i joined weight watchers this week.
my goal: 10 kg by christmas. watch this space.
as you may know, the weight watchers system works on the basis that you can eat pretty much anything that is high fibre and low fat.
In addition, you get 21 points each week to blow on chocolate, wine, nuts and other indulgences.
Depending on the brand, a muesli bar uses around 2.5 points. A meat pie is worth around 8.
You can offset these, and thus increase your weight loss, by racking up exercise credits. A 45 minute walk, for instance, earns you 2 points.
After this my first week, I find have overspent my points by so much that I calculate I will have to walk at 7kpm for four hours to cancel it out.
fortunately, the clock is wound back and you get a new set of points every monday, which is also weigh day.
Monday, 30 August 2010
Saturday, 31 January 2009
Cruising with Sophie
(This was a funny one and typical of what can happen in the freelance writing game. The MV Reef Endeavour was decommissioned a month before the story was due to run in a national travel mag. Fortunately, I still got paid.)
I’ve always wanted to go on a cruise. It’s the stewards in white shorts thing, the cocktails with strange names thing, all mixed up with the chance to do very little yet end up somewhere interesting thing.
Even the vernacular is sexy. Celestial navigation. Promenade. Horsepower. Mmm.
When I ask my nine year-old daughter if she’d like to come along with me, I feel I need to dangle a few carrots. I tell her about clams the size of labradors, the magical dugong, how we’ll get to spend some quality time together.
Sophie thinks for a moment and asks if they have buffets. Yes, I say, They do have buffets. And she smiles that toothy, Simpson-addicted grin of hers. And I book.
MV Reef Endeavour is waiting at the wharf; a big, white Tonka toy with narrow, wraparound decks and shiny wooden handrails.
One of the company’s fleet of small ship cruisers, she sleeps a maximum of 150 passengers and features all the accountrements of a comfortable cruise; a small bar, a lounge area, a dining room which takes all passengers at one sitting and a couple of spa baths.
The tiny little gym fits in two excercise machines, just, and there’s a largeish pool on the main deck. Unlike some of the bigger vessels, the Reef Endeavour offers no yoga classes, no kid’s club, no late-night disco.
That first night as we sleep, our world changes. In the morning, the mainland has morphed into a necklace of lilac-tinged islands. Wake up mummy, says my daughter, jumping on the bed and pointing out of the window. Today we’re somewhere else.
Days meld into nights. The weather holds. A zillion miles from the usual rituals of cat feeding and homework, we get lazier and lazier. Sophie makes friends and I catch brief glimpses of her new gang frolicking in the pool, chatting to staff, helping set tables for lunch.
The boat is small enough for me to feel safe about letting her roam. We usually reconnect at dinner, where I try not to lecture her too much about vegetables, and again at bedtime, when, for a precious, gentle moment, she lets me tuck her into bed to the pendulum sway of boat meets ocean.
Each evening while we’re at dinner, a young crew member sandwiched between the earplugs of an MP3 player leaves a copy of The Cook’s Daily on my bed, which tells us what to expect the following day.
We relish the rituals of cruise life, Sophie and I. The dinner bell. The daily briefings. Afternoon tea in the lounge.
The cruise from Cairns to Thursday Island retraces Captain Cook’s epic journey north. Sometimes we drop anchor near an island and ex-Captain Norm Liddle, a bit of a history expert with a Scottish brogue as thick as setting glue, tells us what Captain Cook got up to while he was there.
On other days, the boat pauses near a reef and we snorkle. A glass-bottomed boat allows the disinclined or infirm to join in. This is just as well. Two thirds of the passengers are over 60.
At Cooktown, we transfer onto the mainland by tender and explore Australia’s first white settlement. In 1770, way before Cook got around to founding Sydney, he spent seven weeks here patching up the good ship Endeavour after a run-in with the reef.
One hundred years later, Cooktown was the main port for the Palmer River goldfields. Today the population has diminished to around 2000 and the local cafe sells mud crab and chips to the tourists, who fish off the jetty and try to get a glimpse of the giant groper which hangs out in the murky depths of the harbour.
Our last stop on the journey south is Lizard Island, where we spend the day on the beach, snorkelling and taking trips on the glass-bottomed boat. The reef is a tropical rainforest of colour, a living movie. I want to touch it, take it home in a jar.
In the rock pools, we watch the filligreed antennae of sea slugs silhouetted against the sand. Further out, Giant clams purse their pincushion lips as we swim overhead.
And always on the horizon is the MV Reef Endeavour, hovering like an anxious mother waiting for the kids to come home. In truth, by late afternoon we can’t wait to get back there, to cocktail hour, pre-dinner canapes and, for the real die-hard funsters, a late-night singalong around the piano.
On our last day, Reef Endeavour docks at Cairns and we stow our bags in the company’s large hanger while we head off on a crocodile spotting expedition. When we return for our gear a few hours later, the ship is making ready to head off on her next cruise.
Sophie watches the new batch of passengers sitting on the pool deck, making new friends, eating fat sandwiches and chatting with the staff.
She calls out the names of her favourite deckhands, Jack! Chris! .
But they’re no longer listening and we’re just a bunch of folk waving madly at a ship we once called home.
C’mon Soph, I say. Let's go watch The Simpsons.
I’ve always wanted to go on a cruise. It’s the stewards in white shorts thing, the cocktails with strange names thing, all mixed up with the chance to do very little yet end up somewhere interesting thing.
Even the vernacular is sexy. Celestial navigation. Promenade. Horsepower. Mmm.
When I ask my nine year-old daughter if she’d like to come along with me, I feel I need to dangle a few carrots. I tell her about clams the size of labradors, the magical dugong, how we’ll get to spend some quality time together.
Sophie thinks for a moment and asks if they have buffets. Yes, I say, They do have buffets. And she smiles that toothy, Simpson-addicted grin of hers. And I book.
MV Reef Endeavour is waiting at the wharf; a big, white Tonka toy with narrow, wraparound decks and shiny wooden handrails.
One of the company’s fleet of small ship cruisers, she sleeps a maximum of 150 passengers and features all the accountrements of a comfortable cruise; a small bar, a lounge area, a dining room which takes all passengers at one sitting and a couple of spa baths.
The tiny little gym fits in two excercise machines, just, and there’s a largeish pool on the main deck. Unlike some of the bigger vessels, the Reef Endeavour offers no yoga classes, no kid’s club, no late-night disco.
That first night as we sleep, our world changes. In the morning, the mainland has morphed into a necklace of lilac-tinged islands. Wake up mummy, says my daughter, jumping on the bed and pointing out of the window. Today we’re somewhere else.
Days meld into nights. The weather holds. A zillion miles from the usual rituals of cat feeding and homework, we get lazier and lazier. Sophie makes friends and I catch brief glimpses of her new gang frolicking in the pool, chatting to staff, helping set tables for lunch.
The boat is small enough for me to feel safe about letting her roam. We usually reconnect at dinner, where I try not to lecture her too much about vegetables, and again at bedtime, when, for a precious, gentle moment, she lets me tuck her into bed to the pendulum sway of boat meets ocean.
Each evening while we’re at dinner, a young crew member sandwiched between the earplugs of an MP3 player leaves a copy of The Cook’s Daily on my bed, which tells us what to expect the following day.
We relish the rituals of cruise life, Sophie and I. The dinner bell. The daily briefings. Afternoon tea in the lounge.
The cruise from Cairns to Thursday Island retraces Captain Cook’s epic journey north. Sometimes we drop anchor near an island and ex-Captain Norm Liddle, a bit of a history expert with a Scottish brogue as thick as setting glue, tells us what Captain Cook got up to while he was there.
On other days, the boat pauses near a reef and we snorkle. A glass-bottomed boat allows the disinclined or infirm to join in. This is just as well. Two thirds of the passengers are over 60.
At Cooktown, we transfer onto the mainland by tender and explore Australia’s first white settlement. In 1770, way before Cook got around to founding Sydney, he spent seven weeks here patching up the good ship Endeavour after a run-in with the reef.
One hundred years later, Cooktown was the main port for the Palmer River goldfields. Today the population has diminished to around 2000 and the local cafe sells mud crab and chips to the tourists, who fish off the jetty and try to get a glimpse of the giant groper which hangs out in the murky depths of the harbour.
Our last stop on the journey south is Lizard Island, where we spend the day on the beach, snorkelling and taking trips on the glass-bottomed boat. The reef is a tropical rainforest of colour, a living movie. I want to touch it, take it home in a jar.
In the rock pools, we watch the filligreed antennae of sea slugs silhouetted against the sand. Further out, Giant clams purse their pincushion lips as we swim overhead.
And always on the horizon is the MV Reef Endeavour, hovering like an anxious mother waiting for the kids to come home. In truth, by late afternoon we can’t wait to get back there, to cocktail hour, pre-dinner canapes and, for the real die-hard funsters, a late-night singalong around the piano.
On our last day, Reef Endeavour docks at Cairns and we stow our bags in the company’s large hanger while we head off on a crocodile spotting expedition. When we return for our gear a few hours later, the ship is making ready to head off on her next cruise.
Sophie watches the new batch of passengers sitting on the pool deck, making new friends, eating fat sandwiches and chatting with the staff.
She calls out the names of her favourite deckhands, Jack! Chris! .
But they’re no longer listening and we’re just a bunch of folk waving madly at a ship we once called home.
C’mon Soph, I say. Let's go watch The Simpsons.
Saturday, 24 January 2009
O.M.G. Edinburgh was COLD
I guess it's inevitable that dining in Edinburgh in the middle of Winter is going to be mostly about carbs.
White bread, pasta, lots of fried stuff and hardly a salad leaf in sight was what we got on a daily basis when dining out.
The upside was Lidls (an Aldi-like supermarket selling European exotics from single-estate chocs and vacpac beetroot (okay, the beetroot isn't exotic) to trowels (yep, trowels) and Chilean wine. God I love the place.
It's haphazard but addictive, particularly at Christmas when you get all these lovely Euro-yuletide lines like cinnamon biscuits and stollen and, yep, even MORE single-estate chocolate.
They eat battered, deep-fried Mars Bars in Edinburgh. And chip butties. And deep-fried pizza. Order a meat and salad sandwich, however, and it's time for a spot of hunt-the-greenery.
Enough already. Suffice to say it's good to back in the land of Boost Juice franchises and rabbit-sized helpings of green stuff. AND the weather's better.
White bread, pasta, lots of fried stuff and hardly a salad leaf in sight was what we got on a daily basis when dining out.
The upside was Lidls (an Aldi-like supermarket selling European exotics from single-estate chocs and vacpac beetroot (okay, the beetroot isn't exotic) to trowels (yep, trowels) and Chilean wine. God I love the place.
It's haphazard but addictive, particularly at Christmas when you get all these lovely Euro-yuletide lines like cinnamon biscuits and stollen and, yep, even MORE single-estate chocolate.
They eat battered, deep-fried Mars Bars in Edinburgh. And chip butties. And deep-fried pizza. Order a meat and salad sandwich, however, and it's time for a spot of hunt-the-greenery.
Enough already. Suffice to say it's good to back in the land of Boost Juice franchises and rabbit-sized helpings of green stuff. AND the weather's better.
Sunday, 21 December 2008
Getting chillie
"The most common way to test chile pungency is to taste the pod, this method, although quick and cost effective, may leave the tester in some pain."
Chile Pepper Institute, New Mexico State University.
"Woman Wins But Men Do Well."
Headline of The Daily Times Herald of Dallas, Texas describing the outcome of a chilli cook-off in 1952.
Indiscriminate lover, elephant repellant and arthritis cure. The chilli is certainly a versatile little fellow.
Containing more vitamin C per weight than citrus fruit, the chilli (and here I'm opting for the oz spelling, although depending on where your cultural heart lies you might go for chile, chili or chilly) are also extremely good for you.
Part of the solanaceae (nightshade) family, they’re related to potatoes, tomatoes and eggplant. More specificlly, they're a member of the capiscum genus, which includes paprika, bell peppers and, of course, the common capsicum.
Chillies were officially discovered by Christopher Columbus during his exploration of the New World back in the late 1400s, although Mexican Indians were munching on them as early as 7000 BC.
By 1650, cultivation had spread from South America to Europe, Asia and Africa. Today, India is the world's largest producer of chillies and most of the dried chilli finding its way into Australia is from this source.
The chilli is the undisputed tart of the vegetable world, dropping its pollen for anyone within the genus and in the process producing so many hybrids that, today, there are well over 200 varieties on the market as well as any number of as-yet unclassified types.
Add to this the complication of regional nomenclature and the way some chillies change their name when dried (the chipotle is a dried red jalapeno; the ancho a dried poblano) and you have yourself a right old dog's breakfast.
Not that dogs actually eat chillies. They, like other mammals, are repelled by capsaicin - the chemical which gives chilli its distinctive hot, peppery taste.
Interestingly, birds lack the pain receptors necessary to 'feel' capsaicin and consequently eat chillies quite happily, distributing the seeds in their faeces far and wide just as clever old nature intended.
For many years, the only chillies available at the local supermarket were long reds or long greens - generic names for a range of biggish, relatively mild chillies which you still see sold loose at supermarkets.
Fortunately, though, most chains are following the trend set by Perth's specialty fresh produce outlets and now offer a range of loose and pre-packed chillies along with consumer information on variety and heat level.
The amount of heat in a chilli is measured in two ways. The Scoville test involves diluting a sample of chilli with water until the heat can no longer be detected by the taster. This dilution ratio is called the Scoville Heat Unit.
The most accurate method for measuring a chilli's pungency is HPLC, or High Performance Liquid Chromatography. For this procedure, chilli pods are dried then ground and the capsaicin is extracted and analysed. Either way, you end up with a heat rating which is most usefully converted to a scale of one to 10, with 10 being the hottest.
Most of Australia's chillies are grown in Queensland, although one of WA's largest distributors, Brent Mews of Brejuls Herbs (the company is named after Brent and his wife, Julie) says he sources 90% of his chillies from farms around WA including Carnarvon, Geraldton, Gingin, Wanneroo, Pinjarra and a few in the South West.
Chillies grown in WA and available fresh from retail outlets around Perth (with heat ratings given in brackets) include the big, mild chillies sold loose in supermarkets - usually caysan, laser or anaheim (3-4); the ball or cherry chilli (6); jalapeno (5-8); birds eye (9) and the oh-so fiery habanero, which is rated at 10+ and, depending on its ancestry, ripens to red, orange, yellow or chocolate brown.
Given the changes wrought by climate and growing conditions - the hotter the climate, the hotter the chilli - these ratings are, at best, approximate.
As a general buying guide, chillies in their green, unripe state are milder than when fully ripe - which is not to say all green chillies are mild, but that within a variety you can usually bank on the green being milder than the red.
Despite our preoccupation with their heat-giving properties, chillies also contribute considerable flavour. Fresh green chillies add acidic, capsicum-like top notes and distinct surface heat while red chillies tend to have a more rounded flavour and a more developed heat.
Even greater variation in flavour is found in the dried varieties, which offer a full-bodied, fruity, raisin-like sweetness and varying degrees of tobacco and smokiness.
Ian Hemphill is a second generation herb grower and the owner of Herbie's Herbs, which sells the largest range of herbs and spices in Australia. In Spice Notes (Macmillan, $35.90) - his definitive guide to growing, buying and using herbs and spices - Ian has this to say about dried chillies:
"The flavour of dry chilli is quite different to fresh, in the same way as a sun-dried tomato has a different taste to a fresh one. Upon drying, caramelisation of the sugars...creates more complex flavours." Ian has a big range of dried chillies for sale, all available by mail order via the Herbie's website - www.herbies.com.au.
The world of the dried chilli is just as fraught with ambiguity as its fresh counterpart. Take cayenne pepper, for instance. There is such a beast as the cayenne chilli – they're grown extensively in Queensland – but the cayenne pepper sold by companies like Masterfoods and Spencers (two of the main players in the retail dried spice game) is actually a blend of various chillies and may contain no cayenne at all.
As the spice buyer from Masterfoods explained, the heat level's the thing. "We want to make sure our customers can buy a jar of cayenne powder time after time and always get the same level of heat."
The story is similar for chilli powder or ground chilli which, again, is usually blended from a variety of chillies aimed at achieving a certain level of heat.
Traditionally, cayenne pepper is the hotter of the two - in the Spencers range, the ground chilli rates a 6 and the cayenne pepper an 8; at Masterfoods, the cayenne is almost twice as hot as their chilli powder.
Chilli flakes and crushed chilli usually average out at around the same heat rating as chilli powder, but offer slightly more in the flavour department as well as an aesthetically different experience via the inclusion of seeds and larger pieces of chilli.
The heat of a chilli comes not from its seeds but from the fibrous, pith-like membranes which surround them - officially called the placental tissue. These membranes contain the capsaicin glands, and while the seeds themselves do not produce any capsaicin, they do absorb some from the surrounding tissue - particularly during the drying and crushing process.
My own tests with a mild long red proved this point: the seeds and flesh really did hold no heat to speak of, while the fibrous membrane was extremely hot. (Many of the chefs I know still reckon scraping out the seeds of a chilli reduces its heat. I can only postulate this works because the scraping-out process also rids the pepper of its capsaicin-rich membranes.)
Many people steer clear of wine when eating chilli-based dishes, but several wine varieties work really well. The drier style of Gewurtztraminer stands up to chilli heat, as does unwooded chardonnay and any youthful, aromatic riesling. When it comes to reds, I'd opt for one of the fruitier pinot noirs or a grenache. Zinfandel, too, is good with chilli, its juicy, cherry-like flavours marrying perfecting with spicy food.
When it comes to the preparation of really hot chillies, take a leaf out of the professional chef's book by wearing plastic gloves and removing the seed debris under running water.
If you do get chilli burn, the best way to ease the sensation is to eat dairy products or something containing sugar. Yoghurt and milk both work well as does a solution of water and sugar, but don't be tempted to drink just water - it will only intensify the sensation of heat.
If you get a chilli burn on your skin, try soaking it in milk - this seems to alleviate the burning. If you're unfortunate enough to get chilli in your eyes, the only thing to do is repeatedly rinse with water or saline.
Chile Pepper Institute, New Mexico State University.
"Woman Wins But Men Do Well."
Headline of The Daily Times Herald of Dallas, Texas describing the outcome of a chilli cook-off in 1952.
Indiscriminate lover, elephant repellant and arthritis cure. The chilli is certainly a versatile little fellow.
Containing more vitamin C per weight than citrus fruit, the chilli (and here I'm opting for the oz spelling, although depending on where your cultural heart lies you might go for chile, chili or chilly) are also extremely good for you.
Part of the solanaceae (nightshade) family, they’re related to potatoes, tomatoes and eggplant. More specificlly, they're a member of the capiscum genus, which includes paprika, bell peppers and, of course, the common capsicum.
Chillies were officially discovered by Christopher Columbus during his exploration of the New World back in the late 1400s, although Mexican Indians were munching on them as early as 7000 BC.
By 1650, cultivation had spread from South America to Europe, Asia and Africa. Today, India is the world's largest producer of chillies and most of the dried chilli finding its way into Australia is from this source.
The chilli is the undisputed tart of the vegetable world, dropping its pollen for anyone within the genus and in the process producing so many hybrids that, today, there are well over 200 varieties on the market as well as any number of as-yet unclassified types.
Add to this the complication of regional nomenclature and the way some chillies change their name when dried (the chipotle is a dried red jalapeno; the ancho a dried poblano) and you have yourself a right old dog's breakfast.
Not that dogs actually eat chillies. They, like other mammals, are repelled by capsaicin - the chemical which gives chilli its distinctive hot, peppery taste.
Interestingly, birds lack the pain receptors necessary to 'feel' capsaicin and consequently eat chillies quite happily, distributing the seeds in their faeces far and wide just as clever old nature intended.
For many years, the only chillies available at the local supermarket were long reds or long greens - generic names for a range of biggish, relatively mild chillies which you still see sold loose at supermarkets.
Fortunately, though, most chains are following the trend set by Perth's specialty fresh produce outlets and now offer a range of loose and pre-packed chillies along with consumer information on variety and heat level.
The amount of heat in a chilli is measured in two ways. The Scoville test involves diluting a sample of chilli with water until the heat can no longer be detected by the taster. This dilution ratio is called the Scoville Heat Unit.
The most accurate method for measuring a chilli's pungency is HPLC, or High Performance Liquid Chromatography. For this procedure, chilli pods are dried then ground and the capsaicin is extracted and analysed. Either way, you end up with a heat rating which is most usefully converted to a scale of one to 10, with 10 being the hottest.
Most of Australia's chillies are grown in Queensland, although one of WA's largest distributors, Brent Mews of Brejuls Herbs (the company is named after Brent and his wife, Julie) says he sources 90% of his chillies from farms around WA including Carnarvon, Geraldton, Gingin, Wanneroo, Pinjarra and a few in the South West.
Chillies grown in WA and available fresh from retail outlets around Perth (with heat ratings given in brackets) include the big, mild chillies sold loose in supermarkets - usually caysan, laser or anaheim (3-4); the ball or cherry chilli (6); jalapeno (5-8); birds eye (9) and the oh-so fiery habanero, which is rated at 10+ and, depending on its ancestry, ripens to red, orange, yellow or chocolate brown.
Given the changes wrought by climate and growing conditions - the hotter the climate, the hotter the chilli - these ratings are, at best, approximate.
As a general buying guide, chillies in their green, unripe state are milder than when fully ripe - which is not to say all green chillies are mild, but that within a variety you can usually bank on the green being milder than the red.
Despite our preoccupation with their heat-giving properties, chillies also contribute considerable flavour. Fresh green chillies add acidic, capsicum-like top notes and distinct surface heat while red chillies tend to have a more rounded flavour and a more developed heat.
Even greater variation in flavour is found in the dried varieties, which offer a full-bodied, fruity, raisin-like sweetness and varying degrees of tobacco and smokiness.
Ian Hemphill is a second generation herb grower and the owner of Herbie's Herbs, which sells the largest range of herbs and spices in Australia. In Spice Notes (Macmillan, $35.90) - his definitive guide to growing, buying and using herbs and spices - Ian has this to say about dried chillies:
"The flavour of dry chilli is quite different to fresh, in the same way as a sun-dried tomato has a different taste to a fresh one. Upon drying, caramelisation of the sugars...creates more complex flavours." Ian has a big range of dried chillies for sale, all available by mail order via the Herbie's website - www.herbies.com.au.
The world of the dried chilli is just as fraught with ambiguity as its fresh counterpart. Take cayenne pepper, for instance. There is such a beast as the cayenne chilli – they're grown extensively in Queensland – but the cayenne pepper sold by companies like Masterfoods and Spencers (two of the main players in the retail dried spice game) is actually a blend of various chillies and may contain no cayenne at all.
As the spice buyer from Masterfoods explained, the heat level's the thing. "We want to make sure our customers can buy a jar of cayenne powder time after time and always get the same level of heat."
The story is similar for chilli powder or ground chilli which, again, is usually blended from a variety of chillies aimed at achieving a certain level of heat.
Traditionally, cayenne pepper is the hotter of the two - in the Spencers range, the ground chilli rates a 6 and the cayenne pepper an 8; at Masterfoods, the cayenne is almost twice as hot as their chilli powder.
Chilli flakes and crushed chilli usually average out at around the same heat rating as chilli powder, but offer slightly more in the flavour department as well as an aesthetically different experience via the inclusion of seeds and larger pieces of chilli.
The heat of a chilli comes not from its seeds but from the fibrous, pith-like membranes which surround them - officially called the placental tissue. These membranes contain the capsaicin glands, and while the seeds themselves do not produce any capsaicin, they do absorb some from the surrounding tissue - particularly during the drying and crushing process.
My own tests with a mild long red proved this point: the seeds and flesh really did hold no heat to speak of, while the fibrous membrane was extremely hot. (Many of the chefs I know still reckon scraping out the seeds of a chilli reduces its heat. I can only postulate this works because the scraping-out process also rids the pepper of its capsaicin-rich membranes.)
Many people steer clear of wine when eating chilli-based dishes, but several wine varieties work really well. The drier style of Gewurtztraminer stands up to chilli heat, as does unwooded chardonnay and any youthful, aromatic riesling. When it comes to reds, I'd opt for one of the fruitier pinot noirs or a grenache. Zinfandel, too, is good with chilli, its juicy, cherry-like flavours marrying perfecting with spicy food.
When it comes to the preparation of really hot chillies, take a leaf out of the professional chef's book by wearing plastic gloves and removing the seed debris under running water.
If you do get chilli burn, the best way to ease the sensation is to eat dairy products or something containing sugar. Yoghurt and milk both work well as does a solution of water and sugar, but don't be tempted to drink just water - it will only intensify the sensation of heat.
If you get a chilli burn on your skin, try soaking it in milk - this seems to alleviate the burning. If you're unfortunate enough to get chilli in your eyes, the only thing to do is repeatedly rinse with water or saline.
Friday, 19 December 2008
Duck you
A bit of background on me and ducks
I used to breed ducks on a hobby farm in Dardanup just south of Bunbury.
Not that my then husband and I were much cop at the self-sufficiency thing. First came The Great Eggplant Glut of 1988, followed closely by the fateful day I injected myself with Tasvax Five-in-One sheep vaccine and spent an anxious few hours praying for the Poisons Information Line to get back to me to confirm whether or not it was a live vaccine as I waited for the symptoms of Black Udder and Barber's Pole Worm to emerge.
I did, however, get to see one hell of a lot of ducks – dead ones mostly, dangling from our Hills Hoist after a run-in with the pointy end my father-in-law's axe.
Because we were city slickers and foolishly sensitive about such things as abattoirs, we came up with the idea of giving our animals names to remind us of their ultimate purpose in life and hence, I guess to lessen the trauma to us when they eventually joined the Choir Invisibule.
There was Sweet the pig and her brother Sour, (steak) Diane the cow and Al the stud muscovy duck, who was actually a permanent fixture but nonetheless named after that most famous of French retro classics, duck a l'orange.
Duck a l'orange (the dish, not the duck) has been around since the days of Catherine de Medici, an Italian noblewoman who moved to France in 1533 to marry the future Henry II and widely credited with introducing the sophisticated food of her homeland to the bourgeois French.
These days, no self-respecting French cook would be without his or her favourite recipe for duck a l'orange. Anne Willan includes a recipe for duck with orange sauce in Basic French Cookery, the book spawned by her famous Parisian cooking school, La Varenne.
More recently, the internationally renowned French chef Paul Bocuse, who famously championed the cause of nouvelle cuisine in the late 20th century, included a recipe for braised duckling with orange in his landmark publication The New Cuisine.
Larousse Gastronomique also gets in on the act, calling the dish Canard a l'orange Lasserre after the exclusive Paris restaurant of the same name which serves the dish to this day.
This State's biggest distributor of game birds is Mahogany Creek, and while the company processes a few bigger ducks – muscovies mostly – around Christmas time, by and large the duck which finds its way onto Perth tables is the Pekin – a fast-growing, fine-fleshed bird ready to eat at eight weeks with a dressed weight of 1.4-2kg.
Ducks in this size range feed two to four people, but for the purposes of duck a l'orange I've suggested you go for a No.15, or 1.5 kg, bird and allow a half per person. As to buying your duck, Mahogany Creek Managing Director Terry Fawell says we need to look for an even-coloured skin and a nice, plump breast. If the breast bone is protruding, it usually means the bird is too young and will lack both flavour and meat.
(From 9-12 weeks the birds are growing small pin feathers which can't be machine-plucked and are a pain in the proverbial to remove, so breeders tend to process their ducks before this stage.)
Cooking duck a l'orange
There are two quite separate things going on in duck a l'orange and it's useful from an ease-of-cooking perspective to consider them separately.
First there's the cooking of the duck itself, which is roasted more-or-less conventionally but with a decent dollop of butter for flavour and a lot of turning and pricking during the cooking process to ensure a nice crisp, golden skin.
Then there's the orange sauce, which can be made almost entirely in advance and is sometimes referred to as sauce bigarade, although this is technically correct only when Seville oranges – a rarity here in the West – are used.
It's important to taste your sauce as you go – you want a balance between the tartness of the juices, the sweetness of the caramel and the savoury richness of the stock. It was also Erwin's idea to whisk in some butter at the end, adding a luxurious satin gloss and a pleasing creaminess to the finished sauce.
I find it also helps to think of the sauce ingredients as flavour-based building blocks. There's the caramelised sugar bit, the stock bit, the citrus juice bit and, of course, the booze bit. Each of these components can be prepared in advance and finished off with the pan juices while the duck is having a little lie down after roasting.
And because good stock is integral to the success of this dish, I've included a really simple recipe for veal stock and urge you to give it a go – it will make the world of difference to your duck a l'orange.
Which is more than can be said for Al the stud muscovy, who tried to mount the chickens once too often and ended up doing the Hills Hoist shuffle with all the rest.
Somebody should've told him to duck.
Eat me's step-by-step guide to classic duck a l'orange
Serves 4
What
The duck
2 x 1.5 kg ducks
salt and pepper
2 tablespoons butter
The sauce
45g caster sugar
3 tbsp red wine vinegar
700 ml veal stock
Juice of three oranges
Juice of one lemon
Four oranges extra.
Pan juices from the duck
One tbsp Grand Marnier or brandy
75 g cold butter cut into cubes.
How
The duck
1. Pre-heat oven to 425F/220C.
2. Wipe the inside of the duck with paper towels and pull away any loose pieces of fat. Cut off the first wing joint.
3. Lift the neck skin and cut out the wishbone – this makes the breast meat easy to carve in neat slices. Prick the skin all over with a fork, paying particular heed to the legs and neck cavity. And remember the golden rule: lots of pricks.
4. Season the bird inside and out with salt and pepper and tuck a thick slice of orange into the cavity. Smear outside with butter.
5. Lie the duck on its side in a baking dish and roast until it just starts to sizzle - 15 to 20 minutes should do it.
6. Remove from oven, baste with pan juices and tip off excess fat. Turn duck onto other side. Return to oven and continue roasting for another 20 minutes.
7. Remove from oven, baste with pan juices and tip off excess fat. Turn duck breast-side up, reduce oven to 200C and roast for further 30 minutes.
8. Remove from pan, cover loosely with alfoil and allow to rest for 15 minutes.
9. Pour off all remaining fat from pan, reserving the pan juices for the sauce.
The sauce
It's not a bad idea to do this a bit in advance, while you're still capable of speech.
1. Peel the four whole oranges with a sharp knife, being sure to remove every skerrick of white pith. Holding an orange in one hand, cut down towards the core on either side of the segment walls, easing each piece of flesh gently from the orange. The idea is to end up with a pile of orange segments free of membrane. Repeat with other three oranges and put to one side.
2. Retain the peel of one orange, pare off the white of the pith, cut the orange-coloured peel into fine (julienne) strips no wider than a matchstick – even skinnier if you can manage it. Cover these with a little hot water and one teaspoon of sugar and boil for three minutes until softened. Drain and set aside.
3. Put the sugar and vinegar in a deep, heavy-based pan and cook over a very low – repeat – very low heat until the sugar has dissolved. Continue to cook until you have a bubbling, deep golden caramel.
4. Immediately pour in the veal stock, orange juice and lemon juice, stirring well.
5. Turn up heat. Continue cooking and stirring until the caramel has fully dissolved and the sauce boils.
6. Reduce heat and simmer uncovered for 35 minutes, giving it a stir every now and then and skimming the surface to remove any scummy bits.
7. Add the pan juices to the sauce and simmer for a further 15 minutes. Sauce should now be thick enough to coat the back of a spoon lightly. If not, cook a little longer.
8. Add Grand Marnier or brandy and cook, stirring, for a few minutes more without boiling.
9. Pass the sauce through a sieve and season to taste with salt and pepper. If you're serving it immediately, whisk in the butter and, once melted, add the drained orange segments and julienne. Otherwise add the butter and orange only after the sauce has been reheated, right before serving.
To serve
Cut duck into two halves and arrange on warmed plates. Spoon over sauce, making sure everyone gets a few bits of orange. Serve with whatever takes your fancy – most root vegetables work well with duck.
You want to make your own stock, you mad creature, you? Here's a classic, lightish veal or beef stock perfect for the duck.
Veal stock
What
2 kg veal or beef bones, sawn into small pieces
1 tbsp olive oil
2 onion, roughly chopped
6 cloves of garlic
2 carrots, sliced
1 leek, sliced
3 sticks celery, sliced
2 tblsp tomato paste
1 bay leaf
1 sprig of thyme
6 black peppercorns
How
1. Preheat oven to 220C. Place bones in a baking dish and sprinkle with oil. 2. Roast for 30 minutes.
3. Turn bones over, add garlic and vegetables and roast for another 30 minutes.
4. Tip contents of pan into stockpot, being sure to scrape out any bits from bottom of pan and adding these to stockpot.
5. Add tomato paste and cold water to cover. Bring to simmering point.
6. Skim well, and when no more scum rises, add herbs and peppercorns.
7. Simmer uncovered very, very gently for eight hours, skimming and adding extra water to cover as needed. (The idea is to slowly cook the bejesus out of the ingredients so that all the flavour ends up in the liquid.)
8. Strain and cool, pressing down on debris to extract as much liquid as possible. Leftover stock (this recipe will make around 2.5 litres) can be kept in the fridge for three days or frozen.
9. Allow stock to cool and remove fat from surface.
Note: Never add salt, children. Once stock has been reduced further in the sauce recipe, it may well be salty enough but you won't know until it has, so don't. You can always adjust seasoning once sauce has been sieved.
I used to breed ducks on a hobby farm in Dardanup just south of Bunbury.
Not that my then husband and I were much cop at the self-sufficiency thing. First came The Great Eggplant Glut of 1988, followed closely by the fateful day I injected myself with Tasvax Five-in-One sheep vaccine and spent an anxious few hours praying for the Poisons Information Line to get back to me to confirm whether or not it was a live vaccine as I waited for the symptoms of Black Udder and Barber's Pole Worm to emerge.
I did, however, get to see one hell of a lot of ducks – dead ones mostly, dangling from our Hills Hoist after a run-in with the pointy end my father-in-law's axe.
Because we were city slickers and foolishly sensitive about such things as abattoirs, we came up with the idea of giving our animals names to remind us of their ultimate purpose in life and hence, I guess to lessen the trauma to us when they eventually joined the Choir Invisibule.
There was Sweet the pig and her brother Sour, (steak) Diane the cow and Al the stud muscovy duck, who was actually a permanent fixture but nonetheless named after that most famous of French retro classics, duck a l'orange.
Duck a l'orange (the dish, not the duck) has been around since the days of Catherine de Medici, an Italian noblewoman who moved to France in 1533 to marry the future Henry II and widely credited with introducing the sophisticated food of her homeland to the bourgeois French.
These days, no self-respecting French cook would be without his or her favourite recipe for duck a l'orange. Anne Willan includes a recipe for duck with orange sauce in Basic French Cookery, the book spawned by her famous Parisian cooking school, La Varenne.
More recently, the internationally renowned French chef Paul Bocuse, who famously championed the cause of nouvelle cuisine in the late 20th century, included a recipe for braised duckling with orange in his landmark publication The New Cuisine.
Larousse Gastronomique also gets in on the act, calling the dish Canard a l'orange Lasserre after the exclusive Paris restaurant of the same name which serves the dish to this day.
This State's biggest distributor of game birds is Mahogany Creek, and while the company processes a few bigger ducks – muscovies mostly – around Christmas time, by and large the duck which finds its way onto Perth tables is the Pekin – a fast-growing, fine-fleshed bird ready to eat at eight weeks with a dressed weight of 1.4-2kg.
Ducks in this size range feed two to four people, but for the purposes of duck a l'orange I've suggested you go for a No.15, or 1.5 kg, bird and allow a half per person. As to buying your duck, Mahogany Creek Managing Director Terry Fawell says we need to look for an even-coloured skin and a nice, plump breast. If the breast bone is protruding, it usually means the bird is too young and will lack both flavour and meat.
(From 9-12 weeks the birds are growing small pin feathers which can't be machine-plucked and are a pain in the proverbial to remove, so breeders tend to process their ducks before this stage.)
Cooking duck a l'orange
There are two quite separate things going on in duck a l'orange and it's useful from an ease-of-cooking perspective to consider them separately.
First there's the cooking of the duck itself, which is roasted more-or-less conventionally but with a decent dollop of butter for flavour and a lot of turning and pricking during the cooking process to ensure a nice crisp, golden skin.
Then there's the orange sauce, which can be made almost entirely in advance and is sometimes referred to as sauce bigarade, although this is technically correct only when Seville oranges – a rarity here in the West – are used.
It's important to taste your sauce as you go – you want a balance between the tartness of the juices, the sweetness of the caramel and the savoury richness of the stock. It was also Erwin's idea to whisk in some butter at the end, adding a luxurious satin gloss and a pleasing creaminess to the finished sauce.
I find it also helps to think of the sauce ingredients as flavour-based building blocks. There's the caramelised sugar bit, the stock bit, the citrus juice bit and, of course, the booze bit. Each of these components can be prepared in advance and finished off with the pan juices while the duck is having a little lie down after roasting.
And because good stock is integral to the success of this dish, I've included a really simple recipe for veal stock and urge you to give it a go – it will make the world of difference to your duck a l'orange.
Which is more than can be said for Al the stud muscovy, who tried to mount the chickens once too often and ended up doing the Hills Hoist shuffle with all the rest.
Somebody should've told him to duck.
Eat me's step-by-step guide to classic duck a l'orange
Serves 4
What
The duck
2 x 1.5 kg ducks
salt and pepper
2 tablespoons butter
The sauce
45g caster sugar
3 tbsp red wine vinegar
700 ml veal stock
Juice of three oranges
Juice of one lemon
Four oranges extra.
Pan juices from the duck
One tbsp Grand Marnier or brandy
75 g cold butter cut into cubes.
How
The duck
1. Pre-heat oven to 425F/220C.
2. Wipe the inside of the duck with paper towels and pull away any loose pieces of fat. Cut off the first wing joint.
3. Lift the neck skin and cut out the wishbone – this makes the breast meat easy to carve in neat slices. Prick the skin all over with a fork, paying particular heed to the legs and neck cavity. And remember the golden rule: lots of pricks.
4. Season the bird inside and out with salt and pepper and tuck a thick slice of orange into the cavity. Smear outside with butter.
5. Lie the duck on its side in a baking dish and roast until it just starts to sizzle - 15 to 20 minutes should do it.
6. Remove from oven, baste with pan juices and tip off excess fat. Turn duck onto other side. Return to oven and continue roasting for another 20 minutes.
7. Remove from oven, baste with pan juices and tip off excess fat. Turn duck breast-side up, reduce oven to 200C and roast for further 30 minutes.
8. Remove from pan, cover loosely with alfoil and allow to rest for 15 minutes.
9. Pour off all remaining fat from pan, reserving the pan juices for the sauce.
The sauce
It's not a bad idea to do this a bit in advance, while you're still capable of speech.
1. Peel the four whole oranges with a sharp knife, being sure to remove every skerrick of white pith. Holding an orange in one hand, cut down towards the core on either side of the segment walls, easing each piece of flesh gently from the orange. The idea is to end up with a pile of orange segments free of membrane. Repeat with other three oranges and put to one side.
2. Retain the peel of one orange, pare off the white of the pith, cut the orange-coloured peel into fine (julienne) strips no wider than a matchstick – even skinnier if you can manage it. Cover these with a little hot water and one teaspoon of sugar and boil for three minutes until softened. Drain and set aside.
3. Put the sugar and vinegar in a deep, heavy-based pan and cook over a very low – repeat – very low heat until the sugar has dissolved. Continue to cook until you have a bubbling, deep golden caramel.
4. Immediately pour in the veal stock, orange juice and lemon juice, stirring well.
5. Turn up heat. Continue cooking and stirring until the caramel has fully dissolved and the sauce boils.
6. Reduce heat and simmer uncovered for 35 minutes, giving it a stir every now and then and skimming the surface to remove any scummy bits.
7. Add the pan juices to the sauce and simmer for a further 15 minutes. Sauce should now be thick enough to coat the back of a spoon lightly. If not, cook a little longer.
8. Add Grand Marnier or brandy and cook, stirring, for a few minutes more without boiling.
9. Pass the sauce through a sieve and season to taste with salt and pepper. If you're serving it immediately, whisk in the butter and, once melted, add the drained orange segments and julienne. Otherwise add the butter and orange only after the sauce has been reheated, right before serving.
To serve
Cut duck into two halves and arrange on warmed plates. Spoon over sauce, making sure everyone gets a few bits of orange. Serve with whatever takes your fancy – most root vegetables work well with duck.
You want to make your own stock, you mad creature, you? Here's a classic, lightish veal or beef stock perfect for the duck.
Veal stock
What
2 kg veal or beef bones, sawn into small pieces
1 tbsp olive oil
2 onion, roughly chopped
6 cloves of garlic
2 carrots, sliced
1 leek, sliced
3 sticks celery, sliced
2 tblsp tomato paste
1 bay leaf
1 sprig of thyme
6 black peppercorns
How
1. Preheat oven to 220C. Place bones in a baking dish and sprinkle with oil. 2. Roast for 30 minutes.
3. Turn bones over, add garlic and vegetables and roast for another 30 minutes.
4. Tip contents of pan into stockpot, being sure to scrape out any bits from bottom of pan and adding these to stockpot.
5. Add tomato paste and cold water to cover. Bring to simmering point.
6. Skim well, and when no more scum rises, add herbs and peppercorns.
7. Simmer uncovered very, very gently for eight hours, skimming and adding extra water to cover as needed. (The idea is to slowly cook the bejesus out of the ingredients so that all the flavour ends up in the liquid.)
8. Strain and cool, pressing down on debris to extract as much liquid as possible. Leftover stock (this recipe will make around 2.5 litres) can be kept in the fridge for three days or frozen.
9. Allow stock to cool and remove fat from surface.
Note: Never add salt, children. Once stock has been reduced further in the sauce recipe, it may well be salty enough but you won't know until it has, so don't. You can always adjust seasoning once sauce has been sieved.
Faces to watch 2009
They came, they saw, they had a nice cup of tea. Here is my far from definitive list of Perth's dine-out movers and shakers for 2009...
Kevin Pham
Chef and co-owner, with wife Mei, of Nham Thai, Perth's only mod-Thai diner. Love it.
Lousia Iacopetta
Her Guildford cafe Me-n-u just gets better and better.
Kate Lamont and John Jens
What a pair. Committed, professional and great fun to boot.
Michael Forde
Who knows what the entrepreneurial chef-owner of Cantina 663 in Mount Lawley will get up to next?
Rochelle Adonis
Her nougat, cake and ice cream shop serves coffees, too. There goes the diet.
Una Hosgood and Vince Soresi
Galileo, their Shenton Park ode to all things wood-fired, shows just how good honest, simple food can be.
Hadleigh Troy
Chef and co-owner of Restaurant Amuse and heir apparent to Perth's King of Fine Dining crown.
Rob Broadfield
Notwithstanding the occasional whiff of Eau d'Arrogance, Rob is far and away WA's best food writer.
Russell Blaikie
Set to make his mark on the south-west dining scene with newly-opened Must Margaret River in what used to be VAT 107.
David Coomer
The bloke's a legend. First Star Anise, now a watch-this-space tapas joint to be opened on Stirling Highway. Can't wait.
Kevin Pham
Chef and co-owner, with wife Mei, of Nham Thai, Perth's only mod-Thai diner. Love it.
Lousia Iacopetta
Her Guildford cafe Me-n-u just gets better and better.
Kate Lamont and John Jens
What a pair. Committed, professional and great fun to boot.
Michael Forde
Who knows what the entrepreneurial chef-owner of Cantina 663 in Mount Lawley will get up to next?
Rochelle Adonis
Her nougat, cake and ice cream shop serves coffees, too. There goes the diet.
Una Hosgood and Vince Soresi
Galileo, their Shenton Park ode to all things wood-fired, shows just how good honest, simple food can be.
Hadleigh Troy
Chef and co-owner of Restaurant Amuse and heir apparent to Perth's King of Fine Dining crown.
Rob Broadfield
Notwithstanding the occasional whiff of Eau d'Arrogance, Rob is far and away WA's best food writer.
Russell Blaikie
Set to make his mark on the south-west dining scene with newly-opened Must Margaret River in what used to be VAT 107.
David Coomer
The bloke's a legend. First Star Anise, now a watch-this-space tapas joint to be opened on Stirling Highway. Can't wait.
2008 Christmas round-up
As a child, the lead-up to Christmas was a time of intense excitement and ridiculously high expectations, followed by a brief flurry of wrapping paper, the annual re-run of White Christmas on the Beeb and a gorgefest that lasted the best part of a week.
Then I came to Australia and discovered a very different kind of celebration fuelled by sunshine, Webers and rather a lot of beer.
Not that I’m complaining. It’s just that Christmas is the time I miss my mum and all her rituals the most.
Mum began her Christmas preparations several months before the big day. By October, she’d made the puddings. In November, the cake was baked then prodded full of holes with a knitting needle and fed whisky every week.
She even made her own mincemeat, with suet of course, and the meal itself was timed to coincide with the Queen’s speech so that we could pause, mid-mouthful, and toast mum’s favourite monarch.
Dad always played in a band on Christmas Eve. When he got home at gone midnight, he stuck on a santa hat and wellies with cottonwool glued around the top, lest we woke up, and delivered stockings to the end of our beds.
I’d never seen as dark and mysterious a Christmas pudding as my mum’s until last week, when I paid a visit to the newish Rochelle Adonis shop in Northbridge.
Rochelle is a trained pastry and is best-known for her various flavours of sexy nougat.
As well as her deeply rich, tar-black Christmas puds cooked, says Rochelle, in a bain marie for 17 hours, our very own Nigella is selling spiced Christmas shortbread and bite-sized mince tarts flavoured with warm spices and hints of ginger.
Rochelle is also doing a ripper brandy and vanilla bean ice cream also available, unchurned and unfrozen, as a sublimely rich, eggy, ready-to-heat creme anglais.
If it’s a Christmas cake you’re after, pay a visit to For The Coffee Table in Floreat.
A friend was given one of their cakes as a gift recently and served it up for morning tea. Wonderfully moist, chockablock with quality fruit and with a nice boozy hit, it is quite the most beautiful Christmas cake I’ve ever tasted.
After some other tempting treats for the table this yuletide? New Norcia Bakeries in Subiaco and Mount Hawthorn make their own pan forte and another sweet treat called Pan Chocolatti, heavily laced with nuts, honey and chocolate.
The Grocer in Nedlands has lots of Christmas goodies including a Celebration Box stuffed with all the festival niceties.
If you’re after a duck, goose or other fancy game there’s still time, but only just, to order one from meat distributors Mahogany Creek.
And if you’re feeding the hoardes, The Herdsman in Churchlands does a great seasonal fruit platter, while Kailis Bros (Freo and Leederville) will make up a fresh seafood platter to order.
This Christmas I’m off to Scotland to be with my family. This includes my dad, who continued to do the Christmas Eve dress-up and stocking thing right up until I left home at the age of 22. God bless ‘em all.
The Herdsman, 9 Flynn St. Churchlands. Ph 9383 7733
Kailis Bros, 101 Oxford Street Leederville. Ph 9443 6300
New Norcia Bakeries, The Cloisters, Bagot Road, Subiaco (opposite Crossways Shopping Centre), Ph 9381 4811
Mahogany Creek, Ph 9249 2866
The Grocer, 145 Stirling Hwy Nedlands Ph 9389 8144
jane cornes
office (08) 9271 9071
mobile 0414 862 306
http://www.doris.com.au
Then I came to Australia and discovered a very different kind of celebration fuelled by sunshine, Webers and rather a lot of beer.
Not that I’m complaining. It’s just that Christmas is the time I miss my mum and all her rituals the most.
Mum began her Christmas preparations several months before the big day. By October, she’d made the puddings. In November, the cake was baked then prodded full of holes with a knitting needle and fed whisky every week.
She even made her own mincemeat, with suet of course, and the meal itself was timed to coincide with the Queen’s speech so that we could pause, mid-mouthful, and toast mum’s favourite monarch.
Dad always played in a band on Christmas Eve. When he got home at gone midnight, he stuck on a santa hat and wellies with cottonwool glued around the top, lest we woke up, and delivered stockings to the end of our beds.
I’d never seen as dark and mysterious a Christmas pudding as my mum’s until last week, when I paid a visit to the newish Rochelle Adonis shop in Northbridge.
Rochelle is a trained pastry and is best-known for her various flavours of sexy nougat.
As well as her deeply rich, tar-black Christmas puds cooked, says Rochelle, in a bain marie for 17 hours, our very own Nigella is selling spiced Christmas shortbread and bite-sized mince tarts flavoured with warm spices and hints of ginger.
Rochelle is also doing a ripper brandy and vanilla bean ice cream also available, unchurned and unfrozen, as a sublimely rich, eggy, ready-to-heat creme anglais.
If it’s a Christmas cake you’re after, pay a visit to For The Coffee Table in Floreat.
A friend was given one of their cakes as a gift recently and served it up for morning tea. Wonderfully moist, chockablock with quality fruit and with a nice boozy hit, it is quite the most beautiful Christmas cake I’ve ever tasted.
After some other tempting treats for the table this yuletide? New Norcia Bakeries in Subiaco and Mount Hawthorn make their own pan forte and another sweet treat called Pan Chocolatti, heavily laced with nuts, honey and chocolate.
The Grocer in Nedlands has lots of Christmas goodies including a Celebration Box stuffed with all the festival niceties.
If you’re after a duck, goose or other fancy game there’s still time, but only just, to order one from meat distributors Mahogany Creek.
And if you’re feeding the hoardes, The Herdsman in Churchlands does a great seasonal fruit platter, while Kailis Bros (Freo and Leederville) will make up a fresh seafood platter to order.
This Christmas I’m off to Scotland to be with my family. This includes my dad, who continued to do the Christmas Eve dress-up and stocking thing right up until I left home at the age of 22. God bless ‘em all.
The Herdsman, 9 Flynn St. Churchlands. Ph 9383 7733
Kailis Bros, 101 Oxford Street Leederville. Ph 9443 6300
New Norcia Bakeries, The Cloisters, Bagot Road, Subiaco (opposite Crossways Shopping Centre), Ph 9381 4811
Mahogany Creek, Ph 9249 2866
The Grocer, 145 Stirling Hwy Nedlands Ph 9389 8144
jane cornes
office (08) 9271 9071
mobile 0414 862 306
http://www.doris.com.au
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