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.

Chilatas…

The past few weekends have been busy with Let’s Do Lunch preparations and cooking events. Last Sunday four couples drove up from Wellington to experience a Modern Mexican theme. The weather gods turned it on for the day, with crisp clear blue skies, snow capped mountains and not a breath of wind. The sliding doors were opened to the westerly mountain and river views and the sun was beating down on my back as I dined with my guests proving to be a very welcomed afternoon of winter respite. Ever-patient, loving husband B was a wonderful help with the prep on Saturday, and proved invaluable assistance on Sunday making the flour and corn tortillas, along with a tray of mango margaritas which almost tipped over as his sleeve caught on the door as he left the scullery off the kitchen. Tossing and turning the other evening I started with a fit of the giggles thinking of the instant look of horror on B’s face as the tray wobbled a split second in his hands. Great save!! What a mess it would have been with mango margaritas splattered everywhere amongst broken glass. Not a good look.

The menu was designed with chipotle peppers and tomatillos (grown in my garden) used as main ingredients in the dishes cooked throughout the Modern Mexican menu, from salsas to hot dips, tomatillo and tortilla soup, finishing off with a dessert which called for chipotle peppers in the Mexican spiced chocolate cakes and finished with a sweet tomatillo sauce. Both ingredients were new flavours for my Kiwi patrons to experience, and the response was incredibly enthusiastic, with instructions requested for growing, harvesting, cooking and preserving tomatillos. B finished the meal with Mexican affogatos, the Mexican component being Kahlua splashed over the ice-cream.

Another hit was the Chilatas: a Mexican condiment used on soups, salads, a dish of beans and warm corn tortillas. One might think of it as a Mexican dukkah; a textured powder of toasted and ground seeds and nuts. It is delicious, healthy and addictive. To make a batch for yourself, use 1/3 cup peanuts, 1/2 cup sesame seeds, 1/2 cup raw, hulled pumpkin seeds, 1/8 tsp of powdered, hot, dried chili peppers, or a pinch of chili flakes, or more to taste, and 1/2 tsp or more of coarse sea salt. I also added a 1/2 cup of sunflower seeds, but this is not part of the classic recipe.

Toast each of the seeds and nuts separately in a heavy pan, taking care not to brown too much. Then grind separately in a coffee grounder to a fine textured consistency. Then mix all together with the salt and the chili powder or crushed flakes. Make sure there is enough salt and chili powder to give the chilatas a kick…this is what makes it delicious. Make it this weekend, and enjoy.

Signs of Spring are appearing as buds are appearing on the trees near Henley Lake where I walk with Simba, our cute little miniature French poodle clad in a very smart looking wool sweater, or jersey as they say here. This weekend I have a group coming over from Wanganui and the theme is Middle Eastern. Dishes have been carefully planned, with an emphasis on Armenian cuisine, as B heralds from that ancient and rich cultural heritage. Looking forward to making flat breads and Lahmejoun Armenian pizzas, and Nivik, (warm chick pea and spinach salad) Boereg, ( cheese filled filo pastries).

Early next week must start getting a menu sorted for the theme: Cool California…And have just received a booking for early Christmas, so it’s all go here with Let’s Do Lunch.

Now back to making a fresh batch of those Chilatas…

Snow Flurries, Mediterranean Medly and Fennel…

Waking up to snow flurries with white capped Tararuas and surrounding low lying hills, I was instantly transported to Lake Tahoe in northern California, minus the ski facilities. It was truly a sight to behold and the camera was quickly dug out to take snapshots for the “kids” to witness on-line later in the day. Sadly,  the vista all too quickly disappeared as more snow clouds formed, with snow falling most of the day here in Masterton. Today in the local newspaper it was made official: this was indeed the coldest and wildest weather in ten years. It also was coincidentally our seventh year anniversary living here in New Zealand, and the on-line Air New Zealand 24-hour only $999.00 R/T to L.A. were indeed painful to ignore.

The cloud cover refused to budge all day last Saturday, when I hosted a group of 8 women to a Let’s Do Lunch hands-on cooking experience, the theme being Mediterranean Medly. I joked to the ladies to imagine we were cooking in a warm and flavourful Mediterranean cloud, far removed from the dropping temperatures outside. Peeks of the valley floor did appear intermittently giving my guests a glimpse of the expansive views usually witnessed from this property, but alas, no sighting of the mountains in the west were to be appreciated with the usual pleasurable sighs.

The women set forth to chopping and dicing ingredients to make up our menu which included Mediterranean meatballs (made with milk-soaked ciabatta bread cubes, onion, shallots, garlic, toasted pine nuts, a handful of currants and pomegranate molasses), baked squid saganaki (Feta cheese topping), and fennel, olive and orange salad with a pomegranate molasses salad dressing. My prep included making a few dips ahead of time for the crostini, as it is best if the flavours mature a bit overnight for the Tapanade,  Italian white bean and roasted garlic dip, and the artichoke and chive dip. As I was working without my daughter as an assistant, attention was not closely paid to the timing of the baguette slices browning under the grill and they burned on one side. Not a good look, and quite scary as I had only one baguette. Thank goodness there was enough ciabatta bread left over from the meatball recipe to quickly slice, and brush with an olive oil and garlic infusion to toast once again…this time with the oven timer on. All good.

The fennel was pulled from my garden earlier that morning and it was quite large, so only one bulb was needed for the salad. The ladies watched carefully as I demonstrated how to prepare it, and then it was mentioned that it grows wild in New Zealand. This surprised me as this plant originates in the Mediterranean and was cultivated by the Romans. Indeed, I was informed that I could source it quite readily from the river bed below our property. Apparently this variety, Common Fennel, sets seed so easily it is often viewed as a pest. Only one participant in the group declared that she was a fan of fennel and used it often in soups or would simply braise it along with other roasted root vegetables. Mostly I would use it in French or Italian inspired fish stews for its tangy flavour, and have used it to finish off a sauce for a wonderful lamb shank recipe I am very fond of doing for my family. But few realize how wonderful it is raw. My brother’s Italian in-laws have served it on raw veggie platters to nibble on with pre-dinner cocktails. Think of it as replacing cut up slices of celery. It is fantastic as a salad ingredient, as I used it with sliced red onions, chopped black olives and mandarin slices, as they are in season now. Had figs been available, they would have been the preferred ingredient, and dried figs have worked quite well in the past as well, but in my classes I try to source fresh and seasonably available produce. These chopped ingredients marinated in a cup of Pomegranate dressing for less than an hour and then was served over salad greens. Fennel is a great palate cleanser, especially when one is eating a rich meal.

All in all, it was a satisfying meal, which ended with a simple spiced wine syrup poured over sliced oranges and sponge cake, served with an Affogato, (Italian for “drowned” coffee- a  scoop of vanilla ice-cream topped with a shot of hot espresso with a shot of liquor optional), served up by my talented barista husband B, who was also on dish washing duty for the afternoon.

The next day as I was driving up my snow covered driveway, I happened to spot a planting in the field off to the left which looked quite like the wispy fonds of the Fennel bulb I had just yanked out of my garden for my class. Believing this deserved further inspection, I changed into my Gum boots and slowly made my way down the sloping wet hill and pried it open to find several fennel bulbs all growing, in the wild, on my own property!! I wonder if there is anymore hiding amongst the gorse and manuka trees over the rest of the 8 or so acres of land we own? And one wonders, how did it get there? And how can I harvest seeds to keep it growing, where I would prefer it to grow?

Now my focus is on my next group, coming up from Wellington this Sunday for a Modern Mexican themed menu. I re-tested one of the proposed dishes last night, Pipiån Verde de Pollo, chicken in green pumpkin seed sauce with ingredients that are very Kiwi friendly and it was simply sensational. This dish, along with the dessert of spiced Mexican chocolate cakes with sweet tomatillo sauce is sure to awaken even the most jaded of palates! Viva Mexico…

Sorrel and Twenty Summers…

Sorrel is undeservedly ignored by American cooks, and to be fair, I have not seen it in the stores or required it for any recipes since I moved to New Zealand. Recently on a visit to my local Nursery in Masterton to replenish some hardy lettuces, spinach and herbs I noticed an area with a few small tubs of sorrel. Hummm. I have never used it, let alone cultivated it in my veggie garden, so I thought why not? It was planted back in May, and I have since learned that normally it is in season in summer so why it is presently thriving and apparently quite content sitting amongst my struggling winter lettuces is a mystery to me. It’s part of this Upside-Down thing living here.

Soon after planting it, and watching it grow happily in my courtyard garden outside my kitchen, the Universe conspired to bring forth a recipe which was based on sorrel as a major ingredient for a sauce for Salmon. As I was browsing through a folder of filed recipes from older Gourmet and Bon Apétite magazines, here this recipe for Salmon with Sorrel Sauce literally fell out and landed by my feet. It was torn from the San Diego Tribune, and is most likely over 20 years old. It was adapted from a then well known fine dining restaurant in San Diego called The Belgian Lion, and was based on a classic dish first made famous by the Troigros brothers in Roanne, France. The town became so well known for this dish that the train station was painted pink and green.

It was FANTASTIC; velvety and perfectly flavoured. Make it soon!! Buy some boneless and skinless salmon fillets. In a saucepan, place 3-4 shallots, finely chopped along with 1/2 cup each of dry white wine, dry vermouth and fish stock. I used chicken broth. Reduce until it becomes syrupy. Slowly add 1/2 cup heavy cream and stir until sauce thickens.  Take off heat. Cook salmon in vegetable oil about 4 minutes on each side in fry pan. Place cream sauce back on the heat, and add about 1/2 cup of shredded (chiffonade) sorrel, and salt and pepper to taste and bring to a gentle boil. Pour over cooked salmon. And then pour yourself a chilled glass of Pinot Gris.

The same day I came across a zip lock bag of over 100 Vanilla beans I had brought back from my trip to Niue last year. I used about 30 of them making bottled vanilla sugar as Christmas gifts, but really intended to make a batch of vanilla extract. After perusing a few recipes, I decided that this was the day to do it. So easy…why did I wait so long? I bought a bottle of triple-distilled Smirnoff Vodka and removed about two shots of it, (which I happily added to some cranberry juice for a cosmo’ later that evening) and added about 24 vanilla beans. The general consensus was to use 4-6 beans per cup of alcohol. Each vanilla bean was split, and the seeds scraped into the bottle, followed by the pods. I have laid the bottle on its side in a drawer in the pantry and already it has turned a deep amber colour. It will rest there for at least three months.

During the week when I walked with my friend C, we talked about the movies we had seen over the weekend at a boutique cinema in Martinborough. I actually did a “double feature”…and watched two movies in a row as it was a damp, cold Saturday afternoon and B was working.  One was set in Sweden and called Comfort Me, and the other in the USA called Lovely, Still. The first film might have been called My Miserable Swedish Childhood... and brought many tears to my friend’s eyes. The second movie had a good twist, and not as sad as the first one. Both B would have hated!  As we walked, we spoke again about aging themes in both these films, and decided that we might only have twenty years left, and that THESE present years were the best of them to come. Then C said to think of it as 20 summers left. Truly,  that makes mortality even more pressing; the lack of time, the pressure to grab what one can now, and to appreciate everything and everyone. This got me thinking…I could double this time to 40 summers if I were to escape here in late May and return in September.

Who says I need 20 more winters??

Bastille Day with Icing on the Chicken and Pot Roast Sunday…

The French flag was seen throughout the downtown area last week flying in all its glory from high atop the Auckland Sky Tower on the 14th July to commemorate Bastille Day, 1789. It would appear that despite the infamous 1985 Green Peace bombing incident in Auckland, there remains here a strong admiration of the French with their food and culture. The breakfast news show anchor people were sprinkling some French terms into their conversations and one had invited a chef to demonstrate a French-themed dish. As I was not in New Zealand for the 4th July, I do not know if there was an American flag flying anywhere in the country, or anyone cooking up a 4th of July themed barbeque. My guess is probably Not.

My husband B and I get a regular French-fix courtesy a general surgeon from Paris who is now working with B on a full-time basis at the local Wairarapa hospital. He and his family are regulars at our dinner table, and as we had not seen them for a few weeks, an impromptu invitation was extended to dinner on what was co-incidentally, their national Holiday, Bastille Day. As it was to be informal, and a family affair, I decided to make individual chicken pot pies, followed with a fennel, orange and black olive salad with a pomegranate dressing. Dessert would be a Mexican chestnut flan I had made the previous evening with some rhubarb and apple compote. It is with pride that I mention the fennel bulb, salad greens and rhubarb were all plucked from my hitherto flourishing winter veggie garden. Things seem to be at a standstill lately with the recent morning frosts, arresting growth with the lettuces and freshly planted swiss chard, spinach and kale.

While I sweated the chopped onions, leeks and shallots after frying a few free-farmed bacon slices, I placed the bite-sized boneless free-range chicken thighs into a bowl and tossed with plain flour. For some reason, flour kept disappearing and dissolving into the chicken pieces, so I added another scoop from the air tight container, tossed it around the pot and began to stir, expecting it to thicken a bit. Still nothing, so reached my hand into the flour container and sprinkled yet more across the chicken, hoping now it wouldn’t make a lumpy broth when I added the wine and chicken stock. I stirred and stirred, then just resigned myself to believing it would eventually thicken once I raised the heat after adding the liquids. After about five minutes, I added the chopped carrots and mushrooms and covered the pot on simmer while I prepared the soup bowls with a flaky pastry lining around the edge before adding the soup. As I quickly tidied the kitchen counter and put away the flour, I looked again at the container and noticed its contents were very white, compared to the other flour container up on the shelf beside it. It was then I found the faded writing from a black marker on the lid: Icing Sugar. Oh dear God, NO!!! Ugh!! I ran to the pot and carefully placed a teaspoon in to have a quick taste, and it was way beyond a bit sweet. What to do? As I usually add some Sherry in the pot before serving, I thought to add some Sherry Vinegar, about a cup of it, to try and balance the sweetness. And then just hoped it would not be too obvious to my French guests that I stuffed up.

The French wine, mais bien sur, was opened and glasses poured as I carefully removed the soup tureens from the oven. When asked what they thought the “secret” ingredient might be as my guests poked a hole through the steaming pastry lid, a few tastes were taken and studied with careful consideration. Soon Monsieur asked if there was vinegar added to it. And when I told him the reason for adding the vinegar, he smiled and assured me it was a very wise decision indeed as the ethanol would have some type of chemical reaction which would diminish the excessive sugars. Et voila!!! All good. And the fennel salad received accolades as it proved to be very refreshing and light on the palate as a second course.

The recent weather has had me yearning for certain comfort foods, and with the sugary chicken pot pie aside, I had a hankering last Sunday for some good old-fashioned fare which manifested itself as Pot Roast. I don’t think I’ve made one in over twenty years as a matter of fact, and tried to recall what cut of meat I used to use for those dinner parties during my single days in San Francisco. I sourced a lovely cut of Rump Roast at our local gourmet store, Moore-Wilsons, and as I trimmed the fat and considered about my ingredients, I realized that this dish was essentially my parent’s generation Beef Burgandy, or Boeuf Bourguignon if one wants to sound more Frenchy. The main difference being that the meat is not cut into cubes, but is braised whole in full-bodied red wine, along with onions, garlic, and finished off with carrots and mushrooms. After browning the roast on all sides in some olive oil in my Le Crueset casserole, and then adding the onions and garlic, I deglazed with some Australian Shiraz, then covered it and placed the dish in the oven at 150C and just let it do its thing for about 4 hours. The kitchen was filled with incredibly warming and fragrant flavours as it cooked, which was enhanced by the whole bunch of garlic I placed in the oven to roast before adding to the mashed potatoes. I didn’t even need to make a gravy, as the wine and meat juices naturally thickened and tasted superbly concentrated and flavourful.

And so it was in my mind, the perfect Sunday…I woke up with a clear head, (always a good thing),  went to 10 am Mass in town, then for a swim at the town indoor pool, picked up the Sunday newspaper, made a dish that was packed with good memories, read my book on my bed after lunch, took a nap, then went for a sunset frosty stroll with B and the dog. It doesn’t get much better then that!!