I read recently that behavioral psychologists believe they have pinpointed the reason so many of us have the urge to shop from time to time. I'm not talking about the weekly grocery run or Christmas shopping, but that urge to head out to the markets and browse, for no particular reason and with no objective in mind. It seems that though we've become a very technologically advanced animal, we are still hunter-gatherers at heart. As a result we find ourselves down at the local hippie markets scratching around for shiny beads and all manner or other crap we don't need.
There must be a better way.
Growing up in the Rocky Mountains I was sometimes able to satiate this primitive urge naturally: fishing for trout, gathering wild alpine strawberries and raspberries, stealing crabapples. Now, however, I live in the city and, while Sydney does have a remarkable amount of green space, foraging opportunities are limited.
Imagine, then, my excitement when I discovered a park full of ancient oak trees, each heavy with acorns. These little nuts were once widely consumed by Native Americans and American settlers, but have fallen out of favor. This is due, no doubt, to the amount of work involved in preparing the acorns to eat. They are very high in tannic acid, a bitter substance, which needs to be leeched out before they can be consumed.
Once the tannins are removed, the flesh of the nut is treaded like a grain - dried and pounded or ground into a meal. From this meal Native Americans and settlers made flatbreads, pancakes, soups, and porridge. 
Collecting acorns is no problem, as they fall from the tree when they are ripe. Living in Australia I have the added advantage of not having to fight with squirrels, as there are none here. (That's right Hippies, you can stop worrying that I'm starving the fluffy-tailed tree rats. Don't you have some hemp jewelery you should be selling somewhere?)
My urge to collect nuts and berries satisfied, I realized I didn't know what to do with the acorn meal. I thought about looking up some traditional acorn recipes, but that stuck me as a bit to “Renaissance Fair” or Frontier Days” and I can see how that's only seconds away from joining a jousting club or wearing a coonskin cap. I don't have time for that sort of thing. Luckily a fellow chef and friend of mine, James, stopped by the restaurant while I was leaching the nuts. After convincing him that they were indeed not deadly, he casually suggested that I make Mont Blanc. The man's a frickin' genius.
Mont Blanc is a traditional French dessert made from chestnuts and named after Mont Blanc (White Mountain) which the plating of the dessert is meant to resemble. The nuts are simmered in flavored, sweetened cream until they form a paste. The paste is then piped into a mound, cooled and topped with chantilly cream – vanilla whipped cream – et voilà, a snow-capped peak.
I've never managed to eat an entire plate of Mont Blanc; it's far too rich. I made a tiny, flat serve of Acorn Mont Blanc, and it was just enough. The recipe below serves four people. 
Start by making acorn flour. Collect ripe acorns, discarding any with holes in them. Shell them. Blend the nuts with water until a wet paste forms. Strain through a towel. Pour the nut mass into a large container, cover with boiling water and let soak. Strain. Repeat this process until the meal tastes sweet. Some varieties of acorn will taste sweet right away, others (like the ones I gathered) will take quite a few rinses. Squeeze the meal dry and spread it on a tray. Dry it in the sun, in a dehydrator, or in the oven with the pilot light on. When it is dry, grind it in a spice mill to get a slightly grainy flour.
Acorn and Maple Mont Blanc
50g acorn flour
300 ml milk
60 ml maple syrup
pinch salt
100 ml cream
1 tsp sugar
½ vanilla bean scraped or a few drops vanilla essence (NOT imitation vanilla)
Bring the acorn flour, milk, maple syrup, and salt to a simmer. Simmer on the lowest heat, stirring often to prevent sticking, until a thick paste has formed. Using a piping bag, form the dessert into small mounds, or flat on a plate as pictured above. Refrigerate at least 30 minuets.
Meanwhile, make chantilly cream. Whip the cream, sugar, and vanilla together until stiff peaks form. Refrigerate.
Serve cold Mont Blanc topped with the chantilly cream.
As a side note, Mont Blanc is hugely popular in Japan. While I've never been told as much, I believe this is due to the textural similarity it has with adzuki bean paste. The grainy, sweet, redish goo that is the filling of choice for sweets in Japan is not at all unlike the chestnut (or acorn) dessert. Just an observation.
On Urban Foraging
Divinity, Romans, and One Big Ol' Chunk of Pork
Years ago, in philosophy 101, my instructor challenged us to describe the idea of 'god' in as few words as possible. I don't remember what I wrote; two or three sentences, I think. I was handily beaten in the shortness contest by some other precocious freshman. His answer was composed of two words: omnipotent, omniscient. Full marks.
After a not insubstantial time of consideration I'll propose an amendment. I would like to add to our short list of holy qualifiers the specific ability to, like alchemists of old, transform a mere leg of pork into life-giving ham. Sweet, smoky, salty ham.
Given this new criterion, I am 1/3 divine, For. I. Have. Created. Ham. Collect thy gaping jowls, mortals, I was once one of you. Comport yourselves and I'll give you some historical perspective.
The Romans invented ham as we know it in about 400BC as a way to preserve some of the meat of an unusually large wild boar population. Roman cooks developed a dry-cured, uncooked, aged joint of pork that, when thinly sliced, was meltingly sweet, rich, and salty. They exported this knowledge to a great chunk of Europe when they conquered the majority of it. Most of the former Roman territories still produce a local version – most notably Bayonne Ham of France, jamón of Spain, and prosciutto crudo from Italy.
Ham making wisdom soon spread to the rest of Europe and later from there to the various European colonies, where methods of pork curing were adapted to the local climates and cultures. The American colonies began producing a brine-cured and smoked ham, versions of which eventually make it into the countless ham sandwiches I eat each year.
Anyway, I know I'm in danger of doing that thing where I give you a long, ever narrowing, historical narrative that seems to culminate at me, as if I were the crowning result of the great march of time. That's not my intention. I'm just here to talk about ham and I want to be sure you know that I have no delusions of grandeur. Such a thing would be unbecoming of a 1/3 god. 
Ok. I know this is a blog about what I cook and eat at home, and you can clearly see that I am in chef whites in the photo above. It seems like cheating, but I'm pretty damn proud of this ham, and anyway, this is my blog, who asked you?
Juniper-Cured, Hickory Smoked Ham
Big Disclaimer: Curing and smoking meats can be dangerous. If not done properly you can make someone ill. In addition, pink salt (also called saltpetre or sodium nitrate) is dangerous if eaten in great quantities. In other words: if you stuff this up, you've been warned.
10-14 kilo pork hind leg, bone in, leg bone removed to 1st joint
12 liters water
160 g pink salt (sodium nitrate)
1 kilo dark brown sugar
500 g sea salt flakes
300 g table salt
700 g honey
1 c juniper berries, lightly toasted
½ c black peppercorns, lightly toasted
25 bay leaves
Bring all the ingredients, except for the pork, to a boil. Stir to dissolve and cool to room temperature. Refrigerate until cold.
Get a large bucket, I mean a huge bucket, one just larger than the pork leg. Place the pork in the bucket and pour the brine over it. The brine must cover all of the pork. You cannot add more water as this will affect the brine. If you absolutely cannot make the brine cover the pork, you'll have to make more. Place a plate or a tray on top of the pork and weigh it down so that it does not float out of the brine. Cover tightly and refrigerate.
Keep the pork in the brine 12 hours for every 500g. I know. That's, like, almost two weeks.
Once the pork has cured, discard the brine and leave the leg in the fridge overnight to dry a bit. Soak some hickory chips overnight.
Prepare your bbq for smoking. Heat one side of your bbq on low heat and start some damp hickory chips smoking. Place the leg, skin side down, on the opposite side of the bbq and close the lid. Keep topping up the smoking chips and monitoring the internal temperature of the pork using a meat thermometer. The ham is ready when the interior of the meat reaches 65º C. It should take about 6-8 hours. I often stop smoking when the outside of the ham has achieved a rich dark brown color. This usually takes about 3 or 4 hours to develop, after that, I just keep slow-cooking the ham until the very centre reaches 65º.
A couple of things to note: one, it is possible to over-smoke meat; don't continue smoking if the meat is already dark and smokey. Two, flames are bad. The smoke from flaming woodchips is very acrid; the chips should smolder, not burn.
Cool the ham and store it in a cool place, preferably in a “ham bag” as this allows it to breathe a bit and will prevent the ham from going sour.
What are you going to do with all this ham? Easter? Christmas? Tuesday? Who cares?! It's ham!
On Food and Love
Someone once accused me of confusing food and love. I suppose I do, a bit, because the two seem to me to be very interconnected. I have a great love of food. I love to eat it. I love to cook it. I love to grow it. I love to talk about it, prepare it, shop for it. Mostly, however, I love to share it. In fact, if I don't have someone to cook for, I often don't bother cooking anything special at all.
A meal represents labor, effort evidenced by the quality of the final product. Naturally, then, I take great care when I cook for the people I love. Perhaps what my accuser meant is that I believe food is love, and that preparing and sharing a meal with someone is not unlike writing a love poem. I don't see anything wrong with that.
I cooked this dish for someone whom I love very much indeed. 
Butter-Roasted Yabbie Tails with Parsnip Remoulade and a Salad of Herbs and Curly Endive
Yabbies, or crayfish/crawdads as they are known in the States, are farmed in Australia and sold live at fish markets. I used to catch them in the local lake in Wyoming when I was growing up and I wish now that someone would have told me the little guys were not only edible but really, really tasty. Wasted youth.
Remoulade is a flavored mayonnaise that is often mixed with shredded and cooked celeriac – the root bulb of a type of celery. I used parsnips here because I love their naturally sweet flavor and thought it would go nicely with the yabbies.
6 yabbies
3 medium parsnips
1 egg yolk
250 ml veg oil
2 Tbsp tarragon vinegar
1 bunch tarragon
1 bunch flat leaf parsley
1 bunch chives
1 large gherkin
1 head curly endive
Peel and grate the parsnips. Blanch them in boiling water for 2 minuets, drain and refresh them in ice water. Squeeze them as dry as possible.
To make the remoulade: Make a mayonnaise by whisking together the egg yolk, tarragon vinegar, and a pinch of salt and pepper. While whisking, slowly pour in the veg oil until it is all incorporated and you have a thick, glossy mayo. Finely dice the gherkin and mix it into the mayo along with 1 tsp chopped tarragon leaves, 1 tsp chopped parsley leaves, and 1 tsp chopped chives. Taste the remoulade and adjust seasoning. Feel free to add a bit more vinegar is you think it is necessary; it should be quite tangy. Mix your remoulade with the shredded parsnip and again taste and adjust seasoning. Set aside.
Bring a large pot of heavily slated water to the boil. Stun the yabbies by placing them in the freezer for about 20 minuets before you cook them. Drop them all into the boiling water and cook them for 2 minuets. Remove them from the pot and cool them by placing them in a bowl with some ice (not ice water as this will make the meat soggy).
When the yabbies are cool, remove their tails and claws, discarding the heads (or save them to make a bit of shellfish oil). Peel the tails and set meat aside. Crack the claws and retrieve the meat using a skewer. Mix the claw meat into the parsnip remoulade.
For the salad, pick the innermost leaves of the curly endive only, as the outer ones have been exposed to more light and are therefore excessively bitter. Mix these with a few whole picked parsley and tarragon leaves, as well as some chives cut into 2 cm lengths. Dress this salad lightly with a bit of vinegar and olive oil.
Heat a small pan on medium heat and toss in a Tbsp of butter. When it begins to foam (but not brown) add the yabbie tails and sauté them just until they are warm. Remove them from the heat.
Divide the parsnip remoulade between two plates. Top with the dressed herb and endive salad. Arrange the yabbie tails around and dress with some of the butter from the pan.
Or, in other words: Show someone that you love them.
That Craving Feeling
When I first moved to Sydney nearly six year ago, I didn't think that I would miss much about the States. My family and friends, of course, but, given the amazingly wonderful lifestyle in OZ, I couldn't think of much else. Soon thereafter, however, I realized that transition wasn't going to be so easy. I began to miss certain foods.
It started with cravings for Central and South American flavors: tamales, pupusa, empanada, tomatillos, chipotle peppers, corn tortillas (for the love of god someone please teach the Aussies to make real corn tortillas). My stomach had me marching from the inner city to the outer suburbs in search of ingredients – ancho chilies, corn husks, masa. The latter I managed to pick up at a Spanish deli in the city and quickly set about rolling out tortillas, stuffing tamales, and patting out pupusa.
Over time my cravings took a bizarre turn. I began to crave junk food. Some of the cravings I could understand. For instance, even now, five-and-a-bit-years on, every time I am hungry I think about a hamburger. Namely an In-N-Out Double-Double Animal Style. Amen. Those of you who know, well, you know.
Other cravings are a bit harder to explain. I began to desire root beer. This is especially strange since I didn't even drink root beer in the States when it was available to me all the time. I don't think I'd had a root beer sine I was about twelve. Nonetheless I again found myself wandering around the various import shops and specialty suppliers of Sydney in hopes of a soda fix. When that fix came it arrived in the form of an entire case of the stuff. The result? A confused realization that root beer isn't that good, really, unless you're making a float.
One of the strongest of all my recurring cravings is for something that I often found myself craving in the States as well. My parents are from Cincinnati, home to a special kind of chili that is cooked almost nowhere else in the world. It looks more like a bolognese sauce than chili and it is full of so-called “sweet spices” like cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg, and, strangely, chocolate. One particular chain of fast food restaurants in and around Cincinnati, Skyline Chili, spoons this chili over miniature hot dogs, tops them with cheese and sells them under moniker “cheese coney.”
I grew up in Wyoming, and, when we visited the family in Cincinnati every few years, we were always sure to eat about a dozen cheese coneys each. The time between trips was marked, true for the entire family, by a desperate yearning for this particular bit of junk food. Now that I live, for all practical purposes, on the other side of the planet, the cravings are worse.
Perhaps there is some sort of craving equation, or 'equravetion', if you will. It must be something like: the strength of the craving is proportional to the distance from the source, multiplied by the inverse of the frequency one once had said object of craving added to the time since one last satisfied the craving.
Look, if I were any good at math do you think I'd have to be a cook for a living?
Anyway, this craving reciently became far too great for me to live with, so I made cheese coneys.
One more thing: Australians don't eat hot dogs in the quantities Americans do. As a result, good hot dog buns are hard to come by. Luckily for me, they are easy to make. Even if you can get good buns, it's fun to make your own. The recipe below makes a perfect, buttery, slightly sweet, fluffy bun. I made 8 mini buns – about half the length of a hot dog, to create an authentic fast food feel.
Oh, and just so Australians don't feel too picked upon: Americans, your cheese is dyed. No, I didn't say “your cheese has died,” I said it's been dyed. There is no natural reason that mass-manufactured cheddar cheese should be orange. It comes colored so because of the addition of artificial colorings, annatto in most cases. There are a few naturally deep yellow cheeses, but this is the result of a high beta-carotene content in the milk of pasture-fed cows coupled with a long aging process of the cheese. Thus my cheese coneys are adorned with white cheddar. It's only natural. 
Mini Hot Dog Buns
125ml warm milk
2 tsp instant yeast
1 egg yolk
200g plain flour
30g sugar
½ teaspoons salt
25g room temp butter, cut into small squares
Sprinkle the yeast into the warm (not hot) milk and let stand for 10 minuets, until it begins to foam a bit.
Mix the flour, sugar, and salt in a large bowl. Add the egg yolk and the milk and yeast. Stir until a sticky dough has formed. One piece at a time, drop in the soft butter and work it into the dough until it is all incorporated.
On a lightly floured board knead the dough for about 10 minuets, until it is smooth and elastic. Place it into a greased bowl, cover, and let rise until doubled, about an hour.
Punch the dough down and divide it into 8 equal pieces. Roll each piece into a 6 cm log and place on a baking sheet lined with baking paper. Cover with cling film and let rise until at least doubled, about an hour.
Bake in a preheated 190º oven 14-17 minuets, until they are golden brown. Cool on wire racks.
Cincinnati Chili
2 Tbsp oil
½ brown onion, brunios
2 cloves garlic, fine chop
500g beef mince
1 tsp chili flakes
1 tsp ground cinnamon
1 tsp sweet paprika
¼ tsp ground allspice
¼ tsp ground cumin
½ tsp dried oregano
¼ nutmeg, grated
1 bay leaf
¼ tsp whole celery seed
1 whole clove
5 black peppercorns
250ml tomato puree
2 tsp cocoa powder, unsweetened
1 c finely grated cheddar cheese
Begin by preparing the spices. Lightly toast the celery seed, black peppercorn, and clove in a dry pan. Grind them in a spice grinder or mortar and pestle. Add to this mix the rest of the spices (not the chocolate).
In a medium, heavy-bottomed saucepan heat the oil on medium heat. Add the onions and a pinch of salt. Sweat until they are soft and translucent, but not colored. Add the garlic, cook for 30 seconds, and then add the beef and spice mix. Cook on medium heat until the beef is browned, breaking it up as much as possible as it cooks.
Add the chocolate, tomato puree, and 1 cup of water. Season with salt and pepper. Bring to a simmer and reduce heat to low. Simmer covered for about 2 hours, or until the beef is very soft. Uncover and simmer until thick, about another 15 minuets.
Heat up some hot dogs. You'll probably have to cut them in half to fit your mini buns. Cut the buns open, place the hot dog inside, add a smear of mustard if you like, then top with your hot chili and a mountain of fluffy grated cheddar cheese. Splash the top with a bit of a vinegary hot sauce and get to work eating. You'll eat at least 4 of these, no problem.
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