Nanakusagayu…

This year’s nanakusagayu was a day late. What can I say? It’s easier to make okayu on a Saturday. Especially brown rice okayu, which doesn’t work so well in the rice cooker.

I had cress, shungiku, chives, shiso, rocket, thyme and lemon balm this year. Why? Because that’s what I had on hand at the time. All of them home grown and most of them from my lovely gutter garden.

Win.

How to render pork fat

I mentioned over here that I’d been given a huge ham. It was a nice butcher’s ham, with a huge ribbon of fat through it. Seemed a shame to waste it, so I asked the internet how to render the fat into lard. This is the process of melting the fat to get rid of the impurities and other bits that will make it go off. You (supposedly) end up with delicious lard, which can be used in all sorts of things, lasts for ages, and is not as bad for you as you might think. My dad tells stories of lard and dripping sandwiches as a kid… I suppose, in that way, it’s a bit like butter. I’ve only seen the strange white blocks of it in the supermarket – but apparently those are hydrogenated to make them last longer. If you make it yourself, it’s not hydrogenated, which makes it healthier.

The best instructions were from the Homesick Texan – the Architect agreed with me that if anyone would know how to render lard, it’d probably be someone from the south bit of America.

It seemed a bit scary, but it was a pretty easy process, so I’ll share how I did it. I decided to do a “wet” render, which means that you add a little water to stop the fat from sticking to the pan when it’s just starting out, before the fat starts to liquefy. The water boils off during the process, and means your lard at the end will have a milder flavour.

1. Cut all the fat off the ham. Try to avoid the meat, but don’t be too worried about it. I had about 550g of fat.

2. Dice the fat, as small as you can (be bothered).

3. Get out your dutch oven or other heavy bottomed pan. Put half a cup of water into the pan, and add the fat. Put it on a low heat. Find a good book or some other task that can be frequently interrupted for the next few hours. Here’s how it looked when I started.

4. Watch. Wait. Stir every 10 minutes or so. The water will come to a boil and the fat will slowly start to liquefy. This is not a fast process. Here’s how it looked after an hour.

5. Keep stirring. The water will boil off and be replaced by liquid fat. Ever so slowly the chunks will shrink and start to brown up. Here’s the end of the second hour.

6. At some stage around now, it will start to sizzle and pop a bit. You need to stir it a bit more regularly after that – I used a spatula to scrape the browning-up bits off the bottom of the pan. I may not have needed to do this, but I wasn’t about to waste two hours of stirring by those bits burning and spoiling the flavour. After three hours, there was a reasonable amount of liquid fat, which was clear, and the rest of the solids (baby cracklins!) were small and brown. I could still see pieces of fat though, so I kept going. It started to foam a bit too.

7. A lot of recipes said that the cracklins would rise to the surface and then sink back down, and that’s when you know the lard is rendered. This never really happened – probably because my volume was too small. So I kept going until I couldn’t see any bits actually floating on the surface, which was at the four-hour mark.

8. Let it cool for about 10 minutes, and then strain the lard. I used a metal sieve lined with muslin, into a pyrex bowl. The liquid lard will be yellow and runny. I got about 450ml. Let that cool for a further 10 minutes, and then pop it into the freezer to set. The internet assures me that this gives the best texture and reduces graininess.

9. Meanwhile, the cracklins left behind in the strainer were delicious still fairly fatty, so back into the pot with them for a little more rendering. I added a few tablespoons of water – which I possibly didn’t need to, but it deglazed the pan and stopped the cracklins sticking.

10. The second round only lasted about 20 minutes – but I got another 70ml of lard out of it, with a slightly darker colour, which I’ve stored separate to the main one. Here’s how it looked at the end.

11. Let your cracklins cool and store in the fridge. The original bacon bits. Seriously. Good on just about anything.

12. After an hour or so in the freezer, the lard will be set. You can keep it in the freezer or store in the fridge for several months. Check it – just like a real one:

All up, it was easy, if a little time consuming. A total of 5 hours to get 500ml of pure lard, plus about 1/2 cup of cracklins, from about 550g of fat. I also did my filing, cleared out the contacts in my phone, read all my feeds, cleaned out the fridge, made ham stock, washed up, did some washing…

Eton mess

It’s very hard to go wrong with Eton mess. Basically it’s a deconstructed pav in a cup. What’s not to like?

It is a mess though. Especially if you’ve had a few drinks by the time you get around to putting them together. Note the trashed-ness of the bench. And the blurriness of the photo. But you get the general idea. This is not a precision dessert.

And yes, I could have done it earlier and stuck them in the fridge – but I didn’t have time.

Now, modifications. Well, strawberries were out of season so they didn’t make it in, and we used blueberries instead. Raspberries a-plenty, but who has the time or inclination to puree and sieve? Here instead is how my clever friend Tish made them into a delicious thick sauce. Messily.

The greek yogurt is a good addition – stops it from being too sweet.

Make again – yes, next time I have leftover meringue.

Or if I ruin a pav, this is a great way for it to end up.

Also – leftover raspberry puree freezes nicely to use in cocktails later…

Prosciutto wraps

Some of the things in the Delicious cookbook are really only going to get made when there’s people coming over and I want to feed them something a bit fancy.

My inner Nigella tells me I should be making fancy meals for the Architect and I to enjoy, the two of us, with candles and rose petals and so on. But she gets beaten down by my inner Germaine and, truth be told, my inner person with a full time job.

So that brings us to prosciutto wraps. Pretty quick and easy, tasty despite forgetting the dressing, easily customisable. Case(s) in point: I made some with sliced roast beef for a non-pork eater and I couldn’t get green beans so I used asparagus.  I used mostly cress and shungiku as the ‘micro salad’ because I had an abundance in my gutter garden. I also had to stab them with toothpicks to get them to stay together, but that’s also because I was trying to make food that people could eat with one hand.

Bringing us back to the question of how much adaptation can you do before it becomes a new recipe?

But for the purposes of 101 things, I declare that this one satisfies the requirements and was, indeed, a prosciutto wrap. Served on a banana-leaf plate, my new favourite thing in the world for feeding the masses – as easy as other disposable plates but this one’s compostable.

Gold.

Chilled tomato and harissa soup

Summer’s here, and the time is right…

for chilled soups!

First time making a chilled soup, first time making a soup with bread in it (apart from croutons), first time using harissa.

Seemed like a perfect thing to cook when there were people coming around!

Some notes on the chilled tomato and harissa soup:

* If, like me, your wallet or garden doesn’t stretch to 1kg of vine ripened tomatoes, nor your time to peeling and deseeding them, two 400g tins plus a punnet of ripe cherry tomatoes works nicely.

* I couldn’t find harissa. After checking out a few recipes, I decided to substitute it with half a teaspoon of my hotter than the sun sambal oelek, some cumin and a splash of vinegar. Worked just fine.

* I used half normal olive oil and half wasabi infused olive oil. Gave it a nice kick. And I used a bit less than 200ml, because, well, 200ml seemed like a lot.

I ate the leftovers the day after and it was pretty good – stood up to a full bowl instead of little cups. Will make again… probably.

Lentil and cauliflower pilaf

Well. From super rich to super… well, cheap and healthy, I suppose. The other half of the cauliflower went into the lentil and cauliflower pilaf.

Controversially, this recipe uses basmati rice. I’m very much a short-to-medium grain girl and I was tempted to make it with medium grain because a) I’m lazy and b) I’m lazy. But I persevered and it was probably for the best. The basmati suits the dish much better than medium grain would.

Now, because I’m forgetful as well as lazy, I forgot that I had no korma curry paste until I went to make this. So I bodged one up from spices. See?

Then I cooked up some lentils, threw it all together and out came the most beige meal I’ve ever made.

It smelt good. It tasted good, if a little salty. It just looked sad and colourless. Especially without the fresh coriander on top (a) lazy and b) forgetful = forgot to buy it and then couldn’t be bothered making a separate trip. Also the Architect isn’t such a fan).

So I cooked up a… let’s be kind and call it a ragout, with red capsicum, zucchini, beetroot greens and rocket, and bunged it on top. As well as a hefty dollop of mango chutney, later followed by tamarind chutney. Made it look a bit more presentable and added a bit more interest. The sweetness from the chutney is definitely needed to balance the flavour of the pilaf.

Verdict? Not bad, but next time I might add a few more things for interest, and halve the salt. In any case I’ve still got half a bag of basmati rice in the cupboard to use up…

Uma-you, umami

We’re running down the pantry here at casa Sherdie, trying to use up those random bits and pieces of food that have been lurking in the back of the cupboard all year.

But first, some insight into my food saving habits. Habits? More like compulsion. Wasting food is  serious crime and one must try everything one can to not waste it.

So I turn my attention to a third of a packet of arborio rice. Risotto. Yes. Helpfully it’s been cold and rainy this week, perfect risotto weather. But we are low on vegies, and out of garlic.

Then I see, in the fridge, two lonely green cracked olives from Mt Stirling, sitting in a huge pile of sliced garlic and mustard seeds.

So far so good. Now I just need some stock.

I have powdered stuff, it’s true. But in the freezer we have some frozen stock. Not just any frozen stock, though. This is the leftover stock from a glorious seven-person nabe held to celebrate my exit from the public service. There were stacks of vegies and homemade tofu, there were piles of fresh shiitake and enoki, there was a kilo of thinly sliced beef, extra marbled. All dipped into a sultry, smoky dashi broth and simmered to perfection. We ate our way through a mountain of food and the broth got richer and richer.

At the end of it I couldn’t bear to simply chuck out this liquid umami, so into the freezer it went.

See also: food-saving compulsion.

Long story short, those three ingredients (plus the dregs of a $3 bottle of white wine) created the most amazing risotto I’ve ever had. Chuck in some rocket from the garden and a leftover slice of bacon, a shaving of parmesan and some truffle oil (again from Mt Stirling) and you have quite the fancy weeknight dinner (and lunch the next day).

Now, if only I can work out what to make with this chickpea flour my mum gave me…

Cauliflower cheese soup

With a giant head of cauliflower in the foodconnect box, miserable weather and a lazy Sunday, I tackled cauliflower cheese soup.

I really like cauliflower. It’s good raw to dip in other yummy things. I like it pickled, lightly steamed, stirfried, deep fried, in curry… but most of all I love it with white sauce. Yum.

A quick glance at the ingredients list shows milk, cream, butter, flour, cheese. So yes, this is basically a soup version of cauliflower with cheese sauce. Which is close to white sauce. How could this not be awesome?

Fun fact: this project means that for the first time ever, I’m actually weighing ingredients. This, my friends, is about 350g of cauliflower. Who knew?

A fairly simple soup making exercise later, this is what came out of the oven. Due to the general age and non-awesomeness of said oven, the top did not brown up delightfully like the picture despite some 30 minutes in there. I could have waited a bit longer, but hunger and impatience got the better of me. Anyway, I reckon they did theirs with a blow torch.

(I can has blow torch?)

You can see the oil around the sides in the picture. I served it with toast to better soak up the cholesterol. It was pretty damn rich, pretty damn laden with milk fat and pretty damn delicious. The Architect approved.

Next time, blow torch.

Thai-style pumpkin soup

One and a half pumpkins, a huge bunch of coriander, people coming round on a cold winter’s eve – what else can a girl do but make Thai-style pumpkin soup with coriander pesto?

Here’s some hot tips.

First, make the soup itself the day before, so it can cool down overnight and you can blend it in your plastic blender without detroying the jug.

Second, go light on the curry paste. Just because a bit is good, it doesn’t follow that a lot is better.

Third, food processors are for the weak. Mortar and pestle does the job just fine and as an added bonus, freaks out the neighbour’s cat. I call it rustic. Means “looks like an uncoordinated child did it”.

Fourth, if you are a teensy bit obsessed with not wasting food, roast those pumpkin seeds while you’re baking the bread to go with the soup and then serve them as a crunchy topping.

(Method: Wash the seeds and get rid of big pumpkin bits. Dry with some paper towel or a teatowel. Toss in some olive oil and salt. Spread out in a single layer and roast at 180 degrees for 15-20 minutes. Check often because they burn pretty quickly. Seriously tasty.)

Fifth, if your soup is so spicy as to make the visiting Curry Queen gasp, never fear. Cut it with coconut milk, rustic coriander pesto and a hefty dollop of yogurt. Sprinkle with roasted pumpkin seeds. Serve with fresh crusty rolls and forget to take a photo because everyone’s so hungry.

And all will be well.

Little carrot cakes

Confession: I’m not much of a baker. First, I’m much more into savoury than sweet.  Second, I’m what you might politely call an organic cook. It’s about the vibe, dude, not the measurements. Two things which don’t lend themselves particularly to making piles of cakes and biscuits. Edible ones, at least.

Still and all, my grandmother was famous across the Southern Highlands for her pavlova, and famous across my childhood for her cakes and slices, so it’s theoretically possible that I have baker’s DNA. Right? Right?

The book has a whole pile of sweet recipes which need baking and similar actions. Urgh. But one of them is for little carrot cakes, which I used to make as a kid. Plus, I ate a lot of that Sara Lee sheet carrot cake (you know the one, with the walnuts and the cream cheese icing) from the primary school tuckshop. That’s practically a pastry chef qualification right there. So carrot cake is where I started.

To up the stakes, I decided to make these for my farewell afternoon tea at work. Yep. Hello, about-to-be-former-co-workers. Let me leave you with this final impression of my culinary (non) skillz.

The cake batter part was pretty standard. It all came together nicely. Then I put it in my muffin tin to make my little carrot cakes. Except, I don’t own a muffin tin. I only own a giant Texas muffin tin (all the better to make mini-quiches in, see?). So I made giant little carrot cakes.

And I only own one giant muffin tin. So I had to make a couple of batches of giant little carrot cakes.

Which was good, because it gave me plenty of time to sieve the huge and numerous lumps out of the icing and force it into some kind of smooth paste, as I imagine icing should be. Because even though the recipe said to use coconut cream and icing sugar, I used coconut cream powder and icing sugar and water. Did I measure the water? Not as much as I could have.

And the recipe said to use 3 cups of plain flour.  I only had two and a half left in the jar, so I chucked in half a cup of self-raising flour instead.

Baking powder? That’s just, what, bicarb soda with cream of tartar, right? I know science. If I make up my own, it’ll have mostly the same effect, right? Mostly?

So.

As you might expect, they came up pointy and high, my Himalayan-shaped giant little carrot cakes. The icing was runny and thin. I lost half the caramelised carrot decoration when it got stuck to the paper towel it was ‘draining’ on.

…and they ate ‘em and went back for more.

Someone even asked for the recipe.

So thanks, Granny. It can only have been supernatural intervention that made those suckers edible.