, flecked with tomato, warm and juicy, and delicious. Lucky kids. They wolfed them down in seconds.

My fussy daughter – there's always one – has now added Fatima's kefta to the list of meats she will eat. This list consists, in its entirety, of plain sausages 'if they're the ones I like' (the organic GF ones from our local butcher meet her standard, thank god, but nothing too greasy or too thick or too thin or too spicy or too dry); bacon 'if it's not too crispy and not too soft, just a little bit please, and only from that farm' (yes, she can taste if the bacon is from a particular farm which will make her useful in the food industry in fifteen years' time, but makes it expensive to keep her now); sausage rolls 'but only Viv's' (Viv lives 70 miles away, somewhat inconvenient); and Fatima's kefta.

Given she also loathes eggs and fish and is not convinced about chicken (she only likes the skin, and only when roasted), and we have soy and shellfish allergies in the house (good grief!) I have latched onto kefta as a refreshing change from expensive sausages, very expensive bacon, chickpeas, and lentils. But my neighbours offers them only sporadically, and I don't know them well enough to beg for more, so I've been trying to make my own.

So far, I'm told, the results have been 'too bland, not like Fatima's'. I pointed out to my seven year old that Fatima has probably been making kefta once a week for forty years, which would mean she's practiced some 2,000 times; I've made it twice in two months. My daughter has to give me a few more goes to get it right before she can criticise. And bland? Huh.

My kefta isn't bad, but I agree that it's nowhere near Fatima's. I'll keep practicing. In the meantime, I can report that I've come up with the perfect salad to go with it, and now is the time to make it, what with those very end of season capsicums, cucumbers and tomatoes. The vegetables are chopped small and dressed with lemon juice and sumac. Juicy, sour, fragrant: it goes down a treat. Although my seven year old would prefer it had no green capsicum.

Lebanese Style Chopped Salad with Sumac (and how to turn it into Fattoush) - 2 green capsicums (bell peppers) - 4 Lebanese cucumbers - 2 tomatoes - 2 spring onions - generous bunch of mint - a bunch of Italian flat-leaf parsley (a good 10 stalks) - 2 tbs olive oil - the juice of a lemon - 3 tsp sumac - sea salt Sprinkle a good pinch of sea salt in the base of a salad bowl, then squeeze in the lemon. The juice will dissolve the salt. Add the olive oil. If the cucumbers are Lebanese, chop them. If they're home grown and the seeds have grown a bit large, deseed them. And if you're substituting English cucumbers, peel and deseed them before chopping. Phew. Chop the other vegetables into small even dice, about a centimetre square. Throw them into the bowl. Chop the herbs coarsely; make sure you still have nice bits of mint and parsley identifiable. Throw them into the bowl, too. Sprinkle in the sumac, then toss gently but well. Serve immediately, while everything is still crunchy. You can turn this into fattoush merely by adding some stale pita bread, cut into small wedges, at the last minute. If you like your bread crisp, brush it with olive oil, sprinkle it with sumac, and toast it in a moderate oven for one to two minutes. Break it up, sprinkle it over the salad, and eat immediately. (Garden: parsley, mint. A friend of a friend's garden – thanks Jen and Raheem! – tomatoes, cucumbers. A neighbour's tree: lemons. Local veg box: green capsicum (bell peppers). Grampians: olive oil. Northern Victoria: salt. Imported, but it's small and flavourful: sumac.)

Smoked Trout, Orange and Quinoa Salad

 

Some Tuesdays, eating last night's leftovers with the floor crunchy underfoot, the washing nagging at me, and the four year old chatting, just won't cut it. You see, my partner looks after her for a few hours while I read with schoolkids, study and write. Lunch, then, is an early pit stop between volunteer work and Deep Thoughts – but our four year old wants to play with me. So some Tuesdays, as much as I love her, I stay out and have a bit of peace and quiet instead.

Sometimes I'll go downtown, grab sushi then head to the State Library – although it can be rather difficult to (a) find a desk and (b) read, since always one or two people are chatting and in the otherwise studious silence that lone conversation drives me crazy.

Other times I seek peace and quiet in the bustle of a coffee shop, and in the general din am able to eat, read and write. Just around the corner from our house is 'the red door place'. More properly known as l'atelier de Monsieur Truffe (351 Lygon Street, East Brunswick) it's a chocolate shop and café rolled into one. My partner will do anything for one of their hot chocolates; my kids will do anything for their toasted brioche served with grated chocolate and salt; and I think their salads are wonderful.

L'atelier recently had a smoked trout, orange and quinoa salad on the menu, and after inhaling it one lunch time I've been playing with the combination at home. I've made it bigger, simpler, and just the thing for a one-dish dinner on a warm night. The most fiddly aspect is collecting and cleaning the salad greens – and if you buy washed greens (gasp!), then it will be quicker still.

Most quinoa (pronounced keen-wa) comes from South America; however, some Tasmanian farmers are now growing it. Tasmania may not be quite local for Melbourne but it's pretty close, and quinoa is, they say, a superfood.

It's only a fairly recent addition to the domestic kitchen, as evidenced by a scene in Offspring. A character is trying a host of new things. She does yoga in the park; she tweets; she shoves a great forkful of quinoa into her mouth... then spits out the lot in a great disgusted puff across the room.* It's pretty much what I did the first time, too.

So a couple of notes. One, quinoa has a bitter coating on the surface of the grain, so it must be rinsed very well before cooking. Rinse, rinse, rinse, and only then put it into the pan to cook. You can cook it in a saucepan like rice; or even use a rice cooker if you don't want to pay it any mind.

Two, unlike rice quinoa doesn't taste inoffensively bland by itself; eaten plain, it is not delicious. So don't cook it and serve it in a great mound on the side of the plate. Quinoa should be eaten with other things. It absorbs flavours beautifully, so always serve it with a stew or in a salad with a good dressing.

As to why you'd serve a grain that requires rinsing and isn't delicious alone? Well, it's very high in protein, iron and magnesium; high in fibre; gluten free; and fun to look at. The grains puff into little spirals which I think are very cute! And it has a strength of flavour which goes well with a juicy melange, and can form the backbone of a substantial salad.

Between the quinoa and the smoked trout, this salad is certainly substantial. And why nasturtiums? The bright petals echo the orange segments and make it look like a party, so pretty that even my kids will eat it. They also give the salad a slight peppery tang. Nasturtiums are flowering all over Melbourne this month. If you don't have any in your garden, ask your neighbours or, better, go for a stroll along a creek. You'll find some soon enough and, if you're lucky, a little peace and quiet too.

Smoked Trout, Orange and Quinoa Salad - 1 cup quinoa - 1 smoked trout - 2 oranges - 1 small salad onion - 4-6 cups loosely packed baby salad greens (I use a combination of rocket (arugula), baby mallow, baby rainbow chard and salad burnet; but you can make it with just lettuces if you wish.) - 4-6 nasturtium flowers, if you have them - a few stems of mint - pinch of salt, pepper - olive oil First, prepare the quinoa. Rinse it very thoroughly in a fine sieve, drain it, then place it in a saucepan with 2 cups of water. Cover, bring to the boil, then turn down and simmer for 10 minutes or until it is cooked but still has a little bite. Remove the lid, fluff the quinoa with a fork, and allow it to cool a little while you prepare the rest of the ingredients. Flake the trout. I find it easiest to use my fingers, but if you wish to be more refined, use two forks to gently pull the flesh from the bones. Zest the oranges – easiest with a Microplane. Sorry for the product placement, but nothing else does the job half so well. Finely chop the salad onion, then fork it and the zest through the quinoa. Juice one of the oranges. Combine the juice with two tablespoons of olive oil, a good pinch of salt, and pepper if you wish. Taste. If it requires more zing, add the juice of half of the remaining orange. Remove the pith from what remains of that latter orange (a half or a whole, depending on how juicy the first orange was), then cut the flesh into little segments. Pull the mint leaves from their stems, and tear into smaller pieces. Gently pull the nasturtium petals from the base. Either use them whole, or slice them into ribbons using a very sharp knife. Keep one or two flowers for garnish. Tip the quinoa mixture into a large salad bowl. Drizzle with half the dressing, and mix and toss with a fork to combine. Now add everything else bar the whole nasturtiums. Using your hands, lightly mix and toss the salad until all is thoroughly combined. Lick your fingers, wash your hands, then garnish the salad with the nasturtium flowers and serve. (*Thanks to Chris who told me about this scene, and tested the salad first.) (Backyard: salad leaves, salad onion, nasturtium flowers, mint. Yarra Valley: smoked trout. From the local food box: oranges. Grampians: olive oil. Northern Victoria: salt. Interstate (Tasmania): quinoa.)

The Salad of Underutilised Greens (Borage Flower, Salad Burnet and Mallow)

 

Winter is drawing to a close and things are fairly quiet in the garden – and yet we have stars in our eyes. Small, blue, velvety stars: they are, of course, borage flowers.

Borage self-seeds around my garden; there is always some on the go. At the end of winter, the plants go to seed, erupting in grey hairy fireworks. At the end of each stem is a spray of blue stars; and the stars are alive with honeybees.

I don’t see borage much, except in my garden; and I don’t know why it is so underused. It is attractive, whether in its young green structural phase or its grey and shabby flowering, and all parts are good eating. Perhaps it does not transport well; thus it is a special delight for the home gardener. Perhaps, too, the name ‘borage’ is too earthy, and lands with too much of a thump? It certainly has none of the grace of ‘angelica’ or ‘fritillary’, whose names roll off the tongue. The leaves are strong, thick and hairy; they can hold the name – but the flowers need another, a name which evokes shooting stars, the morning sky the other side of dawn, the colour of my husband’s eyes.

 

At winter’s end, after too many long grey days, I recommend borage. It is a mediaeval cure for melancholy and will give a girl courage. Eat the leaves lightly steamed or Indian style. Float the flowers in a cup of white wine and let yourself be enchanted.

To pick the flowers, grasp a petal and gently tug; the whole flower will pop right off the plant. Gather a small bowlful and serve within an hour, before the blossoms wilt. Like the leaves, the flowers impart the mildest whiff of cucumber; and their whimsy charms all diners, whether apian, romantic, or childlike.

I like to sprinkle borage flowers over salad. I serve them with another underutilised green, salad burnet, a perennial which grows in winter shade; we have it as a groundcover under a large pear tree where it spreads quickly. I also use microgreens allowed to grow two inches tall: Siberian kale, beet leaves, mizuna and little lettuces; baby rocket leaves; and baby mallow. Tossed gently in a bowl with local lemon juice, a little Victorian flake salt, and some olive oil from the Grampians this is food which needs no recipe and gladdens the heart: it is simple, sustainable, perfect.

 

Pictures show, top to bottom, The Salad of Underutilised Greens, borage in its shabby stage, and salad burnet.

Lentil, Chévre and Walnut Salad

 

We were invited to a housewarming barbie on Saturday night, and I said I’d take salad. But the weather was so wet and miserable that, when it came to cooking time, I really couldn’t come at anything cold and green. Instead, I threw together an earthy lentil salad using ingredients from the store cupboard, gussied it up with herbs from the garden, and served it in a wooden bowl made by Keith, a much-missed family friend.

Eschewing gladwrap, I balanced the bowl on my knee as my husband rather sadistically drove through the backstreets, thus ensuring he hit every speed bump in Brunswick. Each time I shrieked, raised the bowl, and prayed the lentils wouldn’t spray out at me, he sniggered in the driver’s seat. Perhaps there are times a bit of plastic wrap is called for – or perhaps I should look for a less sadistic husband.

Yet the salad and our marriage arrived all in one piece, and the party was a goodie. It had just the right proportion of old friends, interesting acquaintances and new people – and was ever so suitable to our life stage. My kids were absorbed into a tribe of children while I rocked someone else’s baby to sleep, caught up with half a dozen people, and met a few more. Four hours later, we headed home, tucked in the kids, read a book and were still in bed by ten. Now that’s my sort of party – kids and babies everywhere, lots of conversation, and a nice early night!

Lentil, Chévre and Walnut Salad - 3 cups lentils, green French-style (Puy) work best - 2 tbs olive oil - 3 carrots - 2 stalks celery - 1 bay leaf - 150g chévre or other soft goats cheese - 1 cup freshly shelled walnuts - a bunch of fresh parsley and/or thyme - red wine vinegar - a hefty pinch of salt - extra virgin olive oil, to serve Place the lentils in a bowl. Boil the kettle, and cover the lentils with a generous amount of boiling water. Leave to sit for ten minutes. Chop the carrots and celery small. Ideally, you want them to be not so very much bigger than the lentils, yet with each piece having individual form. Warm the olive oil in a deep pan with the bay leaf and add the carrots and celery. Cook gently, stirring from time to time, until they begin to glisten. Add the lentils and their soaking water to the pot; add a little more water if necessary to just cover the lentils. Simmer for 15 minutes, add salt, then cook for another 5 to 15 minutes, checking every five minutes until the lentils are cooked through but still have some firmness. Remove from the heat, and take out the bay leaf. A guy I know almost died choking on a bay leaf, so I insist on this point! Drain the lentils, and pour them into a large bowl. Drizzle them with olive oil and the tiniest splash of red wine vinegar, just enough to sharpen the flavours but not enough to dominate. Chop the herbs (parsley and thyme, separately or together, are a lovely match for lentils) and toss them through. Crumble the chévre over the salad, then sprinkle the walnuts over the chévre. Add cracked black pepper, if you wish, and a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil, also if you wish. Serve warm or at room temperature (but definitely not cold). Notes: This is a very loose recipe. You can add a finely chopped onion and/or garlic, warmed in the olive oil before the carrots and celery, if you wish; and the proportions of lentils to veggies are just a guide. Also, this makes Quantity. Halve it if it’s just you and a friend; or eat the top half, then turn the bottom half sans chévre into soup the next day by adding stock and heating it through. (Backyard/gleaned: bay leaf, parsley, thyme. Wimmera: lentils, olive oil, salt. Gembrook: walnuts. Meredith: goats cheese. Mystery: carrots, celery, red wine vinegar. Ah well.)

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.)

Fat Hen, Indian Style

 

To keep a marriage fresh, I recommend spending a weekend without children every once in a while. We have just had our second such weekend since our oldest daughter was born eight and a half years ago, so clearly I am no great practitioner of what I preach; but a weekend spent eating, drinking and lolling around with one’s husband has done wonders for my attitude to marriage.

I am, however, not just a newly rediscovered sex goddess but also and always a cook and mother of three, and so I couldn’t resist heading out on the Saturday morning to a local organic market. When their parents go away for the weekend, some kids get souvenir t-shirts; ours got goats cheese dusted with ash, raspberry jam, a bag of tiny nectarines, some local bacon, and an enormous bunch of fat hen.

 

Fat hen, which is also known as lamb’s quarters or goosefoot, is a mild and slightly sweet green. The leaves contain vitamin A and C, and have been eaten since prehistoric times. Use the leaves wherever you would spinach, either raw or cooked. Many people also recommend eating the nutritious seeds, which are packed with protein, calcium, potassium and other goodies, but I haven’t tried them, myself.

You often see fat hen growing on wasteland, which tells you it’s a weedy plant. If you grow it in your garden and want to control it, cut off all flowering spikes before they set seed and throw them to the chooks; if you let it set seed, you will have fat hen in your garden forever. Pull up any unwanted descendents and eat them, or give them to your feathered friends.

Weedy it may be, but with a name like fat hen, who could resist? The bush forms a lovely soft grey-green mound which grows to one and a half metres or even taller. It has large arrow shaped leaves, and one or two bushes provide plenty of leaves for humans and poultry alike.

As for fat hen Indian style, it is not, alas, a large chicken in a sari, but leafy greens simply dressed with a few Indian flavourings. This is an easy dish to serve alongside rice, dahl and perhaps some pappadams.

Fat Hen, Indian Style - a bunch of fat hen (or spinach or leaf amaranth or baby passionfruit leaves or turnip tops or any other tasty edible green) - a small onion - ½ tsp turmeric - flavourless vegetable oil (I used non-GMO canola) - ¼ cup flaked or desecrated sorry dessicated coconut (Don't use the standard dusty brand; look for good thick threads.) - the juice of a lemon - a pinch of salt Wash the fat hen well. Warm a tablespoon or so of vegetable oil in a wide frypan with a lid. Add the onions and a good pinch of salt, and fry gently until the onions begin to soften. Add the turmeric and stir for a few seconds; then throw in the fat hen. Squawk! Clap on the lid and leave for three or four minutes or until the fat hen has wilted. Add the coconut and the lemon juice, and toss and stir until the liquid has been absorbed into the coconut. Serve! Adapted from a recipe in Charmaine Solomon’s Vegetarian Food, a slender volume now well and truly out of print. One of these days I plan to check out her acclaimed Complete Vegetarian Cookbook; perhaps the recipe is in there too. (Victoria: fat hen, onion, lemon, salt, and, I hope, the canola oil. From many miles away: turmeric. And also from many miles away, but fair trade and organic: coconut.)

Cauliflower Salad

 

Sometimes it's the little things that make me so happy, like seeing a baby smile, smelling a soft yellow rose, or catching a tram the minute I get to the stop.

Or when I find a way to serve cauliflower that my children like.

Cauliflower has been a hitherto spurned vegetable in our house. I use it only every now and then, aiming for a very gradual sixteen presentations or however long it takes kids to like a vegetable. A year or so ago I did this with broccoli over the course of two weeks, but now I'm slower at these things.

I first made this cauliflower salad a month or so ago, much to my children's disgust. Yet my eight year old has learned that it is easier to eat the small portion required of her than to have a big argument and be made to eat the food anyway, so she looked at the cauliflower, sighed, picked up her fork, and et it – then looked up surprised and had a little more.

But her five year old sister has not yet learned that resistance is futile. As her father placed a small portion of cauliflower on her plate she, as usual, let out a big wail. It sounded like someone had just deliberately dropped an anvil on her foot – there was a clear note of betrayal amongst all the pain and anguish.

We offered our usual measured response ('hush now, just have a bite'), to which she responded with further wails at which point I, lovely mother that I am, snapped 'just eat the damn thing'. She gave one last sob, then took a tiny nibble, looked surprised, and et the lot. 'Delicious,' she said, serving herself some more; then she leapt from the table, ran to the kitchen, grabbed a small container and packed extra for her school lunch the next day while we all looked on speechless. Then she yelled at someone else for polishing the rest of the salad off.

At such a moment I am torn between exasperation and triumph. Why, I wonder, does she need to shriek like a steam train? – especially when it turns out she likes the food!

Anyway, I've made this cauliflower salad once or twice since then, just to consolidate, and each time it has been demolished at dinner, and extras taken for school lunch. It's the sort of salad that sits quite well in the fridge for a few days. You can always add a few more olives and capers, or a dash more vinegar, to sharpen the flavours.

While it's a bit late for cauliflower in Melbourne, there are still a few local ones floating around. See what you can find.

Cauliflower Salad - 1 medium sized cauliflower - 1 decent sized carrot - 3 anchovies - ¼ cup olive oil - 1 tbs red wine vinegar or to taste - 1 tbs capers, drained and rinsed - 1 handful kalamata olives (about 20) - 5 or so stems continental parsley - salt Put the kettle on to boil. Peel the carrot and slice it into rounds about the thickness of an English pound coin, that is about ⅓ cm thick. Break or chop the cauliflower into roughly even sized florets, whatever size feels natural. Pour the boiling water into a saucepan fitted with a steamer. Drop in the cauliflower and the carrot and steam for 6 minutes. Check to see whether they are done: you should be able to slip a knife into the thick part of the vegetable. If not, give them another minute or two. Remove them from the heat. While the vegetables are cooking, chop the anchovies very finely. Now, using the flat of your knife, smoosh those finely chopped anchovies against the board until they are paste. Scrape up the paste and put it into a bowl. Add the olive oil, vinegar and a pinch of salt and mix very well; I use a small whisk. Using the base of an espresso cup, press against each olive until it splits, then slip out the pit. Tear the olive into one or two pieces. Chop the parsley. Scrape the dressing into a shallow platter. Tumble the cauliflower and carrots on top of the dressing along with the olives, capers and parsley. Mix with your hands until the dressing has been well distributed and all is glistening. Freely adapted from a recipe in Insalate: Authentic Italian Salads for All Seasons by Susan Simon. (Local: cauliflower, parsley, olive oil. Not so local: carrot, olives, capers, anchovies, red wine vinegar, salt.)

Das's Chickpea Salad

 

I never meant to threaten my housemate with a knife.

I was living at the time with a couple of Anglo women who studied too hard, and a Pakistani man named Das. Das had very regular habits. Every morning, he left for work in his little white car; every evening, he came home, parked in the driveway, stayed for an hour or two then, while we women headed back to our desks, he went to put in a few hours at a friend’s restaurant. On weekends, if we were lucky, he cooked.

One weekday I came home to what should have been an empty house. The driveway was empty, but to my alarm the front door was swinging open. I peeked in, and called ‘hello?’. There was no answer, so I called louder. Again, silence. Heart pounding, I stepped softly into the hallway, tiptoed to the kitchen and, being a silly young thing, grabbed a long knife. Then I crept around the house, checking each and every room – behind the doors, under the beds, the works – until I came, at last, to Das’s room. He wasn’t home; his car wasn’t in the driveway; he was at work.

But I thought I heard the sound of breathing.

So I crept in, knife raised high, only to find Das dozing on the bed. I shrieked, he opened his eyes and yelled, and I collapsed in hysterical giggles.

It turned out he’d felt sick at work. He’d left in a daze early, parked his car randomly up the street, staggered in the front door, and collapsed into bed, only to be woken by the knife wielding maniac that was me.

These days I’m older and wiser; I figure I’m the only person likely to be injured in a knife fight. So I keep my kitchen knives where they belong, and use them to chop vegetables and think of Das.

He was a terrific cook. I particularly remember eating industrial quantities of his chickpea salad, served warm. I still dream of it; mine, sadly, is never as good.

Chickpea salad is very simple, but it depends on two things. For one, I have never eaten a canned chickpea that hasn’t tasted tinny, so I cook my own from dried. If you don’t mind the tinny taste, you are welcome to use canned chickpeas, but for mealy chickpea perfection, cook them yourself.

The other is to chop the other vegetables neatly, chickpea sized or smaller. It makes the salad visually appealing, and it means that each mouthful is an explosion of different flavours.

Chaat masala is a spice mix for salads. Dried green mango and asafoetida give it sourness; and then about a dozen other spices just make it taste good! You can buy it at any Indian or Pakistani grocery store. It’s worth having a packet in your pantry just for this salad; I certainly do.

Das’s Chickpea Salad (Very Easily Multiplied!) - 1 cup cooked chickpeas. If they are warm, so much the better. - 2 medium carrots, diced small - 1 celery heart, or 2 stalks celery - 1 long cucumber - a small bunch of coriander, chopped - a hefty pinch of chaat masala - the juice of a lemon If you are using the celery heart, shred it crossways right up into the yellow leaves. If you are using celery stalks, dice them as small as the carrot. Peel the cucumber entirely if the skin is coarse. Halve it lengthways. Cut out the seeds by slicing a shallow V and scraping them out. Dice the remaining flesh nice and small. Chop the coriander coarsely. Combine the chickpeas with the vegetables and the coriander. Dress with a generous amount of lemon juice, and sprinkle with a little chaat masala to taste. Mix well. This makes enough for two or three lunches. In lieu of my mother’s chappatis – how I miss them! – I eat it with homemade unleavened bread made with buckwheat flour and sprinkled with nigella, or with fresh pita. (Localish: chickpeas from Horsham area; carrots, coriander, lemons. Not so local: celery, salt, chaat masala.)

Celeriac Rémoulade

Are more types of vegetables commonly available than when I was a child? I often read about the drastic decline in agricultural variety; and yet I can think of so many veggies – asparagus, kohlrabi, celeriac, sweet potato, fennel, Brussels sprouts, purple turnips, white turnips, beetroot, chard, snow peas, shallots, chicory, broad beans, red pepper – that I never ate or even saw as a child and which we now eat all the time.

I wonder, in fact, whether we have lived through the Great Decline – embodied in my family history by my grandmother's cooking: perfectly adequate, but regarded by her as a mimic of the Real Thing, that is, store-bought food, and accordingly bland – and are now experiencing a Great Resurgence? Or is this merely because I am wealthy, pretentious, and shop organic? I wonder.

One of my favourite vegetables, discovered only a few years ago, is celeriac. I had read about this vegetable, intrigued. I perused my recipe books, and contemplated how a tuber might taste earthy and yet still like bright green celery; I pored over descriptions of the knobbly root; I wondered whether I would ever taste it... then lo! celeriac appeared at our local shops and yea, I bought it and hallelujah! it was good. Selah.

Celeriac is delicious in a lentil stew; but it is most excellent in its classic preparation, celeriac rémoulade. The vegetable is shredded and tossed through a mustardy mayonnaise with parsley or tarragon. Celeriac rémoulade is lovely at dinner as a side dish; but at lunch, it takes centre stage. With some bread, some olives and some sliced ham, such a lunch can be magnificent.

The recipe that follows includes the recipe for mayonnaise posted earlier.

Celeriac Rémoulade - 1 celeriac - a lemon For the mayonnaise - 2 egg yolks, at room temperature - 1 tbs lemon juice plus more to taste - 1 tbs seeded mustard - 1 to 2 tbs chopped parsley or tarragon - about 200ml olive oil - salt to taste Place a heavy bowl on a damp cloth on the bench; the cloth will stop the bowl from sliding around. Place the egg yolks, lemon juice, mustard and a pinch of salt into the bowl, and whisk. The bigger the balloon of the whisk, the easier this is. Add the olive oil just a drop, and I do mean just a drop, at a time, whisking frantically all the while. This job is made infinitely easier if you have an oil nozzle on your oil bottle. Once you have added a couple of tablespoons of oil drop by drop, and the mixture is starting to look like mayonnaise, you can add it in a thin stream, still whisking continuously (I use my left hand to drizzle, and my right to whisk; you could also use an apprentice to drizzle as long as the apprentice understands that they must not slosh it in). When most of the oil has been added and you have a lovely soft glop, taste for lemon and salt, and correct as needed. Leave it very slightly bland as the lemon juice on the shredded celeriac will sharpen the flavour. (If the oil is added too quickly, the mayonnaise can split. If it does, place another egg yolk into a clean bowl and whisk it. Gradually add the mayonnaise a little at a time, whisking frantically all the while, until it is combined and all is right with the world. Alternatively, you can whizz it in the food processor, although it won't be as lovely and light.) Using a heavy sharp knife, carve off the wrinkly skin of the celeriac. You may need to slice quite deeply to remove all the grubby bits. Grate the root on the large holes of a box grater, and place the gratings into a bowl. Toss them with the juice of half a lemon, then drop them into the bowl of mayonnaise and mix well. Serve at once, or store in the fridge for up to a day until needed. I make celeriac rémoulade for dinner, and eat leftovers for lunch the next day with bread, ham and glee. (Local: eggs, celeriac, lemon, olive oil, herbs. Not local: mustard, salt.)

Couscous and Chickpea Salad

When I was a kid, I hated school lunches. I vividly remember the exotic food my friend Marion used to bring to high school: leftover pasta, jaffles filled with beans, doorstop sandwiches made with sourdough, and other interesting food. I'd sit beside her on the cold concrete step chewing on a flabby pressed chicken sandwich and look on enviously while she opened little tubs with interesting smells and attacked them with spoon or fork.

Now I have schoolkids of my own, I want them to have the Marion lunch experience – but bizarrely, they are reluctant. Despite my efforts, the philistines insist on nothing more than a Vegemite sandwich or perhaps ham with, as my seven year old says, 'just the barest scraping of mustard'. Good grief.

This salad is one of the delicious things that I can't quite believe my daughters disdain. One eats only the chickpeas, picking them out individually; while another eats only the couscous, leaving the chickpeas for the first – at least, like the Sprats, between the two of them they lick the platter clean. As for my four year old, she won't eat it at all without tears; 'I hate the texture,' she says.

A good judge of texture she is not. Perfect grains of couscous cling to grilled vegetables; the chickpeas are deliciously mealy; spinach adds a gentle crunch. Normal children would like it – adults certainly do. It's one of those perfectly satisfying meals in a bowl. We eat it warm for dinner, and cold the next day for lunch, either by itself or tucked into a pita wrap. Yesterday I staggered in from the gym, a little woozy; collapsed into a chair with a container of leftover salad; demolished it in minutes; and felt instantly restored in body and soul. So I at least got a good lunch out of it, even if nobody else did.

The recipe builds on a suggestion by Jamie Oliver to soak couscous in cold water and use it as the base of a vegetable salad. This week, I added a couple of zucchini; other weeks, depending on what's in season, I might add or substitute grilled eggplant, grilled red peppers or even grilled asparagus. The herbs, too, can be played around with; for much of the year I make it with mint and parsley so that it resembles a tabbouli made with couscous not burghul; but when we have an abundance of basil I make it with that, instead. Use whatever's fresh and tastes good to you.

Couscous and Chickpea Salad - 1 cup dried chickpeas (canned chickpeas taste like glue, but use them if you must) - 250g couscous - 280ml water - juice of 1 or 2 lemons - 2 tbs olive oil - 2 or 3 moderately sized zucchini (I had one yellow, one green, very pretty) - 1 generous handful mint - 1 generous handful basil - 2 or 3 handfuls baby spinach leaves Boil the kettle. Place the chickpeas into a large bowl, and cover them with a generous quantity of boiling water. Leave to soak for several hours. Drain and rinse the chickpeas, and place them into a large pot. Cover them generously with cold water this time, and bring to the boil. Turn down to a simmer, and let cook for 45 minutes or until they are soft but haven't lost their shape. Throw in 1 to 2 tsp salt, and leave to simmer for another 15 or so minutes. Turn off the heat. Drain just before adding to the salad. Place the couscous into a large serving bowl. Cover with 280ml water, and leave for 15 to 20 minutes. While the couscous is soaking, slice the zucchini crossways into thin discs. Grill or sauté the discs with a bit of olive oil until they are soft. Finely chop the herbs. Using a fork, separate the couscous into individual grains. Add the juice of 1 to 2 lemons (I like it sharp), and drizzle in the olive oil. Mix well. Add the herbs, the zucchini, the spinach and the chickpeas, and stir to combine. Serve immediately while the chickpeas are still warm; it's also tasty cold. Adapted from a recipe in The Naked Chef by Jamie Oliver. (Local: zucchini, mint, basil, olive oil, lemon juice. Not local: chickpeas, couscous, salt. No idea, but I live in hope that it's local: spinach.)

Zucchini Salad

When I think finger food, I think kiddie food: corn on the cob, cherry tomatoes, carrot sticks. But lately I have noticed that my adult friends seem to love getting their hands dirty, too. When it's asparagus season, no one can help but snaffle a spear and whiffle it up*; and now it's time for zucchini. I serve a simple zucchini salad night after night, and it seems few can resist picking up ribbons of zucchini and, heads tilted back, delicate necks exposed, coiling them into their mouths. It's like eating grapes on a Roman couch, only there's no nubile young slave at the ready, more's the pity.

The picking up, the coiling, the draping, the swallowing, the licking of the lips, the sucking of the fingers – the eroticism of zucchini is surprising. Alas, not only do we lack slaves, but young children are present and we can go no further.

The recipe which follows is ridiculously simple – so simple I'm embarrassed to write it down – but there are two tricks. The first is to use really young, firm zucchini, when the flavour is mild and the seeds immature. The other is to slice the zucchini very thinly. I use a vegetable peeler and, by running it down the length of the zucchini, get long pretty ribbons tumbled over the plate.

When the zucchini are this fresh and sliced so thin, they need nothing more than the most basic dressing: lemon juice, olive oil and a pinch of salt. Even so, for a change I sometimes add slivers of parmesan, also shaved with a veggie peeler; or basil leaves, torn over the salad just before serving. From a mother's point of view, the parmesan is particularly effective: even zucchini hating youngsters will sometimes eat a ribbon when they can wrap it around a hefty shard of cheese.

*Incidentally, the correct way to eat asparagus is, in fact, with one's fingers.

Zucchini Salad - small firm zucchini - olive oil - lemon juice - basil leaves (optional) - parmesan (optional) - salt Hold the zucchini over a large plate. Using a vegetable peeler, peel it into ribbons which tumble onto the plate. Drizzle with olive oil and a good squeeze of lemon juice. Season to taste. If you wish, sprinkle with torn basil leaves or slivers of parmesan. Serve immediately. (Local: zucchini, lemon, olive oil, basil. Not local: salt, parmesan.)

Nice Salad, Flowers Optional

In her marvellous book The Savory Way, Deborah Madison includes broad suggestions for 'Celebration Salad with Blossom Confetti'. As the mother of three girls, all of whom adore bright colours and flowers, I have used this idea countless times to make them eat. My experience is that a girl who turns up her nose at a perfect green salad, delicately dressed, cannot resist the same green salad when it's scattered with ribbons of flower confetti. The girl who screams every time she sees a potato will quietly eat if it's garnished with a few bright strips of nasturtiums.

If the nasturtiums aren't flowering, I might use whole borage flowers – the tiny blue stars taste ever so faintly of cucumber – or perhaps rocket flowers for a bit of zing. Violets are beautiful; red pineapple sage adds a slightly tropical fragrance; tiny marjoram, basil and thyme flowers each have their own flavour and are delightful to look at. You can eat most if not all herb flowers, as well as calendulas and rose petals. Cut larger petals into strips, so they do not catch on one's tongue; and use a sharp pair of scissors or a good knife to slice them cleanly. Eat smaller flowers whole.

As well as paying attention to petals, I look for interesting leaves. Soft green mignonette, freckled lettuces, red oak leaf: all make a pretty salad base, especially if they are complemented by tiny little rainbow chard or beet leaves. Use chard or beet leaves no longer than two inches in length, before they become tough.

On a hot night last week, we ate salad for dinner. I used to shop to make a classic salade niçoise; but one day it occurred to me to use whatever fresh ingredients I had in the garden. Now my salad changes month in month out. Later in the summer I will use the more traditional generous handful of green beans instead of cucumber, blanched for a minute or two; and yellow and red cherry tomatoes off our vines.

The quantity of tuna makes it filling enough for our family of five – three of whom are quite little – to consider it dinner, especially if it's accompanied by a thick piece of sourdough brushed with olive oil and char grilled. If your household is smaller, use less tuna and fewer eggs.

We call this Nice Salad, because some days it's salade niçoise and other days, it's just nice. Flowers are, of course, optional.

Nice Salad - a fancy lettuce - a handful of tiny beet leaves and/or rainbow chard leaves, if you have them - 8 to 10 new potatoes (those tiny little golf balls, fewer if your potatoes are large) - 2 to 6 eggs (depending how hungry everyone is and how many people there are) - a cucumber, preferably a sweet Lebanese cucumber, but an English one will do - 425g tin tuna (packed in oil because it tastes approximately a thousand times better) - 2 or 3 tomatoes - a dozen black olives and in this house this means Kalamata (optional) - 5 or 6 nasturtium flowers, as bright and fresh as possible (optional) - a lemon (or some wine vinegar or even tarragon vinegar if you have it) - olive oil, salt, pepper Bring a pot of water to the boil, and cook the potatoes until they are done. Add the eggs for the last six minutes. Drain, and halve the potatoes. Place the eggs in a bowl of cold water, then peel and quarter them.* Separate, wash and spin the salad leaves. Arrange on a large platter. Tumble the potatoes over the lettuce. If your cucumber is English, peel it, halve it, slice out the seeds, cut each half into three or four lengths and chop them into pieces. If your cucumber is Lebanese, halve it lengthwise, quarter it lengthwise, and chop it into pieces. Scatter over the lettuce. Cut the tomatoes into sixths or so – you want manageable wedges – and add them to the salad. Flake the tuna out of the can and onto the salad. Arrange the eggs over the top. Press on the olives with the base of a heavy glass and remove the pip. Tear each olive into four or so pieces, and tuck them in. Drizzle the lot with olive oil and a generous squeeze of lemon juice or a splash of tarragon or other light vinegar. Season if you wish, although I find the tuna and olives are enough seasoning for me. Shake your nasturtium flowers to dislodge any ants. Snip the petals from all but one of the flowers. Holding the petals over the salad, snip them into pretty ribbons which will float down onto the salad. Place the last flower artfully in the centre, and serve. *If, like us, your eggs are from the backyard and too fresh to peel without losing great chunks, poach them instead and gently lay the poached eggs on top of the salad – and throw in another couple of eggs because people will eat more when they're so delicious. A nice problem to have! The idea of eating flower blossoms came from The Savory Way, an indispensable book for anyone learning to cook good food. Madison has a deep appreciation for vegetables, herbs, oils, vinegars and other flavours, and uses them to create wonderful dishes which are intelligent and delicious. She writes thoughtfully about ingredients, and in careful detail about technique. This book was my training ground – I worked my way from cover to cover, and have drawn from it ever since. The photograph shows a version of this salad as requested and assembled by my four year old: lettuce, tomatoes, potatoes, green beans, cucumber, tuna, and nasturtium and borage flowers. (Local: salad leaves, potatoes, eggs, cucumber, tomatoes, nasturtium flowers, olive oil, lemon. Not local: tuna, olives.)

Cabbage and Apple Salad

Okay, so I am an apple freak. I eat them every day, in every way – but I haven't been to a doctor in years!

Cabbage and apple salad (what an American would call 'slaw') is lovely and bright. The cabbage, at times a self-effacing old thing ducking to the rear of the crisper, is here cheered up immensely by the juicy sweetness of the apples.

With its palate-cleansing properties, this salad goes well with the earthiness of lentils; or it would be a perfect match for pork.

Cabbage and Apple Salad (Slaw) - 2 cups green cabbage, preferably Savoy, shredded - 2 Granny Smith apples, or other large sharp variety - 1 tsp mustard seeds - ½ - 1 cup walnuts, chopped (I like it very nutty) - the juice of a lemon - ½ tsp Dijon mustard - 1 tbs apple cider vinegar - 2 tbs olive oil - 1 tbs apple sauce (which you have conveniently canned; use the rest of the jar in apple cake) - salt, pepper Place the mustard, vinegar, olive oil, apple sauce, salt and pepper in a jar. Screw the lid on tightly, and shake until emulsified. Taste, and adjust ratios if necessary. Shred the cabbage. Grate the apples, peel and all, or julienne them if you're feeling refined. Place the apple into a salad bowl, and squeeze the juice of a lemon over it. Toss. Add the cabbage and mustard seeds, and toss again. Drizzle the vinaigrette over the salad, and mix gently but well. Sprinkle the walnuts over the top, and serve. The original recipes included a bunch of radishes, shredded; but that would make it too peppery for my young family. Adapted from a recipe in The Wednesday Chef, who adapted it in turn from a recipe by Jeremy Fox. (Local: cabbage, apple, walnuts, lemon, apple cider vinegar, apple sauce, olive oil. Not local: mustard seeds, Dijon mustard, salt.)

Kohlrabi and Apple Salad

It looks like a satellite, or perhaps a friendly little alien with ruddy cheeks and wild antennae sprouting from its head – kohlrabi is an amusing vegetable.

It has a lovely fresh flavour, and a delightful crunch. Its name comes from the German 'cabbage-turnip', and eating kohlrabi is indeed like crunching into a lovely piece of cabbage stalk, or perhaps a broccoli stalk. Whether the skin is purple or lime green, the flavour is consistently mild.

I have roasted kohlrabi in the past, but I can't recommend it. Its strength lies in salad. Because of its light clean flavour, kohlrabi goes well with richer foods. I have recently enjoyed this particular salad beside smoked fish, white beans, and roast chicken; truth be told, I like it so much I have eaten it three days in a row. It would also go well with a nice pork sausage.

Kohlrabi and Apple Salad - 1 kohlrabi, any colour - 1 large Granny Smith apple, or two small red apples - ½ a big lemon, to give 1 to 1½ tbs lemon juice - 2 tbs olive oil - 1 tsp wholegrain mustard - salt, pepper If the kohlrabi has its leaves attached, trim the leaves and set aside for a stir fry or to boost any leafy dish. Peel the kohlrabi, using a sharp knife to pare the skin away. Grate it coarsely. Wash the apple, and julienne it finely, peel and all. Toss the apple and kohlrabi into a serving bowl. Place the lemon juice, olive oil, mustard, salt and pepper into a small jar. Screw the lid on firmly, then shake vigorously until it emulsifies. Check the balance of lemon juice to oil, adjusting if necessary. Pour the dressing over the kohlrabi and apple, and mix well to combine. Serve immediately. (Local: kohlrabi, apple, lemon, olive oil. Not local: mustard, salt.)

Carrot and Beet Salad

It may be cold and wet, but I still like a bit of salad from time to time. This robust winter salad is very satisfying, either at dinner next to something more substantial, or at lunch with perhaps a poached egg on top. It also makes a spectacular sandwich with a good wodge of avocado or maybe a little crumbled feta cheese. This week we ate it with a pea and potato frittata.

I adapted it from a recipe found at the delectable Chocolate & Zucchini. However, the original recipe was too garlicky and heavy for my taste, so I switched from nut oils to olive oil, and from vinegars to lemon juice, and tweaked the proportions of this and that. Now it is, to me, just right!

Carrot and Beet Salad - 2 medium carrots, peeled and coarsely grated - 1 pretty big or 2 medium beet(s), peeled and coarsely grated - ½ clove garlic, minced - 2 tbs extra virgin olive oil - the juice of a lemon - 1 tsp Dijon mustard - 8 to 10 stalks flat-leaf parsley, chopped - a good handful of sunflower seeds - salt, pepper Place the garlic, oils, lemon juice, mustard, salt and pepper into a small jar. Shake it up! Mix the grated carrot and beet in a large bowl. Toss through the parsley and then dress with the vinaigrette. Mix well to distribute the dressing. Sprinkle generously with sunflower seeds, then toss again. Serve. This salad keeps well in the fridge for a day or two. It's the sort of thing my husband and I eat for dinner one day, then lunch and dinner the next. Adapted from a recipe by Clotilde Dusoulier posted at chocolateandzucchini.com. Picture shows the salad in a simpler incarnation, made with coriander and no seeds. (Local: carrots, beets, garlic, olive oil, lemon, parsley. Not local: mustard, sunflower seeds, salt, pepper.)

Daikon and Carrot Salad

Of all the fish to fall for, my children have given their hearts to mackerel. We were in Cornwall earlier this year, and bought mackerel from the fisherman's wife. The fish were so fresh they still looked surprised at being caught. I baked them with a little pear cider and a few bay leaves gleaned from a neighbour's garden, and my kids demolished them – my six year old ate an entire fish.*

Even now, it's the only fish my four year old will eat. I found imported smoked mackerel recently, and she devoured even that with relish. But buying rare overpriced groaning-with-air-miles smoked fish is insane, so I'm trying to convince her to eat a little salmon. It, too, is oily with a firm flesh and distinctive flavour.

We don't eat it often, but when we do we like to serve it with this salad. The sharpness cuts through the unctuousness of the fish, and the sesame goes well with the salmon.

We also eat this salad as part of a meal of rice and vegetables; Korean or Japanese flavours are the best match.

*I blame my children's passion for mackerel and other English fish partly on The Mousehole Cat. My kids can identify every fish in the book and have asked me many times now to make stargazy pie. You can read more about The Mousehole Cat here.

PS – You might enjoy my short hymn to English food; click here.

Daikon and Carrot Salad - 1 carrot, very coarsely grated - 1 medium-sized daikon, very coarsely grated - salt - 1 tsp sugar - 1 tsp soy sauce - 1 tbs sesame oil Put the carrot and daikon in a colander and salt lightly. Leave on the draining board for up to an hour. Rinse well, drain, then press dry on a clean tea towel. Place the daikon and carrot into a bowl. Mix together the sugar, soy sauce and sesame oil, then toss through the daikon and carrot. Serve. A few leaves of coriander make a nice garnish. (If you need to skip the salting stage, the salad will be a bit watery. You can compensate slightly by increasing the amount of soy – but, for both flavour and texture, it's best to salt.) Adapted from a recipe in Korean Cooking by Hilaire Walden. (Local: daikon, carrot. Not local: sesame oil, soy sauce, sugar.)

Poached Eggs, Haloumi and Spinach

Many years BC*, when dinosaurs walked the earth, Saturday morning often meant meeting friends for brunch. I'd order poached eggs with hollandaise, and for just a moment heaven and earth would collide. But now we're up at 6 with the kids, we need breakfast at 7 and the whole concept of brunch feels slightly silly.

Yet I missed those poached eggs. I tried every technique under the sun – lots of water, less water, still water, swirling water, vinegar water, salt water, fresh eggs, stale eggs, bigger pots, skillets – but I cannot master those soft little balls that you get in a cafe. After too many attempts, ending in too many pots of swirling egg whites, I gave up on cafe style poached eggs. Now I do them my way. As long as the eggs are very fresh, I get a soft dome of egg, distributed like a bell curve, with a golden runny raised yolk. It may not be as neat as cafe eggs, but once you plunge the knife into the yolk who cares? It tastes fantastic, and I'm happy.

And this morning when I picked up our veggie box just before lunch, I saw a bundle of baby spinach leaves, a carton of eggs, and a package of soft, salty haloumi lying on top. Inspiration struck! I carted it home, fired up the stove, and we had brunch for lunch.

*BC: before children.

PS: For an amusing account of one man's attempt to poach an egg, click here.

Poached Eggs, Haloumi and Spinach - some very fresh eggs - haloumi, perhaps 150g or a bit more for 2 adults - a handful of baby spinach leaves each - the juice of a lemon - extra virgin olive oil - dukkah (we used Wartaka dukkah; the lemon myrtle flavour goes beautifully with the haloumi.) Arrange the spinach on dinner plates. Drizzle with olive oil and lemon juice. Heat a little olive oil in a wide skillet. Slice the haloumi into thick large bite-size pieces, then place in the skillet and cook until golden. Turn, and cook the other side. When it is done, drizzle with lemon juice, then place the cheese and any juices onto the spinach. Meanwhile, boil the kettle. Pour the water into a wide skillet on the hottest burner of your stove and heat until it is barely simmering. Just the occasional tiny bubble should float up. Break an egg into a teacup, then ease the egg into the pan. You should be able to fit five or so eggs in a ring around your pan. Leave, barely simmering, until the white is just cooked; this takes three to four minutes. Remove with a slotted spoon or egg slide, press the base of the spoon gently on a folded tea towel to remove any excess water, and slip onto the haloumi and spinach. Sprinkle with dukkah, and serve immediately. A thick bit of grilled sourdough on the side rounds it out nicely. Developed from an idea in Feast: Food that celebrates life by Nigella Lawson. (Local: eggs, haloumi, spinach, lemon, olive oil. Made locally: dukkah.)

Warm Cauliflower Salad

I've never understood why cauliflower and cheese, macaroni and cheese, rice pudding or baked custard are so often referred to as nursery food. My children loathe and detest anything with a creamy sauce; they'd prefer to relinquish the chance of dessert than to have even an exploratory nibble. From time to time I long for a cheesy bubbly dish with a crusty golden layer on top; alas, it is not to be – at least for now.

So this week, with a cauliflower in the box, I had to think of something else. I flipped through my recipe books, and came up with this. Miss Six gave it an 7 out of 10, which meant she ate a large piece without comment; Miss Four, who is passionate about dukkah, gave it a 3 out of 10, which meant she licked the dukkah off and accidentally ate some cauliflower; but, just like Goldilocks with Little Bear's porridge, I ate mine all up and looked for more.

Dukkah is a mixture of ground seeds, nuts and spices. There are many different mixes available. Our favourite is Paddymelon's Wartaka Dukkah, which includes lemon myrtle, aniseed myrtle and other Australian herbs. It has a lovely fresh flavour; however, any dukkah, perhaps one fragrant with cumin, would also work well. You can find out more about dukkah and order it here.

Warm Cauliflower Salad - 1 head cauliflower, broken into large florets - ½ bunch coriander, washed and the leaves taken off the stems - 1 can chickpeas, or some Victorian chickpeas soaked and cooked, optional (why aren't Australian pulses canned?!) - 1 juicy lemon - a good extra virgin olive oil - dukkah Bring a large pot of water to the boil. Drop the cauliflower florets in and simmer with the lid off for 7 or 8 minutes, or until a knife blade slips into the stem easily but before the florets are mush. While it is cooking, warm the chickpeas. Drain the cauliflower and place onto a platter. Spoon the chickpeas around the florets, then drizzle with olive oil and lots of lemon juice. Sprinkle 2 or 3 teaspoons of dukkah over the top – enough so every floret is lightly dusted. Scatter the coriander leaves over the top, and serve at once. Developed from a suggestion by Nigel Slater in The Kitchen Diaries: A Year in the Kitchen. (Local: cauliflower, coriander, lemon, olive oil. Made locally from imported ingredients: dukkah. Imported: chick peas, although you could use Victorian chickpeas.)