From Sunsets to Sunrises and conquering the Pavlova…

I am ensconced once again at our humble beach house at Wainui Beach, Gisborne on the East Cape of New Zealand. It is an area which reminds me very much of my former life near Cardiff -by -the-Sea in San Diego, though Wainui is much less gentrified and holds a more earthy and less pretentious feel about it. It is all about sunrises here, rather than sunsets. When here, I find myself wanting to witness and welcome every sunrise, rather than looking forward to embrace the sunsets, as I did in San Diego. The hope and surprises of each day here begin with the sunrise, and its dramatic firey entry from deep in the sea in the distant horizon. I am grateful to be alive one more day. As I “mature”, I look more to what the day might hold in store, what I may accomplish from sunrise to sunset rather than the charms and self-indulgence that sunsets used to herald. Not that mixing a cocktail or pouring a chilled Chardonnay at the end of the day with B or friends does not still hold a strong appeal..it does!! Just less so…Yeah right!

It’s been two weeks here which feel like only two days. Friends have popped in and out, along with my daughter A and her friend from Masterton donning bikinis on lovely young figures and heading straight to the beach to offer their milky bodies to an unforgiving Sun god and frothy surf.  My friend C and I have had a couple of days here alone, where we chatted incessantly, compared recipes, rose early to walk the beach and hike up to the Makarori headlands after a frothy cappucino, shopped in town and became totally absorbed in the English mini-series, Downton Abbey. After renting the first season DVD and watching it over two evenings, I couldn’t help myself but to go purchase it along with season two. What a treat to sit with a close girl friend, sip on wine undisturbed and watch episode after episode, sometimes till 2 am of this drama set in and around the time of WW1. This time was all the more appreciated once husbands and family members joined us and once again we  slipped into wifey/mommy roles.

C and I decided to bake one overcast day, as she wanted to have some homemade treats for her family arriving soon. The oven was turned on and I got to making a loaf of Irish brown bread, while she made a batch of chocolate chip cookies a la New Zealand. Not the Toll House variety I was brought up on in the USA. Then she had an urge to make a pavlova, a Kiwi classic. I have lived here almost 8 years now, and have never made a Pavlova or even attempted making one. There is quite a bit of controversy around where the dessert actually originate, but I read awhile back in one of the newspapers that New Zealand can claim it as their own creation.

I watched with interest as Crissy hand beat 8 egg whites until silken and stiff, (no kitchen aid at the beach house), and then folded in a tablespoon of white vinegar and a tablespoon or two of cornflour. She spread it upon a lined baking tray about the size of a dinner plate, and popped into the oven at around 150 C then turned it down to about 110C. Aside from views on where the dessert originated, there are as many thoughts on what the oven temperature should be and how long to cook the Pavlova. Although it was a bit over browned, and rather flat, which C attributed to being unfamiliar with my oven, I thought it quite tasty once it was “tarted” up as C called it with whipped cream and some sliced strawberries and Kiwi fruit.

The next evening as I prepared dinner, I watched Nigella make a chocolate pavlova which really excited me, as chocolate is one of B’s few indulgences. So, to the above recipe, which I used only 6 egg whites, the cornflour was omitted, and to the stiffly beaten mixture I added 3 tablespoons of best quality chocolate, and about 50 g of chopped dark chocolate and 1 teaspoon of balsamic vinegar. I heated the oven to 180 C, placed the pavlova inside, then immediately turned the oven down to 120C, and let it cook for about an hour and a quarter. The oven was then turned off, and the pavlova left inside to cool.

Fabulous!!! Rich and velvety, with a lovely crust and soft chocolate marshmellow interior. I lathered freshly beaten cream over it and heaped some blueberries and sliced strawberries I had purchased from a farm stand in town earlier that day. This is going to be a favorite for a while now…so easy, so summer and so impressive. Give it a go!!

A trip to the Saturday farmer’s market filled our bowls with juicy peaches, plums, rock melons (cantalopes), strawberries and sweet corn on the cob. Meals were effortlessly prepared with all the fresh produce on hand, and salads, zucchini and corn fritters, fruit compotes, roasted peaches and chilled local Gisborne Gold and Chardonnay opened and shared on our deck overlooking the rolling Pacific ocean. B and V caught abundant fish on their boys’s fishing and camping trip around the East Cape, so the “barby” was fired up and fresh snapper lightly floured and quickly fried then doused with fresh lemon juice, with lemons from our tree.

My 54th birthday (Yikes!! Am I really that young???) was celebrated with local friends out at sea on their boat during the annual Gisborne Fishing competition. Though Marlin, Kingfish and Albacore eluded us, several local Pacific lobster, (called crayfish here), were caught in the trap we dropped and barbequed on a sunny Sunday afternoon in a gorgeous cove near Young Nick’s Head.

Do I really have to leave here soon?.

The Last Word on The New Year and Comet Lovejoy…

On the last day of 2011, one of my friends here in Masterton told me she could not remember the last time she actually stayed awake to bring in the new year, to which I replied that I could not remember the last time I did not. Then the still perky memory recalled a time when, as young 20-year-old registered nurse, I had gone to a party on the 30th December in the Oakland, California hills, danced all night and then drove straight to work the next morning for my 7 a.m. to 3 p.m. shift. Praying to God that I would make it a few more hours past noon, I drove home, had a cup of tea, and threw myself on my bed not to awaken till after midnight on the first day of 1979. That was the only time I can clearly remember not being awake to shout Happy New Year and search for my first kiss of the year…

This New Year’s Eve, B and I were invited to our neighbour’s house across the way, visible from our house across a few fields. The hostess suggested we arrive anytime after 8 pm for champagne and desert along with two other couples. All in all, a rather sedate evening, with clips of Lady Gaga in concert viewing on the large home theatre projector screen. As I sat in our friend’s lounge,  I couldn’t help but think of all the times in my former life in the USA watching Dick Clark LIVE from Times Square in New York. The anticipation and excitement was infectious as revelers gathered in droves and huddled in warm clothing behind road barriers to watch the big apple fall as the countdown was screamed out in unison by all: 10, 9, 8, 7, ….Happy New Year!!!!

No matter where I was at that time as an adult, I would, without fail, call my mother and wish her a happy new year, to which she would inevitably reply, Happy new year to you too, Honey. I wonder what this year has in store for us? I miss that American exuberance around the New Year, (and all Holidays in general), and I miss my dear mother as well. In an effort to keep tradition going, I sent a phone text to both my children, who were bringing the New Year in together at V’s house-party up at Mount Maunganui. I had just sent it when I received a lovely message from them both wishing me all the best for the upcoming year, which quickly replaced any feeling of sadness and self-pity that was threatening to engulf me at that moment. As did the first kiss of the year with Bob.

When I opened my eyes on the 1 January 2012, the first thing I felt was grateful. Grateful NOT to have a hangover! The rain pounded heavy drops on our roof, and B was grateful to have the extra water filling our tanks, and I was happy the veggie garden was getting a good soak. The day was spent lounging around the house and trying to catch up with family overseas. Sometime later,  in the middle of the night, I heard B saying something in the bathroom. When he returned to bed, he whispered that “the comet” was clear in the sky.  What comet? I asked. Not wanting to miss out, I dragged myself out of bed and peered out the window into the dark starry filled sky, with B warning me not to turn on any lights. There across the eastern skies was this amazing streak of light; the comet’s long and near vertical tail. Comet Lovejoy, or Comet 2011 W3, was discovered only last month by an amatuer Australian astronomer, Terry Lovejoy. Thinking about this over coffee in a few hours time, I remembered the date, 2 January and the 30th anniversary of B and my first date in San Francisco. I am thinking the early morning sighting of Lovejoy may be a good omen for 30 more years of love and companionship. How wonderful it is too, to have my man interested in celestial events!

This day also welcomed a visit from our neighbours down below, who live mostly in Singapore and come to Masterton for Christmas holidays to catch up with family here. The irony is, this same family lived in Encinitas the same time we did for a few years. They are a lovely couple, he a Kiwi and she American, with two gorgeous pre-teen daughters. I had promised her a cocktail, and was soon making The Last Word, courtesy by friend A, who recently visited from San Diego. I carefully measured out a shot of Gin, Lighthouse Gin from a town near us here in NZ, a shot of green Chartreuse, a shot of Luxardo, which is a maraschino flavoured liquor and a shot of Lime juice and then tripled all these shots and shook the shaker vigorously to make four cocktails. Our guest, M, marveled at the concoction stating that he hadn’t tasted Chartreuse in years, or ever heard of Luxardo. I informed them that this drink, The Last Word, heralds from prohibition days, so has quite a history.

And so we raised our glasses to toast the New Year, to The Last Word, and to our 30th anniversary of dating and partnership in life.

Nights In White Sangria and Riding the Mexican Train…

It’s been awhile since I’ve written here, which is not to say I haven’t been thinking about writing here. October and November are but blurry memories now of visitors from San Diego, road trips, our two-week business/leisure trip back to California in mid-October, a  Let’s Do Lunch cooking class early in November, a girl’s  weekend trip to Gisborne for the Arts and Garden festival followed shortly by my mother-in-law’s visit and our son, V’s graduation ceremony from Auckland medical school. Whew! I feel weary just recounting it all, but grateful that the hectic time was all centered on joyful events.

Early in October when our close friends A and J were visiting, the weather was all over the place in the North Island which can’t help me from thinking they might have wondered what the hell were we doing in New Zealand. Being men of fine epicurean tastes, both were enthusiastic about helping me with recipes for my cooking classes, and much fun was shared concocting and playing with ingredients. A is the master of cocktails, with Gin being his preferred spirit of choice at the moment. I was introduced to The Last Word, and Lime Drops…all Gin based cocktails, all very flavorful. We cooked up a large pot of Mussels bathed in Gisborne Gold Ale which would appeal to any male who enjoys both, and dabbled with the old Californian favorite, warm artichoke and spinach dip to be featured on my California themed menu. But the winning recipe du jour was White Sangria. So fresh, so summer.

One evening in Masterton while the wood-fired pizza oven was warming to desired temperature, a large glass pitcher was dug out from one of my cabinets. Into it was poured an inexpensive bottle of fruity sauvignon blanc, along with a cup of brandy, a half cup of sugar syrup, the fresh squeezed juice of three grapefruit, juice of one lemon and a cup of pear juice. One apple and pear was sliced thinly, and along with frozen green grapes added to the jug and stirred vigorously and topped off with sparkling soda water.  It was decided that ice should not be added to the mixture, but only placed in the glasses upon serving. And mint infused ice cubes at that!  The site of the large glass pitcher sitting on my kitchen bench top with fresh fruit bobbing up and down in a fruity solution of fortified wine and fresh juices screamed FUN!!! This notion was validated with each sip of the concoction.

While I was at my dear friend’s house, M, in Long Beach, she made a cocktail using pear vodka, which I am now using in my White Sangria recipe in place of the Brandy. It imparts more of the fruity flavour I prefer without the added sugar of the juice. I would prefer to use white California grapefruit juice, as the New Zealand grapefruit is rather orange in color than I would prefer in the appearance, but one has to improvise where needed, eh?

B and I took a step down memory lane with another couple and caught the Moody Blues playing a concert in Wellington. The thought of seeing them on stage was a bit daunting given our ages, but the voices and the energy were impressive and energetic. As their hit song, “Nights in White Satin” was my first choice for our first song at our wedding, and given that I have seen them at least three other times in concert, I hold this group close to my heart. Just to let you know, Blue Danube was actually our first song…All good. Over the next few days following the concert, I bought a few of their top hits from i-tunes and now can blast them from my i-phone at will.

While in Long Beach, I was introduced to a Domino game called “Mexican Train”, which is being played fanatically by my friend, M, and her circle of boatie friends. As my husband B said, it is an easy game to play while drinking and lounging on one’s boat in Catalina. Now, I have NEVER played a game of dominoes in my life, and so it was at age 53 I learn a new game, and like everyone else have become “hooked” and brought a game back with me to New Zealand. Thus far, it has been a hit with those I have introduced it to, and look forward to many sunny days playing it at the beach in Gisborne over the next few months. We’re going to be “open for business”…

Rugby World Cup Food Fare…

As the host country for the 2011 Rugby World Cup, New Zealand has gone mad here with enthusiasm . Honestly, I feel as if every game-day now is a Kiwi version of USA Monday night football…it’s fabulous. The final game will be the equivalent of the ultimate Superbowl party. And I’m not even a true sports fan, let alone a rugby fan, but anywhere there is good cheer and a sense of friendly competition, I am there. I have grasped the three basic concepts peculiar to rugby: a ”try” is a goal and worth five points, that a game is called a “test”, and that the ball is passed backwards. Away you go!

Last Thursday, I went alone to see a matinée, The Help. Wonderful film, and was happy that it kept close to the book, which I also enjoyed. When I switched on my cell phone, I noticed three missed calls from my daughter A in Wellington, and with encouragement from wonderful husband, B, I decided to just drive down there for the night to catch-up with her and do the Mommy and Me thing, so sorely missed now that I am an empty nester. We headed into “town” to check out a couple new “cool” restaurant/bars for a bite and a cocktail and happened to catch the USA vs Russia rugby game on a big screen. One just never knows how the day will finish out, and that being said, I decided to continue soaking up the urban energy and stay Friday night as well. Friday morning I went to a Pilates class with neighbour J and daughter A, and met a woman there who was wearing a Tee shirt with the name of an Irish band, Shenanigans, to whom I have clapped and danced several times around the country, and was informed they were playing in town that night. It was such a gorgeous day, and thought maybe I could encourage B to come down early and bring Simba our dog as well.  There were also friends of ours in town from Auckland who had planned to take the train up on Saturday morning, but now could ride back with me, and still experience the train journey going back on Sunday afternoon.

In the end, B could not break way early enough and plans were made to meet my 75 year old next door neighbour in Wellington J at Old Saint Paul’s Church to hear the USMC Pacific Band do a free concert. Now, I had NO interest at all in hearing this band, but it was taking place early enough at 5:30 p.m. for an hour, and the venue is quite special and J would be there, and what the hell else was I doing?

So off I walked across town after meeting A, who had assured me that this was not her thing, and entered the mostly full church. The American ambassador to New Zealand gave a welcoming speech, then the formal dressed brass band played the USA national anthem, followed by the New Zealand one. Chills ran up my spine, it was so beautiful and heartfelt. After hearing about the role the USMC played in WW 2 helping New Zealand and Australia fight the Japanese in the South Pacific,  I stood there feeling so proud to be an American in this country. The concert in its repertoire and talent took me completely by surprise and I thanked God and J that I was there in the audience to experience this moment. I got to dance a bit later in the night to Shenanigans, and the fun continued onto the next morning when I heard the USMC band play again in the rugby fun zone on Wellington Harbour before heading back to Masterton with my Auckland friends and J in tow.

As I had one pumpkin left from my “harvest”, I decided to make homemade squash ravioli with a roasted pear salad and some barbecued rib-eye steaks. The drive back to Masterton included a stop-off to do a chocolate tasting at boutique chocolatier in Greytown, then some wine tasting at the Gladstone Vineyard. With wine and chocolate in hand, we descended upon a very welcoming B waiting for us with a fire crackling away in our Masterton country estate!

I immediately set upon peeling the pound or so of pumpkin and dicing it into small pieces to roast in the oven while I made the egg pasta dough, which literally took less than five minutes in the food processor consisting of 2 cups of high-grade flour,  two whole eggs, one egg yolk, and a dribble of water as needed to combine dough into a smooth texture. It was then tossed onto the floured kitchen counter and kneaded by hand for 1-2 minutes, then placed in bowl and covered with plastic wrap to rest for a half hour. The softened roasted pumpkin was processed with a 1/2 stick of unsalted butter, 1 tablespoon brown sugar, 1 cup of freshly grated parmesan cheese, salt, pinch of freshly grated nutmeg until smooth. To this, I added a splash or so of heavy cream to soften. Then what fun we had rolling out fresh pasta sheets, then placing the filling on one side and folding it over and cutting into squares for the ravioli. At one point, my friends said they just go to the store and buy the ravioli and never think about it..but why settle for bland, tough, store-bought ravioli when you can create great ones with friends at home. It’s all part of the entertaining, eh? Fresh sage was plucked from the veggie garden and simmered with 1/4 cup crushed walnuts and 1 stick unsalted (I use ONLY unsalted butter as it has a shorter shelf life and is thus a more flavourful and fresh product), 1/2 cup freshly grated parmesan cheese and some freshly squeezed lemon juice from half a lemon. So incredibly tasty and satisfying served alongside the barbecued rib-eye steaks B had prepared perfectly medium-rare and the roasted pear, walnut and blue cheese salad I threw together with lettuce from the garden and tossed with local Olive oil and lemon juice.

Now onto the Sunday menu for our guests. Aside from my breakfast standard dish-spinach, leek and gruyere frittata served with free range pork and sage sausage, homemade Irish brown bread, and Mimosas, but of course, I had a hankering to try a Cook’s Illustrated recipe for Buffalo wings, done right!! This recipe having originated in Buffalo, New York and is standard fare at any American game worth watching. The recipe basically called for a coating of dry ingredients and fried, then finished off with a wet sauce when cooked. The chicken nibbles as they say here, were coated with a mixture of corn starch, salt, pepper, and cayenne pepper, then fried in a large Dutch oven in peanut oil until golden and crisp, about 10 minutes, then drained onto paper towels and placed in a hot oven while the rest were fried. Now, let it be known, I NEVER make fried chicken, or anything deep-fried at home, so this was a hesitant departure from my cooking methods, but I embraced it having full faith in the Cook’s tried and true recipe. And cornstarch rather than flour is the secret ingredient here, making for a lovely crispy wing.

While I was busy preparing the chicken wings and combining and melting the wet sauce of 4 tablespoons of unsalted butter, 1/2 cup of hot sauce, 1 tablespoon dark brown sugar and 2 teaspoons cider vinegar, B was making the blue cheese dressing. This consisted of one cup of crumbled blue cheese, 6 tablespoons each of buttermilk, sour cream and 4 tablespoons each mayonnaise and white wine vinegar along with 1/2 tsp each sugar and garlic powder. Season with table salt and ground black pepper to taste.

Well, all I can say is that the look of joyful culinary appreciation on the face of my guests when they tucked into the wings was well worth the effort. Incredibly tasty and flavourful. Looking forward now to Ireland playing Russia, especially as they just beat the favoured Australians. Yeah!! What shall I tuck into next weekend for game viewing?

Springtime and Real Carbonara…

Whilst my friends and family in the U.S.A. are lamenting the end of summer with this being Labor Day weekend, I am marveling at the new buds on the trees as Spring became official here in New Zealand on 1 September. Over the past month we have endured polar blasts from Antarctica and worried over the welfare of newborn lambs as they popped up with curious glances in the fields around our house, but now there is evidence of at least
the promise of better weather ahead. I am really looking forward to getting seedlings started for tomatoes, tomatillos and zucchini. It was most disappointing to finally accept that my tomato and tomatillo seedlings became stunted in my green house over winter, with no hope of recovery now. Indeed the price of tomatoes shot up over the past few months to make them almost a luxury on one’s plate. Fortunately canned tomatoes were readily available and affordable and used in all my hearty winter soups and venison stews.

One Friday evening a couple of weeks ago, B and I had loosely planned to drive down to Wellington to go to a jazz concert and catch up with our daughter. So loose were the plans,  I didn’t purchase tickets in advance just in case he became delayed with patients, as often can happen on a Friday afternoon.  As the day progressed and the temperature began to drop precipitously, I became less and less enthused about bundling up and leaving our house only to drive an hour and a half and perhaps feel even colder still in Wellington. So, I proposed we stay in and forgo the jazz and hunker down at home.

What shall we do for dinner, B enquired. Well as I had no intention of leaving the house, I gave the fridge a quick going over and was only too happy to find all the ingredients for a carbonara, right down to fresh home-made fettuccine from a pasta-making session earlier that week with my daughter A when she was home to catch the snow fall from the much anticipated polar blast.

I first witnessed Carbonara being made in the house of the man who was later to become my younger sister’s future husband, though she had not yet met him. My best friend, P, was invited by him to a dinner party and P being the way she is, asked if she might bring along her pal, Moi! We arrived at the house in Berkeley to find two or three Asian ladies lounging around on silk floor cushions, along with one or two other male guests, one of whom was a close friend of the host, a professor at U.C. Berkeley. There in the kitchen doing the chef thing, he appeared the classic Italian-American cliché; a swarthy young man sporting a full dark mustache with a head of long flowing wavy locks framing his olive complexion. He wore a black leather jacket while he diced and whisked in the kitchen, and when asked by me what he was preparing, he answered Carbonara, with the attitude of  ”but of course”.  I had never heard of this dish, let alone taste it, so it was with great curiosity that I watched him crack several eggs into a bowl, and whisk them until well combined with a fork, then add a good splash of heavy cream and a handful of freshly grated parmesan cheese.

He then carefully chopped up several cloves of garlic and added it to a heated frying pan with a healthy coating of olive oil and bite-sized bacon pieces. He explained that he would have preferred to use the Italian pancetta, but did not have time with his busy class schedule to go across the city to his favorite Italian Deli. Into a large pot filled with salted boiling water, he added a whole package of fettuccine and gave it a stir. After about ten minutes, he removed about a half a cup of the pasta water and whisked it into the egg mixture. To the pan of fried bacon and garlic and a dash of chili pepper flakes, he added the drained pasta, and swirled it around and around with wooden spoon to coat it well with the oil. This was then added to the egg mixture and combined with more parmesan cheese and many twists of the black pepper grinder. That the whole dish took less than 30 minutes to prepare with few ingredients and proved worthy to serve as a main dish at a dinner party greatly impressed me. It was dished up with some crusty Italian bread and a tossed green salad along with plenty of white and red wine. It was so tasty, and was soon an added favourite to my “comfort food” list.

To the host’s dismay, P had no romantic or any other interest for that matter in him. This thoroughly frustrated him further when she wound up having a bit of a fling with the Italian professor and chef du jour.

Carbonara has now become an old standby, a dish made with love and a sense of indulgence. Recently I read that its name is derived from the word coal, and was in fact  a staple plate preferred by the coal miners in Italy. Perhaps it was the plentiful freshly-ground black pepper garnish that reminded them of their work. Another version credited American soldiers in Italy asking a chef to make them a pasta dish with bacon and eggs which they craved from home, and carbonara was created.  I remember once making it for my sister-in-law, M, from Milan when she came to visit me in the early days of her courtship with my brother and feeling a bit self-conscious as she watched over the preparation. What the hell was I doing making Carbonara for an Italian in the first place? And a Northern-Italian at that, with their dishes easy on the garlic, as opposed to their brothers in Rome. The one suggestion she politely forced herself to make was to cut the bacon firstly into bite-sized pieces instead of doing it after it was cooked. Fair enough, and now I always do it this way and still make it in the tradition of the Professor, resisting the temptation to bastardize it too much by adding lots more cream or peas and ham, etc.

Carbonara and Love…long may it live!

‘Tis the Season to be Lambing…

This morning I was roused to a distant bleating and yelping. I sat up in my cozy bed and looked out the window facing the hills north to see a flock of sheep being mustered to another field, or “paddock” in Kiwi speak. What a sight. I squinted to see an excited dog or two driving the sheep with the farmer close behind on a quad bike. After I had coffee and headed down our long drive towards town, I spotted all these new-born lambs in the neighbouring paddock, some with their tails wagging furiously as they nursed enthusiastically from their weary looking mothers, looking a bit startled as I drove past. Ahhh…their gorgeous innocence held me captive, as it always does this time of the year. This is the very sight I dreamed about when I was in the throes of moving to New Zealand seven years ago. During those crazy last days of tying up loose ends, packing, getting our immigration papers all in order, only the thought of doing nothing else but watching sheep just doing their thing in fields around me kept me encouraged. And here I am, doing  just that.

Last weekend my son, V, came home for the weekend. I was eagerly anticipating his visit, as one would a guest. It doesn’t seem all that long ago that I was driving him all over San Diego to his activities, doing his laundry and asking if he had any homework, and here he is now almost a qualified medical doctor, seeing patients everyday, giving them his council. Earlier that week,  I had been given more fresh deer meat from my walking friend, C., and knew he would welcome this, as being a student his menus are defined by his limited budget. To his delight, I made a heady wine-infused Vension Burgundy served on some risoni pasta. It was most appreciated and tasty, and surprisingly not gamey, as I had feared.

V can never just “chill” when he comes home, though he told me he felt very sleepy on the drive home from Wellington. He said he often feels that way when he “comes home”, probably the only time he can truly be himself and relax for a few hours. His main plan for Saturday was to go on a “tramp” with his father, up to Powell Hut high in the local Tararua ranges near our house. These hills are all presently snow-capped, and the weather can change in an instant making conditions potentially treacherous. So, that being the situation and given the fact that my lovely husband, B, is not as fit as his son, I was a tad anxious about the expedition. V knocked on our bedroom door at 6:30 a.m. to get us roused, then set about making coffee and getting lunch supplies packed for their tramp. Off they set out as the sun was beginning to rise over the eastern hills, and four hours later text me that they had made it safely to the hut, and would begin their descent shortly. Social networking was all in force prior to V’s visit and arrangements had been made to meet local friends in Wellington for dinner later that evening, so the descent was less than leisurely according to B.

They arrived back, both looking quite knackered. After I drove V to the train station, I ran a hot bath for B to soak his weary muscles and lamented the fact, as I am wont to do after a visit from one of my children, that the time with them was way too short.

Early Sunday morning, the phone rang and it was my dear friend in Wellington, J, from whom I bought our apartment after we first arrived- a city escape from the sheep studded fields every once in awhile. She owns the larger apartment next to us there. What are you doing today? She asked. Should I take the train up for the day? J is 75, and has more spunk and energy than some friends my own age. I love her dearly. Shortly after I purchased the apartment from her, her husband died after a long illness, and a few months later my mother died back in the USA. She would be the same age as my Mom, and I regard meeting her as a little gift from God, to help fill the terrible void left when my mother was no longer alive, and there for me to call and chat, share a laugh, confide in, or take a trip together. Sure, I encouraged her eagerly. Have Sunday lunch with us.

B had invited the new Austrian pediatrician and his family over for lunch, and also the French surgeon, B, so what difference would one more make at the table. As the pediatrician had four children in tow, I had to make something that was not too fou fou and would suit all palates. What about a good old fashioned baked macaroni and cheese? Served with a barbequed flank-steak marinated in some homemade teriyaki sauce, crusty ciabbata, a fennel, fig and olive salad, and some green beans. Perfect! And, I had all the ingredients on hand.

Instead of the classic elbow shape pasta, I used small shells, and made a crumbed bread topping. The roux was the standard 6 tbsp butter with 2 medium crushed garlic cloves, 1 heaping tbsp of dijon mustard, 1/4 tsp cayenne pepper and 6 tbsp high grade flour. Once the mixture was thickening, I added 1 3/4 cups chicken broth, and 3 1/2 cups whole milk and brought to a low boil while whisking constantly until thickened . Off the heat, I stirred in about 3 cups of gruyere and 3 cups of sharp cheddar, then tasted to determine if it was sufficiently “cheesy”. This sauce was poured into the drained pasta, and stirred to coat well.  To the crumbed topping I add a cup or more of shredded parmesan cheese, and popped it in the oven at 200 C for about 25 -30 minutes until golden brown.

B was in charge of making the teriyaki sauce of 1 cup soy sauce, 1 cup brown sugar, some freshly grated ginger, minced garlic and a 1/4 cup of pineapple juice. This is simmered until the sugar is melted, then cooled and poured over the Flank steak, which is a meat not commonly cooked with here. It has been my mission to remove the stigma from this cut of meat and to demonstrate how flavourful and tender it can taste if prepared properly.

The Frenchman brought a local Martinborough Pinot Noir, and the Austrians brought a  dessert of apple crumble cake and a bowl of white chocolate mousse. Their four daughters were delightful and kept Simba, our dog, very entertained for the afternoon. Julie was in heaven to be sharing a meal at such an international table, and gave ample thanks for the “invitation”. I was back at the train station dropping her off shortly before 5 p.m. to head back to Wellington. As I often say, one of the best things about Masterton is that there is train that leaves here several times a day for Wellington, and often I am on it!

All in all, it was a fabulous get together to share one of my favourite meals of the week: Sunday lunch. Now back to strumming the Ukulele before my next lesson.

Parev Doon and Middle Eastern Cuisine…

Middle Eastern cuisine was the chosen menu for last Saturday’s group of five women over from Wanganui- a “girl’s getaway to celebrate a 50th birthday and a welcomed dissolution of a marriage. All were accomplished cooks, and the organizer of the weekend asked if I were planning to cook something other than “kebabs and couscous”, dishes she had explained all cook regularly at home.

My introduction to Middle Eastern cuisine was rather intimately introduced to my via my Armenian husband, B, and the very talented cooks in his family, namely his grandmother,  mother and three sisters. The first dish he taught me to prepare was Rice Pilaf, Armenian style. It is a staple to many of their dishes. From there, I learned from his mother the skills involved to make cheese boereg, lamb and rice stuffed grape leaves, bulgar salads, stuffed vegetables, garlic dips, pickles and lahmejoun (Armenian pizza), to name but a few dishes. I humbly learned the importance of having the lamb ground at least two times, preferably three, and that less honey is used in their making of baklava, as compared to the Greek or Turkish version.

Again, another beautiful, crisp day up here at the house with the snow capped hills strutting their beauty for the guests. I had the Armenian greeting, Parev Doon, written on the small kitchen blackboard on corner counter, with the theme, Middle Eastern, written underneath. Parev Doon means Welcome Home, and if I ever get around to it, this is what I would like to name our home here, high on the hill on the outskirts of Masterton. After our “meet and greet” beverage, aprons were donned and soon there was a flurry of flour as we began rolling dough for the flat breads and the lahmejoun, along with the preparation of the filo for the cheese boereg and the baklava. I had made the syrup of 1 cup caster sugar, 1 cup water, a 1/4 cup of honey from the bees at one of the guest’s farms in Wanganui, along with a 1/4 cup of lemon juice with some lemon zest. Once the sugar melted, it simmered for about 15 minutes to thicken, then I added a tsp. of orange blosson water and rose water, and let it cool, before pouring over the cooled baklava.

Filo dough has proved quite tricky for me to handle in the past, but I now have learned that it should not be frozen, and to leave it out at for about an hour or so at room temperature before using it. It is also important to keep it covered with either plastic or a damp dish towel while waiting to use more sheets. All good!!

Having the lean lamb ground a few extra times upon request from our local butcher made a huge difference to the texture of the pizza topping as well. When I informed one of the ladies that I was charged a few dollars more for this request, one informed me that she has used her food processor for this and that it worked quite well. The free range chicken thighs were sliced into bite sized pieces by B the night before, and marinated in lots of fresh squeezed lemon juice, the minced cloves of a whole bulb of garlic and some chopped parsley and olive oil. Both the pizza and the chicken kebabs were sprinkled with a generous spray of sumac once cooked, a new ingredient for the guests. Our side dish was Nivik, a warm chick pea and spinach salad, which proved a hit as well. All washed down with some local bubbles and a Wairarapa Pinot Gris, ending with an affogato, of course.

After the guests left, and the dishes washed, floor swept and mopped, I settled down with a cup of tea and my dusty Ukulele to practice for my upcoming lesson this Tuesday. All I can say, there is a good reason why I had my hands slapped a few times by a crusty old nun back at Mount Lourdes Convent Grammar School in Enniskillen, Northern Ireland. Truly, I feel so hopeless with any musical instrument, but comfort myself with the thought that I may be creating new brain cells to replenish those gone with years of wine and keep me ticking along for a few more years trying to make some sense.