A Writer’s Retreat + Pear, Roquefort & Caramelised Onion Mini Tarts

A few years ago I lived alone in a studio converted garage that overlooked a lush, hilly hinterland. One corner served as an office, with a big wooden dining table, pockmarked with incense burns and coffee rings, pushed against the wall. If you stood up from the straight-backed chair you could look out the window and see the misty range beyond. I would do just this after long hours of craft or journal or letter writing, the sight offering a remedial mind cleanse, scraping my slate clean.

“I hid the garage door that made up one of that corner’s walls with a huge fabric map of the world, gifted to me for this exact purpose by a friend.”

In another corner was my bedroom. It was cordoned off with a heavy, wooden, intricately carved divider, loaned to me by the property’s owner. I hid the garage door that made up one of that corner’s walls with a huge fabric map of the world, gifted to me for this exact purpose by a friend. Here rested a futon bed, beside it an upside down milk crate on which a candle and peace lily lived, beside that a stack of books on the floor, and resting in the corner behind my bed were two tall, spindly gumtree branches which I’d found, fallen, at the bottom of the property. I was planning to hang them from the ceiling and drape them with spanish moss, but I never got around to it.

Another corner became a living room, as well as point of entry. I never used this space as there was barely any natural light, and the single bed that I’d converted into a couch lacked comfort. I kept the couch-bed here anyway, not because it had any practical use but because the colourful blankets and cushions that I had strewn across it — blue, orange, red, purple, green — filled the dark void of that corner.

The last corner served as a kitchen. My kitchen was originally the main house’s laundry. There was running water — the pure stuff that fell from the sky — but it didn’t get hot. For nearly one year I used a water jug for making tea and porridge and soup. The kitchen had white, cubed shelving lined with jars and cups and spices and tea. On the single bench sat a mini oven and stove ensemble; beside it, and when they weren’t in use, leaned a trio of oiled wooden chopping boards; beside them, an old, glass coffee jar, ribboned with twine and filled with natives, there to admire while I washed dishes. There was enough room for me to add a small table and two chairs. This doubled as a sunny space to eat and prepare food.

I shared the sloping garden with the main house. There was the backyard with the picturesque view, and to the right of the property were a few gum trees that homed a koala or two. To the left was an empty chicken coop, some garden beds that I planned (and failed) to fill with vegetables, plus a citrus orchid, whose ground littered with the bright orange and yellow of fallen mandarins and lemons all through April, May and June.

My bathroom and toilet? These were located outside. A makeshift solar shower — wonderful on a summer afternoon and torturous on a winter morning — and something akin to what Australian old-timers refer to as a “thunderbox” — a shock to guests, I assure you — accommodated my plight for simplicity well.

“There was no TV, no WiFi, and I rarely listened to music. Nature’s sounds and colours and smells trickled in from an open window and became more vivid over time.”

This was where I lived. In many ways it was idyllic — I lead a simple, quiet kind of quotidian peace. A retirement of sorts, except in my early 20s. I had the opportunity to write, to produce art of sorts, to cook experimentally without fear of disappointing an audience. There was no TV, no WiFi, and I rarely listened to music. Nature’s sounds and colours and smells trickled in from an open window and became more vivid over time.

In other ways it was hard: the outdoor shower, the brazen toilet, the solitude — these lost their charm. I was living my own, softer version of Thoreau’s Walden, except, while Thoreau had his mother doing his laundry and making him apple pies, I had a laundromat, a bakery, and, most markedly, a job. Thoreau lived on the outskirts of the wilderness; I lived on the outskirts of a town. We both found room for introspection, both communed with nature, and we both, eventually, returned from our retreats.

Onions

One of the many books I read during my time there was Michael Pollan’s Cooked: A Natural History of Transformation. It bettered the way I thought and went about cooking. I remember lying on the grass in beating, December sun and experiencing an awakening: cooking became less of something that we do to save money or please our mothers, and more of a chain reaction of simple pleasures: the eating, socialising, the nourishing; the process of making science and art together in one steaming pot. Brewing something classical, sometimes adding my own twist, thereby colouring outside the lines. Making beauty every day, sometimes three times a day, with tender things (how sweet is a button mushroom? A turnip?).

“Low heat, rotate often; reveal translucency, unleash umami. 30 minutes, give or take. A dish that used to take 30 minutes to prepare now takes double the time.”

There were a bunch of pages where Michael wrote about onions. He talked fervidly about the curious defence mechanism of the onion, the malevolent gas released slice by slice, and the role that onion often plays in cooking all around the world. Onion is a sort of Genesis to the cooking process, isn’t it? Step one: begin by cooking onions.

I used to rush the onion cooking process, jacking up the heat to burn on some colour and create an aroma as fast as I could. Cooked changed this. Low heat, rotate often; reveal translucency, unleash umami. 30 minutes, give or take. A dish that used to take 30 minutes to prepare now takes double the time. It’s worth it. Plus, it’s generally easy to find something else to do during those extra thirty minutes: either I prepare other ingredients, wash dishes, or put dishes away. Sometimes I stare out the window, watching cars and pedestrians and buses do their thing. All options are good.

This recipe can take you 20 minutes to make, or 60, depending on how you cook your onions. Substitute the cheese for something milder (such a brie) if your people aren’t up for roquefort’s kick.

Ingredients

• 4 large red onions, sliced about ½ cm thick
• Roquefort (or an alternative)
• 2 medium sized pears, diced finely into half-centimetre cubes
• cinnamon (sprinkle generously over the diced pears)
• 1/4 cup brown or raw sugar
• pine nuts or crushed walnuts
• butter
• olive oil
• 1/2 cup balsamic vinegar or dry white wine
• salt

Method

Puff Pastry

You can buy ready-made puff pastry from the shop or you might like to try Gordon Ramsay’s rough-puff pastry. If you’re taking the Ramsay route, save time by making the pastry while you’re caramelising your onions.

Caramelised Onion

Throw some oil and butter in a large frypan. Keep the heat on low-medium — you want to avoiding burning the fat/creating smoke.

When the butter has melted add your onion and a pinch of salt. Use a wooden spatula to coat and distribute the onion evenly across the pan. Let your onions alter, mixing often.

Once you notice the onion has softened and is tinged with colour — perhaps about 25–30 minutes in — add balsamic vinegar or white wine and sugar. Mix and distribute these additions evenly.

Keep on heat for another 15 or so minutes, turning the onions every now and then. You’re looking for translucency, colour and softness. Once you feel you’ve found these, take the frypan off the heat and set aside.

Assembling

Position your oven’s rack to its middle and preheat to 160 degrees celsius. Lightly grease your mini cupcake pan (mine have a diameter of 5cm. Use what you have).

To create the moulds, take your pastry from your fridge, cut your circles and gently press them into the pan.

Then, I like to place my ingredients in these mould in the following order: a teaspoon of onion, a teaspoon of cinnamon-coated pears, crumbs of roquefort and a sprinkle of pine nuts or walnut on top.

Baking

Place these in the oven for 10–15 minutes, or a bit longer, with lower heat, if the size of your moulds are markedly bigger. You want pastry that’s a little golden, melted cheese and nuts that haven’t succumbed to burning.

Serving

You can serve these immediately or you can cool them down and store them in the fridge for later.

How do you go about caramelising your onions?

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