Weekend Cooking: Making Couscous

 

Couscous with ratatouille is one of my favourite meals and I would happily eat it regularly just as those two components, although other people in my house aren't as keen so we normally have to add some kind of meat, other than lamb which is what I would normally have with it.

When I was read Half Truth by Nadia Mahjouri earlier this year, this passage really caught my attention for a couple of reasons. The first was that I had never once thought about how couscous is made. Here it is an easy starch that comes out of a packet. Just add boiling water and maybe some butter and then fluff it up with a fork.

The second reason was the sense of joy that comes from the passage. Zahra has only just met her Moroccan family and yet they are already building their relationships.

You can read my review of this fabulous book here. 

"Aujourd'hui, on est vendredi!" Fatiha says, eyes crinkling as she smiles. "It's Friday! Come, we make couscous. Amir, il dort? He is sleeping, no?" I nod.

I follow her to the kitchen - a small, tiled room where a free-standing gas cooker rests against the wall. Facing it is a bench with a deep white sink, and a small table with two wooden stools. The two women I saw the day I arrived have disappeared - neighbours, Fatiha told me, who came to help to cook  a special meal. On the table is a wide flat-bottomed clay bowl. Fatiha pats the stool nearest the door, gesturing for me to sit down.

"Watch," she tells me. "C'est important! In Morocco, you know, when a woman can make couscous, that means that she is read to marry." She laughs, slapping her hand on my thigh. I think of the packet couscous we buy at home, just add water and stir. I smile - I'm pretty sure that's not what she is talking about. With two hands, she opens a large plastic container before pouring yellow grain into the wide bowl.

"La semoule," she explains, putting the bowl on the floor between us. Beside her is a bowl of water. She dips her fingers in it, sprinkling fine drops over the semolina. Her back is bent double, the bowl secured firmly between her slippered feet. In one seamless movement, she runs her hands through the contents, scooping and piling the tiny grains as though her hands were a wind blowing across the desert sand, piling dunes that are just as soon destroyed as they are created. Around and around her hands fly, sweeping the grains with them, mixing the water, picking them up and letting the stream of semolina run through them.

"Try," she encourages. I move my damp fingers tentatively, careful not to let any grains stick together, conscious of the movement of my fingers. There is sensuous joy to the process. She sprinkles more water and when she is happy with the consistency, she pours the grains into a metal steamer. She puts the steamer on top of a boiling pot of water, wrapping the gap with a thick layer of plastic wrap. She hands me a bag of carrots and shows me how to scrape off the peel with the back of a knife.

As we sit and work, I ask Fatiha about her life. 

Fatiha shares about her life, the things that a Moroccan woman accepts as opposed to what an Australian woman thinks, and then"

Amir begins to cry in the bedroom, and my milk has already let down, two wet patches soaking through my grey top. As I feed him, Fatiha begins the second steam of the couscous, piling the vegetables and chicken into the pressure cooker. It will be steamed a third time over the stock water before she transfers it into a large round clay tagine, artfully arranging the meat and vegetables and chicken into a pyramid over the bed of couscous. By the time it's cooked, my stomach is rumbling as the rich scent permeates the house. Abdulrazak, Abdul Karim, Malika and the children join us around the small table. Soon we all laughing as Zeynab tries to teach me to roll the hot couscous into balls in the tips of my fingers; I copy her but fail, couscous spilling all over my lap. Sheepish, I take the proffered spoons, helping myself from the shared bowl, the warmth of the togetherness filling a space in me I had not realised had been there. 

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Weekend Cooking is open to anyone who has any kind of food-related post to share: Book reviews (novel, nonfiction), cookbook reviews, movie reviews, recipes, random thoughts, gadgets, quotations, photographs, restaurant reviews, travel information, or fun food facts. If your post is even vaguely foodie, feel free to grab the button and link up anytime over the weekend. You do not have to post on the weekend. Please link to your specific post, not your blog's home page

Weekend Cooking: Making scones

A few years ago I listened to a book called The Drifter by Anthea Hodgson. As soon as I heard this passage I knew that I wanted to share it but I ran out of time to do so for that year's International Scone Week. And then we were away last year and then I had other things to post, so that brings us to now. I've been saving the post in draft for so long but today is the day that it sees the light of day!

I have had scones on my mind recently after having lunch with an old boss who told me that she whips up a double batch of scones on a regular basis! I was kind of surprised by that as I didn't picture her as a baker but now she has a bit more time on her hands so I guess that accounts for it. 

In this passage our main character Cate is talking to Henry who is a drifter who is helping her work her aunt's farm

"Anyway, I've gotta go inside and bake as I've never baked before."

"Have you ever baked before?" he asked without looking up.

"Never."

"Shouldn't be too hard then."

She wandered back into the cool of the house and started prepping the kitchen. She'd at least seen Masterchef, and she'd picked up tips from loads of share houses, so she wasn't a bad cook; it just that baking was a specific skill set, and she'd never bothered with it. That's what shops were for. She pulled a copy of The Golden Wattle Cookery Book from the shelf, ignored half the advice, and knocked out a dozen scones in well under an hour. Except they were a bit flat. Wrong flour, maybe. She threw them out and tried again. Burned her hand on the tray getting them out of the oven, accidentally turned off the over, nearly blew her face off when she leaned inside to light it again, then sore loudly and refreshed her cup of coffee while she contemplated her future.

She needed to get this done. The damn cake stall was tomorrow. She thought about packet scones, then decided Kath at the co-op couldn't keep her mouth shut. She stood up and launched her hands into the mixture, rubbing the butter into the flour, adding milk, then kneading like crazy. 

"What are you doing?" Henry had come in to observe her progress, and his large figure was leaning in the doorway, looking aghast.

"Making scones."

Henry pulled her hands off the corpse of dough. "No, you're not. Step away from the dough."

She pulled a face of frustration. She didn't need this. "What?"

"How long have you been kneading this stuff?"

"Ten minutes or so."

"Don't."

"Huh?"

"You don't knead scones. You treat them gently, lightly, softly."

"Yeah, yeah, Nigella - what makes you an expert?"

"I have a mother in Victoria"

"You do?"

"And she's  a good baker. Lots of sons. So I know you don't pummel scones to death. And you cook them quickly in a hot oven."

"Really?"

"Yes."

She was fed up, and threw the dough-pancake into the bin. 

"Okay, you're up.Held me make these damn things or it's going to get embarrassing."

"Why?"

"Because I'm going to cry, and I can tell you  aren't okay with crying women."

He nodded. He washed his hands like a surgeon ready to operate, and pored over the Golden Wattle Cookery Book with her.

"Here, rub the butter and flour together," he said patiently.

She looked unimpressed. "Why not use the mixer?"

"I have no idea. Just do as you're told."

She fixed him with a glare but got rubbing, and found, ultimately, that it wasn't so bad. Henry guided her through the process with the understanding of a cook who had done a bit of baking in his life. She wondered about the woman who had taught him to cook. Did she know where he was now? Was she looking for him? She hated to think of Henry's Victorian mother pining for her boy and not knowing his fate. Henry leaned over and bumped her as he reached for the baking tray.

"Cate? Time to cut the scones out and get them in the oven." He checked the temperature was high.

She picked up the scone cutter and pushed it into the soft dough, then twisted it and brought it back out.

Henry tut-tutted and placed his hand over hers for the next one, his large arm running casually down hers, looking over her shoulder to check her form. "Don't twist it."

"Why not?"

"Not sure. Stops it rising as much?"

He gave off a lot of heat. "Okay."

He kept his hand on hers for a few more scones.  Maybe he thought the technique took practice. Finally, the scones were in, and rising, forming perfect golden scones.

And now I want scones with lashings of jam and cream

Weekly meals

Saturday - 
Sunday -
Monday - Steak egg and chips
Tuesday - Work event
Wednesday - Home made pizza
Thursday - Out for dinner
Friday - Takeaway

Weekend Cooking is open to anyone who has any kind of food-related post to share: Book reviews (novel, nonfiction), cookbook reviews, movie reviews, recipes, random thoughts, gadgets, quotations, photographs, restaurant reviews, travel information, or fun food facts. If your post is even vaguely foodie, feel free to grab the button and link up anytime over the weekend. You do not have to post on the weekend. Please link to your specific post, not your blog's home page

Weekend Cooking: It's a fair question

As I read books, I often highlight quotes about food, books, places and Christmas that I save to share at some point.

Today, I am sharing a quote from The Lincoln Highway by Amor Towles. This isn't a book about food at all, but there were several quotes which caught my attention. There were several book related quotes too!

I remember reading it and thinking it's definitely a fair question! Enjoy!

Coriander! said Woolly to himself with enthusiasm



For while Duchess was showing Billy how to properly stir a sauce, Woolly had set about alphabetizing the spice rack. And it didn’t take long for him to discover just how many spices begin with the letter C. In the entire rack there was only one that started with the letter A: Allspice, whatever that was. And Allspice was followed by just two spices that began with the letter B: Basil and Bay Leaves. But once Woolly moved on to spices that began with the letter C, well, it seemed there was no end to them! So far, there had been Cardamom, Cayenne, Chili Powder, Chives, Cinnamon, Cloves, Cumin, and now, Coriander.



It certainly made one wonder.



Perhaps, thought Woolly, perhaps it was like the matter of the Ws at the beginning of questions. At some point in ancient times, the letter C must have seemed particularly suitable to the names of spices.



Or maybe it was at some place in ancient times. Some place where the leter C had more sway over the alphabet. All of a sudden Woolly seemed to remember from one of his history classes that many moons ago there had been something called the Spice Route – a long and arduous trail along which tradesmen traveled in order to bring the spices of the East to the kitchens of the West. He even remembered a map with an arrow that arced across the Gobi Desert and over the Himalayas until it touched down safely in Venice, or some such spot.



That the C spices originated on the other side of the globe struck Woolly as a clear possibility, since he didn’t even know what half of them tasted like. He knew Cinnamon, of course. In fact, it was one of his favorite flavors. Not only was it used in the making of apple and pumpkin pie, it was the sine qua non of the cinnamon bun. But Cardamom, Cumin, and Coriander? These mysterious words struck Woolly as having a distinctly oriental ring.


-Aha! Said Woolly, when he discovered the bottle of Curry hiding behind the Rosemary in the second-to-last row of the rack.

For Curry was most definitely a flavor from the East.

Maybe this caught my eye because I don't mind alphabetising herbs and spices. Or labelling the jars, although a lot of them come with the name on top now!

Weekly meals

Saturday -  Out for dinner

Sunday -  Pot Roast Chicken

Monday - Pork chops, mash, beans, gravy

Tuesday - 

Wednesday - Birthday dinner

Thursday - Mexican chicken and rice

Friday - Out for dinner

  

Weekend Cooking is open to anyone who has any kind of food-related post to share: Book reviews (novel, nonfiction), cookbook reviews, movie reviews, recipes, random thoughts, gadgets, quotations, photographs, restaurant reviews, travel information, or fun food facts. If your post is even vaguely foodie, feel free to grab the button and link up anytime over the weekend. You do not have to post on the weekend. Please link to your specific post, not your blog's home page

Weekend Cooking: Pi Day

March 14 is Pi Day, as in the ratio of a circle’s circumference to its diameter. This is not to be confused with National Pie Day which is January 23, but it is a good occasion on either day to make, or at least talk about pie!

I don't know about you but when I think of pie, I think of sweet pie, but to be honest we cook far more savoury pies than we ever make sweet ones. One of our favourites is this Green Curry Chicken Pie and another is making a pie out of this Steak and Pepper casserole.

I have decided that this is the perfect opportunity to share a quote I have been saving for a while now. Last year I read The Lincoln Highway by Amor Towles.  Whilst this wasn't necessarily a foodie book there were several passages in this book that I wanted to share as I did enjoy the way that Towles wrote about food, and other things too, but for the purpose of this post let's concentrate on the food. I do have another quote saved somewhere. There was another passage that lovingly described eating Fettucine Mio Amore at Leonello's, an Italian restaurant. This dish isn't an option on the menu so you have to be in the know to ask for it, and another passage was about cooking this same recipe, but I don't know what I did with that quote. I might have to reborrow the book!

This week though, I am going to share a passage about why we spend time and effort cooking for the people we love. I hope you enjoy the quote too!



The character speaking here is Sally, a young woman in 1950s country America.

From a man's point of view, the one thing that's needful is that you sit at his feet and listen to what he has to say, no matter how long it takes for him to say it, or how often he's said it before. By his figuring, you have plenty of time for sitting and listening because a meal is something that makes itself. The manna, it falls from heaven, and with a snap of the fingers, the water can be turned into wine. Any woman who's gone to the trouble of baking an apple pie can tell you that's how a man sees the world.

 

To bake an apple pie, you've first got to make the dough. You've got to cut the butter into the flour, gather it with a beaten egg and a few tablespoons of ice water, let it bind overnight. The next day, you've got to peel and core the apples, cut them into wedges, and toss them with cinnamon sugar. You've got to roll out the crust and assemble the pie. Then you bake it at 425 for fifteen minutes and 350 for another forty-five. Finally, when supper's over, you carefully plate a slice and set it on the table where, in midsentence, a man will fork half of it into his mouth and swallow without chewing, so that he can get right back to saying what he was saying without the chance of being interrupted.

 

And strawberry preserves? Don't get me started on strawberry preserves!

 

As young Billy pointed out so rightly, making preserves is a time-consuming venture. Just picking the berries takes you half a day. Then you have to wash and stem the fruit. You have to sterilize the lids and jars.  Once you combine the ingredients, you have to set them on simmer and watch them like a hawk, never letting yourself stray more than a few feet from the stove to make sure they don't overcook. When they’re ready, you pour the preserves, seal the jars, and lug them into the pantry one tray at a time. Only then can you start the process of cleaning up, which is a job in itself.

 

And yes, as Duchess pointed out, the canning of preserves is a little old-fashioned, hearkening back to the era of root cellars and wagon trains. I suppose the word preserves is bygone when compared to the blunt precision of jam.

 

And as Emmett pointed out, it is, above all, unnecessary. Thanks to Mr. Smucker, at the grocer there are fifteen varieties of jam selling for nineteen cents a jar, season in and season out. In fact, jam has become so readily available, you can practically buy it at the hardware store.

 

So yes, the making of strawberry preserves is time-consuming, old-fashioned, and unnecessary.

 

Then why, you might ask, do I bother to do it?

 

I do it because it's time-consuming.

 

Whoever said that something worthwhile shouldn't take time? It took months for the Pilgrims to sail to Plymouth Rock. It took years for George Washington to win the Revolutionary War. and it took decades for the pioneers to conquer the West.

 

Time is that which God uses to separate the idle from the industrious. For time is a mountain and upon seeing its steep incline, the idle will lie down among the lilies of the field and hope that someone passes by with a pitcher of lemonade. What the worthy endeavor requires is planning, effort, attentiveness, and the willingness to clean up.

 

I do it because it's old-fashioned. 

Just because something's new doesn't mean it's better; and often enough, it means it's worse.

Saying please and thank you is plenty old-fashioned. Getting married and raising children is old-fashioned. Traditions, the very means by which we come to know who we are, are nothing if not old-fashioned.

 

I make preserves in the manner that was taught to me by my mother, God rest her soul. She made preserves in the manner that was taught to her by her mother, and Grandma made preserves in the manner that was taught to her by hers. And so on, and so forth, back through the ages all the way to Eve. Or, at least as far as Martha.

 

And I do it because it's unnecessary.

 

For what is kindness but the performance of an act that is both beneficial to another and unrequired? There is no kindness in paying a bill. There is no kindness in getting up at down to slop the pigs, or milk the cows, or gather the eggs from the henhouse. For that matter, there is no kindness in making dinner, or in cleaning the kitchen after your father heads upstairs without so much as a word of thanks.

 

There is no kindness in latching the doors and turning out the lights, or in picking up the clothes from the bathroom floor in order to put them in the hamper. There is no kindness in taking care of a household because your only sister has the good sense to get herself married and move to Pensacola.

 

Nope, I said to myself while climbing into bed and switching off the light, there is no kindness in any of that. 

 

For kindness begins where necessity ends.

 

Weekly meals

Saturday - Zucchini, Parmesan and Tomato Rissotto

Sunday -  Roast chicken, rolls and potato salad

Monday -  Warm steak salad

Tuesday - pork sausages, chips and gravy

Wednesday - Pressure cooker spaghetti bolognaise

Thursday - Mexican chicken parma, mash and beans

Friday - Takeaway

Weekend Cooking is open to anyone who has any kind of food-related post to share: Book reviews (novel, nonfiction), cookbook reviews, movie reviews, recipes, random thoughts, gadgets, quotations, photographs, restaurant reviews, travel information, or fun food facts. If your post is even vaguely foodie, feel free to grab the button and link up anytime over the weekend. You do not have to post on the weekend. Please link to your specific post, not your blog's home page

Christmas in Paris in July

I don't know if Christmas in July is a thing all over the world, but it is here in Australia, or maybe it is just in my little corner of Australia. I even went to the bakery and they had traditional Christmas mince pies for sale, so it is definitely more than just in my friend circle. One of the nice things about that is that we can have the full on traditional Christmas dinner when it is cold, instead of when it is very hot! If we are organised enough we can wear our Christmas jumpers, we play Naughty Santa so everyone ends up with a small gift, my brother in law makes eggnog on occasion and generally we all have a lovely time. 

This year we spent time with a friend I formerly worked with who is crackers about Christmas (deliberate pun!) for a Christmas in July celebration so it was great to catch up with all the people I used to work with.

This year, we are planning to spend a week or so in France over the Christmas/New Year period, and the last time I was there nearly 30 years ago (how on earth has it been that long!) it was around Christmas time too. So today, I thought I would share a few Christmas (in Paris in July) related bits and pieces.

When I was last in Paris back in 1994, it was very early in my tour, so we really were a bunch of strangers on a bus who were about to spend 3 and a bit weeks together. We went to a small restaurant, where I tried snails for the time and received a small gift from the tour director. After dinner we went to a local church around the corner and had the most magical experience of midnight mass in French. I wrote more about this experience here.

If all goes to plan we will be in the Netherlands for Christmas then spend a few days in Northern France, followed by a few days in Paris in early January and then onto Southern Italy. I am therefore very hopeful that I will get to Paris in all it's glory, but just in case here are some lights

Last year I discovered Tatiana Eva Marie who is a Swiss born jazz musician who grew up in France but is now based in New York.  She released a Christmas album called Wintertime Dreams: A Parisian Christmas a couple of years ago that I listened to a lot last Christmas. It is such a delight to listen to with it's mix of classic songs, violins and accordians, and plenty of songs that sound like they have jumped out of the typical soundtrack which nevitably accompanies any movie set in Paris.

Here is a taster:

Currently I am reading a book called The Perfect Meal: In Search of the Lost Tastes of France by John Baxter. I am not going to finish this book in time to post about it for this year's Paris in July event. However, I have read a couple of other Baxter books over the years, most notably his book The Immovable Feast: A Paris Christmas. My full review is here, but I am going to share a quote from very early in the book about Baxter's first Christmas with his new French family.

With Jean-Paul present, the meal could begin. A few minutes later, he took his place at the head of the table, and the other dozen guests arranged themselves, with me at the foot.

The marathon of Christmas dinner commenced.

I'd been warned what to expect. After the foie gras, we'd be enjoying white boudin veal sausage with fried apple, then roast pintade - or guinea fowl - a gratine dauphinois of sliced potatoes baked with cheese and cream, accompanied by green beans and carrots, followed by cheese, and Francoise's twenty-five-egg mousse - each course with its wine, including champagne with the dessert.

The goose liver was delicious enough for one to spare little thought for the poor bird that produced it.We smeared it into fresh white pain, larger brother of the more familiar baguette, washing it down with '84 Bordeaux from Madame's own cave - which was literallya cave, hollowed out of the rock on which this house was built.

The women never stopped handing around plates, offering more foie gras, and returning to the kitchen for bread or cornichons. Jean-Paul exchanged a few phlegmatic words with Jean-Marie, then fell silent. From time to time he would tilt a wine bottle away from him and stare at the label, as if it might have changed miraculously into a better year.

Joyeux Noël en Juillet!

Paris in July is hosted by Tamara from Thyme for Tea and Deb from Readerbuzz.

Weekend Cooking: World Ice Cream Day

Tomorrow, the third Sunday in July, is World Ice Cream Day. Whilst that makes sense in the Northern Hemisphere, it isn't exactly ice cream weather here! We also don't eat a lot of ice cream in my house any more. We always have emergency cream, but not ice cream!


A couple of years ago I started reading Viola Shipman. He writes such lovely books, all set around Lake Michigan. I love his voice, whether he be talking about food, flowers or the 80s! He also has a new book out called Edge of Summer and I am sure that I am going to love it! Today, I am sharing quotes from The Summer Cottage, which was the second book I read by him. I read it last year and have been saving the quotes for just the right occasion!

I look through the shiny glass at the endless options. My mouth waters as my eyes scan cappuccino, chocolate chunk, cotton candy confetti, Mickinac Island Fudge, country blackberry, Milky Way, snickerdoodle and Superman. But my eyes lock on the container filled with Smurf-blue ice cream. "Double in a waffle," I say.

"You're a true Michigander," Teresa says with a laugh.

"But I'm from Illinois," I say.

"Not if you order this," she says with a wink.

There is a phenomenon in the Great Lakes known as Blue Moon ice cream. The ice cream is iridescent blue, marshmallowy sweet and has an elusive taste that many describe as a combination of lemon and fruit. I think it tastes like the leftover milk from a bowl of Froot Loops. It's addictive, and the recipe is largely kept secret by the different dairies, ice cream makers and shops in Michigan and Wisconsin. Blue Moon ice cream turns your tongue blue, and it is a favorite of children.

And mine, I think.

Teresa turns on the waffle machine, which sits on a table between the long rows of ice cream. When it is hot, she opens it and pours in some homemade batter and shuts the lid. After a few seconds, she pops the lid open and removes a razor thin waffle with tongs, immediately and expertly twisting it into a tight, rolled cone. She plops in two huge scoops of ice cream, which begin melting and trickling down the side. Teresa slips it into a wrapper and hands it to me along with a fistful of napkins.

I take a bit and shut my eyes. I am immediately transported back in time. I can feel myself standing in this shop between my parents, all of us licking giant cones. When I open my eyes, Teresa is smiling at me.

"It's nice to feel like a kid again, isn't it? she asks. "Even if it is just for a second."

~~~~

And later the same day.

~~

But my grandmother firmly believed - after witnessing the eating habits of men for decades - that the ice cream a man ate showed who he truly was.
Vanilla? Plain but steadfast.
Chocolate meant an all-American type of guy at heart, but one who never yearned for excitement or adventure.
Men who ate strawberry were as sweet as the fruit, but forever little boys.
Scooter leans into the case, his breath fogging the window. His eyes scan the tubs and then the labels on the case. He looks at Teresa, who is waiting patiently, holding her ice cream scoop in the air. I turn again to Scooter. He opens his mouth, and I hold my breath.
"Rocky road," he says. "Two scoops in a waffle cone, please."
He's a keeper, Adie Lou, I can hear my grandmother say. Adventurous, curious. Has led an up-and-down life but is an optimist who wears his heart on his sleeve.
"Good choice!" I blurt.
Scooter turns, a laugh escaping when he sees my face. " You get excited about ice cream, I can see," he says.
I nod.
"Still a Blue Moon girl?" Teresa asks me. "In a waffle?"
I nod again.

I don't know what Adie Lou's grandmother would make of my husband who doesn't like ice cream at all!!

As for me, I love boysenberry ice cream. I also like boysenberry yoghurt, and recently I even tried and liked boysenberry ripple chocolate. And yet, I have never actually ever tried a boysenberry.

What is your favourite flavour, and what do you think it says about you?

Weekly meals

Saturday - Baked potatoes with bacon and mushroom sauce

Sunday - Roast beef rolls with gravy 

Monday - 

Tuesday - Takeaway

Wednesday - Spaghetti bolognaise

Thursday - Beef Pepper pie with mashed potato toppping

Friday - Out for dinner

Weekend Cooking is open to anyone who has any kind of food-related post to share: Book reviews (novel, nonfiction), cookbook reviews, movie reviews, recipes, random thoughts, gadgets, quotations, photographs, restaurant reviews, travel information, or fun food facts. If your post is even vaguely foodie, feel free to grab the button and link up anytime over the weekend. You do not have to post on the weekend. Please link to your specific post, not your blog's home page

Weekend Cooking: Tasting Whisky

Recently I read The Christmas Secret by Karen Swan which I enjoyed immensely. The majority of the story is set a whisky distillery in Scotland. Alex is a very successful business coach who receives a last minute request to go to Scotland to deal with a CEO who has a very volatile relationship with the board of his company, most of whom happen to be family members.

I must confess that I don't know much about whisky distilling so there was lots of interesting facts about the whisky distilling process, and I have never been to a whisky tasting, and this passage caught my attention because of the idea of saying hello!

Of course, I have said hi to whisky before, usually with a splash of cola which is probably a bit sacriligous but still.

She watched as Skye brought her glass to her mouth, but before sipping, inhaled it deeply, her eyes closed. She pulled the glass away and then brought it back again, repeating the deep breath in.

"Is that how you're supposed to drink whisky?" Alex asked, fascinated.

"Oh," Skye said, pulling an embarassed expression. "Occupational hazard. I forget not to do it."

"Well, could you show me how? I've never done it properly before."

"Sure," Skye replied, looking delighted and pouring them each a little more. "The first - or most important - thing is to remember is that whisky's not something to be rushed, but rather savoured. It takes a long time to make and it should take a long time to drink, to really allow the flavour to come out."

"Right," Alex said, adjusting her grip so that it was the same as Skye's, her fingers on the stem, away from the bowl of the glass. She realized she'd never seen whisky served in a stemmed glass before either - only ever tumblers.

"Now the first thing you want to do is introduce yourself to it. So you bring it to the nose and say hello," Skeye said in a sing-song voice, swirling the glass only slightly, closing her eyes and inhaling the aroma for a good four or five seconds.

"Hello," Alex echoed, feeling faintly ridiculous to be talking to a drink.

Skye then swung her arm away as though it was hinged, before bringing it back in again. "How are you?" she murmured in another dramatic voice, this time with a light swill of the glass and a deep inhalation.

Alex copied her exactly, right down to her intonation.

"Very well, thank you." Skye opened her eyes. "Smell that? See how it's beginning to breath?"

Alex nodded. It was like the opening of a flower. "Yes."

"Now take a good swig but hold it in the middle of your mouth. That's it and we're going to count down from ten..." she said, holding up her fingers and counting down. Alex swallowed when she did.

"And now take a bite of chocolate," she said, handing over the ramekin. "And then take another swig."

Alex's eyes widened as the sweetness of the chocolate in her mouth contracted with the smooth, fiery burn of the whisky.

"See that, how the flavours balance and complement one another? Now take another sip quickly."

Alex did as ths was told, eyes closing with pleasure as the last swig of whisky was drained, to dance in her mouth. She didn't gulp it down but let it play on her palate for a few moments, the different flavours like musical notes. "Oh my God," she gasped finally. " Wow."

"Yeah? You liked that?" Skye asked, looking pleased. "You should try the twenty-eight. It's a different level entirely."

"I'd love to," Alex replied.

"Yeah? Shall we say hello to it?"

Alex grinned. "Let's say hello."

Have you ever said hello to whisky in this way?

Weekly Meals

Saturday - Butter chicken pizza

Sunday - Roast beef and vegies
Monday - Beef and rice stir fry
Tuesday - Chicken Enchiladas
Wednesday - Fried Chicken, mash and beans
Thursday -Out for drinks
Friday - Takeaway

Weekend Cooking is open to anyone who has any kind of food-related post to share: Book reviews (novel, nonfiction), cookbook reviews, movie reviews, recipes, random thoughts, gadgets, quotations, photographs, restaurant reviews, travel information, or fun food facts. If your post is even vaguely foodie, feel free to grab the button and link up anytime over the weekend. You do not have to post on the weekend. Please link to your specific post, not your blog's home page

Weekend Cooking: Life Lessons in Jam Making

Australian author Josephine Moon has several books where the titles suggest that they would work well for a Weekend Cooking post (The Cakemakers Wish, The Chocolate Promise, The Beekeepers Secret), and she also shares a number of recipes on her website. Despite this, I hadn't read any of her books.  When her latest book, The Jam Queens, came out earlier this year, I was determined that this was the one that I was going to read, so I pre-ordered it on Audible. The only problem with that strategy is that I just can't  seem to find any time to listen to audiobooks right now. I was enjoying what I did get to listen to, but it was taking a long time to get through the book. In the end, I decided to swap to a library book. I was glad to finish reading it as I thoroughly enjoyed it.

Agatha lives in a small town near Adelaide where she runs a cafe. Ever since she became a single parent at a very young age, or maybe even before, she has had a difficult relationship with her mother Valeria. Her great aunt Myrtle was her saviour when she was a teenager and they continue to have a close relationship. Now, that child, Holly,  is a teacher who lives in the US, but who is home for a holiday.

Each of the women has their own struggles and fears. For Aggie, she has issues with the building her cafe is in and she has a very important decision to make in relation to eggs that she currently has frozen after unsuccessful IVF cycles with her former partner Gideon. Valeria is keeping an important secret from her whole family, Myrtle is concerned about what is happening with her best friend and life long travelling companion, Dolce, and Holly just doesn't seem to be herself at the moment.

The four women agree to go on a trip on the iconic Ghan train which travels from Darwin to Adelaide to celebrate Valeria's 70th birthday. Along the way they visit some amazing places like Uluru and Coober Pedy and experience the magic of the outback.  Secrets are revealed, decisions are made, relationships are formed, and adventures are had, and ultimately, lives are changed - not necessarily in that order.

I loved the travel and food parts of this book. We have talked about doing the Ghan journey, and this book made me want to experience it for myself. Reading the section where one of the characters does a day excursion to Uluru brought back memories of when we visited Uluru earlier this year, and enjoyed an amazing dinner out under the outback skies. They also visited Coober Pedy, which is a town that I have long had on my bucket list. It is famous for being an opal mining town where people live in underground caves. Sounds like an amazing place.

I thoroughly enjoyed this book and now I do need to go back and read some of Josephine Moon's other books!

The reason that the book is called The Jam Queens is that Aggie, Valeria and Myrtle all make prize winning jams. Each year, one of the women nominates that they will be the person to enter the competition at the Royal Adelaide Show each year so that they don't compete against each other, and that there is a greater chance that they will win each year. There are a number of flavours mentioned in the book. The one that I would really like to try was peach, raspberry and champagne jam. There was also a couple of interesting suggestions for ways to use jam including making a jamtini (recipe here) or making a hot chocolate, then adding a dash of Baileys with a spoonful of jam! Not something I had heard of before.

I have only made a couple of small batches of jam for specific recipes including for Jam Drops and Mini Strawberry tarts. I have also made delicious lemon curd before too. This book did have me contemplating whether I might have a go at making more. I don't have jars etc, but I would only be making small batches I am sure. I did make the Mini Strawberry Tarts again last weekend or should I say Strawberry and Blueberry Tarts.

The word jam is another example of one of those words where there are different words for similar things around the world. When I was growing up, if we bought a jar of fruit conserve I imagined that it has more fruit than a jar of jam, and in my mind jelly (as in what is used in peanut butter and jelly sandwiches) has even less bits of fruit in it.

I thought I would share one of the many sections of the book that I found myself bookmarking as shareable!

This is Valeria remembering a particular moment with her daughter.

As the heat from the dryer began to warm her legs, she cast her mind back to a day when her daughter was probably around ten years old. Agatha was sitting in the kitchen, watching her gingerbread biscuits bake in the oven, the heat radiating into the room, while outside winter cold had set in, the trees bowing in the wind and tossing branches to the ground.




Valeria has her bottled jams lined up on the wooden benchtop and was comparing the information she had written on sticky notes that were placed on top of each with regard to the visual appearance of the contents. She was attempting to decide which jams from which batches were the ones to enter in the show. Every batch came out a little differently, and once they were bottled it wasn't as easy to assess them. But the jam had to be bottled immediately, and once the lid was on she couldn't open it again to test. She only had her notes to go on.




"Hmm," she murmured, pulling out a jar and bringing it to the front of the line. "This one, I think." She pulled out another. Bending down so the jars were at eye level, she studied them. The one on the left was slightly darker in colour, which wasn't necessarily a problem, but the strawberry seeds had clumped in a few spots, and an uneven distribution would go against her. She consulted the notes she'd written. Really good jam, rich flavour, perfect amount of lemon. She clicked her tongue and compared it to the jar on the right, which had a lovelier visual appearance, but for which her notes said, Good jam, but maybe not a champion?



"What's the matter?" Agatha asked, swivelling sideways in her chair and swinging a leg about.



"Sit up straight, sweetheart," Valeria said automatically.



Agatha did as she was told but rolled her eyes slightly.



"No eyerolls," she reminded her daughter. It was becoming a habit, one she didn't want to see continue. Agatha sucked on her cheeks instead.



"This jam," Valeria said, pointing to the one on her left, "tastes the best but isn't as pretty as this one," she said, pointing to the other.



Agatha screwed up her nose. "Why does it matter what it looks like? You only eat and it gets all mixed up in your belly." She pushed her long hair out of her face, irritated by it.



"A perfect jam needs to be perfect in every way - how it looks, how it tastes, it can't be too firm or too runny, it can't be overcooked or burnt, the jar must pop perfectly when its opened, the label must be positioned exactly, the poured quantity must be within millimetres of the required distance from the top, there should be no splatter of jam, it should smell fresh and fruity. It should not be too sweet or too sour, and it absolutely must not have any jam setter in it."



Agatha widened her eyes. "Who cares about all that?"

"We do," Valeria said, gravely. "Because we value standards and excellence. The competition assessment criteria are there to uphold a respect for quality that is so lacking these days. These competitions are the eye in the storm in a decaying society."

"Huh?"




"If we don't strive to be the best, if we let everything go, if we don't care, then where does it stop?"



Agatha stared at her blankly, pulling up her knees so that her feet were resting on the chair, and wrapping her arms around her legs.



"You must always do your best," Valeria said, and she saw this as one of her greatest teaching moments. Through the power of jam competition, she could teach her daughter to never give up, to constantly strive for better, to lose and win gracefully, to keep going no matter how stiff the competition or how high the odds to win, to respect authority, to follow the rules.




"They should teach this at school," she said, absent-mindedly.



"What?"


"How to make jam," Valeria said, returning to her notes. "There are so many life lessons in jam making."

Weekly Meals

Saturday - Butter chicken, broccoli, rice, roti

Sunday- Scrambled Eggs on toast

Monday- Pork Stir Fry

Tuesday- 

Wednesday  - Chicken Enchilada

Thursday- Nasi Goreng

Friday - Takeaway

Weekend Cooking is open to anyone who has any kind of food-related post to share: Book reviews (novel, nonfiction), cookbook reviews, movie reviews, recipes, random thoughts, gadgets, quotations, photographs, restaurant reviews, travel information, or fun food facts. If your post is even vaguely foodie, feel free to grab the button and link up anytime over the weekend. You do not have to post on the weekend. Please link to your specific post, not your blog's home page

Weekend Cooking: Scones with Lemon Myrtle

This week it has been NAIDOC week here in Australia. NAIDOC week is a week when " celebrations are held across Australia each July to celebrate the history, culture and achievements of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples. NAIDOC is celebrated not only in Indigenous communities, but by Australians from all walks of life. The week is a great opportunity to participate in a range of activities and to support your local Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander community" (from the website)

It was a bit of coincidence that my post last week featured my cooking class which focussed on lots of native ingredients, so in order to bookend both ends of NAIDOC week, I decided to share a foodie quote from a book I read earlier this year called Bila Yarrudhanggalangdhuray by Anita Heiss which I reviewed here. The title of this book is in Wiradyuri translates to River of Dreams

This book is written from the perspective of a young Wiradjuri woman by the name of Wagadhaany (pronounced wogga-dine) who works for a Quaker woman named Louise, who wants to find out more about the Aboriginal culture and so asks Wagadhaany to introduce her to the local women

My favourite part of this quote is actually the part where it ends with "Sharing food was just the Wiradyuri way." It made me think about how food is so integral to cultures all around the world and yet can be viewed differently as well

The women are looking to Wagadhaany for some sign, some surety that the waadyin before them can be trusted. For her part, Wagadhaany wants to make the women feel at ease, for them to understand that she has the trust and friendship of a good White person, because surely they can't all be bad. She decides there is pride to be had in having a good White friend, and so she introduces Louisa again, touching her arm.

"Louisa is my friend, she has been taking care of me. Well, we take care of each other, I guess. And she doesn't make me do all the chores in the house myself, we do them together.

This is the first time Wagadhaany has seen Louisa appear nervous and uncomfortable. As she stands holding a basket of baked goods, small beads of perspiration form on her brow. Wagadhaany urges her forward gently because someone else needs to speak and right now the women are just glaring at them both.

"F...f...for you," Louisa stammers. " We baked them together," she adds, motioning to Wagadhaany. Louisa considers it an important act of friendship, a token gesture of kindness, as a way of demonstrating her generosity. For Wagadhaany, food has always been shared among her people, not as a gesture of anything. Sharing came from understanding that another was hungry. Sharing food was just the Wiradyuri way.

"Yes, we did." Wagadhaany endorses.

She's hoping one of the women will smile, even slightly, and soften the mood, making them both feel welcome, because at this moment she knows that her presence is tainted simply by being there with Louisa. She starts to feel that this may have been an incredibly bad idea, bad judgement, disrespectful even. The bamali-galang had warned her about trusting White people, so why did she bring Louisa here? She is cranky with herself for not listening, for not understanding and practising yindyamarra.

While the bamali-galang demonstrate no interest in Louisa at all, it's hard not to notice their eyes focusing on the basket in her hands. She is sure the aroma of baked scones is making their mouths water. Their eyes all look in the same direction of the basket and Louise lifts the calico cloth to reveal some pumpkin scones, freshly baked, and bright orange in colour. Their eyes widen at the sight of this new food. They have only had white damper before.

"Scones are a bit like damper," Wagadhaany explains, "but these are made from pumpkins. We grow them ourselves. The pumpkins, not the scones."

Wagadhaany panics when she sees an entire row of raised eyebrows in front of her, but then half laughs because they are exacty the same faces her mother and aunties pull back home. But she doesn't know why they are looking that way. Then it hits her. She remembers hearing stories back home about White people lacing damper with a poison, something called arsenic, and leaving it out for the Aboriginal people to eat. Many had died. She feels sick to the stomach because she knows this is why they are probably wary.

She reaches into the basket and takes a scone. Actually, Louisa, I think I need one right now," she says, taking a bite, then handing it to Louisa to take a bite too.

Louisa and the women are all shocked. Blacks and Whites don't share food, especially if it is poisoned.

Wagadhaany frowns at Louisa and whispers, "I'll explain later, take a bite."

Louisa breaks a small piece off the scone and puts it in her mouth, watching the women the whole time. Once she has swallowed, the women relax their brows and all reach into the basket and take a scone. They relish every bite, making sounds of pleasure as they devour them within seconds. Wagadhanny breathes a sigh of relief.

I went looking for a recipe for pumpkin scones, maybe with some native ingredients,  to share as well as this quote. I am not sure if they are a particularly Australian thing but if I see pumpkin scones on a menu they just aren't something that I am likely to choose. I know that there are things like pumpkin pie but to me pumpkin is a savoury thing not a sweet thing. This is something that I have posted about before over the years 

I did find a recipe for pumpkin and lemon myrtle scones, but given that I don't recall ever trying pumpkin scones before, I decided against sharing that one. So, instead, here is a recipe for plain scones with lemon myrtle which I found here. 

this recipe uses the cream and lemonade method for making the scones  which is my go to method for making scones. You can find my normal recipe here.  It is worth mentioning that the lemonade called for is your Sprite style clear lemonade rather that the real lemony style of lemonade

Scones with lemon myrtle

3 cups self-raising flour
1 cup cream
1 cup lemonade
2 teaspoons lemon myrtle


Heat the oven to 200C.

Sift flour and lemon myrtle into bowl.

Add lemonade, cream and mix to soft dough. Be sure to mix it only enough to bring the dough together. It is often recommended that you use the back of a knife to do this. If you mix too much then your scones will be tough instead of light and fluffy.

Place on floured surface.

Cut into shape (I use a glass as a scone cutter most of the time) and place on warm scone tray.

Bake for 10-15 min.

I did just see a delicious looking recipe for roast chicken with lemon myrtle, so I am thinking that I am going to have to buy some soon and give that a try too.

Weekly menu

Saturday - Pork ribs

Sunday- Leftovers

Monday-Beef stir fry

Tuesday-Takeaway

Wednesday  - Butter chicken pizza

Thursday  Pulled Pork with baked potato

Friday -Spanish tuna bake

Weekend Cooking is open to anyone who has any kind of food-related post to share: Book reviews (novel, nonfiction), cookbook reviews, movie reviews, recipes, random thoughts, gadgets, quotations, photographs, restaurant reviews, travel information, or fun food facts. If your post is even vaguely foodie, feel free to grab the button and link up anytime over the weekend. You do not have to post on the weekend. Please link to your specific post, not your blog's home page