The pleasures of good food and drink in the wintertime

In her wise and lyrical memoir, Wintering, Katherine May finds herself in the thick of a sudden and debilitating winter. It’s not the seasonal kind, but an emotional, spiritual frost. A state of being unable to function the way she used to. She weathers these feelings by finding a slower pace of life – one that prioritises something the Danish call hygge, the act of creating a cosy, homely atmosphere to keep the winter darkness at bay.

For May, hygge is ‘full of candles and tea, judicious quantities of cake, warm jumpers, chunky socks, plenty of time snuggling alone by a lit fire.’ Food in particular plays a starring role at the beginning of her wintering. During autumn, she describes how she cooks the season into her home; a thyme-scented hotpot, a velvety pumpkin soup, and a box of figs wrapped in bright pink paper rationed for her morning porridge. There is pleasure in shopping for ingredients, in making things from scratch. ‘I had time,’ she reflects. ‘It was all possible, and all worthwhile.’

I’ve experienced my own spiritual winters. The cold weather, however, I have been eagerly anticipating. I am compelled by the turning of the seasons into different spheres of my life. Summer was a time of socialising and idle relaxation. Winter gives me a renewed sense of purpose. It is a time for sustained focus – for writing, for appreciating art, for finding other means of keeping my hands busy.

And, like May, the pleasure of good food has been my north star. Here’s what I’ve been enjoying, in the style of a 10-course meal.

Aperitif

I welcomed the end of Daylight Savings with my own blend of gin, created during a workshop at a local distillery. It’s a cinnamon and orange creation, with a hint of rosemary. I named it ‘Hearth’ because the spiced flavour reminded me of winter and bonfires and the fireplace at my grandparents’ house.

Amuse bouche

The acai bowl from a local cafe at Mother’s Day brunch. Ice cold and heaped with crisp apple slices, tangy blueberries and tart winter strawberries. I dug around and found some banana underneath a huge scoop of smooth peanut butter. Some granola added a little crunch, and three tiny meringues gave it that unmistakable you-bought-this-from-a-bougie-cafe look. I ate it snuggled in a corner, in a rare patch of winter sunshine.

Soup

As soon as the weather cooled, I searched for a soup recipe. I settled on cream of tomato, having never had it before. I served it to my family with liberal quantities of double cream. One night, I put the leftovers and some big pasta shells into a thermos and took it to a friend’s house. We sat companionably in front of his TV, Nintendo Switch controllers in hand, muscling through Cuphead and, defeated, unwound with some Unpacking.

Here’s the soup in question, simmering on the stove:

Fish

The salmon sashimi at a little Japanese café in Port Melbourne. I ate it with chopsticks to impress my boyfriend, which went well until I picked up a whisper of wasabi from the dipping sauce. The heat took me by surprise, and I had to quickly switch to my bowl of ramen to cool off.

Main course

I wouldn’t have picked chicken and orange as complementary flavours. I’d heard of duck a l’orange though, so I presumed it wasn’t much of a stretch. 

My family have come to realise, with some horror, that I enjoy getting a bit, shall we say, experimental in the kitchen. This is because a) cooking has become one of my creative outlets, and b) I am a sucker for the prospect of slowly cooking my way through a recipe book. That night’s dinner, spiced chicken with carrots and chickpeas, came from Shelf Love by the Ottolenghi Test Kitchen. It also called for orange juice in the cooking sauce, which also starred cumin and turmeric, and chopped segments in the salsa, with support from coriander, of which I am a huge fan. Coriander makes me ridiculously happy. It smells sweet and clean. I imagine this is how cows must feel about grass.

Despite the orange curveball, the result was delicious and fragrant. The chicken was a touch dry, but the salsa helped inject some life back into it. I served my experimental dish with some familiar greens – peas, broccoli, and a surprise bundle of beans Mum brought back from Nonna’s.

“Good for something different,” was Dad’s verdict, though he admitted he was also worried about the orange flavours.

Palate cleanser

I still live in the family home and it’s rare that any of us get to enjoy the house to ourselves. So with my sister on holiday, and my parents at a football match, I was overwhelmed by how I could spend the time, all the productive things I could do. I settled for eating pistachio ice-cream with hearty spoonfuls of stewed apple in front of The Godfather. I’m still undecided about the flavour combination.

Cheese

A week spent at my boyfriend’s place can be summarised through cheese. Hunks of cheddar stuffed into peanut butter sandwiches – featuring the most delicious locally-made honey oat bread – on my lunch break. A dinner of voluptuous pearls of bocconcini on a bed of curly fettuccine. Weekend breakfasts starring the coveted Meredith Dairy Goats CheeseTM, marinating in golden oil like the most perfect cheese specimens preserved in amber. We spread giant cubes of it on toast with avocado, bacon and fried eggs.

First dessert

The chocolate sponge cake was nothing special. There was a happy cloud of cream in the middle, but there was no icing.

Baking it had left me feeling hollow. I wished I’d invited someone over, so they could be surprised and delighted by my creation.

The spiced apple cake, on the other hand, was spectacular. The recipe called for several spices, which is how I ended up giddy and giggly in the baking aisle at Coles. At home I gleefully ripped open packets of cinnamon and mixed spice, ginger and nutmeg and clove. The batter smelled like a crackling fireplace. How is it possible that smells alone can carry heat?

My boyfriend came over just as I was making the cream cheese icing. We assembled the cake together, and scoffed down a big slice each. To our delight, the flavours matured in the fridge overnight. Truly scrumptious.

Second dessert

I have made baked custard tarts twice in my life. The first time, I burnt the pastry shell during the blind bake.

This most recent time, I decided to squeeze the intricate, time consuming process of making the pastry dough, refrigerating it, rolling it out and laying it into the tin, refrigerating it again, blind baking it into a colour beyond the golden I was aiming for, egg washing it, making the custard filling from scratch, baking the whole tart again, and then refrigerating it a third time until dessert, into one day. It was worth it. The pastry was burnt and soggy from custard leaking through the holes, but it was delicious.

A week later, I made a strawberry tart with the remaining pastry.

I had more success this time, though the shell was a little blonde in the centre. I waterproofed the pastry with some melted white chocolate, made crème patisserie for the filling, and topped it with some sliced strawberries. It was delicious, and the pastry didn’t go soggy this time!

Digestif

On a blustery night, my boyfriend and I made hot chocolates over the stove, then snuggled up on the couch to watch Alone. It felt good to protect ourselves from the wind and rain with our blankets and mugs and bodies nestled close for warmth.

All while the contestants ate fronds, fisheyes and berries to sustain themselves.