I’ve been reading about chickens. A bit. The birds in the photo are a commercial breed; the kind of chicken you get when you go to the supermarket or butcher and buy one. They’re very closely related to every other single bird available commercially in the country – regardless of brand. They’re the same species (but a different variety, or breed) as the chickens I have laying (well, moulting thanks to the season) in the hen house. Difference is, these ones are bred as the thoroughbred of meat birds. They fatten quickly (they can quadruple in weight in the first week). They have fat breasts, short legs, and they really don’t have a great deal of instinct left in them.

Even more interestingly, they have to be fed a superfood diet in their first few days and weeks or they simply cark it; curl up their tiny yellow toes and keel over. These birds are fed, as one breeder calls it, rocket fuel, and they have hardly any of the resistance you’d expect of a normal chicken. They also go from the egg to the pot in about 35 days.

According to the Australian Chicken Meat Federation, a shed 150 metres long and 15 metres wide can house 40,000 of the birds. That’s right, an area less than a quarter hectare in size can house 40,000 birds. When they talk about intensive farming, this is what they mean. The stocking rates seem astronomical and it takes some breaking down to really get the gist of what that many birds in a certain space would look like. My old pig paddocks and barnyard could house about 30,000 birds, where I, until a little cull of numbers earlier today, had 18. Admittedly, my chooks didn’t bother with much of the space, so commercially it would be considered wasted, but the numbers are staggering. Imagine a bird in every .06 of a metre squared. Or, the other way around, 16 birds per square metre. That’s 28-40kg of bird per metre squared, the actual rate determined by ventilation. I’m trying, but I simply can’t get my head around these numbers. I think I’ve made a mistake with my calculations – measure out a square metre at home and imagine 16 chickens on it – but the ACMF’s website quotes the 28-40kg of bird per metre, and 16 birds that dress out to be no.18s in the freezer section of Woolies would easily weigh less than 40kg.

I seem to be surrounded by soda bread all of a sudden. First,we received a care package of soda bread and raspberry jam from Paddy the Baker(he’s one of the Irish expats in this month’s Celebrate story) that had the Feastteam in paroxysms of delight. Who knew that toast and jam could be this good(and collectively we’ve eaten a fair bit in our time)?

Then, I stumbled acrossa recipe for Irish cheddar and bacon soda bread on the Homesick Texan that instantly went intomy “must try this at home” list. I’m a sucker for cheese, bacon and breadseparately – put them together and it’s all over! Another morning of tummy-rumble-inducingfood blog browsing turned up a gorgeous post by Farmette on Irish brown bread that made me instantly want to marry an Irish farmer, move toIreland and start baking – until I remembered that I have my own wonderful MrEd, who patiently endures all my food talk and willingly tries new things eventhough he’d really much prefer going to the pub for a steak.

Irish soda bread recipe

Don’t do it. That’s the simple advice for those interested in picking wild mushrooms for the table. People die. Others end up on dialysis. Others are just very, very sick for the rest of their lives. Some mushrooms must be cooked. Others are safe at one time in their life cycle and not others. There are those that react with alcohol to make you crook, and mushrooms that some people have a sensitivity to, while others can eat them with impunity.

Unless you know what you’re doing, DON’T PICK WILD MUSHROOMS.

So, for my birthday, we went foraging. Nick and I were parenting. And foraging, like fishing, is just a great excuse to get out amongst it. We found a dense forest of pine nearby, drove in through the open gate and spent a couple of hours scouring the forest floor for slippery jacks. Even found a few, but mostly the pine needles were littered with poisonous varieties. For a forage, it was unsuccessful. As a day in the woods, and as a picnic, it was magnificent. Some leftover sourdough baguette from the Peasant’s Feast I’d cooked the night before. Salami, ham, a couple of cheeses. Cherry tomatoes, apples, pickled onion relish. A dry spot on a creek bank with glimpses of glade in a couple of directions. Our boys ran amok up the creek, under the trees, the sound of their play filling the forest with joy.

I love cooking first thing in the morning. This weekend found me in the kitchen at 7am on Saturday, gathering ingredients for a banana cake. That was followed by setting a bolognese a-simmering and pork ribs a-braising. It was all systems go. So Shane Delia’s 12 hour lamb with pistachio tabbouleh was a perfect addition to the early morning mix.
12-hour roasted lamb with pistachio and green olive tabbouleh recipe

I marinated the lamb the night before and had taken great delight in pounding the garlic into submission with my mortar and pestle. I discovered at the last minute that I didn’t have cumin seeds, and so substituted ground cumin. A plague of pantry moths is wreaking havoc with my store cupboard staples at the moment! The recipe specifies lamb shoulder, but my local supermarket only had a leg and I didn’t have time to run to the butcher, so figured I’d make do with a leg instead. Food editor Ang tells me that the leg contains less fat than the shoulder so will generally be a little drier. I did find this to be case and the fault is entirely mine.

The lamb went into a very slow oven. And was basically done. I checked on it a few times throughout the day and basted the meat as juices formed, but, otherwise, this was the ultimate low-involvement dish. Love it. I took the meat out after about 11 hours as it pulled off the bone easily and was very tender. And extremely delicious. Fork shredding ensued and there may have been some nibbling on crusty bits at that stage as well, even though we had just arranged to take the whole shebang over to the neighbours’ for dinner. The pistachio tabbouleh was simple to put together, and burghul may be my new couscous (if those pantry moths don’t get there first). A last-minute drizzle of dressing and we were on our way next door for an impromptu dinner party.

I loved this dish – it was simple and, for a meat-lover like me, the meltingly tender lamb was a treat. I’ll have to follow instructions and make with a shoulder, not a leg next time! And the neighbours? Well, they happily took the leftovers off my hands.

Just like that. The days seem cut short by a simple act of the clock. Sure, it’s vaguely light at 6am now, but the afternoons have nearly gone by the time I really get going. From the equinox to the solstice, each week a little bit of daylight ekes away, meaning you have to plan your days well to make the most of them. You can still wear yourself ragged in daylight hours, but the lower light gives a sense of finality to the early evening that summer just doesn’t have.

Have broadened the brood lately. Did you know that the common breed of chicken that is used for meat in Australia can quadruple in weight in their first week? Well, they can, and the fat little beggars that I have in the barn don’t feel like the chicks we’re used to rearing. They’re round and heavy and hot bodied, feathering up within days of being hatched. They also get a special diet because they grow so fast they need super food or their systems can’t cope. They grow so fast they make pigs, an animal renowned for getting big quickly, look like slowpokes.

Had a bit of a slow morning today myself. Weeding the carrots. Didn’t exactly get much done; the fine stems of very young carrots barely seen amongst a jungle of different grasses. They were put in hurriedly, though with seeming care, but now it looks like a trial plot for pasture more than a few metres of vegie garden. I didn’t use tweezers to weed, though a part of me thinks it would probably be easier if I did. I hardly have the dexterity needed for such fiddly work. Or the patience, though it was quite contemplative work.

One of my favourite things about my job is getting the chance to attend family celebrations with people from a wide variety of ethnic and cultural backgrounds. It’s such a thrill to be able to be a part of these special occasions – and the food is, without exception, fabulous. I recently attended a birthday party with the Kerestes family, who originally hail from Hungary. The meal was packed full of Hungarian flavours and the highlight was the cake that Noti, the family matriarch, has been making for years. I so enjoyed it on the night, that I thought I’d better try to recreate it at home.
Noti's torte recipe
I still have an enormous jar of pistachios left over from Christmas baking, so I used those instead of almonds for the praline. Mmmm, nuts in toffee – I almost stopped right there – but managed to push on with the cake. Dedication! The cake is basically a chocolate sponge – lots of egg beating – both yolks and whites. Keep things light and remember to fold the whites in with a metal spoon that will cut through the mixture, rather than beat it into submission. The cooking time was correct and I let it cool thoroughly before cutting into horizontal layers. I found the best way to do this was with a bread knife – I made my way all around the edge of the cake, only cutting in a couple of centimetres at first. That then gave me a solid line to work with when I cut right through the cake – much easier than trying to slice right through on the first pass. Repeat, to create three thin layers of cake.

Now, for the goodness. All the layers came together with the cream and praline – with loads of praline on top – and even though I was tempted to dive in right then, I put it in the fridge overnight and brought it into work the next day. Two words – massive success. The cake was extremely popular and had non-Feast staffers asking when they could have the recipe. Always a good sign!

What was your grandmother’s signature cake or slice?

I now have geese. Well, ganders. Two of them. I’d been keen to get them for a while, as they’re supposed to be good watch dogs for the chooks, they eat grass, and I reckon they taste pretty good. Sadie doesn’t like them, in the flesh, or as flesh, so I’m on my own with these.

They’re on their own, too, after I spied wedge-tailed eagles flying over the farm. Chooks, even if I did get the geese to keep watch over them, are likely to lose their young or even themselves to an eagle. So Laverne and Shirley (I know, they’re ganders, but I can’t help myself) are now ensconced on Fat Pig Farm as close buddies, decked out in brilliant white feathers and going nowhere near the shelter I brought in specially. They have no chooks to boss around and nothing but themselves to keep an eye out for, and they’re loving their new home.

I had to leave home recently, to attend a writer’s festival in Perth. And the most common question, as is often asked, is, do I miss being a restaurant critic. One morning, I ate in a café where the “fresh” juice was, I guess, fresh from a bottle, and the whole exercise a cynical money grab from a place that once enjoyed a fine reputation. One night, I ate a steak that had about half the flavour of one I last had from my farm, and the riverside bistro that forgot my coffee and served the blandest toast and a croque madame minus any mustard or béchamel was just plain ordinary. I’m glad I don’t have to eat in places like that for a living. To find one good one, I used to eat in five bad ones. Luckily, I did discover Greenhouse and ate brekky there every day, including a second breakfast on the day I was dudded elsewhere. And the best meal of the trip was at my friend Jan’s house.

People have literally been stopping me in the street to rave about how much they loved the chocolate peanut butter brownie that’s our April cover star. And by “street” I mean the corridors at work, and by “rave” I mean “RAVE”. They’re all mad for it – the taste, the texture and how easy it is to make. I had, ahem, tried this brownie during the testing and shooting process, but figured I’d better make for myself as well – my grandmother’s 90th birthday this past weekend was all the excuse I needed (actually, I didn’t even need that – it’s always the perfect time to make brownies).
Chocolate peanut butter brownie recipe
As with so many of Feast’s recipes, this was really easy. In fact, starting in our next issue, we’ll be flagging quick, simple recipes with a star symbol, so you’ll know which ones to look for when time is an issue – we’re calling them Everyday Feasts. I’ve made a fair few brownies in my time (and my sister does a mean raspberry cheesecake ripple version that has been my nemesis on more than one babysitting assignment), but I don’t usually beat the eggs and sugar for such a long time. I used the whisk attachment on my mixer and really got it good and fluffy before adding the flour and chocolate-butter mixture. As is often the case, I made do with what I had in my pantry – 250g of peanut butter, rather than the 500g stated in the recipe. I adjusted the butter and icing sugar accordingly and didn’t set any aside for sauce (grandmother’s birthday party, including numerous great grandchildren, not the right environment for extra sauce). It melts really quickly so don’t get too distracted by anything else. The peanut mixture swirled in beautifully and the mixture was so tasty that I may have licked a spoonful or two before forcing myself to put it in the oven.

My brownie was done in 50 minutes, rather than the hour stated in the recipe – I’m guessing partially because I had it high up in the oven, rather than in the middle. The edges got a little darker than I would have liked, but I trimmed them off before serving and don’t worry, they didn’t go to waste! The outer pieces had a delicious cake-like texture while the middle pieces had that wonderful fudge-like quality that’s the mark of a great brownie. The amount of peanut butter was just right – enough for those who are peanut butter fans (my niece) as well as those who aren’t (her brother). In a group whose ages ranged from 3 to 93, it was deemed a success. In fact, they all raved about it!

What’s your favourite brownie combo?

There’s a big difference between a smallholding and a farm. The issues of fencing don’t get easier with kilometres of the stuff rather than metres. Livestock don’t move any easier just because you’ve got more land. Birds of prey, weeds, overnight visitors to the feed bins are no less, and no easier to control in many ways. In fact, those things are harder to manage, because what works when feeding two pigs doesn’t work for 42.

We’ve been busy putting systems in place to try and reduce some of the workload. The pigs are now on a siphon for drippers and wallows, in paddocks that can be rotated every six months. This cuts out the need to start the pump every couple of days or clean out their drinking troughs. The new garden is connected to a fire fighting petrol pump on the big dam, with a hose for filling watering cans, but, most importantly, lines running down each garden bed that have drippers every 60cm. Leave the pump running for an hour and the formerly dry ground is moist and (possums willing) bountiful. The cattle paddocks have a strip of mains-fed electric along one side, so it’s easy to hook up a temporary fence. And Cari the kelpie is, well, just as hard to manage as always. One part highly strung pure-bred working dog. Two parts puppy. Three parts spoilt mutt who will come when called, if it suits her.

The stinking hot weekend a couple of weeks back has had its effect. In an instant, the old vestige of an orchard sported yellow leaves, as the aged trees sacrificed foliage to save their stems. The ground had started to split in places, the grass dried off to a mainland coloured dun. It’s been a classic year for Cygnet. Wet, wet winter, like they used to get in the old days, with the accompanying mud and bogged tractors and land that is pugged up by simply letting animals graze on it. Then a warm-to-hot summer, with barely a drop of rain, emptying the tanks, stressing the plants, and scorching the grass so it’s a serious fire risk.

Still enjoying the last vestiges of a recent mini-break to Bali, I decided to recapture the moment at home with this recipe for Indonesian satay from the Food Safari mini cookbook that comes free with this month’s copy of Feast. It had many of the hallmarks of recipes I like – meat, ingredients that I already had in the cupboard, and grilling (meaning that I could legitimately get Mr Ed to help with dinner). Those factors aren’t the only things that attract me to a recipe, but they certainly help.
Indonesian beef satay (sapi) recipe
The marinade was easy to make – all I needed was the kecap manis. Sri, who gave the wonderful cooking lesson I attended at Hotel Tugu, told me that “manis” means sweet in Indonesian and that “kecap” is literally “ketchup”. So, sweet ketchup it is and that forms the base of the marinade. I was a little concerned that the flavours were too simple, but, by the time we cooked them up (reminder to self, barbecue does have settings other than “extremely hot” and it would be nice to use them), they were delicious. Slightly sweet with just a hint of the onion and garlic. The peanut sauce was just as simple – I’m sure that Sri would have pounded them on her stone mortar by hand, but I used the blender and it worked just as well (though burned far fewer calories). In deference to Mr Ed’s tender tastebuds, I used only one, de-seeded chilli. Left to my own devices, I would have used all three, complete with seeds, but domestic dinner-time harmony is important, so I just added chilli to mine when I served it. Again, simple flavours, but the lime juice gave it that little edge that had me eating this sauce by the spoonful before the skewers were cooked.

The flavours were very different to the Balinese fish sate that I’d cooked in Bali, but this dish is a great one to have in my repertoire. It would also work well if you grilled the meat without skewering it, and then served with toothpicks and sauce as party nibble. Nice!

What have you cooked after a holiday to recapture the vacation vibe?