CookingBetterTheJoyof Life-changing skills & thrills for enthusiastic eaters alice zaslavsky
Contents Slapdash 16 Bits and bobs tossed together On autopilot 62 Great go-tos for weeknights on the fly Welcome aboard 8 About the bonus bits 12
goodSeriouslysweeties 238 Like, *seriously* good Some for ’Ron 300 Acknowledgements 304 Index 308 Making the most of it 120 Gluts, windfalls and leftover makeovers Loosen shouldersyour188 For weekend pottering and entertaining
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What does it mean to be a ‘good’ cook? The flick of a wrist, a pinch of the fingers, the whiff of a waft. It’s intuition and muscle memory. It’s a way of life built on a foundation of flying hours. From time spent at your grandmother’s apron strings, podding broad beans and rolling pasta dough between chubby fingers. From home economics classes, rubbing butter into scone dough, committing the crack of golden caramel to canon and the reward of some kind of sweet slice to scoff on the school bus home. From student suppers, haphazardly flung together with bits rummaged from the vegie crisper, sploodged with whatever sauce is lurking in the fridge door until it makes some semblance of sense. From ‘bring-a-plates’, and ‘grown-up’ dinner parties where you learn to keep things simple … eventually. It’s first dates, and first sunken cakes hidden under cream. But what happens if you missed a stage? Or three? You’re not alone. As we’ve become busier, the intergenerational family experience has become less common, and schools turn kitchens into science labs, when does the practice plane actually take off to get those flying hours under the belt? And when it does come time to start, how do we make the experience of cooking something to actually look forward to? First of all, let’s toss out the concept of being a ‘good’ cook, and replace it with the idea of becoming a better cook. Better Cooking is a lifelong journey. It’s made up of single steps, with plenty of whoopsies and notes-for-next-time along the way. But every step gets you a bit closer to cracking the codes that unlock the confidence to feel freedom and joy in the kitchen. I believe that ‘foodie’ is a word to be embraced rather than shirked, because it can also mean more conscientious consumption. But foodie culture does have a lot to answer for when it comes to making newbies feel out of their depth. Shaking off the imposter syndrome that can plague anyone who’s watched a fancy food show or heard the loaded line ‘It’s just that easy’ from a TV chef can feel impossible if we’re stuck at the first hurdle. It can mean people give up and label themselves ‘bad cooks’ or say they ‘don’t cook’ and never try. Labels are powerful, for better or worse. I’m here to tell you that you are already a better cook than you think you are. If you’ve ever found yourself thinking about dinner over breakfast, if bringing pleasure and nourishment to the people in your orbit gives you a glow, heck — if you already enjoy the eating part, you can find the fun in getting the food to the table, too. Forget about cooking for someone else’s tastes or expectations. I’ve tried doing that in the past, and would strongly not recommend. Why? Because fear lives here, and the paralysis of choice. Oh, and doubt, of course, about what it is you should be doing, and whether you’re good enough
The joy of better cooking is that you can stop second-guessing yourself. You can look into the fridge/freezer/pantry and instantly start to see ideas and inspiration before you,
THE JOY OF BETTER COOKING
Welcome aboard
If you’re regularly plagued by a mid-afternoon snack hankering, then you’ll be pleased to know that not only are you not alone, but that what you’re craving isn’t sugar — it’s fat!
You can use a large metal spoon to scoop ripe avocado from its shell as a whole half, but first check to see if the skin peels off easily — sometimes it’s easier to just pop the half flat on a board and peel the skin off, like a band-aid (this is especially useful if you want to slice the half thinly), then gently concertina the slices to place on toast. To pop avocado flesh out in quarters, slice a half in half again lengthways, flesh side up (but not down to the skin), then peel away the skin; the quarters should pop right out.
To store a cut avocado, keep as little of the flesh exposed to oxygen as possible. Leave the stone in if you can (or put it back in like a stopper) and cover with beeswax wrap or the like. Squirting some lemon juice onto the exposed flesh helps stop it browning, too. Some people store cut avocados submerged in acidulated (lemon-spiked) water, which is fine if you plan on using it quickly; water does leach out flavour, though, so I wouldn’t leave it in there for more than a day.
30 THE JOY OF BETTER COOKING
Your brain is crying out for something oily to lubricate the ol’ gears after a day of staring at screens or screening spam calls. If this were one of Those Books, I’d tell you to have a handful of nuts or something, which is fine, I suppose. But I’m here to enable and empower your snackering (‘snack hankering’). In our household, the best way to satisfy it is with a half-avo topped with a tablespoon’s worth of whatever’s in the fridge. The avocado is the edible receptacle for flavour, with a nutty butteriness that can carry its own. Please try some of the ideas that follow, but don’t be afraid to slapdash your way to your own favourites. Just promise me one thing: don’t ever ever EVER put that avo in the oven. I can abide almost any culinary creativity, but hot avocado is my line in the sand. Ingredient spotlight: Avocado It’s one thing to tell you what to do with a good, ripe avo; it’s another kettle of fish altogether to help you select one. Yes, this IS another thinly veiled ploy to continue my fight against foolhardy alligator-pear fondlers. The key, really, is to pick your avo when it’s nowhere near ripe. A truly ripe avo is actually not as soft as you think — it’s still slightly firm on first press, softening towards the stem. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, the nub is still attached, and you can tell when it’s ripe as the stem comes away easily and the flesh underneath is vivid green. Unfortunately, some people still feel the need to squeeze every single avo on the display like they’re playing a selfish game of whack-a-mole, before deciding which to take home for their guac-a-mole. Coincidence? I think not. We can all be the change. Pick the roundest avo — the more flesh in proximity to the seed (stone), the nuttier the flavour. And stop seeking soft. Hard as a rock is right on, and then let it ripen in the comfort and security of your home. How can you tell it’s still hard without squeezing? Find the ones furthest from the front of the display. Touch the very top around the nub, and if it’s still firm, you’re onto a winner. If you do buy one that’s beyond saving, you can always scoop around the bruises after giving these a ginger taste (some are merely surface bruises, while others taste like … hot avocado blugh). Hide any funky flavour by turning it into the base for something stronger-flavoured, such as smashed avo (page 20), a smoothie or a choc-avocado mousse (which is as easy as melting a block of dark chocolate and blitzing with an avo or two, scooping into glasses or ramekins, then allowing to set in the fridge).
All-seasons avocado half
Speaking of popping out, you can loosen the stone by chipping into it with a sharp knife and giving it a twist. If you’re worried about Avocado-Hand (a genuine affliction where people slice into their palm by going too deep with the knife — eek!), you’ll be relieved to note that riper avos will release their stone by having a thumb pushed against the stone from the skin side while holding onto the flesh with index and ring finger as a counterpoint.
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Cut the avo in half, carefully chip into it with a knife blade and twist the stone out Either peel the skin away and slice … … or cut through the flesh and prise it out Lemon juice or lemon-spiked water will prevent browning
Simples Sliced spring onion (scallion) + lemon juice + olive oil + seedssesame Umami bomb Miso paste + tahini + rice seasoning
Shortcuts
40 THE JOY OF BETTER COOKING
Fennel & citrus salad Bonus bits Tips This salad makes a great bring-a-plate dish. You can prepare all the components the day before, then assemble closer to serving. For a budget piece of muslin (cheesecloth), grab an unused kitchen cloth.light-weave
The spring onion oil is phenomenal, but I’ll let you dress this salad with just the vinaigrette if it means you’ll give it a whirl. It’ll be fab with a store-bought crispy fried shallot oil, too, or a drizzle of some MYO chilli oil from page 213. Just promise me you’ll try making it with the spring onion oil once you’ve dipped a toe in. Subs No fennel? Try tearing or shredding radicchio leaves instead. The colours are just gorgeous.Nodijonmustard?
Use wholegrain! Actually, any mustard will work … just give it a taste to make sure it’s not too hot once all of the ingredients come together. Double duty The smoky spring onion oil will keep for a week in the fridge, to flavour all sorts of salads, sauces and meat dishes. It also makes for a mean drizzle over mashed potatoes. Recipe riffs Turn this into a warm winter salad by roasting the shaved fennel for 30 minutes at 200°C (400°F), then tossing with citrus zest and juice, a little extra virgin olive oil, salt flakes and black pepper. Extra extras This salad would be WILD with some cheese — 100 g (31/2 oz) feta, stracciatella, burrata or fresh buffalo mozzarella, at room temperature, would really take this to the next level. If you prefer a plantbased version, crumble on some almond feta or equivalent nutty cheese. Some raisins, currants or sultanas wouldn’t go astray, if you feel like adding a bit of extra sweetness. Nuts like pistachio or hazelnut would give this salad some extra je ne sais quoi, especially if you’re not going down the cheese route. Frizzle the spring onion roots (washed and dried well) in a hot pan with a teaspoon or two of grapeseed oil until they crisp up, then drain on paper towel as an optional EXTRA garnish. Waste knot Don’t discard the fennel tops or the mulched herbs from the spring onion oil. Stash them in the freezer and add to your pot next time you make a stock or soup. If you don’t feel like frizzling the spring onion roots as a garnish, pop them in a glass of water on your windowsill and they’ll start regrowing within days. Worth it Grapeseed is a flavouryouvinaigrette213),46)celeriacashallow-frying,a biganeutral-flavouredterrificoil,withnicehighsmokepoint.Buybottlefordeep-fryingoruseittomakemayo(liketheonefortheremouladeonpageandMYOchillioil(pageandspliceitintoaordressingwheredon’twanttheoliveoiltobetooshouty.
Combining citrus with fennel was one of the first flavour pairings I learned — a real penny-drop moment. It still makes me feel like a sophisticate whenever I whip it out.
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Skills spotlight: Segmenting citrus Place the peeled fruit on a chopping board and use a sharp knife to lop the top and the bottom off, so you have a flat surface to work from. The aim of the game is to keep as much flesh as you can on the fruit, while taking the bitter white pith off, by following the shape of the fruit. Start from the top, running the knife from top to bottom, and working all the way around the citrus until done. It might help to turn the citrus upsidedown for some parts of this, especially for bigger fruit. Holding the citrus in your hand, look to the skin membrane and slice in on a 45-degree angle, then turn the knife to follow on the opposite angle against the other membrane, to release each segment. Don’t forget to squeeze the juice from the membranes into yourAnddressing.remember to zest the fruit before you slice into it, even if the recipe doesn’t ask you to. It’s far easier to zest a whole citrus than to try to zest bits of skin!
shouldersLoosenyourForweekendpotteringandentertaining
1 brown onion, finely diced 3–4 garlic cloves, finely chopped 3 tablespoons olive oil, plus extra for brushing and drizzling 1 tablespoon red wine vinegar a chef’s pinch of salt flakes (see Skills spotlight, page 236), plus extra for salting the eggplant a chef’s pinch of brown sugar for the onion, and another chef’s pinch for the sauce 2 x 400 g (14 oz) tins whole peeled cherry tomatoes (see Subs, page 236) 1 cup (250 ml) tomato passata (puréed tomatoes) 1/2 teaspoon dried oregano 1/2 bunch of parsley, finely chopped 1/2 bunch of basil, finely chopped 3–4 medium eggplants (aubergines), about 1.5 kg (3 lb 5 oz), cubed 375 g (13 oz) fresh pasta sheets (see Subs, page 236) crusty bread, to serve MYO pizza cheese 2/3 cup (100 g) shredded mozzarella 1 cup (100 g) grated cheddar ½ cup (50 g) finely grated parmesan Béchamel sauce 50 g (11/2 oz) butter 1/4 cup (35 g) plain (all-purpose) flour 2 cups (500 ml) milk a fresh scraping of nutmeg 1/2 cup (50 g) finely grated parmesan ground white pepper, to taste One of the first things you learn at culinary school is how to make béchamel sauce. It might seem strange to wait until the very last savoury dish in the book before we tackle that skill, but by now you’ll have absorbed the idea that learning to cook is not a linear process — it’s a journey, and a personal one at that. The puff of béchamel, the silky, slippery eggplant, the fact that you can make this gluten-free and/or plant-based with a few simple changes, finding shortcuts like cooking the onion in the preheating pan and using fresh pasta sheets instead of dried to save on washing up... all of these make this recipe a perfect bookend, and a whole lot of reasons to loosen your shoulders. And, as with most slow-cooks, it’s a weekend project that only tastes better by Monday night (see Tips).
Excellent eggplant lasagne 4–6, plus leftovers JOY OF BETTER COOKING
Pop the onion, garlic, olive oil, vinegar, salt and sugar in a large high-sided baking dish. Whack into a cold oven, then crank the temperature to 190°C (375°F) so it starts to cook as the oven heats up (about 20 minutes).
Once the onion is translucent and starting to caramelise, scoop the whole lot out into a bowl. Add a pinch of brown sugar and the tinned tomatoes, rinsing the tins out with a tablespoon of water and pouring the dregs in, too. Stir in the passata, oregano and most of the parsley and basil, leaving some herbs for garnishing. Taste for seasoning and set aside. Add the eggplant to the baking dish, drizzle with 2–3 tablespoons oil and toss to coat. Roast for 40–50 minutes, until super caramelised, then remove from the dish and set aside. Meanwhile, make the béchamel sauce. Melt the butter in a medium-sized saucepan, add the flour and stir for 2–3 minutes. Start pouring the milk slowly into the buttery flour mixture (roux), while stirring with a wooden spoon and scraping the roux from the edges of the pan. Add the nutmeg. Change over to a whisk and cooking until the mixture thickens and comes to the boil (around 7–10 minutes), whisking from time to time to help break up any lumps. Once thickened, add the parmesan and turn off the heat, still whisking until the parmesan melts in. Season to taste with salt and white pepper. In a bowl, toss together your pizza cheeses to combine. To assemble, spread a spoonful or two of the tomato sauce over the bottom of the baking dish. Place a layer of pasta sheets on top. Spread one-third of the tomato sauce over, then half the eggplant, and sprinkle with one-third of the pizza cheese. Cover with another layer of pasta sheets. Add another layer of tomato sauce, the remaining eggplant, then cheese, then pasta. Finish with a final layer of the tomato sauce. Pour the béchamel sauce over and sprinkle over the remaining cheese. Bake for 50 minutes, or until the cheese is melty and bubbling at the edges. Serve drizzled with a little olive oil and garnished with the remaining herbs, with plenty of crusty bread to mop up all the saucy bits. Some peppery rocket (arugula) leaves would be an ideal side here, too.
234 THE
Serves
Pop the cake tin on a baking tray and bake for 50–55 minutes, or until the top of the cake is slightly burnished, just before the nuts begin to burn. Remove from the oven. Allow the cake to cool in the tin, before releasing and removing the tin. Serve the cake with cream or yoghurt. Prepare for it to be crumbly, yet light, and for your guests to be amazed.
Take the butter out of the freezer and coarsely grate one-third of it across the base of the cake tin. Scoop out a cup of the dry ingredients and sprinkle these across the bottom of the cake tin. (Yes, it will look like the weirdest thing you’ve ever put in your cake tin.)
Spread half the apple mixture on top, then sprinkle with another cup’s worth of dry ingredients. Grate another third of the butter on top (if it feels like it’s starting to melt, consider using some baking paper as a handle, or popping the butter back into the freezer for 15 minutes or so).
Spread the remaining apple mixture over the top, then the remaining dry ingredients. Scatter the pecans over the top. Finish with the last of the butter.
Place the butter in the freezer for at least 2 hours or preferably overnight (see Tips, page 248). When you’re ready to bake, preheat the oven to 180°C (350°F). Line the base of a 20–22 cm (8–81/2 inch) springform cake tin and grease the sides with butter (or cooking spray). Combine the semolina, sugar, flour, cinnamon and salt in a bowl. Toss about with your hands to evenly distribute, or use a wooden spoon if you must.
Grate apple & raspberry crumble cake
2–3 large granny smith apples 1 teaspoon vanilla bean paste or vanilla extract juice of 1 lemon 400 g (14 oz) frozen berries (see Tips, page 248) 1 cup (100 g) shelled pecans, roughly chopped thick (double) cream or plain yoghurt, to serve It would be remiss of me not to include this recipe in our collection of sweeties, as it throws everything I thought I knew about cake-baking out the window, and because when I first shared it with the people of Australia on morning telly, it went absolutely ballistic. It’s Bulgaria’s gift to baking, where the most complex process required is grating. Like the ostentatious arrangement of animal print-on-print at Russian restaurants, this cake probably shouldn’t work … but somehow, it does. Here’s why: as the grated apple mixture stews and bakes, it releases just enough liquid to bind the dry ingredients together into a crumbly consistency that yields a surprisingly light, logic-AND-gravity-defying crumble-cake mash-up.
125 g (41/2 oz) salted butter, plus extra for greasing (see Subs, page 248) 1 cup (180 g) coarse semolina 1 cup (220 g) caster (superfine) sugar 1 cup (150 g) self-raising flour (see Subs, page 248) 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon 1/2 teaspoon salt
Peel, quarter, core and coarsely grate the apples into a separate bowl, stirring in the vanilla bean paste and lemon juice to stop the apple browning, and to add to the juiciness. Stir in the frozen berries to combine.
SERIOUSLY GOOD SWEETIES 247
Serves 6
