Pigging out

This is a pig tale. Actually it's more of a tale about a pig's head. If you're squeamish, stop reading now and go and watch your Andre Rieu DVD.

The story started on Australia Day when I went to watch some Pommy friends taking part in their citizenship ceremony. We continued on to their home for breakfast and over a glass of bubbly another reveller and I were talking food, as you do. He was reminiscing fondly of the brawn his Irish granny used to make. I wistfully recalled the brawn my mother served up. He decided he would like to make some and asked if I could search out a recipe for him.

I emailed him a selection and suddenly I had a whim to try making some myself. I'm a veteran of dismantling rabbits, pressed tongue, chicken liver pate, terrines and so on. Why not a new challenge?

Brine the head first 2get blood & umphga out - Podchef

First find your pig's head. I got a couple of leads from the folks at egullet.com. I live near the South Melbourne Market so thought I'd start there. Sure, said one of the butchers at Tony's. "We can order one in. It will be a week."

Meanwhile I did my homework. I turned first to net friend, Podchef Neal Foley, who farms on an island in Washington state, rears pigs and is a head-to-tail consumer of pork. Yes, he made brawn. He advised me to brine the head first "2get blood & umphga out". Eww. I didn't bother asking what "umphga" was. I didn't need to know.

Fellow blogger Ed Charles posted a photo of three pig's heads via Twitter and reality set in. This could be a messy business.

I consulted various books. "Remove hair." Oh. I wondered if I could use The Spouse's electric razor. Probably not a good idea. A scraper one would be better. Would I need shaving cream?

In another book I saw teeth and gums mentioned and I was starting to get nervous. I checked YouTube and found a couple of relevant videos. The sight of someone cleaning out a pig's auditory canal gave me another tense moment. It was all getting very intimate.

Had my pig's head arrived at Tony's?

"Stop being a wuss," I told myself and bravely fronted up at Tony's on Friday. "Did my pig's head come in?" (One last chance to chicken out?) Yes, it was there. The deed had to be done.

Not having any serious body dismantling tools in my batterie de cuisine, I asked the butcher if he could cut the tête de porc in half for me. I'd jettisoned my large preserving pan during a move and the head wasn't going to fit into my pasta pot. I would have to cook it in the oven and it would ideally need to be in two pieces to do that.

As I pulled my granny trolley down the bluestone cobbles I was mentally chanting the old nursery rhyme  as we jiggety-jigged home.

I placed my purchase on the bench. One ear was poking out of the bag waving at me. I had to give the pig a name. Petunia. It may well have been a Percival but from this end that was purely academic.

A forelorn ear poked out of the bag

The business side - teeth, gums, lymph glands but hopefully no "umphga"

Petunia was remarkably clean. In fact I was pretty sure she'd been brined and a quick lick of her ear confirmed it. The ear canal was clean, too. There wasn't much hair in sight and my kitchen blowtorch soon got rid of that.

No need for shaving cream when you shave with a blowtorch

My $1 bag of chicken carcasses went in the pasta pot with celery, carrots, onions, seasoning and a large bunch of herbs to make some stock for cooking Petunia, plus some for the risotto that night.

A pot full of the good stuff for stock

Petunia was placed in the roasting pan and into the fridge for the night.

Goodnight, Petunia

Next day I dropped some cloves and peppercorns in the pan and added the stock. Petunia spent the next four hours in a 175C oven.

Outa the fridge and into the oven

Then it was time to carve her up. I salvaged all the bits that looked like real meat. I think I successfully avoided lymph glands, gums, and other nasty bits. But I did use the tongue.

The fat has been stripped off - now for the meat

I know there will be brawn purists who will say I am wasteful, but I'm one of those people who cuts all the fat off meat so very little made it into the brawn. And as there are only two of us here to eat it, I didn't want it on the menu for days. And yes, I probably could have rendered down the fat but then I am not a regular lard user, either.

Meaty chunks, including the tongue

I reheated the cooking liquid, strained it through blue kitchen cloth and added a sheet of soaked gelatine just in case it was needed. I administered a little more seasoning and some freshly ground nutmeg to the diced meat, placed it in a bowl and poured on the liquid. A saucer and weight went on top down before putting the brawn in the fridge to set.

 

The solids are strained from the stock

 

The diced meat is seasoned again and the stock poured on

 

The brawn is weighted down with a can on a saucer

The big reveal - the unmoulding - was completely lacking in drama. Obligingly, out it popped, a pretty mix of porky bits shining through the jelly.

Petunia, you did me proud.

Last night we sliced into the brawn and had it with potato salad, some cooled cooked asparagus, and a tomato and cucumber salad with red wine vinegar dressing. It was very tasty, perhaps denser and meatier than the brawn of my youth. 

Would I make it again? If I had a large enough pot to simmer the head in, probably. But I think next time I might opt for a mix of pigs' trotters, some ox tongue and maybe a chunk of pork shoulder instead of the head. I was fairly generous with the seasoning and I still could have been heavier-handed.

 

Leftovers for a lunchtime sandwich

•  Various forms of brawn exist in many culinary cultures throughout the world. For more reading check out Wikipedia

Definition of brawn
Chiefly British  
a. A boar's or swine's flesh, esp when boiled and pickled
b. Headcheese

Origin of word:
1275–1325; ME brawne < OF braon slice of flesh (Pr bradon) < Gmc; cf. G Braten joint of meat, akin to OE brǣd flesh

Passengers from hell

Mother's little angel at home, but on a flight he can turn into a right little devil

Taking a commercial flight is a bit like being held hostage for a few hours. You are at the mercy of those around you.

Your fellow passengers can make your flight pleasant or sheer hell. And the length of the journey certainly has a lot to do with how bearable the experience is.

One trip, mercifully a short one, found me sitting behind a large man who clearly hadn’t been near a shower for days. He had atrocious BO, the sort that remained in my nostrils long after he had heaved his body out of the seat, readjusted the cap on his lank hair, and waddled off the plane.

Where possible, I like to have an aisle seat, leaving me with at least one free elbow when it comes to meal times. It’s usually my luck to get sandwiched between a couple of lanky man with long arms who flap them like wings as they dive into the airline food. I don’t exclude The Spouse from this category. In fact, The Spouse can be an occasional burden. He’s very tall and usually starts complaining about the lack of leg space from the moment the seat numbers are assigned.

The incessant talker is another burden. On one flight last year the chap next to me had almost related his entire marital history by the time the plane had taken off. I was losing track of which wife he was talking about. Mercifully the flight attendant offered me a seat up the pointy end once the seatbelt sign was switched off.

My last flight across the Tasman earlier this month turned into another nightmare. We were in the first row behind business class so The Spouse had plenty of leg room. Minutes into the flight and I could feel a regular pushing from the seat behind me. It was abundantly apparent there was a small crotchety human behind me with its parents. Mother was trying desperately to humour little angel. I had a mental picture of child struggling on mother’s lap, incessantly kicking the back of my seat.

Once we were free to adjust our seat backs, I sent mine back a notch to make the kicking more of a challenge for the kid. Not much joy so I pushed it back further, hoping Mother would pass Angel over to Father. Father seemed to be one of the non-functioning variety – he was probably wearing noise-cancelling headphones judging from his lack of involvement.

Anyway, my second seat adjustment caused Mother to lean forward and say “Could you put your seat back up - I have a child back here!”

“Well,” I said as politely as I could, “Would you mind asking him to stop kicking my seat?”

The 'oblivious parent' is the worst offender

The seat assault continued unabated. It wasn’t until some time later when I went to use the bathroom I discovered Angel wasn’t sitting on Mother’s lap – he was stuffed down in the space in front of her, his head just emerging above her knees. No wonder he was struggling and sniffling.. Yep, some kids do ‘ave ‘em.

But I’ve also sat next to mothers who are at great pains to make sure their kids don’t worry fellow passengers and I’ve gladly held babies and toddlers while Mum has her own meal.

According to a “passenger from hell” survey of 155,000 members of tripadvisor.com, 39% of voters chose the “oblivious parent” as the worst offender – ones like Mother above who let their kids annoy other passenger. “Their kids kick your seat from takeoff to touchdown. But these parents might as well be miles away.”

Next on the list was the space intruder, followed by the bio-hazard – the person whop sneezes, sniffles and sweats the journey. The chatterbox and the smelly snacker were ahead of the carryall passenger who fills nearby overhead lockers and the space in front of your seat with her stuff. Seventh was the passenger with the itchy trigger-finger forever pressing the call button to gain attention.

Next was the seat swapper trolling the cabin “trying to trade up, or give you their best puppy eyes and plead, ‘Can you let us sit together?’ “ Fortunately I’ve not encountered those.

Then there’s the nervous wreck, white-knuckling it the whole journey. I’ve found you can really get these ones going, if you ask them “Any idea what time we land in Adelaide?” when in fact you’re en route to Sydney.

Finally there’s the “entertainment director” who is blasting his tunes or watching car chase movies on his laptop. I had one sitting next to me on that recent flight, with the sound up to max on his headphones. Still, it could have been worse - I could have been flying to the UK...

Shooting star

I’m very fond of the food at ezard in Melbourne's Flinders Lane so last year I bought a copy of Teage Ezard’s lovely cookbook, ezard.

It’s an elegant collection of his contemporary Australia recipes and what I particularly like about it is that it’s a great resource for inspiration. You don’t have to make complete dishes – you can borrow a dressing from one, a salad from another, a sauce from somewhere else.

When I was looking for something special to serve as a starter for the family Christmas dinner, I remembered ezard’s oyster shooters. Teage Ezard says this is one of the most successful dishes he has ever created. In fact it’s the dish that prompted me to buy the cookbook.

“It features on every menu and is always in demand,” he says.

I certainly go for it whenever I dine there. I think he might tweak the dish occasionally. One Valentine’s Day he substituted swordfish for the molluscs in this Japanese-inspired signature dish.

The chef said he invented the dish after reading that Japanese wine tastes better once the alcohol has been burnt off.

“I tried it out and then started to experiment with the addition of extra flavours.”

It’s a dish that needs to be started at least couple of days ahead of time, but that’s never a bad thing when it means less to do on the big day, whatever the occasion.

It’s easy to make. Just take care when igniting the sake mix – use a long match. It took quite a while for the alcohol to burn off.

You can find wasabi powder at Asian grocery suppliers. It’s a useful condiment to have in the pantry.

Teage Ezard’s Japanese-inspired oyster shooters

Shooter mix
(Make 2 days ahead of time)

1 litre mirin
250ml sake
75ml Japanese rice wine vinegar
50ml light soy sauce
2 tablesspoons wasabi powder

Oysters

18 oysters, freshly shucked
1 teaspoon wasabi paste
1 teaspoon pickled ginger

Shooter mix: Put the mirin and sake in a non-reactive saucepan and bring to the boil. Once the wines reach boiling point, light a match and burn off the alcohol fumes. Be careful! Once the flames have subsided, remove from the heat and set aside to cool. Pour into a glass jug or decanter and then add the rice wine vinegar, soy sauce and wasabi powder and stir until the wasabi has completely dissolved. Keep upright in the fridge for 24-48 hours, which allows the wasabi sediment to sink to the bottom. Strain off the clear liquid, being careful not to disturb the sediment at the bottom. Store in an airtight container in the refrigerator (it will keep for up to 1 week).

Oysters: Gently rinse each oyster in cold water and remove any grit from the shell. Cover with a damp cloth and refrigerate until needed.

To serve: Place an oyster in each chilled shot glass and fill with shooter mix. Use a teaspoon to carefully bring the oyster to the top – it should float. Top each oyster with a small blob of wasabi paste and some pickled ginger and serve immediate for maximum impact. Makes 18 shooters.

It features on every menu and is always in demand - Teage Ezard

Recipe © Teage Ezard  Shooter photos © Pat Churchill

An ill wind in the old home town

Wellington flags fly proudly horizontal

We’ve just been back to the old home town – Wellington, New Zealand.

The Spouse and I were both born there, met and married there, worked there, bought our first home there, raised our sons there.

We’ve always been loyal to Wellington. We’ve defended its blustery winds that push pedestrians all over the footpath in a kind of merry square dance.

“It’s so gorgeous on a calm sunny day,” we’d assure visitors.

We’ve been philosophical about cancelled ferry sailings. We’ve been optimistic enough to front up at the airport for a holiday flight when the terminal is losing parts of the roof thanks to a 150 km/h gale. Of course, our flight was cancelled – but probably only because no planes were able to land and therefore there were none available to fly us anywhere.

In the days before political correctness and health and safety issues put a stop to the celebration of Guy Fawkes night, we spent many a November 5 battling the chilly winds to light the fire crackers for the kids. Errant sky rockets kept the city’s firemen busy extinguishing scrub fires on the surrounding hills.

Carols by candlelight at a harbourside park meant windbreakers, blankets and vacuum flasks of hot drinks.

No one seriously contemplated a barbecue on Christmas Day. It was always too cold and windy. In fact the Christmas school holidays could come and go with little change in the level of the sunscreen bottle’s contents. It was only when the kids went back to school in late January that the weather would become “more settled” – a euphemism for less wind.

Intrepid anglers relish the stiff breeze at Makara

A summer’s day at the beach meant sand in the sandwiches, kids shivering at the water’s edge. runny noses and woolly jumpers. Everyone would be irritated though we’d try to be cheerful. It was seriously hard work even for me, an incurable optimist.

The annual pilgrimage to a rented beach house at Waikanae, an hour’s drive north of the city, was usually a game of Russian roulette with the weather we prayed wouldn't follow us up the coast. Mostly it didn't except for 1991 when we spend far too much time watching the Gulf War unfold on TV. Even board games did little to cheer anyone up as we waited for a break in the weather. But we always went prepared for a game of beach cricket.

Our lads played cricket from the time they were able to wield a bat. Wellington has the greatest collection of windswept sportsgrounds and I reckon I’ve spent a chilly Saturday at most of them. Both boys became highly competent bowlers. They could compensate for a head wind, a tail wind, a crosswind and still maintain accuracy.

Now I might be exaggerating just a little – but certainly not very much. Living in another city for the past four years has meant we have become accustomed to more settled weather. Even though Melbourne boasts four seasons in one day, a seven-day weather forecast is not constantly revised with the hopeful golden suns vanishing behind clouds and projected maximum temperatures being revised downwards. We can plan ahead for a barbecue and know it will be a calm warm night with no need for a Plan B.

And so we headed back across the ditch last weekend to visit family, not expecting any sort of climatic miracle. There wasn’t one. The temperature never lifted above 20C. The harbour was full of white caps, the usual winds contributed a generous chill factor and 20C “felt like” 16.

This surfer is also unfazed by a wind that literally took my breath away

As we drove around our old haunts, reality struck. Why bother making excuses? We no longer felt compelled to be loyal. We looked at each other and agreed - Wellington’s summer weather is pathetic, it’s crap, it’s rubbish. The truth is gusts of more than 60 km per hour blast the city 173 days a year and summer is not exempt. This year is no exception, residents report sadly.

If you're visiting Wellington, don’t let all those “silly season” stories in the local newspaper about mythical hot summers fool you. They’re tourist propaganda written by people with vivid imaginations and long-term memory loss.

Most old Wellington journos can tell you about the real summer stories they wrote – interviews with unhappy campers sitting dejectedly round caravan parks in ankle deep mud, people hanging about Wellington’s airline and ferry terminals waiting for the wind to stop and the sun to start, Wellington Cup punters bravely trying to keep their hats on, big audiences at the movies, all those Christmas bikes, skates and sporting gear stored in the garage for that clear, calm day. Even kites aren't much good - they can be stripped to shreds in minutes.

Well, at least there’s one addition to the Wellington skyline that shows the locals are perhaps getting the message – a wind farm has sprung up on the Makara hills to take advantage of an abundant natural resource…

There's no shortage of that vital resource at the windfarm on the Makara hills

An earlier blog about Wellington's wind plus some dramatic photos >>