The Dirty Chef

by Matthew Evans

  Anthony Pepper is a case in point. A local builder, farmer and all-round good bloke, Pep, as of course he’s known, came on recommendation from a local café, The Lotus Eaters. Before Hedley was born we wanted some new shelving in the house. A pantry full of shelves for my preserves and staples, and a few bookshelves for our library. I have to call it a library because we own a lot of books. We also needed a new cupboard to house our linen.

  But Pep was busy. Of course. Good tradesmen often are. And Pep has had two hip replacements, has a 50-acre farm to run and would dearly like to retire from the building game. He promised he’d come, but another job went long. He came and made a start and tried to get in and finish the job, but, well, some cattle got out at home. Or he’d promised someone else he’d finish a sleep-out that was, to them, more urgent.

  I rang one time to ask when the job might be done. I was just letting Anthony know we were going to be away from home for a few days at the hospital. Sadie was due to give birth, and it might be a bit tricky having the drill and saws going and the doors open for a while after we came home with the new bub.

  ‘Oh,’ said Pep, sounding a bit put-out. ‘I didn’t realise it was that soon.’

  We left it at that. I wasn’t really expecting to hear from Pep at all, until I had the time to ring and see when he could come back.

  But when we arrived home, new baby in our arms, the work was done. I don’t know if Pep realises even now how much that meant to us. I don’t know if the impending birth was the only spur, or maybe he realised he’d have an empty house to deal with and no noses poking in as he worked. But I do know it formed a bond that is more than the relationship you get when a city chippy knocks in a few nails around your house.

  Marty is a bit like Pep. He’s the kind of bloke you want next to you in a bushfire. Or at a barbie. So, when a few days out from Christmas, just before The Taste, we found our potatoes a bit slow-growing and we realised they wouldn’t be ready in time, it was a relief that someone like Marty had promised me some of his spuds.

  Problem was, it was Christmas. You don’t hassle people around Christmas. Especially not busy people like Marty, people cutting and carting hay. The hay season had started early, in mid-December, and with the long harvest days I knew a few potatoes weren’t going to be high on anyone’s mind. I let things slide.

  But as the days went by, and I had everything else finally prepared, I suddenly realised, we had no spuds. And Marty? Well, Marty wasn’t answering his phone.

  Luckily, I could get local potatoes pretty easily, so I did find a couple of boxes to start the festival with. And when Marty rang back, on the first day of The Taste, it was the day after he’d got out of hospital. His dodgy ticker wasn’t a new problem, but it did lay him low over Christmas and it was, as all things to do with the heart, serious.

  And yet, the very next morning, Marty called to say it was all sorted. After sounding reserved and a bit low, after getting out of hospital only hours prior to our conversation the day before, Marty had done what I wouldn’t have wanted someone in his state to do. He didn’t let me down, even when his doctor probably wasn’t enamoured of his actions. Sometime in the period after ringing me back and the second day of The Taste, somehow, dicky heart and all, Marty had dug three hefty boxes of spuds he was waiting for me to pick up.

  With that kind of attitude, you can see why you’d move here just for the spuds.

  Potato polenta with onion and cheese

  Serves 6

  It took a couple of visitors from Italy’s mountainous region of Trentino for me to discover that Italians also make polenta using spuds. This is perfect for us, as we don’t grow the kind of corn that’s good for polenta, and there’s no Tasmanian version we’ve found. But this is just as delicious, and nothing really like the mash that it at first resembles. Prepare your bowling arm, however, for the constant stirring. It’s good on its own, but better with meatballs or a ragu of some kind.

  1 kg (2 lb 4 oz) potatoes, peeled

  salt

  about 70 g (2½ oz/½ cup) plain (all-purpose) flour

  100 g (3½ oz) butter

  2 large onions, sliced

  100 g (3½ oz) coarsely grated cheese, such as pecorino or Gruyère

  Cut the potatoes into big pieces only if they’re super large. Place in a big pot with a generous amount of salt and cover with water. Boil the potatoes until tender, drain and KEEP THE COOKING WATER. You’ll need this water, and its inherent flavour, for the polenta. Mash the spuds well, ideally through a ricer or food mill or similar.

  Place the mash in a large heavy-based saucepan over a medium–high heat, stir in the flour and add enough of the reserved water so it’s like a quite runny polenta. As it comes to the boil, it will thicken, and it will evaporate too, so start just a tad runny and, if it gets too thick, add more cooking water, or plain water if you run out. Keep stirring pretty much the whole time, over a low heat once it comes to a simmer, trying to stop it catching on the bottom. You want to cook the polenta for about 40 minutes, no less.

  In a large frying pan, melt the butter over a low heat and fry the onion well until soft, stirring often. It’ll take about 15 minutes.

  When the polenta is done, add the onion and all the butter it was cooked in to the potato. Stir in, and add about 1 teaspoon salt and the cheese. Taste for salt and add more, if needed. Serve immediately, with some sausages and tomato sauce or meatballs or similar.

  Cake

  Cake. It’s a big part of country living. The making of it. The eating of it. The very idea of it. A bloke in the next road has several acres and runs nothing but a few chooks. But being a member of a long-time local family means there are plenty of relatives, so he spends part of each Sunday dropping off eggs to aunts and cousins, and drinking tea. During the week they repay the favour by bringing things they’ve cooked with the eggs. Top of the list, of course, is cake.

  When a Tassie woman first heard that I was milking my cow, she got on the blower quick smart. Iris Tatnell, who was nearly 80 at the time and didn’t sound like she was a day over 40, was dead-keen on giving me her recipe for buttermilk loaf. She grew up on a farm where they milked the cows and fattened the pigs, and it was her mother’s recipe she wanted to share. Real buttermilk, the liquid that comes from churned cream as it turns to butter, is nothing like the stuff you buy from a shop (which is whole milk that has been cultured to make it sour). And if you make a bit of butter, you can end up with an awful lot of buttermilk. Hence the need for such recipes to be shared.

  I baked a small loaf. The texture was gently resilient, the flavour was homely, lightly spiced and very good, though it did (as Iris instructed in her elegant hand when she posted the handwritten recipe) benefit from a dab of butter on each slice. I filed the recipe away as one of the best I’ve been given. I use it whenever we churn butter.

  In the cooler months, mist clings to the hills. Frost, as thick and white as royal icing, slinks into the hollows. In the shade of the trees, and I have a lot of trees on my place, the ground is moist. So moist that even the north-facing slopes, if well shielded, can grow moss.

  If you’re thinking Tassie would be the perfect place to live, you should see it in winter. When it gets cold, locals rejoice in the snow on the taller peaks, a time when you never, ever venture out without several layers on, or in, your possession. This is the real Tasmania as much as, if not more than, the bright sunny days of summer. Most tourists are long gone. Deciduous trees are barren, including the forests of fruit trees that fill the Huon. Chimneys trickle out grey plumes of smoke and the pigs, well, my pigs at least, don’t bother getting up until I bring them breakfast.

  I get plenty of visitors in winter. More than summer. They come because where they live on the mainland, seasons are a theory more than a harsh reality. They come to snuggle by the fire, drinking Tasmanian whisky. They come because it’s cheaper, easier and in some ways more fun when the crowds are gone. They come for rib-sticking food that you rarely get the chance to j
ustify eating in Queensland, or Sydney, or Perth.

  They come because I’ve usually got the cooker on and I’ve been baking. Gingernuts. Butternuts with golden syrup. Honey Anzacs. When the cooker’s on, it’s on. It lavishes me with hot water that steams when it comes from the tap. I adore the gentle warmth in the kitchen. And there’s the bonus of a steady stream of things cooked in the oven.

  I’m lucky to have the cooker. When you make cake, this beast of a thing, with its fickle fire and endless hunger for the right-sized timber, comes into its own. Yes, it’s pretty bloody good with roasts, and it’s okay for bread. It makes incredible slow-braised meaty dishes or pulses too. But cake seems to bake far gentler in the cooker, staying more moist and better textured. It takes around twice as long to bake a cake in the cooker, most of the time, but from the results we’ve had, it’s like cake batter was designed to be cooked in this way.

  I’ve written quite a few cake recipes in my time. Some light, some heavy. Some with no flour and lots of chocolate in them, and some with not much except the egg, flour, butter and sugar essentials. When I bake to test recipes, however, our small family can be overwhelmed by cake.

  So we sometimes use cakes as a bribe. We sent one up to the abattoir to say thanks for helping us out in a tight spot. I give them away at the end of photo shoots. When I have multiple cakes to test and no houseguests, you just need to be standing in the right place to get a slice or two. And one time, when a neighbour with a tractor did some serious lifting work that was virtually impossible to achieve by hand, we repaid the favour with a chocolate cake.

  Now, I don’t know how it works in the rest of Australia, but long-time country folk around here are slow to make judgment calls. Locals will watch you from afar and make their mind up on just who you are, what your motives are, how you farm. They’ll notice when you overstock. They’ll notice when you put up a wonky fence. And they’ll see just how you manage your land and your livestock. Proper farmers want to be sure you’re not some fly-by-nighter, and that they can trust you. Gourmet Farmer provided an unusual peep inside our lives, by opening up our home to plenty of locals, and it did seem to help us settle in. Many who saw the show responded a bit quicker after the series first aired, possibly because there is a lot less to see over the fence than on TV.

  But even though locals may take their time to get to know you, you don’t have to go on telly, from our experience. If you want a quick introduction, it’s cake that really seals the deal.

  And that’s how our chocolate cake turned us from being the neighbour who would get a vague lifting of a finger from James and Karley as they drove past, to someone who’d get a full-blown wave.

  James drives a council tractor most days, slashing the long grass and errant brambles along our country lanes. And at home he uses the family tractor for chores, so he’s pretty nimble with the thing. And we needed some heavy lifting that required a tractor. But of course it was his dad Frank, the real farmer in the street—because farming is such a hard way to earn money, he still had to drive a bus to make a living—who had to talk him through it.

  Once the pallet was lifted, we gave our thanks, but it wasn’t until after the delivery of a chocolate cake that our gratitude was really felt. It was then that we went from those odd, pig-breeding strangers up the road to someone they knew and would wave to.

  I’m not sure if James always recognises our car when he’s in his big tractor for work, or if he’s just always quick to try to get out of the way of all vehicles. But it seems like the chocolate cake has given us a little more leverage with the slasher when he sees it’s us behind the wheel on one-lane roads, too. A small gesture, repaying the other small gesture of a cake baked in gratitude.

  I’m not all that into cooking competitions, not since I entered my margarine sculpture of The Tramp in the Salon Culinaire in Canberra as an apprentice. But this one was too good to refuse. The Bream Creek Show is a glorious country festival held each summer, where the committee strive to make it a more authentic country show every year. So when I heard they had a ‘men’s only’ chocolate cake competition, well, how could I refuse?

  Bream Creek is about an hour east of Hobart. The show has a huge wood-chopping component, as you’d expect. It has an area showcasing diesel machines—things that go up and down or round and about with no great purpose—overseen by the tinkerers who made them or keep them running. Men with oil-stained hands, generous beards and ancient-looking leather waistcoats.

  Nick, Ross and I entered the competition in friendly rivalry. I made a recipe based on a few things I had in the house. Nick lavished lots of Belgian chocolate on his. Ross aimed at something sturdier than ours. We entered the cakes in the show and then toured the exhibits. There were sheep dog trials and bullock teams. In the hall there was a giant pumpkin competition and all manner of categories you could enter your produce in, like eggs, or a seasonal food basket, the kids’ photography section, scones, and more. What’s better, you could get lunch made by the Country Women’s Association. Pasta salad, coleslaw, luncheon meat and some white bread.

  I don’t want to gloat, but my chocolate cake came third. That’s right, third, and I’m not competitive and it’s not about ego, but I’m extraordinarily proud of coming third at my first-ever attempt at the Bream Creek Show. No, it’s not about winning or losing, it’s all about being a part of the tradition. What matters is that neither Ross nor Nick did better than me.

  I think there are quite a few cake-makers who are fans of Gourmet Farmer. The average age of the people who approach me in the street is 48—they’re usually eight or 88. Occasionally I get a big hug from a woman in her 30s or 40s, and the request for a photo. For her grandma, of course. Or her kids. Or her husband. When they talk about groupies, that’s the sort I get.

  So it’s no surprise that we have some terrific supporters in the CWA. They were great sports when we wanted to do a bake-off in the first series of the show. I went up against a champion baker from the Hobart Show, Jo Tiller, and the girls at the Hobart branch were very polite about my slightly greasy carrot cake. I did have a secret weapon, however—everybody’s favourite, cream cheese icing.

  If you want to get an honest opinion on how your baking is going, have a child. When I cooked for my first-ever child’s birthday party, the only rule I imposed on myself was to make it taste good. I know now that what three-year-olds actually want is something colourful and sweet. I baked ginger creams. Which were brown. Apple and sour cream slice. Sort of yellow brown. Cheese biscuits. A bit brown. And the cake Hedley wanted for his birthday—a chocolate cake . . . with pink icing. And I used a very rich cake recipe because I thought at least one adult might get to try it. I probably should’ve made a dinosaur cake. Or a Thomas cake. Or a troll cake. That’s what Hedley was into. But it didn’t really matter. He barely looked at my handiwork, failed to successfully blow out the candles, and spent the whole time running around like a boy possessed, in demonic chorus with a bunch of likeminded kids.

  Hedley didn’t get the pirate hat from pass the parcel (which he calls ‘parcel the parcel’), and didn’t even care. He did get his first Roald Dahl book, a big jigsaw puzzle and a newly filled sandpit. Along with just enough party food to keep him sustained if not quite manic.

  Meanwhile, nearly a year later, we’re still finding chocolate cake crumbs in places you’d never expect to find them. I’m just glad I didn’t bake him a mud cake.

  Iris Tatnell’s buttermilk loaf

  Serves 10

  If you don’t have real buttermilk, use 250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) of milk with 30 g (1 oz) butter melted into it and 1 tablespoon of white vinegar.

  270 g (9½ oz/2 cups) self-raising flour

  ½ teaspoon ground ginger

  1 teaspoon mixed spice

  1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

  200 g (7 oz/1 scant cup) caster (superfine) sugar

  175 g (6 oz/1 large cup) sultanas (golden raisins), currants and raisins, mixed

  60 g (2¼ oz/½ cu
p) chopped walnuts

  1 tablespoon treacle (molasses) (optional)

  250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) buttermilk

  butter, to serve

  Sift the flour with the spices into a large bowl and add the sugar, fruit and nuts.

  Mix the treacle, warmed over hot water, with the buttermilk. Gently fold into the flour mix with a large metal spoon. Spoon into a buttered and lined 22 × 11 × 7 cm (8 × 4 × 3 inch) loaf (bar) tin. Bake for 45–50 minutes in a moderate (180°C/350°F/Gas 4) oven. (I like to test it with a skewer as I would any cake.) Cool in the tin for 10 minutes, then remove from the tin and cool on a wire rack.

  Slice and butter liberally when cold.

  Garlic

  I think it was Henry Lawson who described it best. A sound short, sharp and terrible. The sound of an anxious mother calling for her child.

  I heard Sadie from the house. A voice worried and piercing enough to raise the hairs on every part of this jaded food writer’s body. We have a fairly child-safe house block, well fenced and secure. But Hedley had discovered a way out of the yard, by sneaking through the chicken coop, and had taken off towards the creek while we were doing chores. It’s a little rivulet, a winter creek as they’re called here, but it held water nonetheless. When Sadie saw Hedley, he was 200 metres away on a plank that we use to cross over the creek. And as Sadie sprinted down to scoop up our son, the ram got spooked and decided he’d use the same plank to escape the crazy-eyed woman racing down the hill. Hedley toppled over the edge. He was shaken, a bit damp, but unharmed. It was a lesson for us, one that ended up with no damage done, but a lesson all parents probably learn. As time goes by, your children will become more agile, more adventurous and more fearless. They, like pigs, will walk the perimeter on a daily basis. They’ll test every fence, gate and possible escape route imaginable, and a few you haven’t thought of yet.