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Linzertorte- totally irresistible

Linzertorte

We have had a cold, blustery damp week and I was getting sugar withdrawals. I had been too busy to bake and had avoided going out to the shops so consequently I didn’t have anything sweet in the house, not a block of chocolate, no biscuits or cakes to nibble on with morning coffee. This is not normal for me as my children will verify. Their delight in coming into my study or office was to raid the drawers in which were stashed my supply of nibbles including salted nuts, chocolate and sweet and savoury biscuits. I work better when I am munching and as my weight has never varied more than a kilo or two, my diet suits me.

So when my family were coming for Sunday dinner recently I went into overdrive and cooked not only a chocolate cake but a Linzertorte as well. Talk about sugar overload: this was the ultimate in a sugar fix. The walnut and caramelized citrus cake with chocolate ganache is superb cut into small pieces to have with coffee and the jam tart: this was pure heaven.

I took pity on my nephew who is studying and sent him home with a large piece of each to get him through the next day while sitting at his desk but there has still been enough for me this week. I am thinking of hiding the last piece of Linzertorte from my husband but he knows all my hiding places. I managed to snaffle the last piece for the photo.

I will share this recipe as it is the easiest torte to make and so adaptable that you can use any type of nuts and jams you have in your pantry and it will still taste divine. I used almond meal as I had already used my walnut meal in the chocolate cake.

I didn’t have raspberry jam but had a small amount of homemade strawberry jam and topped it up with homemade blackberry jam, which was just as delicious. I blended the ingredients in my food processor makes it quicker but it is just as easy but slower made by hand. As I had a small amount of pastry left over, I have made biscuits sandwiched with jam to consume later in the week.

Timing: Pre heat oven to 180°C / 350°F when you have formed the lattice pattern over the jam.

Ingredients

160g almond meal (hazelnut or walnut works just as well.)
100g caster sugar
½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
⅛ to ¼ teaspoon of ground cloves
Finely grated zest of 1 lemon (an orange or lime will add a different flavour)
200g plain flour
½ teaspoon baking powder
½ teaspoon vanilla extract
180g butter, unsalted
Pinch of salt
2 eggs, yolks only, gently combined
1 cup of jam, (traditionally raspberry, but I used strawberry and blackberry and it is just as delicious. You could use apricot jam also.)

Toast the almond meal in a frying pan over a moderate heat, or in the oven, until it is lightly coloured and gives off the lovely toasty smell of roasted nuts.
Remove from the heat and allow to cool before using it.
Blend the almond meal, sugar, cinnamon, cloves, lemon rind, flour and baking powder in a food processor.
Cut the butter into small pieces and blend into the dry ingredients to make fine crumbs. You can do this in the processor or by hand.
Add the egg yolks and blend together. You can do this gently in the blender or by hand in a bowl. It is a dry mixture and tends to want to crumble. Rest the dough in the refrigerator for about 30 minutes to one hour. On hot days, if the dough becomes too soft, just refrigerate it for a while.
Lightly grease a pan that has a removable base. I use a long 34cm x 11 cm pan, but a square pan or a round 23 cm pan works just as well. Cut off about ⅔ of the dough and roll it out thinly until about 2-4 mm thick. Don’t worry if it won’t roll out just pat it into the pan and up the sides. Place the torte on an oven tray to keep it stable.
Spread the jam over the pastry. I used the strawberry jam and then topped it up with the blackberry jam. Refrigerate this while you roll out the top sheet of pastry.
Roll the remaining pastry out until it is also 2-4 mm thick and cut it into thin strips. Place the strips across the top of the jam in a decorative pattern. Diagonal works well to form a lattice pattern. Refrigerate to rest the dough for about 30 minutes.
Place the torte into the oven and bake for about 25 minutes until the pastry is golden and the jam starts to bubble. Remove and cool in the pan before removing the tart. Do this before it is completely cold or it might stick to the sides because of the jam.Dust with icing sugar and serve with ice cream or crème fraîche to cut the sweetness.

Lemonade days

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Web-lemonade-with-rose-2 If the thought of lemonade stalls and cool, pale green liquid in long glasses cloudy with condensation seems like a perfect way to pass warm summery days then you could be excused for thinking we are living in the northern hemisphere rather than in sub-tropical Brisbane. Our long Indian summer has delayed Autumn and it is wreaking havoc on my equilibrium. I have capitulated to the realisation that my garden will never be perfect however, this season I am experiencing citrus envy which is threatening to impair the quality of my relationship with my trees.

When I look at the picture perfect citrus displayed on Gardening sheets and blog pages I start hyperventilating with fury and begin raging at the mealy mites, the ants, the grass hoppers and the aphids which have been, judging by their population, orgasmically enjoying our long hot days. Web-tangelo-tree

My latest weapon in the fight to perfection is to release Cryptolaemus larvae onto the leaves where the mealy mites have populated in profusion. These larvae feast on the mealy mite then morph into tiny beetles that resemble lady bugs. They are brown with rusty red heads and move so quickly that I haven’t managed to get a photo of them. I have resorted to wandering through my trees trying, in vain, to count the number of beetles that have hatched. As my non-gardening husband asks, ‘How can you tell whether you have counted the same one three times because it flies around so quickly?”

I adore the smell of citrus blossom and missed it hugely whilst living London, so when we returned to Brisbane, I went overboard and have planted oranges, lemons, grapefruit, limes, seville oranges, blood oranges and tangelos. As always there will be too many fruit for just one family and my father regularly directs his hose towards my trees so that he can claim watering rights in the form of tangelos and navels for his morning orange juice. I give away jars of marmalade and salted lemons as gifts.

Scale is often a problem, not in the size of my garden or the musical tinkle of ice blocks but in the rough patches on the skin of the fruit. They would never win a prize in our agricultural show and could be used as an example of how not to look in a dermatologist’s brochure. They look ugly but are so delicious. Web-cut-lemonades

Our lemonade tree is one of the earliest to ripen particularly in these still hot days. It is a strange fruit, and has come from either a cross between a Meyer lemon and an orange or a lemon and a mandarin tree. Whatever its source, the fruit is sweeter than a lemon and sharper than an orange.

The delicious pale green juice can be drunk straight or with soda to make a summer spritz. The fruit can be eaten but it does contain a lot of seeds that become annoying. It does not need a sugar syrup. Even the most discerning four-year old palate will accept lemonade squeezed straight from the fruit.

I have been waiting to see whether the fruit ripened to a lemon yellow or an orange colour before picking but this doesn’t seem to happen. The fruit stays a light lime green, slowly turning yellow by which time it is almost over-ripe. The trick is to test the ripeness of the fruit by gently tugging or twisting the fruit hanging from the branches. If ripe, the fruit comes away easily. I have realised that it is best not to wait until they become yellow because by then they have been attacked by fruit fly and rot on the tree.

Web-lemonade-thorns Our young tree has fruited too heavily and has a decidedly drunken lean to it but I have been reluctant to prune it. The challenge is in avoiding being impaled on its thorns which are sharp enough to use as tapestry needles. Even worse, the rootstock tends to send out rogue branches that would be a perfect material for weaving a crown of thorns. I have already suggested this as an option for the next dress up event at school and I think I am about to be reported by my daughter-in-law for cruelty to children.

Web-lemonade-with-rose In the meantime I am enjoying fresh lemonade for breakfast.

Nutritionally, you don’t need a large amount of fruit juice so it can be difficult to find the right size glasses. Traditional water glasses are too large and clumsy so I was delighted when I remembered these lovely crystal glasses sitting at the back of the cupboard. A perfect size and shape. The etched star pattern was the right complement to the homegrown lemonade sparkling in the early morning sunlight.

Mother’s Day 2016

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Mothering Sunday: it was an opportunity to gather around the nine women in our two families that go back three generations and now followed by another two.

We remembered and talked about our Great Grandmothers who sat in rocking chairs and cradled newborns to sleep;

Our Grandmothers who listen while younger generations sound off against the world;

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Our Mothers old and young, attentive and there

even when you don’t want them to be; and

Our Indulgent aunts with whom we play.
Web-Jemma-&-Harry-with-Lego

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We reminisced, and toasted the many strong women in our lives.It was a lunch made with love by all, food with memories and meaning. Web-Marg-Tait-&-Angus-at-christening

We laughed at our foibles, and grimaced at our fiery moments.Sunshine flooded across the veranda, highlighting small boys climbing over chairs and balancing on tables.

Mothering is like that: a balance, not always even, easily tipped in another direction but naturally veering towards the centre.

Web-Sophie-&-GG

We don’t always get it right, occasionally mis-manage the situation but we never stop caring. As my 100 year old Granny, once said, ‘ I still worry over my daughters’.

Raindrops of fantasy

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Last week I awoke to a feeling of absolute delight. I could hear heavy succulent raindrops splattering on my tin roof. This rain would certainly be heavy enough to get through the leaf litter and into the soil. As we lay listening, to ensure he didn’t feel too neglected I enticed my knowledgeable husband into a discussion on the meteorological conditions that influence raindrop size. Scintillating I know, but I am a keen gardener. Enough said.

Web,-Watermark_Raindrops-on-Citrus I love rainy days because they tempt me to bring out my wet weather gear that doesn’t get a lot of wear in our dry climate. The garden skinks and spiders are brushed out of my Wellingtons, the umbrella mechanisms are tested to ensure they haven’t rusted out and my raincoats get aired and the dust shaken from the shoulders.

Sophie & Angus on Home Beach – Version 3 I think raincoats can be such a fashion statement but here in Brisbane they aren’t commonly used other than by primary-aged school children wandering around in bright high-vis yellow plastic coats Paddington Bear style. We usually have wet weather in summer so wearing a coat just adds to the discomfort of wearing clothes. There is something to be said for living in a nudist colony in the sub-tropics.

As I child I loved dressing up, so it is with glee that at the first sign of rain I slip into my full-length waterproof coat with its pleated hood around me. There is something about an elegant cape that triggers fantasy and imagination in most adults. The reversible coat is forest brown and shiraz red which does tempt Captain A to comment that I look like an ageing Red Riding Hood in camouflage whilst I feel as if I could swish across time zones fighting evil dragons rather than just wolves in the forest. Leaving my childhood I can always turn to another favourite Susie in raincoat hood fashion model. I could wear a light trench coat that reminds me of Audrey Hepburn. It is very practical even when riding a bike but the problem occurs when I arrive at my destination because Brisbane hasn’t yet embraced the concept of cloakrooms where wet coats and umbrellas are placed.

I remember as a child walking home from school in the rain, bare foot in the gutter, making dams with my heels, and feeling the cool water surge across my toes. Absolute bliss! Wellies may not be my fashion statement choice but they do serve a purpose. My large yellow boots were a lifesaver when wandering through the flooded streets in Venice during a snowy November. The pavements were so cold it was warmer wading and my only challenge was preventing the bow wave from washing the cigarette buts and rubbish into my boots. Now, in Brisbane these boots have Susie in St Mark's Sq, in wellies – Version 2 been relegated to the shed where they make a foray into the garden more pleasant after heavy rain and hopefully, are a deterrent to the odd snake. Captain A who feels I am reverting into fantasy, has developed an inclination to spray what he perceives to be escapee caterpillars from Alice in Wonderland. I put up with their discomfort but I have to agree with him that they are cumbersome and inelegant and I shouldn’t be seen out in them. Definitely not car to bar shoes!

Thus, if it continues to rain during the morning will I use an umbrella but which one?

My first choice would be a small flip-up umbrella that inevitably does flip but upside down in any breeze. I cannot count the number of small umbrellas I have left around the world, because I avoid putting a wet item into my handbag which already contains camera, iPad, iPhone as well as lipstick and sunglasses. Small folding umbrellas are workable only in very light showers and once our tropical downpour starts the only option to prevent drowning through inhalation of raindrops is to use the large golf umbrellas that have become corporate billboards. Compromise has been reached in our Andrew with umbrella in LA household with me carrying the small umbrella when on my own, but when sharing the large size, it is Captain A’s responsibility. I am not sure he agrees with me but it is that or we both get wet. I remind him that we once witnessed a discussion in a Gentlemen’s outfitters shop in London where a customer deliberated between two umbrellas each costing over £400. And that was at the lower end of the price range. I really do think a pocket handkerchief and a snazzy umbrella contribute to the male sartorial style and have suggested Captain A consider it his fashion statement or weapon as John Steed did in The Avengers.

A tightly furled umbrellas is particularly useful in claiming space in a crowd in addition to tripping the odd irritating passer-by. When I see a phalanx of umbrellas charging towards me from across the street I am tempted to run in the opposite direction. I am surprised in our risk adverse society that we don’t get issued with a warning and instructions on what not to do with an umbrella. Even when it is a dismal wet day I will wear sunglasses so that the points from someone’s umbrella don’t remove my eyes. I think I should also carry a bucket.

Umbrella sculpture outside BBC4, London.

The water has to run off these umbrellas somewhere but why does it have to be down my back. Recently while I was waiting at the pedestrian lights in the city, minding my own business and keeping dry under my dinky umbrella I felt water trickling down my back and into my shoes. My neighbour was completely oblivious of the damage being done to my attire much less my sense of wellbeing. At least I didn’t have a carry bag full of purchases also getting wet.

My saddest umbrella experience was occurred during a stormy afternoon when along with everyone else I was doing last minute Christmas shopping hoping I could get it all done and meet the next day’s deadline for postage home. I had a cache of bags with all my purchases clutched tightly under one arm to avoid getting wet, a shoulder bag slung over the other arm and with my free hand I was carrying an opened umbrella bent against the wind. I got to my destination, sat down and as I moved the bags containing my gifts out of pedestrian way, I thought they felt very light. I had been totally oblivious that the rain was dripping off my small foldup umbrella into the bottom of the carry bags which being paper, and once damp, tore apart and allowed all my carefully chosen presents to fall out. I think I was more upset about the time wasted than the money.

Umbrellas are an appendage we don’t know what to do with. Next rainy day, watch people shut their brolllies, shake the water off and then look around wondering what to do with them when they enter a shop? The drops make the smart marble floors as slippery as an ice-skating rink and the pile of brollies is very tempting to sort through as they leave and I am sure you won’t mind if I take the one that hasn’t got the broken strut.

Playing in raincoats – Version 2
We need to encourage more workplaces and shops to install the clever apparatus that encases the wet umbrella in a plastic bag and perhaps we could put the odd damp child in there as well and contain them. That is one thing to be thankful for, I don’t have small children to entertain on wet days. Been there done that!

Dampened spirits

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Not even cyclonic rain can disturb a cat nap.

I love this cyclonic weather because I don’t need an excuse to settle down with a good book I just have to fight Colin the Cat for the most comfortable chair and believe me, he is a good fighter.

Sitting looking out at the dense clouds covering the hills I occasionally feel sorry for my daughter-in-law with two small children to entertain but, been there done that with 8 weeks of solid tropical rain immediately after my third baby was born. My entire house was covered in play dough and wet washing.

drier days

I wish I had an umbrella – Feathers cannot withstand cyclonic rains

Now I look out through wet windows at my garden where the flowers are drooping from the heavy downpour and the figs are beginning to get soggy skins and a tiny flash of colour catches my eye. There, sheltering under our awning beside the feeder that attracts them each morning, is a small very wet lorikeet. It looks miserable and very very sodden. I am glad it has had the sense to shelter there and wonder where the rest of its flock have disappeared to.

Colin is bored; he stretches out, digging his claws into my lap. He is looking around for an ankle to bite, disdainful of the cat nuts that have probably gone soggy by now. Don’t worry little bird I will keep the cat inside so that he doesn’t see you and tomorrow I promise there will be honey and bread for you as usual.

Morning feeding battle

Lest We Forget

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Polygon Wood Commonwealth War Graves

I am sitting in the hot November sun at the Remembrance Service and I still shiver when I listen to the words of ‘In Flanders Fields’ and the Bugler playing The Last Post and the Rouse

When I was 19 I walked the hills and beach of Gallipoli with my boyfriend but I was young and in love and the deaths that had occurred did not make me sad. I was too busy living. Over three decades later I toured many World War 1 battle sites with my husband and despite his enthusiasm and knowledge, I kept feeling revulsion and horror at the stupidity of the tactics that caused such enormous numbers of our young men to die. I was now a mother with a son in Iraq and Afghanistan and I could not escape the visceral pain that refused to go away until I knew he was away from that theatre of war.

Red tulips beside grave

It is a good thing to stop for a moment at 11 am on 11 November to remember those known and unknown who died or suffered for Australia in war and armed conflict. Listening to the music, I try to tally up my family’s military connections; husband, sons, fathers, mother, sister, uncles and great-uncles stopping around a dozen and that is only the immediate family. The military has been kind to my family who lost my Great-Uncle Lionel, killed near Fromelles. I read his name on the wall at Villers-Bretoneaux.

Susie below Lionel Young’s inscription

Each year I plant some poppy seeds in my garden and watch with pleasure when they raise their bright blood-red flowers above the leaves. It gives me a feeling of connection and is a reminder, Lest We Forget.

Remembering Julia Child

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I have just noticed that this past week was the anniversary of Julia Child’s death in 2004. How could I have let this important anniversary slip by without cooking something from her books. It is now in my diary to do so each year.
She was such an influence on my cooking style and still is: a perfectionist who persisted with a recipe until she got it to work, and then was prepared to adapt that recipe with variations.

I cooked so many recipes from her books that I have worn out a couple of copies of Mastering the Art of French Cooking. In 1976 I was 20, earning very little and living in a tiny flat in London with my boyfriend. I had never cooked a meal other than out of a saucepan whilst camping around Europe and by some wonderful piece of luck I bought my first copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking.

Eventually this copy fell apart from overuse, so I bought a second copy which I keep together with ribbon gradually losing the odd page. Now my third volume has been recovered in plastic and seems to be holding together under constant use.

I love cooking Julia’s recipes because she put so much time and effort into making sure they worked. No leaving out a vital ingredient for her. Her recipes are reliable, taste delicious and can be adapted to suit different trends and tastes and her strong vital personality comes through in all the helpful hints that are included on the pages and it is always a pleasure to read her books.

Camouflage an electrical tower or art?

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A group of artists in 2010 showed how us how to think beyond conventional landscapes.

Landscape photos are so difficult to get right when traveling. How often have you found yourself trying to edit out a wind turbine or electrical tower from what is otherwise an image of bucolic beauty. I have even marked the route of the high-powered electrical lines on our maps so that I knew which areas to avoid when renting in Europe. I didn’t want my view of the beautiful French countryside marred with a series of large and to me ugly structures impinging on my carefully chosen locations.

When I look from a distance at the enormous wind turbines they do have a certain minimalist elegance about them, but up close they become very dominating and noisy, reminding me of my nightmares. I think it is a conceptualisation of a modern equivalent to the plants in The Day of the Triffids and I keep waiting for these structures to haul themselves out of the ground and stomp across the landscape in threatening regiments.

I would not wish to live near a landscape of these overwhelming and noisy monsters but I was amazed that a couple I saw recently on a Grand Designs program were happily building their house within vision and probably sound of a whole army of these industrial windmills. As they had built beside a small aircraft runway, the noise of the Scottish wind and the planes might be drown out the turbine noise. They certainly didn’t think they impinged on their quality of life.

When I was discussing the issue of green energy with my very environmentally concerned nephew who is into all things green and sustainable he expressed admiration for the wind turbine and said he could reconcile living near them despite the fact that they kill the birds that he enjoys studying.

Australia, particularly in the established suburbs (and I write from Brisbane) lags behind in the installation of underground infrastructure for power lines. As I write this I had a lightbulb moment when I realised this would solve some of my possum control problems. But that is whole other issue. My grudge with overhead power lines is that they are so ugly. Even said nephew agreed with me on that. I remember driving in the country and after seeing a line of electrical towers nearby, Andy and I discussed what design techniques an architect or engineer might use to ‘beautify’ these necessary but industrial visions. We came up with coloured steel for camouflage; going underground, a sensible but expensive option and growing flowers, vines or vegetables around the base high but never did we imagine what a group of students did in Germany. Check out the images on lostateminor. Here is a new outlet for displaying the creativity and skills of our artists limited only by their imagination. I am sure both mainstream and grunge including graffiti artists would be keen to participate in this industrial challenge. I imagine our Occ’ Health & Safety people would have conniptions but why camouflage when you can make something pretty.

Papaya plants

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I love breakfast. I wake up hungry and look forward to munching on fruit and toast and fresh coffee every day. In fact, if I don’t eat breakfast I am not a happy person, as my husband will testify. I never tire of eating breakfast and I think my favourite dish would be papaya with its colour of a pink and gold sunrise, the sweet distinctive smell and then the delicious flavour enhanced with a touch of lime juice. Yumm! This treat I took for granted until living in Los Angeles where I was disappointed in the quality of the imported papaya. USA import regulations use a hot water treatment which requires the papaya to be immersed in hot water at 48°C for 20 minutes that although it might kill fruit fly, tends to cook the outer layer of flesh and skin of the fruit thus altering the taste and flavour of the papaya. The fruit end up looking wrinkled and unappetising and I am not going to tell you what they remind me of (just use your imagination).

So it was with great excitement after moving back to Brisbane and its sub-tropical climate that I have grown a couple of papaya trees in my backyard. Tim, my neighbour has a papaya tree which bears so many fruit that he puts them in a box outside his front gate for local walkers to take. I decided that if he could grow them so could I. Plant lore suggests using local trees when planting the same species as they have already adapted to the nearby environment, so after enjoying my breakfast I kept the seeds from one of his papayas. I left the seeds on a sheet of kitchen paper to dry out then rubbed them in a sieve to remove the papery coating. Then it was a simple matter of planting a couple of seeds in the garden and waiting for them to sprout. And sprout they did with enthusiasm. I also had to wait until the trees flowered to determine whether I had male or female trees, which bear the fruit. The problem being that you only need one male tree to about a dozen female trees but I seemed to get more males than female trees growing. Male flowers are carried on long stalks where as the female flowers are carried very close to the trunk of the tree.

Yesterday was culling day for the males and I approached the trees carrying my tree knife, with great sadness, as I hate destroying plants. As I watched the vigorous saplings fall I was thinking what a waste of the flowers so I broke off the flower stalks and put them into my watering can.

Papaya flowers in watering can

It was fun challenging visitors to determine what type of plant they had come from because I don’t think I have seen anyone use them as a decorative flower. I can understand why as sadly the flowers don’t last very long and soon fall all over the floor or table. Does anyone have a suggestion on how to make the flowers last longer than a day or two?

I also wondered whether you could cook with them so did a bit of searching on Google and sure enough recipe posts started appearing. They are said to be bitter when used in Indonesian stir fries and the sap is caustic but if you rinse them well first then blanch the small flowers they can be delicious to western palates in stir fries. As my daughter has suggested she might cook a chicken satay tonight to celebrate Chinese New Year, I think I will contribute a new vegetable dish with stir fried papaya flowers and broccolini. I will let you know what it tastes like. Hopefully I will have found a use for the male of the species.

Moon Rise over Mount Wellington Lookout, New Zealand

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If you are looking for a reason to believe how wonderful being alive is, then this image of the moon might be the perfect thing. It is such a beautiful and cleverly crafted image taken by photographer Mark Gee, of the moon rising over the Mount Victoria Lookout, Wellington, New Zealand.

I remember walking along an unlit street on North Stradbroke Island, Queensland one evening with my three primary school aged children. High in the sky above us was a huge and gloriously brilliant full moon. We didn’t need street lights as there was sufficient moonlight to see our way very clearly. I challenged the children to pretend I was blind and asked them to describe the full moon to me. Although it was 20 years ago, I still remember the beauty of the evening over the dark island and the difficulty the children had in addressing that challenge.

Whenever I thought of home whilst living away from Australia, I would often remember the times when standing on my deck I had watched the moon rise in a direct line above my driveway, or of being able to see it sink into a puddle of gold behind the Taylor Range. My aviator husband still regrets the fact that after being chosen for the American Space Training Program, it was discovered that not only was he an Australian citizen and therefore barred from participation, but he was also too tall for the space capsule.

There is something so mystical about watching a full moon rise and it is impossible not to be affected by the magic. I have even managed to get my very unromantic husband to waltz with me in the moonlight on the forecourt of the Notre Dame with musicians busking nearby. He of course says it was more likely to be the influence of too much French red wine, a fact that I dispute. Of course I never have the camera nearby or am too busy dancing to catch the moment. My only picture of the moon is one that I took very quickly from our kitchen window not long after we had moved to Los Angeles. I watched it rise the full length of the MGM building and then perch above it. I never saw it happen again in the 18 months we lived across from that building.

Anyone have their special moonlight moments to share with me?

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