plate 30: mauritius

I don't know about you, but I'm over winter. I love all that cosyness that goes with it: pulling up the doona so far you can barely see your face; open crackling fires; and steaming hot cups of tea... but I have a cold at the moment, so all that snuggliness has been tainted by snottiness (I never thought that word would ever be penned on my food blog). I've been craving summer sunshine, which may have been the reason for my tastebud trip to Mauritius this week. Here's the first image that greeted me on an image search of this island in the Indian Ocean: definitely rather be here than at the desk or sick in bed. Sigh.

I had no idea about Mauritian food, but now I know it's described as Creole - a style of cooking that fuses ingredients and techniques from Africa, India, France and the Caribbean. Mauritian fare also features elements of the Chinese kitchen, too, so it's quite the combo.

One of the most common ingredients in Mauritian cuisine is chilli and it's the star of gateaux piments, or chilli cakes. These deep-fried nuggets of yellow split peas, chilli, coriander and shallots are said to be the hot chips of Mauritius, sold in paper bags at markets and street stalls all over the island. To steal a line from Jerry Maguire, you had me at "hot chips". (My God the little Jonathan Lipnicki was so dang cute in that movie! "Jerry, did you know that dogs can smell fear?".) Sorry for being momentarily sidetracked by small children - I'm as enamoured by them as I am by food.

Although I've eaten a fair amount of deep-fried deliciousness in my time, I've never actually made a deep-fried dish at home - it was high time I did. The gateuax piments were pretty easy to make. Just blend up the split peas (after soaking them overnight) with chopped coriander, chilli and shallot, and a bit of ground cumin, then roll into small balls and deep-fry in batches until golden.

At first bite it was clear they were missing a certain something, though: seasoning. OK, I have a bit of an embarrassing kitchen confession: I often forget to season my food and taste as I go along. I know, it's a kitchen crime, but I think it's because I get so carried away with making sure I'm getting techniques right and hoping like hell I haven't forgotten a crucial ingredient, that I omit one of the most vital - salt.

A little sprinkling on top saved them somewhat, and they weren't altogether that bad. They were actually pretty more-ish. The flavour was fresh, herbacious and the chilli gave a lovely sharp kick. While they didn't have the crunch outside and super-soft inside I was hoping for, they did have a nice springy texture. Almost falafelesque, and I do love a falafel. In fact, a site I read said you can also eat them in hot crusty bread with butter: I reckon that'd be rather tasty.

plate 29: nicaragua

You might find a few more desserts gracing the pages of Destination Degustation over the next little while. You see, I've caught the baking bug. Baking isn't something I do often and I'm really not sure why. It's pretty obvious that I like food in any form, but if given the choice I'd choose sweet over savoury, and who can't be captivated by those fantastic smells that emanate from the oven as your mixture turns into masterpiece (or so you hope)?

To feed my baking craving, I headed to the Central American country of Nicaragua (trivia nerds note: bordered by Honduras and Costa Rica, capital Managua, flag below). If you haven't heard of Nicaragua before, well, now you have, but if you have mates who don't know of it, I suggest you educate them via the country's most famous cake: Pastel de Tres Leches, or Three-Milks Cake. Many Latin American and Caribbean countries, including Mexico and Cuba, may claim the cake as their own, but history says otherwise.

But let's move from classroom to kitchen. Baking invariably means egg separating - a skill that I've been getting better and better at after all these weeks, finally - and this cake required five eggs to be separated. Five whites, which needed some serious beating. After a few minutes I was already exhausted, but the beat gradually became therapeutic. It was like a massage being applied too hard - a slightly painful process that would all be worth it in the end.

And I was right. Half an hour later, sporting what felt like Popeye's right arm, I got the whites to the desired snow-white and glossy, firm-peaked stage. Having learned my lesson from French week when I made a souffle, I very carefully folded them into the yolk mixture and smoothed them into the pan.

The cake itself is pretty simple and only takes about 40 minutes in the oven, but what makes it so ridiculously special is the triple-milk syrup that's poured over the top. Once I'd let the cake cool, it was ready to be filled with the wondrous combination of evaporated milk, sweetened condensed milk, cream, vanilla essence and a splash of rum.

To fill the cake, poke lots of little holes all over it and slowly, very slowly, pour the milk mixture over it, letting it soak into the cake. Waiting for it to soak through is slightly time-consuming, especially as it seems like there's a helluva lot of mixture, but you need it to get the perfect result.

Because of all that mixture I was concerned the cake would be super soggy and hard to cut, but surprisingly when the time came to slide the knife through, it sliced just fine. I was able to produce lovely little squares that were ready to be topped with yet another milky substance - whipped cream with a touch of sugar - and slices of canned mango.

Oh. My. God. Incredible. Five stars. Although the texture is fairly wet because of the syrup, overall the cake is soft and lusciously sweet. And, you know something's pretty great when you're thinking about eating a second slice before you've even finished your first.

plate 28: switzerland

The lovely G'Baby - AKA Gaby - is one of my oldest friends and, conveniently for the purposes of Destination Degustation, half Swiss. So, this week's journey took me to Switzerland: the land of cheese and chocolate. Oh what a joyous land it is.

When I consulted G'Baby for what I should cook, her immediate answer was raclette. This is a type of Swiss cheese (complete with those cute holes) that melts to bubbling, golden perfection when placed on a mini saucepan and cooked under a raclette - an electric tabletop cooker that shares its name with the cheese.

Normally when I'm having people over for dinner, I'm running around the kitchen like a crazy person, all stress and swearing, but this one was ridiculously easy. I felt like I was cheating, but that's the beauty of hosting a raclette party - you pretty much do nothing! All you have to do is slice the raclette cheese (which G'Baby's mum Vero kindly ordered for me from her favourite raclette supplier), boil some baby potatoes and put them on a plate with cornichons (baby cucumbers) and deliciously sweet, vinegary cocktail onions, then bring the raclette to the table and cook it right there.

We used Vero's retro raclette (which featured a rather disturbing silhouette image of a man in a wheelchair), but I've found this site where you can order a raclette cooker so you can have happy fun raclette times whenever you fancy. Our party almost didn't happen though as the power plug was European. Thankfully guest Nick is a sparky and was successfully able to transform it to fit the Australian powerpoint. Phew. Here he is in all his Mr Fix-It glory.

If my description of how the raclette works isn't totally clear, we videoed the wonderfully presentable G'Baby to give us a little demonstration. Take it away G'Baby.

After consuming 1.2kg of cheese, we needed a (slight) break before desserting, head on into a bowl of warm, smooth, delectable chocolate. The Lindt tasting at the supermarket confirmed the best to use for the vanilla chocolate fondue was their 50% cocoa - a superb mix of milk and dark chocolate. What better way to end a cheese feast than by smothering strawberries into chocolate. Hail Switzerland.

plate 27: scotland

I really wanted to try haggis. I really, really did. But somehow the required sheep's "pluck" (the heart, liver and lungs) didn't exactly make my mouth water. Stumbling across another Scottish favourite - cock-a-leekie soup - I began to think that Scots are both revolting and rude.

haggis: the ribbon doesn't make you seem any more appealing, sorry

But nay, they are neither. While I admittedly girlishly giggled at the name cock-a-leekie, it made sense once I read what the dish included: chicken (cock) and leek (leekie). There were also other ingredients in this soup that appealed much more to my tastebuds than heart, liver and lungs: prunes (nature's lollies as a friend likes to call them), bacon, thyme and brown sugar.

Cock-a-leekie appears to date back to Medieval times and traditionally the chicken was served separately to the broth, but now it's sometimes eaten all in one bowl. It's also the classic starter at Burns' Night, celebrated in Scotland on January 25 to toast the life and works of their country's famous poet Robert Burns (author of Auld Lang Syne, although whether he actually wrote it is debated). While cock-a-leekie is one of the attractions of Burns' Night, haggis is THE highlight of the dinner. Diners are to rise as the haggis is ceremoniously brought to the table via a procession led by the chef and a bagpiper. True story.

I digress. While cock-a-leekie takes about three-and-a-half hours to cook, there's really nothing to it. Chop up a chook (or use chicken pieces), simmer it in stock and/or water, then an hour later add the leeks and herbs, then two hours after that add the bacon and prunes. No wonder this is part of special Scottish celebrations - it's downright delicious. Cooking the chicken for more than three hours results in what I think is the most tender, melt-in-the-mouth chicken I've ever eaten. The sweet flavour of the prunes worked magically with the bacon. Oh, and a little bit of rice is added too which thickens up the soup and makes it hearty enough to eat as a main and delicious enough to go back for seconds.

Dessert also took a long time to cook but little time to prepare. I was worried as Black Bun - a classic Scottish Hogmanay (New Year's Eve) dessert - required me to make pastry: something I've never done before. Our kitchen lacks a food processor, so I was left to the old-fashioned method of creating it by hand. While it wasn't perfect, the texture was crumbly and the taste buttery, so it seemed to work.

But what is black bun? Well, it's kind of like fruitcake, but wrapped up in pastry. I love dried fruit and this had lots: currants, raisins, sultanas, as well as mixed peel and lots of spices: cinnamon, mixed spice, ginger and even a touch of cayenne pepper. Plus, whiskey - of course. The result: a scrumptiously rich, dense dessert. And in D Rose's words: DELICIEUX et MAGNIFIQUE. (I had given D Rose and Papa George some leftovers and yes, the text came through in caps.) Bless. If you do end up making it following the recipe I used, it doesn't specify how much buttermilk to add to the fruit mixture, only to stir it in until soft and moist, so I just added a little bit, about 1/4 to 1/3 of a cup.

My parting words are don't wait till January 25 to whip up these Scottish favourites. Winter is the perfect time for them. Enjoy x

plate 26: wales

Firstly, let me indulge in a little joy: I've now eaten my way halfway around the world - hurrah! Twenty-six plates devoured and 26 more to discover. Ah, that expression of delight felt good.

Secondly, I know "England, Ireland, Wales, Scotland" doesn't have the same ring to it, and I know I'm not one who usually breaks the rules, but time was limited this week. So to make things a little easier for myself I settled for cheese on toast. No ordinary cheese on toast. Welsh cheese on toast, AKA Welsh rabbit or rarebit depending on your school of writing. Cooking Welsh this week was not an ode to the birthplace of our new female prime minister, just a little coinkidink. Just in case you've been living under a rock, here she is.

I was excited about what our dinner of cheese on toast was to entail: stout cooked with double cream until thick, stirred into grated cheddar with hot English mustard and a splash of Worcestershire sauce, all smothered on Bourke St Bakery sourdough and grilled until bubbling. Sadly, though, I was a little underwhelmed. While I did enjoy the rich, intense taste, there were a few things that may have affected the flavour. (And it wasn't that I misunderstood the recipe like I have misunderstood Welsh people in the past - man those accents are crazy!)

One: we forgot to buy the cheese. For cheese on toast? Yes, for cheese on toast. I triple-checked the almost-bare fridge, opening and closing the door every few minutes in sheer bewilderment. I even checked the freezer and the pantry to see if we had mistakenly stored it in the wrong place. Nope, no cheese. So I tried to find a solution. Have you ever tried grating sliced cheese? No, me neither, and I don't recommend it - time consuming, messy and rather annoying. So the cheese mixture ended up being a mishmash of semi-grated semi-torn sliced vintage cheddar and the remainder of a shreeded pizza cheese packet.

Two: the stout and double cream mixture split and, it pains me to say it, resembled a brain as the oil from the cream swirled its way through the browning stout.

But I pressed on and the rarebit made it to the table. Dinner friends seemed to rather enjoy it, but I'd like to give it another go with the right cheese, which is apparently Welsh caerphilly - a semi-firm white, crumbly cheese - and the right-textured cream mixture. Apparently many Welsh folk keep a bowl of the cheese mixture in the fridge for a midnight snack. I suspect it'd be very good food after stumbling home from a big night out or when in need of curing a hangover. To see if it works, or just to see if you can make it better than me, try this recipe.

What I also wanted to make, but ran out of time, is Welsh fruit loaf: bara brith (said "barra breeth"). The ingredients for this I do have.

plate 25: ireland

This week I headed west from England, across the Irish Sea and over to the island of Ireland for potatoes, Guinness and whiskey. Given the Irish partiality to potatoes, I was thinking about doing a three-course potato meal, or an Irish smorgasbord as my dad called it: boiled potato, mashed potato, roasted potato and chips.

But I thought it best to serve some kind of meat with the meal, so rather than a potato degustation, I opted to serve beef & Guinness stew with champ, which sure is the champion of mashed potato. Now that I've sampled this smooth, incredibly creamy, unbelievably naughty mash (thanks to loads of butter and milk), I don't know how I'll go back to the regular version again. Speckled with Ireland's national colour - green - with shallot and chive - it tasted spectacular. I figured it was pretty good since D Rose (my mum) polished off two helpings and she doesn't even eat potatoes. To make it, just boil spuds in their skin, then peel when they're cool and mash. Boil some milk, add some shallots and add it to the mash with chopped chives and butter. Stir it all up until it melts. Mmmmmmm.

Sharing the plate with this potato masterpiece was a delicious heart-warming beef stew made with almost two big cans of Guinness, lots of onion, garlic, carrot and herbs. The Guinness gave an awesome bittersweet flavour to the meat, which was fantastically tender and juicy (I used blade steak) and the vegetables were cooked beautifully. Not only did the stew taste great, it was quick to cook: about 45 mins to an hour (including prep time), so you can make it midweek without having to wait until 10pm to eat.

Once everyone gobbled up their food, a little bit of sauce swam on our plates, and while I did contemplate picking up my plate and licking it all up, I thought it not so ladylike. So I gave everyone a spoon and we happily slurped up every last skerrick.

Dessert came in the form of Irish coffee, which I'd never had before. And I was pleasantly surprised. It was delicious, but strong: designated drivers beware. The addition of a jigger (60ml) of Irish whiskey to hot, freshly brewed coffee may tip you over the limit. I was a tad worried about D Rose who was driving home - she seemed a little tipsy after sipping her after-dinner drink. If you're wondering what the white stuff is at the top - it's whipped cream. Trust the Irish to put alcohol and cream in their dinner and their coffee! I'm certainly not complaining.

plate 24: england

It was a jolly-good fit that I hadn't planned this week. I decided at the start of Destination Degustation that I would, at some point in winter, do a four-week block of England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales. The weather became decidedly nippy this weekend, so it was perfect timing to start the UK culinary tour. That, and the fact that is was the Queen's birthday long weekend. I can't find any information to explain why the her birthday is celebrated in June when she was actually born in April (21st to be exact - for anyone out there who has a penchant for birthdays as I do), but having an extra day this weekend suited me fine.

My lovely English pal Sal gave me a recipe from Mark Hix's British Regional Food for a Lancashire Hotpot - apparently one of the best-known dishes in the north of the country. Mark explains that while there are variations, they all feature lamb chops, potatoes and onions. There used to be versions cooked with oysters, too, but that sounds a bit weird, no? I was tempted by other English dishes: Yorkshire pudding; and some with rather funny names: Toad in the Hole (sausages baked in batter); Bubble & Squeak (named for the noises this dish of leftover potatoes with cabbage makes while cooking); and Spotted Dick (dried fruit pudding served with custard).

The history lesson continues: the Lancashire hotpot is said to have been inspired out of necessity - to feed working families in a cold climate. Legend also has it that a Lancashire lass's hotpot-making prowess bode well for her marriage prospects. AJ: if you wanted to marry me before, let's hope my hotpot cemented your plan!

While there's a little prep involved - slicing onions, peeling and cutting potatoes, and dicing lamb - the cooking process is super easy. Layer it all in a pot and cook it for three hours. The pot I used was a tad small for the amount of ingredients I had, which caused a bit of spillage and setting off of a smoke alarm, but it was all worth it in the end. The flavours were simple, but very special: the onions were cooked in beef stock with a little butter and thyme - YUM; the potatoes became deliciously crispy; and the lamb was supremely tender. There was just the right amount of sauciness too. The traditional accompaniment is pickled red cabbage, which needed to have been made six weeks earlier. Needless to say I wasn't prepared, and unfortunately the shops gave me no love either. Success struck when I found it in a jar, ready to serve with the leftovers, but sadly forgot! I realised this as I opened my pantry to see the unopened jar staring back at me. I'll take Mark Hix's word for it that the pairing is fabulous.

My fellow diners and I loved the hotpot - it certainly hit the spot on a very cold winter eve - but the dessert blew us away. I settled on Queen of Puddings - an English dessert made with breadcrumbs soaked in boiled milk with lemon rind and sugar that's baked, then topped with a layer of melted raspberry jam, then topped with meringue. Decadence is an understatement. This thing was royally fantastic. And the recipe comes from English dessert queen, Nigella Lawson.

The Queen of AJ's family (AKA grandma Trich) said it was the best dessert she's ever had. And in her 82 years she's tasted a fair few, so this was quite the compliment.

 I'd also like to note that my egg-separating skills have improved ten-fold since this journey started, so organising the whites for my meringue was a cinch - hurrah - there wasn't a skerrick of yolk. The meringue-making was made doubly easy and quick thanks to an electric beater. Beats my balloon whisk any day.