We're championing fresh food that packs a flavour punch, from salads and vegetable-packed bowls to grains and light desserts.
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Step away from the “dessert yoghurt", writes Will Studd. The real unadulterated thing is much more rewarding.
What happens the morning after the World’s 50 Best Restaurants awards? We treat the chefs to a world-beating yum cha session, as Dani Valent discovers.
Single-source honey putting community and sustainability next to sweetness.
More and more adventurous local winemakers are embracing Vermouth's botanicals, writes Max Allen.
Indonesia's Komodo National Park is home to staggering scenery and biodiversity. Michael Harden sets sail in a handcrafted yacht to explore its remote islands in pared-back luxury.
Cue the Champagne.
Australia saw some bold moves in the ’80s, and we’re not just talking hairstyles. Greater cultural references started peppering the menus of our restaurants, and home-grown ingredients won a new appreciation. The dining scene was coming of age and a new band of pioneers led the charge.
Leading chefs descend on Melbourne in April for The World’s 50 Best Restaurants. We asked local hospitality folk who they’d abduct for the day and where they’d take them to show off their city. There may be coffee, there may be culture, but in the end it’s cocktails.
Will your next baking project be a flaky puff pastry with pumpkin, goat's curd and thyme, or a classic bacon and Stilton tart? As autumn settles in, we're ticking these off one by one.
Baker extraordinaire Nadine Ingram of Sydney's Flour and Stone cooks up a sweet storm for Easter, including the much loved bakery's greatest hit.
Sydney’s Eleven Bridge to close. For real this time. Sort of. Again.
Hobart is enjoying a wave of CBD restaurant openings. Add these to the top of your list.
Whether baked into a bubbling crumble, caramelised in a puff-pastry tart or served in an all-American pie, apples are a classic filling for fruity desserts. Here are the recipes we keep coming back to.
Cue the Champagne.
Discussing the real issues faced by chefs and producers.
Here, we've made the dough in a food processor, but it's really quick and simple to do by hand as well. If the dough seems a little too wet just add a little more flour.
It's not all "the good life" being a producer - sometimes
it's more like the good, the bad and the ugly, writes Paulette
Whitney from the other side of the market trestle table.
Yesterday, after the farmers' market, I was sharing a cider with a friend and having a chat about our day. "A lot of people about?" he asked, thinking that a good market is about dollars, which it is, but dollars are not the primary driver for me, or I'd be an accountant, not a farmer.
"There were a few about; it was busy," I replied. "But today was different; everyone was kind. There's usually someone who'll give us a hard time, but this week everyone was really nice."
Sometimes you're standing there and you can't feel your hands, your kids are moaning about being bored, you're trying to make labels for your produce, drink some coffee to warm up while you wait for a customer, and someone will come by and lob a nasty comment at you.
Last week it was: "Everyone at this market is selling old kale. I like it small, like baby spinach. Here it's all too big and too old."
Matt, my co-gardener, who is also a chef, chimes in. He tells our accuser how he likes to cook kale, that it's a vegetable that responds beautifully to being braised or dropped into a soup. His descriptions are making me hungry. He suggests that if she wants something more tender, something that she can cook more quickly, she could try the cime di rapa.
She interrupts his flow, saying, "You should harvest it younger," with a particularly caustic tone. So I join in; I try explaining the horticultural angle. Kale is a cold-season plant that we start in January and harvest from the same planting all winter. That it's a far more sustainable option than cultivating every few weeks to replant a baby-leaf crop, that we get kilos of food from a single cultivation, with no need for pesticides or fertilisers.
She asks again how to cook it and I give her my ideas. I like it in a lamb curry, shredded in a salad, braised with green lentils, bay and garlic. She picks up every bunch from our pile, examining and up-ending them as I talk to her. She lifts the final one close to her face, squints at it, and dumps it on top of the turnips. She turns away, glances over her shoulder and says dismissively, "I'll think about it."
Our kale is $3.50 for a good-sized bunch. We hand-cultivate the beds, hand-weed, harvest the day before market, carefully arrange the fruits of our labour, with a not insignificant amount of pride, on our table. We've spent 15 minutes talking to her, and another five minutes putting the display back together. We've been honest, passionate, informative and friendly. Although it might seem like a small thing and we should be able to shake it off, every week there's at least one person who behaves this way and it's a real kick in the guts.
"Your gear is too expensive. I got herbs at home, I grow 'em cheaper 'an you an' I'll come down 'ere an' sell 'em. Youse a bloody rip-orf."
Well, thank you, sir, for your shouted observations, that's made my morning. Maybe if you'd come closer than shouting distance I could have explained to you the economics of bringing things to market. The stall fees, the public liability insurance, the labour involved in growing and maintaining plants, as well as harvesting and marketing them. The gamble that nobody will buy them and I'll be eating mint all week, the time that I spend standing there to sell my produce, the cost of the marquee that keeps the rain and sun off it, and the fact that everyone, including farmers, has the right to work hard and earn a reasonable living.
"There is blood in your soil?" asks another woman after reading our methodology, which is clearly presented on our stall. Yes, there is. I explain that we buy local blood and bone meal, a source of phosphorous, nitrogen and countless other nutrients. That all soil is made up of decaying animal, as well as plant matter, that the alternative source of phosphorous is rock phosphate, a vital but diminishing resource used in conventional agriculture, and that peak phosphorous is a potential food security crisis not many people know about. That the abattoir waste that makes up our blood and bone would otherwise become a pollution issue for meatworks to dispose of.
"Humph," she says. "But your soil has blood in it, right?" And walks off to eat whatever food she can find that is completely unsullied by death.
But this week, there was none of that - not a jot of it. One lady came and told us, "Your salad is amazing. I loved it so much I need two this week." Another came and asked for some cime di rapa and, "This stuff is great. Can I please have a bunch with plenty of rapini in it?" Why, yes you can! I go through the pile and pick the choicest bunch, full of deliciously bitter little flower heads for her.
My girls swapped some seedlings for hot cups of miso flavoured
with striped trumpeter and local kelp, and oca for cannoli. I
bought soap, made with Tasmanian olive oil and herbs, for a
friend's birthday present. We completely sold out of kale, cime di
rapa, tomatoes and turnips, and came home for that cider tired but
You get an incredible sense of achievement from feeding people produce that you know is well grown. We've worked hard, we've fed people and we've got our milk, cheese, apples and meat for the week from the hands of our friends who grew it. We've been given plant pots and strawberry punnets to re-use by our customers; one has a handful of passionfruit from somebody's garden in it.
Every week a woman comes and buys her greens along with a little edible bouquet. We chat about cooking and gardening. She tells us she misses her family in WA, that coming to the market and chatting with all of us makes her week full, makes her feel like she's part of a vibrant and warm community.
"It's only a little thing," she says, "but it makes all the difference."
Illustration: Tom Bingham
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