Pickled Gizzards

November 12, 2018

Aunty Myrtle’s Mouldy Cake

Mum’s colourful Aunt Myrtle lived in Sydney, from where Mum herself came. Myrtle had married and been widowed young, produced no children, and never re-married, though she did take a gigolo from time to time, as no respectable woman would attend the trots, the dogs or the races unattended by a gentleman. On periodic travels with a circus company owned by her sister and brother-in-law, she would drop in for lunch and family chatter, catching up with Mum, a favourite niece. On those days the conversation was extremely interesting, featuring as it did myths, legends and gossip from Mum’s large extended family of people we almost never saw or met.

One year Mum and Dad decided to take their three girls on a trip to New South Wales, taking in Sydney and Goulburn, to meet as many cousins, aunts and uncles as could be arranged. We were aged 20, 17 and 14, so old enough to take it all in, and it promised to be an exciting few weeks. Mum sent a letter, as people did in those days, to let Myrtle know we were coming, asking her to nominate a day we could visit her.

It seemed Myrtle was no cook, as when we arrived several weeks later, the afternoon tea table was set with plates of bought biscuits and a packaged plain Madeira cake, sliced ready to spread with the raspberry jam on the table. Her old eyes couldn’t see, but our sharp young eyes certainly spotted the fine grey mould over the whole outside of the cake. She insisted we all have a piece, and being well brought up girls we knew it was only polite to give in to her repeated urging. Carefully avoiding the end piece, we all somehow managed to eat one slice slathered with jam, and politely declined seconds. We spent a most enjoyable afternoon gathered around Myrtle’s dining table, enjoying her lively company and hospitality. I have no memory of anyone suffering a gastric upset afterwards.

It’s funny how a group of people at the same event will notice different things. My eye was caught and held, apparently, by the newspapers piled up everywhere around us in that room. Every flat surface including piano, piano stool, book cases, spare chairs, and side tables, was covered with orderly heaps of newspapers. To visit the bathroom you had to sidle down the hallway half blocked by stacks of papers, too. Now I recognise Aunty Myrtle was a classic hoarder, but back then it seemed totally reasonable for her to theatrically wave her arm in a vague direction, saying that one day she simply must get the scissors and cut out things of interest to her, so then she could throw away the rest. Rosemary was spellbound by the wood wall panels hand painted with exotic River Nile scenes, and gorgeous lotus reed motif trims around the walls. I have only a vague recollection of those pure 1920s decorations, which would interest me greatly today. But Myrtle passed away over 40 years ago, and her aging, modest weatherboard home in an inner industrial suburb has long gone into the hands of her last gigolo.

November 12, 2018November 12, 2018

Pickle Gizzards, Pickle Anything

From early childhood I fondly remember pickled beetroot, walnuts, cabbage, sliced tomato and onion, cucumber, dills and fish, and sometimes heard whispers of pickled exotica that to this day I’ve never tried – are pickled bird nests a thing?

All around the world, fresh foods are preserved for future eating by being placed in various salt+vinegar solutions, generally with spices added according to local taste. I picked up the wiki and found an extensive list of pickled foods, from which the most unlikely pickle candidate with absolutely no appeal to me, was ‘pickled gizzards’. I’d much prefer gizzards fresh and grilled on a Uruguayan parilla, thankyou, if I must eat them at all. But then I googled ‘pickled eyes’, and decided enough is enough. “Pickled Gizzards” it is.

On pickling foods, science suggests two things. First, it seems that eating pickled food is good for our gut. To use one current buzzword, ‘microbiome’, shows you’re keeping up with this very important and currently trendy area of human health and medical research. You can buy books, attend courses and consume particular foods and drinks to immerse yourself in a whole intestinal health thing. And I’m sure there is something to the notion that gut health has an effect on every system in the complex human body. It certainly does affect inflammations, and probably legions of other ailments, possibly including and not limited to dementias, dropsy, grippe, melancholy, bunions, ague, domestic malady, falling sickness, quinsy, vertigo, hay fever, ship fever and more. And, as you’d expect, some research suggests that pickled foods might be carcinogenic. Life is carcinogenic, though, and with variety being the key to survival, I’m not going to take a stand either way. Pope reminded us that “A little learning is a dang’rous thing; / Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring”, which seems fair enough to me.

So – for pickled gizzards and other delights, bon appetit mes amis!!

November 12, 2018May 11, 2024

Men In The Kitchen 1

Many men cook well these days, and they include several close friends, brother-in-law John, husband Mike and our son, an early career professional chef who suggested I publish these stories. Whether or not men shine with the BBQ or at the kitchen stove, “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that when cooking food outside, this must always be done by a man”.

Dad built a brick BBQ at the Greens Beach shack, rather like this one Mike built years later at our Piesse St., Boulder WA, house (~1982-3).

Mike Schwabe architect and builder, Ivan, Anna and Silky, Boulder WA circa 1983

Dad was a keen Boy Scout, so I’m sure he could have cooked a roast or a stew though I don’t remember him doing that. But at the Greens Beach shack he always made breakfast. If someone had been out early and caught fish, he’d cook that. We mostly caught Tasmanian Flathead around there, and one of my strongest food memories is of fresh flattie cooked in a dab of butter on a flat pan, served with buttered toast, lemon juice and S&P to taste. In the absence of fish he cooked “Fried Bread”.

If you’d like to try Fried Bread, here’s how: From a slice of bread cut a round hole (cooker cutter) quickly dip both pieces into milk, and place on a hot frying pan covered with melted dripping (I never keep dripping these days, so it would be olive oil – sadly missing one important taste element) Once the bread’s golden brown underneath, turn it over, then break an egg into that hole. By the time the egg is cooked, the fried bread will be golden underneath. Serve immediately with the cutout on top and a bit of S&P to taste. It was absolutely delicious, and we ate these things every breakfast for weeks during the summer or whenever else we were down at the shack, but rarely back ‘in town’. No wonder we all developed weight problems.

Tomato chutney was another of Dad’s big numbers, and we got through jars and jars of it each year. It accompanied Mum’s Curry and cold meats. The extended Padman family prepared their poached eggs on toast with a layer of tomato chutney between toast and egg. I veered away from this family obsession when I discovered how lovely a light scrape of Vegemite between egg and toast is.

Dad’s other big number was raspberry jam, which was divine compared with any ‘bought’ brand. Our 4m x 4m raspberry patch seemed much bigger, probably because we had to pick them daily and even twice a day at the height of the season. We argued incessantly about whose turn it was to pick, who was picking slower or faster, and who was eating too many. It was usually hot, there were buzzing insects and creepy crawlies everywhere, and raspberry canes are very scratchy. Jam making was Dad’s work, though I did relief duty stirring quite often. Jars were thoroughly washed and sterilised in the oven. Wet squares of cellophane placed on top sealed the jars of hot jam. Mould occasionally developed on top, but then we just dig that bit out and used the rest left beneath. There were no gastric upsets from doing that, as I recall. Raspberry jam was used in sponge cakes and scones with cream, as morning and afternoon tea were a routine thing in those days.

At the shack, at least one meal a day was cooked outside on the steel plate BBQ. Lamb chops, steak, minced beef rissoles, and fresh fish were cooked with sliced potatoes, pumpkin and onions. Yum. But as far as I know there was never any plan to build a BBQ back in town. (Launceston) Anyway, there was no suitable area in the back yard for what Mum called dining al fresco. Continental terminology was very trendy in the 50s and 60s.

Barbecuing was generally reserved for seaside or lakeside shacks and some rural picnics. Then as now, on those occasions the food is usually cooked by the men. Does this tradition play on hunter gatherer instincts? I have no mental images of Mum lighting the BBQ though she may have sometimes. I rarely do, even though I was a Girl Guide who loved camping, cooking over an open fire, and could start a fire with just one match. All that outdoor stuff stood me in good stead for our ‘Tent Period’, (see Glossary) still many years away in the mid 70s.