It’s probably a bit premature to be launching into superlatives this early in the year, but Rufus Wainwright’s concert at the State Theatre during the week, could well be the best concert I’ll ever see this year. I knew it was going to be a good show the moment he walked out onto the stage in his bright lime green and black patterned suit (bare chested underneath), festooned with huge sparkly brooches; ritz-proportioned jewellery on hands and neck, and his shiny silver shoes. In the background, three disco balls descended from the ceiling. Or maybe it was when the lights dimmed after the first song, and I realised that the suit also glowed in the dark! Yes, absolutely. What a performer, what a voice.

This man I live with, I sometimes look at him and wonder. He has eyes like two blue cat’s eye marbles. His legs are obscured by fine yellow grass and on his face, a landscape fit to scour the dirt off the toughest pot.

This man travelled a great distance, from a home that was green and comforting, to live here with me on this crazy warm and dusty land. In the heat, the leafblowers scream and the flies, moths and crickets dance. Sweaty palms slap with irritation at their conversations against his ear, as he sleeps. When he can, he sleeps with great determination – one hand tucked between face and pillow like a sandwich; one lumbering shoulder rising and falling rhythmically. Every morning, I get the automated reply before I step out the door. It’s whrr *click* goodbyeloveyou – seeyoulater – haveaniceday *click* click* and then the body turns away from me, taking the morning brain with it, signalling that our meagre conversation has been terminated.

In his waking hours, he pushes a pen, presses a key, answers the phone, nibbles biscuits and drinks coffee. Occasionally, armed with only his wits, this man taxis forth to enter mountaineous buildings with security fit for castles, to battle computational demons. In the evening, he returns, recalling the promise of food.

Later he drifts off again into sleep and I wonder where he goes; what battles he fights, that are not under the sun of this Earth. What takes 10-12 hours of firm, enduring slumber (no peeking allowed) in the dark hours (maybe that’s why they’re called knights, but spare me the shining armour – this one barely wears a tie). Sometimes a little bubble of speech breaks through from the other world. Once, he told me that Big Bird was like an ostrich. I laughed out so loud, it woke him.

As he sleeps, I gaze at him and wonder. Then I start to plan ahead the meal I shall make for him when he returns again to my world. The other day, I made him this:

Parsley potato cakes :
(Ah, parsley, as the voiceover from Iron Chef might say. There are two major kinds of parsley; flat-leaf and curly. The ones in the know, use flat-leaf or Italian parsley for it’s stronger flavour. If our house was falling down and I only had time to save one potted herb, flat-leaf parsley would be it. This recipe is from The Art of Handmade Bread, by Dan Lepard)

1 cup (125g) all-purpose flour
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp fine sea salt
1/4 cup (60g) unsalted butter, softened
1 1/4 cups (250g) mashed cooked potato
1 medium egg
6 tbsp (100g) milk at 68’F (20’C)
2 tbsp fresh chopped parsley
dripping or oil

In a large bowl, combine the flour with the soda and salt. Break the butter into small pieces and rub it into the flour mixture until no lumps remain. In another bowl, beat the mashed potato with the egg, then beat in the milk and parsley. Pour this in with the dry ingredients and stir until you have an evenly combined, soft and sticky dough.

Take a large skillet, ideally one with a close-fitting lid. Melt 1 tbsp of dripping (or sunflower oil) in the pan, then swirl the pan to coat the base evenly. Place this over a heat-diffusing plate on a low heat, and scrape the dough into the pan. Quickly pat the surface smooth with a spatula, then allow to cook over a gentle heat for 4-5 minutes, preferably with a lid on. As you need to cook the flour out, it is vital to keep the heat low and extend the cooking time. Aim for a crisp, slightly brown base to the cake after about 5 minutes.

Liberally oil a large dinner plate. Place this over the top of the skillet then, using a thick cloth, flip the pan over so that the cake falls down onto the plate. Slide the upturned cake back into the pan, return to the heat, and cook for an additional 4-5 minutes.

To serve, flip the cake out onto the oiled plate and cut into wedges, or simply put crisp bacon, broiled mushrooms, and tomatoes on the top and serve it straight out of the pan – but that might be too piggy!

[Note: This potato cake is particularly delicious with fried kippers and Sauce Gribiche, and is my contribution to WHB #118. For more herbaceous recipes, visit Claudia at Fool for Food for this week’s WHB roundup.]

My version of Beatrice Ojakangas’ Viipuri Pretzel turned out a little more bulbous than I expected. When I pulled it out of the oven, I had to chuckle. It looked like a pretzel on steroids; I could see it going, “Me, Pretzel!”, thumping it’s sugar crusted chest triumphantly, while his equally large siblings looked on. Unlucky for it, it was too delicious to leave alone. I pinched off a bit, and then a bit more, and soon the pretzel was conquered. “This. Is. Delicious!” I hollered, in my best King Leonidas voice.

Viipuri pretzel, or Viipurinrinkeli, is a traditional pretzel shaped sweet bread named after a city in eastern Finland. I was drawn to it for several reasons. Firstly, it’s pretzel shaped, which panders to my obsession with all things pretzel. Then, there’s the copious use of spices, which I love in sweet breads (the smell of cardamom filled the kitchen, even when just at the kneading stage). Finally, there’s an interesting traditional method attached to the making of the bread. In the days of old, the shaped and proved dough would have been dipped in boiling water like you would a bagel, before it was baked on a bed of oat straw, which imparted an added flavour to the end product.

As my resulting dough was quite soft, I envisioned problems trying to lower it into a pot of boiling water, and so decided to leave tradition for another time (if I ever get my hands on some oat straw). Maybe next time, I will also make my pretzels smaller!

Viipuri pretzels are absolutely delicious with a cup of tea, and are my contribution to Bread Baking Day #6, as hosted by Eva of Sweet Sins.

Viipuri Pretzel :
(from The Great Scandinavian Baking Book by Beatrice Ojakangas; makes 3 loaves)

1 package (7g) active dry yeast
1/4 cup warm water
2 eggs
2 cups milk, scalded and cooled to lukewarm
1 cup sugar
1 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons freshly ground cardamom
1/2 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
5 to 5 1/2 cups unbleached plain flour
1/4 cup softened butter

Glaze :
(optional)

1 slightly beaten egg
2 tablespoons milk
pearl sugar or crushed sugar cubes

In a large bowl, dissolve the yeast in the warm water. Let stand 5 minutes. Add the eggs, milk, sugar, salt, cardamom, and nutmeg and beat well until blended. Add 4 cups flour and beat until smooth. Stir in the butter and add flour until dough is stiff. Cover and let dough rest 15 minutes.

Turn dough out onto a lightly floured board. Knead, adding flour to prevent stickiness, until smooth and satiny, about 10 minutes. Wash bowl, grease it, and add dough to the bowl, turning it over to grease top. Cover and let rise in a warm place until doubled.

Cover 3 baking sheets with parchment paper or grease them and sprinkle with flour.

Turn dough out onto a lightly oiled work surface. Divide into 3 parts. Between hands and work surface, roll out each part of dough to make strands about 40 inches (100cm) long. Place on the prepared baking sheets in the form of a pretzel. Cover with a towel and let rise until almost doubled, about 45 minutes.

Preheat oven to 400’F (204’C).

Mix the egg and milk to make a glaze. Brush pretzels all over with the glaze and sprinkle with the sugar.

Bake for 20-25 minutes until golden. Do not overbake. Remove from oven and cool on racks.