Once upon a long time ago, in my father's back garden there was a duck, or kacsa (pronounced cot-yah in Hungarian). I was a small child at the time and all I can remember is that it turned up one afternoon and quacked incessantly. It stayed long enough to chase me around the yard on numerous occasions, and it pooped all over the paving, much to the annoyance of my parents. And then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the duck was gone.
What is the matter with Mary Jane?
She's crying with all her might and main,
And it's lovely rice pudding for dinner again!
— Rice Pudding, A. A. Milne, 1924
It's late afternoon in the summer of 1968. I am ten years old, or thereabouts. My father and I have carried his paint-splattered wooden ladder from the garage around to the back garden on the left hand side of our family home. That's where my dad's peach, apricot and nectarine trees grew.
Yotam Ottolenghi waxed lyrical about the milk puddings of the Middle East in an episode of his television series, Jerusalem on a Plate. During a scene where YO bought a cup of malabi from a street vendor then devoured it, Peter looked my way and said ‘That sounds so good, you must make it for us!’
Cooking and writing have been a lifelong passion.
Join me as I share with you my favourite recipes; postcards and morsels from my travels; conversations with cookery writers
and chefs; and news on food, cookbooks
- Liz Posmyk
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NB: I use Australian standard measuring cups and spoons in my recipes.