Some dishes start with a craving.

Others begin with the people who grow the food.

This one begins with a conversation.

Over the past few years, through my teaching work and my market tours, I’ve been fortunate to meet farmers and producers who are quietly reshaping what the future of Australian food might look like. Not through trends or buzzwords, but through soil, stewardship, patience and care.

This bowl of Moussaka Mafaldine is really a tribute to three of them.

• Vincent Heffernan from Moorlands Biodynamic Lamb, a sixth-generation farmer who is restoring soil and biodiversity through regenerative grazing.

• James Thomas and Sarah Gorst from South Coast Seaweed, who are helping revive Indigenous aquaculture traditions while restoring marine ecosystems.

• Tim Wimborne from Braidwood Food Company, whose extraordinary pasta is handmade in regional NSW using Australian grains and thoughtful craft.

When their ingredients came together in my kitchen, the dish that emerged wasn’t quite moussaka and wasn’t quite bolognese.

It was something comfortably in between.

And that feels very Australian.

Modern Australian cooking is conversation

Traditional Greek moussaka layers eggplant, spiced meat and béchamel into a baked dish.

Italian ragù slowly cooks meat, tomatoes and aromatics until rich and deeply flavoured.

In this kitchen version, those ideas meet halfway.

The lamb is simmered slowly with eggplant, zucchini, mushrooms and warming spices like cinnamon and allspice; flavours that echo the aromatic heart of moussaka. But instead of baking, the sauce is served over pasta.

Not just any pasta though.

The mafaldine here is a collaboration between South Coast Seaweed and Braidwood Food Company, infused with wild-harvested golden kelp and turmeric. The kelp brings a gentle oceanic umami and mineral depth that works surprisingly beautifully with lamb, the turmeric brings a spiced warmth complimentary to the moussaka and a golden glow for joyful eating with our eyes before it touches our mouths.

The result is humble, hearty and nourishing; the kind of dish that feeds a family generously and improves even more the next day.

It’s also a reminder that cooking doesn’t have to be complicated to be meaningful.

Sometimes the most powerful thing we can do is simply cook thoughtfully with ingredients that carry good stories.

The farmers behind the flavour.

Moorlands Biodynamic Lamb

Moorlands is a 3,000-acre property in the Southern Tablelands of NSW that has been farmed by the Heffernan family for more than 180 years.

Today, Vince Heffernan raises sheep using certified biodynamic and regenerative practices, focusing on soil health, biodiversity and animal wellbeing.

Their sheep graze freely on pasture, native grasses and shrubs, including thousands of wattle trees that provide protein-rich forage.

No GM feed.
No chemical drenches.
No artificial fertilisers.

Just living soil, thoughtful grazing and generations of experience.

I often introduce people to Vince’s lamb during my Northside Produce Market tours, and his storytelling about regenerative farming always leaves people seeing food a little differently. What could threatened superb parrots and vulnerable green and golden bell frogs reappearing on the land possibly have to do with this highly awarded, incredibly tasty lamb? Ask Vince when you next stop by…

South Coast Seaweed

James Thomas, a proud Yuin man, and Sarah Gorst, a Gamilaroi woman, founded South Coast Seaweed with a vision that extends far beyond food.

Their work is about reviving Indigenous aquaculture traditions, restoring marine ecosystems and reconnecting cultural knowledge with modern food systems.

Seaweed farming has the potential to support biodiversity, capture carbon and improve ocean health; while also creating extraordinary new ingredients.

Their wild-harvested Golden Kelp is mineral rich, deeply savoury and beautifully suited to pasta. If you can’t quite get to one of their tours and experiences, I encourage you to try their products until you can.

Braidwood Food Company

Chef Tim Wimborne’s small regional pasta company rose from the ashes of devastating bushfires just a few years ago.

Today, his handcrafted pasta has earned triple gold medals at the Sydney Royal Fine Food Show, including the highest pasta score recorded in a decade.

Made using Australian durum semolina and carefully developed techniques, his pasta has the texture and structure that slow sauces deserve.

The Golden Kelp & Turmeric Mafaldine collaboration with South Coast Seaweed feels like a perfect meeting of land and sea.

Cooking as a daily act of care

When we cook like this at home; even something as simple as a slow simmered ragu; we’re participating in something bigger.

We support farmers who care for land and animals.

We honour cultural knowledge and innovation.

We feed our families food that is genuinely nourishing.

And we create space around the table for conversation.

The industrial food system tells us convenience is everything.

But real food reminds us connection is everything.

RECIPE

Moussaka Mafaldine

A slow-simmered lamb and vegetable ragù inspired by moussaka

Serves: 6–8
Prep time: 30 minutes
Cook time: 2–3 hours

Ingredients

Ragù

1 kg Moorlands biodynamic lamb mince
2 tbsp olive oil
3 cloves garlic, finely chopped
500 g brown onions, finely diced
500 g mushrooms, finely diced
500 g eggplant, diced (1–2 cm cubes)
500 g potatoes, peeled and diced small
500 g zucchini, diced
500 g crushed tomatoes (tinned)
700 g tomato passata

1/2 tsp bicarb soda

1 tsp ground allspice
1 tsp ground cinnamon
1 tsp vegetable stock powder (or homemade stock concentrate)

1–2 tsp sweetener of choice (optional – balances acidity)
Sea salt and cracked black pepper, to taste

To serve

375 g mafaldine pasta (golden kelp & turmeric if available)
Grated pecorino or parmesan (optional)
Extra olive oil
Fresh herbs (parsley or oregano)

Method

1. Brown the lamb

Heat olive oil in a large heavy-based pot over medium-high heat.

Add the lamb mince and cook, breaking it up thoroughly with a wooden spoon so the meat browns evenly rather than steaming.

Cook until deeply browned and fragrant.

2. Build the flavour base

Add bicarb soda, garlic, allspice and cinnamon.

Cook for about 2 minutes until aromatic.

3. Add the vegetables gradually

Add vegetables one at a time, allowing each to soften slightly before adding the next:

1. Onion – cook 2–3 minutes

2. Mushrooms – cook until they release moisture

3. Eggplant – cook until lightly softened

4. Potatoes – cook 2 minutes

5. Zucchini – cook 1–2 minutes

This layering builds flavour and prevents the pot from becoming watery.

4. Add tomatoes

Stir through:

• crushed tomatoes

• passata

• vegetable stock powder

Season lightly with salt and pepper.

Bring to a gentle simmer.

5. Slow cook

Reduce heat to low and simmer 2–3 hours, stirring occasionally.

The sauce should become thick, rich and deeply flavoured.

Taste and adjust seasoning.

Add a small amount of sweetener if the tomatoes taste too acidic.

6. Cook the pasta

Bring a large pot of salted water to the boil.

Cook mafaldine according to packet instructions until al dente.

Reserve ½ cup pasta cooking water.

7. Bring it together

Add drained pasta to the ragù and toss gently.

Add a splash of pasta water if needed to loosen the sauce.

To serve

Serve generously with:

• grated pecorino or parmesan

• fresh herbs

• a drizzle of olive oil

Optional side quest: Pine-nut béchamel

I experimented with a pine-nut béchamel inspired by traditional moussaka.

The flavour was perfect but the texture needs refining; so consider this a work in progress for a future recipe.

Final thoughts

This dish may look humble.

But it carries stories of soil, sea, culture and craft.

The farmers did most of the real work long before the ingredients reached my kitchen.

All we have to do is cook them well.

I’d love to hear your thoughts or reflections… let’s exchange.

xox Elena

This might feel like an unusual thing to share right now.

The world is heavy. The news, nationally, internationally, is relentless. There is despair, desperation, fear at so many corners, much of which intersects directly with the work I do and the young people I walk alongside. Some days, the weight is thick. Sticky. Like mud that grips at your ankles and keeps you standing still in grief, in pain, in overwhelm.

And yet, perhaps because of that, not despite it, I keep returning to nature.

To grounding.
To touching, smelling, immersing myself in something steady.

Over the last ten years, this practice has helped me survive, cope, breathe, pause, think, let go, and find my next step. The creative problem solving I rely on so deeply so often appears not in urgency, but in quiet, meditative moments. But those moments don’t happen accidentally. I have to make time for them. Otherwise the heaviness takes over.

This Lilly Pilly tree has been there through it all.

It greets me every morning as I pull back the curtains and let the day in. And it’s there again at night, as I retreat into our cave-like darkness, the sun slipping down behind its branches. I’ve watched its seasons ebb and flow, sometimes inconsistent, sometimes generous. Some years the fruit is fleeting, dull, minimal, quiet. Other years it’s abundant, vibrant, long-lasting.

This most recent season has been the longest fruiting season I’ve ever known it to have.

The lead-up weather was chaotic: hot, wet, windy, hot, wet, windy. And now, mostly stillness. Most of the fruit needing just a little encouragement to drop. Conditions I now recognise, in hindsight, as exactly right for the best harvest.

I love watching the native birds interact with this tree.

It offers shelter.
A playground for hide-and-seek games.
A place to perch and pause while parents feed their young.
Fuel. Sustenance.
Shade and sun, depending on the hour.
Height for observation, for calling the flock back together.

It is always alive. It feels like a meeting place. A central point they return to again and again. Families bring their newest young back each year. New babies appear. Same parents.

When my first child was six months old, we evacuated due to bushfires.
At seven months, we were flooded in, the first of many floods that would impact our community over the next three years.
At eight months, the country’s borders closed due to COVID.

And the trees were there through all of it.

They were steady. Stable. They grew new soft pink leaves. They blossomed. They fruited. They lost fruit in storms. Their branches offered shade for picnics and play, for sensory exploration. Dappled light danced across our skin. They filtered how we viewed everything else.

They were consistent when both my world and the wider world were not. Predictable in a sea of uncertainty. Stable and safe in the face of fear and dread. Company in isolation. Visually, aromatically, audibly present.

Even their fragrance changed under moonlight.

My son often struggled to go to sleep in those early days, part personality (he didn’t want to miss out on anything), part being a deep thinker who found it hard to switch off, and no doubt partly absorbing the anxiety I was desperately trying not to pass on.

At night, I would walk laps with him in my arms. Bundled up. Rocking. Singing. Humming. Keeping a pace that became meditative for both of us. I was often barefoot, grounding us. He would reach out and scrunch the Lilly Pilly leaves, releasing their scent, or gently letting them brush across his face and body.

Under the stars.
Held by branches like arms around us.
Eventually, he would nod off.

The tree’s fruiting has always been unpredictable to this novice, wannabe agriculturalist. This most recent fruiting season, now gently tapering, has been the most abundant I’ve ever known. Branches bowed and bending under the weight of their own generosity. I’ve harvested only what I can reach from the ground and lower limbs, leaving the rest to feed my native friends. It feels like a quiet practice in restraint and reciprocity, taking enough, and trusting that abundance multiplies when it’s shared. Four harvests in three months. Early fruit: tart, astringent. Later fruit: deeper in colour, sweeter, rounder in flavour.

As I’ve watched the tree, learned its rhythms, noticed how nature interacts with it, it feels like we’ve come to know one another. And in response, I’ve challenged myself to learn how to cook with its fruit. To eat what it offers.

I love mowing the lawn beneath it. Leaves and fruit crushed and bruised, the aroma rising, therapeutic, awakening, luring. I love a tidy lawn once the leaves are gathered and mulched. And I love just as much when the leaves fall like confetti and decorate it again.

I’ve learned that Lilly Pilly trees can live between 40 and 100 years. I met my tree in 2015, already fully grown, perhaps five to ten years into maturity. Which means, if we’re lucky, there could be another 20 to 80 years of companionship, entertainment, comfort, grounding, joy, and perspective ahead.

The variety I believe I have is Syzygium luehmannii, commonly known as riberry, small-leaved lilly pilly, cherry satinash, cherry alder, or clove lilly pilly. A medium-sized coastal rainforest tree native to eastern Australia, from New South Wales through to Queensland.

And it turns out, it’s also delicious.

Riberries are small, pear-shaped berries with a firm, crisp texture and a single seed. Their flavour is complex: tart and cranberry-like, with spicy notes of clove and cinnamon, sometimes a musky bush-honey edge. Raw, they’re bold and sharp. Cooked, they soften and sweeten beautifully.

I’ve experimented widely:
Jam with and without seeds.
Jelly.
A slice with macadamia nuts and white chocolate chips. Slow cooked with bone in, cuts of meat.
Fermented with chilli, a chilli lilly pilly in progress. The flavour is perfect; the texture and colour still need work.

The tree fruits so generously that I’ve had the freedom to play. To experiment. To find joy in the kitchen.

Nutritionally, riberries are extraordinary. Once known by our First Nations Peoples as “medicine berries,” they’re incredibly high in antioxidants, particularly anthocyanins, supporting cognitive health and cellular protection. They’re rich in vitamin C, folate (three times that of a blueberry), manganese, calcium, magnesium, and potassium. Traditionally, the pulp was even used to treat sore ears and infections.

They are both food and knowledge. Nourishment and story.

As a family, we’ve also loved participating in the National Bird Survey for a few years now, what began as a side quest, a distraction, a way to get outside and stay connected during lockdowns, became something much more meaningful.

Some of the birds I’ve come to recognise through this tree include:

Satin Bowerbirds (my favourite regular visitors)
Magpies
Rainbow Lorikeets
Galahs
Eastern Koels
Crimson Rosellas
King Parrots
Wonga Pigeons
Crested Pigeons
Common Bronzewings
Red and Little Wattlebirds
Yellow-faced Honeyeaters
Pied Currawongs
Channel-billed Cuckoos
Noisy Miners
Regent Honeyeaters
Little Eagles
Grey Butcherbirds
Magpie-larks
Black-faced Cuckooshrikes
Sulphur-crested Cockatoos
Yellow-tailed Black Cockatoos
And my favourite rare visitor of all, the South-eastern Glossy Black-Cockatoo.

Maned ducks don’t visit the tree itself, but families have gathered beneath it, enjoying the shade and fallen fruit.

This tree has taught me about patience. About cycles. About abundance and scarcity. About observation before action. About nourishment that goes far beyond food.

In a world that feels increasingly loud, fractured, and urgent, it has reminded me that grounding is not indulgent, it’s essential. That learning can be intimate. That care can be quiet. That survival can smell like crushed leaves under bare feet.

This Lilly Pilly tree has been here to greet me each morning as I pull back the curtains and let the day in, and it waits again at night as I retreat into our cave-like darkness to rest, the sun slipping down behind its branches. A constant witness to both beginnings and endings, holding the rhythm of our days without ever asking to be noticed.

This is my love letter to a Lilly Pilly tree.
And maybe, an invitation, to notice what has been quietly holding you steady, too.

xox Elena

At the Australian Native Food Festival, dishes like this sparked conversation about how native foods can fit into any pantry or favourite cuisine, no matter your cultural background. By using local, ethically sourced ingredients, every bite supports First Nations producers and their communities, while introducing a whole new palette of flavours.

Roo Sausage Rolls

Yields 36 party-size rolls

Filling Ingredients

• 500 g kangaroo mince

• ¼ tsp baking soda

• 1 tsp salt

• 50 g macadamia nuts, finely chopped

• 100 g / 1 medium onion, finely diced

• 1 large egg

• 1 tsp native thyme

• 1 tsp bush tomato, ground

• ½ tsp pepperleaf, ground

• 3 sheets ready-made puff pastry

• 1 egg, beaten for egg wash

• 2 tsp sesame seeds or wattleseed

Method

1. Preheat the oven to 180ºC fan-forced and line two baking trays with baking paper or a silicone mat.

2. Combine the filling ingredients in a bowl and allow to sit for 30–45 minutes, or until meat comes to room temperature.

3. Cut three rows into each puff pastry sheet.

4. Place an even, sausage-like portion of filling along the centre of each row.

5. Fold and roll the puff pastry to meet, pressing gently to seal.

6. With the seal side down, cut each row into four portions, 12 party-size sausage rolls per sheet.

7. Position rolls evenly with 4–5 cm between each to allow space to puff.

8. Brush with egg wash and sprinkle with sesame seeds or wattleseed.

9. Bake for 45 minutes until golden and crisp.

10. Serve with your choice of tomato sauce or a fermented chilli lilly pilly sauce for extra native flair.

Why I Love This Recipe

Sausage rolls are a perfect bridge between everyday comfort food and native Australian ingredients. In my teaching kitchen, making these rolls becomes more than baking, it’s a moment to discuss seasonal native produce, cultural connection, and the flavours that make Australian food unique. The nutty crunch of macadamias, the aromatic lift of native thyme, and the subtle tang of bush tomato all combine to tell a story of Country and community on a plate.

Sensory & Learning Opportunities

• Smell: Aromatic native thyme and bush tomato, warm pastry

• Sight: Golden puff pastry encasing tender native-flavoured filling

• Touch: Crisp pastry outside, soft and juicy filling inside

• Taste: Savoury, nutty, slightly tangy with a hint of pepperleaf

• Sound: Crunch of puff pastry as it breaks open

“I wonder…” Questions and conversation starters for your curious kitchen kiddos:

• I wonder how native herbs like thyme and pepperleaf enhance familiar flavours?

• I wonder what other native ingredients could be added to traditional recipes?

• I wonder how ethical sourcing of kangaroo and native produce benefits First Nations communities?

• I wonder what Bruce Pascoe writes about kangaroo meat and more native ingredients in Young Dark Emu?

• I wonder why eating small portions with our hands is such a social and fun way of eating?

Food has always been one of my favourite ways to teach, to spark curiosity, start conversations, and connect across cultures. I hope this recipe inspires you to explore more native ingredients and the stories they carry. Thanks for joining me on this delicious learning journey; may your next meal tell a story too.

xox Elena

In my teaching work, food often becomes our shared first language, a bridge to belonging. Each week, the young people I work with, staff and I create Cultural Feasts the whole school enjoys together, exploring the idea that food is more than sustenance, it’s a storyteller. Every dish offers a way to celebrate identity, connect to community, and understand our shared and different histories.

Wherever possible, we include Australian native ingredients, honouring this continent’s first and oldest food cultures and our original food knowledge holders. The results are always surprising and deeply satisfying, vibrant cultural fusions that speak to who we are and where we come from.

One week’s celebration dish: Roo-Loaded Hummus, inspired by the centuries-old hummus b’lameh, translation “hummus with meat”, a traditional Middle Eastern favourite, humble and hearty, often made with spiced lamb or beef piled over arguably the most famous, creamy chickpea purée.

In our version, we swap in sustainably sourced kangaroo mince, lean, protein-rich, and deeply connected to Country, then layer in native herbs and spices: curry myrtle, lemon myrtle, saltbush, native thyme, ooray, and bush tomato - a combination reminiscent of the wonders of sumac. The result? A dish that feels both ancient and new, the familiar comfort of hummus meeting the wild, aromatic heart of the Australian history and landscape.

It’s also a delicious teaching tool, a way to discuss sustainability, cultural fusion, and respect for First Nations food knowledge. Most importantly, it sparks curiosity and conversation, which is exactly what food should do. I’ve since shared it with family and friends many times, on request.

This dish is rich, grounding, and full of life, much like the conversations that happen around it. I was thrilled to share it with the incredible audience at the recent inaugural Australian Native Food Festival by IndigiEarth as a part of a broader conversation about easy pantry swaps and how easily we can all include Native Foods in our everyday cooking, no matter our preferences, dietary requirements, culture or skill level.

Serve it generously, share it widely, and taste the connection.

Recipe - Roo-Loaded Hummus Serves 4

Ingredients

Kangaroo Mince

• 500g kangaroo mince

• ¼ tsp baking/bicarbonate soda

• ½ tsp salt

• 1 tsp curry myrtle, ground

• 1 tsp pepperleaf, ground

• ½ tsp lemon myrtle, ground

• 1 tsp native thyme, dried leaves

• 1 tsp saltbush, ground

• 1 large onion, finely diced

• 1 tbsp garlic paste

• 1 tsp sesame seeds

• 2 tsp sugar or honey

• 1 tbsp balsamic vinegar

• 1 tbsp Worcestershire sauce

• 1 tbsp extra virgin olive oil (for cooking)

Flavoured Oil

• 100ml grapeseed oil

• 10 lemon myrtle leaves

• 6 bay leaves

• ½ bunch spring onions (green section only)

Hummus

• 1 can chickpeas, drained

• 2 tbsp tahini

• 2 tbsp extra virgin olive oil

• 1 clove garlic

1 tsp salt

• Juice of 1 large lemon

• Ice or iced water (to desired texture)

For Presentation

• ¼ tsp each ground ooray and bush tomato

• 25g macadamia nuts, finely chopped and toasted

• 1 tbsp ooray syrup, drizzled

Method

1. For the flavoured oil, blanch lemon myrtle leaves, bay leaves and spring onion greens for 30 seconds, then refresh in iced water.

2. Drain well, squeeze out excess water and blend with oil for 2–3 minutes until smooth, stop at body temperature to preserve flavour and colour.

3. Strain through muslin, pour into a squeeze bottle, and set aside. (Save solids for a pie, dressing or casserole.)

4. For the hummus, blend all hummus ingredients until smooth, adding ice or iced water for a creamy consistency. Chill until required.

5. For the kangaroo mince, combine kangaroo mince with bicarb soda, salt, herbs and spices. Rest covered for 30 minutes at room temperature.

6. Heat olive oil in a medium frypan over medium-high heat. Add mince, onion and garlic, breaking up the meat until evenly cooked and caramelised.

7. Once most liquid has evaporated, stir in balsamic, Worcestershire and your chosen sweetener. Allow some sections to crisp for added texture. Adjust seasoning to taste.

8. To serve, spoon hummus generously on a plate or platter, creating a well in the centre. Pile the caramelised kangaroo mixture into the middle. Top with toasted macadamia nuts, a sprinkle of ooray and bush tomato, a drizzle of ooray syrup, and a swirl of lemon myrtle oil.

9. Serve with pita chips, Lebanese bread or crackers.

This recipe isn’t just a fusion of flavours, it’s a fusion of stories, cultures, and possibilities. Whether you’re cooking at home or in a classroom, may it remind you that there’s room for everyone at the table.

Taste the connection. Celebrate the conversation.

xox
Elena

The inaugural Australian Native Food Festival, curated by Sharon Winsor of Indigiearth, was a celebration decades in the making. Over 5,000 people gathered to taste, learn, and share in the richness of First Nations food knowledge. Stalls overflowed with colour, texture, and story, from native teas and grains to modern dishes that honoured tens of thousands of years of agricultural and culinary wisdom.

It was humbling to be a small part of it, to cook, to teach, to listen. To watch children tasting ooray and lemon myrtle for the first time, or elders smiling quietly as they recognised ingredients they’d known all their lives finally being celebrated publicly.

And amidst it all, something simple, my Myrtle Gingerbread Kisses.

Sweet, spiced, and full of story.

These little biscuits have quickly become a staple in my kitchen, and, truthfully, my kids have eaten their bodyweight in them, they’re a bit like gingerbread but so much better. They’ve shared them with school friends and teammates, unknowingly starting conversations about anise myrtle and cinnamon myrtle, about where flavours come from, and whose stories they carry, and growing your own food. That’s how culture continues, through small, joyful, edible moments.

The recipe works beautifully with both anise and cinnamon myrtle, or just aniseed myrtle for that bold, licorice-like twist. Gluten-free, nut-free, and fully kid-approved, they’re perfect for lunchboxes, gatherings, or simply to fill the house with that unmistakable warmth of ginger and syrup.

Myrtle Gingerbread Kisses

Yields: 50 individual biscuits / 25 kisses
Dietaries: Gluten free, nut free

Ingredients

• 250g plain gluten-free flour (extra for cookie cutting)

• 50g Mitchell and Button grass flour (extra if dough is too wet)

• 1 tbsp psyllium husk

• ½ tsp bicarb soda

• 1 tsp ground ginger

• 1 tsp ground anise myrtle

• 1 tsp ground cinnamon myrtle

• ½ tsp salt

• 100g packed light brown sugar

• 100g unsalted butter, at room temperature

• 100g golden syrup

• 1 medium egg, at room temperature, beaten

• 1 tsp vanilla paste

Ganache

• 100g dark chocolate melts

• 100g thickened cream

• ½ tsp ground anise myrtle

• ½ tsp ground cinnamon myrtle

Method

1. Preheat oven to 180°C (fan-forced). Line baking trays.

2. In a large bowl, whisk together flours, psyllium husk, brown sugar, baking soda, spices, and salt.

3. Make a well in the centre and add butter, golden syrup, egg, and vanilla, mixing after each addition until a thick dough forms. Allow dough to rest and hydrate for minimum half an hour.

4. Divide into four portions. Roll each between two sheets of baking paper to about ½cm thick. Chill to firm.

5. Cut into shapes with a floured cookie cutter, removing excess dough and re-rolling scraps. Freeze shapes at least 10 minutes (or store frozen for up to a month).

6. For the ganache, heat cream and spices just to the boil. Pour over chocolate melts and stir until smooth. Chill until needed.

7. Bake cookies 8–10 minutes until just set. Cool completely before sandwiching with ganache, you could spread it with a knife or pipe it if you choose. Chill to set.

8. They’ll keep for a week in an airtight container in the fridge, if they last that long.

Reflections from the Festival

The weekend was powerful not just because of the food, but the honesty. Industry leaders, including Bruce Pascoe, spoke about “Black Cladding” and the sobering truth that only 1.7% of money spent on Indigenous food currently returns to Indigenous people. That statistic should stop us in our tracks, and stir us to act. We can all make a difference, one small, deliberate choice at a time:

✔️ Learn about Australia’s native ingredients — their flavour, seasonality, and origins.
✔️ Ask where they come from, and who benefits when you buy.
✔️ Choose First Nations–owned businesses whenever possible.

If you’re looking to source your own myrtle, I recommend supporting Aboriginal-owned businesses like IndigiEarth for dried products, teas, and spices or IndigiGrow, where you can buy and grow your own plants at home.

These choices matter. They shape the future of our food systems and return knowledge, respect, and resources to where they belong.

Curiosities for Kitchen Kiddos

Baking with children is one of my favourite ways to weave culture and curiosity together. As you bake these kisses, invite conversation:

• I wonder why anise myrtle tastes a little like licorice?

• I wonder how these ingredients grow in Australia’s soils?

• I wonder what other myrtles might change the flavour next time?

• I wonder why baking brings people together so easily?

• Do these biscuits remind you of gingerbread or Pfeffernüsse - maybe they could be a celebration cookie to gift?

These small questions plant the seeds of awareness, they keep our children’s connection to this land alive and growing.

Because when we cook with Country in mind, we’re not just feeding stomachs. We’re feeding understanding, healing, and hope.

Further Reading & Gratitude

A heartfelt thank you to Sharon Winsor and the team behind the Australian Native Food Festival — for creating a space of true celebration, truth-telling, and transformation. The legacy of that weekend will ripple far beyond the stalls and the plates.

xox

Elena

If this story has sparked your curiosity to taste, learn and connect more deeply with native Australian ingredients and businesses, this Indigenous Business Month is the perfect time to engage with them. I encourage you to explore and support these Aboriginal-owned and led producers. These remarkable businesses not only offer flavour and nourishment but also uphold Country, culture and community through every product they share:

• Kungkas Can Cook

• Mayi Harvests Native Foods

• Kakadu Kitchen

• Baagi Milaygiin

• Wambool Dreaming

• Black Duck Foods

• Yaala Sparkling

• IndigiGrow

• Inchim Anyany

• Yinarrma

• Kaiyu Superfoods

• Karkalla Byron Bay

• Native Botanical Brewery

• Bakarindi Bush Food

• Ngumpie Weaving

• Lore Australia

• Thirsty Turtl

• Pink Puggle

• Jala Jala Treats

• Chocolate On Purpose

• Bush To Bowl

• Esparq Ventures

• South Coast Seaweed

  

But baking with native flavours is about more than taste. It’s a way to honour the knowledge and expertise of First Nations peoples, who have been cultivating and caring for these foods for tens of thousands of years. They understand seasonality, sustainability, and the deep connection between food and Country in ways that modern kitchens are only beginning to relearn. By bringing rosella, or lemon myrtle, wattleseed, saltbush, and so many more, into our everyday cooking, we’re not just creating delicious dishes. We’re showing respect, building cultural curiosity, and supporting communities who continue to share these gifts with us.

Rosella is most often sold dried, commonly as a tea, which makes it one of the most accessible native ingredients to try at home. If you’d like to explore, I encourage choosing Aboriginal-owned businesses such as Indigiearth, who create a wide range of dried products, or IndigiGrow, if you’re ready to grow your own plants and experience the cycle of care from soil to table. These small steps matter. They connect us to Country, to community, and to the future of our food systems.

And there’s never been a better time to get curious, Sydney’s Native Food Festival is just around the corner, hosted by Carriageworks and curated by Sharon Winsor of Indigiearth - I’ll see you there. It’s a space where you can taste, learn, and experience the richness of native ingredients alongside the people who know them best.

At home, recipes like this cheesecake are a wonderful way to feed curiosity, especially with kids. Rosella’s vibrant colour sparks the senses. Its tart bite against creamy filling creates surprise and delight. You might ask together: Why does rosella give such a deep ruby colour? How do nuts change flavour when roasted? Why do tangy flavours make sweet ones taste better? Questions like these keep children connected to the wonder of food, and to the knowledge that Australia’s unique ingredients are not only delicious but deeply tied to place, culture, and sustainability

.

Rosella & Raspberry Baked Cheesecake

Base ingredients

• 100g almond meal

• 50g hazelnut meal

• 1 tbsp psyllium husk in 50g water

• 100g gluten-free flour (or Kangaroo, Mitchell and Button grass flour)

• 75g caster sugar

• 125g butter

• ¼ tsp salt

Filling ingredients

• 250g cream cheese

• 250g mascarpone cheese

• 150g thickened cream

• 5 large eggs

• 1 vanilla bean, seeds scraped

• 100g caster sugar

Topping ingredients

• 500g frozen raspberries

• 3 tbsp Rosella Tea

• 3 tbsp caster sugar

Method

1. Preheat oven to 160ºC (fan-forced).

2. For the topping, combine raspberries, rosella tea and sugar in a small saucepan. Heat gently until sugar dissolves, the tea softens, and raspberries start to collapse. Remove from heat and allow to cool.

3. For the base, blitz all ingredients in a food processor until mixture resembles coarse wet sand. Press evenly into the base and up the sides of a greased and lined 20cm cake tin.

4. For the filling, beat cream cheese, mascarpone, vanilla seeds, and sugar until smooth. Add eggs gradually, then cream, mixing until glossy and voluminous.

5. Pour filling into the base, tapping the tin gently to release any air bubbles. Dollop cooled topping over the filling—swirl for a marbled look, or leave bold for contrast.

6. Bake for 70 minutes. Turn off the oven and allow the cake to cool inside for 1 hour before removing. Chill further before serving.

Keeps for up to one week in the fridge. Best served cool.

Why this cake matters:

• Naturally gluten free with nut flours and native grains.

• Naturally sustainable, drawing on ingredients that thrive in Australian soils and climates.

• Naturally educational, feeding children’s curiosity through taste, colour, texture, and story.

Food is joy, but it’s also knowledge. With every slice of this cheesecake, you’re tasting not only something delicious—but something deeply Australian.

From my kitchen to yours,

xox Elena

I’ve developed many recipes utilising Lemon Myrtle over the years, one of my favourites being my MasterChef Australia semi final starter, a Modern Australian Tuna Nicoise, my way of honouring a classic while letting native ingredients shine. Warm ruby tuna rolled in lemon myrtle, golden saffron kipflers, crisp samphire, and bush tomato sauce create a plate that feels painted as much as plated. It’s a dish that tells a story, of memory, of Country, and of connection through food, and I had hoped it would open the door to deeper kitchen curiosities worth exploring together.

This recipe however, is a totally achievable and accessible home cook, which was first explored while I was developing recipes via @straighttothesource for @pundiproduce. Lemon Myrtle has long been a staple in my pantry and in my garden, easy to grow, fragrant all year, and always ready to add a little magic to sweet or savoury dishes. My kids love scrunching a leaf between their fingers and taking a deep inhale for a quick sensory reset, the sharp citrus perfume and eucalyptus notes are irresistibly soothing.

Baking with lemon myrtle is a gentle way to introduce native flavours into your everyday cooking. It’s could be considered a ‘gateway’ ingredient: bright and familiar, yet distinctly its own. Used for generations by First Nations Australians as food and medicine, it carries stories of Country as much as it carries flavour. By sourcing it ethically through First Nations–owned businesses, we can make sure those stories, and the communities behind them, remain at the centre.

Pairing it with buttery dough and creamy white chocolate creates a cookie that’s citrus-kissed, comforting, and just a little bit irresistible. Sprinkle with salt while still warm, and you’ve got a tray that looks straight out of a café, but feels right at home.

Recipe: Lemon Myrtle & White Chocolate Cookies

Ingredients

• 150g butter

• 75g caster sugar

• 75g brown sugar

• 1 large egg

• 250g plain gluten free flour

• ½ tsp baking soda

• 1½ tsp dried lemon myrtle

• 150g white chocolate chips

• Salt flakes, to taste

Method

1. Preheat oven to 160°C, fan forced.

2. Beat butter and sugars in a bowl or stand mixer until pale, fluffy, and doubled in volume.

3. Add egg and vanilla, mixing thoroughly.

4. Add flour, baking soda, and lemon myrtle. Mix until just combined.

5. Fold through chocolate chips.

6. Divide dough into 24 golf ball–sized portions. Shape gently and place on 2–3 lined trays, leaving room to spread. Flatten slightly.

7. Bake 10–12 minutes until just golden but still soft.

8. While warm, sprinkle with salt flakes. For neat café-style edges, swirl a larger cookie cutter around each cookie to tidy.

9. Allow to cool, they’ll firm up as they rest. (Eat at any stage, warm and gooey, or cooled with a cuppa!)

Why Lemon Myrtle?

• Native to Australia, easy to grow, endlessly versatile

• Adds a lemon-lime lift, equally at home in sweet or savoury recipes

• Used for centuries in First Nations medicine, valued for antioxidants and antimicrobial properties

• A perfect introduction to the world of Australian native foods

Kids in the Kitchen

Cooking is always more fun when the whole family can join in. Depending on age and skill level, here’s how kids can help:

• Toddlers (2–4): smell and touch lemon myrtle, sprinkle salt flakes, help line trays

• Early Primary (5–8): measure, stir dry ingredients, place dough balls, tidy edges with cookie cutter

• Older Kids (9–12): crack and beat the egg, use the mixer with supervision, read the recipe aloud, manage the timer

Sensory Learnings

• Smell: the sharp citrus notes of lemon myrtle vs buttery dough

• Touch: soft butter, sticky dough, crisp edges once baked

• Sight: pale dough transforming golden in the oven

• Taste: the sweet, citrusy balance of white chocolate and lemon myrtle, rounded by a pinch of salt

• Sound: the mixer whirring, the timer dinging, the crunch of a cooled cookie

Feeding Wonder, Kitchen Curiosities Starters

• I wonder why lemon myrtle smells so much stronger than lemon?

• I wonder how First Nations people traditionally used it?

• I wonder why cookies harden as they cool?

• I wonder what would happen if we swapped white chocolate for dark?

• I wonder how baking soda helps cookies spread?

An Invitation

Lemon myrtle is always in my garden, always in my kitchen, and always in my heart. It’s vibrant, adaptable, and endlessly generous, whether in cookies, marinades, teas, or just a leaf rubbed between little fingers for a moment of calm.

Have you baked with lemon myrtle before? Or do you have another favourite native ingredient that always finds its way into your cooking? Hit reply, I’d love to hear your stories, your experiments, and the flavours that connect you to Country and home.

xox Elena

Using native ingredients isn’t just about taste. It’s an opportunity to connect with Country, to acknowledge and learn from First Nations Australians’ incredible knowledge of seasonality, sustainability, and food systems. Wherever possible, I source native ingredients ethically, ensuring the benefits return to First Nations communities.

In my kitchen, this dish is punchy, sticky, and unapologetically local. It’s inspired by classic Thai stir-fries—sweet, savoury, a touch of heat—but with a uniquely Australian twist. Serve it over rice with spring onion and extra chilli if you like, or let your imagination run: try it with slow-roasted vegetables, tofu, or even as a topping for toast for a fusion of breakfast and dinner.

Opportunities for Learning & Connection

This dish is perfect for exploring:

• Flavour experimentation: understanding how native basil interacts with sweet, salty, and spicy notes

• Cultural respect: talking about First Nations food systems, seasonal harvests, and ethical sourcing

• Kitchen curiosities: observing caramelisation, balancing flavours, and learning how sauces transform under heat

• Family engagement: kids can measure, mix, stir, or taste-test at each step

This is also a great springboard for “I wonder…” conversation starters in the kitchen:

• I wonder how First Nations Australians used native basil traditionally?

• I wonder why it tastes different to Thai or Mediterranean basil?

• I wonder how the sticky glaze changes if we cook it slower or faster?

• I wonder what other native ingredients we could explore together?

Native Basil Spicy Chicken

Ingredients

• 150ml chicken stock, salt reduced

• 50g oyster sauce

• 50g soy sauce

• 25g fish sauce

• 25g caster sugar

• 25g brown sugar

• 2 cloves garlic, finely chopped

• 1 long red chili, finely chopped

• 1 French shallot, finely sliced

• 2 tbsp native basil, dried

• 50g coconut or vegetable oil

• 1kg chicken mince or finely diced chicken thigh

• 1 long red chili, sliced to serve

• 2 spring onions, green only, sliced to serve

• 2 cups cooked rice, to serve

Method

1. Combine stock, all sauces, sugars, garlic, chopped chilli, and shallot in a bowl. Stir to combine and set aside.

2. Heat oil in a large frypan. Add chicken mince, stir to break up clumps, and cook until just opaque.

3. Add sliced shallot and continue to stir-fry until beginning to caramelise.

4. Pour in half the sauce and stir through the chicken. Continue to cook until liquid reduces to a sticky glaze, then add remaining sauce.

5. Add native basil, toss through to distribute evenly. Adjust sweetness and saltiness to taste.

6. Serve immediately over cooked rice, topped with sliced chilli and spring onions.

Ingredient Spotlight: Native Basil

Native Basil (Ocimum tenuiflorum) is also called Sacred Basil or Australian Bush Basil. Indigenous to northern and eastern Australia, it has an earthy, spicy, slightly minty flavour. Traditionally used by First Nations Australians in both cooking and medicine, this herb brings depth, aroma, and connection to every dish.

Use it dried or fresh, in stir-fries, sauces, marinades, or even herbal teas. Unlike Thai or Mediterranean basil, native basil is more robust, earthy, and pungent, making it perfect for dishes that require bold flavour and heat.

Sensory & Learning Opportunities

• Smell: earthy, peppery, aromatic

• Touch: sticky, caramelised sauce coating tender chicken

• Taste: sweet, salty, spicy, herby

• Sight: glossy, saucy chicken with flecks of green and red

• Sound: sizzle of chicken, pop of fresh chilli

Kitchen Curiosity Questions

• How does the sticky glaze develop?

• What happens if we use different native herbs?

• Why does native basil taste different to other basils?

• How can we adapt this for vegetarian options?

Let me know!

Have you cooked with native basil before? Or experimented with other native ingredients? Hit reply and share your kitchen stories, I’d love to see what you’re making, what’s working, and what sparks curiosity at your table. Let’s celebrate food that connects us to Country, community, and the joy of learning.

#NativeBasil #AustralianIngredients #BushFood #FirstNationsFlavours #EatWithRespect #FoodCulture #SustainableCooking #FromCountryToKitchen #IngredientWithStory #FlavourWithPurpose #AustralianFoodie #SpicyStirFry

I know better. I know myself. I know I tend toward seasonal affective symptoms when the days stay short and grey too long. I know it’s temporary. But knowing something logically doesn’t always make it feel lighter. Sometimes it still feels heavy. And immovable.

So, I work with it.
Or I try to.
I lean into what helps, simple rituals, honest rhythms, and cooking that feels like tending to something beyond just hunger.

Lately, I’ve been leaning hard into slow cooker, big batch meals. Humble, hearty things with long simmer times and lots of soft edges. Meals that feed everyone in the house, that feel like a hug in a bowl. Something that allows me to prep once, then walk away while the alchemy of low and slow does its quiet work.

There’s something deeply comforting about that, about setting something up to transform in its own time.

There’s also something wildly satisfying about feeding a whole family lunch or dinner from the same pot all week. It gives me back time for joyful moments with my kids… or just a deep breath before the next wave of the day.

One soup I’ve returned to often this season is this Hearty Pork Hock & Potato Ribbon Soup. It’s rustic, gelatin-rich, and naturally thickened from the starchy potatoes. It’s deeply nourishing, but endlessly adaptable, change the vegetables based on the season or what’s in your garden, swap in silverbeet stems or sleepy root veg like parsnip and swede. I make little tweaks each time: sometimes a spoonful of garlic-parsley butter stirred in on day two, sometimes a crispy fried egg on top, always a crust of bread close by.

It tastes like comfort. And it keeps getting better with time.

Hearty Pork Hock & Potato Ribbon Soup

A slow-cooked winter warmer that hugs from the inside out

Ingredients (Serves 8–10)

• 1–1.5kg pork hock (smoked or unsmoked)

• 1kg potatoes, peeled and julienned

• 1 large onion, thinly sliced

• ½ green cabbage, finely shredded

• 1 leek, sliced into thin rounds

• 2 large celery ribs, julienned

• 1 bunch spring onions, sliced (greens and whites separated)

• 6L water (or more as needed)

• Salt and pepper, to taste

Method

1. Make the broth
Place pork hock and cold water in a large heavy-based pot.
Bring to a boil, then reduce to a gentle simmer.
Skim foam as it rises. Simmer gently, covered loosely, for 4 hours.

2. Prep vegetables
While the broth bubbles away, wash and prep all veg.
Keep in separate piles, ready to add.

3. Remove hock, shred meat
Lift pork hock from broth, cool slightly, and shred.
Discard bone and excess fat. Set aside meat.

4. Cook vegetables
Add all vegetables (except spring onion greens) to the pot.
Stir gently and simmer for 30 minutes.
Return shredded pork and cook another 1½–3½ hours, depending on how soft you like your soup.

5. Taste and finish
Season with salt and pepper.
Add spring onion greens just before serving for colour and freshness.

6. Serve
Spoon into bowls with bread, fried egg, garlic butter, whatever brings comfort.
Even better the next day.

Storage Notes

• Keeps in the fridge up to 5 days

• Freezes well for up to 3 months

If you’re moving slowly through the last stretch of winter too, I see you.
If you’re cooking things that hold you steady, I’d love to know what’s in your pot.
Let me know what you're making, or what you'd love to see more of here. Your reflections help guide mine.

Let’s keep stirring our way through it.

Elena xox

My team has been slacking off.
And by team, I mean me.
And by slacking off, I mean I’ve been at full capacity behind the scenes, deep in the push and pull of life, trying to stay soft in a world that feels anything but. I’ve been flat out keeping the wheels from falling off (mostly metaphorical, except for the car, RIP).

The truth is, life has been a lot.

This season, whatever it is, has been heavy, sticky, and slow. The kind that settles in your bones. I’ve been navigating the sharp edges of overwhelm, quietly stepping back from things I care about, including my own creative expression, which is usually how I make sense of the world.

And maybe you’ve felt it too.

The sense that everything is just a little harder than usual. The usual joys a little duller. The fireside not quite warm enough. The green not yet returning.

But here’s the thing:
I know the seasons always turn.
Growth is still happening, even when we can’t see it.
And light always finds its way back in.

So this is me, gently cracking open the door to this space. Not with answers or polished ideas, but with small offerings. And a reminder that nourishment isn’t just what we eat, it’s what we notice, what we create, what we share.

A Substack that may hold multitudes:

• Recipes (simple, seasonal, sometimes metaphorical)

• Honest reflections (on food, family, feeling, and the in-between)

• Musings on the seasons we move through, in life and in the garden

• Sensory anchors, little rituals, and scraps of beauty I want to remember

Nothing fancy. No frills. No forced content calendars.
Just real life, one stirring at a time.

If you’re here, I’m so grateful. I’ll try not to over-promise. But I will offer as much truth, taste, and tenderness as I can.

If you’ve also felt quiet, or heavy, or simply stretched thin, I see you.
Let’s find our way forward together, gently.

One spoonful, one story, one simmer at a time.

Warmly (and well seasoned),

Elena xox

If you’ve also been feeling like your bandwidth is low and your battery’s stuck at 3%, you’re not alone. Let’s find some gentle momentum together. If you feel like sharing, your own season, a dish, a moment, I’d love to read it. This space will grow in response to what’s needed, and your words help shape it.