how we ended up in Tasmania + apricot hand pies
Home Baked: A Year of Seasonal Baking - Summer
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I am, by nature, not a risk taker. Although thinking on it further, that’s not entirely true. I’ve changed careers and started new businesses a plenty. It’s probably more that I’m not impetuous. Like many people, we fell in love with Tasmania on our first visit, but the actual move was almost 20 years in the making, a target for our mid-fifties when children didn’t need uprooting, work was well established, and financially, we were in a reasonable position.
We used to visit Tasmania at least twice a year, often more, assessing each location for its livability. Was it close enough to an airport, was there a community, could we grow some veggies, did people value food and producers? We planned and talked about it so much that I thought it was going to be a never-achieved dream. Like the one I had in my late teens, of moving countries to live on a kibbutz in Israel, researched and contemplated only to be lost in the pursuit of a sensible life.
In the end, the timing of the move was somewhat impulsive. Whilst on holiday, we stood in front of a real estate sign on an idyllic piece of land and called the number. We didn’t buy that piece of land, but not long after, we did buy five acres of gently sloping paddock looking over the Huon River. We engaged an architect, fine-tuned house plans, lodged applications with Council, made sure the swift parrots wouldn’t fly into the yet-to-be-constructed windows and ensured that the fire trucks would have a big enough turning circle in the event of a bushfire. The building costs continued to rise, the timeline almost never-ending, and the bureaucracy of it all became stifling. So we changed tack, sold the land and instead bought a little 1890s weatherboard cottage on the other side of the river.
We arrived in Tasmania in mid-summer, probably the best time if trying to avoid the climate shock that comes when relocating from the subtropics to a much more temperate climate. The lead-up to the move had been stressful; any move is to some degree, but this had been particularly so. The house sale had been messy, a disappointing end to a mostly enjoyable 15 years living there. Our girls arrived for Christmas, the eldest from Tasmania, the youngest from England. Despite having lived away from home for some years, there is something about the safety net attached to a childhood home that leaves you feeling untethered when it is no longer an option. There were relationship woes to contend with, the second-guessing of the wisdom of moving interstate from a large city to a minuscule regional town, and the logistics of the relocation; it was very different from the festive ending the story books dictate.
By mid-January, the shipping container with our belongings had been packed and sent on its way. The cars loaded on the back of a truck, and after a night sleeping on the floor in our empty house, the dogs and cats were collected early in the morning for their flight. We locked the door, the only time I think it had ever been locked, got in the taxi and headed to the airport.
Whenever we holidayed in Tasmania, I could feel whatever stresses I carried leaving as soon as we drove out of the airport. Hobart International Airport (something of a misnomer as there is only the occasional flight to New Zealand, and this is a very recent development) is compact and surrounded by fields with kunanyi/Mount Wellington visible in the distance. It lacks the hectic pace of large airports, and there is an immediate sense of winding down, and this time was no different. Settled in the hire car, we headed south, collected the house keys from the real estate agent and made our way to Geeveston.
The paddocks around the house were overgrown, the interior dusty, and now that the furniture from the previous owners had been removed, it became evident that the house required more work than we had initially thought. Despite that, it felt like home.
The first meal in our new house, after a long day of travelling, was an uninspiring crumbed fish affair straight from the frozen section of the local IGA that was on the charred side, thanks in part to the dodgy oven. Thankfully, things improved from there with generous garden pickings from our new neighbours and the purchase of height-of-the-season stone fruit from roadside stalls, further proof that it was a good move!
Store-bought apricots are almost without fail disappointing. Despite their unblemished colour with perhaps a blush of pinky-red, depending on the variety, the texture is invariably woolly and the flavour lacking. Tasmanians are quite passionate about their apricots and actually ask for them by variety name, with Moorparks being highly sought after. We are fortunate to have access to apricots from the local orchards, where eating them fresh at the point of perfect ripeness lets you remember how apricots are meant to taste. Fortunately, the flavour of apricots is much improved with cooking. Apricot jam is quite spectacular, as is apricot pie. They pair well with lavender, but with these hand pies, I’ve taken it a step further with the use of Herbs de Provence (you may have some lingering in the back of the cupboard; make sure it isn’t dull and stale tasting before using), which contributes very pleasing floral (from the lavender) and herb notes that really elevate the apricots. This, in addition to just a small amount of sugar in the filling, means the apricots hover on the edge of being savoury. These are delicious served with a dollop of mascarpone or whipped cream or a scoop of vanilla ice cream.
You can use pre-made puff pastry to make these hand pies, but I love a rough puff pastry, and while it might sound daunting, comes together surprisingly quickly and is worth going to the effort. While you’re at it, make a double batch and put half in the freezer for later pastry projects.
Apricot and Herbs de Provence Hand Pies
Makes 6 hand pies
8-10 fresh apricots, halved and stone removed
2 tablespoons sugar
1 teaspoon Herbs de Provence
1 quantity rough puff pastry (recipe below)
1 egg
2 tablespoons demerara sugar
Put the apricots, sugar, Herbs de Provence and 1 tablespoon of water into a medium saucepan. Cook, covered over a low heat, until the apricots have broken down and the juices thickened, about 20 minutes. Leave to cool completely.
Preheat the oven to 180°C. Line a baking tray with baking paper.
Lightly dust the kitchen bench with flour. Roll out the pastry to roughly a 50 x 25 cm rectangle. Trim the edges so that they are straight, and you have a rectangle that measures 48 x 24 cm. Along the long edge, make a knife mark every 8 cm and then cut so that you have 6, 8 x 24 cm strips of pastry.
Place one pastry strip onto the baking tray. Put two tablespoons of filling in the centre of the top half of the pastry strip. Crack the egg into a small bowl and whisk together with a splash of water. Brush the egg wash around the edge of the pastry and then fold the lower half over the top half with the filling. Use a fork to crimp around the edges. Cut a couple of small slashes into the top of the pastry to allow the steam to escape, brush with the egg wash and sprinkle over a teaspoon of demerara sugar. Repeat with the remaining strips of pastry.
Bake in the oven for 20 - 25 minutes. Remove from the oven and allow to cool a little before eating - the filling will be very hot. Serve as is or with mascarpone, whipped cream or vanilla ice cream. These are best eaten on the same day but can be reheated.
Rough Puff Pastry
250 g plain flour
180 g cold salted butter cut into 1 cm cubes
125 ml very cold water
Put the flour in a medium bowl. Toss in the butter cubes and mix them around so that they are coated in flour. It’s easy at this stage to go on autopilot and start rubbing the butter into the flour – don’t! Pour in the water and mix everything together. It will be a bit of a shaggy mess.
Dump everything onto a lightly floured benchtop and use your hands to pile it together into a rough ball. You might wonder at this stage how it’s ever going to work, but it will. Resist the temptation to work the pastry. The aim is to retain the large chunks of butter.
Use a rolling pin to roll the dough into a 40 x 15 cm rectangle. Fold the top third of the dough down, then the bottom third of the dough up. Now move the dough around 90 degrees so that the narrow side is at the bottom of the benchtop. Roll the dough out again into a 40 x 15 cm rectangle. Again fold down the top third and fold up the bottom third. Wrap the pastry in plastic wrap and refrigerate for 30 minutes.
Remove the pastry from the fridge and repeat the roll and fold process another two times. Don’t forget to turn the pastry in between rolling out; otherwise, you won’t have the characteristic puff pastry layers. After each rolling, wrap the pastry in plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least a further 30 minutes.
After the third chilling, the pastry is ready to be used. It will keep in the fridge for a day or two, but it will start to discolour after that. You can also freeze it for up to 2 months. Makes sure it is well wrapped before freezing.
Next time: our patch of rural Tassie + peach & blueberry Queen of Pudding
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