Cabbage, Potato, White Bean and Caraway Soup

 

Does every postgraduate student have a fantasy other life in which they imagine the path not taken? While writing her PhD, my sister pondered opening a shop of gifts for men, called The Thinking Man's Crumpet. She'd sell astrolabes and pipes and vintage magnifying glasses; detective novels and squashy cushions in muted, masculine colours; cufflinks, ties and very nice socks; select old records and CDs; and other things for the sort of intelligent and gentle man she finds attractive.

My fantasy is to open a soup shop. I imagine a tiny hole in the wall that seats six to ten people, with another half dozen seats outside. Every day, I'd make two or three soups, and that's it. Maybe you could get a bread roll or an apple, too – but nothing more complicated. In winter, I'd go heavy on the lentils and roast vegetables; in summer, light minestrones and gazpacho would feature strongly. People could come in and eat a bowlful, or buy a container for their supper.

I'd also sell stocks: good homemade veal and chicken and vegetable stocks for people to take home. I've yet to find a commercial stock that doesn't taste horrible; I think there's a market for proper stocks for the home cook.

I only drink wine and water with my meals, so see no reason to serve anything else. In my fantasy, you'd be able to buy a bistro glass of jug wine (red or white) to have with your soup; or perhaps some mineral water. Many years ago we lunched on bread rolls and glasses of vin ordinaire from a hole in the wall in Florence. The premises consisted of a counter facing the street, behind which three men filled the warm rolls and poured out wine. There was no seating, so everyone stood in the street munching and sipping. I wonder whether Australian licensing laws have caught up.

Because I've always wanted a small bookshop, I might also stock a few random books: favourite cookbooks, children's story books, and cosy detective novels – all good to read over soup. Or perhaps I'd just have them there for customers to thumb through; I haven't quite decided. While having books to read would make it the sort of place I'd want to go, it would also make people linger, and with such a small shop that might be a problem.

As for décor, perhaps I'd paint the interior the colour of rich pumpkin soup. And I'd want a few herb boxes on the footpath, overflowing with parsley and marjoram and thyme; the mingled scents would make everything eaten there taste better. I could put up a few soupy quotes around the place, preferably cross-stitched – I'm not afraid of kitsch – and the crockery would really need to be that heavy brown English stoneware from the 1970's.

Such a shop would almost certainly run at a loss, but since my husband owns a business, we could set my losses against his profits and pay less tax.

You see? So many things to think about – and so much easier than writing a literature review!

What follows is a winter soup, good to eat on a cold night. A slice of heavy rye bread, thickly buttered, would go nicely on the side.

Cabbage, Potato, White Bean and Caraway Soup - 125g bacon rashers, chopped into little squares - a big knob of unsalted butter - 1 large onion, chopped - 1 tsp caraway seeds - ½ tsp dried thyme or a few sprigs of fresh thyme - 500g white cabbage, shredded - 750g yellow potatoes, chopped into bite-sized pieces - 1 can cannellini beans, drained and rinsed - 5 cups chicken stock or water - sea salt Warm the butter in a large soup pot. Cook the bacon until it is crisp. Remove the bacon with a slotted spoon and reserve. Throw the onion into the pot, and cook until soft. Add the caraway seeds and thyme and cook for a few minutes. Add the cabbage and cook until it has wilted. Add the potatoes, cannellini beans, bacon and enough stock or water to just cover the other ingredients. Bring to a simmer. Cover slightly, and cook for 45 minutes to an hour, or until the potatoes are tender. Check for seasoning. Serve. Note: For a vegetarian version, omit the bacon, use vegetable stock (preferable one made with dried mushrooms) and add a second can of cannellini beans. Adapted from a recipe found in the very useful Ultimate Cook Book. (Local: potatoes, cabbage, bacon, thyme, onion. Not local: butter, caraway seeds, cannellini beans.)

 

Potatoes Za’tar

 

The people in this house form a very complicated Venn diagram when it comes to food preferences. One will eat fish, but not meat; one will eat chicken, but no other meat or fish bar canned tuna. One will eat potatoes; two scream if anything like a potato appears on the table. Four will eat bread and pasta, but one (me) has discovered that gluten is at the root of all her health problems. And so it goes.

Which is why I am so grateful for small things, like za'tar. It is one of the few foods that every person in the house absolutely loves. Spelled zatar, za'tar, za'atar and goodness knows how many other ways, it can refer to a herb (variously oregano, marjoram, thyme, hyssop or another herb) and also to a spice mix made with one or a combination of those herbs. The spice mix, which is what we love, contains za'tar herbs, toasted sesame seeds and salt; and sometimes also sumac.

 

If you've ever eaten Lebanese pizza crusted with oregano and sesame, that's za'tar. We buy the mix by the scoop out of a bin at the local middle eastern importers. The easiest way to eat it is to dip bread in olive oil, then in the za'tar, rather as one eats dukkah.

It's also a great way to spice up leftover pita. I mix one part zatar with one part olive oil, smear the paste on pita triangles, then pop them in the oven for a few minutes or until the zatar is bubbling. Eaten warm or cold, it makes a great snack for hungry kids. Za'tar is rumoured to be brain food, so bread and za'tar is a good choice for breakfast on a school day, or just before doing homework!

Lately, too, I've been eating za'tar on potatoes. Smearing potatoes with olive oil and za'tar, then baking them, has proved to be very simple and delicious. And if the potatoes are served alongside pita za'tar for the kids then, in an unusual feeling of unity necessary for my sense of family wellbeing, our Venn circles do, in a small way, very slightly overlap.

Potatoes Za'tar - six medium sized potatoes - 2 tbs za'tar - 2 tbs olive oil Preheat the oven to 180°C (350°F). Wash the potatoes and peel if necessary. Halve the potatoes lengthwise, or slice them into inch thick rounds. Place the potatoes into a steamer basket. Steam for seven to eight minutes or until a knife slips in easily. Remove from the heat. Mix the za'tar and olive oil in a small bowl. Place the potatoes on a baking tray, then smear them with the za'tar mix. Pop them in the oven and bake for 15 to 20 minutes, or until the edges of the potatoes are turning golden and the za'tar is well and truly bubbling. (Victoria: potatoes, olive oil. From many miles away but you don't need much: za'tar.)

Clove Scented Onions

 

My two favourite restaurant names are the New Wind, which serves Thai and Vietnamese food to its lucky patrons in Windsor; and the Sha Tin, serving up quality Chinese takeaway in Heathmont. Lately, after a spate of particularly bad cooking, I thought of the latter; it felt like more than one meal originated in the Sha Tin kitchen.

I admit this only because three people who really should know better have told me recently that they think cooking for me is intimidating. So I'd like to share some home truths.

I started this blog partly because churning out countless meals day after day for largely ungrateful small children had robbed me of any joy in the act of cooking. I thought that writing about the good things we ate might help sustain me through the infuriating claim I hear most days: 'no like it'.

There are still many times when I am careless, misguided or just plain uninspired in the kitchen. Last week was particularly bad, like something out of a fairy tale. I suspect I offended an evil spirit, because everything I touched turned to sand.

One night, dinner was well underway. The kids were bickering and generally so annoying that I hid in the laundry with the laptop and checked my emails while dinner cooked. I was returned to earth by the smell of burning. I managed to salvage a third of the beans, which I served as 'smoky'; but all the vegies, even the mustard greens I had picked earlier from the garden, had to go to the great compost heap in the sky.

A day or two later, I bought 'cheap' bananas to make smoothies. We had some rice milk in the fridge, so I whizzed it up with the bananas, some cocoa and a little almond meal, and poured each child a lovely foaming cup. Each child took a great gulp... each angelic face contorted demonically, and each pair of legs hotfooted it to the bathroom where I heard a frenzy of spitting, gargling, and tooth brushing. And that is how I learned that rice milk doesn't last more than three days in the refrigerator, and when it goes off, it seems to smell fine. It just tastes absolutely mouth-searingly gut-wrenchingly disgusting.

I also served up mouldy hommus; chicory so bitter it turned my stomach; and rocks of undercooked beetroot. Even the meals that weren't unmitigated disasters were largely uninspired, consisting of, for the most part, what one friend calls 'adulterated beans'.

Yet there have been glimmers of hope. The other day I had potatoes and sweet red onions from a local farm in the pantry. So I decided on an easy meal: baked potatoes and caramelized onions, with salad and adulterated beans on the side.

I wanted the onions to be rich, so I cooked them in a good slosh of olive oil and flavoured them with cloves. The result was unctuous and deeply flavoured, a perfect match for the mealy potatoes.

How is it that something so absolutely simple can be so incredibly delicious?, I wondered – and it was so easy, even I didn't stuff it up.

And yet in the spirit of full disclosure I must admit that, in the long run, even this meal wasn't entirely successful. It may have been delicious; it may have been easy; it may have been economical, but eating a multitude of fried onions has some after effects: this is not the thing for date night. Rather, it's a meal to be enjoyed in the privacy of one's own home, without guests, and preferably when you're happy to leave a few windows open. While it's not Sha Tin, New Wind just about covers it.

Potatoes Stuffed with Clove Scented Onions - 4 baking potatoes - 4 large red onions - ½ tsp ground cloves, or more to taste - 4 tbs olive oil - good salt Heat the oven to 200°C. Scrub the potatoes, dry them and prick them with a fork. Place them directly onto the oven rack. Leave to bake for 1 to 1½ hours, or until the skins are papery and the insides perfectly cooked. Halve the onions stem to stern, then slice them into half moons ½ cm wide. Warm the oil in a wide heavy based skillet set over medium heat. Add the cloves, the onions, and a hefty pinch of salt and stir well to ensure the onions are evenly coated. Turn down the heat and leave them to cook for thirty minutes or so, until they are a dark golden brown. Do not let them dry out. You may need to shove them around with a wooden spoon from time to time to prevent them from sticking. Serve piled into the baked potatoes, or tossed through pasta, draped over steak or anywhere else you can think of. A tangle of peppery rocket on the side is a nice complement. (Local: potatoes, onions, olive oil. Not so local: cloves, salt.)

Kale Soup, Winter 2011

I once frequented a hairdresser in a trendy strip. He told me that, despite specialising in dreadlocks and mohawks and very short haircuts for girls, a tiny older woman came in once a month to have a blue rinse. That particular shopfront had been a hair salon for more than forty years, and she saw no reason to go somewhere else just because the owners had changed and the ethos shifted. So my hairdresser kept a supply of blue rinse chemicals on hand for her, and hoped and prayed that nobody else ever found out that he did them.

Being someone who is fairly oblivious to fashion, I found it rather touching. I loved the idea of my hairdresser, a muscular skinhead, carefully tinting a tight white perm to the perfect shade of blue. After all, I am probably going the same way as his customer, insisting that my current hairdresser keep my hair in a certain edgy crop years about a decade after it has lost its edge. Apparently I am now supposed to have it thick and top heavy, but having done that in my early twenties, I'm comfortably past that. In fact, I keep finding myself wanting to compliment young waiters and bartenders on their pinching high-waisted acid wash jeans and rolled brim hats; after all, I wore all that that when I was a teenager. Their clothes makes me happy in a sentimental sort of way.

As much as I am no longer au fait with current fashions, or at least choose to ignore them, I do have trends when it comes to cooking. The silhouette of my trousers may be fairly constant, and my hair has barely changed since 2003, but I have changed my preferences for soup. Last year I enjoyed my version of the ribollita served by our landlady in Tuscany many years ago, a sort of wet compost. But this year my tastes have changed. I no longer want a blended soup thickened with bread; instead, I yearn for kale soup with firm vegetables, separate and distinct. I've also become a purist, wanting only cavolo nero, or Tuscan black kale. When cooked, black kale has a rich sweet flavour that I love.

So this is what I'm eating in the winter of 2011. It draws from Skye Gyngell's recipe in her lovely book, My Favourite Ingredients, but as usual I make my own departures.

Kale Soup, Winter 2011 -200g dried cannellini beans, soaked overnight - 3 small brown onions, chopped - 3 cloves garlic, flattened with the side of a knife and roughly chopped - 2 large potatoes, peeled and chopped - 1 bulb celeriac - 4 smallish carrots - 1 can tomatoes - a big bunch of cavolo nero (that long skinny black kale) - 150g stellini (tiny star shaped pasta; I used wholemeal spelt stellini, but use whatever makes you happy) - salt, pepper - parmesan (totally optional) Drain the soaked beans in a colander. Place them into a big saucepan and cover them well with cold water. Bring to the boil, then lower the heat and simmer for 1 to 1½ hours, or until they are soft but not falling apart. Salt, and set aside. Warm a good slosh of olive oil in a soup pot. Add the onions and a pinch of salt, and cook over medium heat until translucent. Add the garlic and the celeriac, carrots and potatoes. Cook until the vegetables turn glossy, then add the tomatoes. Mix well, turn the heat right down, clap the lid on and leave to cook for twenty minutes. Remove the thick stems of the kale and chop the leaves coarsely. When the other vegetables are done, add the kale, the cannellini beans and about a litre of water – just enough to cover. Replace the lid, and cook gently for 45 minutes to an hour, or until the vegetables are really soft. Meanwhile, bring a pot of water to the boil (I used the bean pot to save on washing up). Salt, throw in the stellini and cook until barely done, perhaps a minute less than the instructions say. Drain and toss the stellini with a drizzle of olive oil and set aside. When the soup veggies are soft and you are ready to eat, throw the stellini into the soup, warm them, and serve. A bit of parmesan grated over the top is nice, as is an extra drizzle of bright green olive oil and some freshly ground pepper. (Local: kale, potatoes, onions, celeriac, carrots. Victorian: salt. From infuriatingly many miles away: parmesan, pepper, dried white beans, canned tomatoes (I never did get round to canning tomatoes last summer dammit, and could someone please tell me why is it so hard to get organically grown dried white beans and canned tomatoes from Victoria?)

Orange and Saffron Scented Vegetables

So much of vegetarian cooking is about seeing an interesting meat dish, then working out if it could be done otherwise. But every now and then I have a vegetarian recipe, and I find myself thinking about adding a little flesh.

Deborah Madison provides a delicious recipe for what she cheerfully describes as a 'failed fisherman's soup'. Her recipe was inspired by a bouillabaisse which did, indeed, contain fish. And while her version is wonderful, a few mussels make it perfect.

Mussels or not, the bouillabaisse is accompanied by a garlicky mayonnaise. Madison suggests making rouille, that is, spicy garlic mayonnaise flecked with cayenne. However, the little people in my household don't like hot flavours, so I made plain old aioli – garlic mayonnaise – instead.

Orange and Saffron Scented Vegetables aka Not Bouillabaisse - 1 kg potatoes - 1 leek, chopped finely - 1 onion, cut into wedges ½ inch thick - 2 cloves garlic - 3 pinches saffron threads - the zest of half an orange, finely chopped - 2 bay leaves - 1 cup white wine - 1 large or 2 small bulbs fennel, halved lengthwise, then sliced into wedges joined at the root - a handful of white mushrooms, quartered - 1 can chopped tomatoes - 10 stems flat-leaf parsley, chopped - 1-2 tbs fennel tops, finely chopped - 15 black olives, pitted - olive oil Boil the kettle. While it is heating, peel the potatoes and halve them lengthwise. Slice the lengths into quarters or sixths, depending on their size. Pour the water into a pot, add the potatoes, and boil for five minutes. Drain. Warm some olive oil in a wide skillet. Add the leek and the onion, along with a dash of salt. Sauté for a few minutes, then add the garlic, saffron, orange zest and bay leaves. Cook for a few minutes more, pushing it around with a wooden spoon to ensure the garlic doesn't catch and burn. When the leek and onion are beginning to soften, add the wine. Bring to a simmer, and let it reduce slightly. Add the potatoes, the fennel, the mushrooms, the can of chopped tomatoes, half the parsley and the olives. Cover, reduce heat, and leave to stew for half an hour or until you can slip the point of a knife into the base of the fennel. Stir in the rest of the parsley and the fennel tops. Remove from the heat, and serve with a bowl of aioli on the side. Best eaten tepid rather than hot. Note: Near the end, you can throw in half a kilo of cleaned mussels. Clap on the lid, raise the heat, and let them steam for five minutes. Remove the lid, and, if many mussels remain closed, push them around with your spoon, replace the lid, and steam for another three minutes. Check again, and discard any that are still closed. Strew the parsley and fennel tops over the dish, and serve immediately. The mussels will have released a briny liquid into the stew, so go easy on the salt. Tweaked from a recipe by Deborah Madison in The Savory Way. (Local: potatoes, leek, onion, garlic, orange, bay leaf, wine, fennel, mushrooms, parsley, mussels if used. Not local: saffron, tomatoes (unless you canned your own last summer), olives, salt.)

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.)

Tuna Hash and a Poached Egg

There are some things I just cannot do. Touch my toes, speak French, or make potato pancakes. When I make potato pancakes, they rarely form a nice cake at the bottom; or if they do, they collapse when I come to turn them. But in my defeat I've decided that I'm good at hash: chunky, messy, and crisply golden.

Another thing I'm not so good at is gardening. I like the idea; I keep giving it a shot. But then we get sick or busy, the weeds take over, and I lose hope. A few months ago I gave up on the potatoes, sure that they wouldn't amount to anything much. But this week, after I pulled out the broad beans – which this person of little faith planted on top of the tatie trench – I began digging out some intrusive couch grass. As I dug, to my surprise I discovered taties the size of my fist – sixty of them!

Unfortunately, because I didn't expect them, by the time they were discovered I had impaled a dozen of them on the gardening fork, further proof I'm a rotten gardener.

With a sack of stabbed potatoes, a carton of backyard eggs, and three hungry kids, I found myself dreaming of hash. In an American diner, they're usually cooked with beef or pork and topped with a fried egg. However, we don't cook red meat and I don't like fried eggs.

But in a funny little second hand cookbook, I found another idea. The book is the hilarious Take a Tin of Tuna (yes, it's slightly nauseating if you look at it too long), and includes a recipe for tuna hash. While it wasn't exactly what I was looking for, by the time I had fiddled with the proportions and changed a few ingredients, I ended up with something truly satisfying. The tuna met my need for something unctuous and meaty mixed in with the potatoes, and was even enough to get my four year old, who mostly hates taties, to eat a plateful.

Of course, if you're concerned about the overfishing of tuna and your four year old will eat another form of protein, you might make it not with tuna but with a few thick slices of bacon, chopped and fried with the onions. Or leave out the meat and stud it with salty feta or grilled haloumi just before serving.

Tuna Hash and a Poached Egg - 1 kg potatoes - several tablespoons olive oil - 2 or 3 shallots, or 1 onion, sliced finely into half moons - 3 spring onions, finely sliced including some green bits - 1 cup peas - 425g can tuna (or 2 thick rashers of bacon or a slab of haloumi or perhaps some feta...) - 3 or so stalks flat-leaf parsley (optional), chopped - 6 eggs, or however many your household needs Peel the potatoes (or not) and cut into rough 1cm dice. Bring a pot of water to the boil. Blanch the peas for a minute, then scoop them out with a slotted spoon. Set aside. Add the potatoes to the boiling water, and boil for 5 to 7 minutes, or until barely cooked. Drain and set aside. Warm several tablespoons of olive oil in a large heavy skillet. Add the shallots (or the onion), and cook over medium heat until tender. Add the spring onions, potatoes, peas and tuna and stir to combine. Cook for 5 to 10 minutes, pressing down with a spatula from time to time to encourage golden bits. While it's cooking, boil the kettle, pour the water into another wide skillet and bring to a very gentle simmer, that is, water in which a tiny bubble rises once or twice a second. Run the spatula around the potatoes, turning them over and roughing them up. Cook for another 5 to 10 minutes, or until you have lots of golden crispy bits or you're just too hungry to wait any longer. Meanwhile, poach your eggs* in the other skillet. To do this, break an egg into a shallow coffee cup. Gently slide it into the barely simmering water, and repeat until you have a ring of eggs. Poach for four to six minutes, or until the white is set but the yolk is deliciously runny. The time will depend on the size of your eggs. Place a good helping of hash on each plate, and top with poached eggs. Sprinkle with chopped parsley and pass the pepper. *Note: This method of poaching works perfectly with very fresh backyard eggs; pretty well with fresh organic eggs; but it's somewhat messy with stale supermarket eggs. You could always soft boil them instead. Inspired by a recipe in Joie Warner's Take a Tin of Tuna. (Backyard: potatoes, eggs, parsley. Local: olive oil, shallots, spring onions, peas, and possibly bacon. Not very eco or local: tuna.)

Pea and Potato Frittata

Another weeknight, and I'm sick of the usual. So I looked up Nigella and found something do-able: a pea and potato frittata. But her recipe doesn't have enough veggies for me, so I doubled this and halved that, added some herbs, and called it dinner.

Nigella's recipe calls for the onion to be diced before it's sautéed. I don't like little squares of onion in my eggs, but for some reason I don't mind shreds. In any case, I think onions taste sweeter when they're cut into half moons, so I sliced my onion instead.

I also added marjoram to give it a lovely velvety sweetness. If you don't grow marjoram, a little thyme would go nicely with the potatoes and onions; or you could always use that infinitely versatile herb, flat-leaf parsley.

I served a robust winter salad of beets and carrots on the side, and between the softness of the egg and potatoes, and the crunchiness of the salad, it all came out rather nicely!

Potato and Pea Frittata - 1 onion, halved and thinly sliced into half moons - 200g potatoes, peeled and diced small - 150g frozen peas - 8 eggs - 1 tbs marjoram, chopped - a generous handful of grated parmesan - salt, pepper - olive oil Place the diced potatoes in a saucepan of cold water. Bring to the boil, and simmer for 5 or 6 minutes, then drain. Boil the kettle. Place the peas in a bowl, pour the boiling water over them, and leave them to soften. Warm a good drizzle of olive oil in a wide skillet. Fry the onion until it softens, then add the potatoes and cook for 7 or 8 minutes. Don't brown the veggies, just let them cook through. Drain the peas and add them to the skillet. Cook for a few more minutes, then remove the vegetables to a bowl. Turn on your griller. Break the eggs into a bowl and whisk. Season, and add the marjoram and parmesan. Add the vegetables and stir to combine. Reheat the skillet with another drizzle of oil, if necessary. When it is good and hot, pour in the egg mixture – it should immediately frill around the edges. Turn down the heat and cook at medium heat for 7 or 8 minutes, running a flexible spatula under it from time to time to prevent it from sticking. When it is mostly set, but the top is still runny, place it under the griller for a minute or two. It is done when the top puffs slightly. Remove from the heat. Run a flexible spatula underneath it, hold a large plate against the pan, and flip! Sprinkle with extra herbs, and serve. This tastes best tepid. My husband ate it with beetroot relish on the side. Adapted from a recipe by Nigella Lawson in Forever Summer. (Local: onions, potatoes, eggs, marjoram, olive oil. Not local: peas, salt, pepper, parmesan.)

Tuna Steaks with Salsa Verde

 

In an extraordinary boon to our local eating, a friend of ours caught a 122 kilogram tuna last weekend! So we have been the grateful recipients of some spectacularly fresh fish.

Tuna has very dense flesh – it's more like meat than fish. It goes well with strong flavours and grills beautifully.

So, because I'm a cooking coward, we didn't make sashimi. Instead, I seared the tuna on a cast iron grill pan and served it with Salsa Verde. The interior of the tuna was ruby red, softening out to a lighter pink near the surface. The grill lines gave the exterior a lovely texture and taste, and the whole just melted in my mouth.

It was so good, even my kids ate it. Or was it the Salsa Verde that they liked? Possibly - they slathered Salsa Verde everywhere, even over the easy peasy potato wedges that I served on the side.

Tuna Steaks with Salsa Verde - one or two tuna steaks, about an inch thick (ask the fishmonger about the provenance of the fish, or make a fishing friend. You can also download a sustainable seafood guide here.) - large bunch of flat-leaf parsley - some mint - 2 or 3 cornichons - 1 tbs capers - 6 to 8 anchovies - 1 tsp Dijon mustard - 1 clove garlic - the juice of a lemon (red wine vinegar is traditional, but it's lovely with lemon and lemons are local) - olive oil - extra lemon, to serve Heat the griddle pan. While it is heating, throw the ingredients for Salsa Verde into a food processor. Add a slosh of olive oil and whizz until combined – a little nubble is fine. Taste and adjust for sharpness, and season. (Of course, you can always chop the herbs, cornichons, capers, anchovies and garlic by hand, then stir in the mustard, lemon and olive oil.) Rub the tuna with salt and oil, and place on the very hot grill. Leave for four minutes. Flip the tuna carefully and cook on the other side for 2 minutes if you like it very rare (recommended), 3 minutes if you like just a thread of pinkness (still pretty good), and 4 minutes if you want it to taste like canned tuna (to which I say, what's the point?). Serve immediately with the Salsa Verde and some extra lemon wedges on the side. (Backyard: parsley, mint, lemon. Local: tuna, garlic. Non-local: cornichons, capers, anchovies, Dijon, salt.)

Potato Wedges

Potatoes, potatoes, potatoes. We live in potato country, and these days I'm eating more than my share of them, mostly in wedges. You see, most evenings at half past five I suddenly realise I should have started making dinner already. But it's too late to bake potatoes, and my kids HATE mash, so I slice them up and make wedges instead.

It's the easiest and most palatable way to cook potatoes that I know. They come out of the oven crisp on the outside, and clouds of fluff inside. Perfect! And as long as there's some Salsa Verde, pesto or some other herby sauce to dip them in, even my four year old will eat them.

Potato Wedges potatoes olive oil salt Pre-heat the oven to 200C. Slice the potatoes lengthwise into thick spears. Toss the spears with olive oil in a bowl, and scatter over a baking tray. Bake for 20 minutes. Remove from the oven, flip each spear, then bake for another 10 minutes by which time they should be beautifully golden and crisp on the outside, and mealy on the inside. Toss with salt, and serve immediately. (Local: potatoes, olive oil. Non-local: salt.)

Root Vegetable Soup

It was a grey old Saturday morning and I needed a little comfort food. Rolling around in our crisper were turnips, carrots, pumpkin, and a lone parsnip. What on earth could I do with a single parsnip, and a surfeit of root vegetables? Turn them into soup, of course!

The parsnip and carrots made it oh so sweet, balancing out the white pepper note of the turnips.

We had a little double cream leftover in the fridge and added a dob to each bowl – but the soup was almost as delicious the next day even without the cream.

This soup freezes well. Whenever I make soup, I freeze any leftovers in individual portions – there's nothing like soup for lunch on a cold day!

Root Vegetable Soup - 2 tbs unsalted butter - 1 large onion, chopped - 2 large carrots, chopped - 1 kg other root vegetables – parsnip, pumpkin, turnips, swede, celeriac, rutabaga – peeled and chopped - 1 large potato, peeled and chopped - 2 litres water, veggie stock or chicken stock (I used homemade chicken stock made from the carcass of a roast chicken, onion, celery, carrot, bay and peppercorns) - 1 bay leaf - ½ cup parsley, finely chopped Melt the butter in a large pot over medium heat. Add the onions and bay leaf, and cook gently until the onions are translucent. Add the root veggies and sauté for 5 to 10 minutes until glistening. Pour in the stock and stir carefully, scraping up any veggies stuck to the bottom of the pan. Bring to a simmer, then cover and simmer gently until the veggies are quite soft, 30 to 45 minutes. Remove the bay leaf. Process the soup in a food processor or large blender, and return it to the pot. Add the parsley, season, and serve. Adapted from The Ultimate Cook Book: 900 New Recipes, Thousands of Ideas by Bruce Weinstein and Mark Scarbrough. (Backyard: bay leaf, parsley. Local: onion, carrot, potato, other root veggies. Somewhere in Victoria: butter.)