I love foraging. Unfortunately I don’t know about much that is edible and grows wild on the farm, these native raspberries being the one tasty exception. There are some wild strawberries but eating those results in a similar reaction to when Homer eats the ‘super sour ball’ (that video is in Spanish, but you get the idea), the native raspberries are much more pleasant eating.

They grow wild, in ditches and along fence lines, a weed complete with sharp spikes which makes walking away with hands full all the more rewarding. These aren’t devilish spikes like those found on finger lime trees, just annoying little prickles that will leave you feeling like a pin cushion and make collecting these berries a slightly more arduous task. And like mulberries, these fruits were never collected in my childhood, just eaten straight off the bushes, sun warmed and tender.

These native fruits, also known as Atherton Raspberries, lack the sour sweetness of regular raspberries are drier but are more fragrant, though some do sometimes taste decidedly of grass to me. I prefer regular raspberries for their juiciness and flavour punch, but these milder native cousins are so much for affordable (free!) and accessible in Australia. Careful though, this plant is an invasive weed in some areas.

I foraged for a bunch of fruit in their Spring prime, and couldn’t bear to cook them. Just like the first raspberries of the season are always best enjoying lolling on the cream atop a pavlova, these hard earning beauties needed to be enjoyed simply. Rich thick greek-style yoghurt, a mess of native raspberries and mulberries, topped with large crystals of raw sugar and a squeeze of lime. Somehow though, I think I still prefer eating them marooned inside a spiky thicket, moving only enough to pluck the next berry with the hot sun on my back.

The mulberry tree, an important pit stop on the daily commute to the bus stop. In a fight against the birds and bats we plucked ripe looking specimens guzzling one after another until the fear of missing the bus becomes too strong and theres nothing left to do but run to the end of the road. All the way trying to remember not to wipe sticky juicy stained fingers on our school dresses. The predators stalked our mulberry tree endlessly, eating most the crop from above, while we stood inside, enveloped, clearing all the branches within reach. There was never enough leftover for the traditional exploits of a pie or jam.

Starting out pale and hard the mulberry hides underneath big shady leaves and matures through sharp and tangy red to a sweet inky purple black. These were picked next door (thank you Kate!), as the mulberry tree from my childhood was sadly obliterated by the storm. The mulberry tree doesn’t only produce delectable fruit, the leaves are also important as the only food of the silkworm. I grew up feasting at the mulberry tree and wearing silk (pMum is a textile artist working with silk) – though quite possibly never at the same time. We would clip leaves and take them to primary school when friends had silkworms as pets and right now I’m reading Middlesex, which features a cocoonery. It all comes back to the mulberry.

When I moved to Sydney I memorised the locations of local trees, though sadly often missing out on the best fruit, with all reachable branches picked clean. The only indication of mulberry season being the stains on the footpath. But Spring this year turned into an orgy of mulberries. First there was the visit next door to ravage a tree heavy with fruit, then my sister hit the jackpot finding a secret, hidden cache. I returned to Sydney to bags of frozen fruit. Mulberries don’t keep or travel very well, which is why we rarely see them on supermarket shelves. So what to do with this unprecedented onslaught of mulberries?

Old favourites jams and pies were out, it was far too hot in Sydney and I needed instant gratification a little more sophisticated than gorging at the tree. So I made a fool. This dish should enhance and extend the natural flavour of its main ingredient, not overpowering the delicate sweetness of the mulberry. I used creme fraiche as a topping and served them in miniature shot glasses for a decadent mid-afternoon treat, the grown up version of eating fruit from the tree on the way home from the bus stop.

Mulberry Fool

This isn’t really a recipe, just an idea. The amount you can make depends on how many mulberries you can get your mitts on. Use your intuition about quantities, and keep tasting as you go. If your fruit is very sweet you will need less sugar, and may even need some lemon juice, but be careful to not split the cream.

Wash your mulberries very well and remove the stem. Reserve a few and mash the remainder roughly with a fork. If they are hard feel free to puree them in a food processor.

In another bowl whip some cream until soft peaks form. Fold mulberries through cream and add icing sugar to taste. Place in the bottom of serving glasses.

In another bowl mix creme fraiche or mascarpone with a touch of sugar and finely grated lemon zest. Place spoonfuls on top of fool. Top with fresh mulberries and serve.

Jackfruit, Durians marginally less putrid younger brother. One of the largest fruits ever it is difficult to handle, spiky on the outside and sappy between the lobes of fragrant flesh. But the hard work is worth it, when after peeling away the pith you are rewarded with easy to deal with pods of jackfruit, delicious, intriguing, complex. Popular throughout Asia, but not often seen in Australia, jackfruit is eaten raw, mixed into iced desserts, baked into cakes and the cooked flesh of the young fruit is used in savoury dishes.

Jackfruit vendor in Hanoi, Vietnam

I happened to be on the farm at the right moment for the jackfruit, I’m not sure if I even knew that we had a Jackfruit tree previously. It is in a little orchard of random tropical trees, an ice cream bean, bananas, a few natives and more, flanked on one end by a fence inundated with native Atherton raspberries. The bunch of ripe fruit pictured above was quite a ways off the ground, inaccessible, that is until my Dad climbed the tree. In work boots. I stood on the ground whimpering at the thought of him falling, and took some very unflattering photographs, that isn’t a good angle for anyone, let alone someone wearing king gee’s. Once the cut fruit had been dropped back to sea level with a resounding thud a thick and stick white sap starts to leak from the wound, I know its enticing like caramelising sugar, but don’t touch it, just.. don’t.

Dad made his way down from the tree without incident, of course.

The flesh of this fruit was very soft, much riper than other versions I’ve tasted, and took on an almost bubble gum quality and flavour. It was quite delicious in a sickly-sweet kind of way, the variety and over-ripeness removing any Durian-like pungency. To be honest I prefer it firmer with a satisfying crunch and mixed into shaved ice desserts, sweet soups or fruit salad.

The enormity of a jackfruit means that even die-hard fans will probably tire of it by the time it is half eaten. It makes more sense to buy them freshly cleaned and packaged as I’ve seen during the season across South East Asia, it is a much more manageable portion size. We gave some of the crop away, though I realise now that young and unripe jackfruit are different things – the young fruit can be peeled and the whole lot cooked into a curry. Despite generosity there was a lot of fruit leftover, I cleaned it with much less precision than the lady pictured above, and searched the bare shelves transformative ingredients.

Young Jackfruit.

Coconut cream, sugar and eggs was all it took to create this wobbly steamed jackfruit custard. Creamy, sweet and wholly satisfying this is a great dessert to try if you happen to have excess fruit laying around. I made this on the farm, which means ‘making do’. It was steamed at a lower temperature than required causing the mixture to separate into layers, and my below-standard coconut cream was certainly detrimental to the outcome. Imagine how delicious it would be when made with fresh coconut cream and firmer jackfruit slivers.

This is the first time I’ve experimented cooking this monumental fruit, but hopefully not the last, tips, ideas and recipes gratefully appreciated.

Jackfruit Custard
sangkaya kanun
adapted from Thai Food by David Thompson – I omitted the jackfruit seeds.

2 1/4 cups shelled raw eggs, preferably duck, about 12
1 1/2 cups thick coconut cream
2 cups palm sugar – I had none on hand so used strongly flavoured cane sugar instead
1/2 cup ripe jackfruit flesh – I used more like 1 cup as I had oodles on hand.

Combine eggs, sugar and coconut cream and mix until well combined but not fluffy. Strain, skin off any froth and rest for a few minutes. Skim one more time then stir in jackfruit flesh. Pour into a mould and stir lightly. Cover with paper and steam over high heat for 15 minutes, then for lower the heat and steam for another 30 minutes or until firm. Cool before serving.

Previous entries in my alphabet of produce (asparagus, avocado and beetroot) were grown by my Dad on the farm where I grew up. As well as having a personal connection to these items I also have an expert on hand to give me tasty informative tidbits that you all may find interesting. So I am going out on a limb introducing the star fruit here, but I couldn’t resist. Although there is a Carambola tree on the farm these fruit are from somewhere entirely different.

Carambola, or star fruit for obvious reasons, is popular throughout the tropics with Malaysia being the biggest worldwide exporter of the fruit. The carambola tree on the farm grew without much encouragement, though the yield was quite small with my sister eating the majority every year. The fruit will soften and get slightly sweeter after they are picked, but for the best flavour they must ripen on the tree. Unfortunately these bright yellow fleshy geometric oddity are often too tantalising for birds, flying foxes and insects, so rarely last full term in my experience. Perhaps this is why in different countries in Asia the unripe fruit is often picked green and used as a vegetable, too astringent still to eat alone.

Where I grew up is expansive, lush green and nature quiet (alternatively known as bird noisy) complete with relaxing rainforest and hidden fruit trees. These carambolas are from a complete opposite kind of place. My mum’s yard in Hanoi, from the lone full sized tree caught in between our house and a neighbours wall. Dusty, dirty concrete, packed full with people and houses, dogs and construction, motorbikes and opera singers. Plus the maid picked them. Regardless these fruit still get eaten by pests while they’re on the tree and they taste just like my memories from the farm.

That is, not terribly delicious. There I said it, I don’t love carambolas, I don’t even really like them. Their unpleasantly waxy exterior gives way to soft flesh which despite being overly juicy still tastes dry. Visually they are wonderful additions to fruit platters, and I’m sure that a tropical cocktail could be made from the juice, best enjoyed at a beachside sunset. My carambola experiments all failed. It sounded like a good idea at the time, but trust me star fruit and ginger are not friends. Heat a carambola up to caramelise a star and the skin gets tough and the flavour even more grassy. Ice cold carambola juice is certainly refreshing on a hot day, but so is young coconut, water or better yet, beer. Has anyone got a good recipe for carambola because as far as I can see they are a beautiful waste of space.

**EDIT (May 2010): I just noticed our carambola tree has some babies. They grow out of the branches from these pretty pink flowers.

More photos on flickr

Now, moving along on this garden to plate series from crowd pleasing avocado, to a decidedly less exciting and well loved vegetable, beetroot. By me, of course. I think I had a few bad borscht experiences that I’ve since blocked out. I grew up with avocados, but Dad didn’t start growing beetroot until I’d all but moved out. So although I was au fait with the pickled and tinned version, fresh beetroot has taken a while to grow on me.

But learn to like beetroot I have, raw, pickled, steamed baked and even the leaves as the entire plant can be consumed. Beetroot take about 16 weeks to mature and the baby ones you see on the shelf are the same variety as the larger bulbs, just picked earlier. I have it on good authority that the root can grow to the size of a watermelon and still be edible! But if the plant goes to seed then the root becomes woody and unpleasant to eat. Also, if you’re growing them yourself you can harvest the leaves as you need them leave the bulb to continue to grow.

Beetroot actually grow above the ground, the ones in these pictures are just covered with soil to shield them from predators. You know how sometimes in the shops the top third of the beetroot looks pale and unappetising? Well don’t worry, this is just a little bit of sun damage and doesn’t affect the taste, colour or quality of the bulb at all.

The beetroot (beta vulgaris – oh how I love that name) is related to the sugar beet and silver beet or chard. If you’re growing beetroot on a large scale then about one in a thousand will revert to the white of the sugar beet but will be identical to its red sibling in everything else. When I was on the farm I harvested a cubic megatonne of beets walking down the rows picking the exact size that I required for pickling.

Raw beetroot is often overlooked, except shredded as a tasteless, limp and boring filler for salads and wraps. This is a shame as it is crisp, sweet, earthy, complex and beautiful. I made this very simple salad after a beetroot picking expedition where we also harvested a mutant sugar beet. Only use super-fresh beetroot as its flavour and crunch is incomparable. Paired with creamy sharp goats curd and dill it is like tarted up salad-borscht, only better.

Beetroot, goats cheese and dill salad

Peel and finely slice beetroot, arrange on a plate and dot with goats cheese and sprigs of dill. Drizzle with olive oil and white wine vinegar, sprinkle with sea salt and pepper and serve.