Image: Tina Tiller
Image: Tina Tiller

KaiJune 30, 2023

Ingredient of the week: Brussels sprouts

Image: Tina Tiller
Image: Tina Tiller

Hating on Brussels sprouts is a time-honoured tradition in this country. But scientific advances, modern cooking methods and copious olive oil means that distaste should really be relegated to the past.

Let’s lay all the cards on the table: some vegetables are more difficult to like than others… and “Brussels sprouts” is in the headline of this article. They’re dense, textured, a little bitter, and pungent if overcooked – so no wonder they’re the classic child-unfriendly vegetable. 

While I’ve grown to enjoy Brussels sprouts to a reasonable degree (and have learnt how to reveal their most delicious selves), I still struggle a little with Brussels. When I buy them, it’s partly because I think I should enjoy them. And I do! They are quite lovely raw and finely shredded in a salad, or caramelised and charred in the oven. Nevertheless, there’s a pinch of “I’m an adult now, so I get the Brussels sprouts”, in every purchase. 

For those who haven’t come around to the culinary merits of the Brussels sprout, here’s another way to enjoy their existence: look up pictures of the Brussels sprout plant. It would be entirely fitting as a Dr Seuss creature – tall, gangly, topped with a loose cabbage-like wig, and with the Brussels sprouts themselves, these tiny cabbage buds, climbing their thick central stalk like bizarre growths. 

A field of Brussels sprouts plants. Individual Brussels sprouts cling to the central stalk which is topped with a mass of leaves.
The alien-like Brussels sprout plant. (Image: Getty)

Actually, it’s not surprising that Brussels sprouts look like miniature cabbages, as they’re a Brassica and a relative of the cabbage, broccoli, and kale. While the plant is native to the Mediterranean, it became popular and cultivated in the 13th century in Belgium – ergo, Brussels sprouts. 

Also, if you think Brussels sprouts are bitter now, listen to this. Modern Brussels sprouts have been cross-bred for low-bitterness, which was only made possible in the 1990s when Dutch scientist Hans van Doorn identified the chemicals sinigrin and progoitrin as the culprits of Brussels sprouts’ acrid flavour. It was this reduction in bitterness that really increased the popularity of Brussels sprouts over the last two decades – so we can thank the Dutch for making these green buds rather more loveable. 

Where to find Brussels sprouts

Brrrr, it’s cold outside – and that means Brussels sprouts are in season, happy as ever in their frosty coats. Generally, Brussels sprouts are bought in another kind of coat (plastic bags), rather than loosey-goosey and priced by the kilo. 

For Countdown shoppers, that looks like either $6 for a 350g bag, or a much better deal of $5 for 500g if you can snag some Odd Bunch Brussels sprouts. At both Pak’nSave and New World, a 400g bag of whole fresh Brussels is $5.99, while Supie offers a 400g bag for $4.50. 

How to make Brussels sprouts terrible

If you’d like to disgust your family or put children off Brussels sprouts for the next decade, boil those buds until greyish, soft, waterlogged, sulfuric-smelling, and bitter. Overcooking through any method isn’t advisable, as that sulphuric odour will arise – but we all know boiling is the easiest way to ruin veg. 

However, there’s more that can go wrong with a Brussels sprout than culinary disaster: as a rich source of vitamin K (which is a blood-clotting factor), chowing down too heartily on the green buds can lead to adverse health effects for people on blood-thinners. Be safe, and consume with care.

A plate topped with roasted Brussels sprouts, potatoes, and garlic cloves paired with bacon, honeyed ricotta, and creamy butter bean on a wooden bench.
Roasted Brussels sprouts, potatoes, and garlic cloves paired with bacon, honeyed ricotta, and creamy butter bean. (Image: Wyoming Paul)

How to make Brussels sprouts amazing

If there’s one safe method for enjoying Brussels sprouts, it’s to roast until crispy, charred, and caramelised. You can just toss with oil, salt, and pepper; add garlic cloves to the roasting tray; or add a good trickle of balsamic vinegar and a spoonful of runny honey as well. Simply seasoned Brussels sprouts can also be topped with grated parmesan or chopped crispy bacon. Recently I made roasted Brussels sprouts, potatoes and garlic cloves paired with bacon, honeyed ricotta, and creamy butter beans – a perfect wintry meal.

Sautéed Brussels sprouts is another great option that can create caramelised surfaces with less cooking time. To prepare your Brussels, remove any loose and damaged leaves, and trim the cut end. I usually slice them in half, especially for roasting and frying, so the cut surface can lay flat on the oven tray or pan, where it will become really crispy and caramelised. If sautéing, leave the Brussels sprouts lying cut side down in a hot, oiled pan for 7 minutes before moving them around.

If you’d like to branch out, a raw and finely sliced Brussels sprouts salad is a great fresh winter side dish – try pairing the buds with strong contrasting flavours and textures, like dried cranberries or finely sliced orange, roughly chopped nuts, lemon juice, crunchy bacon or parmesan. A creamy, zesty dressing is great for complementing and balancing out the bitter flavours. That’s what I’ll be experimenting with this weekend, and I might even squash my last bit of anti-Brussels sprout sentiment in the process!

Wyoming Paul is the co-founder of Grossr, a recipe management website where you can create recipes, discover chefs and follow meal plans. 

Read all the previous Ingredients of the Week here.

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A cake that defies physics. (Image: Archi Banal)
A cake that defies physics. (Image: Archi Banal)

KaiJune 30, 2023

Against all professional advice, I made the Women’s Weekly tip truck cake

A cake that defies physics. (Image: Archi Banal)
A cake that defies physics. (Image: Archi Banal)

Gabi Lardies attempts the most feared bake of all from The Australian Women’s Weekly Children’s Birthday Cake Book. 

“Bitch of a cake. Don’t make it unless you’re really desperate,” said Pamela Clark, author of The Australian Women’s Weekly Children’s Birthday Cake Book. “Don’t go there. Glue the pages together. Forget it!” That was her advice in 2016, and again last Saturday. But who is an Australian to tell us New Zealanders what not to make from our most beloved childhood book? I might not be a baker, but I am a patriot.

The Tip Truck Cake, found on page 88 of Australian Women’s Weekly Children’s Birthday Cake Book, looks like a perfectly reasonable request. Two cakes baked in rectangular loaf tins, lined up and sculpted into a cab and a tipped tray, smeared in avocado green icing and accessorised with chocolate biscuits, pebbles, liquorice, tinfoil and candy. It’s no Sistine Chapel, so it seems my duty as a citizen to give it a go. 

An icon within an icon

The preparation

The trouble starts early. I do not own a single loaf tin, let alone two. All my ovenware is round apart from the (washed) aluminium tray of a frozen lasagne I had a few weeks ago. 

Neither of my local op shops have loaf tins – they must have got snapped up by local MILFs in the area with the same brainwave as me. I try Geoff’s Emporium, which has a truck shaped cake tin for only $6.25. Heartbreakingly, I know this would be cheating.

At bloody Countdown, the loaf tins are $14.99, and that is simply too much since I have blown my budget (please become a Spinoff member!) on M&Ms. It’s going to have to be the lasagne tray. Look, New Zealanders are nothing if not resourceful, number 8 wire, grumble grumble 4×2, grumble grumble, she’ll be right!

She’ll be right

Countdown attempts to swindle me again by offering two packets of biscuits for $5. I’ve been burned before, so I check the single item price – it’s $2.60. Right then and there I decide I will find another solution to the chocolate fingers in the recipe, grabbing only the choccy mint wheels.

Pamela wants me to buy egg-yellow, blue, and green (specifically not leaf green) food colouring, but I’ve read ahead and I know she mixes them together to make… green. I save $3.40 buying only green (and not to worry, not a leaf in sight). Like so many cakes in the book, the finishing touches of the tip truck require strips of liquorice. The rancid smell of these is burned into my childhood memories, as it clings to the icing even after you’ve picked the culprit off. I simply can’t buy it, not even for appearance’s sake.

I also need eight empty matchboxes. On my quest through the labyrinthine aisles, I begin to question if they still exist. When was the last time I saw a matchbox? Five years ago? Ten years ago? They’re standing bright red next to the gardening stuff, with the same stripy beehive they’ve always had. It’s comforting to know matches haven’t had a bougie modernist rebrand.

The makings of a masterpiece.

Most importantly, the recipe calls for two packets of butter cake mix. Butter cake – boring!!!! Two packets? We’re only making one cake! One packet of chocolate cake mix goes into my basket. On the way home, I feel like an idiot for not getting the gluten free option (it’s just something that happens once you’re over 30, real cake hurts).

Making the cake

I am so happy with my nasty little box cake. The last cake I made was as flat as a pancake and it didn’t even taste good because I didn’t put as much sugar as the recipe said. I attempted to cover up its flatness with flowers from the garden but, unfortunately, they had ants on them.

Now it’s just the mysterious powder in the bag, two eggs, butter and ⅔ cup of dated almond milk from Why Knot Outlet Shop, which has little lumps and tastes weird. They want me to use my electric blender on high for three minutes, but it’s currently experiencing technical difficulties after blending pumpkin soup last week. I whisk with my Minnie Mouse mini whisk till my arm hurts. It’s looking great – smooth, chocolatey and sticky. 

Going great

I pour half the mixture in the baking tray. Admittedly it’s a measly portion but cakes grow, right? The whole point of baking is that it rises into a lovely fluffy thing with heaps of tiny air bubbles which more than double its volume, right? In 30 minutes we will see.

The waiting game

In the meantime, I move onto emptying the match boxes. There are 45 in each box, so I’m left with a pile of 360 surplus matches. Did she want me to start a forest fire? Unlikely to work given all the rain. The only thing I can think to do with them is tape them all together and make a mega match to burn safely outside on the driveway.

I cover all eight match boxes with tinfoil and realise I definitely could have left the matches inside, because no doubt tomorrow I’ll be unwrapping these boxes and putting them back in, so they can live at the back of the cupboard for the next 20 years. I wish I’d been more discerning.

A perfect match

The first loaf is ready. It’s grown, but when I remove it from the lasagne tray, it’s not a defined cuboid – the growing and the baking paper has softened all the edges. It looks like a log. Also, it feels very tender and soft, like a pile of lint, and not at all like it’s going to have the structural integrity to be part of a tip truck.

A log is born.

Part two of the cake goes into the oven. Baking is hard work so I sneak a choccy mint, and I consider the liquorice problem. Obviously it’s gross and doesn’t have a place on my tip truck. But I do concede its dark lines elevate the cake and define its form. I need something long and thin, I open my pantry door, and there’s my answer – noodles! But we don’t want them anaemic and pale. I open the other pantry door, and there’s red food colouring from a cake I made two years ago. Perfect.

Use your noodle

Log two is done – it’s time to sculpt. The words are confusing. Barely instructions, they rely on delegating to three little images of cut up cakes and saying “as shown” a lot. The “what ifs” begin to creep in – what if the truck doesn’t have to tip? What if the tip tray is just cardboard? What if it’s actually a car?

As I carve off the edges and wonky bits of my logs, half the cake becomes offcuts (or rather, scraps for Mum). Is this the real purpose of cake art? To eat cake without guilt and before everybody else? I place my blocks on my shiny matchboxes, which seem to serve as ice skates on the baking paper. All in all, I think it’s going pretty well.

The truck takes shape

While making the icing, I find a use for one of the matches (359 to go). I dip it into the food colouring, then the icing, to add green at a safe pace, since we all know that shit is concentrated. When it’s a lurid green, I’m happy.

I’ve got my Mickey Mouse spatula out for a smooth application. I’m wearing my apron and I’ve washed my hands and I think, damn, my five readers are gonna be impressed. When the soft green makes contact with the soft brown, it all starts crumbling. Because of all my carving, my tip truck lacks any surface which isn’t crumbs just waiting for their excuse to fall off (as shown). 

The book mentions none of these problems, and in the photo the icing looks well adhered and crumb-free. The icing is my worst enemy. It looks like Shrek jizz. My dreams of grandeur are gone. 

Shrek what have you done

I endure, adding the M&Ms and the red noodles. The truck is a bit small for eight wheels, so I slap on six. When making the radio antenna, I find another use for a matchstick (358 to go). It’s 3pm, and this wonky cursed cake is all I have to show for my entire day.

The final product

The kitchen and lounge are a mess. I’ve cut up my cereal box and I’ve got a headache from eating most of the icing. I begin to question my life (story) choices. The fact that Dame Jacinda had to prop up her piano cake with a can of lentils does little to soothe my broken heart. 

A cursed face

Pamela Clark was right: this is a bitch of a cake. My advice? Glue these pages together.