Remembrance Day

This post originally appeared on November 11, 2009. 

Armistice Day. Poppy Day. Veterans' Day. Whatever you call it, please spare a moment on November 11 to remember and honor those who have given their skills, their bodies and brains, and their lives in armed service—including those who serve today.

Even if you vehemently oppose the conflicts, past or present, in which they took part; even if you consider their capabilities and lives wasted as a result of bad political decisions, blundering generalship, or misguided ideals; even if you disagree in every particular with the use of force to settle political disputes: please, pause for a moment to honor the individuals: their courage, which was maybe just fear overcome; their fortitude and endurance; and the things that they lost, and that we have, and have the luxury to take for granted, every day.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

- from "Anthem for Doomed Youth", Wilfred Owen, 1917

Remembrance Day

This post originally appeared on November 11, 2009. 

Armistice Day. Poppy Day. Veterans' Day. Whatever you call it, please spare a moment on November 11 to remember and honor those who have given their skills, their bodies and brains, and their lives in armed service—including those who serve today.

Even if you vehemently oppose the conflicts, past or present, in which they took part; even if you consider their capabilities and lives wasted as a result of bad political decisions, blundering generalship, or misguided ideals; even if you disagree in every particular with the use of force to settle political disputes: please, pause for a moment to honor the individuals: their courage, which was maybe just fear overcome; their fortitude and endurance; and the things that they lost, and that we have, and have the luxury to take for granted, every day.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

- from "Anthem for Doomed Youth", Wilfred Owen, 1917

ANZAC Day

This post originally appeared on April 27, 2009 and is re-posted here with slight modifications. 

Today, April 25, is ANZAC Day. It is sort of an Australian version of Memorial Day. But only sort of.

April 25 is significant because it marks the date, in 1915, when Australian and New Zealand troops (ANZAC = Australia New Zealand Army Corps) began their prolonged and costly assault on the beaches of Gallipoli alongside their Allied counterparts. The campaign in this part of the world was an attempt to break the stalemate that was already occurring in the entrenched lines of the Western Front, or at least to divert attention from it with an Allied victory. The initial ANZAC assault was marred by poor planning, which in turn led to flawed execution, at huge cost of life. The casualty rates are gruesomely familiar to anyone with a passing knowledge of First World War history: nearly 45,000 Allied troops, of whom 8,700 were Australian.

Gallipoli has assumed iconographic status in the historical memory of Australians. The death tolls of those days in 1915, horrendous as they were, would be surpassed in later years in pivotal battles at the Somme and Amiens, but Gallipoli was the first: Australia’s coming of age in war. And every year, at the same dawn hour when the ANZAC troops began their amphibious attack, Australians gather, in small towns and big cities all over the country, to honor not only their service and sacrifice, but also the contributions of all Australian veterans.

Since I’ve been in Australia, I’ve visited the national Australian War Memorial here in Canberra, and also the Shrine of Remembrance in Melbourne, both of which were originally constructed to honor the dead of the First World War. After having lived in England, I was familiar with the awesome and lasting impact of this war on generation after generation, but it was only in coming here that I have fully grasped the importance of such physical memorials: how Australians in particular, far removed geographically from where their loved ones had died, and with little prospect either of having a body to bury or of traveling to a distant grave, poured the energy of their grief into communal memorials, as a tangible reminder and commemoration of those they had lost.

I don’t think most Americans even know that Memorial Day originally existed to remember the dead of the American Civil War, and any communal celebrations that still take place are more likely to be of the parade variety. For most people, the only thing Memorial Day commemorates now is the first barbecue or weekend away of the summer season. And there’s plenty of that here, too, for ANZAC Day. But I admire a country that, more than 90 years after the fact, makes the time to reflect quietly upon patriotism, soldiering, and sacrifice: for those who were at Gallipoli, all those who have served since, and for every individual, military and civilian alike.

ANZAC Biscuits
These cookies are an Australian icon in their own right. The recipe was devised to create a biscuit that would survive the long journey to Australian troops stationed overseas, arrive intact, and still taste good when the homesick recipient opened his package. You can find commercially produced versions of them in every shop, and the biggest producer, as standard practice, donates a portion of the profits to veterans’ charities. They’re good out of a package—they do indeed keep forever—but, as (nearly) always, they’re better homemade. I haven't made my own (yet!), so I direct you to an online authority instead. For my first attempt, I definitely want the real thing that someone's gran was baking back when.

Remembrance Day

This post originally appeared on November 11, 2009. 

Armistice Day. Poppy Day. Veterans' Day. Whatever you call it, please spare a moment on November 11 to remember and honor those who have given their skills, their bodies and brains, and their lives in armed service—including those who serve today.

Even if you vehemently oppose the conflicts, past or present, in which they took part; even if you consider their capabilities and lives wasted as a result of bad political decisions, blundering generalship, or misguided ideals; even if you disagree in every particular with the use of force to settle political disputes: please, pause for a moment to honor the individuals: their courage, which was maybe just fear overcome; their fortitude and endurance; and the things that they lost, and that we have, and have the luxury to take for granted, every day.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

- from "Anthem for Doomed Youth", Wilfred Owen, 1917

Wordless Wednesday: Daydream Believer

RIP Davy Jones. Thanks for the memories of childhood afternoons singing, dancing, and giggling along with you and Mike, Mickey, and Peter.

Flavor memories

Blueberry bread was one of my favorite cakes of childhood. My Aunt Ann was the first to discover this recipe, but had shared it with my mother long before I came along. My mother would make it in the summer with my Uncle Jimmy’s fresh blueberries; in good years, she would freeze the overflow in bags and make this in the depths of winter. The blueberries scattered through the cake tasted like a burst of August, even on the most frigid February Sunday.


Blueberry bread
aka Aunt Ann’s Prize Coffee Cake
We always referred to this as 'cake', and it wasn't until I baked this to bring as a hostess gift that I heard it referred to as ‘bread’. My hosts toasted and buttered it for breakfast—another revelation to me. To this day, whenever anyone refers to ‘quick bread’, this is what I think of first. The recipe below is exactly as transcribed into my recipe notebook from one of my mother’s index cards more years ago than I can remember.

1. Mix:
- ¾ cup sugar
- ¼ cup shortening*
- 1 egg

2. Stir in:
- ½ cup milk**

3. Sift and stir in:
- 1½ cups flour
- 2 tsp baking powder
- ½ tsp salt

If adding blueberries:
- ½ cup flour extra
- 2 cups blueberries
- juice & zest of 1 lime

(If adding cranberries:
- 1-1½ cups cranberries
- ½-1 cup orange juice)

Top with cinnamon sugar. Bake in a greased and floured loaf pan at 375F for 20-35 minutes.

Makes 1 loaf.

* Nowadays I substitute the same amount of unsalted butter.
** Sometimes I replace half the milk with plain yogurt; this makes for a denser, moister cake.

Veterans' Day

This post originally appeared on November 11, 2009. 

Armistice Day. Poppy Day. Remembrance Day. Whatever you call it, please spare a moment on November 11 to remember and honor those who have given their skills, their bodies and brains, and their lives in armed service—including those who serve today.

Even if you vehemently oppose the conflicts, past or present, in which they took part; even if you consider their capabilities and lives wasted as a result of bad political decisions, blundering generalship, or misguided ideals; even if you disagree in every particular with the use of force to settle political disputes: please, pause for a moment to honor the individuals: their courage, which was maybe just fear overcome; their fortitude and endurance; and the things that they lost, and that we have, and have the luxury to take for granted, every day.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
- from "Anthem for Doomed Youth", Wilfred Owen, 1917

Brown rice

Certain foods have something of a stigma attached to them in my house. For example, DP, as a child of Baby Boomers, was exposed to all sorts of groovy 70s food experimentation that completely passed by me, a child of an immigrant/ Depression/WWII household. Thus, while I was helping can tomatoes and roll out homemade pasta, DP was trying out tofu and brown rice. He seems to have been scarred by the experience: the very mention of either of those things still makes him shudder.

Superlative snacking

I can hardly begin to quantify the number of things I learned about cultural diversity and human nature during my years of living overseas, but I must also confess that many of the most memorable lessons are less than profound. Prominent among these is my recollection of the first time I went to the movies (or should I say the cinema) in England. Having bought my ticket, I went to the concession stand and requested popcorn.

“Salt or sweet?” inquired the helpful person standing behind the counter.

Tonic detox

If you don’t know me personally, here is an embarrassing fact about me you probably also don’t know: despite all the time I spend baking my own bread, making desserts from scratch, and buying one-ingredient food items, I can count on two hands the number of days I have gone in the past quarter-century plus without consuming tonic (aka soda, pop, fizzy drink—using “tonic” to describe a carbonated beverage is the linguistic stamp of an old-school Bostonian of a certain age, FYI). Specifically, Pepsi.

Homecoming day

Several months ago, I published Happy Fifth Birthday wishes to Miss B (complete with photo of her made-to-order, ineptly decorated Shark Cake).

Today isn’t a birthday. But in many ways it’s just as important—maybe even more important. Today marks the day, five years ago, that Miss B came home from the hospital.

Remembrance Day

Armistice Day. Poppy Day. Veterans Day. Whatever you call it, please spare a moment on November 11 to remember and honor those who have given their skills, their bodies and brains, and their lives in armed service—including those who serve today.

Even if you vehemently oppose the conflicts, past or present, in which they took part; even if you consider their capabilities and lives wasted as a result of bad political decisions, blundering generalship, or misguided ideals; even if you disagree in every particular with the use of force to settle political disputes: please, pause for a moment to honor the individuals: their courage, which was maybe just fear overcome; their fortitude and endurance; and the things that they lost, and that we have, and have the luxury to take for granted, every day.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

- from "Anthem for Doomed Youth", Wilfred Owen, 1917

Taste memory

Why do certain memories stand out so sharply, even when you yourself can't figure out what is particularly significant about them?

I've already written about one vivid food memory I've been carrying around for several years. Another one comes from one of my periods of "perching" in the US between stints of overseas living. This one, from 2003, was when I was living in Boston but commuting to Providence for work. (For anyone not familiar with southern New England, that's 40+ miles/64+ km of driving each way. About an hour, door to door, five days a week.)

Despite the grinding commute, and the pressures of the job (including one stretch of several months where I was covering the responsibilities of three full-time positions), in many ways I really enjoyed that year. The work atmosphere was pretty intense, and it created some strong relationships; I still keep in touch with a lot of the people I worked with, even though we have all moved on. There were a lot of good eaters among us, so I managed to eat in almost every restaurant on Thayer Street and the surrounding area of College Hill (a significant number); and also to sample a lot of home-cooked food and other goodies that my co-workers and I brought to the office to share.
Among all of those varied eating experiences, my single strongest food memory is the berry-yogurt cake our director brought in one Friday from her favorite local bakery. (I still haven't been able to figure out why.) I do remember that I had to physically restrain myself from eating the whole thing, and I've been searching for a recipe ever since that would allow me to replicate that particular texture.

Do you have taste memories haunting you? What are yours?

Gateau yaourt internationale
Adapted from Fig Jam and Lime Cordial
Thanks to the wonders of the internet, I think my six-year quest for my perfect yogurt cake may be over. I found this on an Australian food blog, adapted from an American cookbook, documenting a classic French recipe. It is a cinch to make, and all the ingredients are things you are likely to have on hand. I had to fiddle with it a little to accommodate what was stored in my cabinets and my brain cells, and, unintentionally but fittingly, produced a French cake with an American/Australian twist.
1 cup plain/all-purpose flour
½ cup almond meal (or extra ½ cup flour)*
2 tsp baking powder
pinch salt
1 cup sugar
1 tsp lemon zest
½ cup Greek yogurt
3 large eggs
½ tsp vanilla extract
½ cup flavorless oil**
1 cup mixed berries***
½ cup jam or marmalade, to glaze****
Thoroughly grease a loaf tin or other baking pan of choice (I made mine in a muffin tin). Preheat oven to 350F/175C.
Combine flour, almond meal (if using), baking powder, and salt in a small bowl and whisk to combine. Set aside.
In a large bowl, whisk together the sugar, lemon zest, yogurt, eggs, and vanilla until completely combined.
Slowly add the dry ingredients, whisking to incorporate, then fold in the oil with a spatula until you have a smooth, shiny batter. Fold in berries, then scoop or scrape into prepared pan(s).
Bake for 25-55 minutes, depending upon pan chosen (muffin-pan cakes will be done closer to the 25-minute mark), until a tester comes out clean (berries notwithstanding). Cool the pan on a rack for about five minutes, then loosen cake(s) around the edges with a knife and remove. Allow to cool completely on rack.
To make glaze, melt jam or marmalade in a pan over low heat. Add a few tablespoons of water if necessary to achieve the desired consistency. Brush glaze all over cake(s) with a pastry brush, and leave to set.
Makes 12 muffin-pan cakes, with a bit left over.
* Since I didn't have almond meal, I used more flour. But I liked the idea of a nutty undertone, so…
** …I used macadamia oil instead of a flavorless vegetable oil. It worked very well, providing a very subtle (and Australian) note of nuttiness.
*** I added a mixture of blueberries and raspberries, since that's how I remember the Providence version.
**** To complement the choice of berries in the cake, I used a "fruits des bois" jam which contained (among other berries) blueberries and raspberries.

Repurposing architecture

The other day we went for a wander around our bit of Canberra. On the way home, we passed this church. I’ve gone past it dozens of times in the past months, but I’d never really looked at it properly, so we stopped to have a nose around. We couldn’t go inside, but it had one of those helpful local historical society signs outside, which enabled me to learn all about the building’s bizarre history.

You may not be able to tell very well from the picture, but the church has somewhat odd proportions—note the giant front door, for instance. This is because the building started its life as a railway station. But its resemblance to a church is not accidental; it was not an ordinary railway station, but a Mortuary Station, built specially to service trains to Rookwood Cemetery in Sydney.

(Rookwood is itself notable: it is the largest cemetery, or, as it is officially known, “necropolis” in the Southern Hemisphere, and has been operating since the mid-nineteenth century, when it was built to relieve pressure on older cemeteries in Sydney that were reaching capacity.)

Because of Rookwood’s distance from Sydney’s center, a spur line of the railway, and the Mortuary Stations, were built to service funeral parties. There were three stations in different parts of the cemetery (serving different denominations), plus one at the main entrance and another one at the start of the line in Sydney, adjacent to the central railway station; they were deliberately designed to create an appropriately solemn atmosphere for funeral processions. The stations (and the line) were in use until 1948, when they were rendered obsolete by increased use of cars and roads. All Saints Church was formerly Mortuary Station No. 1; it was purchased by an Anglican minister for £100 and relocated to Canberra in 1957.

Many of the building’s other architectural features also started life somewhere else: one of the stained-glass windows came from a church in England that was bombed during World War II; the church bell came from a train; and the tower was originally located on the other side of the building.

If you look carefully at the tower, you can see two dates on it: at the top, “1868,” when the building was originally dedicated; and underneath it, “1958,” when it was re-dedicated as a church. Quite an amazing story, really, of historical preservation and thrift.

Canberra may be nearly brand-new, as cities go (it’s not even 100 yet!), but it still manages to present interesting bits of history here and there--often when I least expect it.

Restaurant meals

I’ve written before about how, several years ago, I had a job that required travelling two weeks out of every four. This state of affairs lasted for about a year and a half, and during that time I ate a lot of restaurant meals. Hundreds of them. So many, in fact, that I think I’m forever jaded about eating out; even now, I don't care about eating out often, but I want maximum bang for my buck when I do. It doesn’t have to be expensive or complicated; but it does have to be fresh, tasty, and creative. Otherwise I’d rather just stay home and cook my own dinner.

When I think back to that parade of long-ago restaurant meals, it’s amazing how few of them I can remember in any detail, if I can remember them at all; whole trips are just a blur in my memory at this point. And there is only one that I remember so vividly that I can still tell you exactly what I had for dinner after all this time. It was at a Greek restaurant in Adelaide, where DP and I were taken for dinner by a friend of my brother-in-law’s and her husband. We’d never met before (my BIL hadn’t even seen her in about 15 years), but they were warm, welcoming, and friendly. They took us to one of their favorite restaurants, a place we would never have found on our own, and we had delicious food, great wine, and interesting conversation—in other words, a thoroughly enjoyable evening. Not coincidentally, I think it was at around this point in the trip that DP and I began to say to each other that Australia might be a nice place to spend some more time someday, if we could figure out how to arrange such a thing….

Almost exactly seven years later, in Canberra, I finally got around to re-creating my main course from that memorable dinner.

Greek Shrimp in Tomato Sauce
I’ve found a couple of versions of this on the internet, but in the end I decided to wing it and try to make it from memory, without any guidance. I have no idea how authentically Greek it is, but it is flavorful, hearty, and satisfying, without being at all stodgy.

Ingredients250ml/10oz water
125g/5oz mangetout/snow peas, trimmed and cut in half
5 Tbsp olive oil, divided
125g/5oz white rice
1 clove garlic, minced
Sprinkle red pepper flakes
250g/10oz shrimp
2-3 cups plain tomato sauce (you can make a quick marinara; I had made an extra-big batch of Zesty Pizza Sauce the night before on purpose)
100g/3oz feta cheese, cut into small cubes
Salt and pepper to taste

Method
I’m going to tell you exactly how I did it, which I think is the most efficient way in terms of water and pan usage. If you have to make the tomato sauce, that will add another step.

1. Put water on to heat up in a small saucepan. Put a medium saucepan and a large frying pan on the stove to heat on low.
2. When the water comes to a boil, add a pinch of salt and then put the mangetout in to cook very briefly—just for a minute or two. Put about 2 Tbsp of olive oil in the medium saucepan to heat up.
3. Remove the mangetout from the boiling water with a slotted spoon and put aside to drain for a few minutes. Let the water return to a boil.
4. Check the oil in the saucepan to see if it’s warm. If it is, before you do anything to it, add 3 Tbsp of oil to the frying pan to heat. Now dump the rice in the saucepan and turn in the oil several times to coat thoroughly. Add the boiling water and a teaspoon or two of salt and stir to make sure everything is evenly distributed. Put a lid on the saucepan, make sure that the rice is cooking at a fast simmer, and leave alone for 12 minutes.
5. Turn the heat under the frying pan to medium and add the garlic and red pepper. Cook very briefly, then add the shrimp. When the shrimp are starting to color, add the mangetout and let everything sauté, stirring regularly. (A splash of white wine would have been nice here too, but I didn’t have any.)
6. Add the tomato sauce to the frying pan and continue stirring regularly. (If you are using a thick sauce, as I did, you might also need to add a bit of liquid at this point.) When everything looks as though it’s cooked to your satisfaction (ie pink shrimp, al dente mangetout), stir in the feta cheese and taste for seasoning.
7. Serve immediately over rice, with some crusty bread alongside.

This served 1 adult and 1 child, with enough left over for at least 1 other adult meal.

Groovy baby

Back when I was an adolescent in a section of Boston renowned for being ‘tough’, ‘working-class’, and other evocative adjectives beloved by journalists trying to describe the New Kids on the Block, we experienced an influx of people not from the neighborhood—not even from Boston, in most cases. Attracted by spacious, wood-frame houses (in various states of repair) selling at reasonable rates, quiet, tree-lined streets, and easy access to downtown Boston on the T, they were a bit of a phenomenon in our townie part of the world. They weren’t yuppies, exactly; for one thing, they didn’t have enough money to fit the profile, because most of them were politically left and did socially progressive work—printing presses run as collectives, non-profit organizations, social work of various kinds. They had young families and enough of them shortly arrived in a six-block radius to provide my sister and me with a thriving babysitting business.

The only drawback to this arrangement was that our clients, in addition to their esoteric politics, also had purist ideas about food: no chips or cookies, no soft drinks; no refined sugar or fat—in short, no junk food or goodies of any kind. I was used to this, since my mother had the same policy, for totally different, old-school reasons, but when you’re babysitting you expect a few treats to alleviate the tedium. The parents always generously told me to “eat whatever I wanted,” but, despite a thorough scan of the fridge, the pantry, and the cabinets, there was hardly ever anything I recognized, let alone was tempted to eat.

The kitchens were always full of various whole-grain products, and from this came the nickname that we townie twerps used to refer to them collectively—“crunchy granolas”—our shorthand for the latter-day hippies suddenly in our midst. To this day, that’s what I think of whenever I hear the word granola which, to be honest, I had eaten very little of until recently. I had sampled it at various times, but always found it too sweet or too full of bizarre ingredients to compel me to eat it again.

Then, this summer, at my sister-in-law’s wedding weekend in western Massachusetts, I sampled some homemade granola that my sister-in-law’s aunt-in-law had brought along from upstate New York, by request (or was it demand?) of her kids, nieces and nephews. I couldn’t stop eating it, and asked her for the recipe 15 minutes after I ate my first handful (right after I physically separated myself from the bag). She’s been making it for so long that she gave me the recipe off the top of her head, and I’ve already made enough batches of it that I can easily see how that could happen.

Aunt Sue’s Groovy Granola
I was given this recipe with conventional baking instructions (which I’ve included), but I’ve only made this in my slow cooker, because then I don’t have to worry so much about it burning. Also, as you’ll see, I’ve messed with the recipe considerably, and yet strangely, somehow, it’s still just as good as what I originally ate. And easy besides.

3 cups oats
1 cup spelt flour (or whole wheat)*
Couple of pinches salt
1 t cinnamon
½ cup chopped almonds
¼ cup sesame seeds
¼ cup sunflower seeds**
¼ cup pumpkin seeds**
⅔ cup sunflower oil***
⅔ cup maple syrup
1 t vanilla extract
1 t almond extract****

Mix all together and bake at 165C/325F for 35 minutes, or slow cook on low for 3-4 hours.

* I haven’t found any spelt flour yet, so I’ve just been using whatever I have.
** I haven’t gotten around to buying either of these yet, so I’ve been substituting coconut and chopped dried cranberries (adding the latter after cooking).
*** I use light olive oil.
**** I haven’t gotten around to buying this either, so I just add a little more vanilla.

Update, Feb. 15: I've just learned that Aunt Sue was among the 49 people on Flight 3407, which crashed outside Buffalo, NY on Thursday, Feb. 12. My condolences go to her children, siblings, and extended family and friends. I only met her once, but I'm glad I had that opportunity; I'll remember her generosity and vibrancy every time I make this recipe.

Mystery meat

I am a fan of sausage. Yes, I know all the arguments against it. Yes, I read The Jungle when I was in college too. No, I wouldn’t eat one off a cart outside Fenway. (Anymore. I have been known to.) But none of that changes the fact that I like it. I have, ever since my palate was deemed mature enough to eat the “sweet” sausage that my mother’s Italian butcher Carlo made himself, bursting with pork and liberally sprinkled with finocchie. (Every time my mother ate it, she said the same thing -- “If this is the sweet sausage, I don’t want to taste the hot!” – while fanning herself.) Since everyone knows all the planks of the anti-sausage platform, I offer two pro positions:

1. Sausage is idiosyncratic. And adaptable.
Well into adulthood, I pretty much only ate Carlo’s sausage, spurning anything on offer at the supermarket and sampling only the occasional barbecue or Fenway pushcart offering. Then I moved to England, where at first I despaired of finding anything even remotely resembling Italian sausage. Especially after my first encounter with Cumberland sausage. Not that it wasn’t good—it was—but “spicy” or even “flavorful” were not the first words that came to mind.

But I underestimated the English love of all things sausage-related—after all, they eat so much sausage and potato that it’s a national dish and even has its own nickname (“bangers and mash”). I also misjudged the adventurousness of their palates, as I discovered the day I stumbled upon the shop in Oxford’s Covered Market devoted entirely to sausage: at least a dozen different varieties, using a huge range of ethnic cuisines as inspiration, including a number which I had never thought about in connection with sausage (Thai?). They even had more than one kind of Italian sausage! I sampled several, and settled on the one I liked best for my own, Italianized version of bangers and mash. Several years of sausage happiness ensued. Then we moved to Australia.

The first dinner I cooked after our arrival here, before we had even moved into our apartment, was bangers and mash. The hunt for Australian Italian sausage was on. No worries: I’ve only been here a month, and I’ve already found three different varieties. And not only are they different from each other, none of them is particularly similar to their English or American cousins. I’m sure their composition is influenced by all sorts of things, and I have no idea how authentic any of them are (I don’t think I’ve ever actually eaten a sausage in Italy), but as long as they taste good and use a seasoning palate that is my version of soul food, I’m buying.

2. Sausage is good value for money.
I can already hear you saying, “Yes, but that’s because it's full of garbage!” but in my experience, if you get your sausage from a good butcher, it is actually mostly full of meat, and with no more fat than, say, your average hamburger. Ounce for ounce (or gram for gram in my case), sausage is a good buy if you are looking to stretch your food budget, and if you buy more highly seasoned and flavorful varieties, you may find yourself eating less than you anticipated, which is financially and calorically beneficial. The last batch I bought, from a butcher, cost me about AUD$12.00 for six sausages (that's about USD$8.00/GBP5.00; I’m not sure how much they weighed, but some of them were pretty hefty). I cooked it all for dinner that night—bangers and mash, Italian style, plus a green vegetable, for three of us. There was enough sausage left over to make:

1. a batch of zesty tomato sauce with ground sausage for another dinner later in the week;
2. sausage-and-cheese panini for DP and me for lunch both days of the weekend;
3. two lunches of leftover pasta and sauce for Miss B; and
4. one more sandwich, for just me this time.

Thirteen person-meals from six sausages—sounds good to me. And they tasted good too.