Kitchen Alchemy

In 1998 my friend Sophie came to visit from France. It was the second time we met face to face, having been penpals since we were high school kids. Sophie came armed with a swathe of genuine French recipes, which we attempted to cook for a dinner at my mother's house. While Potatoes Au Gratin had been served in our home before, the recipe we'd used was not like Sophie's. Hers was based on beef stock and creme fraiche, which unfortunately was unknown in Australia at that time (or at least in Penrith). It also had bacon interspersed through the layers of potato, and if I remember correctly, needed topping up with more creamy stock as the potatoes cooked. My mother and I messed with Sophie's recipe so much, I don't think it resembled the French version much at all. And don't even get me started on the disaster of a cherry clafoutis, which we had no idea how to handle! It turned out rubbery and we could tell by the look on Sophie's face that it wasn

A few years back when I was still single I decided Christmases were better spent with friends. My inaugural Christmas trip away from family was to Cairns to visit an old school friend Peisha. She was actually my first flatmate too, and was very instrumental in teaching me how to be a high stepping Eastern Suburbanite. I had lost track of Peisha years previously. She had gone off to live in Italy, I’d had a stint in Hong Kong, and it wasn’t until 2002 when I was organising my high school reunion that I finally located her whereabouts. She’d been in Cairns for several years, and while she couldn’t make it to the reunion, we did catch up for lunch and then dinner when she was in transit to and from Italy. At dinner I quite unceremoniously invited myself to Christmas at Peisha’s. It was really rude, when I think about it. Luckily for me, Peisha was a very welcoming host. She owned a fantastic big old Queenslander which was a complete two bedroom house upstairs and a whole second three bedr

When I was a kid we lived in a part of Newcastle that backed onto a massive expanse of paddocks and swamp. Our neighbours kept horses and cows in those paddocks, so we were lucky enough to grow up and a bona fide built up area with more than a little bit of country sensibility included. Despite this, and contrary to the desires of so many little girls, I did not spend my childhood pestering my parents for a pony. More over, I never even asked any of my neighbours if I might ride one of their horses. They were for looking at and feeding. Nothing else. One horse in particular, Boomerang, seemed to me to distinctly be the kind of horse one should never ride. My mother, my sister and I squeezed through the gate in the back fence one afternoon with the intention of feeding Boomerang and a couple of the other horses some apples that had gone soft. Unfortunately for us, Boomerang spotted the apples in our hands and came galloping towards us at a rate of knots. When we realised he wo

I was living in Hong Kong the first time I ever spent Christmas away from my family. I had only been there for about four months, so I decided to stay in HK - it's the only time I've enjoyed northern hemisphere winter weather on Christmas Day. I lived with my boyfriend and a girl named Jessie in a five hundred square foot apartment in Wan Chai. We had a kitchen but it was not fully equipped - there was no oven, only a portable gas cook top and grill. So I approached a friend who was a chef at a nearby brasserie and asked her if she would consider roasting a turkey for me on Christmas Eve. She agreed, keen, I know, to get in the Christmas spirit herself. I set off the to Welcome Supermarket and acquired the biggest frozen turkey I could lay my hands on. I didn't care that I was only feeding three people - I was happy to eat turkey sandwiches for a week afterwards if need be. Anyway, frozen turkeys take about three days to defrost. The one I'd bought was seal

Barbeques. They are at the heart of every good Australian family's social activities. According to some, barbeques are just an excuse for men to drink beer and light fires. This, to some extent, is absolutely true. Certainly, barbies are the realm of men - women may prepare the food and may bring it to the fireside, but they may not put it on the grill, or take it off, for that matter. Nor should they stand in close proximity and give instructions on what to turn and when. Never mind that Aussie men cook no other meals at any time throughout the year! Once the fire is lit, they are the Kings of the Outdoor Kitchen! When I was little there was a period in my life when there was a barbeque in our backyard every Sunday - not because we were devotees of crispy chared sausages and over cooked onions - it was because there was a serial on the radio called the Story of Elvis which played weekly after Sunday lunch. My Dad loved that radio series. Those Sunday barbeques we

When I was a kid my nana came to stay quite often. At least once a year - which was often enough for me, since it was always me who had to give up my bed to accommodate her. Nana was a salad nut in those days (she still might be, but I'm not sure what's on the daily menu at the place where she lives). And the essential ingredient to any salad, as far as Nana was concerned, was beetroot. Now, any sensible Australian know beetroot definitely belongs on a good hamburger. But in salad? Sliced or whole, the beetroot invariably wees it's red juice on everything it touches. I never bent to Nana's love of beetroot in salad. Never the less, I'm aware that beetroot is somewhat of a superfood. Toss a fresh beetroot into your juicer with a carrot and an apple and you've got a veritable feast, albeit in a glass. But it seems to me that the best thing to do with a beetroot is roast it. Looks impressive on the plate, tastes delicious on the palate! Ingredients fresh

As a teenager there were three major periods when my dad was in between jobs. The first one came at a time when I was very used to cooking the family meal every night, therefore guaranteeing I got to eat something I would enjoy. But when Dad was home, for some reason, he decided he should take over kitchen duty, making major - er - discoveries during each sojourn, which we were subjected to five nights a week until he started his next job. The first time round, Dad discovered Maggi Cook-in-the-Pot. This was basically a packet mix which you added to your pot roast - albeit it beef, chicken, lamb or whatever (thank God it was never tripe!). At the time I loathed pot roast because all too often it turned out like stew and I simply couldn't abide by the indiscriminate way ingredients blended in stew. I like the foods on my plate to be clearly defined. I wouldn't go so far as to demand that nothing touches on the plate - but I do want to know what's what. Dad and his darne

Mashed potato was pretty much a staple food in our house when I was growing up.  We were very much a "meat and three veg" household - that is until Mum discovered Italian and Mexican cooking!    I never regarded mashed potato as anything special, but about 10 years ago, MASH, as it became known, made a culinary comeback!  It was nothing like the lumpy, stodgey stuffed we were served when kids.  Loaded with butter and whole milk, it was smooth, flavoursome, and immediately pounced on whenever placed as a side dish on the restaurant table.  It never fails to amaze me at dinner parties, when friends dive on the mash, scooping great mountains of it onto their plates and savouring it with child-like delight.  If you want to make your dinner guests happy, always include mash on your menu!   Ingredients 4-6 washed potatoes (choose ones the size of a cake of soap - one potato per person is enough) 65g butter 2/3 cup whole milk Pinch of salt   1. Peel potatoes, place in s

There was a time in my life when the traditional Sunday Roast was a weekly event.  Looking back, I'm not sure it that's really correct - but I certainly remember my mother in the kitchen on many a Sunday, preparing the roast, then turning its juices into either Yorkshire Pudding or gravy.  Then there are the times at my Nana's, when the Sunday Roast was left sizzling behind one of the many doors in the old slow combustion stove, while we were waltzed off to service at the Salvation Army Hall of Worship.  Upon our return to the house, we were always welcomed by the warm smell of roasting beef wafting down the hallway, carrying us into the kitchen, causing our mouths to salivate.    When I gave up vegetarianism a couple of years back, it was a few months before I was able to face eating beef again.  Eventually I found myself craving the Sunday Roast of my childhood.  I went to the local butcher, procured the best piece of beef I could afford, and invited my mother and

Have you ever ordered a steak in a five star restaurant and had it presented to you swimming in an ocean of unbearably delectable thin brown sauce? That sauce is called 'jus'. I was fortunate enough to have such a meal at The Benelong in the Sydney Opera House, where I was dining with a top class chef. "How do you make this stuff?" I asked him, slipping into raptures as the rich, complex flavour tantalised my taste buds. "It's easy!" he said. "But it takes ages." "I don't care how long it takes to make," I replied. "Tell me how to do it - I want to know!" And that is how this recipe came into my hands. It does take ages to make - eight hours, in fact. But do try it! And when you serve it to your friends, watch their faces as their eyes light up with new found respect for your culinary talents! Ingredients 1kg beef bones 1 squishy tomato 1 carrot 1 onion 2 sticks of celery Freshly ground blac