The Tribal Tomato

Weathering the storm

Dusting off Parlour Games for Modern Families

These are strange days with the global crisis around COVID-19 and I’ve been feeling compelled to write it out (as I ride it out).

This is what I’m worried about as we go into lockdown:

• The elderly and vulnerable in our midst getting sick and dying, the health care professionals getting burnt out and ill, and the health system totally collapsing.
• People having to shut down businesses, losing their livelihoods, and becoming vulnerable and destitute.
• People stripping the supermarket shelves and being arseholes to each other because of (an admittedly understandable) fear.
• Getting bored and grumpy and restless and anxious and slightly purposeless as the social isolation measures kick in. This is at least something I can control. Trying to look at the positives, set up rituals, and give myself a stern talking to when I catch myself spiralling down. About to dust of Parlour Games for Modern Families; planning to watch more cheesy movies with the fam that involve 70's music, daggy dancing and bad acting; hope to read lots of books; to keep writing that novel I’ve been talking about for a decade; cook lots of improvised meals from what I have to hand…oh, and keep working remotely and finding ways to be kind to my fellow human beings!

What I’m not worried about:

• Toilet paper – if all else fails, there are leaves, newspaper, soap and water and even rocks (yes, my dad said he used to wipe his bum with rocks out in the fields). I think we will manage if the soft stuff runs out. Amazing what we are choosing to focus on in times of uncertainty…
• Running out of food – been cooking a little extra, shopping a little extra and stocking up slowly and surely for a month or more now – felt a bit strange at first, but now feels like it was the right thing to do. Avoided the big supermarkets and shopped at the smaller providers. Bought staples like beans, canned tomatoes and some rice/pasta. Been cooking up all the odds and sods of vegetables into stocks. Lots of prepared beans in the freezer. Slow and steady.  Hope that by thinking laterally and improvising and sharing and maybe even bartering if all else fails we will be good. If my grandparents survived wars and a depression, surely we can survive a few months (fingers crossed) of adapting.
• Losing touch - phone and internet means we can still talk to the people we love - not the same, but hopefully it will do for the short term.
• Staying active – put the gym membership on hold and enjoying lots of brisk walks by myself and with various members of the family (with smiles and nods to people as we pass each other at a good distance on the street).  Sun and air and movement critical to a strong mind, body and spirit. This one's not negotiable in my book.
• Getting sick – don’t want to be flippant about this but feel strangely resigned that if this happens, my family and I will try and weather the storm. We are doing our best to avoid it, as well as do all the right and sensible things to stop spreading infection but if it happens, it happens...

As I write, I’m reminded of what 4^th Century philosopher Heraclitus wrote, “There is nothing permanent except change”.

And what my beautiful late friend Katerina used to say when she encountered difficulties – “This too shall pass”.

Sending best to all to find ways to weather the storm.

Mission impossible

The shop is filled with oversized wine barrels and old fashioned wicker baskets; strange-looking sausage casings and sharp-bladed slicers; and all manner of equipment to make and bottle your own sauce. My husband chanced on this place on the dusty outskirts of suburbia a few weeks back. I’m out here to sus out the tomato situation. We're going to make passata.

This place would have once been rocking at this time of year as older Italians and Greeks stocked up on its wares to preserve their late summer produce. An elderly shopkeeper is chatting in Greek with a bloke at the front of the shop, but otherwise, the shop is empty. She gives me a cursory glance, doesn’t bother asking if I need help. I’m sure she's sized me up as a tourist to the art of mass home preserving. I’m about 30 years too young.

When the gent leaves, I approach her.

'How much are your sauce tomatoes out the front?' I ask in Greek.

She raises an eyebrow. Maybe she might make a sale after all. 

'$22 a box.'

Too much, I think. I’m becoming my mother.

'Will you still have some in a few weeks?'

'I can’t promise. If we do, they’ll be more expensive. It hasn’t been a good season for tomatoes.'

I nod. I don’t believe her. She wants to offload several boxes right now. I’m not quite ready, haven’t yet mobilised the family to sit over the ruby red orbs for a whole day making sauce. And I can probably get them cheaper if I wait.

A few weeks later, a date is set, the family booked in to make sauce. It’s Friday, and the long weekend looms seductively ahead. I make my way to Oakleigh, where I know there are several greengrocers. I’m there by 8 in the morning. Apart from a few groups of old men playing cards and smoking, the cafes are quiet on the main drag. I turn into one of the smaller streets to try my regular greengrocer.

'I’m after sauce tomatoes. Do you have any?' I ask an older bloke who's making a tower of eggplants.

'We ran out early this morning. The phone has been ringing hot and I’ve stopped answering it. It’s a long weekend. Everyone wants them.' He shrugs. 'You could come back next week...'

'Oh. Will I find some anywhere else?'

'I don't think so but you could try down the road. But make sure they don’t sell you romas, which growers cut off the vine too early and are green in the middle. Useless. You want the rounder, small sauce tomatoes that are red all the way through. And make sure you run the skins two or three times through the press. That makes the thickest sauce...''

I don't dare tell him we process the tomatoes through a food processor that we bought at the school fete a few years back, and that it always splutters to a stop about halfway through the day. It's not exactly the most professional of methods.

‘’Do you make sauce?' I ask him.

'Nah. My Italian friends used to make it. But they’re all dead now.' He laughs. 'That’s what happens when you have grappa with coffee in the morning, wine with lunch, and beer and scotch with dinner.'

We talk some more, but in the end stories aren’t going to get me my tomatoes. I had better get a move on.

At the next greengrocer, I can’t see any on the shop floor. I ask the guy in charge if they have any out the back. He tells me there should be a shipment in an hour. $25 a box he says. Yes, they’re expensive. Don’t I know it’s been 50 degrees in Echuca and Shepparton this year, burning the vines? Horrible year for tomatoes. I tell him I might be back later. It's going to be a long morning.

I try greengrocer number three, where I paw through a box of overripe romas. They’re cheap, but rotten on the outside, and green on the inside. A middle-aged woman stands beside me, looking the way I feel. Forlorn.

'Mmm, they’re not very good…' I say.

'No.' She sighs. 'I should have done this a few weeks ago. I might try the place down the road…' We walk together, two strangers on a shared mission.

'I don’t know why I make passata. It's so much work. Every year, I threaten to stop, but my kids won’t let me. They love it, the ritual of it. As it happens, now they've got other things to do and it looks like I’m on my own with it…' I make sympathetic sounds.

When we get to our last resort greengrocer, it's the same story. No tomatoes. They ran out last week.  I suggest we go back to the greengrocer who is expecting a delivery but we both know it’s not looking good. She says she might try Dandenong Market. I wonder if it's not too late to trek across town to Preston Market. As we walk, I take out my phone and we google an out of the way place she knows. It’s just a shed at the back of a house in an outer suburb I’ve never heard of. An Italian bloke. She can’t remember his name. He’s been selling tomatoes and wine grapes for decades. When we enter the scant details she knows, a boutique winery comes up but no Italian bloke in a shed. I hope he's not dead.

Back at greengrocer number two, we’re in luck. A shipment is being unloaded downstairs. A few sample boxes have been bought up. My fellow searcher thinks she’ll be able to find cheaper – she’s going to drive out to her Italian bloke. I’m not taking the risk. The shop owner assures me I'll be happy - he gives these very same tomatoes to his family. I pay at the till and am told to take my car down to a dark loading bay where men in high vis vests are doing secret fruit business. A beefy bloke loads my car with several boxes of tomatoes. I keep my distance. It feels like the set of The Sopranos, where dead bodies may well be kept in cold storage. When he’s done, I furtively snap a pic and send it to my husband with the heady words of success: Mission accomplished!

'

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Images George Mifsud

Rizogalo for the soul

It’s been a month since the launch of my new memoir My Ikaria. The celebrations started with the book’s Melbourne launch, closely followed by the Sydney launch. There’s been some fabulous media interest, which is terribly affirming when you’ve been working on a bookish project for some years and have absolutely no idea what the reception will be when you release your little baby into the world.

Even more encouraging has been the wonderful response from readers. I’m loving the enlightening discussions the book has sparked about what it means to live well – these have affirmed for me yet again how small lifestyle changes can reap big rewards. Top points for enthusiasm goes to 60-year-old grandmother Mrs Poulos from Sydney. She wrote to me to say that My Ikaria inspired her to clear out her pantry post-Easter, helping her avoid eating all those leftover chocolate eggs. It also made her realise that her crazy, people-filled life was totally normal (and actually good for her). When she finished the book, she wrote:

Spiri, thank you for your beautiful book. Experiencing Ikaria through your words felt very real to me. You managed to capture the true heart of the Greek spirit and have given me many things think about to have a fulfilling life, to live and not to just exist.

 

Of course, life doesn't stop just because I’ve released a book, with family activities going at top speed as per usual, and my writing and teaching projects becoming even more plentiful. Despite the quickening pace, I have managed to keep up my Ikarian-inspired lessons: I’ve kept my task lists focused on the important stuff; I’ve still been connecting meaningfully with those close to me; I’ve managed to keep moving lots as part of my daily routines; and I’ve tried not to sacrifice sleep. Thus, I have been successfully juggling the balls. But this girl needs more than just to juggle balls. She needs to cook. And not just cobble-together-cook. I mean large-and-in-charge-comfort-for-the-soul-cook.

For some weeks now, my kids have been asking for rizogalo (rice pudding). Perhaps it’s the onset of the cooler weather at nights. Or the smell of lemon peel and vanilla that wafts through the kitchen when I cook it. Or perhaps the comforting starchiness of the rice, the creaminess of the milk. Whatever it is, they wanted it. Years ago, I discovered (and have since adapted) a recipe from a delightful book called Mamma’s Kitchen. And so, I made a big batch for our family, and another for my mother and brother. Judging by the fact that neither lasted more than a few hours in either household, I'd say it was a hit yet again.

Lately, I've been hankering for another Greek comfort recipe – Gigandes (baked lima beans). Thankfully I had a packet of these little dried white beauties in the pantry. I promptly boiled them and mixed the cooked and strained beans in with a cobbled-together sauce of vegetables, some herbs from the garden, a few cans of chopped tomatoes and a generous glug of olive oil – straight into the oven it all went. Teamed with crusty homemade bread, it’s the ultimate vegan feast. A glass of wine and I couldn’t wish for more.

Hubby George hasn’t been idle in the big batch cooking caper either – he’s been picking, baking and freezing quinces for a few weeks, making great big meat and vegetable stews for us and his parents, and bringing out the last of his homemade bread (he made 16 loaves for the book launch!) from the freezer.

All I can say is that while it’s been fun being on a bookish high this past month, it’s even more fun coming back down to Earth.

Download Marias-rizogalo (rice pudding) recipe adapted from Mama’s Kitchen: Recipes and Stories.

Read a Better Reading excerpt or buy My Ikaria.

My Ikaria is now available

‘My Ikaria is a kindly wake-up call to live a more mindful, meaningful and generous life – a joy to read.’ —Alice Pung

 

I'm delighted that my latest book, My Ikaria, is now available for purchase.

Thanking all who have helped it come to fruition, from my publishers at Black Inc./ Nero, to my agent Jacinta di Mase, to those in my writers' networks, and to the many supporters who have come to help launch the book and given me such wonderful feedback on my Facebook page - with special thanks to the many passionate Ikarians I met on my journey.

Here's the lowdown on how to find out more about the book and where to get a copy:

• Find out more, read endorsements or make media enquiries
• Read an excerpt
• Buy it in Australia (free delivery - gotta love that!)
• Buy it overseas
• Read an interview in Greek

I hope you enjoy it and very much look forward to your comments via my Facebook page, through my blog or via email.

Wishing you good health and happiness. 

Spiri

 

Goodbye tomatoes, hello pumpkins

For weeks. tomatoes from our garden had been sitting in a large glass salad bowl, ripe and fulsome. As I used each one of them up, and my husband George stopped bringing more in, I put them in progressively smaller bowls. Finally, there weren't enough to fill a bowl - there were only three little (now ever-so-slightly mottled) tomatoes left. I didn't want to use them, for to eat them was to finally acknowledge that summer was behind us. Yes, the calendar said that summer finished a full month ago, but those tomatoes spoke louder than any silly old wall chart.

I was in denial, despite watching the plants in the garden yellow and shrivel up, with only the most stubborn tomatoes hanging onto the vine. George started talking about clearing the summer vege beds, making way for the autumn and winter produce. Then, last week, the weather got about ten degrees cooler in one foul hit. Summer was definitely over. But still those tomatoes sat, waiting on the bench while I dealt with my post-summer existential crisis.

A few days ago, I got a nice email from one Leonie Andrews. Leonie is the author of the blog Voted with our forks - where she celebrates gardening, foraging and cooking - but most of all, she honours the seasons. She told me she was reading my book Afternoons in Ithaka, and that she had tried the fig-sap ricotta recipe that I'd included within it, and she was inspired to blog about it. And thank goodness for small mercies, the recipe worked. But even more pleasing was that she went on to make my beloved 'tomato sandwich', using her own homegrown tomatoes, oregano and homemade bread and cheese. When I saw the photo of her sandwich, something shifted in me. It made me realise anew that this is what the seasons are all about. Each one has its distinctive features and joys. As if to seal the deal, later that evening, our son carted in two huge pumpkins to add to the collection already piled onto our butcher's bench. The universe had spoken - it was time to open my heart to Autumn and say goodbye to Summer.

I washed those three little soft summer tomatoes, cut them in half, and with a little flourish, added them to the fry pan to flavour the lamb skewers that I was making that night. Just like that. They turned in a delicious, sweet sauce that begged to be mopped up with crusty bread.

I felt very evolved after that -- perhaps there's a lesson here about enjoying each moment, and about embracing the transitory nature of our lives and the world that we live in.

Now, what to cook with those pumpkins?

Photos by George Mifsud. To see more photos from our garden, see George's Instagram account at @viewfrommygarden

The festival of the grape

Some years ago, I took my mother away for the weekend. It was hard work getting her to agree to come – the idea of putting her needs over those of my husband and children was anathema. Still, once I’d booked the accommodation, she begrudgingly agreed.

I’d planned all sorts of nice things for our first ever weekend away, things I thought she would enjoy – a spa experience, fish and chips on the beach, breakfast at a café, dinner out. But the hot waters of the spa raised her blood pressure. And the fish and chips gave her indigestion. We spent the first afternoon in, trying to recover from all that decadence.  On the second day, all she wanted to do was go to church.

And so we found ourselves winding up to the extensive grounds of the Monastery of Panagia Kamariani in Red Hill on Victoria's Mornington Penninsula. Us and a few thousand other people. We’d chanced on the annual Festival of the Grape. The festivities were reminiscent of a Greek village square on a feast day – we danced, watched children squish grapes, and ate souvlaki among the olive trees. There was just one thing missing – the rest of the family. I vowed to bring them next time. 

Fast forward to February 2015, when I learn that the festival is on again. I shoot off a quick email to half a dozen close family and friends. The festival is only a week away, so I’m not holding my breath for a good turnout. Still, as the week progresses, texts and emails fly back and forth. A bunch of people are coming – and they’re bringing their parents too.

On the night preceding the festival, I lug out the picnic basket. Pull some of George’s home-made bread and my theia Georgia’s spanakopit.out of the freezer. I dish up some home-made olives, boil a few eggs. Cut up some home-grown tomatoes and cucumbers. This, along with the souvlaki and fried honey donuts (loukoumades) available for purchase at the festival, should be enough. I worry about how our friends and family might all sit together. It’s going to very crowded. I throw half a dozen old blankets into the boot of the car.

On the morning, we wake the kids early. George leaves the house at 7 to bring Mum back to ours. By 10, we are parked in a dusty parking lot – us and hundreds of elderly people who are trampling off to church. Mum joins them. Clearly those with young children are having a sleep in. Which is what my kids would like to be doing. They look around – what is there to do here?

But my first priority is to mark the territory – George can tend to the grumpy children. Most of the tables near the church and bandstand are already taken. I practically jump on the last remaining table set back under a massive pine. I dust it off with a tea towel, spread a tablecloth over it, and it’s ours. I quickly lay the blankets out around the table. The territory-marking exercise is complete. George and the kids huddle under the remaining blankets, amused and a little mortified. My inner Greek has been unleashed – today, we are hosts; we need to look after our guests.

‘Is anyone coming to church?’ I ask. I eye my daughter’s denim shorts, bright red socks and purple Doc Martens. Emmanuel is now exploring the best way to climb up the pine tree. George has his phone out. Maybe not.

I join Mum in church. It’s packed, bodies exuding warmth. I’m enveloped by the scent of candles and incense, the colourful glow of ecclesiastical paintings in the naïve style, the meditative chanting. But I'm preoccupied – the family is outside, huddled against the cold.

By the time I return, some friends have arrived. The kids have a souvlaki each. The loukoumades are satisfyingly crisp and sticky. Dancing has started. And our guests are bonding over homemade wine, salami and bread. The blankets around us sit unused. There is plenty of room for everyone.

Now I can relax. Homemade olives anyone?

Photos by George Mifsud

Check out this video of the day by our young guest John Stamellos.

A very berry Christmas

'I could make some pizza dough,' says neighbour Joe.

'I think George will take care of that. He's become quite the expert on making large quantities of pizza dough. You know, what with having a wood-fired oven and all...'

I'm inviting Joe and his family to what is fast becoming an annual event for neighbouring houses - a Christmas pizza party at ours. Okay, so it's only the second one, but I think it’s going to stick.

'I don't want to impose, but the gelato you made last year was excellent. If you really want to bring something, what about that?'

When the day for the party arrives, George fires up the oven. He makes enough pizza dough to feed the whole street and beyond. I lay out slow cooked passata, marinaded artichokes, mushrooms, prosciutto and all manner of pizza toppings, ready to be placed on the pizza dough.

When everyone arrives, they come bearing gifts. Cookies and cream cheesecake. Copious bottles of wine. Homemade cards. Flowers. A sugo bottle filled with chocolates and decorated like santa. Dip and crackers. And gelato. Six different flavours. We quickly tuck these into the freezer.

There are many willing little helpers who assist with pizza production in the kitchen. I send them out one by one to George, who is yielding the long-handled pizza padle like a pro. We mill about, eating pizza slices and salad on paper plates. There’s plenty to drink, but Mario's homemade moscato is a hit, and he has to run home to get a second bottle.

There's nothing like food and alcohol to oil the wheels of neighbourhood conviviality - and the kids are bonding too. There are ten of them on the trampoline, and their laughter and screams reverberate down the street. 

Soon after, we bring out the gelato. Conversation stops. Seasonal fruit and good quality ingredients, lovingly tended into a mixture of creamy bliss; mango, raspberry with a dash of fresh mint, passionfruit, yellow peach, cantaloupe (we debate as to why it is also called rockmelon), and divine chocolate. I swoon. The combination of berry and mint flavour has me speechless.

Joe says he learnt to make gelato when he was a student in the '80s, working at Carlton’s Casa del Gelato. Joe remembers 'hoodlums' in their hotted up cars performing burnouts in front of the shop, while a large crowd of people waited patiently in line to order their gelato. People would knock on the shop window at 3am, pleading for more ice-cream, but the staff were too exhausted to work any longer. He remembers serving a young Tom Cruise chocolate, vanilla and strawberry gelato one night  - and being promised free tickets to his upcoming movie Top Gun. He says he's still waiting.

When it's late and the fire in the oven is turning to a low glow, people make their way home. Lucky it’s not a long trip - there’s a fair few empty bottles gracing the garden table.

Soon after, our son makes a beeline for the freezer. He pulls out the last of the gelato. Without speaking, we take four spoons and polish it off, right out of the tub. And then we go to bed, sated.

Download Joe's berry and mint gelato

(plus bonus tips on how much to spend when choosing an ice-cream maker)

Golden Gozleme

What to cook for dinner? Getting something on the table that is tasty, nutritious and tempts each of the different palates in our house is quite the task. Sadly there are no accolades or medals for achieving this superhuman feat on most nights of the week – the best I can hope for is the occasional ‘Mum, that’s my favourite’ or ‘Mum, you’re the best’ when I’ve made something particularly appetising. Mostly my kids just eat – at times begrudgingly, especially when the nutrition factor outweighs the wow factor – generally pushing the vegetables that I’ve cut into itty bitty pieces (read ‘hidden’) around their plate.

On this particular occasion, it was late Sunday afternoon. We’d had a busy weekend, and had been out for a big lunch earlier that day. The energy levels were low, the fridge a bit bare. Perhaps a light dinner of scrambled eggs on toast was called for? But first, I would cast my eye over the weekend papers. They were looking a little lonely there on the coffee table.

I learn that French actor Louise Bourgoin, who poses in lacy lingerie, finds philosophy comforting (particularly that from pre-Socratic times); making movies in Kabul has its challenges; and how a Californian bungalow has  been given a ‘modern and colourful’ makeover. Interesting, but not particularly life changing. However, I do see that Bill Granger is talking Turkish – and he’s speaking my language. I read how to make spinach, mint and pinenut Gozleme – a Turkish take on Greek spanakopita – and I’m salivating. It’s unlikely that we have all the ingredients to compose his dish, but I do a quick mental inventory regardless: I bought spinach the other day, and it will go to waste if I don’t use it; my husband made pesto with basil from our garden last week and there’s still a generous handful of pinenuts in the pantry; feta is a no brainer, that’s a staple in our fridge; and woo hoo, mint is growing strong and luscious in our garden. We even have a sad looking lemon in the fruit bowl. All the planets have aligned. My dinner mojo is back.

The kids look somewhat alarmed when I hop up, energised, and start making pastry like a woman possessed. I roll out thin circles of dough and fill them with cooked spinach, pinenuts, feta and mint. I seal each one up and in the hot pan they go. Even the youngest, who isn’t a fan of spinach, thinks they’re pretty good. They rest of us think they are amazing – the golden, crispy skin of the pastry; the feta oozing out as you bite into them, and the mint and lemon zest add a high note to the subtly flavoured spinach. Ooh, so much better than eggs on toast.

But the best thing of all? I doubled the recipe and made enough to freeze. That’s another dinner taken care off. Now, hhrmm, where is that medal?

Download Bill Granger's Spinach, Feta and Pinenut Gozleme

Spanakopita and silver whiting at Antipodes

This weekend, I’ve got a gig to cook at Antipodes' Lonsdale Street Greek Festival. I’ll be cooking recipes from my new book, Afternoons in Ithaka. I’m quite nervous about it. I’ve been asking myself, ‘What is this home-cook doing sharing the limelight with the likes of more professional cooks like Phil Vakos (Spitiko), Kathy Tsaples (Sweet Greek), and the fiesty My Kitchen Rules' contestants Vicki and Helena.

On Saturday, I have the skirts of the formidable septuagenarian Theia Georgia to hide behind – she is preparing her famous spinach pie with homemade filo pastry. This morning I rang her to make sure she’s still OK to cook in the heat – “Anything for you Spiri” – and then proceeds to tell me what she is bringing along. Her broomstick for rolling out the pastry. Her ‘special’ flour. Dill from her neighbour’s garden. And can I get some greens from my mother’s garden? Of course I can. She’s the boss. Thank God for strong Greek matriarchs - they've always got everything covered.

That leaves Sunday’s cooking demonstration. I’m preparing fried calamari and little fish, along with Yiayia’s tyganites (fried) patates. If I can convince my mum and daughter to come up to the stage; there’ll be three generations of Greek-Australian cooks strutting their stuff. We’ll try and spare the audience our bickering as we work around each other.

It’s been some time since I’ve prepared calamari – the last time was in the south of Greece in my aunty’s kitchen, circa 2010. There we cooked it slowly in onions, fresh tomato pulp and garlic. A dish to die for, especially when mopped up with crusty, just-baked bread. If only I could teleport myself back to that moment right now, I would.

To alleviate my nerves and make sure nothing goes wrong, a test run is called for. I buy some calamari from my local fish monger, as well as a kilo of silver whiting that look particularly appealing. I bring them home and clean them on the kitchen bench while my kids do homework. I make a show of pulling the head and tentacles away from the body of the squid – my son says ‘no way am I going to eat that’, and leaves the room dramatically. Next, I divest the little fish of their scales and innards. It’s looking like a massacre on the kitchen bench and I’m wondering how I’m going to make this look pretty on the day. But there’s something satisfyingly primal in preparing this dish; getting down and dirty, using as much of the squid and fish as possible. It reminds me of where my food is coming from, a feeling I don’t get when I’m working with a pre-prepared fillet or the rubbery squid rings that come in 2kg packets in the freezer section of my supermarket.

I fry the little fishes and calamari in the gorgeous green olive oil that my aunty still sends me from Greece, and the kitchen smells divine. A bit of salt, a wedge of lemon, a salad to accompany it all and it’s done.I call the kids to the table, and they eye the calamari. My son hesitates, takes a tentative bite.

‘It’s good, Mum.’ He heaps his plate with the crisp offerings. I think smugly that the massacre on the bench was worth it - in more ways than one.

 

Antipodes Lonsdale Street Festival, Melbourne, Sat 8 and Sun 9 February. We’ll be cooking in the Flavours of Greece Food Market at 1pm each day.

 

 

Five reasons why beets can't be beat

Beetroot are sprouting forth from our garden at great speed – we are getting a decent crop every few weeks. They're reasonably priced at markets and greengrocers at this time of year too. This can only mean one thing – it’s beetroot season.  This is cause for great celebration and here are five reasons why:

1. Beets are so versatile. Boiled, baked or simply grated, they are lovely as a side vegetable, a salad or a pickle. The stalks and leaves are edible too. Simply discard the discoloured/wilted stalks and leaves. Wash those that remain, and boil or steam. The taste and texture resembles spinach.
2. Beets are dead easy to cook. My favourite method is to wash them, trim them of their stalks, wrap individual beets in foil and bake. This takes around an hour for medium-sized beets. They are done when ypu can easily pass a skewer through them. When they have cooled, peel the skin (wear gloves if you don't want to stain your fingers), trim the woody ends and prepare as you wish. If boiling, add a dash of vinegar or lemon and avoid using salt - thus helping to retain colour. 
3. Beets are oh-so-good for you. They’re low in saturated fat and cholesterol. They’re a good source of Vitamin C, Iron, Magnesium, Folate, Potassium, Manganese and dietary fibre. And they have antioxidant and anti-inflammatory properties. Really, just looking at them makes you feel healthy.
4. Beets give you psychedelic pinky/red urine. This is known as beeturia. Why this is cause for celebration is that you will be delighted to know it’s not hematuria, blood in the urine.
5. Beets taste amazing. Once cooked, I usually marinate mine in olive oil, balsamic vinegar, salt, pepper and finely chopped garlic for a few hours before sprinkling with some feta to serve. Along with crusty bread and good company (preferably simulatenously) what more could you want from life?  Go forth and celebrate.