Memorable moments: The Cradle Mountain cookbook

In 2015, I went on a road trip to Tasmania with a group of friends. It was a trip defined by incredible landscapes and some of the best hiking in the country, but the moment that stuck with me most happened far away from the trailheads.

We had stopped off at the Cradle Mountain gift shop, browsing through the usual souvenirs, when I stumbled upon a book that stopped me in my tracks. It was a cookbook entirely dedicated to the culinary preparation of fresh "road krill."

Tasmania is famous for its abundant wildlife, but that also means a tragic number of marsupials end up as casualties on the road. This book took that reality to its most extreme, "redneck" conclusion. It featured full-color recipes for dishes that sounded like they belonged in a dark-comedy fever dream: Wombat Soufflé and Roast Rack of Kangaroo.

But the detail that truly killed me was the suggestion for presentation. The author recommended that, for the ultimate local touch, one should use echidna quills as kebab spikes.

Whether the book was a genuine guide to bush survival or a brilliant piece of performance art designed to mess with tourists, I couldn't say. But as I stood there in the shadow of one of Australia's most beautiful mountains, looking at a recipe for a marsupial soufflé, I realized that Tasmania doesn't just embrace its "out-there" reputation—it marinades it and serves it on a spike.

The Willow Road front row

During our year sharing the Willow Road house, Russell, Ally, and I formed a tight-knit, happy trio. Ally was already a wonderful cook, but she possessed that restless drive to get even better. She eventually signed up for a professional cooking course held over eight successive weeks.

The arrangement was "glory of glories" for Russell and me. Ally would go to her class, they would cook up a storm, and then she would bring the evening's creations home for us to "test." To say the food was delicious would be an understatement; it was an absolute delight.

As the weeks went by, Russell and I developed a ritual of our own. Ten minutes before Ally was due to arrive, we would spring into action. We’d drag the couch across the living room and position it directly facing the front door. We would sit there side-by-side, plates balanced on our laps and cutlery clutched in our hands, literally salivating in anticipation.

Every week, when Ally finally let herself in, she was met with the same ridiculous sight: two adoring, starving men staring at her with the hopeful intensity of puppies waiting for a treat.

Ally would always burst into laughter at the spectacle, and then we would all tuck in. It remains one of my favorite memories of our time together—a perfect slice of domestic happiness where the only thing better than the food was the theater of waiting for it.

Memorable moments: The potjie and the peaks

In 2015, I was backpacking through South Africa with my friend Chrisel. We arrived at a hostel nestled in the shadow of the magnificent Drakensberg mountains and discovered they had a potjie—the traditional, heavy cast-iron cauldron used for slow-cooking over an open fire.

We went to the local shop and loaded up on supplies: lamb, heaps of vegetables, and stock. Back at the hostel, I set about building the fire in the garden. It wasn't something I did often, and the pressure of "getting it right" started to mount.

As the oil began to sizzle, the stress took over. I became obsessed with the mechanics of the meal—searing the meat, tossing the vegetables, frantically moving everything around to ensure nothing burnt before the liquid went in. Chrisel told me to relax and leave it be, but I snapped back, convinced that one wrong move would ruin the entire day's investment. I was totally lost in the drama of the pot, my world shrinking down to a few square inches of bubbling iron.

Finally, after an hour of intense, fixated labor, the water and stock were added. The lid went on. The "crisis" was over; the stew just had to simmer for the next three hours.

I stood up, my body stiff from crouching, and finally looked up from the dirt.

The sight hit me like a physical wave. The spectacular peaks of the Drakensberg were looking down at me, ancient and unmoved. The trees in the hostel garden were swaying gently in a soft afternoon breeze. I could hear the rhythmic twittering of birds darting to and fro. It was a scene of absolute, unwavering peace.

I realized then, with a visceral jolt, that while I had been trapped in a self-made prison of stress and "culinary emergency," this peace had been present the entire time. It hadn't gone anywhere; I had simply tuned it out. I hadn't been mindful. I had been living in a mental simulation of a disaster while standing in the middle of paradise.

The Drakensberg didn't care about my burnt lamb, and the wind didn't care about my irritation. They were simply being. That realization remains the foundation of my daily practice. When the world feels loud or the "stew" of my life feels like it’s burning, I go outside. I look at the greenery, feel the air, and listen to the birds. By choosing my senses over my thoughts, I find the peace that was there all along. It’s the ultimate way to wake up.

Memorable moments: The institution of lumpy custard

Our family used to go round for dinner at Gran and Gramps on a regular basis. It remains one of my favorite memories. Gran was an absolutely awesome cook, a woman who could navigate a kitchen with effortless grace, consistently producing amazing meals that anchored our family life.

But there was one singular, recurring flaw in her culinary repertoire: the custard.

For some reason, the smooth, silken sauce of the professional chef always eluded her. Her custard was invariably lumpy—filled with those strange, sweet islands of undissolved powder that defied every stir of her wooden spoon. It was the one thing she didn't make perfectly.

We turned it into a family institution. We’d sit around the table and make fun of it in the kindest way possible, poking at the "treasures" hidden in our dessert bowls. Gran would just smile, unfazed by the teasing.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve realized that while we admired her for her "perfect" roasts, we truly loved her for that custard. It was a reminder that excellence is impressive, but it’s people’s imperfections that we actually bond over. Those lumps weren't a failure of cooking; they were the texture of home.

Memorable moments: The lasagna lie

During university, I was desperate to impress a girl I really liked. I decided the best way to her heart was through her stomach, despite the minor detail that I didn't actually know how to cook.

I briefly considered passing off a flame-grilled chicken from Coimbra as my own, but settled instead on a "foolproof" plan: a Woolworth’s ready-made chicken lasagna. I figured if I kept it in the oven long enough to look authentic, she’d never know.

The evening began perfectly. Soft music was playing, candles were flickering, and I pulled the lasagna out with a flourish, making sure she heard the "hard work" I’d put in all day. We sat down, looked into each other's eyes, and tucked in simultaneously.

Horror of horrors. As my knife hit the center, there was a distinct, metallic crackle. The lasagna wasn't just undercooked; the middle was a solid block of ice. I was officially busted. As I sheepishly retreated to the microwave to perform a high-voltage resurrection on our dinner, I tried to pivot to damage control.

"Champagne?" I offered, grabbing a bottle to lighten the mood.

I popped the cork. In a display of physics that would have baffled a scientist, the cork ricocheted off the wall, banked off the ceiling, and flew back with pinpoint accuracy to strike my date directly in the back of the head.

I went in trying to be a romantic lead; I left as a man who had nearly frozen his date’s digestive system and then physically assaulted her with a grape-based projectile.

Memorable moments: The thirty-person portion

I have never been much of a cook. In my house, when people smell something coming from the kitchen, they don’t ask, "What’s cooking?"—they ask, "What’s thawing?"

So, when I landed a job in 2002 as a tour leader for an overland expedition from Istanbul to Cairo, I was focused on the logistics: getting thirty people and a massive truck across the Middle East. It wasn't until I arrived in Istanbul that I received the terrifying fine print: I was also the head chef.

In a moment of pure, survival-driven genius, I held a briefing for the passengers. "This is not a tour," I told them solemnly. "This is a participatory adventure." I drew up rosters, declared that everyone would help shop and cook, and successfully outsourced my own incompetence.

However, I did have to pitch in. Over five months, I became a specialist in one specific area: Spaghetti Bolognese for thirty. It required an enormous pot, a literal shovel’s worth of mince, and the upper-body strength of a weightlifter to stir.

When I finally returned to London, I boasted to my wife about my newfound culinary prowess. Delighted, she stepped aside and let me take over the kitchen. I set to work, channeling the spirit of the Anatolian plateau. The meal was a triumph—rich, savory, and perfectly seasoned.

The only problem was the scale. My hands simply didn't know how to stop at "two servings." I had prepared enough pasta to fuel a small village's migration.

It was a delicious meal, but by week three of "Bolognese Breakfasts," my wife started asking if we could go back to the "What's Thawing?" era of our marriage.

Testing out our Afrikaburn Thai red curry on the family

Jo, Matt and Antony agreed to be willing guinea pigs for our Thai red curry we are planning to cook at Afrikaburn for our group.  We had fun cooking and then played a fun game with the family that involved throwing a stick at sticks. I absolutely sucked at it at first but then staged a comeback for the ages to reign triumphant at the end! Finally, we tucked into the curry and everyone agreed it was a great success. And surprisingly easy, a great dish to add to my repertoire.

The cooks hard at work!

Then a fun game with the family

Triumphant!

A great success!

Dumplings and a movie (Brothers Grimsby) at Rajesh

I had my first ever experience of making dumplings. They were delicious.  Then we watched a movie I had seen before (Brothers Grimsby) that has some of the funniest scenes I have ever seen.  Wonderful to see the reactions of those who had never seen it before.

Making dumplings

Eckhart evening

A fun evening with a very special group of people.  My oven roasted vegetables with smoked almonds was a triumph!

Utopia

Chrisel's family has a little bush retreat, just over an hour's drive out from Joburg, near the Magaliesberg Mountains.  It really did live up to its name and I loved my time here.

Highlights of the overnight stay included:

• Stopping off at The Hartbeespoort Dam on the way.
• Buying some delicious cheese from a local farm.
• Stopping at a huge African market and a distillery to get Chrisèl's family a thank you gift.
• Buying delicious berry jam at a quaint little farm stall on the way - maybe the best jam I've ever tasted.
• Feeling immediately relaxed as soon as we arrived. Such a gorgeous, tranquil setting right in the bush veld with the constant sound of birds calling.
• The view from the deck of the house, out onto a far away lake.
• Going for a walk along the river and stopping off to photograph white-fronted bee-eaters on the way back - one of my favourite birds.
• Making a delicious lamb potjie. We did one at The Amphitheatre, but this time I knew what I was doing and it was a considerably more relaxed experience!
• A stunning walk in the reserve next door along a dry river gorge, gazing in awe at some of the reddest and most ancient rocks I've ever seen. It certainly gives Australia's Red Centre a go for its money!

The houses in Utopia - built to meld into the landscape.

A big deck to admire the view out onto the bush.

A walk along the river.

The local white-fronted bee-eaters, the iconic symbol of Utopia.

Making a delicious lamb potjie.

Exploring a river gorge.  Aren't those rocks amazing!

Lots of wind and water sculptured rock formations.

A cute Vervet monkey along the way.

Srini helping me peel potatoes for Xmas

Srini popped by so I could help him with his GoPro.  He kindly offered to help me peel potatoes for potato bake for 20 people. Now that's what I call a real friend!!