Language barriers

I didn't think I'd have them in Ye Olde England, but I do.

Despite the common language, nuance and colloquialisms differ quite a lot over here.

Durex is QUITE a different thing over here, than is it (or used to be) In Oz. The word 'wog' is still considered HIGHLY perjorative and 'slut' doesn't have quite the same connotations as it does back home.

Although I'll never get used to the frequent use of the word 'beaver', I will treat it like men treat fart jokes.. ALWAYS something to snigger about.

So to faggotts.



As served at Sam Weller's pub in Bath.

Faggots are a traditional dish in the UK,especially South and Mid Wales and the Midlands of England. It is made from meat off-cuts and offal, especially pork. A faggot is traditionally made from pig's heart, liver and fatty belly meat or bacon minced together, with herbs added for flavouring and sometimes bread crumbs. The mixture is shaped in the hand into balls, wrapped round with caul fat (the omentum membrane from the pig's abdomen), and baked. Another variation of faggot is Pig's fry wrapped in pig's caul: the pig's fry and boiled onions are minced (ground) together then mixed with breadcrumbs or cold boiled potatoes, seasoned with sage, mixed herbs and pepper, all beaten together and then wrapped in small pieces of caul to form a ball. These are then baked in the oven and are usually served cold.

The dish saw its greatest popularity with the rationing during World War II but has become less popular in recent years. Faggots are usually homemade and are to be found in traditional butchers' shops and market stalls.

A popular dish is "Faggots and Peas". This is a common combination in the Black Country area of the West Midlands, especially so since the 18th century industrialisation onwards, but also for hundreds of years prior. It is still common to see small butchers' shops in the area selling faggots to their own (sometimes secret) recipe for a cheap price. Commonly, the faggot consists of pork liver and heart minced, wrapped in kel, with onion and breadcrumbs. Often, the faggot should be cooked in a crock, with gravy and served with peas and mashed potato.

They are less 'liver-y' than you'd imagine, more like a wild boar mince, the liver (and I think kidneys in Sam Weller's ones) giving the moist mince a strong gamey flavour.

Nigella has a recipe:

Ingredients•½ lb pigs liver


•3oz suet

•1-2tsp sage

•4oz fresh breadcrumbs

•2 onions

•2tsp salt

•¼ tsp black pepper

Method

Serves: 4-6 1.In a food processor firstly process the bread into breadcrumbs, then finely chop the onions and lastly process the liver, emptying each into a large mixing bowl as you go along.

2.Add the suet and seasoning and mix well together. Form into round balls about the size of a small orange and place on well oiled baking tray and cook for 30 minutes at 200oC or until firm.

3.Alternatively you can just empty the whole lot out into a well oiled roasting tin and cook for about 40 minutes or so until the mixture is firm and cooked through.

4.If you chose this option  you need to cut them into squares when they are cooked.





What's important?

I've got to a point in my life, where I am currently assessing what's important. What matters and what doesn't. Sorting through what's real and what's habitual. What's worth my time and what wastes it.

And this applies as much (perhaps more so) to things as it does to people.

Last week I forgot the anniversary of my Hobbits death. 

I have a myriad of excuses, but the fact remains that for the previous 5 years, the first week of Feb has loomed large and treacherously, from Xmas onwards.

And this year it passed by in a flurry of "other things".

So, in making an active decision to spend more time on the good, and less (if not none) on the bad, and PARTICULARLY, the ugly, I've sorted my life into what's important and what isn't.

And when you are authentically.. I mean REALLY committed to this process, it's quite confronting. From the ring my first real boyfriend gave me, to the very last thing my Hobbit purchased for me, I've gone through my life and discarded what I no longer need.

And in some cases, kept what I thought I didn't.

And, because this is a food blog, and this post is in SERIOUS danger of becoming a self-indulgent, maudlin middle-aged emo sook-fest,I give you a small taste of what, after 45 years on this planet, is important to me.




A wine rack, a coffee plunger, a print of Monet's garden in Giverny, my stick blender, a mirror overlaid with KwanYin, my antique marble slab,my silicone cooking gear (but only because my non-stick ripple pan is my most prized possession!) and my cookbooks. My Aqua Sulis and a bag filled with mezzalunas and my antique butchers knives.

And my PNG panga and my hand-made bilum.

The rest was dross.

AGITK and I will be taking a wee hiatus, because this blog IS one of the things I have decided is important to me, and when we return, in about 2 week, things, my friends, will be very VERY different.

As they say in the classics, "strange things are afoot at the Circle K"

See you all on the flip side.

High Tea

I am the first to admit it. My family is a little odd. We are, in some ways, quite anachronistic. We have this thing about manners. In a world where people respond to wedding invitations via SMS, we still hand write "Mr and Mrs Smith accept with pleasure, the kind invitation of....". We also have a thing about correct pronunciation. In particular, of "wh". We also have a thing about hats inside (Thanks, Grandma) and we all, collectively, get a bit squigy about the "yous/ewes" thing.

The "me and Bob" thing drives us bonkers.

Sorry.

We're just like that.

Like all families we have our own particular traditions, peculiar to us, and one of them is the pre-wedding kitchen tea.

I am pretty sure that we are the only family outside the Windsor's who still celebrate this. Albeit, we've changed with the times and we no longer celebrate kitchen AND bathroom AND laundry teas, so we really can't be accused of not being hip to the groove.

Can we?

So last weekend, it was Kitchen Tea time.

It really is a women's ritual. The chairs are arranged in a circle, only woman are invited, it centres around food and involves games and the sharing of wisdom. It honours the bride-to-be and gives all the women who attend a chance to share and bond. Tiny sandwiches, squares of fudge, little lemon squares, Cecile Bruner rosebuds, scones with lashings of jam and cream.




Sigh.

I mean, what's not to love about a function that requires cake stands??!!

The theme was "High Tea", so very fitting, as the wedding reception is going to be held at The Grand Dining Room at the Windsor.

We played games. I won the "heaviest handbag" competition. We caught up with other women we only see at this sort of thing, and we spent time embracing the in-laws-to-be into the oddly old-fashioned world of Our Fam.

We probably only do this sort of thing once every five years or so, and I am sure people pooh-pooh us for sticking to our particular brand of eccentricity, but I love it. Coming together as a community to eat and laugh and share. It's just all another women's circle to me, albeit with better manners and nicer china.

ANZAC Day '10

It's 9.16, and the old Diggers are marching from the RSL, to the wreath-laying ceremony at the Cenotaph.

It's ANZAC Day, today.

I have mixed feelings about ANZAC Day. I am not much for the "mateship forged on blood-soaked foreign shores" myth. That belongs to another generation. The ones who actually fought. Neither am I one for glorifying the war machine- for a while there, in my 20's I was a card-carrying member of Women Against Rape (In War). The "great sacrifice" confuses me, as does the "fought for our freedom" line of thinking. (But that might have more to do with the fact that Australian History was an elective when I was at school, and the subject "History" was solely focused on British and European schools of thought). The ANZAC march is something that calls me on a completely visceral level, and I am not too sure what it is or why.

But, I defy anyone not to be moved by the image of a single beam of light, and a sole bugler playing "The Last Post". There is something poignant about the simplicity of this ritual.

What I think about during the minute's silence, is the fresh-faced pictures of the young men, who honestly believed they were off on a "lark". Whether that be in Vietnam, or Fromelles or Kabul.

I think about the ages of my children, and the pictures of the reality of Villiers-Breteneux and Rabaul and Mogadishu.

I think about the complete senselessness of battles like Gallipoli, Kokoda and Guadalcanal.

And that's probably it, for me. The sheer senselessness of the whole war caper. Yet, I have the acknowledge, that there is SOMETHING about the whole ANZAC myth that pervades us, culturally. It's why I still cry when I hear Albinoni's "Adagio" (the music played at the end of the movie "Gallipoli"). It's why the simple few lines of "The Ode" leave me trembling.

When I go to War Cemeteries, it's always their ages that upset me the most.

That whoever the were, as young as they were, They died. And I need to, in some way, remember them.

So today, I got up at sparrows, to rug up against the brutal wind coming straight off the sea, and stood with other people of my community, to attend the Dawn Service at Dromana RSL.

And, in true Aussie spirit.. the spirit that speaks to me so much more than the Gallipoli myth, after the Service.. the poignant, visceral, moving, simple but brutal service, we all trooped into the dining room and eat. And laugh. And drink (free beer for breakfast and a not-so-subtle bottle of Bundy doing the rounds). And THAT larrikin spirit, where a profoundly anti-war ageing hippy can sit next to a decorated Navy vet, and his soon-to-join-the Army grandson, eating pretty dodgy eggs, bacon, snags and beans provided by CFA vollies.. THAT is what the "Aussie Spirit" means to me.

Traditions #3

Traditions are wonderful things. They link us to a group. They hold out memories in their fabric of sameness and comfort. But like everything, they have to evolve. Not change, so much as evolve. Like Mater Beige's AMAZING Xmas pudding. It was her mother's recipe of WW II, when many "traditional" ingredients were unavailable. That particular recipe has now become the tradition for myself and my children.

This year is the third without our beloved Hobbit. And will be the first of a new tradition of just lunch with Mum, my family and my brother's family. Other family members are off starting other family traditions with other families, and I am only too aware that this may be my last Xmas in Melbourne for a very long time.

So this year is going to be the best Xmas lunch EVAH and I have been given the best Xmas present of all time... darling Mater Beige has handed me the responsibility of the vegetables this year.

Now, it mightn't seem a big deal, but I can assure you it is. Mater Beige keeps telling me that my turn will come.

I have been champing at the bit, to get my hands on cooking the Xmas lunch. I lie awake at night planning and plotting. Subbing the glace cherries in the pud for 1/2 and 1/2 dried cranberries and glace ginger. Sneaking a small ramekin of brandy butter onto the table. Doing a 2 cavity stuffing of sage and chestnet puree for a real whole bird.

**sigh**

The possibilities are endless.

So, I need to keep traditions alive (potatoes, cauli and cheese, string beans) while giving these humble veggies a pg twist!

So my plans are:

Kipfler potatoes cut lengthways, roasted in duck fat with chunky-cut Speck, sea salt and garlic.

organic cauli with Gruyere and nutmeg sauce.

blanched organic green beans with balsamic glaze and toasted slivered almonds.

What say you, dear reader? Any other suggestions on how to keep the veggie traditions alive, yet improve on them?

Traditions #2

Traditions are funny things. And nothing makes me laugh more than traditions in food. It's one thing to have a traditional Xmas lunch, or Granny's pie for your birthday, but there are those within the food community that make much of 'traditional" food.

Another term they use is "authentic"

And the one dish that gets the "authentic"-sists going like no other is Carbonara.

Sites like Chowhound and e-gullet abound with vitriolic posts devoted to the inclusion (or not) of peas, cream, onions, bacon, speck, pancetta, parmesan and any variation of that combination of ingredients.

The origins of the might Carb are lost in antiquity, but the name is derived from the Italian word for charcoal. Some believe that the dish was first made as a hearty meal for Italian charcoal workers, or that the inclusion of a liberal sprinkling of black pepper before serving looks like coal dust, thus the name. This theory gave rise to the term "coal miner's spaghetti," which is used to refer to spaghetti alla carbonara in parts of the United States. Others say that it was originally made over charcoal grills, or that it was made with squid ink, giving it the color of carbon. It has even been suggested that it was created by, or as a tribute to, the Carbonari ("charcoalmen"), a secret society prominent in the unification of Italy. The dish is not present in Ada Boni's 1927 classic "La Cucina Romana", and is unrecorded before the Second World War. It was first recorded after the war as a Roman dish, when many Italians were eating eggs and bacon supplied by troops from the United States.

For me, the dish is simply about the eggs and the bacon. I will admit to some cream, some time. But recently I was given a dozen freshly laid free range eggs from my ex SIL's happy and pampered hens. I thought about a quiche (given that I am dying to try a new recipe for sour cream short crust pastry), but the siren song of barely emulsified egg was too hard to resist.

That and I freakin' HATE blind baking quiche cases.

So, sweat some white onion in butter, add the bacon/lardons/speck/prosciutto **insert pig meat of choice** and fry gently until crisp. Set aside.

Boil some pasta (I "traditionally" use spaghetti/bucattini). when done, drain, reserving 1/2 a ladle of pasta water.

Bung back in the pot and add 4 eggs and the proscuitto/pancetta or guancia, (if you are lucky enough to be able to get some) and the pasta water.

Let the steam of the pasta gently set the eggs. Don't return to heat, or you'll get scrambled eggs.

Serve with one extra perfect egg yolk, some sea salt, a goodly grind of fresh black pepper and parmigina reggiano.

Heaven in its simplicity.

Traditions

It's the first Saturday of Dec. Traditionally the day that my father, The Hobbit, would gather us all together and put up the Xmas tree. My father LOVED Xmas. For a man so usually restrained and classy and self-assured, the Silly Season took hold of him in ways that I can't account for. It gave him permission to let his inner Tacky Consumer out for a run. Mum and Daddy-Oh's house was filled with bells that chimed "Silent Night", Nutcrackers which performed voice activated electronic renditions of "Sleigh Bells".

This the man who instilled in me a love of museums, art and architecture, but had "Hooked on Christmas" on loop for the entire month of December. One day I will blog about the Furtive Santa.

So today is the first time since he died that I have been able to get out my Xmas tree.

I must be his daughter in all senses, as my xmas tree is a tribute to tack.

It's a revolving, purple fibre-optic tree.

And I love it.

I love it more because My Dad bought it for me. We saw it in Target in Aug 2002 and both gasped with sheer wonder at the complete cheap tawdriness of it.

I proudly confess to assembling it on the August Saturday and displaying it a full FOUR months before anyone else.

I have had people knock on my door at night, breathless with the shlock frowziness of my tree, asking where I got it from.

So in about 1/2 an hour, Mater Beige is dropping by, we're going to have a coffee and dress my tree.

And talk about how much Dad would have loved it.

Will post photos when it's up.

Off to pop "Santa Baby" on loop.