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Pete and I were in Melbourne for less than forty-eight hours, but during that time we ate some truly amazing food.

Of course, it helps to have a friend like Davey who sent us an email with recommended dining venues before we even touched down.  One of his suggestions was Cumulus Inc, a fantastic restaurant within easy walking distance of our hotel.

Every dish we ate there was noteworthy, but the true star of the show for me was their white house bread, a flavoursome chewy sourdough with a lightly salted crust.

I was inspired to attempt something similar at home.  Here’s the recipe I came up with – it’s a variation on Joanna’s white toast bread, adapted to sourdough and baked in a gerry-rigged pullman tin.  The quantities below make a single long loaf, although my photos show a double batch…

  • 200g active sourdough starter ( 166% hydration, ie. fed at a ratio of one cup water to one cup flour)
  • 350g bakers/bread flour
  • 175g semola rimacinata di grano duro (remilled semolina flour)
  • 175g Italian 00 flour
  • 375g water
  • 15g extra virgin olive oil
  • 12g fine sea salt
  • 10g brown sugar
  • Maldon sea salt, for the pan

1. In a large mixing bowl, mix all the ingredients together to form a shaggy dough, then allow to rest, covered, for 30 minutes.

2. Give the dough a quick knead in the bowl, then cover again and allow to prove until roughly doubled in size. Prepare a long loaf tin by spraying with vegetable oil (I use canola) and sprinkling a generous pinch of crushed Maldon salt all over the sides and base.  My tin was 28cm x 11½cm (11″ x 4½”).  Preheat the oven to 220C (430F) with fan.

3. Scrape the proved dough onto a lightly oiled surface and shape it into a loaf.  Place the dough seamside down into the prepared tin – it should fill the tin to about halfway. Cover with cling film and allow to prove until the tin is approximately three-quarters full.  Sprinkle the top of the dough with a little more crushed Maldon salt.

4. Spray a long flat pan with oil and place it over the top of the loaf tin.  I used a biscotti pan.  As the lid didn’t lock into place like a real pullman tin would have, I weighted it down with a cast iron griddle.

5. Reduce the oven temperature to 210C (410F) with fan and bake the bread, complete with lid and weight, for 40 minutes.  After the initial baking time, remove the pan from the oven.  Uncover it, tip the loaf out, and check for doneness by tapping on the base of the bread to see if it sounds hollow.  Return the loaf in its pan minus the lid for a further 10 minutes or more if necessary.  Allow to cool completely before slicing.

Note: If you’d like to try this recipe using a starter at 100% hydration (ie. fed with equal quantities by weight of flour and water), reduce the bakers flour to 325g and increase the water to 400g.

The finished loaf had a fine, tender crumb with a few small holes.  It held its shape well when sliced…

The entire crust was covered with a light dusting of sea salt…

This perfect sandwich bread is reminiscent of the bread we had at Cumulus Inc., but quite different in flavour and texture.  Nevertheless, it’s a happy reminder of the lovely meal we had there, and a great addition to our baking repertoire!

Pete and I were in Melbourne last weekend for Sarah’s memorial service.

On Sunday morning, our friends David and Maree took us to a cafe in Spotswood, which boasted a most unusual breakfast menu (click on the photo above, plus this link, for a better look). Situated in a former industrial area, this little venue was hidden in a quiet line of mostly closed shops.  The place was packed.

I had an inkling of what was to come when the waitress informed us that the specials of the day were crumbed lambs’ brains with gentlemen’s relish (not made from naughty body parts, although I did ask), and home-smoked trumpeter. The breakfast menu offered black pudding, Cumberland sausage, yabbies, ox tongue, field mushrooms, pig’s jowls and more.

Pete had the Poetry (In Motion), a selection of prunes, walnuts, orange zest and yoghurt, served with homemade oat biscuits…

I couldn’t go past their signature Duchess of Pork dish.  In true Miss Piggy fashion, I also ordered a side of the most amazing black pudding I’d ever tasted.  The Duchess was a delectable concoction of shredded and reassembled crispy pig’s jowl served with fried eggs, truffle sauce and a thick slab of sourdough toast…

Maree ordered the Prince of Wales, a warm cured salmon fillet plated on a bed of asparagus, watercress and spinach, and served with potato bread and poached eggs…

Dave ordered the King’s Woodcock (not the Full English as I mistakenly wrote earlier – my pedantic friend has rung to correct me). It came with scrambled eggs, chutney and lamb sausages, and a side order of homemade black pudding (Dave also said that I had to point out that the black pudding was made inhouse)…

Melbourne is a long way from Sydney, but we might need to fly down again just to try out a few more dishes from this wonderful menu!

. . . . .

Duchess of Spotswood
87 Hudsons Road
Spotswood   VIC  3015
Phone (03) 9391 6016

In my kitchen…

…is a chocolate chip cake, made to a recipe from the Green & Black cookbook.  The cake itself was quite ordinary, but the topping was wonderful…

I scattered over Moo’s magic sugar crystals, and they set like shards of polished glass…

In my kitchen…

…is this stunning French clay speculaas mould, a gift from our friend Maureen.  It’s finished to look like stained wood.  I haven’t figured out how to use it yet, so I’d be grateful for any tips…

In my kitchen…

…is a ginormous tin of sliced jalapeños.  We went to buy a small jar during our last visit to Harkola, and found one for $4.50.  Then we walked past this 2.8kg tin for $8…

In my kitchen…

…are the baby garlic bulbs that didn’t grow to a decent size this year.  They’re all under an inch in diameter.  We’ve been eating them up, and they’ve been delicious…

In my kitchen…

…is a little porcelain wren, or at least that’s what Pete thinks it is.  It’s a gift for my mother…

In my kitchen…

…is a bowl of salt roasted almonds.  The process turns their shells papery crisp and gives them a delicious, addictive taste.  We buy some every year to add to our Christmas hampers…

. . . . .

Tell me, what’s happening in your kitchen this month?

If you’d like to do an In My Kitchen post on your own blog, please feel free  to use this format, and to leave a comment here linking back to your post.  We’d all love to see what’s happening in your kitchen every month too!

Treasure!

That’s what I thought when the garlic scapes arrived.  Up until now, we’d only read about these – we’d never actually had any to play with.  Scapes are the “flower” stalks of garlic plants and interestingly, only certain varieties produce them.  I say “flower”, but in fact the head of the scape is a cluster of miniature cloves.

Our grower friends Ian and Diana recently cut the scapes off their garlic bulbs – a necessary process to ensure the plant doesn’t divert all its energy into flowering rather than forming cloves.  Di, bless her, arrived with a huge bag full for me…

A week later, Uncle Steve (Pete’s brother) dropped off another bag of scapes, although these were obviously from a different variety of garlic.  Whereas Diana’s were curled, these were straight…

As you can see, the heads are jam-packed with bulbils…

The entire scape is edible, although the tops were very garlicky indeed!  The stalks have a milder, but still very distinct, and very fresh, garlic flavour and aroma.

I didn’t want to waste this fabulous bounty, so I washed, chopped and froze about a third of the scapes…

Others were added to stirfries and stews for a gentle garlic kick.  The remainder were pulsed in the food processor with flaked almonds, salt and olive oil to create a delicious scape pistou – so called because unlike pesto, it doesn’t have any cheese added…

I’ve been stirring this garlicky paste into everything from pasta (and then I do add cheese) to fried rice.  It also makes a delicious dip spread over thin slices of sourdough.

I was right, wasn’t I?  It really was treasure.

PS. Have a look at what Linda’s doing with her homegrown scapes!

I’ve bought a ring for Sarah.

She passed away last week, after an extended battle with cancer.  She was Pete’s cousin, and my friend.

Sarah was warm, funny and above all, honest – both with her words and her feelings.  My occasional phone conversations with her would lower my heart rate, in the same way that settling into a comfy lounge or sipping hot tea does.  I found her incredibly easy to talk to – words would tumble out, and our discussions would meander through the antics of our children, the quirky ups and downs of our everyday lives, and family happenings.

We met nearly twenty years ago, at Pete’s grandmother’s house.  We both adored the old lady, and a few years later, formulated a mad plan to rescue her from the nursing home when she became too infirm to live on her own.  It was never going to happen, of course, but that was Sarah’s way – lead with the heart, and try to figure out the details later.

We lived in different cities, so we only saw her every few years or so.  She and I would chat once or twice a year on the phone, often for an hour or more, and then be caught up on each other’s lives.  The last conversation we had was just a couple of weeks before she died, and it was a short one, as she was weak and struggling to talk.  Even then, she wanted to know how we all were, what we planned to do for Christmas, how the kids were going at school.  She always made us feel like we were special to her.

She had just fifty-three years of life, but it was so full of good things.  A lot of pain too, but I think she’d have said that the good stuff far outweighed the hard times.  She had wonderful parents, sisters who were her best friends, and a loving husband and children who adored her.  She had a rewarding and creative career, great friends, and a community that  supported her.

Sarah darling, you were loved so dearly by so many.  Truly, you had a life well lived.

And so I bought a ring for Sarah.  A big chunky sterling silver ring, which fills up my whole hand.  Whenever I wear it, I will remember the times that she made me laugh until I cried, and how I would relay the stories to Pete, and then he too, would laugh until tears came.  I will remember the times when I was struggling with Small Man’s illness, and Sarah would just listen, without judgment or endless advice.  I will remember the dozen or so meals we shared, the handmade Christmas cards, the blankets we traded for artwork, and the sheer joy of having known her.

Rest in peace, Sarah.  You will be missed more than you could ever have imagined.