Nettle Soup

 

Once in a moment of supreme confidence, the sun warming my back and a light breeze whispering in my ear, I grasped a nettle firmly with my bare hand. As the old English rhyme goes,

Tender-handed stroke a nettle,
And it stings you for your pains;
Grasp it like a man of mettle,
And it soft as silk remains

'Tis the same with common natures:
Use 'em kindly, they rebel;
But be rough as nutmeg-graters,
And the rogues obey you well.

• Aaron Hill (1685-1750)
  

Perhaps this rhyme holds true for soft, often rained-upon English nettles; or perhaps I, quite simply, lacked mettle. Either way, I'm sorry to report that I yelped, and spent the next half hour picking practically invisible stinging hairs out of my palm. So much for English folklore.

Another piece of folklore is that dock leaves will calm a nettle's sting; and where nettles grow, so will you find dock. I'm not sure, however, that English dock grows in Australia, and indigenous dock is rarely to be seen near a nettle patch; - and I don't think it works anyway.

Thus I advise you to pick your nettles carefully, with rubber gloves. At this time of year, when I'm going near my favourite nettle patch (that is, at kinder drop off), I have been known to slip my gardening gloves into my bag ready to glean. I may look eccentric, but picking nettles in a public place has certainly led to many interesting conversations; most recently, such a chat led someone to refer me to a prolific prickly pear cactus leaning over a nearby laneway, which I will check out this summer with gratitude.

As I was preparing this, I left a bowl of dusty nettles soaking in the sink. My cousin wandered in and plucked some out for a nibble, unaware. I gasped but, lucky her, she picked out young shoots and felt the sting only as a little heat in her mouth. The stings dissolve with cooking, but if you are making this soup, you would do well to advise any visiting cousins to keep their hands to themselves until all is cooked.

As for why you would make it, let me list the reasons: local, sustainable, economical, useful; also, nutritional. Nettles are so full of vitamins and minerals that several saints – Celtic Christian and Tibetan Buddhist – survived on nothing but nettle soup for many years; you might as well get some of that goodness for yourself.

Nettles do have a very strong green flavour, which I and my cousin rather like, but others may find it a little challenging. I have discovered, however, that if there is a fresh banana coconut cake cooling on the bench, young children will demolish their bowl of soup with scarcely a demurral, so desperate are they for some cakey goodness. A word to the wise...

Nettle Soup - at least 500g stinging nettles - 3 fist-sized potatoes (I used Dutch cream) - 2 tbs butter (or use all olive oil if you prefer) - 2 tbs olive oil - 1 onion - 3 sticks celery - 3 cloves garlic - 750ml stock (chicken or vegetable) - extra virgin olive oil or yogurt, to serve - salt Don a pair of rubber gloves, and strip the nettle leaves from the stalks. Wash well in several changes of water. Peel and chop the potatoes. Place them into a bowl containing a cup of water so that (a) they don't brown and (b) you get a starchy water to thicken the soup. Warm the olive oil in a soup pot. Add the onion, and cook gently until it is translucent. Add the celery and garlic, and cook until soft. Throw in the potatoes and their starchy water, and the stock. Bring to the boil, then turn down to a simmer and cook until the potatoes are very soft. Add the nettles and cook for a few more minutes. Remove the soup from the heat and allow to cool slightly. Blend in batches until it is velvety. Check for salt. Serve with a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil, or a dollop of yogurt, or just as is. Most recipes for nettle and potato soup follow similar lines. I adapted this from a recipe in Tobie Puttock's Italian Local, which includes the excellent suggestion of using the potato water to thicken the soup. (Melbourne region: nettles, potatoes, celery. Geelong: onion. Grampians: olive oil. Gippsland: yogurt. No more specific than Victoria: garlic, butter, salt. Mixed sources: chicken stock.)

Plum Clafouti with Almond Meal

 

Ah, the British. We take what we want, we twist it out of all recognition, then we claim it as our own. As genocidal as this pattern has been for other cultures, on the plus side it has led to some great food. Kedgeree is one classic example; chicken tikka masala is quite probably another, although there is some debate over whether it was invented in Glasgow or Delhi.

The recipe which follows is a third. Made with cherries and white flour, we could call it 'clafoutis', or, more commonly in English, 'clafouti'. Made with other fruit and white flour, we'd properly call it a 'flaugnarde'. But gluten intolerant arrogant English bastardiser that I am, I make it with plums and almond meal – and I have no idea what I should call the resultant dish! Yet like a typically imperious colonialist, and because many of you are at least vaguely familiar with clafouti and will get a general idea of the nature of the dish from the use of the word, I will continue to refer to it as such. It certainly sounds better than 'soft eggy plum pudding thingy'.

Whatever it should be called, this dish is perfect for a sunny Sunday breakfast in the early spring when the chickens are back on the lay, and a few bottles of plums remain in the preserves cupboard. I've used much more fruit than is usually indicated because I wanted every bite to drip with plums; the batter does little more than bind the plums together.

Almond meal replaces regular flour, as almonds and plums are a delightful match. Between the extra fruit and the almond meal, the dish is much more moist than a regular clafouti, but the resulting heaviness is very satisfying: it will ward off any winter chills which still wreath through the morning air. If, however, you want a lighter clafouti, reduce the amount of fruit and replace some of the almond meal with coconut flour; click here for a more standard recipe.

Plum Clafouti with Almond Meal - unsalted butter - approximately 2 cups quartered bottled plums, or fresh plums quartered and lightly stewed (this is the equivalent of a Fowlers #20 Jar; for notes on bottling plums, click here - 4 eggs - 1¼ cups almond meal - 1¼ cups milk (low fat is fine) - 1 tbs sugar - 1/2 tsp proper vanilla essence (none of that thin chemical stuff) - a pinch of salt Preheat the oven to 180°C. Grease a 24cm porcelain tart dish. Drain the fruit well. Drink the juice if you like; it's rather yummy. Place the other ingredients into a food processor or blender. Whizz until all is light and frothy. Pour the batter into the greased dish, then gently spoon the plums over the batter. Slip into the oven, and bake for 35 to 40 minutes or until it is golden. Serve warm or cold. Adapted from a formula by Mollie Katzen in the now out of print Still Life with Menu. (Local: plums, eggs, milk. Not local: butter, sugar, almond meal, vanilla essence, salt.)

Cashew Cream with Rosewater and Pistachios

 

One of the most scrumptious treats you can possibly eat is znoud el sit: a blob of clotted cream wrapped in filo pastry, deep fried, drowned in rosewater and sugar syrup, and sprinkled with pistachios. It’s just the thing for a mid afternoon pick me up when partnered with a very strong short black, or three.

Arabic speaking friends told me the name translates to ‘ladies’ arm muscle’ which I understood to be some sexy little bicep, and I have spent many a lazy afternoon downing pastries and coffee, dreaming of Scheherazade and marble screens, the buzz of the harem, and scented orange groves alive with elegant fountains.

However, in the interests of this post I have just spent a few disillusioning minutes on the internet, discovering that znoud el sit might more properly be translated as ‘fat ladies’ arms’ or even ‘underarm of the grandmother’. So much for toned biceps. Yet on mature reflection I must admit that, in texture, znoud el sit do in fact somewhat evoke the droopy bit that dangles under one’s arm, commonly known in these parts as a fedoobedah – and so this ultimate comfort food, a soft yielding pastry scented with rosewater, is indeed remarkably reminiscent of a powdery old lady who might just give you a hug.

You can buy these evil delectable treats at Balha’s, 761 Sydney Road, Brunswick. Balha’s was once a tiny hole in the wall kind of shop; now it is a temple to Lebanese pastry stocking pistachio barma, ma’mul maad (dates in semolina) and dozens of other spectacular treats. If you’re not too worried about your waistline, you absolutely must visit. Just don’t go during Ramadan or Eid, or you’ll be in line for hours.

I live way too close to Balha’s for safety; like a drowning woman, I hold fast to the idea that resisting temptation makes one stronger. And as I have no wish to become the sort of woman whose fedoobedahs remind everyone of pastry, whether by their appearance or by their suggestion of how much pastry I have in fact eaten, I resist the siren call, and instead have looked for a way to pay homage to znoud el sit, indulgence in which won’t require open heart surgery.

One night recently, as we were eating cashew cream piled over bottled fruit, I found myself thinking about the texture of the cream in znoud el sit... and inspiration struck.

The next evening, I made a cashew cream flavoured with rosewater and chopped pistachios, and we demolished it in minutes. It was spectacular. Understand, this is not mock clotted cream; it is, however, a Very Good Thing in itself, and my kind of homage. Even better, this cream is gluten free, lactose free, sugar free and vegan – about the opposite end of the food spectrum to znoud el sit. It’s not, alas, local or seasonal; but I’ve been serving it with last year’s bottled plums from the tree, both those in red wine and those in a light sugar syrup, and I figure that’s a good enough excuse to post it here.

Cashew Cream with Rosewater and Pistachios - 1 1/2 cups raw cashews - 2 tbs agave syrup - sea salt - rosewater, to taste - a small handful of raw unsalted pistachios, chopped, to serve Place the cashews into a bowl and cover them with water. Leave to soak for two or so hours. Drain and rinse. Place the cashews into a blender with the agave syrup, a good pinch of salt, and 1/4 cup water and whizz like billy-o, or until it is completely smooth. Add the rosewater. Start with half a teaspoon, and add more little by little until it tastes good to you. Add a little more water if you want a thinner cream. Scrape into a bowl or dish. Sprinkle with chopped pistachios. (Local: salt. Fair trade: agave syrup. Organic: cashews. Nothing too ethical, but you don’t need much: rosewater, pistachios.)

Background image of roses from Botanica's Roses.

Nettles

No one
but me in a quiet

Nowhere
that empty square
between fence and curb and

Nothing
grows just weeds and dirt but

Know-how
whispers, Dinner.

Stinging Nettle and Borage Tart

 

One of our most memorable meals came about spontaneously. We were at the Vic Markets with a friend when we saw big bunches of borage. ‘I once saw a recipe for borage and stinging nettle ravioli,’ I said. 'Oh?' said my friend, 'There are lots of stinging nettles at the property...' - his country block about an hour's drive out of Melbourne. There was a moment’s pause, then we looked at each other and grinned.

It was time for a day trip. We bought the borage and some ricotta; we bought provisions for a picnic; and then we headed up to North Blackwood, sat ourselves atop our favourite ridge, and ate lunch. After a necessary snooze, we wandered down the hill with rubber gloves and shopping bags and picked stinging nettles.

 

Much, much later, we drove back to Melbourne. There, we whipped up our ravioli in a matter of hours, and sat down to a spectacular and quite possibly very drunken dinner some time close to midnight.

The things you do when you have no kids.

And yet last week, as I was walking between kinder and school, I found a patch of stinging nettles growing on a verge in a quiet street. The shoots were vibrantly green, bursting with health, and I remembered our long-ago dinner with a smile.

Despite having no gloves I grasped the nettle, so to speak. I always carry a bag for spontaneous gleaning, and so I carefully wrapped the young tips of the nettles in the fabric of the bag and pinched them off, clump by clump. One or two stings were enough to remind me I was alive; bag full, I headed off to school with the makings of dinner, a happy memory and a whistle.

Stinging Nettle and Borage Tart For the pastry - 120g plain flour (I used spelt; I’ve also used White Wings GF flour which has turned out good enough for ordinary mortals, if not for a French pastry chef.) - 60g unsalted butter - 3 tbs cold water - pinch salt For the filling - 200g stinging nettle tops (before they have gone to seed) - 200g borage leaves - a handful of sweet marjoram, if it grows in your garden - 150g cheddar cheese - 6 eggs - 1 ½ cups milk (low fat is fine) - a sprinkling of pine nuts (optional, but good) - 100g sea salt, pepper Make the pastry: (This is exactly the same base as Onion Tart.) Place the flour, a pinch of salt and the butter in a food processor. Process for 30 seconds, or until the butter and flour are incorporated; there will be no loose flour flying around. Add the water a tablespoon at a time, and process for another 30 seconds to a minute or until the mixture resembles tiny soft pebbles. Flour the bench and a rolling pin. Tip the pastry onto the bench, and gently form into a flat disc with your hands. Roll it out, rolling from the centre to the edge and turning 90 degrees between each roll, until it fits your dish. (Mine is 25cm in diameter.) Drape the pastry over the rolling pin and lift it carefully into the dish. Pat into place. Trim the edges. Place the dish into the freezer, and leave it there until you need it. Preheat the oven to 180°C. Use kitchen scissors to snip the nettle leaves from their stems. Cut the thick stems from the borage. Boil a pot of water. Wash your greens well, and chop coarsely. Blanch the greens in several batches, cooking each batch for a minute then scooping it out to drain in a colander. Leave to cool. Grate the cheese. Beat the eggs lightly, then whisk in the milk and marjoram. Season. Remove the tart shell from the freezer. Spread the grated cheese over the base. Spoon the greens over the cheese, then gently pour in the egg mixture. Strew pine nuts over the top, if you wish, then slip the tart into the oven for 45 minutes or until the top is puffy and there is just a very slight wobble in the centre. Leave to cool for at least ten minutes, during which time it will set further. Serve with a crunchy sort of salad on the side. I am indebted to Jamie Oliver for the particular combination of stinging nettles, borage leaves and marjoram, which features in a ravioli recipe in The Naked Chef. (Backyard: borage, eggs, marjoram. Gleaned locally: stinging nettles. Locally sourced: milk. Not particularly local: flour, butter, cheese, pine nuts, salt, pepper.)

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.

Gluten Free Quick and Easy Concentrated Veggie Stock

 

What, you might well ask, is that jar of disgusting khaki paste in the photograph?

Is it some sort of slop fed to babies, or the results that come out several hours later? Is it a particularly ugly parsley pesto? Is it a raw vegan punishment for those who ate too much meat in a previous life?

No, my friends, it is none of these things. Instead, it is pure genius: concentrated veggie stock.

I often make my own liquid veggie stock, a golden brew simmered for hours and stored in the freezer in cup-sized portions for later use. But there are times when I need flavour without liquid; and that’s when I turn to this concentrated stock.

It has none of the metallic overtones of commercial veggie stocks, none of the gluten, and no MSG. It’s just veggies and herbs cooked to a paste and preserved with a bucket of salt. Start with a tablespoon or so, added to curries, soups or stews, then add more if needed.

Thanks to Mandi who told me about it, and her brother Simon who had the flash of pure genius. I should add that they both put a tomato in their stock, but at this time of the year, when tomatoes come from Whoop-Whoop, I leave it out.

Gluten Free Quick and Easy Concentrated Veggie Stock - 2 carrots, peeled and roughly chopped - 4 or 5 sticks of celery, leaves and all, roughly chopped - 1 onion, peeled and roughly chopped - 1 clove garlic, peeled - 5 mushrooms, roughly chopped - a big bunch of parsley, including the smaller stems, roughly chopped - an inch or so of rosemary, needles stripped from the stem - a sprig of thyme - 2 bay leaves - olive oil - 100g sea salt Place all the veggies and herbs into a food processor or blender. Pulse-chop until it looks like pesto. Warm 2 tablespoons of olive oil in a saucepan. Scrape the whizzed veggies into the pan, and bring to a slow boil. Let it simmer for 15 to 20 minutes, or longer if you like (the longer you cook it, the deeper the flavour). Stir regularly to ensure it doesn’t stick. When it no longer smells like raw carrot juice and most of the liquid has evaporated, add the salt. Cook for a few more minutes, stirring constantly, until the salt has dissolved. Scrape it into a jar, and store it in your fridge. It keeps for weeks. Use a tablespoon or so where you would otherwise use a stock cube. (Miss Cleverpants (ie me) thought she’d turn it into stock cubes via an ice cube tray, but the salt prevents it from freezing. So keep it in a jar in the fridge as instructed. The salt will preserve it.) (Backyard: parsley, rosemary, thyme, bay. Melbourne outskirts: celery, garlic, mushrooms. Victoria: olive oil, salt. Somewhere in Australia: onion, carrots.)