Photo by Jon Green ©

The winner of the Christmas Quintet kindly provided by Vince Garreffa was Laura Stocker. Laura agreed to let us share her tragic story.

Dear Vince,

Too recently for comfort, but fortunately before I came to Australia so that the whole sorry story is unknown here, I took it upon myself to prepare a Christmas dinner for a group of student friends in New Zealand. I cannot reveal the exact location as that would immediately reveal the whole group of people involved, but suffice to say it was in a beautiful coastal location in the North Island. Friends and I shared a 'bach' at the time, which is a New Zealand equivalent of a holiday shack or cottage. Ours had a view out over lush native bush and red-flowering pohutukawas to the azure sea beyond. On the sparkling, blue Christmas Day in question about 10 of us sat on the deck admiring the view and drinking Crazy Ducks, which are a bit like Fluffy Ducks but made by combining Champagne and Advokat instead of Lemonade and Adovokat, making it a much more sophisticated and of course potent drink. The name of the drink was also an ominous harbinger of the events that followed. I should add, in fairness to the boys, that it was only the girls who were on the Crazy Ducks, the boys were drinking beer: Crazy Ducks were not considered a manly sort of beverage in that culture, nor in western culture more generally I believe.

After a few of these Crazy Ducks I reminded myself abruptly that it was time to thaw the real ducks as I was planning on a 1pm start to the meal, and the time was now already 11 am. Time and rationality had already gotten away on me somewhat. I believed that the ducks would thaw quicker if I put them straight into the oven. The tiny oven itself was an ancient relic of a bygone era and had possibly been modified from an earlier incarnation as, say, a valve radio, and it was rusty. Anyway, I turned it up to max ergs, as we said in the vernacular of the day. My reasoning, to use the term loosely, was that as the oven took so long to heat up, the ducks would thaw gradually and then begin cooking quickly. The ducks were very large and the oven was very small so they occupied most of the cavity. The root cause of the tragedy on this Christmas day was this: as a marine biology research student, I could readily identify a wide variety of ocean-going creatures, surf a small tin boat onto a beach in a large storm and deploy complex underwater experiments in zero visibility; however, I lacked any cooking skills. This lack was compounded by the fact I was brought up by a Jewish mother and thus had little sense of the seriousness of the Christmas Day Dinner. After another hour or so of quaffing Crazy Ducks, I went to check on the fowls in the oven. Straight away I spotted something very wrong with the picture: the oven was on grill. The top of the ducks were thus black and the rest of the sad fowls were still frozen. I switched to bake. Playing for time, I offered around more potato chips and Crazy Ducks, and began to labour over a salad or two. As I was broke after buying the ducks and ingredients for the drinks, the salads had to be made from whatever I had in the cupboard which wasn't that much. But, I imagined I could pass off chick peas and onions with a hint of old ground ginger as a recipe from a contemporary mag, if I placed artfully a spring of native tea-tree on the top and tossed my head casually. This I did, and was mightily pleased with the overall effect. As the hours ticked by, my hapless ducks lurched towards a semblance of cookedness. Finally as night fell and the mosquitos were as hungry as my guests, I decided I could bring the fowls out under cover of darkness and noone would notice the culinary imperfections, including, perhaps especially, the prodigious toughness of the birds. The hostess with the mostest, I sailed beamingly towards the extendable, under-constructed table, now well charged with drink. I tripped and crashed onto that table. Not just onto the table, but through the table, fowls escaping from the tray and making a bid for freedom across the less-than-vacuumed floor. For one long proverbial moment, silence clamoured in my ears. Then the guests laughed: at me, with me and for me. We rolled around laughing; we shrieked and we bellowed with laughter. We laughed till we cried at the whole, tragic, ill-starred farce that had been my attempt to make Christmas Dinner. Fortuitously the local pub was open and we finished the day in relative splendour, keenly devouring roast dinner and additional Crazy Ducks -start out the way you mean to carry on - and the ill-starred, burnt, dirty ducks became bait in cray-pots.

Thank you. I enjoyed this Summer's Spice and I want to reassure you that these days I am a MUCH better cook and will enjoy making some of the recipes therein. Please note in particular that were I to win the Quintet I would take it to my sister-in-law's place and she would help me to cook it as she is an even better cook than I am.

Best wishes, Laura Stocker

Photo by Laura Stocker ©
The Quintet was cooked in a solar oven and declared perfectly cooked and moist. Enjoyed by friends, family and neighbours at a party in the park. Delicious!