I know I’ve published three banana bread recipes before (a basic version fancied up with espresso mascarpone, a slightly alternative tropical passionfruit coconut version and a healthy-ish tahini heavy version) and there are literally millions to be found on the internet. Maybe even billions, who knows. I still think you need this recipe. It’s the only one I ever make anymore, and whenever anyone asks for the recipe I struggle because it only exists as an ingredients list on my iphone notes. It’s a one bowl mix frequently made the night before work and might be the only reason they kept me around (adjectives used included life changing).

It’s extra moist thanks to oil, tahini and yogurt, heavy on the banana with a thick sugar caramelised top (crucial) and studded with dark chocolate and toasted walnuts. Tahini delivers an extra subtle nuttiness, but you can substitute with extra vegetable oil if you don’t have any. The recipe originated in Violet Bakery’s buttermilk banana bread and has metamorphosed into this over a few years – I never have buttermilk on hand but always have yogurt, like the additional depth of tahini, and have changed quantities around a bit so it works in a standard size loaf tin. Walnuts and dark chocolate also never hurt.

Key points for optimal banana bread making 

• EXTREMELY ripe bananas. Almost black. A few spots doesn’t cut it. It also works perfectly with frozen bananas, so leave them to go almost black on the counter then freeze and defrost in the microwave when you want to use (make sure to use all the liquid that leaks out). Make sure to mash them very thoroughly until silky and shiny (warming them a bit in the microwave can also help here). Big chunks of bananas tend to sink to the bottom and don’t deliver the even moist bread you want. 
• Loaf tin size: somewhere along the way in making this recipe I lost my grandmother’s loaf tin, and then realised when finding another one that it was a bit larger than standard size, and really there is no standard size anyway. This recipe works well in either an 8.5 x 4.5 inch tin (21.5cm x 11.5 cm) or a 9 x 5 inch (23 x 12 cm) tin (won’t be quite as tall and will cook a bit faster).
• If tahini isn’t your thing or you don’t have any, sub in the same weight vegetable oil. 
• Dark brown and demerera sugar–  important! You could sub in regular brown sugar and caster sugar respectively, but the originals are worth it for the caramelised interior and dark sugar crusted top. 
• Cooking time: the last thing you want after going to all this effort is to overbake your loaf (my literal nightmare). When cooked, the top will spring back to touch with a firmness you wouldn’t associate with liquid batter underneath BUT a skewer may still come out with crumbs or even a little gooey batter attached (I put this down to hitting chocolate chunks / banana on the way down). I like to leave it to cool completely in the tin overnight and have never ended up with runny insides. I’ve suggested 40-50 minutes in a 180°C oven on fanbake as mine takes about 45 minutes, but it will all depend on the oven and tin that you’re using. 

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Cardamom buns: golden brown knots, heavy on the cardamom, crispy on the edges and soft and buttery in the centre. Jump to Recipe

If I had a year of cardamom buns, it was 2018. I was introduced to Fabrique early on while living/studying/mostly-eating in the UK: trays and trays of symmetrically knotted dough lounging in the windows, perfectly spaced to rise neatly in golden rows but never squashed, cardamom spiced butter and sugar leaking from the edges and coalescing into crispy caramelised lattice as they cooled. What was a day in central London without a cardamom bun in hand? I’m not sure I ever found out. Sunday mornings at the Columbia Road Flower Market weren’t complete without a flat white clutched in one hand a cardamom-laced bun from Pavilion in the other (I was never brave enough for their turmeric version), wrapped in a winter coat and on route to Ottolenghi (where else?).

Finally there was that week in Copenhagen – confirming the fact that cardamom may be superior to cinnamon, completely unafraid of coarsely ground pods speckling buns almost like black pepper. The neighbouring concept of fika was a kindred spirit – the swedish coffee break, a pause in the day incomplete without an accompanying baked good and to slow down rather than simply refuel. It’s something that the pandemic (isn’t it crazy, we now just say ‘the pandemic’ like it’s this normal omni-present part of our lives??) has given us an abundance of time for. Honestly I may have lost my mind by this point if regular coffee and cake breaks weren’t a highlight (perhaps the highlight) of days spent at home. 

Anyway – I thought it was high time to attempt cardamom buns of my own. I was planning on just making them once,  but their all round success and the outpouring of interest over on instagram for the recipe (which wasn’t just one, but an amalgamation of many) meant I’ve demolished a couple of batches for this version. They’re actually much easier than I had assumed – the dough is a simple enriched brioche which you can make the evening before then leave in the fridge until you are ready to bake. The filling is heavy on the cardamom and cinnamon: a buttery paste which you spread over the rolled out dough. This is the point where for ordinary cinnamon buns you would roll it into a log – but here you fold it in thirds like a letter (almost like a single croissant fold) and then slice into rectangular strips, each containing 2 layers of cardamom butter and 3 layers of dough. The hardest bit of all is the knot: I’ve done my very best to explain them in the instructions, but if it’s your first time I’d recommend just taking an edge strip of dough and sacrificing it to the cause – practice knotting and unknotting it until you get a feel for how to do it. It was one of those frustrating actions where the more I overthought it the more difficult it became, until I stopped thinking, wrapped the dough more quickly and suddenly my hands figured it out. To be honest, no matter how wonky your knots are they’ll look pretty once they’re baked.

The dough is brushed with an egg wash and sprinkled generously with fresh cardamom sugar for shine and crunch respectively before baking. You end up with with golden brown knots, heavy on the cardamom, crispy on the edges and soft and buttery in the centre. Pretend you’re in London or Copenhagen while you demolish one (or more – I couldn’t resist) with your coffee. Best eaten on the day they’re made.

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I read an interesting article the other day, followed closely by a post by Erin from Cloudy Kitchen, which made me think a little about the way we consume content – both generally and about food. The gist is that it is has gotten faster and faster. We expect things to happen quickly and in abundance. We scroll past hundreds of photographs on Instagram or Pinterest in a day, expecting to hop straight over to a well-tested recipe in a few seconds. We scan a pages of news briefly on our many open laptop tabs, before skipping onto a new email, then maybe a text, back to the news and then back to work. Distraction arrives swiftly and easily. What does this mean for food content and food blogging?

It used to be more commonplace to sit down and have coffee over a lengthy magazine or newspaper article, accompanied by a recipe that you might tear out and keep in a folder, crumpled and stained. Or to page through a prized cookbook in the evening, earmarking recipes to attempt. Then blogs arrived, and we started to consume online blog posts as well as paper material – but the writing was still of importance. It seems as though this has shifted again in the last few years towards “Instagram content”: popular photos are those that grab attention on a quick scroll past, and might get themselves a double tap or comment (hello, beautifully lit gooey cookies and chocolate cake). Fewer people take the leap to the home of the blog itself, and those that do are less likely to read whatever the author has written above the recipe. Complaints about too many photos, too many ads, not wanting to “read your life story” and too much scrolling is common. (Obviously this is a generalisation, and I know many people still pore over magazines and blog posts – but I think it is safe to say it is to a lesser extent).

I would argue that there are two main things contributing to this. One is that it is easy to forget that all this content is free. Bloggers are, for the most part, unpaid. We spend time creating and photographing recipes because we love it, and if that means we put up a few more photos, add ads for some side income, and write down thoughts above the recipe that aren’t quite as well edited as a magazine, then that is our prerogative. There is no paywall, subscription, or cookbook price on these recipes.

The other is that living in an age of fast content means we aren’t as practiced at focusing. There is more frustration at anything (writing, ads, slow links) that slows down our rate of content consumption – too much friction, as they described it over at Vox. We are less likely to sit down to read, more distracted, and more likely to reach for our phone at every moment of potential boredom. I’m not sure what the answer is, but I’ll be making an effort to consume content with a little more awareness of the person behind the screen, make it my focus, and reach for my phone a little less.

This chocolate, pear and hazelnut babka is one that I teased over on instagram recently and was inundated with recipe requests for. It seems like I’ve been chasing babka perfection around the world this year, and it felt like time to make my own. In London was the gorgeously tall and light version by The Good Egg, changed up with dates and walnuts, and then the denser, dark and intensely chocolatey iteration by Honey & Co. Later in Israel there was the buttery individually sized halva and chocolate babkas at Dallal Bakery, and perhaps the most famous version at Lehahim Bakery (the original Breads Bakery in NYC) – only available by the entire loaf, and constructed with croissant dough for crisp layered interiors. I wasn’t going to ask anyone to make croissant dough at home (especially considering that I’ve never even made it myself), and so went with an easy overnight brioche. It took a while to perfect the ratios of dough to loaf tin size, brioche to filling and fluffiness to intensity, but I think I’ve gotten there.

It’s a buttery, fluffy brioche dough swirled up with a rich chocolate filling based on that of Honey & Co and layered with chopped toasted hazelnuts and sliced pear. While it’s still hot, a sugar syrup is brushed over – don’t skip this. It won’t make it soggy or too sweet. And it’s really must easier than it looks – see the step by step photographs for making the twisted shape. From my failures, I also know that even if you roll it too thin, or can’t quite fit it in the tin, or it looks little squashed – when you pull it out of the oven, it always looks 100x better and still tastes great. Christmas morning bake, anyone?

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The flakiest apricot & raspberry crème fraîche scones – almost halfway between a scones and a laminated croissant, studded with juicy raspberries and apricots. So easy too!  Jump to Recipe

I’m writing this from the cozy window nook of an Oxford cafe, munching on a small piece of home – smashed avocado toast and a steaming flat white. Australian and New Zealand cafe culture is gradually taking over the world, it seems! The view gives it away, looking out onto a narrow, bicycle lined street and the high stone walls of one of the many colleges. Though everyone walks swiftly, bundled up in coats and scarves, spring blossoms are just peeking over the walls and locals tell me that it’s “so warm this week!”. Apparently I’ve arrived in time for the light at the end of a fairly grey winter tunnel.

It’s still at the stage where every street I walk down is new, and every corner reveals something – a row of bright colourful housefronts against the bleak sky, rowers barely rippling the glassy Thames water on a chilly morning, a tiny cake-shop with a window display to rival Ottolenghi. I’m sure that as the jetlag recedes, so will the vague feeling of wobbliness, of flux. Less like a strange non-sightseeing holiday, and more like a stable home base. I’ve found few local cafes, markets and bakeries (priorities, right?), a new gym, and am starting to meet supervisors and get my head around my thesis, so that’s a start. It was similar when I moved to Melbourne four years ago – in any transition, putting down tentative roots and finding routine takes some extra time and patience. It does make me particularly thankful for our online community, not only for the ability to call home so easily, but apps like Instagram make for a very small world.

I do miss my kitchen already though – the tiny, under-utilised and under-equipped college version means porridge and pastas may be the extent of my cooking. I could actually make these apricot & raspberry scones, though – I’m pretty sure you could make them just about anywhere. They were one of my staple recipes all summer long in New Zealand, made frequently in disorganised bach kitchens and eaten sitting out on the deck overlooking the ocean. All you need is a bowl, a freezer, an oven, a box grater, a knife and a spoon. They’re the flakiest scones I’ve ever made – the layers almost remind me of a cross between a croissant and a scone, and the crisp edges and buttery pastry sandwiching juicy summer fruit elevate them out of ordinary ‘scone’ stratosphere.

It’s a recipe barely adapted from The Vanilla Bean Blog, whose recipe I believe was inspired by the Barefoot Contessa and Cook’s Illustrated – all I did was swap the fruit around. Over the summer I tried a few different variations, using both greek yogurt and coconut yogurt in place of the creme fraiche and attempting a few different mixing and folding techniques, but kept coming back to the original recipe. Nothing was quite as perfect. The main things that set it apart from my usual scone recipes are the frozen butter, which is then grated as a frozen block into the flour, and the letter fold and roll technique. Both are essential to achieving those flaky layers – the frozen butter keeps everything cold, even in a humid summer kitchen, and grating achieves those thin shards that you’d never quite be able to do by rubbing it in by hand without creating mush. The folding technique is easier than it looks – a letter like thirds fold, then a five minute rest in the freezer, then a roll to incorporate the fruit in a way that is the least destructive to the pastry. Almost like a easy version of the letter folds you’d do to make flaky pastry or croissants. I’m not sure I could ever go back to scones that don’t do this. Give it a try – I’d love to know what you think!

You could also change the fruit around depending on what time of year it is – given that I’ve just moved to winter, I’m considering a pear and chocolate version next.

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Miso caramel pear porridge makes one of my favourite desert flavours into a breakfast worthy indulgence. Tender caramelised pear, a quick honey-miso-butter sauce and toasted seeds for crunch. Jump to Recipe 

I used to hate porridge with a passion. Growing up, I did a lot of tramping (trekking? hiking? we call it tramping in NZ), and porridge was the staple breakfast of choice for most people – quickly made in a pot with milk powder and brown sugar. Not me. I’m not sure I actually ever tried it – I operated on the assumption that I hated milk and so would therefore hate porridge, that lumpy, gruel-like, gluey, usually burnt substance scarfed down outside a tent. Being probably more than a little precocious, I baked carrot & coconut muffins, brought along a stash of kiwifruit and survived on cabin bread and jam. Ugh. I feel like going back and shaking some sense into my 14 year old self. I sorely underestimated the humble bowl of oats.

I eventually transitioned from my high school breakfasts of sugary bowls of cereal piled with berry yogurt. Baby steps – first to a slightly less-sugary bran based cereal with yogurt, which led to the discovery of bircher muesli, and then finally to a tentative attempt at porridge on a particularly cold morning. It’s now my staple, and my only annoyance is that it took me so long.

It’s simple, comforting and cosy. It’s hearty and healthy – full of fibre and complex carbohydrates, protein and minerals. It keeps me full all morning. And my favourite part? It’s the perfect vehicle for flavour and texture – it doesn’t have to be a boring oats + milk + brown sugar affair.  I fully admit to being a bit of a porridge snob (and a coffee snob – let’s get it all out there now!).  I regularly change up my grains, milks and toppings – something fruity, something nutty, something with crunch and always finished with dollop of greek yogurt. Twice while in London I sought out porridge at 26 Grains – probably the best I’ve ever had, and the first time I’d ever experienced butter on porridge, coupled with hazelnuts, grated apple and cinnamon sugar. A lesson on simplicity, and the importance of texture.

This miso caramel pear porridge is makes one of my favourite desert flavours – miso caramel – into a breakfast worthy indulgence. Tender caramelised pear, a quick honey-miso-butter sauce and toasted seeds for crunch. It’s worth waking up twenty minutes early for, I promise.

A few other favourites if you’re also a fancy porridge person:

• Carrot cake: grated carrot cooked in with the oats, a few sultanas, cinnamon, mixed spice, a wee bit of fresh grated ginger, sauteed pear chunks
• Rhubarb & strawberry compote, vanilla, pumpkin seeds, greek yogurt
• Coconut milk porridge with blueberry compote, mango and macadamias

Anyway. That’s enough of an ode to porridge for one day. At the moment (when I’m not at the hospital on placement) I’m tied to my desk and computer screen, attempting to revise (cough..relearn) the whole past four years of medical school – just as fun as it sounds. There have been some higher points: visiting the House of Dior exhibition, creating a chocolate-walnut-tahini-torched meringue cake for a birthday (want the recipe??), a couple of hours of straight laughter at the Pop Up Globe’s Much Ado About Nothing, and countless extra-hot flat whites from my local. The countdown in on – four weeks until exams!!!!

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