A Sunday At The Summer Kitchen

There’s a reason my family and I make the journey down to The Summer Kitchen Bakery every single weekend.

The drive from the sleepy suburbs of Kingborough to the Huon Valley’s The Summer Kitchen is long but idyllic: it winds through miles of sloping green cattle fields, past dozens of apple, cherry, and apricot orchards, and emerges into the backroads of the small country town of Ranelagh. As my mum, my grandad and I journey along, we chat about the football, and plan what to order for lunch.

It’s a perfect summer’s day, just a week shy of Christmas. We pass a rickety bridge over a babbling creek, and I know we’re close.

After tumbling out of the car, we step through the bakery’s entranceway, and I am instantly assaulted by the rich, buttery scent of freshly-baked pastries, which lay in golden-brown and glistening rows on the counter. My mouth begins to water.

‘What are you thinking of for dessert?’ Mum asks.

Last week, all three of us ordered a pear and caramel cake, and we were faced with our first disappointment from the bakery in several years. The cake was wet, and sickly sweet, with a lingering taste of bicarbonate soda that left us wanting: it was the height of summer, and I’d hoped to see more seasonal produce in the deserts. 

‘I don’t know yet,’ I admit. ‘I hope the special’s better today.’

We approach the counter, and are greeted with a smile by a girl with a French accent and a nose ring. It’s busy today, with Huonville locals and crowds of cyclists milling about the place, and the girl types up our orders without delay.

Table number in hand, we make our way to the outdoor dining area, which is framed by thick oak trees and furnished with a mismatching collection of tables and chairs. The courtyard offers an unobstructed view of Sleeping Beauty Mountain, whose striking resemblance to a sleeping woman’s profile earned her her name. 

We are in the heart of the country. Beyond the fence line, there is nothing but rolling hills and ramshackle farm houses as far as the eye can see. 

Our meals — two homity pies for my mum and my grandad, and a smoked cheddar and ham toastie for me — arrive without preamble. My mum and grandad tuck in, and before I start, I lean in to ask my grandad if his pie is hot enough. (My grandad is 88 years old, and he’s particular about such things.) Through a mouthful of leek, sweet potato, and crumbly pastry, he responds with a resolute yes. 

I smile.

My meal has been a summertime favourite of mine for several years. The smoked cheddar and ham toastie arrives on seedy pumpkin sourdough, and is served with vinaigrette-dressed salad greens and accompanied by a tiny pot of sweet tomato relish. The toastie is the perfect combination of smoky, sweet, and savoury, and the greens give it a delicious hit of freshness. 

My grandad licks the last of the pastry crumbs from his fingers, and leans backward in his chair. He looks like a content, well-fed housecat, and I tell him so. He barks out a laugh. 

‘Is it time for cake yet, do you think?’

‘It’s always time for cake.’

Earlier, we had ordered two desserts, with the intention of sharing them between the three of us. The first was an apple and apricot crumble, which we’d tried once before over winter and enjoyed, and the second was the weekly special. The special is what I pray doesn’t disappoint. 

My mum fetches the deserts. We tuck into the apple crumble without hesitation, and eat it like children: greedily dipping spoons and forks into a pot of whipped cream to lather onto the still-warm crumble topping. The cake has a gorgeous melt-in-your-mouth texture, and its layers of stewed apricot and apple are nothing short of fragrant. 

The desert special, written in cursive on the outside blackboard, is a classic I’m surprised I’ve never encountered here before: the seasonal fruit Danish. I study the pastry before me. It’s topped with fresh raspberries, cherries, half a peach, and a sprig of white currants, all of which are dusted with icing sugar. The summer produce on top looks like a small rainbow.

I take a bite. 

The pastry is flaky, decadent, and oozing with butter, perfectly complimenting the tart summer berries and white currants. The fruit is bursting with juices that run into the vanilla custard inside, and stain my fingertips red and purple as I eat. The table goes perfectly silent, and I know what the verdict is:

Today was a success.

We take our time stacking plates and bowls and mason jars, happy to be idle in the heat and the sunlight. We watch local families come and go with their fresh sourdough loaves in hand, cairn terriers yapping at their heels. We know we’ll be back after Christmas. 

We know we’ll be back beyond that.