The Mighty Red Onion

Today is a lucky day for the red onion! For today she shall feature as the main ingredient in my soup! Usually she plays the supporting role, the wind beneath the tomato's wings or she's overshadowed by her plainer but very dependable cousin the brown onion. Even on wiki it's suggested that the red onion article be merged with onion general (discuss). Oh the injustice.


I have fielded several 'suggestions' since last week's entry. The first being from "Your Mother of Melbourne" who very much disliked the term 'moreish as crack'. She suggested a more suitable phrase might be 'moreish as chocolate'. By way of a compromise I have settled on 'moreish as chocolate crack.'

The second was from "Your Husband of Melbourne", who feels some mention of modren music would increase the hipster appeal of my blog. He was quite the hipster himself 10 years ago so he knows a lot about these things. So for the record, whilst making today's dish I listened to 'Come Feel the Illinoise' by Sufjan Stevens. Loudly, very loudly.

But I digress. First I peeled and finely sliced (using my amazing new microplane), eight red onions. They bubbled in their own juices and a few glugs of olive oil for about 25 minutes until they were melty and translucent. Then I threw in about half a cup of port, a generous teaspoon each of chopped basil and thyme, a bay leaf, four crushed cloves of garlic and plenty of salt and pepper. When the port had all but disappeared I added a litre of vegetable stock and let it simmer for about 20 minutes. Meanwhile I prepared some french bread by rubbing it with garlic, sprinkling it with olive oil and placing it under a hot grill. To the soup I added two tablespoons of tamari and some more black pepper then ladled it into oven-proof bowls. I spread the toasted bread with goats cheese and a drizzle of oil, placed it atop the soup and popped it back under the grill to melt. A sprinkling of thyme for garnish and bob's your uncle, red onion soup. Pronounced "lovely and meaty" by the vegetarian boys.

Assuming that I'm not strangled by a python or castrated by a cassowary, next week's installment will come to you from the tropical paradise that is Mission Beach in Far North Queensland. (Mind you given that the trip is in aid of one's 10th wedding anniversary, a bit of python strangling mightn't go amiss!)