Dumping the Dumpling

I'm going to admit I have a problem, because I know that is the first step on the road to recovery.

I'm addicted to dumplings.

It doesn't really matter what sort - pan fried, steamed, deep fried... I just can't get enough of those pop-in-your-mouth explosions of flavour.

When I travelled in Japan, I ate gyoza every day.

When I was shown how to make my own Nepalese version (Mo Mo) it was the end of me. It meant I had 24-7 access to such tasty morsels... and no one in a restaurant to judge me when I had seconds, thirds and fourths.

It's just too easy.

Step 1: buy a packet of pre-made circle dumpling pastry from an asian grocery (the japanese version with the smiling chef on is best).

Step 2: buy 500g pork mince and 500g chicken mince. Mix it with an egg, garlic, onion and spices to taste (i like chilli, tumeric, cumin).

Step 3: dollop spoonfuls of the mince into the pastry and close into whatever shape takes your fancy. Steam them for 15-20mins

Step 4: Serve them with whatever sauce floats your boat. I like making my own: onion, tomato, coriander, cumin seeds.

Yum.

Or just eat out at places like Camy Shanghai Dumpling Restaurant in Tattersalls Lane and the Oriental Tea House in Collins Street.

If being an addict is wrong, I don't want to right.

Catch of the Day

What is it about going for a swim in the ocean that prompts cravings for fish n' chips?

As soon as I dive under a wave I start dreaming about battered flake, golden potato cakes and crumbed calamari - doused in lemon and tartare sauce.

During a week's holiday at the beach I had F n' C twice: the first was disappointment. We went to a place in Barwon Heads that's at the round-a-bout as soon as you come off the bridge, because Gilligan's was already closed for the night. It all tasted lovely, but everything came pint-sized in cardboard boxes.

We got the real stuff a couple of days later at Ocean View Fish and Chips - massive pieces of flake that were served up the way they should be served up: wrapped in paper.

It tasted all the more satisfying considering we had just been fishing and hadn't caught a single thing.

Special December Guest: Lemon Drop Kid

Welcome to the first of a special monthly series that features a post from a secret guest. Today, Dinah's Club hears about baking from the male perspective.

I rediscovered my love of baking sweets a year ago. In my early teenage years I took a shine to making cakes (chocolate mainly), muffins, peanut butter biscuits... basically anything that came in a quick and easy to make packet. In those days, mixing some powder with a few eggs and chucking it in the oven seemed like a big deal. I'd watch on as the cake painstakingly rose, take it out and slather icing over it and serve it up to my family. The result was good but never great.

My baking rebirth came just before the boom of the Australia's Master Chef. The show isn't the reason I decided to return to the kitchen, but its success and celebration of food certainly spurred me on to follow my passion.

I love lemon tarts, always have. Naturally, it was the first thing I made, but not necessarily the first thing I made well. I made the pastry from scratch, rolling it out, placing it over the tart tin and baking it to a crisp golden brown. In making the curd, I used more than a tad of elbow grease to grate the lemons, squeeze the juice, and whisk the eggs and sugar together. It looked great cooking in the oven, like a lovely golden sunset. I wasn't sure how long to cook it for - the recipe said 15-20 minutes or until just cooked. The first crack appeared soon after refrigeration. More cracks came, like an earthquake splitting Terra Firma. It turned into a messy sight but it still didn't dull the great taste. I knew I was on the right track.

Since then I have made almost half a dozen desserts and each has been a hit. I decided to make special desserts for friends at work. I ask them what their favourite dessert is and scour the Internet and books for recipes. I've made an apple and cinnamon tea cake, a gooey upside-down pineapple cake and ugly but yummy Italian biscuits for a friend on her birthday. I even made some peppermint choc and coconut balls after losing a bet on the Grand Final.

My latest creation was a lime meringue pie in honour of a colleague's 24th birthday. It has proven the biggest hit. The lime was a welcome twist, the biscuit base was easy to make and tasty and the meringue sweet, but not sickly.

I like making things for other people because it gives me a task and the smile on their face when they see their special dish makes me feel happy. It also gets everyone together talking about food and cooking; and of course, eating. My skills are improving and I feel more confident in trying difficult recipes. I have acquired lots of baking equipment along the way including a cool space-age looking whisker, measuring cups, a tarte tin, springboard cake pan, rolling pin and a wire cake rack.

Before, the directions were on the back of the packet and everything was neat and tidy like a school essay. Now, everything seems a lot more haywire. There's pots and pans and flour everywhere, and the measurements have to be oh-so-right and cinnamon is in the house for the first time. But hey, I finally feel like I'm baking.

Mocking the Mocha

I grew up a chocolate lover, not a coffee drinker.

The aroma of those beans was mesmerising enough to try it repeatedly, but the taste was too bitter to turn it into a habit.

One day someone suggested I try a mocha, rather than my usual hot chocolate, and my life was transformed.

My sister (also a non-coffee drinker) shook her head in disgust when I described this new hot drink sensation and said it was a matter of time before I progressed to the cappuccino, latte, espresso and, finally, died a hard-core, caffeine-injecting junkie.

But I haven't changed. I've stayed true to the mocha; that most beautiful combination of knock-your-socks-off coffee coated in heart-melting chocolate.

Out there are those coffee judgers who deem anything less than single source beans from the arse of a Persian cat laughable. A few weeks ago, when I ordered a soy mocha from a highly regarded CBD caffeine haunt the skinny baristo dressed in black complete with ''graphic designer'' rimmed glasses actually winced. Winced!

Don't hate me because I'm different.

Who will reign supreme?

Ethiopian cuisine added another feather in its cap after Dershaye, the chef at Harambe restaurant in Footscray, took out the title of Tin Chef 2009.

If you haven't heard of the illustrious competition it pays homage to the brilliant tv show Iron Chef, but pits kitchen maestros from the western suburbs against each other.

It had Matt Preston's stamp of approval - he was one of the judges.

If you want to see what all the fuss is about, then get down to Footscray and pick up some of the vegetable curries using the strangely addictive injera bread. It reminds me of Spongebob Squarepants.

Those deli girls

I never used to have a lot of time for deli girls. I was a check-out chick back in the day, and when you work in a supermarket there is generally a great divide between those on the front line... and everybody else.

That all changed when I stopped in at Beaufort IGA. My Combi-driving companion and I were responsible for picking up some lunch-ables from the afore-mentioned establishment on our way to meet others for a weekend jaunt in the Grampians.

We asked Jess, the deli girl, for some meat. It took us some time to decide on the triple smoked ham (three times' the charm right?) so she really threw us a curve ball when she asked the dreaded deli question: ''How much?"

After some conferring behind our shopping baskets, we threw down this gauntlet: "342 grams."

The tension built as she sliced closer and closer to the mark. We thought we had her when the scales read 340 - but lo' and behold if the last slice she tossed casually onto the pile didn't bring the total up another 2 grams.

What a legend.

You have a baguette for a chin and a nose like the Eiffel tower

I love the French. Or, to be entirely truthful, I love French food.

Dive into gritty Degraves Street, Melbourne and you can transport yourself back to Paris thanks to Waffle On.

This hole-in-the-wall sells baguettes the way they should be sold: fresh with slathers of delicious butter and winnning combinations of filling.

I visited it for the first time last week and was careful to line up patiently, and clearly enunciate my order: ''Two orders of Le Fermier and one order of Le Normandy please, merci.''

While I wait, the French managers insult the customers. One bloke says he'll take the number 4 baguette (butter, chicken, mayo, lettuce and tomato) but with ham instead. The woman behind the counter is confused: ''So you want zee chicken and zee ham, or just zee ham?"

"Nah, just the ham.''

The man behind the counter pulls a face. "You can have zat, but it vill be de-gusting!"