The Korean countryside, where I live, is nothing like Australia. Firstly, as in all of South Korea, there are seasons. Desolate winter, fecund summer as opposed to the lush year-round greenness that I’m used to. Secondly, I live surrounded by rice paddies, fruit trees and vegetable gardens planted on any and all available patches of land, but peaceful it isn’t. A busy road runs in front of my 14 story high rise, which is just one of a group of 5 residential buildings.

Over the last few months I’ve charted the progress of the various peach orchards I pass on my way to work. From bare branches to a flurry of flowers to verdant leaves shielding tender fruit from the elements. When things were rocky at work and I was considering jumping ship, I had one goal, to stay until the peaches were ready.

And am I ever glad I did. The trees are now dripping with fruit, ready to be picked then packed and sold at makeshift tents set up along the roads all over the area. Unfortunately, this little piece of South Korea seems to be planted with my least favourite variety of stone fruit: white peaches. But in this land of limited fruit, I take anything I can get. This year has been very wet causing intense flooding and terrifying landslides (did you all see these pictures). A less dangerous outcome of the rain is bland fruit and it’s everywhere.

Recently I tried to buy some peaches. I told the lady how much money I wanted to spend and she reached for an enormous black plastic bag. The price had dropped considerably, and I walked away with a mountain of peaches. Tough skinned, bland, white peaches. Every third piece is great eating, the rest are destined for the bin. So I took those less then perfect beasts, skinned them then roasted them with honey to enhance their flavour and made this parfait. I suggest you do, too.

White peach and honey parfait

Recipe adapted from Honey peach and yogurt parfait on Australian Gourmet Traveller
Makes about 2L.

350g honey
½ lemon, juice only
½ orange, juice only
6 white peaches
4 egg yolks
600g thick natural yoghurt

- Preheat oven to 200C.

- Combine 200g honey and citrus juice in a saucepan and stir over low heat to combine.

- Score peaches, blanch until skins split, about 30 seconds, then refresh in iced water. Peel immediately and place in a oven-proof pan that is large enough to hold the peaches snugly. Pour warmed honey mixture over the peaches and roast, basting regularly, for about 1 – 1.5 hours until they are very tender. Remove from oven and allow peaches to cool in their liquid.

- When peaches are cool enough to handle, remove the stones and roughly chop the flesh. Process three-quarters of the peach flesh with 50ml of the pan juices until very smooth. (I don’t have a blender so I pushed the flesh through a seive).

- Whisk egg yolks, 100ml pan juices and the remaining 150g of honey in a heatproof bowl over a pan of simmering water until thick and pale (4-5 mins), remove from heat and beat with an electric mixer until cold (4-5 mins).

- Mix yogurt and peach puree in a bowl until well combined. Fold through the egg yolk mixture until just combined. Pour into moulds and freeze until firm. Serve with fresh fruit.

It’s sad-o’clock on Sunday afternoon, I’m drinking iced coffee and thinking about omelettes. In fact, omelettes have been on my mind since Friday lunchtime, when the thought popped up unsought and baseless and unshakeable. I cancelled my plans and instead had a divine Elizabeth David style evening, on omelette and a glass of wine.

Korean eggs.

That first omelette in an eternity was spectacularly eye opening. Three eggs cooked in my new happy-yellow pan (which just turns out to be perfectly omelette sized), filled with king oyster mushrooms and home-made ricotta, the egg ranging from gently browned on the outside to wibbly wobbly soft on the inside. It came out of the pan beautifully folded, like a wrapped present hiding some secret surprise.

In the short interval between then and now, I’ve made and eaten more omelettes than I care to admit. French style, purely egg or with a shaving of parmesan, or filled with mushrooms, roasted tomatoes, bacon, spring onions, home-made ricotta. A dressed green salad on the side makes a perfect lunch, add a glass of wine for a satisfying dinner.

French style omelette. Egg, seasoned with a splash of milk, cooked in butter and oil over high heat very quickly to ensure the egg gets no colour.

It is an understatement to say that I never understood the allure of an omelette until now. It was a standby family dinner when the chickens were laying beyond control, but I thought an omelette was just egg. Now I realise that it is inexplicably so much more. In fact, I cared so little about omelettes before that I only learnt out to properly spell the word last year when I was teaching English in Hanoi and it appeared on a food vocabulary list.

There are a million reasons to love this kind of omelette. Plain or shot with cheese they are delicate and comforting, plain perfection when you’re feeling fragile. Possible fillings are many and varied, fridge scrapings can be rejuvenated into a delicious meal by being sauteed and then enveloped in carefully fried egg. Plus, they’re incredibly quick to prepare, though technically quite difficult to execute (practice makes perfect), and they’re my new favourite post-work dinner. Just prepare your fillings, beat the eggs (lightly, mind, just enough to incorporate the whites). Heat a splash of oil and a knob of butter until the butter foams, then pour in your eggs. For a country style filled omelette we are looking for rustic, large sections of egg, so let your eggs sit for a moment in the pan, bubbling and setting. Pull an edge into the centre, tipping the pan to let the raw egg flow in and fill up the gap. Continue this action for another 20 seconds or so, or until your egg is mostly set. Put your filling ingredients in and flip up the egg to cover them using a spatula, fork or deft pan flick. Tip onto a serving plate and you’re done. It’ll take you longer to read this paragraph than to make your dinner.

A fine french omelette uses a slightly different technique to produce a much more delicate and ephemeral meal. Let Julia Child teach you, but don’t be scared give it a whirl, it’s only eggs.

I believe that all people come to things when they’re ready. A child who hates mushrooms may not always. We grow into and out of things constantly and forcing the issue rarely works. It seems that Easter 2011 I finally grew into a love for omelettes that I hope never dies. But I do hope that it dims, I’m not sure it’s healthy to eat as many eggs as I’ve eaten this weekend.

I made this dish two months ago. I started writing this post three weeks ago but I only one line remained “I am a terrible creature of habit.” I have no idea where I was going to go with that. Maybe I would have spoken about how rarely I cook fish at home. But there is some possibility that I’d intended to discuss my undying love for 30 Rock, my growing dissatisfaction of my current city, or my inattention to this space.

Recently I read a quote, the gist of which was: good writers are able to think clearly. For the past few months my thoughts have been muddled and twirling, concentration and focus sorely lacking. Right now, even, I’m switching between gmail, facebook, twitter and msn when I can’t immediately grasp the word I’m after. There are dozens of tabs open in multiple browsers, all a welcome distraction when my train of thought reaches the end of the line, or halts abruptly, which is more often the case.

What I’m trying to say is that my heart isn’t in it. Blogging has become a habit for me, something that I feel I should do even if my words are muddled and the story comes out wrong. I don’t like this. I started Pikelet & Pie to have some fun, practice and get better at exploring, cooking, writing and photography. But now everything is stagnant.

So, what does this mean? I don’t really know. Re-assessment. Finding some focus. Less posts here, definitely, and hopefully an improvement in quality, but more than that I’m not sure. Anyway time will tell. Too much thinking, not enough eating. On to the dish!

Way back when, in the time of the secret dinner, Fouad suggested that I try this traditional Lebanese dish from Greg and Lucy Maloufs lovely book Saha: A Chef’s Journey Through Lebanon and Syria. But, being a creature of habit and rarely cooking fish at home, I didn’t. I don’t know what drew my attention back, but in the weeks after my return from India this dish was on my mind. I adapted the recipe, fried fish instead of confit, and added the tender stalks of baby coriander as well as the leaves. Fouad tells me that this is a traditional combination, and it is obvious why. The salmon is the star, its mild flavour supported by different levels of nuttiness and highlighted by the tang of yoghurt and the bright splash of coriander and lemon.

Maybe my first step on the path to better writing is making a habit of making this dish.*

Salmon tarator with coriander, walnuts and tahini sauce

Recipe adapted from Saha: A Chef’s Journey Through Lebanon and Syria by Greg and Lucy Malouf.

As is visible in the pictures, I used limes instead of lemons. In Hanoi limes are plentiful and unbelievably cheap, but lemons are imported, flabby and expensive. Although the flavour profile is changed, the choice is obvious.

Serves 6

600g salmon fillet, pin boned

Tahini Sauce
150g plain yoghurt
3 Tablespoons tahini, well stirred
1 clove garlic, crushed with some sea salt
1 lemon, juiced

Tarator
60g walnuts
1 cup coriander leaves, finely shredded
1 purple shallot, finely diced
1 mild red chilli, de-seeded and finely diced
1/2 teaspoon ground sumac (I didn’t have any, unfortunately)
1 lemon, juiced
60ml extra-virgin olive oil

salt and pepper

For tahini sauce: Mix all ingredients together until creamy.

For tarator: Roast the walnuts in a dry pan in a medium oven for about 10 minutes. Be sure to move them around so they brown evenly. Remove from oven and tip only a clean tea towel. Rub them vigorously to get rid of the papery skin, then chop finely. Mix all ingredients together and season with salt and pepper.

For salmon: Fry salmon in a hot pan with a little oil until browned and just cooked. Set aside and cool slightly.

To serve: Top your pieces of fish with a little of the tahini sauce. Gently press as much tarator as you can on top. The original recipe is for confited fish, and calls for it to be served at room temperature. If you fry the fish I think it’s nice to serve it a little bit warm, but either is fine. Serve with some extra tahini sauce on the side.

* HAH! Do you see that I did there? Nowhere to go but up.

When I arrived in Hanoi last year I was beaten. Exhausted by some recent hard travelling and more broken than I realised from the unpleasantness that came before. Life was clouded with uncertainty and nothing felt new. Everything was a challenge. As much fun as you can have visiting a city it is a totally different experience to actually live there and making that necessary nest for yourself is tough even under the best of circumstances.

A makeshift nước mía đá stand on Yen Phu street, Hanoi.

I’ve now spent almost 6 months in Hanoi I’ve settled (both in and down) and am feeling that boredom that comes along with feeling comfortable. I’m looking ahead while still trying to live in the present, perfection in theory but a little more difficult to put into practice. So when Fouad decided that he would set me a Hanoi challenge, wrenching me out of comfortable diffidence I accepted happily.

The Challenge: create something interesting made out of sugar cane juice.

Actually, I lie. This was a side bar to the original challenge which I declined to participate it. It wasn’t that it was a bad challenge I just didn’t feel I could fulfill it adequately. Why? I’m going to tell you an embarrassing secret now.

I’ve been in Hanoi for almost 6 months, and I have yet to eat a filled banh mi. I know, SHUT UP! I know!! There is always tomorrow, right?

Procurement.
As soon as the weather heats up torturous looking sugar cane presses start appearing on street corners city-wide. Peeled sugar cane stalks are sent through the presses time and again to relieve them of their juice. The resulting pale green liquid served over ice, called nước mía đá, is pure refreshment. It isn’t as sweet as you’d expect, being pure sugar juice, has pleasant vegetal notes and an interesting nuttiness.

Last weekend Pmum and I went on a little adventure. It started with pho cuon, continued with Vietnamese coffees and the planned finish was at the best ice cream/second hand clothes shop I’ve ever had the pleasure of visiting where I intended to purchase some nước mía. To my dismay the ice cream and sugar cane press had disappeared and the waist-high clothes piles had been replaced with racks. Boring! If this is the price of modernity then I’m not interested.

Instead I bought two iceless sugar cane juices from this tea stall, poured into plastic bags for takeaway. I waited, took some photos and ignored the shirtless men drinking tea and smoking bongs. Total cost: 12 000 vnd (~70c AU).

The dish.

I decided against cooking anything with the juice, fearing that all vitality would be lost. I considered savoury, but the ingredients required were a continent out of reach, so sweet it would be. Unfortunately my first idea melted in to a puddle that tasted of failure and broken hearts, then came an epiphany.

Despite what I wrote here, I do drink more alcohol here than when I was in Sydney, and when I go out my order is often a mojito. Towards the end of the night I’m sure they substitute rum for locally produced rice spirits, but ever present is a stirring stalk of sugar cane. I think Fouad would fail me if I just made a drink, plus, how boring is that!

So I took a mojito and tweaked it into a dessert: Sugarcane and rum granita, lime and sugarcane jelly, lime cream.

This granita is fairly alcoholic, but the subtle super-fresh sugar cane flavour shines through. Paired with the lime scented cream, sour and sweet cubes of jelly and mint leaves this dessert has everything: refreshment, interest and alcohol while managing to bypass cloying. My favourite part is where the cream gets frozen by the granita, instant ice-cream.

So, Fouad, what do you think?

Sugarcane granita

500ml sugarcane juice
1/4 cup white rum
sugar syrup to taste (the more sugar syrup the softer this will freeze. Err on the side of a bit more if you want to keep this for more than a few days)
juice of 2 limes.

Mix all ingredients together and freeze. Just before serving, fork the ice-block to produce light flakes of frozen goodness.

Lime jelly
This recipe makes much more jelly than is necessary, and because it uses agar agar it sets very firmly. Halve or quarter the recipe if you don’t love jelly.

250ml water
50ml lime juice
3T sugar
1/2 packet agar agar.

Heat the water, sugar and agar agar powder in a small saucepan over medium heat. Stir to dissolve the sugar and bring to the boil. Once boiled, remove from heat and cool as much as you can before starts to set. Stir in the lime juice (I do this because I want to heat the lime juice as little as possible to ensure it retains its sharpness and freshness). Pour into a container and set in the fridge.

Do the same thing for the sugarcane jelly, but use 100ml water and 200ml sugarcane juice.

Lime cream
I had planned to make this recipe, but forgot that the under-par cream (UHT, erk) available here doesn’t whip. So, I added two yolks, and cooked it to form a crazy anglaise, omitting the lime juice.

Julienne mint leaves to serve. Assemble as per photos, eat immediately!

The view from my roof top where I take these food photos. Stormy skies.

Tomatoes, coriander, tortillas, a return to the com binh dan-style school lunch. Raging out at the injustice of work, teetering on the edge of saying too much of what I feel. Alone, but only marginally lonely. Tied to my computer (it was a very happy reunion). That is what my week looked like.

Friday afternoon I was a riot of restlessness and boredom. Then I had my first Vietnamese coffee in months and I met the most intense caffeine/sugar high since high school. Memories of this had me in tears of uncontrollable laughter, a perfect end to a horrid working week. Friday evening was a reunion, peaches and gifts (hello pigsy!), going out dancing and talking to real life English speakers (after a week of grading my language for the littlies it is divine to be able to slang, slur and swear as much as I like!).

As I walked to the market this morning the bit that stayed with me the most, as well as the speaking English, was the peaches. And they aren’t even that great, these peaches here. Mostly they go from tart and hard as rocks to rotting with no in-between, so to avert tooth-cracking sour face, I poached them. In prosecco. Oh yes. The whole process enhances their otherwise insipid flavour and adds an extra dimension as they bathe in the poaching liquor.  Serve cold with a glaze of the reduced liquor and a dollop of double cream for a perfect summer dessert. For a chilled out and simple end to a great weekend. For an easy and joyful return to the kitchen.

Peaches poached in Prosecco

600ml Prosecco (You could use the whole bottle, but come on, you need something to drink while the peaches are poaching)
1 cup white sugar
1 orange
1 vanilla bean, split and seeds scraped
20g ginger, peeled and finely sliced
6 ripe peaches

double cream (45% milk fat) to serve.

- Choose a large pan that will fit all the peaches in one layer snugly.
- Add the prosecco, 1 cup of water, sugar, ginger, orange juice and zest and vanilla bean to the pan and bring to the boil to dissolve the sugar.
- Add the peaches to the liquid. If they aren’t covered then add more water ensuring that the fruit is submerged. Cover the whole lot with a cartouche and weigh the bobbing fruit down with a plate. Cover with a lid and reduce heat to low.
- The peaches are ready when the flesh has softened, the timing will vary dependent on the size and ripeness of your fruit. When they are cooked sufficiently, take the peaches out and allow them to cool in a bit of the poaching liquid.
- Turn up the heat on the rest of the poaching liquid up. Boil until it has reduced to a thick glaze.
- Serve cold peaches with the glaze and a dollop of double cream.