Every now and then, I find myself not really knowing what to cook.

Posted: 8/01/2010 8:46:01 a.m.

No connection. No flashes of brilliance. No clue what so ever. No damned dinner. You'd think polishing off that wine would get a few of my juices flowing but, when I'm at my most dismal, not even this works and my family and I end up tripping over a trail of drained Queen Adelaides on our way to a table set with sad piles of sliced cheddar, hacked-up parsley and a few miserable bits of toast. There'd be eggs involved too but these cause serious anaphalaxis in a few of my nearest and dearest so this fact stops me right in my scrambling/poaching/coddling tracks. Generally.

It struck me the other day that the odd meal invite would help the situation no end as I understand, in an abstract kind of a way, that warm hospitality exists Out There. You know the idea- where one household invites another household over to dine, the inviters do all the grunt work and the invitees bring some token offering like a Sarah Lee cheesecake or an under ripe brie and pack of cream crackers. This sounds like ever such a cute notion, having someone else cook for you. But apart from Frank my local pizza guy and the Thai duo in the take-out up the road, it virtually never happens to me. And it doesn't count if you have to pay for it, right?

Apparently, my mates are all too scared to prepare food for me and "intimidated" is the word that so often gets bandied about when the subject is ever broached. If I had ten bucks for every time I've heard some Gutless Wonder pal say " I'm too frightened to cook for you!" I could've founded a mining company and taken it public on Wall Street by now. There's a common misconception that trained chefs and other food professionals are somehow incapable of appreciating anything less than a multi-course extravaganza that would require a master of Kyoto-style Kaiseki - or a quality juggling act- to execute properly. If only they knew. It's really not all Circassian chicken and tonka bean sorbet at my place. You'll be amazed to learn that what I really love most is simple food. I've done my time in restaurants, on both sides of the kitchen doors thanks-so-much, and I can assure you I'm over beetroot foams, shrimp head-vanilla mashes, warm lamb jellies, fried mayonnaise, bacon and egg ice creams and sushi made using edible inks and a Canon printer. I don't particularly want to eat anything set in a calcium bath or extruded through a cream bomb. I like my food unglobularised, not moulded (panna cotta notwithstanding) and minus input from a PHd in Molecular Physics. I'm that basic, I don't even own a microwave.

I've worked out through bitter and expensive experience that when under-enthusiasm casts its' dampening shadow, my only viable recourse is to buy a new cookbook and get something fresh into my sapped repertoire. After years of going down this route my library is now so vast I live in fear of the Ikea shelves buckling, shooting a tsunami of recipes, hard covers, tasteful typography and artfully-styled food shots all over my impeccably neat house. The library itself is an uncatalogued disaster site and I can never locate the right book at the right time so when things turn desperate, you'll find me down at Dymocks. At least their cook book selection is organised.

Now I'm a talented shopper, as anyone who has seen me In The Field can attest. Give me your cheque book and I'll stylishly outfit your children, set you up with a fabulous collection of niche-market fragrances or slap vintage ethnic textiles all over your walls quicker than you can say "give me back my ruddy cheque book." It's rare that I allow indecision or ill-informed choice cramp my splurging style but the other day I was very off form in that book store. Grievously so. You won't credit this but I purchased one of those books built around the conceit that you can fashion a meal out of just 4 ingredients. Or less. And I just don't know what I was thinking.

All I can say in my defence is that I was momentarily seduced by three magic words that were used as effective selling points. "Quick" and "easy" appealed to my slovenly side while "delicious" is my benchmark outcome for any act of sensory engagement. And I confess I was intrigued. Because, despite the artless cover, over-enthusiastic use of capitals, ampersands and exclamation marks plus the nauseating folk wisdom spun throughout ("BE FABULOUS!" the authors urge on one page) this book, and others like it, have been runaway best sellers in Oz. Apparently, over this side of the mighty Tasman we're all so pathetically Time Poor that we're devolving into cooks who can only manage to produce meals using less than a handful of ingredients. Many of which spring out of cans and sachets. I have always been mystified how this rigid, ingredient-restrictive formula works and why it is so popular. Surely by the time you include 1) onions 2) garlic and 3) olive oil in a dish there's not a helluva load of scope for much else? Like- er- 4) taste??

It's hardly fair for me to prejudge but even a cursory scan of this particular title had me unnerved. If not downright depressed. For example I could just tell from reading the Sausage Roll recipe containing nothing more than 2 sheets of puff pastry, 250g of lean mince, 1 chopped onion and 1 tablespoon of flour that the results would be a tad bland. Maybe the authors were assuming here that before it was minced to a pulp the cow/pig/sheep/'roo (they don't specify which) you'd use for your rolls had been busy ingesting flavour-enhancers like tomato paste, dried porcinis, garlic, mountain thyme and Cab Sav, and only needed that touch of plain flour and onion to lend a boost. Apparently the dish "serves 1" is "Y.u.m.m.y. Y.u.m.my!!" but, by the writer's own admission, could really benefit from the addition of "1/2 teaspoon of mixed herbs for flavour". And an optional brushing with milk prior to baking. Which by my calculations are fifth and sixth ingredients and therefore messing with their spiffy concept somewhat. I don't know about you but I could no more eat half a pound of flour-thickened, commercial-pastry-encased mince in one go than I could enjoy the menu at Greenlane Hospital. Although I suspect the N.Z. health care system would allow a few more herbs in its' meals and maybe even glaze pastry with egg yolk. The Easy Fried Rice recipe I found equally as disturbing. It's prefaced by 11 letters and numerous full stops that read, optimistically, "S.c.r.u.m.p.t.i.o.u.s." You boil 1 cup of brown rice and while that is happening you fry an egg and cook some bacon. You then RINSE the cooked rice under running water ("S.A.C.R.I.L.E.G.I.O.U.S." and "d.i.s.a.s.t.r.o.u.s." ), combine it (presumably in a bowl, they don't say) with the egg and bacon then douse the whole thing with 4 tablespoons of soy sauce. This ain't FRIED rice, kids, it's "a.q.u.e.o.u.s." rice (not to mention "a.t.r.o.c.i.o.u.s." rice) and I think in their heart-of-hearts the writers realise this too. Why else would they conclude with suggestions for myriad optional add-ons; capsicum, pineapple, peas, chopped shallots, corn and a few teaspoons of sweet chilli sauce? None of which really ring my bells but at least if I fed their rinsed rice extravaganza to my kid, that extra stuff would provide some safeguard against scurvy.

To be fair, I feel I should at least cook something from this book before I reach any lasting conclusions and foist these onto you. And at the minute my impressions aren't shaping up complimentary. I'm thinkin' my recent purchase is exactly what would result if the Gold Coast of Queensland met an overturned truck full of groceries and air-headedness then went off and spawned a book-shaped love child. Which even by my standards of snark is a harsh assessment so I'm dismounting my High Horse as we speak and attempting to give it a fairer go. Trouble is I cannot for the life of me find anything in here I would want to cook. Ever. Here are some examples. Pork Tenderloin Bake ("Quick. Easy. Yummy"- them). 600g pork tenderloin, 420g can tomato soup, 1 pkt french onion soup, 2 tbs. Worcestershire sauce. ("Travesty. Cheating. Can't"- me). Polynesian Chicken. 500g canned crushed pineapple, drained. 4 chicken breasts. 250g jar peach preserves. Macadamia nut oil cooking spray. (I actually know a Samoan or two and I'm sure they don't inflict anything like this pukey combo onto unsuspecting chicken. Or even onto a can of Palm corned beef for that matter). Easy Roast Beef ("this is a sensational Sunday roast and sooooooooooo easy!"-them). 1 kg beef rib roast. 1 pkt french onion soup mix. 420g can cream of mushroom soup ("this is a spectacularly bad idea any day of the week and you can soooooooooo shove it"- me). Salmon & Asparagus soup ("An amazing entertainer for very little effort!" - them.) 440g can cream of asparagus soup. 200g can red salmon. 300ml cream. ("Amazingly, I would never entertain the idea of these things together in the same vicinity no matter how little effort was involved"- me). Vegetable Shapes ("These put a thrill into eating vegetables!"- them). 1 potato. 100g piece pumpkin. Extra virgin macadamia oil spray. Metal shapes eg., stars, hearts, animal shapes etc. ("My thrills don't require the involvement of cooked vegetables and biscuit cutters. Messy."- me) Profiteroles ("This will delight. they are Delicious!"- them). 1 pkt White Wings Decadent Chocolate Profiteroles, 3 eggs, 300ml cream, 1 cup milk, method; "five simple steps as per the packet". ("This will offend. they sound Odious"-me).

If my library had even a notional cataloguing system in place I might have saved myself all this trauma and found David Tanis' excellent book A Platter Of Figs And Other Recipes (Artisan, New York, 2008) much earlier in the piece. A Platter Of Figs is a breathtakingly beautiful cookbook on every level and is structured around made-from-scratch seasonal menus of the simplest and most stylish kind. When the weather burns hot, for example, one "y.u.m.m.y."sounding option is this line-up; Provençal toasts, grilled eggplant puree, spicy walnut paste and a platter of melon, figs, prosciutto and mint. Or shoulder of lamb with flageolet beans and olive relish followed by rum babas with cardamom. Cooler days prompt the suggestion of North African comfort food; carrot and coriander salad, chicken tagine with pumpkin and couscous and sweet walnut cigars is one winter dinner for example. The Tanis food ethos is exactly in tune with mine, and I'll warrant, with yours as well. "I say leave fussy food to those with a staff and a paid dishwasher." he says. And I'll say "amen" to that. "Most of the menus in this book are not those 30-minute-specials-with-only-3-ingredients whose intent seems to be to keep you OUT of the kitchen. What's wrong with spending a little time in the kitchen?" he goes on. And I'd say "Preach the truth, brother" to that. Mustard rabbit, salmon with Vietnamese cucumbers, roast pork loin porchetta style...fish soup with mussels and chorizo.....there are so many good things in here that all I feel like doing is getting on my cooking gear and whipping something edible into a frenzy. N.O.W. Joy oh joy- I can finally sense light penetrating the end of my dried-up tunnel. There'll be gustatory stimulation coming out of this particular Kitchen any day soon and it'll be about bleeding time.

Just as I'm about to throw together a cunningly arranged, Tanis-inspired platter of provolone toasts, roast carrots with mint and balsamic, Italian chickpea salad and some artisanal salumi (and fashion the despised, ingredient-challenged volume into lining for the cat litter box) my mate Annie calls. Without the slightest tremor of nervousness in her voice she boldly invites me over to her place. To eat. She's cooking. Hallelujah! At last! A bone fide come-hither-and-I'll-feed-you invite. So off I trot to have an evening filled with all the quirky, subversive elements I so enjoy in a social occasion; unscripted chick-talk, people smoking, an octogenarian tapping in time to Jagger's Satisfaction and Prosecco by the gallon. Everyone was BEING FABULOUS! Oh and there was some truly m.e.m.o.r.a.b.l.e. food involved too. This despite the fact that Busy Annie really hadn't had much time to cook and had just thrown together something very Quick and Easy. Which turned out to be utterly Delicious. There were about six elements involved but as I'd grown weary of People Who Count And Over Use The Upper Case I didn't really give a stuff. Piled generously in a big serving bowl was a glorious mess of bronze-extruded pasta, torn bocconcini, chopped tomatoes, plenty of basil and flat-leafed parsley and a big slick of good olive oil. She'd grated some Reggiano to go over the whole thing and, after a modest application of sea salt, we all scoffed ourselves stupid. As the stars rose over Leichhardt, A380s plied the flightpath above and the air fizzed with politically-incorrect conversation, I couldn't help but wonder what the four ingredient brigade would have made of all this excess. I mused what they might subtract from Annie's dish in their bid to reduce everything to a meaningless quota of four. Gluten free cooking seems to be flavour of the month here so doubtless that linguine would be the first thing to go. These types of books routinely marginalise fresh herbs too so that's the end for the parsley and basil . Hmm. Bocconcini, tomato, olive oil and parmesan. "N.o. t.h.a.n.k.s!" I don't see the "p.o.i.n.t!"

Linguine with bocconcini, basil, prosciutto and crumbs

Serves 4

(Based loosely on The Gentle Annie's recipe....but with serious liberties taken. Perversely I added an extra ingredient or two. I'm that kind of a girl.)

80g (1 cup) coarse bread crumbs, made from a day-old rustic loaf
Extra virgin olive oil
375g good quality dried linguine, such as Rustichella
250g cherry tomatoes, halved
180g bocconcini, drained and torn in half
12-16 slices prosciutto, rind removed and coarsely torn
Handful or two of basil leaves, torn
Grated or shaved parmesan, as much as you fancy but splash out on some Reggiano- you'll thank me

Preheat the oven to 180C. Combine crumbs and 21/2 tablespoons or so of extra virgin olive oil in a baking dish, tossing to coat the crumbs well and spreading them evenly over base of the dish. Bake for 15-20 minutes or until crisp and deep golden then cool. Cook the pasta according to the manufacturers' directions until al dente then drain. Combine pasta in a large bowl with all the remaining ingredients except parmesan and crumbs then season to taste with sea salt and freshly ground black pepper. Slather the whole thing with ridiculous amounts of olive oil- or restrained amounts, as the mood hits you- then toss to combine well. Divide among warmed bowls, making sure you are egalitarian in the distribution of prosciutto, bocconcini, basil etc or there will be bitter arguments at the table- this is guaranteed. Sprinkle parmesan and some of the crumbs then serve immediately. Or pass these seperately for people to help themselves.

Optionally, you can add olives, some slivers of anchovy, a bit of crushed garlic...substitute oregano for the basil...throw in some chopped flat leaf parsley too for that matter....use strips of charred red capsicum or aubergine instead of (or as well as) the tomatoes....or bits of charred Spanish onion for that matter. Splash out on buffalo mozzarella instead of using bocconcini if you truly want to win friends and influence people. But please don't leave out the prosciutto- there'd be better harmony in the world if more prosciutto were being flung about with gay abandon.