Yummyami

You get to decide what to worship

2018-01-23T11:40:00.003-08:00

So: this is what I'm reading.

David Foster Wallace, April; 2009: “Because here's something else that's weird but true: in the day-to day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshipping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship.”

The only choice we get is what to worship.

I didn't, as I was first tempted to, read this as some kind of casual or flippant remark, hinting at the ease of picking from an abundance of choices that we have at our disposal in the world we live in today - a world of relativism, essentially. It wasn't for me an 'oh, it doesn't matter, you can worship anything you want, you can choose what suits you, you can do whatever is convenient.'

No.

I took this, in the larger context of David's work, as a pretty serious sentiment.

A far harder proposition than simply claiming that there's nothing you worship. In fact, that, in comparison seems the easy way out. Like some sort of wiggling out of tough choices and having to live by them.

No, he says. There's no such thing. Everybody worships.

You get to decide what to worship.

YOU get to decide what to worship.

YOU.

The burden of commitment in that statement is enormous. Because then, ultimately, you are responsible for whatever it is you worship. Of all the things that you can worship. And there are many.

So, choose carefully.

Love that. Absolutely love that.

Dinner tonight is simple home fare. Couscous with grilled cherry tomatoes and rocket. I saw it at Ottolenghi in Notting Hill the other day. Tasted it, wanted more, couldn't have more, so I asked the lovely girl with the heart-shaped face and the most beautiful blue eyes behind the counter is she knew how he made it. This is my version of what she told me. Or whatever I chose to remember of it.
You get to decide what to worship!

Here's what you need:

Olive oil
2 large onions, sliced
1 tsp honey
½ tsp ras el hanout spice mix
60g raisins
600g cherry tomatoes
500g couscous
1 tsp cumin seeds
1 garlic cloves, crushed
Roughly chopped handfuls rocket, coriander, parsley and mint
2 tbsp lemon juice
2 tbsp olive oil
Salt and pepper

Here's how you do it:

Place a medium pan on a medium heat. Add 2 tablespoons of olive oil, onions, honey, ras el hanout, salt and pepper. Cook for 15-30 minutes, until the onions are caramelised and delicious - soft, dark brown and sweet. Remove from heat, stir in the raisins and set aside.

Place another small pan on high heat. Mix the tomatoes with 2 tablespoons of oil and cook on the hot pan for a few minutes, until the skin is slightly charred and the flesh is soft. Set aside.
For the couscous: Boil 800ml of water. Add salt to the water and a little olive oil or butter if desired, to add moisture. Pour the couscous into boiling water, stir once with a spoon, cover with a lid, and remove from heat. Let the couscous steam for five minutes.Couscous grains tend to bind together in the cooking process, so fluff the grains with a fork.

Once the couscous has cooled slightly add the onion and raisin mix and stir. Add the cumin seeds, garlic, rocket and most of the herbs, leaving the rest for garnish. Add the lemon juice, salt and pepper and mix. Transfer the couscous to a serving platter scattering with the cherry tomatoes. Garnish with a sprinkle of herbs and drizzle with olive oil.
Enjoy!

Four Emotions?

2018-01-11T10:00:00.001-08:00

So...
It turns out that we can all only ever experience four biologically based human emotions:
Happy
Sad
Afraid/Surprised
Angry/Disgusted

Yup.

So says the research from the Institute of Neuroscience and Psychology at the University of Glasgow.
Apparently, where now there are four, there used to be six - namely:
Happy
Sad
Afraid
Surprised
Angry
Disgusted

And now, as I said, there are four.

There's no cause for undue alarm - two weren't murdered or anything. They were just clubbed together with others. So, for instance, the researchers found that in the early stages of the emotions, anger and disgust looked very similar in that they shared a wrinkled nose, as did surprise and fear, which shared raised eyebrows. I don't know about you, but my eyebrows are pretty raised at the moment, and my nose too - quite wrinkled. Very wrinkled in fact. Must be too much sun. In this sun-less island. Yeah.
Anyway, so it was found that it was only in later stages - as the feelings took hold - that our faces showed a distinction between these two sets of emotions, suggesting, the researchers say, that the distinction between anger and disgust and between surprise and fear, is socially, not biologically based.

Hmm...
Don't know if I can really get my head around that.
Because I'm not entirely sure - as bioligical creatures in a social world - how to disaggregate. How do you disaggregate?

Notwithstanding all that, though...
Four emotions? Or even six? Six?
Huh? How's it even possible to distill the wide spectrum of human emotion into six categories?
Take me, for example. The day I display one of these above six emotions is sort of a highly anomolous 'boring-day-in-the-life-of...'
Happy? I'm rarely "happy." Ecstatic, yes. Happy, no.
Anger? Rarely. Irritation, yes. Lots. But raise the stakes on irritation and it's not anger, see, no, nothing so mild - it's outrage.

Boredom? How about boredom? I mean I don't know about you, but I live in a state of perpetual boredom.
And what of the others?
How about contempt?
Wonder?
Anxiety? Terror? Desire? Despair? Joy? Anticipation?
And LOVE? The greatest emotion of all. What of Love?

Aha.

And therein, I rest my case. For nothing trumps love. Nor ever will.

But maybe we, or they rather - the clever neuroscience and psychology researchers - pare things down - they distil - in order to come up with a sort of middle-of-the-road scenario, to simplify an already overcomplicated world. Averages are good. Averages are normal. And normal is good. And beautiful. And predictable. Like the bell curve.

The problem with people like me, I guess, is that I don't really fit the bell curve; I'm hanging off it.
I don't do averages. Or normal. Or beautiful. Or predictable.
It's just the way I was made.
And, so, I'm guessing, was the creator of the Emoji.
I mean, have you ever gone through the whole range of those tiny round yellow faces? I have. There's 2,666 of them.
Yup.
So, imagine telling this creator person that 2,662 of his (or her) lovely little pictographic expressions are basically redundant? That really only 4 exist (research says) - the happy face, the sad face, the angry face and the afraid face...
Imagine that! I'm not a betting person, but if I was, I'm betting that the reaction you'd get wouldnt exactly be contained within four emotions...
So yeah.
I guess, he (or she) isn't a big believer of the 4-emotion theory either.
Like me.
And Stir-fried Tofu.
We are in the same bucket, emoji-maker, me, and stir-fried tofu.
The stuff of extremes. Yeah.

Here's what you need:

2 x 150g packs tofu pieces
1 head broccoli, cut into small florets
140g soya bean
2 heads pak choi, quartered
Handful, chestnut mushrooms, sliced
4 garlic cloves, sliced
1 red chilli, deseeded and finely sliced
1 bunch spring onions, sliced
1 tbsp sesame oil
1 ½ tbsp hoisin sauce
1 tbsp soy sauce
2 whole dried red chillis
25g roasted cashew nuts

Here's how you do it:

Heat the oil in a non-stick wok. Add the broccoli, then fry on a high heat for 5 minutes or until just tender, adding a little water as necessary. Add the garlic and chilli, fry for 1 minute, then toss through the spring onions, soya beans, mushrooms, pak choi and tofu. Stir-fry for a few minutes. Add the chillies, hoisin and soy sauces. Drizzle the nuts on top for that flavour and crunch.

Serve with steamed rice.

And prepare to be many things.

Many hyperbolic things. #no4emotionbs.

10 mins to prep. 10 mins to cook. And so, so good.

How can that just make you happy?

Not bell-curve material, this. Try it and let me know! Don't worry, if you don't like it, I won't be "angry."

Pesto - that gorgeous, desirable, irresistable hunk of happiness...

2018-01-09T10:03:00.001-08:00

Pesto.
Say that word. No really, say it out loud. Feel it on your palette, the sound of those letters. Pesssto...
Mmm. Mmm. Mmm.
Pesssto...

Yeah.

Now, pesto, if you haven't figured it out by now, is a man.
See, I have this thing about my condiments being gendered. It helps me in the kitchen when I think about them this way. It gives them personality. And personality is necessary. It's about the only way you can get food to come alive.
So, for example, ketchup is female, mustard is male. Tobasco is male, sweet chilli sauce is definitely female. Mayonnaise, female; soy sauce male.
Get my drift?
You're shaking your heads right now, I see it, I see it.
I don't blame you, really.
I am a proper raving lunatic, sometimes I wonder how I'm even allowed to roam free.
But stay with me, people! Madness is more fun in large groups.

Yup...

So.
Moving on.
Pesto is male. Deffo.
And the beauty of this particular male is his versatility. Which sounds a bit like virility. Which isn't a coincidence at all.
Nosiree.
Because, pesto, you see, is a special sort of man, a kind of magician, really. He morphs from one thing to another effortlessly - he's a marinade, he's a sauce, he's a cooking medium, he's a spread, he's a salad dressing, he's a dip!
He's one thing one day, and another thing another day. I mean, what more could a girl want, than this much variety?
Like really. Think: Do most males have more than one use? (No, really).
Well, this one's got endless uses! A little perspectivity, people!

I'm such a feminist rabble rouser, I crack myself up. Just kidding. I HEART men. I do, I do!

But stop!
Stop
Right
Here

Because, it's important (imho) to know, before delving into everything one can do with this incredible stuff, what this incredible stuff is. See, pesto, more formally known as Pesto alla Genovese is a Ligurian sauce-type mush originating, as its name implies, from, yes - Genoa! (drumroll please) (grazie). Strictly speaking, pesto is a generic term for anything that is made by pounding (etymology: pestare -> pesto -> ground/crush), but pesto, as we know it generically, is really a mortar-and-pestle pounded mixture of basil leaves, garlic, pine nuts, coarse salt, and a mixture of hard cheeses - Parmigiano-Reggiano and Pecorino - all blended together with olive oil.

Yum.

Confession: I don't make it. Though I could. As could you. Anything I can do, you can do better. Trust me.
No really, it's very easy. Just replace mortar-and-pestle with one of man's greatest inventions (no, NOT the potato peeler - the food processor) chuck the above ingredients in and process away. There. Done. Happiness. Great, green globs of it.
But no, I don't make it. Mostly because I don't need to. Because I get this lovely stuff, in the supermarket in this lovely place called England. So I just buy it, unscrew the lid, and then I proceed to OD on it. It. Him. Whatever.
He makes me very happy.
And he's consistent.
He consistently makes me happy.
Which isn't what I've found with most men. That's the real heart of the problem.

Anyhow.

Here's some of what I've done with Mr. Pesto:

1) Used as a dip for an oven warmed, crusty baguette...
2) As salad dressing with rocket leaves and sun dried tomatoes...
3) Spread on pizza crust, a happy substitute for red sauce...
4) Mixed with mayonnaise (yes, male and female makes many fireworks) and spread on a panini...tomatoe slices, cheese, ham. Or no ham. Olives...
5) Mixed into pasta - penne or bowtie. With a drizzle of pine nuts. Salmon. Or no salmon...
6) Fresh tomato salad with mozzarella chunks and this beautiful pesto stuff...
7) Stirred into normal store bought hummus...
8) Dolloped upon ANY steamed vegetable plus a wedge of lemon...
9) As a marinade for most meats before grilling them...
10) Drizzled on top of soups and stews for a delightful basil kick...

Try it. Him.
He's swoon-worthy. He'll give you happiness. Oodles of it.
I'm telling you. And I'm picky.
Especially when it comes to men.

Two and a Half Years

2018-01-08T07:52:00.002-08:00

Gee Whizz, has it been two and a half years since I was last here?
Really?
Two and a half years!
That's more than half the time my youngest son has been on this earth. Just to kind of put things in dramatic perspective. Because I've always loved a bit of drama. You know?
But what's odd is how two and some years seem - at the same time - both very long and very not, like all this time has passed in a flash, like some sort of time warp, in a kind of dream-like reverie, where you go to sleep and then you wake up, and it's two and a half years later.

Just
Like
That

Anyhow, this post isn't about food, because two and a half years later, it turns out that I've forgotten how to cook (gasp). Which makes this post, masquerading under a food blog rather fraudulent (sorry), but it really isn't about food. It isn't really about anything. It's just to say hello.
Well, hello!
Which is something that is as strange and wonderful for me as it must be to you, because I actually haven't said hello in about two and a half years. To anyone. On or off screen. It's not you, you see, it's me. Yup. That old ditty.
So, this is the thing with writing books, right? You forget common civilities. Like saying hello. And goodbye. And how are you. And things. I'd read about this, about other people who write books, clever people, good books - I'd read this about them, about what happens to them, the book inching forward slowly and stealthily into their lives, silently, like a thief in the night, and then suddenly, before they even realise anything strange is happening, it had already happened. "It" has spread it's invisible tentacles around them and taken over their very existence.
The book. That book. Their book. Their lives.

God. How I rejected that idea! It's a dead idea, that idea, I thought, the idea that a book begins to dominate your entire sense of being, like that. How weak were those people? How could they allow such a transgression? How could they not have the willpower to seperate work from life? Strike a balance? Tune out?
Those people. Those people. Those people.

Ah, the hubris.

That book. Their book. Their lives. My book. This book. My life.
Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.
It's positively inexplicable how it happens. How quickly it happens. How quietly.
It's insidious really, like a disease you don't even know you have.
Those characters in your head, the imaginary ones, become - and so rapidly - so real, so tangible, you smell them, you feel them, you dream about them at night, you see them across the dining table as you eat your food, staring at the flesh-and-blood people in your life blankly, as if they are there but not quite.

The writer's mind is a selfish one.
Nothing matters.
Nothing matters.
Except The Book.
The Book.

Everything else is peripheral. A distraction. Or a purpose. A use. A means to an end. How do these flesh-and-blood people serve the purposes of my book? you start to think. How can I just get rid of them so I can write in peace? Or better, how can I USE them to advance my narrative? Anything - snippets of conversation or stories from their lives become relevant only in the myopic context of the book. What can I do with this? How can I tie it in? How can I make it better?
It's shameful.
Sinful almost.
You lose friends. You hurt people. You can't sleep. You're guilt-ridden. Only you don't feel it.
Your brain is numbed.
By The Book.
You're on a running path with wings on your soles.
You're flying.
You cannot stop.
You cannot help yourself. You're IN it. You're consumed.
By The Book.

In fact the more I stop and think about it, this is the really serious thing about writing, this thing that differentiates writers from everyone (and there are many) who can write. It isn't about talent. It's about the isolation. Having the capacity to deal with isolation. To be alone.
Not many of us do.
And really, why should we?
We are social creatures, tribe making comes naturally to us. This is perhaps the most pleasurable part of the act of going to work for most of us, the social - human - interaction with our colleagues. This is what we bring back home after a day's work, who said what, what happened to whom, the news of the day.
There's no such thing in a writer's world. There's no news. Nothing happens.
And that's hard. It's lonely. It's horrible, truly. But then some of us can't help it - we are born with it, some sort of condition that takes over rational thought and sweeps us away and makes it all ok.
The isolation. The lonliness. The angst.

For my part, it was pretty early on that I realised I was ok being alone. Come to think of it, I was good at being alone, in some ways I preferred being alone.
So there you go.
Writing for me is physiological. Like hunger or sleep. I feel it in my bones, the desire to go forth and create words that try so hard to mean something. To live in imaginary worlds at the expense of a real one.
That's what I've been doing. Publicly for the last two and a half years, and privately, for my entire life.
Feeding it, that hunger, that urge.
That urge.
That crazed, manic, all-consuming urge.
It's a creature, that urge, living and breathing, and always present, subliminally, beneath the surface. Or awake, in all it's beautifully hideous glory.
It's dormant, my creature, for the moment, but the seeds of tomorrow have already been sown and as you sow, so shall you reap.
I know it will surface again soon.
And I will not be able to wave it away. And then, once again, it will take over. Me and everything that's mine. I shudder at the thought, for while it is joyful, it is also frightening.
To lose control in that manner.
To be controlled.
But until then, here I am.
Just saying Hello.

On Passion

2015-10-04T10:35:00.002-07:00

Inspired by a friend with whom I was engaged in animated discussion on the right way to eat a passionfruit

Placing it on a cutting board and opening it up neatly with a knife, before scooping it out into a bowl and then eating it with a spoon

Ripping open the fruit with one's hands and biting directly into the flesh

--------------------------------------

It's the end of something.
But the beginning - new and wondrous - of something else.
My first born has now lived half a decade.

And I am trying to get my head around the reality of it all.
Was it really only five years ago that he was inside me, another heartbeat, distinct from my own, and yet so intertwined that sometimes it confused me. When I heard that silent beating of our two hearts, it confused me, whose heartbeat was whose.

And yet on the eve of the fifth year of his life, I contemplate the boy he has become. And I don't do this with the rose tinted adoration of a mother, with the fierce loyalty and the deep biases that come, almost naturally, with my role. I do it objectively. Because I feel I should. I do it with my husband as we sit together on a Saturday night, feet up, with a glass of wine.

And while we applaud him - our little son, just turned five - for his independence, his unwavering moral compass, the sheer strength of his convictions, his ability to know - with such confidence - his own mind, we also shake our heads.
Yes, we shake our heads, and we furrow our brows and ponder ways with which to soften his edges.
"He's too loud," we say. Too rough. Too excited."
"He can't sit still. Can't focus. Why is he so restless?" we ask.
"Jumps headlong into things without thinking. Needs taming. Calming down."

"He's hard work," says my husband, leaning back into the sofa with a sigh.
It seems to neatly sum it up

Because you see, the other two boys in my life are so...easy.
My younger son is peaceful and happy going, social and gentle. He sits still and does what he's told. Calm and predictable. Lovely. A total and complete pleasure.

And Sid...
Sid is measured and rooted.
A man of few words, of little outward expression.
Quiet and deep.
And yet many times, in these years we have been together I am jolted by the intensity of it, this love that he is capable of, the selfless unconditional expanse of it.
Like the sands of the Sinai, burnished gold in the setting sun, uniform - but vast, unending.
Every now and then, there is a mirage, but only I can see it.
To the rest of the world it is just that, a mirage. An illusion...elusive, a trick of the mind.
But to me, it's real. A break from character, an unpredictability - playful, devious.
And I love it. The private mystery of it.
It's what drew us together so many years ago, it's what keeps us together now. Forever.

Our older son is different.
He loves openly and publicly.
Unabashedly.
He will not hesitate to scream "I love you" from the gates of his school where I drop him every morning, his voice resonating, for all the world to hear.
His kisses and his cuddles - private or public alike - are fierce and passionate, with a roughness that is startling even to me.
His is a different kind of love. Selfish and demanding.
When he gives, he gives his all. He is all consuming - of himself and of others.

And as I write these very words, as they come into my head, I am suddenly overwhelmed. And I have to stop mid-sentece, and find my husband, and tell him. Because - with our son, perhaps...just perhaps...

His trying ways
His quirks and flaws and imperfections
Are all too familiar

And I realise this now, somehow, suddenly.
When I look in the mirror.
And I see him.

----------------------------------------

Mango and Passionfruit Crumble

Here's what you need:

- 3/4 cup flour
- 1/3 cup brown sugar
- 6 tbsp cold butter
- 2/3 cup rolled oats
- 2 tsp ground cinnamon
- 1/2 tsp ground nutmeg
- 2 ripe mangoes - peeled and cubed
- 2 passion fruit
- 1 tbsp lime juice

Here's how you do it:

Preheat oven to 175 degrees C.
Mix the flour and brown sugar in a bowl, and cut the butter into the flour-sugar mixture. Mix well together until well combined and the mixture resembles coarse crumbs. Add the oats, cinnamon, and nutmeg, and stir well.
Place the mango cubes on the bottom of a baking dish, and spoon the passion fruit pulp over the mango. The drizzle some lime juice over the fruit. Cover the fruit with the crumble mixture. Bake in the preheated oven until the top has browned and the fruit is caramelised. Serve with vanilla ice cream or fresh custard.

5-Minute Chicken Fried Rice

2015-09-30T11:57:00.002-07:00

So, most happily, I whipped this up from start to finish in under 5 minutes.
Totally serious.
One minute it wasn't there and the next minute it was.
Well not technically, the next minute. That would be a gross exaggeration.
But - in the next 4 minutes - it was. That would be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help me God.

!??

(Officially lost the plot today. Much too much going on. Brain damaged now. What brain you ask. Good question that.)

Anyway.

Honestly, though, this is one of those recipes that elicits funny phrases like "are you kidding me?" or "you're not kidding me!" or “Whaaaaa?” or “No way!” or "Ya way?" and such-like expressions of amazement over how something that can be made so quickly could possibly result in something so, so good.

But it can!
And it does!
I just did!
So there. Hmph.

See, fried rice is fried rice and no two recipes are ever identical, but mostly they amount to this pretty basic cast of characters:

1) Rice (but of course)
2) Chicken (yes, same)
3) Eggs
4) Peas
5) Sesame oil
6) Soy sauce

And you just mix the whole motley crew together in a sizzling pan and there you have it.
See?
Simples.
(I dig Alexander the Meerkat, in case that bell didn't ring)
(It's ok, don't worry, I'm not judging - my bell hasn't rung in quite some years actually)

But anyway.

Here's how much of each you need:

- 2-3 chicken thighs
- 3 cups cooked rice
- 2 Tbs sesame oil
- 1 cup frozen peas
- 2-3 Tbs soy sauce (more or less to taste)
- 2 eggs, beaten
- 2 Tbsp chopped green onions (optional)

I use chicken thighs because the danger in fried rice is that the chicken dries out. Thigh meat is always, always more moist and succulent than breast meat and so, when cooking chicken, it's my cut of choice any day and in almost any recipe. This is particularly the case when cooking something like fried rice where you really don't want to be fighting (and losing) with tough, over cooked chicken. Frankly speaking, winning or losing is rather a moot point because really, one generally doesn't want to be fighting with a chicken. Overcooked or not.

So...

Anyway, here's how you do it:

Preheat a large skillet or wok to medium heat. Pour in some of the sesame oil. When smoking hot - and I mean smoking really, (think Giselle) - add in the chicken and quickly stir fry until cooked. Now, remove from heat into another container and wait for it to cool and then when you are positively sure that you won't burn your hands - because I will never, ever, ever forgive myself if you do - shred it neatly and nicely like good little girls and boys always do.

Now, add some more oil to the same wok and pour in the beaten eggs. Using a spatula, scramble the eggs expertly like you know what you're doing. Pretending is key. Trust me, I do it all the time.

Now, once cooked, add in the peas, rice and chicken to the egg mixture. Add in the soy sauce on top for salt and flavour (and msg) (we love msg) (thank you mum, dad and China). Stir and fry the rice and veggie mixture until heated through and combined. Add chopped green onions if you like. Or don't, if you don't like.

Now for the BEST bit.
Turn off flame, grab a fork and eat from pan.
Not.
I mean I did, but don't be like me...

Blackmailed!

2015-09-28T13:04:00.003-07:00

I've been put on the spot by a very special friend who's just messaged me saying "Write--or cook--cuz now I'm hungry
wink emoticon xxx"

Hmmm...

Now that's what one calls proper emotional blackmail.
Which has properly worked.
Because if I ignored hunger pangs from anyone, let alone those of a friend, what kind of foodie would that make me seriously?
Because any foodie worth their salt NEVER ignores hunger pangs.
And so the fire has been lit.

And I scratch the itch to cook.
And to write.

Which is why I always say it's a good idea to have something up your sleeve that you can cook quickly, and simply, when you've got friends coming over at short notice.
Or you get cyber-emotionally-blackmailed
(What a ridiculous world we live in!)

So, anyway, where was I?
Yes, good idea to have something etc.
This is that thing.

When I asked said friend what they fancied, they replied with - "ok am about to go to the gym so maybe a nice post workout meal. Some kind of thai or asian chicken/fish curry?"

Your wish is my command, I aim to please, etc etc etc.
So Asian Fish Curry it is.
I had most of the ingredients in my store cupboard, but if you don't, it's an easy shop for stuff that will come in handy several times over.

Here's what you need:

- 1 400 ml tin coconut milk
- 1 - 2 tablespoon thai curry paste (I only happen to have yellow on me, but it works as well with red)
- 1 kilogram pumpkin or butternut squash peeled and cut into bite sized chunks
- 500 grams salmon fillets (pref organic) skinned and cut into large bite sized chunks
- pak choi (or any other green veg of your choice)
- 350 ml fish stock
- 3 tablespoons thai fish sauce
- 2 tablespoons caster sugar
- 2 tablespoons fresh lime juice
- 3 kaffir lime leaves (if possible)
- ½ teaspoon turmeric

Here's how you do it:

Pour about a quarter of the coconut milk into a large saucepan with the curry paste on medium heat. Let it sizzle and, using a fork, beat the mixture together until well combined.
Now, add in the rest of the coconut milk, fish stock, fish sauce, sugar, lime leaves and turmeric. Bring to a boil and then add the pumpkin/squash. Simmer on low heat until the pumpkin is tender, with just a tiny bit of bite to it.
Now, add in the salmon until cooked through, 3-4 minutes, stir in any green veg you're using - sliced, chopped or shredded as your little heart desires - and mix in.
When the vegetables have wilted, squeeze in the juice of half a lime, stir and taste and add the juice of the remaining half if you feel it needs it. Take the pan off the heat or and eat with some plain basmati or Thai rice.

Flavourful, nutritious, aromatic, filling and delicious - a perfect post work out meal, I hope?

P.S. - Sorry for the delay. I went for my 5K run.
(As you knew I would)
x

Cheat Smart - Coconut Prawn Curry and Red Rice

2015-06-25T10:12:00.000-07:00

I'm all for a little cheating.
But only on our diets! :)
In all other aspects of life, I would only ever advocate the path of inordinate virtuousness. For, you see, I am the personification of inordinate virtue.
Ha.

No, but seriously, coming back to food and nutrition, no matter how disciplined we might be, we all need to cheat every now and then to keep our sanity - I certainly do!
So, odd as it seems, it’s actually easier to stick to a healthy eating plan if you cut yourself a bit of slack every now and then.

I would only ask before you cheat, that you do two things:
1) That you recognise you are cheating when you're cheating
2) That you cheat for something that's worth it

With regards to my first point, it's simply being aware that you are cheating. In other words, recognise, acknowledge and accept that you are using up your brownie points (pun not intended!) - so don’t eat your treat mindlessly in front of the TV or computer. Unfortunately, the lives we all seem to lead don't embrace eating and enjoying our food; we are obligated almost, to try and be productive at all times.

Don't be.
Rebel a little.

Have you heard that wonderful song by Ottis Redding - "(Sittin' On) The Dock Of The Bay"?
It goes like this:
"I'm sittin' on the dock of the bay
Watchin' the tide roll away, ooh
I'm just sittin' on the dock of the bay
Wastin' time"

I love these words. They sound so dreamy and faraway. And so hopelessly impractical. Which is why I love these words. Because being productive 24/7 is highly overrated.

So - and really this is true for every time you put food in your mouth, and especially so for cheat meals - take your time, sit down, focus on your food and thoroughly enjoy every last bit.

With regards to my second point - make it count. Cheat smart.
And this really depends on you individually.
Because there's a big difference between enjoying your favourite foods once in a while and eating everything you adore. The key to maintaining some degree of control, is deciding what you want, how much you want, and then soldiering towards it in its most intense and tasty form.

See, for me, willpower is like a muscle - it can be trained. And I've trained myself over the years that even when I want to cheat, I will rarely crave, say a donut. Or french fries. I just won't. And you will see that as your body becomes healthier - and cleaner - even the foods that you cheat with will become less and less unhealthy. Your body, over time, will learn this. Instinctively. Effortlessly.

So instead of grabbing a a large bagel with your coffee as your treat and distractedly downing hundreds of doughy calories, splurge on something worth savoring. Something you love.

For me, because I don't have a sweet tooth, I crave savoury hits of flavour - the more complex the better. This is the kind of stuff that's got hints of sweet and hints of sour and hints of heat and hints of umami (but naturally) all packaged together beautifully into one delicious dish.

I'm going today for Coconut Prawn Curry and Red Rice, a food that's admittedly not top of the list on the naughty spectrum, but rice (even if its blushing) is still carbs and my prawn curry would not taste half as good without the liberal amounts of (high calorie) coconut milk I put it in. So, I am still cheating - I'm just cheating smart.

First things first, what is red rice?
Red rice, for the uninitiated, is generally unhulled or partially hulled rice which has a red husk. It's distinctive for it's nutty flavor, and as the germ of the rice is left intact, it has high nutritional value relative to other carbs. Ironically, it is much cheaper than regular white rice. When I let myself drift back, years and years ago to my childhood days in Madras, it was always the household help who would eat red rice. Unbeknownst to my mother, I'd often barely touch the lunch my parents and I were served on the dining table, and then I'd sneak in to the kitchen afterwards, while they were eating, sitting cross legged on the floor on large stainless steel plates and ask for their rice. Even then, within the inner workings of my 4-year old brain, I had it figured out that what they were eating was far, far tastier than what we were being served.

Now Goan prawn curry (not totally confined to Goa as it does travel up the konkan coast to Mangalore, albeit with a few variations) for those who haven't tried it before - is a revelation.
Plump, juicy, tender prawns in a coconut rich, hot and sour curry is simply glorious. Try it, I assure you, you will become quite addicted.

Here's what you need:
- 1 tbsp sunflower oil
- 250g raw prawns, peeled and deveined
- 1 onion, finely chopped
- 1 tbsp ginger, grated or cut finely
- 4 garlic cloves, crushed
- 4 dry kashmiri red chilies
- 1 tsp turmeric
- 1 tsp ground coriander
- 5-6 curry leaves (optional)
- 3 tbsp tamarind pulp or 1 raw mango chopped length wise into 2 pieces or 3 tbsp tomato paste (whatever you have handy)
- 400ml can full fat coconut milk
- 2 tsp sugar
- Salt to taste

Here's how you do it:
Marinate prawns with little salt and set aside.
Heat the oil and once hot, fry the onion, ginger, garlic and chilli for 5 mins until starting to soften. Next add in your sour ingredient - the raw mango or tamarind paste or tomato paste, sugar and salt and mix well. Stir in the prawns and cook until the prawns turn pink. Finally, turn the heat down, add in the coconut milk and simmer for 2 mins on low heat.

I do my tadka separately. I fry the curry leaves and red chillies, in hot oil until sizzling and aromatic, then I stir it into the finished dish: to me, this quick and simple final touch really lifts the flavours.

I cook the red rice the exact same way I cook regular white rice. I use a little olive oil to soften the rice, because the husk makes it naturally tougher. So, first I rinse the rice in water. Then I heat some oil in a pot, add in the rice and stir for 2 minutes. I add water and bring the whole pot to a boil. Then, I lower the heat, cover the pot and cook until liquid is fully absorbed.

To serve, spoon the prawn curry - decadently rich, piping hot, and aromatic - over the rice and garnish with some coriander leaves.

Then devour it. All by yourself.
Because you deserve it.
Because you're worth it.

Is Carb Free a Fad?

2015-06-20T06:10:00.002-07:00

No, No and No.
I want to shout it from the rooftops.

First things first: Wiki's definition of a fad: "A fad is any form of behaviour that develops among a large population and is collectively followed enthusiastically for a period of time, generally as a result of the behavior being perceived as popular by one's peers or being deemed "cool" by social media. A fad is said to "catch on" when the number of people adopting it begins to increase rapidly. The behaviour will normally fade quickly once the perception of novelty is gone"

And so here is my opinion, controversial as it might seem: The carb free diet is not a fad. And - wait for it - neither was the fat free diet.

Because - and herein lies the importance of this debate - both schools of thought were based not on what was deemed "cool" by popular media - this isn't after all about dressing norm core - they were grounded on significant medical and scientific research prevailing at the time. This is about nutrition, well-being and the health of our bodies and minds - a topic, I would imagine, of significant and far reaching consequence.

This isn't to say, by the way, that the fat-free diet was erroneous. In fact, I would go so far as to say that the “war” on fat was the biggest mistake in the history of nutrition. To condense a long and complex topic into a few sentences isn't easy, but it was faith in science that led physicians and patients to embrace the low-fat diet. Scientific studies dating from the late 1940s showed a correlation between high-fat diets and high-cholesterol levels, suggesting that a low-fat diet might prevent heart disease. By the 1960s, the low-fat diet began to be touted not just for high-risk heart patients, but as good for the general population. After 1980, the low-fat approach became an ideology, promoted by medical practitioners, the government, the food industry, and the popular media. Ironically, in the same decades that "low-fat" assumed ideological status, we were all getting fatter, obesity became not only a concept, but a global concern. And yet, the low-fat ideology had such a hold on us that skeptics were dismissed. Only recently has evidence of a paradigm shift begun to surface, largely reflecting newly discovered scientific knowledge about fats.

But to call the fat-free era a fad simply because it was wrong, is to disbelieve in the very notion of progress, the advancement of medical science, and the fact that for every minute we live, we discover something new, and that we make assumptions based on what we know and hold them to be true - until they are disproved.

Yes, we all believed the earth was flat until the day we discovered it wasn't.

And while it is easy to look back with the benefit of hindsight and criticise the proponents of the fat free era, I'd cut them some slack. After all, it does seem intuitive that fat makes you fat. 1 gram of fat contains 9 calories, while 1 gram of carbohydrate contains 4 calories. What we didn't know then, that we know now is that obesity is down not just to calories, but to the quality of those calories. And about how fat and carbs get used in our body.

It works like this: Refined carbohydrates raise blood sugar. Your body then produces extra insulin to bring your blood sugar down. Insulin is a fat storage hormone. With more insulin circulating around in your bloodstream, your body converts the carbohydrates to fat. And so, when we eat more carbohydrates than we burn for energy, our body ends up storing them as fat - in all the problem areas that you and I already know - on your thighs, your stomach, your hips.

There's another factor at play here. If you eat a lot of carbs, you burn those carbs for energy and need a steady supply of carbs to keep your energy up. Relying on carbs for energy, you body doesn't have the need to access and burn your stored fat. You become a "sugar-burner." On the other hand, when you eat less carbs, you become a "fat-burner." The body first goes for carbs to burn for energy and once it has depleted that source, it turns to access and burn stored body fat. Aha.

Before I finish up with this post, I will disclaim myself from the term "carb free" by saying that I am using it, not literally, but for ease of explanation. By carb free, I don't not mean all carbs are bad. All carbs cannot - by definition - be bad, simply because all carbs are not the same. There are superior carbs, there are acceptable carbs, and then there are carbs that are plain evil. I will get to these in detail as we go along, but I am a big advocate of complex carbs like barley, whole oats, bulgur, millet, quinoa, sweet potatoes, brown rice, lentils, beans and buckwheat. These satisfy our appetite, so we tend to eat less. It is refined carbohydrate foods that tend to cause the insulin spike that make us more hungry, and so we tend to eat more.

I also have to say what any responsible dispenser of weight and nutrition advice should say: what works for me may not work for you. Our bodies are not only the most intricate pieces of machinery that exist on this earth, but they are all different, and there are many complex metabolic processes at play - as with anything in life, one size rarely fits all.

But I believe for many people, if you reduce the refined carbohydrates in your diet -- white bread, sugar, pasta, muffins, breakfast cereal, crisps, sweets, and sweetened drinks -- and add more healthy fats -- nuts, seeds, avocados, fatty fish like mackerel, salmon, and sardines, olives, olive oil, grass fed meats -- you'll likely lose some weight, stop the cycle of ravenous hunger, feel more satiated, have more energy and more stable blood sugars, and generally lead a healthier and higher quality life.

Here's what I ate for lunch today: Oregano, paprika and tomato chicken skewers with a side of rocket and broccoli and a dollop of full fat, unsweetened natural yogurt.

Here's what you need:

1 tbsp oregano
1 tsp paprika
1 tbsp tomato paste
1 garlic clove
3 tbsp virgin olive oil
8 chicken tenderloins
4 cups rocket (or other green leaf salad) + lemon and olive oil to dress
Few handful broccoli heads
Sea salt and pepper to taste
Some bamboo skewers (optional, you can simply cut the chicken into strips instead)

Here's how you do it:

Skewer the chicken tenderloins onto bamboo sticks and marinate with a mixture of oregano, paprika, chopped garlic, tomato paste, olive oil, salt and pepper. Set aside for about 20-30 minutes or more if you can, the longer the better.

Cook chicken skewers or strips in the oven or on the stove top for 3-4 minutes on each side, until cooked through and slightly charred. Arrange rocket leaves and broccoli on a plate and lay the chicken skewers over them. Drizzle with lemon juice and extra-virgin olive oil, dip into the yogurt and Voila!

It's not a fad, it's not a diet. It's a flavourful, natural, unrefined, generous portion of food that not only tastes great, but leaves you feeling great.

Invest - in a Nutribullet (and in yourself)

2015-06-18T04:47:00.005-07:00

Disclaimer:
* I own a Nutribullet
* I have endorsed products before
* This isn't one of them i.e. this blogpost is not sponsored by Nutribullet

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Right, so following on from my last post on fried eggs and veggies - which I know, when you're running out the door, so late for work that you've got your heels in your hands and your keys in your mouth, really wouldn't be high up on your list of priorities. And so I promised to do a quick, healthy, on-the-go breakfast, and since I always keep my promises (I'm nice like that), here we are.

Now, if available to you where you live, please could you all just buy yourself a Nutribullet?
It's on Amazon right here
And ok, it's not exactly cheap, but it won't break the bank either, so please humour me a second. And let's all just do some Maths.
Didja hear me, folks?
Let's all do some Maths, I said.
Which is revolutionary, really because never, in a million years did I ever expect to use that line - Maths makes me shudder see. I'm the one who the Maths teacher always hated. Which is OK. Because my English teachers always liked me. Especially that one at University who looked like he spent his days writing ballads for god knows whom (OWU people, you with me here?!) and I'd always rather have it that way.

Anyway, sorry got a bit distracted there. Though if you went to University with me, you'd know exactly why. In fact you'd be grinning right now. And Facebooking the said Professor to see who he ended up writing those ballads for. I have...(and she's prettier than me. Damn.)

Annywaay...

Back to Maths and the cost of the Nutribullet. So if you amortise (yes, yes, not just Maths, but complex Maths) the cost of this "thing" over all the many, many years of breakfasts and healthy snacking you will get out of it, and (intangibly) by the tremendous benefit it will do to your physical and mental wellbeing - trust me when I say it's worth every last penny.

See, Crush charge an average of £5 per glass of what the Nutribullet would do for you. 20 days and you've recovered your investment. Bam.

(I mean, are you proud of me?)
(That's some good Maths, huh?)

Incidentally, Juice Tonic, straight out of California and into the heart of Soho charge £5.50, Pure (with branches all over London) charges £4'ish and Wild Juicery in Covent Garden charge £4.80.

OK, so there you go. It's worth it.
Absolutely, without the shadow of a doubt, worth it.

On a related note - for those of you who know me, you know I stand relatively unmatched when it comes to cynicism - I detest false marketing and I try to resist the temptation to fall headlong for the
next faddy product that seems all the rage. This one isn't a gimmick, I promise you. I've tried and tested the Nutribullet with as much skepticism as I could muster (dare I say I almost wanted it to fail) - and can unreservedly say that this thing has done wonders for our lifestyle.

Now, I use the vague and woefully undescriptive word "thing" to describe the Nutribullet with thoughtful deliberation, because in reality, it's not really a blender and it’s not really a juicer. David Wolfe is the creator of the Nutribullet and he calls the NutriBullet an "extractor." The problem with most juicers, see, is that you end up throwing away 90% of the nutrients from fruits and vegetables in the form of fibre. It’s because juicing “squeezes” the extract, so you end up adding fructose without the fibre. You might as well "eat" a glass of sugar.

A blender, on the other hand, retains all the nutrients and breaks down the fiber. Nutribullet's claim is that it will not only retain the nutrients, but will also break down the fibre much better than a blender will. So, it helps "unlock" the vitamins, minerals, and essential fatty acids (such as omega-3s) that have been trapped within the cell walls of vegetables, fruits, nuts, and seeds.

I use mine for fruit as well as vegetable smoothies - the "green smoothies" that seem to have exploded in popularity of late and that, by the way, I have an amazing recipe for that doesn't taste like lawn, and that I will share with you shortly - stay tuned!

Today's smoothie combines berries, chard and seeds, which gives you a carb-free, completely balanced breakfast or snack in under 5 minutes of prep. You've given yourself a boost of Potassium, and Vitamins A and C plus, your smoothie is full of insoluble fibre from the pomegranate pith, which helps you to feel satisfied longer, helps clean your digestive tract and also helps regulate blood sugar and insulin secretion. Consider it a super detox smoothie because that's exactly what it is.

Here's what you need:

5 cubes ice
1 cup Rainbow chard
½ of a medium pomegranate, scooped out with most of the pith intact
½ cup berry mix (raspberries, blackberries, blueberries)
1 tbsp pumpkin seeds
1 tbsp sunflower seeds
½ cup unsweetened greek yogurt to the max line

Don't squirm at the thought of chard - I've not put in a lot and honestly, you’ll barely notice and taste it (or any vegetable for that matter) as long as you get a ratio of 50% fruits with 50% vegetables.
Enjoy!

What I Eat for Breakfast

2015-06-16T07:08:00.002-07:00

Hi guys,
Seems my last post caused an event in my inbox unlike one I've seen for a very long time - I had an avalanche of emails from old friends and new friends, acquaintances and strangers, mummies, non-mummies, and to my great surprise - lots of men! I'm still trying to respond to all of you, so thanks for your patience!
On a positive note, someone's reading what I'm writing (thank you!)

The question asked forty-two times (to be precise) in the various emails was one that made me smile after a while; near or far, man or woman, black, white or brown, it's amazing how alike we all think. The question I got asked more than any other was: what I eat for breakfast.
:)

So, I wanted to respond as soon as I could.
The answer, is that I eat many different things for breakfast.
Repetition bores me.
Variety and versatility excite me.
Excitement is better than boredom. Ergo, my breakfasts are creative and varied, much like the rest of my meals.

That breakfast is limited to high GI foods like toast and sugary cereals is a myth that really ought to be dispelled by now. The Kellog Company might have you believe that breakfast cereal is the healthiest way to kick-start your day, but hopefully by now we know that marketing is clever only because someone is a fool. Please don't be that fool.

I have gotten to the point where even the sight of breakfast cereal traumatises me - it's like trying to wolf down cardboard doused in sugar. The NHS considers over 15g total sugars in every 100g to be a high level. Kellogg's cornflakes run to 8g per 100g, Kellogg's Crunchy Nut cornflakes 35g. No one over the age of seven should be eating this stuff. We are talking about breakfast here. This is not dessert.

So, what do I eat for breakfast?

Here's just one example. This might not be one for a grab-and-go, got-to-get-to-work-morning -- and I'll get to those, I promise -- but I wanted to start off with one of my favourites - so here goes!

Two fried eggs with a spinach, mushroom, jalapeño and cherry-tomato fry-up.

Here's what you need:

2 eggs - I buy mine from a farm shop, rather than the supermarket - I cannot even begin to articulate the difference in taste
2 tbsp virgin olive oil
1/2 brown onion, peeled and sliced
handful of cherry tomatoes, halved
5-6 button mushrooms, sliced
3 large handfuls of torn baby spinach leaves
1 jalapeño pepper, halved, seeded and julienned
1 garlic clove, finely diced
salt and pepper to taste
drizzle of lemon juice

Here's how you do it:

I'm not going to tell you how to fry an egg :)
But here's how you do the fry-up.

Heat some olive oil in a frying pan and sauté mushrooms for 3-4 minutes until browned and cooked through. Remove and set aside.
In the same frying pan, sauté the onions until slightly translucent. Then add tomatoes, jalapeños
and garlic and season with salt and pepper. Cook for a further 2-3 minutes and press tomatoes down with a spatula until smashed and the juices released.
Add the spinach at the end and stir through until the spinach is wilted. Season with a little more salt if you like and drizzle with some lemon juice right at the end.

Here's why:

This single amazing meal kick-starts your metabolism in just the right way. You've fuelled your body with protein plus your 4 (out of 5)-a day, and that's before you even get started with your day.

I cannot say enough about why eggs are such a great option for breakfast. Not only do they taste good and offer tremendous versatility in cooking options, but the protein and fat in eggs helps sustain your energy levels, keeping you fuller for much longer than that bagel or piece of toast and reducing the need to snack.

The side dish we just made? A nutritional slam-dunk! Spinach is full of vitamin K (one cup of cooked spinach yields more than 150% of your daily intake requirement), vitamins A & C and manganese. OK, Popeye is folklore, but there's no smoke without fire - Spinach is chock full of flavonoids and carotenoids – all which help to protect your body from diseases through cell signalling pathways and antioxidant effects. Add to that, tomatoes, mushrooms and garlic and some healthy fats from olive oil and you've done your body a tremendous favour - all within hours of waking.

Good morning? You bet your sweet bippy!
xx

15 Carb-Free Years (and counting...)

2015-06-15T07:06:00.001-07:00

On the 15th of the month, in the year 2015, I thought it seemed about apt to let you know.
It's true.
Every word.
Yup.
It's been 15 years since I've touched a carb. That's a decade and a half.
(I know you know that, but see, sums aren't my strong suite, so if I get the opportunity to show off a bit, I do. You know?)
But yes. 15 years.
And no, I don't mean the odd bite here and the odd taste there - everyone's occasionally allowed that. But bar nibbling on a slice of chocolate cake on my boys' birthdays (because not doing that would just be wrong), I haven't touched a carb in 15 years.
And it's been worth every last bit.

"How do you do it?" I've been asked. "I couldn't! I won't last"
"You can," I say. "And you certainly will last"

Of course, this all started in my twenties for vanity's sake. I don't mind admitting it - I wanted to look good, and I was convinced this was the path that would keep me looking toned and fit. Over a decade and two boys later, it is less about how I look on the outside (though I won't lie, that still matters), but more about how healthy I am on the inside.

People ask if I miss the carbs?
"Miss what?" I ask. "Sugar, white rice, bread and pasta?"
Nope.
No chance.

"How can you be a foodie and not eat carbs?" I'm asked.
"Because good food is not about the carbs," I say. And I believe it with every fibre of my being. Pun wholly intended.
No, good food is a paradigm shift. A lifestyle. Good food is fresh, and flavourful and fun.
And it's not hard.
The idea is stick to what comes from the ground.
And that's what I eat. And can't get enough of.
Because it makes me feel great, outside and in.
Fitter, leaner, healthier and stronger.
I sleep better, I keep up with my boys, I make the moments count - there's more memories to be made this way.

I eat what I love. And I love what I eat.

I've made this simple summer salad for years and years (yes a decade and a half) and it's amazing every time. It's also versatile. And you know how I feel about versatility.
You don't?
Well - versatility is the bomb. It rocks my world. Without versatility I would wither away like an unwatered peony.
There.
Now you know how I feel about versatility.
Little stunners those peonies, by the way, I have some growing in my garden, each the size of my fist. Simply stunning. Just saying.

Anyway.
My salad.
Very versatile. A peony in full bloom, as it were. Fabulous all by itself or alongside some chicken or prawns.
And now is just the time for it. Long, lazy summer days - the time for my kind of food - fresh, flavourful and fun.

I'm using fresh salad greens from my garden - a combination of rocket, watercress and spinach - and flavouring it with avocados, mango, lime and coriander.
I'm throwing in some marinated chicken for a bit of protein, but as I said, you don't need it.
The twin stars of the show here are the avocado and the mango.
Which make beautiful music together.

So...with the avocado, you want ones that are just-not-yet ripe. You know, not hard, but not sqidgy. Firm with just that tiny bit of give. Perfect.

And...mangoes.
I can barely say the word without going all loopy in the head.
You see, mangoes and me. We go way back.
I mean I'd dump my husband for a mango.
If mangoes could talk and understand my feelings.
But they can't.
So I guess I'm stuck with Sid.
Boo.

On that note, (sigh)...

Here's what you need:

4 (4-ounce) skinless, boneless chicken-breast halves
8 cups mixed salad greens
2 diced peeled mango
3/4 cup diced peeled avocado
Handful of coriander

I've gone slightly overboard with the mango because I'm utterly, madly, freakily in love with mango. You can hold back. If you wish.(though why you'd wish that befuddles me) (but that's cool).

For the dressing/marinade
2 tablespoons mango chutney
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 tablespoons fresh lime juice
1 tablespoon soy sauce
3/4 teaspoon grated peeled fresh ginger

Here's how you do it:

Preheat your oven to 200 degrees.

Meanwhile, add the olive oil, lime juice, mango chutney, soy sauce, and ginger in a small bowl and combine well. Separately, place the chicken in a large bowl and spoon some of the dressing mixture over it, reserving the rest for the salad. Turn the pieces over to coat well, and let stand a few minutes.

Place the marinated chicken on grill rack and grill 4 minutes on each side or until chicken is cooked through and slightly charred.

To serve, arrange greens, mango, and avocado on a platter. Slice chicken crosswise into strips and place over greens. Drizzle reserved dressing all over.

And that's that.
Yum Yum in my Tum
(yes, very mature, I know, I know...)

Roasted Cod with Spring Vegetables

2015-06-01T06:31:00.001-07:00

Well, hello.
It's been a while, but it's not been for want of want.
You know.
I mean, I've wanted to.
I always want to.
It's just that Time - yes, that pesky little fact of life - always seems to pass me by. Another day, another week, another month.
But I won't linger on the already, still, yet and no longer.
And so, here we are.

Well, Hello Yesterday.

And speaking of time, it's night time and still it's bright, my windows open to the soft air, curtains fluttering, flowers moving as if caught in a breeze...it's my favourite time of year, heralding blue cloudless skies and long, sunny days; the spring wind, warm with just that dash of chill; daffodils and rose buds and fruit and veg so fresh, it makes you want to dance in the aisles of the supermarket. Well, it makes ME want to dance, I must clarify, not YOU. You're not (necessarily) cool like that. I, on the other hand, am the reason the great Oxford Dictionary invented the word "cool."
That's not entirely true of course, but it just makes me feel good to think so.
So.
:)

Here's something else that makes me feel good - my Roasted Cod with Spring Vegetables.
I've been trying - for months now - to eat more fish. Honestly if I could get all my protein from fish, it's what I'd do. It's a top-of-the-line nutrient dense food, high in protein, high in Omega-3 fat, good for your heart, good for your brain, chock full of B-12, and iron. If you can, it would really be one of the most powerful changes you can make to your diet.
Couple that with vegetables?
You're golden.
And really, there's something very magical that happens when "vegetables" meet "roasted"...when the heat of the oven releases the natural sugars from the veg. caramelising them slowly...yum. It's just perfectly...PERFECT. Yup, perfectly perfect.
And light and healthy and colourful and seasonal.
And you can throw it together in minutes and it still looks impressive (ask me, besides being cool, I'm also the Queen of Deception, hee!)

Here's what you need:

Just go your local market, and buy what is fresh and beautiful. I've done peppers, tomatoes, olives and courgette, but you can mix it around. Asparagus works, as do mushrooms. Or squash. Or brinjal. That's the beauty of cooking good food - it's versatile, it's what YOU want it to be.

Anyway, here goes my take!

- 2 red peppers, 2 orange peppers, 2 green peppers - the small, sweet kind; deseeded and halved
- 2 red onions, cut into wedges
- LOTS of cherry tomatoes
- 4 garlic pods, skins intact
- 1 medium courgette/zucchini trimmed and cut into 2cm slices
- 4 skinless cod fillets (about 600g/1lb 5oz)
- 2-3 tsp high quality balsamic
- Handful black olives
- Small bunch basil

Heres how you do it:

Preheat the oven to 220C/Gas 7. Put the peppers, tomatoes, courgettes, garlic and onion in a large baking tray and drizzle them with some olive oil. Season with a little salt and lots of ground black pepper and toss everything together until the vegetables are lightly coated with oil. Roast for 20 minutes until softened and lightly charred.

Separately, season the fish with salt and freshly ground black pepper. Then take the baking tray out of the oven and make gaps in the vegetables to make space for the fish. Place the fish on the tray.

Put the tray back in the oven for another 12–15 minutes or until the fish is cooked, then chuck in the black olives, drizzle with a little olive oil and balsamic vinegar and throw in some fresh basil.

Gosh, this dish is so beautiful it's making my skirt fly up.
Or...is that the open window?

Wayfarer

2014-12-19T15:52:00.002-08:00

There's a small church on my right, as I drive by, painted gaily in bright shades of yellow and green.
It sits perched precariously on a cliff edge with straight, sheer drops into the Atlantic.

On a whim, I stop, braking far too suddenly. I shake my head at myself. My dangerous impetuousness. But it's done now. I'm here.
The doors are open and I walk in. I am slightly nervous, I don't know if I am trespassing. But then it's a church. And I remind myself that no one is ever a trespasser in the presence of faith.

I look around me, but there is no one in sight. I am alone. Like I want to be.
It's cool inside, dark, the brickwork shading the glare of the strong West Indian sun
Stained glass windows throw streaks of rainbow light across the floor.
The effect is dreamy, otherworldly.

I kneel down
Fold my hands
Close my eyes
Whisper a prayer

For the health and happiness of those that are mine.
For my children. That they are kind to the world and that the world is kind to them.

Outside, far away below me I hear the faint sound of waves crashing on rock.
I wonder if that's the beach my husband is on with my two boys. I wonder, if I strain hard enough, I will hear the sound of their laughter, their loud excited squeals as the warm turquoise blue of the Caribbean washes over them, smothering them, and then recedes into dark, unknown depths.

But I dont. It's serene where I am. I hear nothing. And time seems to stop.
The setting, the silence, consumes me.

My sea is calm.

And then a bell tolls.
11 chimes, in rythmic, musical succession. It's 11 o'clock. I've been here too long.

And suddenly I am restless again.
I imagine my kids asking where I am, my husband wondering why a stop for milk is taking so long.

So I get in the car and drive down the winding path. Too fast for my own good.
My mind is everywhere
Falling down the rabbit hole fast and furious.
Searching for the answer to a question I don't have.

For I am a wayfarer.
A vagrant.

So I run to the kitchen.
Where I know is safe.
And dance to the nuance of unspoken words.

Here's what you need:
- 6 large skinless snapper fillets
- 125g unsalted butter, melted
- 2 tablespoons Cajun spice mix
(2 teaspoons salt, 2 teaspoons garlic powder, 21/2 teaspoons paprika, 1 teaspoon ground black pepper, 1 teaspoon onion powder, 1 teaspoon cayenne pepper, 11/4 teaspoons dried oregano, 11/4 teaspoons dried thyme, 1/2 teaspoon red pepper flakes)

Here's how you do it:
Brush each fish fillet liberally with the melted butter. Combine the Cajun spice mix, then sprinkle thickly over the fish. Use your fingers to rub the spice mix evenly over the fillets. Heat a large frying pan over high heat. When the pan is spitting hot, cook the fillets in batches pan for a few minutes on each side until you smell nothing but the aroma of the spices released by the heat, and each surface is well charred. Squeeze in some fresh lemon juice and serve hot.

I serve this with a simple side dish of chickpeas.
It needs:
- 2 tbsp olive oil
- 400g tin chickpeas, drained
- Handful of sun dried tomatoes
- 1 tsp each salt and whole cumin seeds
Simply fry the chickpeas in olive oil until soft and well-coated, throw in the sun dried tomatoes and season with the mixture of salt and cumin.
I serve this on four plates.
It's gone in a blink.
And I am satiated.
I breathe, relieved. It's rare for me, this feeling of being satiated.
But I am.
This is the stuff that feeds my soul.

Tomorrow when the sun rises, I will need to find something else to do. Somewhere else to go.

I am a wayfarer.

But for now...
My sea is calm.

Slow-Cooked Lamb

2014-11-25T13:10:00.000-08:00

Hi peeps!

So...it's that time of year when I get down on my hands and knees and rummage around the back of my pan drawer in a frantic bid to retrieve my trusty Le Creuset. My dutch oven, you see, hibernates all summer and only makes an appearance when there's that unmistakeable chill in the air, icicles on window panes, misty street lamps lighting grey skies...

Yup, it's definitely winter o'clock folks - time for mistletoe, jingle bells, and of course - taking comfort in the season's bounty with some warm, hearty winter fare for everyone to gather around and share in true holiday spirit.

Hence, I get down on my hands and knees and successfully retrieve my trusty Le Creuset.
It's a beautiful pot - red enamelled cast iron sitting bejewelled against my black granite counter. I love it. The way it looks, it's sheer weight; and the incredible stuff it cooks.

We're making slow-cooked lamb today - deeply comforting, aromatic, and full of flavour.

Here's what you need:
- 1 kg diced lamb
- 4 large onions, sliced
- 1 head of garlic
- Herbs (I used 2 sprigs each, thyme, rosemary and 3 bay leaves)
- 250ml balsamic vinegar
- 3tbs olive oil

Here's how you do it:
Add the olive oil to the slow cooker or dutch oven and add in the onions. Sit the lamb cubes on top of the onions, then add the balsamic vinegar. Top with herbs. Let cook on low heat for 3 hours.

By the way, in case you're interested - what the oven is doing in those 3 hours - while you do nothing but twiddle your thumbs and use every last reserve of will power to stop yourself from opening the lid and devouring the contents within - is actually slowly braising the lamb in it's own sauce to ensure that the meat's full, immense flavour is drawn out. Brilliant, isn't it?

Now I've had lots of hits and misses with lamb - undercooked, overcooked, burnt (yup that one left me crying for years)...but with the dutch oven, it's hard to go wrong. 6 ingredients, 1 pot. Our meltingly tender lamb dish virtually cooks itself.

And anyway, I'm used to trial and error. I had to kiss lots of frogs, you see, before my pumpkin turned into a golden carriage and I found my Prince. I think I may have just mixed up two very different fairy tales, but you get my point, so it's all good folks, it's all good.

Honestly, get out a glass of red, an old book and sit back on your couch in the warmth of your home. Because nothing is more comforting than a languidly cooked one-pot meal, that simmers away on the back burner, infusing all those different flavours and textures and aromas into one gorgeous dish.

Enjoy x

Vive la France!

2014-11-05T06:26:00.002-08:00

So...
Read enough expert opinion on food and they'll all have you believe that French food is as dead as the fish in your bouillabaisse. Instead, they say, if you want to eat interesting food, go to New York, London, Tokyo, Copenhagen, San Sebastian...

Another trip back to our friendly, baguette-munching neighbours, and I've come to the conclusion that French food is really not.

Dead I mean.
At least for now. And at least in France. Despite all the articles claiming otherwise that keep popping up with such monotonous regularity.

In fact I think I blame New York and London (and other such cities that pride themsleves on being heaving metropolises of culinary sophistication and global gastronomic diversity) for the bad rap that French food has suffered of late. I challenge you to find a French restaurant in all of NYC or London that doesn't cost you your months pay check. For food that makes you wonder if they forget to transfer the rest of your serving from the cooking pot.

I have tried, believe me. Tried and failed. Truly. I have given my custom to several French establishments in London. Not because I'm a glutton for punishment, nor because I'm rich. Ha, trust me, that, I'm certainly not - but because I needed to convince myself, by myself, that this great city cannot, in fact, produce even one half-decent French restaurant. I did. Convince myself I mean. And become a glutton for punishment. Not to mention even less rich than I previously was. Which renders me virtually penniless.

Because after all that trial and error, you see, no matter where you go and how many red M-stars they showcase on their front door, the plate placed in front of you seems consistently to consist of some creative permutation or other of the below-mentioned:

A 2" x 2" cube of canard, sandwiched in between two layers of pastry, served on a crib (because bed would be too large) of pureed potatoes, with a single glazed carrot lying forlornly on one side and a perfectly shaped teardrop of mint-pea jus on the other. Sometimes you're fortuitous enough to deserve a sprig of rosemary scattered artistically across the plate. But only if the chef is feeling particularly generous.

It almost makes one too scared to eat, for fear that it will all be gone in one mouthful and you will be left staring for eternity at an empty plate. Until, that is, you conjure up the will to part with many notes with many zeros on them. That done, you no longer have to stare at your empty plate, because that's the point where you leave.

Then of course all the way home, you are trying (and yes, failing) to ignore the rumbling inside your tummy. And then, when you do get home, in a moment of weakness you give in and call your trusty local Dominoes, who brings in a large pepperoni in 30 minutes or your money back and you pay him in coins because all your real money has been spent on the cube.

This by the way is after waiting about a month to get a booking because everybody else also apparently enjoys spending a great deal of money on a duck-cube.

I mean, what good are stars, chandeliers, or white gloved waiters when you need to go home after eating out and order pizza? In fact, every time I see the word "amuse" and "jus" on a menu I want to go in and slap the chef because it simply means he's not putting anything on my plate.

Then of course is the small matter of the service at these places. Everything you do is wrong. And everything you don't do is wrong. Basically, it's all wrong.
If you order tap water, you are wrong. If you don't order an aperitif you are wrong. If you ask for food suggestions, you are wrong. If you don't ask for wine suggestions, you're still wrong. Not ordering an appetiser is wrong, substituting fries (yes yes the french ones) for vegetables is wrong (or vice versa) and god forbid, if you dare to share your dessert, you are so wrong, you might as well just give up and go home. Or be prepared to endure that look from your waiter - albeit a white gloved one - yes the one that makes you feel like a school girl in pigtails being told off by the headmistress. Or a school boy. In whatever you boys did to your hair, how would I know. Anyway, you get my point. And that's just the thing you see - of the many crimes against gastronomy that I've encountered in my life - putting up with waiters who have perfected the art of treating paying patrons as an annoying inconvenience, is invariably the worst.

So. Yes. There's all this talk of the demise of French food.
Aha, you say.
You nod your head.
Precisement.

However.

I have just returned from sojourns to the land of fashion, love and food, and have to admit that all three - and most definitely the last - are not only very much alive; they are superlative.

Every Auberge kitchen we had the pleasure of dining in left us licking our chops.
Think:
Menus - creative
Portions - plentiful
Service - delightful
Price - affordable.
Win. Win. Win. Win.

Seriously.
And I'm not easy to please. Ask Siddy.

There's much too much to get into if I were to recount our every meal, but I will just one.
Which was one of the nicest meals in the history of ever.

This was a place we happened to walk into, basically because it was there. I mean we were walking by rather aimlessly and it was lunchtime and the place looked busy and bright and smelled great. Which is always a great give away by the way. In times of doubt, trust your nose. Anyway. The place is called L'Hydropathe if you're interested. (No, don't ask me what on earth it means.) (And why it rhymes with "psychopath".) (And yes, even though I'm heaping generous praise on the French for their good food doesn't mean I don't think they are a strange lot with strange names).

Anyway.

We order a plate of "guinea fowl stuffed with dried fruit"
And this is a thing of beauty.
Succulent meat heaving with bits of nutty, crunchy pistachios, and tiny diced pieces of fig. There's no creamy, heavy sauces here - just the natural juices that seep through from cooking the meat. Light, lush and packed with flavour. It is served simply with a handful of salad leaves that are so fresh I feel like they've just been picked from the chef's grandmothers garden.

The plat du jour (which I always, always recommend you get by the way - doesn't matter which restaurant, doesn't matter which part of France because it always emphasises the freshest of seasonal ingredients) is a "filet of perch served with legumes" (i.e vegetables).
The thick, meaty fish is flame grilled until hot and crisp on top, served alongside a cool lick of goat's cheese yogurt. Spankingly fresh. Under the fish sits basil-infused greens - broccoli, beans, courgette and the tiniest, most delicate leaves of Swiss chard that are so intense that I have a small head rush from the combined flavour of it all.
No words.

We didn't do too much dessert. Mostly for fear that if we started, we'd never stop.
And that's really not great for the waistline.
Which I constantly stress about.
I'm vain you see.
With a penchant for good food.
Which is such a tricky combination, sigh.

Anyhow, we did sample a knock-your-socks-off chocolate eclair; the outside surgery and warm, the inside, dark chocolate cream, both rich and delicate. And an apricot tart, all butter baked crusty heaven, the custard a dense sweet velvet. The apricots are astounding...orange circles of expertly caramelised flesh that veritably melt in your mouth. Utterly perfect.

All accompanied by a truly excellent glass of some Bordeaux red I'd never heard of before in my life.

No M-stars, no gilt-edged mirrors, no chandeliers, no white gloved waiters.
Just good food.

Maybe we got lucky.
Who knows.
What I do know is that the next time I'm invited to eat French food, I'm going to make sure it's in France.

That time of mellow fruitfulness

2014-10-21T10:15:00.001-07:00

"Autumn," I say with a sigh, leaning back against my bed, knees scrunched up.

"It's here. That time of mellow fruitfulness, ala Keats..."

"Keats said that?" Sid asks looking up from his computer and peering into mine, "Or did you just make it up?"

"I'm good," I say. "But not that good."

"And stop eavesdropping on my blog."

"Don't you mean, 'leavesdropping" he says cheekily.

I give him an exasperated look and take myself and my computer downstairs.

My kitchen is warm and comforting, blanketed in the silent slumber of dawn.

I snuggle up on the couch and take in the aroma of cinnamon and freshly brewed coffee.

There's a squirrel in my garden, scurrying rapidly into a dishevelled pile of fallen leaves, then running away, then scurrying back again.

My silver birch shimmers in the early October sun.

Yes. Autumn is here.

Red leaves and golden mornings

Cool, crisp air

Misty breaths

Wistfulness

There is a peacefulness to autumn, a newness

I fell in love in the Autumn many years ago.

Mad, crazy, can't-live-wthout-you love.

Even the memory of it fills me with a warm, copper glow.

And yet it is tinged - ever so slightly - with melancholy.

Another year almost gone.

My thoughts drift, thinking of all the years passed

And all that lies beyond.

I am restless suddenly

Like that squirrel in my garden

I get up

And do what I do best.

Here's what you need:

For the fruit:

450g mixed fruit - I used apples, pears, plums, redcurrants and blackberries

Handful cranberries

2 sticks cinnamon

2 tbsp butter

100g sugar

Peeled, toasted almonds

For the custard:

550ml milk

55ml cream

½ tsp vanilla extract

4 egg yolks

30g caster sugar

2 tsp cornflour

Here's how you do it:

For the fruit: Melt the butter in a large skillet over medium heat. Sprinkle sugar over the butter, then place the apple, plum and pear slices in single layer on top. Then sprinkle blackberries and redcurrants. Throw in the cinnamon sticks. Increase heat to medium-high and press down on the fruit until it is all golden on the bottom, about 5 minutes. Turn fruit over and cook until the other side is caramelised, another 5 minutes. Add cranberries and cook until juices are reduced by about half, about 2 minutes.

For the custard: Whisk the yolks, sugar and cornflour together in a bowl until well blended.

Bring the milk and cream to simmering point slowly, over a low heat. Pour the hot milk and cream on to the egg and sugar mixture, whisking to keep the mixture soft and creamy.

Return to the pan, add vanilla extract, and gently stir over a low heat until the custard is thickened to your desired consistency.

Spoon the caramelised fruit into a deep glass bowl, pour the custard on top, sprinkle with almonds.

And dig in.

This is probably the most exciting thing I have done in a long time.

Bar gambling away my life savings in a wild, drunken night of shamshu and poker.

(Just kidding)

No really, there is a particular delight in eating hot fruit and custard.

Especially at 8 in the morning when no one in their right mind is eating pudding.

I feel arms around me and a whisper in my ear.

My spoon gets stolen mid bite.

And I am in love, all over again.

In this time of mellow fruitfulness...

Blueberry Brownies for Ranbir

2014-10-01T09:27:00.000-07:00

Me: Ranbir, today is your last day of 3. Tomorrow you are going to be 4!"

Ranbir: I know that

Me: So how many kissies do I get for your birthday?

Ranbir: 4, because I'm going to be 4

Me: Clever boy!

Ranbir: Yes, and when I'm 12, I'll give you 12 kissies. And when I'm 100, I'll give you 100.

Me: Haha, I don't think I'm going to be here when you're a 100!

Ranbir: Where will you be? Will you be in office?

Me: No my darling, I don't think so!

Ranbir: Then where will you be?

Me: I'll be somewhere in the sky and I'll be smiling down at you.

Ranbir: Will I still be able to see you?

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This is the point when I choked up so hard, I almost crashed the car.
So much for making it till my son is a 100.

Anyway.
To the most beautiful thing I have ever made in my life, this is for you.

Here's what you need:

- 5 ounces milk or dark (whatever you like or both mixed up) chocolate, finely chopped
- 1/4 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
- 6 tablespoons unsalted butter
- 3/4 cup all-purpose flour
- 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour (separately)
- 1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
- 2 large eggs
- 1 cup granulated sugar
- 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
- 1 cup fresh blueberries

Here's how you do it:

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.

In a large saucepan, melt the butter and the chopped chocolate over low heat, whisking occasionally until the mixture is melted and smooth. Sprinkle in the cocoa powder and stir to combine. Remove the pan from the heat and allow to cool.

Add in the vanilla essence, then stir in the sugar and the eggs and beat until light and fluffy, about 5 minutes. Once the batter is even, sprinkle 3/4 cup all-purpose flour and 1/2 teaspoon kosher salt over the surface of the batter. Gently fold the flour into the chocolate batter being careful not to over mix.

In a separate medium bowl, toss together the blueberries with the remaining 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour. Add the blueberry mixture into the brownie batter, being careful to fold the fruit evenly into the batter.

Transfer the batter into a greased baking pan. Spread to even out the top and place in the oven for 30-40 minutes until the brownies are slightly puffed but still moist and gooey and yummy in the middle.

Allow to cool completely, then cut into small squares.

You can sprinkle some blueberries on top of the brownies. Mainly for prettiness.

Which I normally care about.

Just not this time.

In fact, this time, I'm making every attempt to hide the blueberries
Because Ranbir HATES Blueberries And all else that's good on this earth.
Which includes the entire spectrum of fresh fruit and vegetables.
But he's going to eat this.

Just because he made me cry like the baby he once was, doesn't mean I will let him get away with it.
Oh no.
Never.
Not even when he's a 100.

NRI Tamarind-Coconut Paneer

2014-07-23T07:24:00.000-07:00

So the mother in law arrived last week armed with chapatis and a copy of Tarangini.

About time they learn a little about our culture she said good-naturedly.

With just the tiniest hint of a rebuke.

Rightly so, I have to admit. We totally deserve it.

I say "we" because I'm hardly going to singularly shoulder the responsibility of being a failed NRI parent.

Oh no. I'm only one half of a failed NRI parent.

The better half, may I add

Prettier and more virtuous.

Cleverer.

And everything.

Anyway, so Sid and I have moaned about this topic all too often. We realise this is a problem. But it's not for lack of an effort, I promise you, it's not. It's just that all past attempts to impart pearls of wisdom and knowledge about the rights and rituals of the subcontinent are met largely with a blank face and a "pardon?"

(because he's been told by godknowswho that one must say "pardon" and not "what")

That's the 4-year old of course.

The 8-month old only giggles uncontrollably.

The 8-month old you see is in this binary phase, where he finds life either hysterically funny or hysterically tragic.

This, clearly, is hysterically funny territory.

Just to clarify, it's not that Ranbir is not interested. When it comes to India, Ranbir is highly interested in what he is interested in.

For example, when Sid or I are flicking through TV channels and a Hindi movie is on, especially one that involves random crowds of people bashing each other up in the middle of a street, we are required to stop and watch. That, he's thoroughly fascinated by.

Also, to be fair, he knows the major festivals and will don his colourful kurta-pajama and sit and pray and sing the songs and light the sparklers or sprinkle the colours (whatever the occasion necessitates) and have himself a wonderful time.

But getting the substantive stuff across is a losing battle. What's frustrating is that it's met not by a lack of interest, but by amusement.

He - like his brother - thinks it's funny.

Which drives me mad.

I mean people wax eloquent about their kids been tri and quadri lingual. We are barely making bi!

How does a kid who can string together - "Don't panic, mum, I have a brilliant idea to save the world" not get that "idhar aao" accompanied by exaggerated hand gestures, means "come here?"

"If you don't learn Hindi," I say to him, "how will you visit Dadi and Dadaji and Nanu and Didima in India?" These are his favourite people, by the way, grandparents all, who spoil him rotten, ignoring with reckless abandon any and all rules I have audaciously set in place.

"oooooh In-dia!!"

Then.

"I want to go to In-dia, Mama. Can we go to In-dia in an eearoplane?"

"Yes we can," I say, "but you need to learn Hindi first."

The second half of my sentence has been glazed over. Completely.

"I want to go in an eearoplane."

"Can I watch videos on the eearoplane?"

Sigh.

So, while the in laws are away in Germany on holiday, I devise a plan.

See, it's like this: I read to the boys every morning while they have their milk. It's a quiet half-hour we spend together, the three of us, and we cherish this time.

Ranbir gets to pick the book-of-the-day. Yesterday he got "The Highway Rat" by Julia Donaldson and Axel Scheffler. Today I tell him to get "Tarangini" by Swami Chinmayananda and Swamini Saradapriyananda.

My plan: I will read him a story from Tarangini every day the in laws are away so by the time they're back, he'll have known at least five or six of them.

Which fact, he will promptly inform them of, because that's what children do.

And then I'll get to gloat a little.

It's my "brilliant idea to save the world."

Ha.

Tarangini is a collection of eighteen short stories. We decide to start at the very beginning - which as Maria tells us - is a very good place to start.

The first story is titled Lord Ganesha.

I'm genuinely excited about this. I bring a statue of Lord Ganesh I have in my bedroom, and I tell Ranbir that the story we're about to read is all about him - the Elephant God.

Ranbir's excited too.

And the baby seems excited. Well, at least he's not gone all red in the face and bawling like he's got chilli powder in his Huggies. Which, in a binary world, means, he's excited.

So basically - we're all excited.

Three pages later when I come to the bit where "In a fit of rage, Shiva chopped off the boy's head..." my excitement wanes a little and I decide that perhaps this story is best told in a different medium.

I close the book.

Fail.

So, I change tack.

And reach for the iPad. Yep, that brilliant invention, that saviour of all saviours, that commodity as indispensable as disposable nappies - the iPad!

Because, if there is one way to keep things interesting, it is this.

So I go to YouTube and put in "Children's Story Lord Ganesha."

And I get 12,700 hits.

I click on the first one - it's got an image of a cute little kid staring back at me.
And then we wait, the three of us, with bated breath.

The beginning is brilliant, all lovely animation and all, little boy complete with chubby cheeks and dimpled chin, calling out "Mother" in the sweetest little voice; Parvati, embracing him, beaming all around.

We are all as delighted as Parvati.

Minutes later - and really without any warning at all - Shiva chops off the little boy's head. As in, the severed head flies off on a little jolly into the sky. I mean, I know, I know, it's Lord Ganesha's story, of course there's no avoiding the chopped head and all. But I expected a children's version to tone it down a bit you know? Like Disney? No?

At least the book built up nicely to Shiva's fit of rage. Here in the children's video, we go from Shiva coming home to Shiva chopping off heads in like 3 seconds. Very bad.

Now, blood splatters here, there and everywhere.

The baby is gurgling happily at the screen. He still finds the world funny.

But the 4-year old has turned white.

As if he's not Caucasian enough.

When Shiva ends up holding the boys head, duly descended from the sky, in his hands with the headless body of the boy running around him in circles, I lurch forward for the power button.

For a few minutes no one says anything.

Then I get, "Mama, why did that man cut off that little boy's head?

Sigh.

This is why we watch peppa pig.

I put away the iPad.

Fail.

"Let's go to the kitchen" I announce, faking sparkle. "Let's make paneer!"

I lead the way, the baby in my arms.

Reluctantly the 4-year old follows.

I'll be damned if I can't teach the boy Indian culture, I think to myself. One way or another, I shall NOT be outdone. And the best way I know of, is through food. Food is love, people. Food is love.

Here's what you need:

2 tbsp vegetable oil

400g Indian Paneer cheese cut into small cubes

1 pinch asafoetida (hing)

1 tsp mustard seeds

1 tsp cumin seeds

2 cloves of garlic, peeled and crushed

½ inch ginger, shredded thin

2 medium tomatoes, chopped

4 tbsp fresh grated or desiccated coconut

2 tbsp tamarind sauce/paste

1 tbsp brown sugar

Here's how you do it:

Now, if you like, you can first fry the paneer lightly until its brown on all sides. This is definitely the purist way of doing things. But you don't have to. Just don't tell my mother in law :)

Now, heat a bit of oil in a pan and throw in the mustard and cumin seeds all at once. As soon they start to pop add the pinch of hing and the ginger-garlic and fry. Be careful - hing burns fast.

Next, stir in the tomatoes and fry until cooked and soft. Finally, add in the tamarind, sugar and some salt to taste. You might need to add some water, but the desired constituency of the sauce in this dish is on the dry side, so keep it thick. Now, mix in the raw (or fried) paneer and cook till the paneer cubes are properly coated with the sauce. Add in the coconut and mix through.

This is a sublime dish guys - a wonderful example of true home-style Indian cooking - a bit of spice, a bit of sweet, a bit of sour, and a bit of heat. Notice how I haven't used any chills at all. Partly it's because I need my son to eat it, but also because you don't always need to douse Indian food with chilli powder to make it taste good. You get enough spice from the ginger in this dish, the brown sugar tempers it, the tamarind and tomatoes add tartness and the asafoetida harmonises the sweet-salty-sour elements wonderfully. After all, Indian cooking is all about getting that perfect balance of flavours, and this dish just hits home.

"Wah wah wah wah, kya baat hai" says a little voice.

I almost drop the frying pan on my toes.

"Whaaat?? Who taught you that?" I ask, in utter astonishment.

"Papa did."

I have to stop myself from laughing out loud.

Wouldn't have been that funny if I'd lost those toes.

I spoon out some of the Paneer on top of a bowl of steaming hot Basmati and watch, as it quickly disappears.

I hold my breath waiting to hear a "Can I just not have some pasta, mummy?"

But I don't.

Pass.

Heatwave Baguettes

2014-07-19T06:32:00.002-07:00

When did England start getting this hot?
It's fairly impossible to do anything other than lie listlessly in the sun, drinking Lipton peach ice tea.
Which is what all of us having been doing of late.
Yeah, even the 8 month old.
He's been wearing sunglasses and 0+ bathing trunks and lying listlessly in the sun. Drinking not Lipton peach ice tea, I concede, but whatever - you get my drift.

Not that I'm complaining or anything.
I think the news events of the last week means I've given up my right to complain.
Who knew ideology could be so soul destroying?
So we're not complaining.
Nope. We are astonishingly content, baking away in this sweltering 33 degree oven. Life could be worse.

The ony problem of course is that we aren't doing very much else. Which enticing as it seems in theory, can't really go on endlessly. I mean, I wish one could spend forever idling away the days, lying listlessly in the sun, drinking Lipton peach ice tea.
But one can't.
Which is why I decided to get off my backside and post a bit.
Also because I figured I shouldn't be away too long, lest you think I'm having another baby.

I'm not.
Ever.
I've tied my tubes.
(Not really)

Anyway.
Moving on to far more interesting conversation.
Like the weather.
And lunch.

Which go hand in hand
Or hand in glove.
I think those two mean the same thing.
Or not.
I don't know. English is too complicated for me sometimes. Especially these-a-days.
Me no speak no English when England gets-a so hot.
It's a rebellion of sorts.

The point is though, that when it's 33 degrees in this country, it's very, very difficult to make lunch. Because lunch - whatever it constitutes - usually necessitates going indoors, and indoors here is not really equipped to handle 33 degrees. You see, us Brits have long been suspicious of Air conditioners – they seem an unnecessary indulgence somehow, unnatural in a climate more accustomed to umbrella stands and wellies. So we make do with opening windows. Which, sadly, is a rather ineffective strategy when there's no breeze for the open windows to let in. Come December, I will buy four Dyson fans for cheap. Right now, they're too expensive. You see, they know exactly when to make things expensive. It's right when you need them. Like the time to buy real fur coats (if you ever wanted real fur coats that is. I don't, but some people do, so anyway). So as I was saying, the time to buy real fur coats is NOW - in a heatwave. When you virtually want peel your skin off, you don't. You resist that temptation. Instead, you march off to the shops and try on fur coats. Because come winter, when the idea of a fur coat is actually mildly appealing - you can't touch 'em, they're so bloody expensive.
Same with the Dyson's.
They're cheap when you don't need 'em. But now, when I want nothing more than to lay naked on a bed of ice cubes, I can't afford 'em.
Ways of the world.

But I love them, the Dyson fans, utterly brilliant invention. Sometimes when no one's looking I stick my hand in and out, several times, just for fun. It entertains me. Not that Im suggesting you do the same. Seriously folks, for goodness sakes, please don't go trying this with normal fans. You'll lose some of those precious little fingers and really, I'd hate if that happened. I might even cry a little. I'm sensitive like that.

Oh and by the way, when I say I will buy four Dyson fans, I hope you know that four is a very deliberate number. And for those of you who are sitting there thinking, "aha, she means one for each member of her family, cho chweet etc.," I just need to make perfectly clear - you're wrong.
To hell with the others, I want four for me.
So I can sit in the middle, preferably on a soft duvet filled with goosedown, and position each of four Dyson's in the North, South, East and Westerly directions respectively, and bask in their bladeless glory.

Ahhh...
(Pinch me someone)
(Ouch)

Back to a harsher reality filled with duty, responsibility, accountability and all those dirty words, I made these baguettes for Saturday lunch today.
For several reasons:

1) I couldn't be bothered to make anything with even the remotest pretensions to grandeur.
2) I have children and children love them
3) I have a husband and husbands love them
4) I have me and me love them

And if you don't think that's reason enough - here's the kicker.

They're sooooo colourful and pretty.
Awww.
I love pretty.
Pretty makes me wobbly in the knees.
Hee.

So if you don't have much time to shop, prepare or cook, but you do have a cold fridge and fresh ingredients, this is for you!

Here's what you need:

Baguettes

Marinara or pizza sauce

1 clove peeled and garlic

dried basil

oregano

340g Mozzarella cheese, grated

340g Cheddar cheese, grated

Selected toppings: (Any or all)

For the dudes in my house - ham, pepperoni, parma ham, cooked bacon, salami

For the damsels (aka, me) - black and/or green olives, fresh sliced tomatoes, sun dried tomatoes, sliced mushrooms, sliced red onion, roasted peppers, jalapeno peppers or any other edible that your little heart desires.

Here's how you do it:

In a small bowl, mix together the pizza sauce and garlic. Add a couple of shakes of basil and mix well.

Slice each baguette in half lengthwise through the middle. Spread the tomato mixture thinly on to the inside surface of each slice. You can use pesto instead of marinara if you prefer - I live and die by this stuff.

Next, sprinkle both cheeses - as much or as little as you like - top with oregano and a variety of toppings as desired. Pop back into the oven and grill for 5-6 minutes Or if you're living in a virtual oven, like I am at the moment, you might want to dispense with conventional means of cooking and try placing them under the sun.

(That's a joke people, it won't work.)

So yup, you need to pop 'em in the oven until the cheese is melted and bubbling and the toppings are heated through.

Best enjoyed lying listlessly in the sun with a glass of Lipton peach ice tea. Enjoy!

Madras Coconut Shrimp

2014-07-03T13:04:00.002-07:00

Do you know, this is about the tastiest stuff that's ever touched my lips.

And if you think that's quite the plaudit, it is.

But it's true.

So I praise the Lord for giving us coconut

And for giving us shrimp

And for imbuing such genius to the unknown, unnamed vendor on Madras's Marina Beach who first made it for me.

First things first, I call this Madras Coconut Shrimp because it will always be Madras to me.

It might be Chennai to everyone else, but it was never Chennai when I was there as a little girl - just Madras. And so to me, it will only ever be Madras.

So, these prawns are from Madras. And more specifically from Marina Beach - that long, wide stretch of golden sand, extending from St. George's Fort to Santhome, where I used to go for long walks with my dad, just him and me. We'd drive up to the beach, park on the side of the road and walk along the coastline, all the way to the very end, past the Triumph of Labour statue, till the lighthouse stood tall and the land ended.

We would always go at dusk - even a few minutes earlier meant that the heat would be oppressive. So we'd time it perfectly, arriving just as the sun set, painting the sky in vivid shades of purple and pink, and just as we'd start to walk, the sky would turn dark and the first lights of the night would flicker on over the horizon.

I don't think we spoke much on these walks, my dad and I. Or maybe we did and I just can't remember. What I do remember is that he'd always wear his shoes, but I'd always kick mine off and hold them in my hand. I loved the feel of the sand, soft and warmed by the days sun, against my bare feet. So we'd walk and sometimes I would need to run to keep pace with his long strides. Sometimes he would grab my hand and pull me closer when I'd venture too close to the sea. I loved when he did that.

Marina Beach isn't one of those secluded beaches that you stumble upon and decide to spend a couple of hours with a good read and the sound of waves gently kissing the sand.

No chance.

The waters here aren't calm. Here along the Coromandel Coast, the Bay of Bengal crashes angrily into the shoreline creating an undercurrent so powerful that makes it virtually impossible to swim in. And yet, there is something uplifting about it's spirit, something magnificent about it's ferocity.

If I close my eyes, I still hear it, see it - the crash of those waves, the swell of the ocean, the foam-crusted surf.

The beach is not quiet. It's frenetic. Buzzing with an almost infectious energy.

Families picnicking; children wading into the sea, shrieking with excitement; women braving the waves, sarees pulled up to their knees, bright colours billowing in the wind; joggers and walkers in a bid to keep fit; lovers strolling coyly, hand in hand, away from prying eyes; a random womens' beach-aerobic class...

...Yes, in my memory, it is always crowded. But never in a bad way. Perhaps because we'd always walk along the edge of the water, people on one side, the vast expanse of dark ocean on the other. It balanced out.

And where there are crowds, there are crowd-pleasers. And so, there were vendors everywhere. Ice cream man, murukku man, candy floss man, balloon man, all crying out their wares, in that repetitive catchy musical way only street vendors do, their honeyed voices being carried with the wind along the whole stretch of beach.

I was never allowed to eat any of it.

You can't trust the water, don't know where their hands have been, you'll get terribly sick etc. etc.

The only thing I was ever allowed - once in a blue moon when my father was in an especially indulgent mood and only under the condition that I was never ever in a million years to let this slip to my mother - were these coconut prawns. And only because they were cooked in such hot oil, any germs that dared venture near, were probably annihilated on the spot.

And so, wild with excitement, I'd take the money from my dad - a few rupees in coins - and run to the makeshift cart on wheels, shaded by a sunshine-yellow umbrella, illuminated by bare bulbs hanging from strings in a line. And I'd watch the vendor - that unknown, unnamed genius - reach into a pit of marinated prawns and throw them expertly into his sizzling pan. He'd twirl them around in the hot oil for just a couple of minutes, then slide them into a paper cone made from yesterdays newspaper. He'd salt them generously, then ask if I wanted ketchup on top but I wasn't allowed ketchup (fake ketchup, who knows what it really is, how long ago it's been made, dirty hands, dirty bottle etc. etc)

So I'd always shake my head shyly, and hand him the coins in exchange for the cone.

I'd pop those shrimp - golden fried, hot and crunchy - into my mouth, one at a time, savouring each one completely before the next one went in. And by the time we'd walk back to the car, they'd be gone, only the salt gathered in a soft white mound at the bottom of the cone, the black print already blurry from the oil - yesterdays news fading fast.

And so, this is for those memorable moments of your life, because when I pop these into my mouth, it takes me back to the memorable moments of my life.

To the taste of sea salt.

And the sand between my toes.

And the cries of the balloon man carrying with the wind.

Here's what you need:

450g shrimp, peeled and deveined

45g cornflour

4 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce

150g sweetened shredded coconut (dessicated)

2 egg whites

Here's how you do it:

Please note that the Marina Beach version is (very) deep fried. I'm baking my coconut shrimp. Mostly in response to my lovely neighbour who called this morning asking me how I could love food so much and still be "so thin" - This is why: I cheat.

So here we go:

Preheat oven to 200C

Rinse shrimp thoroughly under running water and pat dry.

Mix the shredded coconut with cornflour, salt and Worcestershire sauce. Beat egg whites until light and frothy. Working with one shrimp at a time, dip the shrimp in egg whites and then coat with coconut mixture. I like to do this again, just to form a double coating. Now place shrimp in the oven and bake for 15-20 minutes until the prawns are cooked through and the coconut coating is crispy-brown and aromatic.

If you want to deep fry instead, I'm never going to stop you! Just heat some vegetable oil in a deep skillet, and when you've coated the shrimp as above, work in batches and fry about 2-3 minutes until golden brown and crispy. Enjoy!

Strawberry Cake for the not-pregnant, pregnant.

2014-07-01T12:18:00.001-07:00

Before you read one more word, here's a disclaimer:

This post is a complete cop-out

In fact it's the grand daddy of cop-outs

There's so much cheating going on here that the only reason I'm not totally embarrassed by it all is because I'm admitting it so openly.

So YOU my lovelies can choose not to proceed if you like. Or if you don't like. Whatever, it's not on my head anymore, phew.

So here's the thing. I wrote this post at this exact time exactly 2 years ago.

That was when I was 2 years post-partum and looked it.

Now, I am 7 months post-partum and look about 4 months pregnant.

Which blows.

No?

Anyway, in the good old days, we made my delicious strawberry crumble -which I urged you to eat with cream. And still urge you to eat with cream, because damn, that stuff makes me go all soft in the knees.

But now, see, I can't do it.

I can't.

I simply cannot get myself to eat a bowlful of cream. With or without strawberries.

Because I'm not-pregnant, pregnant, and that's just not stylish.

And one simply must try to be stylish in the summer.

But this is the thing about England in the summer and Wimbledon and so on.

Stylish or not, one cannot get by without strawberries and cream.

Nor should one, for that matter.

Because strawberries are a total treat - sweet, juicy and fragrant - they really do encapsulate the very Best of British.

And golly, are the British absolutely mad about their strawberries and cream or what?

So, yesterday for example, while we were at the revered Temple of Tennis and Andy Murray was quite excellently defeating Kevin Anderson, I noticed - in between exercising my neck muscles in that very particular way one only ever does when watching tennis - that everybody, and I really do mean everybody, was scoffing their way through large bowls of the said strawberries and cream, with so much passion, it was hard not to smile.

And give in.

Well, almost give in.

Like sooooo almost give in, you won't believe it.

I even joined the queue. And it was a very long queue it was. So there I was, in it. First at the back, and then at the front, and then suddenly - kind of before I was expecting it - it was my turn. And I thought of my not-pregnant, pregnant tummy and I copped-out. Big time. I sort of mumbled an apology to the nice girl at the counter and to Sid's ultimate horror, I turned on my back and ran.

Yes, yes, yes, I'm a such a sad loser.

Sigh.

So I came back to my seat with my tail between my legs, and pretended not to listen to the old "can't take you anywhere in public" from hubby dear, which is something I've been hearing so much of lately and makes me wonder why... hmm.

Anyway, so there I was back at Centre Court, and you see, some things never do change. Because there was Mr. Murray still doing his funny serve-whoop and continuing to quite excellently defeat Mr. Anderson and there was still everybody eating bowls of strawberries and cream.

Yes, yes everybody but me.

I know I know I know

It was hard.

I just fell in my own eyes.

Did you see me on TV by the way? I was in a little yellow dress. My mum claims she saw me on TV a lot. But it's my mum, what would she say? She also claimed it was because the camera-man liked me. I told her it was most likely because I was the only person not eating strawberries and cream.

Anyway.

So then of course I spent the better part of the Novak match (I love Novak, don't you) thinking how I could redeem myself. Like a little bit.

And while Novak was playing some quite brilliant tennis, I was singing a little Tsonga.

Because in my head I came up with this cake and then I came home and made it.

All in all, it can't be called anything other than a guilt-driven experiment in how not to feel guilty. Which is all very confusing but I know you're with me.

You're always with me.

That's why I love you so much. Muah.

So.

This is an absolute cop-out as I warned you

Because if you're expecting it to taste anything like strawberries and cream, well then it doesn't.

Which is good because then I wouldn't be needing to write this post at all really.

Because if I was telling you how to add cream to strawberries, then life must be very boring indeed. Which I'm happy to report, isn't quite so, yet.

Right, so this isn't meant to sub for strawberries and cream.

Mainy because one needs cream for something to taste like cream.

But it's not bad. I promise it's not.

It's actually - for how little of the naughty stuff it needs - pretty darn good.

Which makes me feel like a rather clever loser.

Which is infinitely better than being just a loser.

And, and, and - it's pink!

See, if and only if you belong to a 3-boy household, do you realise the true essence of pink.

See - pink, in my household - is pretty much banned.

As in I get the tilting eyebrows and the rolling eyes and the "youcan'tbeserious" faces. And sometimes the outright "Pink is for girls"

To which I say, "but I am a girl"

And I get, without batting an eyelid - "No, you're not"

Which is just peachy.

Because not only am I not-pregnant, pregnant, but I'm not even female.

Sigh.

Seriously, I'm sooooo jealous of you ladies with little girls who have entire rooms in pink.

The most I can get away with is pink cake. Which as you can tell gets me all giddy.

Here's what you need:

24 oz of the very best ripest strawberries you can find for that rich, vibrant colour

1/2 cup milk,

4 eggs

2 tsp vanilla extract

2 1/4 cup cake flour, sifted

1 3/4 cup sugar

4 tsp baking powder

1 tsp salt

1 stick unsalted butter

Here's how you do it:

Hull and roughly chop the strawberries, and let sit for an hour or so until nice and juicy. Add 1/4 cup water and then simmer in a small sauce pan for about 15 minutes, until the berries are very soft.

Now strain the juice out with a spatula or spoon - really scrape and press the strawberries through the strainer until all of the juice is in the bowl and you’re only left with the juiceless pulp. Throw away the pulp and transfer the juice back to the sauce pan. Reduce the liquid down to 1/2 cup and cool.

Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 350 degrees and grease a large pan.

In a small bowl, combine the wet ingredients - puree, milk, egg, vanilla and mix until well blended.

In another bowl, combine the dry ingredients - sifted flour, sugar, baking powder and salt. Beat the mixture at slow speed and add butter. Mix until combined and the mixture looks crumbly.

Now mix together wet and dry ingredients and beat for 2-3 minutes until all creamy and lovely. Pour the batter into the greased pan and bake for about half an hour or until a toothpick inserted in the centre comes out nice and clean. Let rest, cool. And Enjoy. Guilt-free :)

Fig and Orange Jam

2014-06-23T06:03:00.003-07:00

Yesterday was one of those days that made me glad to be alive.
Nothing extraordinary happened.
In fact nothing happened at all.

And yet, it was one of those moments that creep up on you suddenly, when you know, in a heartbeat, that you are where you are supposed to be.

And it seems to me, that finally, I'm here. Where I'm supposed to be.

I had recently heard about a new local farmshop - one of those off the beaten path, family-owned-family-run gems one hears about occasionally, from here and there, and usually does nothing about, save reminisce for some seconds about how nice it all sounds. And then life takes over. As usual.

But yesterday being one of those so-rare Sundays without a plan, we decide to actually try and find it.

So we get in the car, windows down, sun on my bare arms, wind in my hair, Hotel California playing on a loop and sure enough, a long, lazy drive through winding country roads later - we are there.

And I marvel to myself how wonderful and how most-unusual it is when the journey is as enjoyable as the destination hopes to be.

The entrance to Fernygrove Farms is marked by a little blackboard sitting on an obscure turning, off the "main" road. Had we not been on the lookout for it, we'd have, without doubt, missed it. The signage - handwritten chalk on board - promises a "coffee shop with a view!"

We bite.

We turn into a dirt road that seems to lead to nowhere, and finally arrive at a little parking lot. There are three cars parked, we're the fourth. I already love it. We park beside a white van, sliding doors open, gorgeous golden lab sitting inside, wagging it's tail, waiting patiently for its owner to return. And I feel like I'm in a book.

Fernygrove Farms is an unassuming a series of converted barnyards. One houses a butchery and farm shop, the other is the coffee shop, which we enter, lift up our heads...

...And let out a collective gasp.

"Wow" says my 3 yr old, eyes bright with wonder
"Coo" says my 7 month old, right in my ear
Sid slides his hand in mine, and I squeeze a little harder
I love moments like this.

Because in front of us is a sight that I have trouble believing still exists. It extends, for as far as the eye can see, this English countryside of the books and the movies - that patchwork quilt of green fields, those grasses waving in the summer breeze, that sunny, bucolic utopia where skylarks sing and wild roses bloom. And us. In the middle of it all.

There's so much green, my eyes hurt a little. This is therapeutic you see, what with staring at concrete for so many years. Too many years.

Inside is airy and light. Standing fans help dissipate the still heat.
The radio plays Snow Patrol:
"If I lay here. If I just lay here. Would you lie with me and just forget the world.
Forget what we're told. Before we get too old. Show me a garden that's bursting with life."

There's a girl with a smile and another blackboard, chalked with the same hand as the one outside. The menu is limited - fresh farm produce - eggs, ham, cheese, tomatoes.
I have a ham sandwich on flatbread that's slathered with something that blows my mind. I ask what it is and the smiley girl says it's a fig and orange chutney - "all grown on the farm," she tells me proudly "there's some of each in the farm shop!"

So off I go to the farm shop, buy what I need and then I come home and experiment before the memory fades.

Here's what you need:

1-3/4 cups water
1 cup honey or 200g sugar (or more or less, your sweet tooth, you decide!)
4 oranges
14 ounces dried figs, coarsely chopped
1/4 cup orange liqueur

Here's how you do it:

Wash the figs and trim the end stalks. Quarter them and place them in a large stock pot. Moving on the the oranges, grate the rind and save it - we'll be using the zest. Cut away the white pith and then segment the oranges.

Heat the figs with 1/4 cup water just to get them started. Cook the figs on medium-low until they start to break down, stirring and smashing them with the back of a wooden spoon to help break them down further. They will start to thicken. Now add the honey, oranges, and zest, and liqueur and stir to combine. I use Grand Marnier...but listen, this is optional really, Im adding it only because The Closet Gourmand once told me that dessert without alcohol is rubbish and since The Closet Gourmand is the best chef I know, I just shut up and listen. But you don't have to.

Anyway, keep stirring so that the mixture won’t burn on the bottom. Since you are working with honey and not sugar, the tendency to stick and/or burn might be a little higher than usual. Cook the jam to your desired consistency; the longer you cook the mixture, the thicker it will be.

Figs and oranges that's all this is, but the flavour of their union make me shake my head in disbelief.
This is incredible stuff.

I treat myself.
I spread a little brie - salty and rich and creamy - on a cracker and slather my chutney on top.
And I realise I don't need to worry about my memory fading.
This sort of stuff stays on in a place where no one can take it from me.

Chickpea and Lentil PatTEAs

2014-06-19T11:10:00.000-07:00

Isn't it an absolute giggle how certain words take on an entirely new meaning once children happen.

Take TEA for example.

Not sure why that's in CAPS, but now that I've done it, it can stay that way.

Although it took me longer to type out the above totally useless sentence (not to mention this one) than it would have to erase and re-type tea in its grammatically correct avatar, but oh well. My fingers sorta do their own thing sometimes. Freaky, I know.

Anyway, we were discussing tea. Or TEA. Whichever you like, my dahlings.

So in the pre-kid era (I just love that phrase "pre-kid era" by the way. It's got an out-of-wordly charm to it. You know, like the pre-historic era. Which it may well be, really, given how long ago it all seems.)

But anyway, in the pre-kid era, tea to me was tea. As in the drink.

A nice hot steaming cuppa Darjeeling brewing in a fat round teapot. Preferably a white one. Don't ask why. One doesn't ask silly questions.

So yes, tea meant tea. And tea time meant, sitting on the sofa, garden door open, shoes kicked off, legs tucked under, with a good book, teapot (yes the white one) having done it's job, sipping delicately on the freshly brewed Darjeeling.

And NOW?

(that's fully intentional CAPS usage, in case you're wondering)

NOW. Hmph.

I shudder as I type. Which makes for tricky tpygni.

(hee)

See, NOW, when one says "TEA" in my world, it means something entirely different.

Which is kind of a dramatic understatement on my part.

Because compared to the above described scenario, we could well be on different planets.

Because, now, tea means a whole host (I don't count, it scares me) of grimy nearly-4-year old boys stomping into my house from the garden after playing whatever sport they happen to be playing on any given day.

Frankly, I never really know what they're playing. Looks all the same to my untrained eye, because really all they seem to be doing is climbing on top of each other. And a few chaps seem to get properly pounded while they're at it. Oh and there's always a ball involved. And sometimes some bats or racquets. But sometimes not. Truth be told, I'm amazed the lot of them manage to disentangle themselves in one piece. Seriously. I have actually stopped watching them because my heart stops a little too much, a little too often when I do, and really - that can't be good for you.

The only civilised thing in the whole shebang is the fact that they take turns to get pounded. Seems (interestingly) in this rather strange game that everyone's clamouring to get pounded. As in, the goal is to get pounded like a mutton chop. I once asked my son the rules of the game and he gave me a rather pained "like, really, how can you not get this" look and then proceeded to say "I don't know"

So I left it at that.

Still, the important thing (and one that makes my heart swell with so much pride, it's practically a balloon inside my chest) is that these guys take turns. Gentlemens' code of conduct. Or something.

Anyway, so after the above-described activities which happen quite routinely in my garden conclude,

they all traipse in, demanding tea.

But you know of course that they don't really want tea

As in my notion of tea.

This lot aren't even allowed tea.

Unsurprisingly I might add. Add caffeine to their already overstimulated nearly-4-year systems and they might all just explode with excitement.

Which might be quite fun, except I dare not try it.

So, no.

The tea they want is food.

And enough to feed a small city

How these kids have this much tummy capacity in their entire 24 inch frames is beyond me

But as you know by now, much of what they do is beyond me

I just stand and watch in dumb amazement most of the time

Which I find is really very helpful

Right, so mostly because I got rather bored, rather quickly, of making cucumber sandwiches or cheese sandwiches or cheese and cucumber sandwiches, I started exploring a few marginally more exciting options.

And NOW I can boast that TEA is part of my repertoire

Ha.

For e.g. I refer to these chickpea and lentil patties

Or PatTEAs

yes yes thats where I was going all along, very clever of me I know, thank you

Here's what you need:

200g can chickpeas, rinsed, drained

200g can red lentils, rinsed, drained

1 medium onion, chopped

3 garlic cloves, finely grated

50g raw cashew nuts

½ bunch coriander, chopped

2 tbsp curry powder

2 tbsp ground cumin

2 tbsp ground coriander

2 eggs, lightly beaten (optional)

50g chickpea flour

Here's how you do it:

Combine 2 cups water, chickpeas and lentils with some salt in a saucepan and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to low and simmer until the lentils are tender and falling apart, about 10-15 minutes. Drain in a colander, and let cool to room temperature

Meanwhile, toast cashews in a small dry skillet over low heat, stirring, until golden and fragrant. Chop them as finely as possible.

Finally, heat 2 teaspoons oil in a skillet. Add onion and cook, stirring, until softened, and translucent. Keep aside.

When all of the above has cooled, mix all the ingredients together and shape into patties - its time to cook!

Preheat the oven to 180C.

Heat 2 tbsp oil in the pan. Fry the burgers for 2 minutes on each side, then cook in the oven for 10 minutes, or until warmed through.

These are SO, SO good for you, you know. Chickpeas and lentils are packed with good carb and protein - just the kind of health enhancing, life lengthening stuff one feels obliged to feed children. Fresh coriander adds both aroma and flavour, while the spices lend a subtle kick of flavour to it all. I've borrowed inspiration from Mark Hix, who adds cashews to his potato patties and its a frankly brilliant touch - it adds a smooth, creamy "meatiness" to the patties that is just delish and really just brings it all together for me.

As an accompaniment, I use toasted pittas and a raita/yogurt sauce that is cooling and refreshing, the perfect foil for our piping-hot-off-the-pan patties.

Here's what you need for it - just mix it all together!!

100g Greek yoghurt

2 tbsp tahini paste

2 tsp maple syrup

Juice and zest of 1 lemon

¼ tsp chilli powder

My troupe of dirty, muddy, sweaty, grimy - and eternally adorable - boys seem to love their patties - hope you do too! x

An Ode to Writing. And to Salmon. But Mostly to Writing.

2014-06-18T11:54:00.001-07:00

This is much harder than I ever imagined it would be - this picking up where we dropped off business.
Especially in light of the fact that Sid and I talk about it a few months ago...

In sort of comes out of the blue you know, although I have been expecting it for a while, somewhere in the hidden recesses of my mind. But still, it surprises me. Maybe because I want it to. It makes hearing it easier somehow.

"When are you going to start writing again?" he asks casually.
But I know he's anything but. There's almost a rebuke in there somewhere, I know him well enough to hear it.
I turn to face him, look straight into his almond eyes.
"I don't know...I need to get back into it...it takes a lot of effort you know" I say defensively. "Writing is hard. Good writing is hard anyway"
"No it's not - he says - not for you. For you, it comes easy"

And while I dismiss him on the face of it, like we all do when a compliment is flung our way - one that somehow obliges one to act on it - inside, I believe him. Mostly because I want to.
You see because my love affair with words is stronger than any association I've had with almost anything else in my life.
And so I think maybe, just maybe, he is right.
That Writing will come back to me.
And we will be, once again, good friends.
Pick up where we dropped off.

But no.
It doesn't.
It's peeved at me like a churlish lover who's been ignored too long.
My excuses (particularly trying pregnancy? new baby? moving cities? new home, new life, new everything???) fall on deaf ears.
Unrequited love folks. It's hard.

So Writing spurns me and I spend many long hours in front of a blank screen, cursor blinking patiently, trying to conjure up something worth reading.
But I can't.
I try.
And I fail. And I fail. And I fail.

And so eventually, I realise I'm on my own.
And I grit my teeth and carry on.
I write.
Mostly rubbish.
And I want to give up several times.
But I cannot.
Im not the giving up type you see.

And so we come to today.
And I write. And it's still partly rubbish. Which is better than mostly rubbish.
So I decide to give it a go.

So here we are again. You and Me. And Food. And Words.
All that I love and always will.

Be kind to me, my friends, with these first few posts...
Be patient.
Because Writing and I need to become friends again.
And that may be a while yet.
And when we do, I'll let you know.
Or perhaps you'll let me know.

So:

I made this one for lunch today, and it simply had to be shared. Try it and you'll see why.

Heres what you need:

For the Rice
1 cup basmati rice
1 cup coconut milk
1 cube stock
salt to taste

For the Salmon
400g boneless salmon fillets
1 tbsp. vegetable oil
1 tbsp. fresh lemon juice
1 tbsp soy sauce
2 small red chillies, finely chopped
2 tbsp. honey
1/4 cup orange juice
2 cloves crushed garlic
3 tbsp. fresh ginger, chopped finely

Heres how you do it:

Heat the oil in a medium saucepan. Add the garlic, ginger, and red chilli and stir over low heat for a few minutes. Add the orange juice and stir until the sauce reduces by about half. Add the lemon juice, soy sauce and honey and cook until you see the glaze thicken. Remove from heat.

Preheat the grill.

Cut the salmon fillets into chunky cubes. Rub the glaze into the salmon chunks and marinate by
leaving covered for about 20 minutes. Place under the grill for a few minutes until the glaze is sticky and yummy and caramelized and the fish is cooked through.

Meanwhile, wash the rice in cold running water until the water runs clear and drain off. Combine the stock, coconut milk, and salt in a large heavy saucepan over medium-high heat and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat to low. Add the rice and stir. Cover the pan and simmer over low heat, until all the water has been absorbed and the the rice is fluffy.

Transfer rice to a plate, spoon the salmon and glaze on top and there you have it. This is classic lunchtime fare folks - light and luscious, tasty and delicious and positively bursting with Omega-3 goodness. Just the thing when you're stuck in that moment between somewhat hungry and not hungry enough.

Which is me now, so I'm off - but see you very soon.

Because here we are again. You and Me. And Food. And Words.
All that I love and always will.

An Ode to Writing
And to Salmon
But Mostly to Writing
(Lest it gets peeved again)