Roast Simmer & Bake

Old Fashioned Desserts II - Passionfruit Delight

2020-05-22T07:22:00.000-07:00

Back with another old favourite this week, but with a twist - this is a variation on a lovely, simple dessert, the Lemon Delight. I've always been a huge fan of passionfruit, and so I am beyond thrilled that our passionfruit vine is, in a word, THRIVING. We have been treated to an inflorescence of glorious, white and purple passionfruit flowers which last a day or so, then transform into almost perfectly spherical globes of light green fruit. Under the hot Colombo sun, they have been growing slowly but surely, changing from jade to chartreuse and finally to golden yellow, and a few days ago, we picked the first few fruit. Such a thrill! It seemed only fitting to use them to up the ante on one of my favourite desserts.

The recipe I use is from the Ceylon Daily News Cookery Book, which, despite being organised in somewhat quaint categories (such as Invalid & Convalescent Cookery, Hors-d'Oeuvres, Short Eats to name a few), is still a formidable repository of dishes from Sri Lanka, including those influenced by its colonial past. This pudding originated in England but is also a classic in Australia and New Zealand - in those countries it has a slightly different name - Lemon Delicious - but it is the same pudding. When I say "old", I do mean "OLD" - Wikipedia tells me that similar recipes have been found in cook books from the 17th century!

This is one of those simple, wholesome puddings - no fancy ingredients, no time-consuming, fiddly method - that nevertheless manages to be something far more special than the sum of its parts. Butter, sugar, milk, a mere couple of spoons of flour, eggs, lime rind and juice and that's it. Who would have thought that these humble ingredients, when left to their own devices in the oven, would transform into a light, luscious, pudding which, if not exactly sophisticated, is still pretty special.

I made this with passionfruit juice - slightly reducing the lemon juice and mixing in some passionfruit pulp - and it was divine. As with the Lemon Delight, as the pudding baked, it separated into two distinct layers - a light and airy top, reminiscent of a soufflé, and a rich, passionfruit-curd like sauce, which pooled underneath. The combination of the two make for the most wonderfully satisfying dessert. It is a perfect way to end those meals which leave you full, but wanting something light and sweet to draw a line under it, so to speak.

Old Fashioned Desserts I - Chocolate Meringue Gateau

2020-05-11T05:18:00.000-07:00

I've wanted to do a series of posts on old fashioned desserts for a long time. These are the desserts of my childhood, the sweet dishes I grew up with, the puddings that firmly established my sweet tooth (or, more accurately, teeth). These are the recipes turned out by my grandmother - a consummate cook and formidable hostess, she was the first person to introduce me to really great food and to the art of cooking. I would spend hours cooking with her while her ancient Kenwood mixer churned some concoction, its sound thundering in my ears and reverberating through the kitchen. She taught me the difference between beating and folding, how to separate eggs, how to weigh out ingredients accurately using those old fashioned scales which require one to balance ingredients with weights and the importance of patience in the kitchen.

This chocolate meringue gateau is actually not one of my grandmother's recipes, but for me (and, I suspect, for many of my Sri Lankan friends), this is one of those desserts that evoke a sense of nostalgia for the carefree days of our childhood, and the familiar comfort of home-cooked meals at our grandparents' homes. Even the name is deliciously old-fashioned, harking back to a time when every dessert was a "gateau", "pudding" or "torte". Despite its name, this is not a complicated dessert - it is comprised, simply, of layers of crisp meringue and moussey chocolate cream topped with the obligatory chopped cashew nuts creating the perfect balance of textures. Of course, the chocolate meringue gateau has not yet been relegated to the realms of memory - it is still available freely in Colombo in the form of Mrs G's towering block or The Cake Factory's more modern, deconstructed version. I love them both, which is why I've never made my own, but here we are under lockdown for 8 weeks and counting, and it seemed as good a time as any to give it a try.

My main complaint with the chocolate meringues available for purchase is that the meringue tends to be too sweet, dry and crumbly. The chocolate mousse is rich, so an overly sweet meringue takes it over the top, even for a die-hard chocolate meringue devotee like me. For my home-made version, I used my foolproof meringue recipe, baked in flat layers until crisp and dry. I used the same chocolate filling as my chocolate biscuit pudding recipe to sandwich the meringue layers et voila - Chocolate meringue gateau!

This turned out beautifully, but I found that my meringue layers softened over time - the pudding was still delicious but, after the first day, lacked the textural contrasts of the original. I'll need to do some tinkering with the meringue for next time, to achieve a balance between a meringue that will hold its crunch for a couple of days and one that is not too sweet. An encouraging start!

Lemon Curd Ice Cream

2020-05-02T05:07:00.000-07:00

Another unforgivably long pause between posts on the blog. Again, no particular reason other than life, which is full to overflowing these days. Juggling work, spending quality time with the children, fitting in a daily work out, recovering from sinus problems and two chronic injuries, seeing our friends – I have so many balls in the air, I suppose it was inevitable that I would have to drop one or two. I’ve been cooking of course, but it has taken this drastic change to our way of life, brought on by a global pandemic, to allow me to slow down, to experiment, to create again in the kitchen.

The subject of this post pays homage to that process of creation that I don’t always have the time or courage for. I’m good at choosing a great recipe, following it, tweaking here and adjusting there to elevate it… but I’m still pretty nervous about creating my own. Fear of failure, coupled with limited time (and often ingredients) always holds me back. It is ironic that I am choosing this time, when we are in lockdown in our homes with limited access to ingredients, to try new things. But if this period of house arrest has taught me anything, it is that life is short, we have so much freedom in how we choose to live… and if we waste any opportunity, it may not come to us again.

And now that the philosophising is out of my system… lemon curd ice cream is something I have wanted to make for as long as I can remember. I have a serious penchant for lemon curd and always have a jar in my fridge. I love it slathered on hot, buttered toast, swirled through creamy, Greek yoghurt, sandwiched between layers of simple butter sponge cake, or drizzled over meringue with a generous dollop of whipped cream. It is so versatile, so down right delicious – sweet but not overly so, tangy, silkily smooth, and that colour – just looking at it makes me happy.

The world is too full of lemon sorbets. Lemon ice cream is pretty difficult to come by, though I have tried (both tasting and making) a few. I wanted to create something altogether different from the really astringent, citrusy flavour of lemon sorbet. I basically wanted lemon curd in ice cream form – something that had its rich, full-bodied flavour, something both lemony and luscious.

I started with a recipe from Caroline and Robin Weir’s amazing compendium of ice cream recipes. It’s the only place I’ve really come across a properly structured recipe for lemon curd ice cream, and with Heston Blumenthal’s stamp of approval, I figured it was as an auspicious place to start as any. This recipe used whipped cream, Greek yoghurt, lemon curd and lemon zest. The result was refreshing – creamy, with a hint of iciness for textural interest and a nice lemon flavour. Not overly sweet, it was a lovely ice cream for a post-lunch dessert on a hot day. I felt though, that it didn’t bring out the flavour of the lemon curd enough (easily fixed with a drizzle of lemon curd on top) and it didn’t have the richness and depth of flavour that I was looking for.

For take two, I decided to try a basic vanilla ice cream base instead of Greek yoghurt, combined with whipped cream and lemon curd. I used the recipe for a standard French vanilla ice cream from Caroline and Robin Weir’s book and upped the quantity of lemon curd to bring out its flavour. This had more of the flavour I was looking for. Replacing the yoghurt with a custard base brought the rich creaminess I was after and the increase in quantity of lemon curd worked well. Personally, the French vanilla was a little too sweet for my liking, but went down well with the rest of the family.

I’ve still not quite landed on the ice cream of my day dreams, but think I know how to get there – third time lucky, so they say!

Tomato Chutney

2018-10-14T22:28:00.000-07:00

It has been so long since my last post, it is nothing short of ridiculous. I've been feeling terribly lost without my familiar, weekly routine of mulling over what to cook, poring over cookbooks and experimenting in the kitchen, then sitting down to write about the whole experience. I don’t have much to show for the hiatus other than some late nights due to work assignments falling due at the same time plus the general chaos of life with two littles.

Anyway, this is a post I’ve been meaning to put up for some time because the subject is something that has become a staple condiment in my home. My mother-in-law’s amazing tomato chutney is bursting with flavour – sweet, tangy, sometimes fiery and the most gloriously rich, dark, garnet hue imaginable. It is so good that I cannot contemplate a meal of rice and curry without it. And I always, ALWAYS make sure that I have a stash of jars glinting promisingly in the depths of my pantry cupboard, so that I never have to face the bleakness of lunch time sans chutney. You might be forgiven for thinking that nothing can live up to such effusive hyperbole… oh, but does this ever.

This chutney is relatively easy to make. I make sure to select the reddest, plumpest tomatoes, smooth-skinned and without blemish and perfectly ripe for this chutney. They get scalded and skinned, chopped and tossed into a large saucepan and cooked with vinegar and sugar plus garlic, ginger and chilli. That such simple ingredients can, when left to their own devices to perform their own alchemy, produce something so delicious is always astounding and immeasurably satisfying.

While, for me, this chutney is a must-have accompaniment for the traditional Sri Lankan rice and curry, but its uses are, by no means, limited to such fare. It is divine swirled through hummus, slathered on a burger, with a hearty meal of bangers and mash or even with shards of sharp cheddar with crackers for a spicy alternative to the traditional fruit paste. It's sweet and tangy flavour enhances all manner of dishes from all types of cuisine, which is the reason it has become the hero condiment in my pantry.

Thank You!

2018-09-17T09:32:00.001-07:00

Dear all

A belated note to say a heartfelt thank you for visiting our pop-up stall at the Ladies’ College Route 66 Carnival last Saturday.

We have sold out of all but one or two items!! We are simply blown away by the interest in our products. Thank you so much for your support!

We are working on additions to our product list and look forward to sharing it with you all in the coming weeks, in readiness for orders in late October. Please do drop us a line at: roastsimmerandbake@gmail.com if you would be interested in hearing from us when we produce new batches of delicious, home-made goodies.

TODAY at the Pop Up - the LC Mess!

2018-09-07T17:57:00.000-07:00

It's finally time to reveal our surprise dessert action station... THE LC MESS!

A new twist on a classic, this beautiful dessert features a muddle of crispy, crumbled meringue which gives way to a perfect marshmallowy centre, melding into softly whipped cream. Punctuated with the tart, sweetness of fresh strawberries and drizzled with a lovely raspberry purée, this is heaven in a bowl. With just the right amount of sweetness, playing against the sharpness of the fruit elements, we can't think of anything more refreshing on a hot and sunny afternoon.

Not only does it taste sublime, it looks drop-dead gorgeous. Can you see those colours? What could be more appropriate for a Ladies' College carnival than a dessert which so beautifully showcases the school colours?

Trust us, you will ~~want~~need this after all that walking on 'Route 66'. Come, get your fix at Stall 19 at the Ladies' College Route 66 Carnival. We've been baking for days, but numbers are limited. Don't miss out!

Granola Two Ways

2018-09-05T20:43:00.001-07:00

Look what we made yesterday!

Our gorgeous golden cranberry and almond granola and decadent dark chocolate orange granola are packed and ready to go!

We are firing on all cylinders, preparing for our pop-up stall this Saturday. Our kitchens are a mess, and we are covered in sugar, honey and chocolate but we couldn’t be happier or more excited!!!

Please drop by the Ladies’ College Route 66 Carnival this Saturday and visit us at Stall 19!

Click here for our product list.

Tickets (Rs 1,000/-) are available Monday 3 September 2018 to Friday 7 September 2018 from the LC OGA Secretariat from 9:00 a.m. to 1:00 p.m. and also from the School Foyer from 8:30 a.m. to 2:00 p.m. A limited number of tickets will also be available at the gates.

Pop-up Stall!

2018-09-03T18:49:00.001-07:00

Friends!

We have some exciting news - Roast, Simmer & Bake is launching a range of 'artisanal edibles'! We will be having a pop-up stall at the Route 66 Carnival organised by the Ladies' College Old Girls' Association on 8 September 2018.

I'm teaming up with my fabulous mother-in-law, Shamo Wijewardane, to produce a range of hand-crafted jams, chutneys, granolas, tea loaves, cookies and more! All our products are made with love and care from premium local Sri Lankan and imported ingredients. This means we steer clear of preservatives and other artificial nasties. Our products all have that gorgeous, hard-to-resist, home-made taste that you just won't get from mass produced products.

In addition, we will be running an action station dedicated solely to a surprise dessert... oooh, we've piqued your curiosity now! Details will be revealed in the coming week... because we like to tease...

Come say hello and have a look at or (better yet), a taste of our delectable goodies.

Click here for our product list.

Roasted Butternut Pumpkin and Parsley Salad

2018-09-02T20:22:00.000-07:00

Sometimes all I want to eat is a simple, nutritious, comforting meal, with minimal effort, and packed with flavour. This roasted butternut and parsley salad hits the spot and always leaves me feeling satisfied, content and convinced that all is well with the world. It is so easy to whip up, that I made it for dinner yesterday, in the midst of cooking four different things for Roast, Simmer & Bake's new pop-up stall, in a kitchen that looked as if a tropical cyclone had torn through it.

This salad only has five ingredients, including the dressing so there's really no excuse not to make it when you want a nourishing, comforting meal in a matter of a few minutes. The recipe, if you can call it that, is simply a list of ingredients so you can play with the quantities according to taste. The longest you'll wait is the time it takes the butternut to roast in the oven, but this is when you get on with prepping the other ingredients. I could eat this by the bowlful on its own, but last night, I coated some chicken tenderloins in a vaguely Moroccan spice mix to go with the salad, and it turned out to be the perfect meal.

A relatively quick blast in a very hot oven caramelises the surface of the butternut, deepening its already brilliant colour into a vivid, volcanic orange and gloriously intensifies its sweetness - for me, it's the best way to cook this gorgeous root vegetable. Flat-leaf parsley adds a fresh and herbaceous note, while a crumble of feta brings a sharp saltiness and a sprinkling of crunchy pepitas adds textural interest. The salad is finished off with a drizzle of balsamic vinegar. I use a glaze made of balsamic vinegar as I like its syrupy density, but any good balsamic vinegar will do.

This salad is perfect as it is, in its original state - but one of the best things about it is how versatile it is. Leaving the pumpkin base and the balsamic drizzle intact, it is endlessly variable, and each iteration of it tastes different, yet amazing. I have both substituted and added to the pepitas with toasted pine nuts and almonds. I've used dried cranberries for an added but different sweetness and a pop of colour. Goats' cheese is even better than feta as its tangy sharpness is a perfect foil for the deep, rich, sweetness of the roasted pumpkin. Each variation is lovely. As I said earlier, this is great on its own, but for a more substantial meal, grilled or roasted chicken or lamb work beautifully with it.

Just writing this post has given me cravings... though I only made this last night, I might have to have a repeat session this evening...

Cranberry and White Chocolate Cookies

2018-08-28T18:41:00.000-07:00

I am massively late with this post, and a thousand apologies for that. Life has been hectic these past few weeks, but in a generally good way - work is taking off, the kids are on school holidays, we've had a couple of weddings to attend and Roast, Simmer & Bake has an exciting new project on the horizon... stay tuned for more news on that very, very soon!

No matter how mad one's schedule gets though, it is always nice to pause for minute, to take a breath, enjoy the sunshine on your face, look out at the garden, have a cup of hot tea or coffee... and if you do, then you need these cookies to go with.

This is one of my favourite cookie recipes - one of those recipes that you return to again and again because it never fails to produce great results and, sometimes you need that certainty in your life. It is a recipe from Nigella Lawson, the Domestic Goddess herself. I came across it in Nigella Christmas, but I make it all year round, when I need something sweetly comforting to accompany my afternoon tea. These cookies have the added charm of keeping well for days, with a dough that is easy to whip up and freeze in advance for those situations when people drop in unexpectedly at tea o'clock. Few things bring as much satisfaction as being able to produce a batch of cookies, fresh from the oven when you have unscheduled visitors - not in a smug way, but in a lovely, placid, life-can-throw-anything-at-me-and-I-can-still-handle-it-and-produce-cookies kind of way that makes one feel very much in control of one's own destiny.

So what are the ingredients that produce a cookie that deserves that kind of introduction? Dried cranberries, white chocolate and macadamia nuts are the magic trio. Nestling in an oat-based cookie dough, the cranberries' tart, bright flavour tempers the sweetness of the white chocolate, while the warm, buttery nuttiness of the macadamias anchors the whole combination. Each bite brings little explosions of flavour from the three main ingredients - gems of taste and texture.

When baked until glowingly golden, this cookie has a comforting, nubbly appearance and that chewy-crunchy texture which I have waxed lyrical about before, so I won't bore with repetition here. Suffice to say that this is exactly what is needed as a foil to a perfectly brewed cup of tea or coffee in the late afternoon sunshine.

Murgh Musallam (Whole Braised Baby Chicken)

2018-08-16T18:34:00.000-07:00

“If ever a culture was reflected in food, look no further than the Mughals. There is a definite link between their approach to cooking, their approach to textile, their approach to architecture, their very lifestyle. The majesty of their buildings, their dazzling costumes, the richness of their culture… all can be found in their amazingly august, bejewelled, rich food.”

– Anirudh Arora and Hardeep Singh Kohli, ‘Food of the Grand Trunk Road’

What an introduction! Not many dishes could live up to that kind of hype, but this amazing one does it justice. It is definitely a special occasion dish, only to be attempted with plenty of time on my hands.

To start, I marinated whole spatchcocks (baby chickens) in a mixture of ginger, garlic, chilli, lemon and salt. The spatchcocks were then stuffed with a boiled egg cocooned within a layer of spiced chicken mince. The stuffing mixture is a heady concoction of chicken mince, ginger, chilli, raisins, pistachios, cashews, coriander, mint, saffron, cardamom, mace and garam masala. Once the egg was snugly wrapped in the stuffing, the whole parcel was stuffed into the spatchcock which was then trussed up with toothpicks (as we didn't have a trussing needle handy) and seared until a lovely golden brown.

Preparing the sauce quite an involved process, which required me to blend cooked onion and yoghurt, tomato and almonds separately before combining these along with classic Indian spices into a rich orange sauce. The spatchcocks are popped into the sauce and the whole dish placed in the oven for about half an hour. The sauce is then reduced until thick and fragrant before the addition of saffron, cardamom, mace (hello India!), rose water (sigh!), along with fresh coriander and mint (swoon!). After sweating it out in the kitchen for a couple of hours, it was really only at this point that I knew this dish would be something special.

I served the spatchcock with a tangy aubergine dish from the same recipe book and the two combined to make up a beautifully balanced dish – the pickling spices used to flavour the aubergine contrasting nicely with the richness of the chicken. The meat was wonderfully tender and infused from both inside and out with the aromatic spices of the stuffing and the sauce. Visually, the dish was pretty impressive if I do say so myself. I was especially pleased that I was able to cut the spatchcock in half to show off the stuffing and the egg nestled inside.

All in all, this was a hugely successful dish and one I would make again. Despite the time it takes to prepare (we only ate at 11p.m.!), the first taste of this dish, with its tantalisingly rich and complex flavours, confirms it’s well worth the effort.

Tropical Mess

2018-08-07T18:09:00.000-07:00

I have had a deep and committed love affair with meringue for as long as I can remember – meringue and I, we go way back. From the time I was a little girl, any dessert with meringue was the epitome of sophistication in my unsophisticated eyes. Two desserts stand out in my memory – Chocolate Meringue Gateau, a towering confection of chocolate cream and meringue layers, which was the dessert of choice in Colombo households in the 90s. The other was a delicate creation of my grandmother's – mini meringue nests in which dollops of lemon curd and cream nestled, cushioning slices of mango, peach or other fruit.

Fast forward 20+ years, and my relationship with meringue has stood the test of time. I use meringue in pavlovas – of course, because, how can one not, having lived in Australia for 15 years. But my favourite meringue-based dessert is Eton Mess which has become something of a signature dish for me. A traditional Eton Mess is literally a muddle of crumbled meringue, cream and strawberries folded together. Mine deviates slightly from the traditional recipe which, if it isn’t hyperbolic to say so, blows it out of ‘great’ and into ‘phenomenal’ territory. It is the perfect summer dessert, and now that I live in Sri Lanka, where it is hot and humid all year round, I find myself turning to it again and again. It deserves its own post, which will come later.

Notwithstanding my unwavering loyalty to meringues, as anyone in an abiding relationship knows, it never hurts to spice things up from time to time, to keep the flame alive. And so, every so often, we play dress up. I have had this idea for a tropical twist on the classic Eton Mess for a long time. Having relocated to a tropical island seemed as good a reason as any to get creative and give this variation a whirl, so here we are.

I have tried MANY recipes and techniques for meringue over the years. While meringues are quite easy to make, a really great one takes a bit of practice. What’s a great meringue? For me, it’s a dry, crispy outer shell, encasing a marshmellowy interior, with just a hint of chewiness. The balance of textures is as crucial as the taste, which shouldn’t be toothache-inducingly sweet. I find the egg white to sugar ratio suggested by Yotam Ottolenghi in his self-titled book to yield the correct amount of sweetness. His technique of heating up the sugar before adding it to the egg whites helps the sugar to dissolve completely, ensuring none of that sticky, sugary syrup weeps out while the meringues are cooking. I add a smidgeon of corn flour and white wine vinegar which keeps the insides light and also contributes to that chewiness I mentioned. The result of a few minutes’ vigorous whisking is a billowing, glossy mass of meringue which feels as dense as if it could bear my weight (though I have never put that particular experiment to the test). Baked until dry and firm on the outside, the result is a crispy exterior which gives way to a pillowy centre, soft as an angel's pillow.

My Tropical Mess is inspired by my grandmother’s dessert. I use a mix of whipped cream and Greek yoghurt or buffalo curd (whipped until floppy), to balance the sweetness of the meringue, as well as silky, home-made lemon curd. My fruit of choice is gorgeous ripe mango and passion fruit. The combination is divine – the ethereally light centre of the meringue melds with the cream and yoghurt while retaining its own unique texture. More textural interest comes from the outer shell of the meringue which cracks and crumbles into the softer ingredients. The bright, fresh lemon curd looks and tastes wonderful, marbled through the other ingredients, adding a citrusy tang. The crowning glory is the perfectly ripe, golden mango and the zingy passionfruit pulp, complete with crunchy seeds. The fresh fruit cuts through the sweetness and richness of the other ingredients.

Paradoxical though it might seem, I like to serve this Tropical Mess un-messed, with the meringues cleanly sliced in two, the three fillings spooned inside and the fruit arranged artfully on top. There is nothing more satisfying than creating your own Mess, so to speak – I love hearing the first crack of the meringue shell as its shatters under the sharp tap of my spoon and the surprise of the fillings inside which marble through the dish when released from their confines inside the meringue.

This is a wonderfully balanced dessert, in terms of both flavour and texture – crispy, chewy, marshmellowy, sweet (but not overly so), tangy, fruity – and, despite its many elements, it still manages to remain light and lovely. No one I have served this to, has ever left any of their portion uneaten, even after the heaviest of main courses... which, to me, is undeniable proof of the pudding.

Beetroot and Yoghurt Dip with Za’atar

2018-07-31T18:16:00.004-07:00

I love beetroot in any form - it is probably my favourite root vegetable, as it is so versatile and combines beautifully with many other ingredients. For a while, I was obsessed with finding great beetroot dip recipes. There is something about the vibrant, magenta colour of a beetroot dip that is just so appealing – it calls out to you, just asking to be scooped up with your crudités of choice, again and again and again. After several experiments, with several recipes, I have finally settled on this one, from Yotam Ottolenghi and Sami Tamimi's beautiful book, Jerusalem -a purée of beetroot lightened with Greek yoghurt and perfumed with za'atar - as my favourite.

The secret ingredient in this dip is za'atar - a traditional Middle Eastern herb and spice blend that balances fragrant citrusy, woody and slightly nutty notes. It is traditionally a blend of sun-dried thyme, sesame seeds and dried sumac (a reddish spice with a tart, slightly lemony flavour), though some newer recipes also use oregano and, perhaps more deviantly, cumin. Za'atar is traditionally eaten with pita bread and olive oil, and also forms a deliciously savoury seasoning for grilled and roasted meats and vegetables, in salad dressings and for breads.

To make this dip, beetroot is roasted in a very hot oven until its skin is blackened and dry but the inside is tender, and this amplifies its sweet, earthy flavour in a way that other cooking techniques, such as boiling and steaming, just do not. It is then peeled and puréed with Greek yoghurt (or buffalo curd), garlic and a small red chilli, and it is amazing how well the heat of the chilli and the sharpness of the garlic combine with the sweetness of the beetroot. The za'atar really perfumes the whole concoction with its heady, herby aroma. The sweetness is still present, slightly enhanced with date or maple syrup, but the savouriness of the other ingredients tempers it to result in a tantalisingly complex mix of flavours.

I served this, alongside hummus, with pita chips as a starter for a middle eastern themed meal and it was a great success. To serve, Ottolenghi and Tamimi glam up this dip with crumbled goats' cheese, toasted hazelnuts and thin slivers of spring onion. This topping, when sprinkled generously over the dip, really takes it to another level of sophistication, both visually and in taste. It is not essential, in my book - the dip was wonderful the next day, without the topping, but it is lovely to have, especially when entertaining. I love this dip as a starter ,or as a light lunch - or even (because I am strange and enjoy eating non-breakfasty things for the first meal of the day) as an exotic breakfast!

Pesto and Pasta alla Genovese

2018-07-23T18:06:00.000-07:00

We are having bright, hot, sunny days in Colombo, and my herb garden is thriving. Without exaggeration, I have a forest of basil on my rooftop right now. Ok, so that’s a slight exaggeration… 12 pots do not quite a forest make. I’ve been growing basil in my little potted herb garden since we moved into our place in Colombo – it is a delightful plant to grow, mainly because it requires very little care to do well. A cool drink every day and plenty of sunshine and it grows faster than my toddlers. As a relatively inexperienced herb-gardener, the abundance of basil didn’t always send me into a pesto-making frenzy. In the early days, I was so thrilled that my herbs were not just surviving but actually thriving, that I naively refrained from too much pruning. This was a mistake because the more vigorously one prunes basil, the more verdant and lush it grows. I now prune enthusiastically, which means that I have a constant, fresh supply of these fragrant, emerald leaves to hand.

The most obvious thing one can make with basil is pesto, of course. Before my herb garden came into being, I was most decidedly not a fan of pesto, detesting the often insipid, watery and uninspiring contents of ready-made jars. But with the first bumper crop of succulent basil leaves, I decided to give home made pesto a try and I have not looked back since.

While the building blocks for pesto are simple, for a great result, the ingredients must be of the best quality. This means super fresh basil and garlic, great, sharp and zesty parmesan, good quality olive oil and freshly, goldenly toasted pine nuts. The fresher the basil, the better, as the leaves bruise easily and discolour very, very fast when processed and left open to the air. So I try to cut the leaves just before I actually make the pesto. A really stellar pesto also depends on getting the ratio of saltiness, nuttiness and fresh herbaceous-ness just right. It is vital to taste and taste again to make sure the flavours are perfectly balanced.

I could use pesto on almost any savoury dish – to jazz up creamy, just-about-set scrambled eggs, to create a green base for pizza which tastes as vibrant as it looks, to flavour a creamy chicken stir fry. But one of my favourite uses for pesto is also perhaps its most authentic – in pasta alla Genovese – that lovely, simple-but-oh-so-good pasta dish hailing from Genoa, the biggest city in the gorgeous coastal region of Liguria in Italy. It is simply a dish of pasta cooked until al dente, tossed with a pesto sauce that is loosened with a bit of the cooking water from the pasta, with a handful of boiled potatoes and green beans thrown in. I was lucky enough to taste pasta alla Genovese for the first time in Genoa itself, and the recipe I use is from a close friend of my parents’ who lives there. I use the term “recipe” loosely, as it is nothing more or less than a few simple guidelines for producing this dish. There are no set quantities, just suggestions. Much like making pesto, it depends on the cook's palate and what, through much tasting and tweaking, that cook will decide is the perfect balance. It might seem like starchy overkill to add potato to a bowl of pasta, but the combination really works, especially with the addition of green beans for textural contrast.

When I make pasta alla Genovese, I am always transported back to that wonderful old city, with its paved, winding laneways, wide piazzas and beautiful old churches and buildings. Cliché though it may be, it is not hyperbole to say that this dish really takes me on a journey. To me, pasta alla Genovese represents Italian food at its best – a few, fresh, great quality ingredients with very little done to them, the finished product singing with honest depths of flavour.

Florentines

2018-07-16T18:00:00.000-07:00

Florentines were one of the first biscuits I ever made, very early on in my baking career. The recipe was from one of the first volumes in my cookbook collection, Essential Baking, presented to me by my sister-in-law and brother-in-law. I have been making Florentines from this recipe for over 12 years, but thought I should probably do some research before baking and writing about them for this post. And I’m glad I did, because I’ve learned a few things… first, despite its name, this lovely biscuit is more of a French confection than an Italian one.

Second, as it turns out, there are a number of different roads that will lead one to this light, lacy, nutty biscuit, but there seem to be some diverging opinions as to what makes the perfect Florentine. The ingredients of most Florentine recipes are generally simple - some combination of butter, sugar and just a smidgen of flour creating a cosy binding for a mix of nuts (usually almonds) and dried fruit. The finished biscuit is traditionally dipped in chocolate on one side.

Felicity Cloake writes in her column for the Guardian, that the perfect Florentine should shatter when bitten into, much like a brittle… but I’m not sure I agree with that. This recipe results in crispy-on-the-edges-but-still-chewy-in-the-middle (by far the best biscuit texture, in my humble opinion) biscuits. The magic ingredient in this recipe is cream, and a lot of it - it makes the binding wonderfully rich and adds a depth of flavour that butter alone wouldn't achieve (I hear you gasp, but butter can, it seems, be improved on... just add cream). The cream does make for a wetter base, with the result that this Florentine is not even remotely brittl-esque. However, the baked biscuit hits, for me at least, that perfect combination of crispy-sticky-chewy, spot on.

On to the fruit and nut filling. Again, ingredient options range from the plebian (flaked almonds, glacé cherries and candied peel) to the exotic (pistachios, cobnuts, dried figs and dried sour cherries). My recipe unashamedly uses the former combination. Cloake, looks down her nose at glacé cherries, preferring dried sour cherries. I'm sure those are wonderful too and probably much more sophisticated, but there is a place for everything and the Florentine is IT, as far as I am concerned, for the garish, tarty, toothache-inducing sweetness of the glacé cherry. Somehow, it tastes different when combined with the other ingredients, and the jewel-bright pieces look beautiful nestled among the flaked almonds and candied peel. I'll admit I have, as a young and inexperienced baker, also used store-bought candied peel... and while you take a moment to compose yourselves after the shock of that sacrilege, let me hasten to reassure you that I used handmade candied peel for this post... and the result was sublime.

Florentines require an eagle eye when baking. The batter needs to be spread as thinly as possible to ensure the biscuit dries out sufficiently. They are ready when the edges turn goldenly brown, and need to be removed from the oven pronto. Like most biscuits, they firm up considerably upon cooling.

Finally, the chocolate - to coat, as per tradition, or to leave au naturel, that is the question. I am always so impatient to get my teeth into the things, that I have been known to leave some batches of Florentines undressed. But when I do have the patience to wait it out until the chocolate coating dries, I am always so glad that I persevered. It seems like overkill to half-smother a biscuit that is already pretty sweet in chocolate - but it does take the cookie to another level. I always use dark chocolate, which is not too sweet. It is the perfect counterpoint for the sweetness and fruit and nut flavours of the biscuit.

Florentines are easily one of my favourite biscuits, and I stand staunchly by my recipe. I will, at some point, experiment with other ingredients and techniques. But for now, this Florentine recipe is far from broke... and so, I ain't fixing.

Amaretto Ice Cream with Stewed Balsamic Blueberries and Almond Bread

2018-07-09T02:36:00.003-07:00

Did I mention earlier that making home made ice cream can become something of a compulsive habit? In case anyone doubts the truth of that statement, here I am again with another post on ice cream. The stuff is so moreish, so highly addictive, that I am of the firm opinion that domestic ice cream machines should come with a health warning.

This ice cream was the very first one I made, and I have come back to it many times. It is slightly modified from the original recipe by Valli Little, the lovely Australian chef. It is slightly unusual in that it doesn’t call for a cooked custard – instead, egg yolks are whipped with sugar over a saucepan of simmering water until just cooked, pale, thick and aerated, cream is whipped with amaretto separately and the two mixtures are gently, tenderly folded together before being chilled and churned. It makes the most velvety smooth ice cream imaginable and I keep meaning to use this base as a blueprint for other flavours. But this one is so good, I never end up straying but come back faithfully to it, time and time again instead of experimenting!

My small addition to Valli Little’s recipe is to fold in lightly toasted slivered almonds towards the end of the churning process, which transforms this ice cream into a real show-stopper of a dessert, especially when served with stewed balsamic blueberries and crisp slices of almond bread. The sweet, slightly tart flavour of the blueberries, not to mention their vibrant, deep violet hue, combine beautifully with this luscious ice cream – it really is a perfect pairing. I make a simple almond bread to accompany the ice cream and fruit. The thin slices of dry, crispy biscotti, studded with whole almonds, are not too sweet and provide a wonderful accompaniment to this dreamy dessert. Elegant and sophisticated, velvety light with the textural interest brought by the toasted almond slivers and the almond bread, this is high up on my list of all time favourite desserts.

Chargrilled Octopus and Orange Salad

2018-06-29T18:39:00.000-07:00

I thought I’d try an ingredient I’d never worked with before and enthusiastically picked octopus as without any particular recipe in mind for this post. Having returned from the fish shop, I flipped frantically through my cookbooks for a while without much success. Thank goodness for Google, which yielded this recipe for a salad of char-grilled baby octopus and orange – what did we ever do without it?

This salad has several elements, which makes for a somewhat time-consuming preparation. The octopus has to be cleaned – we chose to keep the heads, but cut them off and cleaned out everything inside prior to cooking. That was a… ahem… rather messy job to be honest, which the valiant husband took on, while I watched a bit queasily from the sidelines. While I’m not generally squeamish when it comes to raw meat or fish, I was quite relieved to pass on the job of gutting the octopus!

I tossed the cleaned octopus with a marinade of chopped lemon, parsley and garlic and popped them in the fridge for a couple of hours. The glaze for the octopus consisted of a sugar and white wine reduction. The recipe called for orange oil, which we didn’t have, so I infused some finely sliced orange rind in the glaze.

The salad base uses a simple mixture of salad leaves and spring onions as a base, and the final element is an orange and tomato salsa which is a concoction of vine-ripened tomato, orange segments, Spanish onion, garlic, flat leaf parsley and extra virgin olive oil.

Once we had all these bits and pieces ready, we barbecued the octopus, which curled up beautifully like miniature sculptures on the hot griddle, the delicate, swirling tentacles charring to golden, caramalised perfection. We dressed the char-grilled octopus with the orange-infused glaze and piled it onto waiting tapas dishes which held the salad base and the salsa.

This salad is lovely and vibrant to look at, and full of interesting flavours and textures to intrigue the palate. There are few flavours as sweetly delicate as char-grilled baby octopus. The orange-infused glaze works beautifully with the octopus, complimenting rather than overpowering the main ingredient. I didn’t expect the salad to be as filling as it was – it made for a lovely light main course rather than an appetizer. All in all, I am pretty chuffed with this successful experiment with a new ingredient.

Chunky Avocado and Tomato Salsa

2018-06-24T17:51:00.000-07:00

It’s avocado season in Sri Lanka, and I am in heaven… the avocado trees at my parents in laws’ property in Kandy have borne a bumper crop this year, and I’m a very grateful beneficiary. Perfectly jumbo teardrop-shaped, these fruit are luscious, creamy and, packed as they are with nutrients, can be consumed with a clear conscience.

This chunky avocado and tomato salsa is a bit of a hero dish because it can serve as breakfast (heaped plentifully on toast as a bed for a perfectly poached egg to nestle in), lunch/dinner (simply heavenly with burritos, nachos, tacos, quesadillas, fajitas or any other Mexican or Mexican-influenced dish) or snack (pass the corn chips, please).

Its ingredients are simple and the success of the salsa all depends on ratios rather than strict quantities. The bulk of the salsa is, as its name suggests, avocado and tomato. Half and half works well, but if you’re a die-hard avocado enthusiast like me, then a two-thirds to one-third ratio is probably preferable. Seasoning comes from garlic, a bit of red onion, red chilli and coriander root pounded into a paste with salt and black peppercorns and lashings of lime juice. I fold this aromatic paste with the avocado and tomato, adding finely sliced coriander leaves into the mix. This bit requires a gentle but confident hand – the trick is to mix the paste thoroughly with the chunks, but without squashing said chunks into an indiscriminate, gloopy mass. The avocado and the tomato should be ever so slightly muddled, without being bruised and pulpy.

When it comes together, the combination is, quite simply, fabulous – the sharp, sweet lime, herbaceous freshness of coriander, heat of chili and savoury anchoring of garlic and onion, combine with the rich, smooth flesh of the avocado to yield a salsa that I could happily eat everyday of the week. The large chunks of avocado and tomato also mean that this is a salsa with some real heft – you can really sink your teeth into it. None of that business of delicately holding crudités between thumb and forefinger and dipping only a centimeter into a dip or sauce – this is a salsa that demands to be fully loaded onto a solid corn or tortilla chip before being summarily demolished. In fact, individual dipping bowls are probably to be recommended for this, for the sake of peaceful consumption. No-one likes to have to fight for their fair share of dip, after all.

Candied Orange and Dark Chocolate Chip Cookies

2018-06-19T18:35:00.000-07:00

I’m a very risk-averse person. Maybe it’s something to do with being a lawyer, but I’m overly cautious and any risks I do take are usually heavily calculated towards producing good results. Which is a long-winded way of saying I need to be a bit more adventurous… with life in general, and cooking in particular. I do believe, truly, that in cooking, as in life, the biggest failure is to be so crippled by the fear of it that one does not try anything new at all. And so, here I am, valiantly trying to stand up with the courage of my convictions and not let the fear of a badly chosen recipe or (even scarier) making up a recipe, stop me.

Dark chocolate and orange is hardly an earth-shatteringly new flavour combination – quite the opposite – it is so firmly entrenched in the canon of classic flavour pairings, “like champagne and caviar”, that I think there should be a song about it too. And yet, I have never come across a recipe for a cookie that uses the combination! I’ve trawled through the books of all the legends of the food industry in vain.

I’ve had this idea for a cookie that combines dark chocolate with orange for a long time, but have been too nervous to try it out. What a waste of ingredients it would be if it didn’t work!!! *insert Munch Scream emoji* especially the precious dark chocolate chips that the long-suffering husband faithfully lugs back to Sri Lanka every time he has to travel to Sydney!!! However, with the deadline for a new post looming and two kiddos who are insatiable at tea time (oh who am I kidding, it’s not just them), I thought now would be as good a time as any to take the plunge.

I used a basic oat, butter and brown sugar cookie recipe and dolled it up with deep, dark chocolate chips, hand made crystallized orange (more about that process coming up in a later post) and toasted cashew nuts. And my, oh my, what a transformation! I felt like the fairy godmother of cookies pronouncing, “You SHALL go to the ball” when I produced these decadent, simply beautiful cookies. The cookies, when cooked until just golden at their crinkly, ruffled edges, are slightly crunchy on the outside, with a middle that is still comfortingly chewy. Nuggets of deep, dark chocolate, combined with the zingy, translucent, candied orange and the toasted cashew made for a cookie that was definitely on the “grown up” cookie list (though the kids had no problem scoffing them down either), with a really sophisticated, elegant taste.

I’m so excited at my risk paying off, and it is so refreshing to have done something new that I’m quite giddy and light-headed. Pass the smelling salts please.

Pineapple and Ginger Marmalade

2018-06-11T23:22:00.000-07:00

I’m quite new to the whole jam-making thing. I’ve made tomato chutney for years and have become pretty adept at that process, simply because I refuse to eat rice and curry without some form of condiment or the other, and this is my favourite. And I always have a bottle of homemade pineapple jam in the fridge, but this is little more than pineapple stewed until sticky. I hadn’t ventured towards other forms of preserves until I came across a recipe for pineapple and ginger marmalade in David Lebovitz’s wonderful book, Ready for Dessert. This looked interesting because: pineapple. And also: candied ginger. Not to mention: rum.

So I thought I’d give it a whirl and spent the next day or so tinkering with pineapple and orange, which was included because marmalade, as any jam-making aficionado will tell you, is a jam that must contain some form of citrus fruit. So the orange went in and was boiled, along with the pineapple, for a while before the concoction was left to rest overnight. The next morning, the sugar was added and the mixture cooked down until thick and syrupy. Besides the two fruit, this marmalade also contains a generous quantity of candied ginger. A crunchy layer of sweetness combined with the pleasantly sharp zing of the tender, champagne-hued slices – if this marmalade had a secret ingredient, this would be it. It is added at the end of the cooking process, when the marmalade has reached setting point, as is the rum.

There is really something about jam-making that makes one feel smugly accomplished in a domestic goddess-y sort of way. Bottled and cooled, this marmalade looks like a jar of golden, late afternoon sunlight. The candied pieces of fruit are suspended in the jam like jewels – promises of bursts of flavour. This preserve tastes every bit as good as it looks – Sri Lanka in jam form. I’m so pleased to have discovered another way to use the gorgeous, sunshine-yellow pineapple that is so abundant here. Living in Australia, one of the foods I missed the most from home was pineapple. Brisbane thinks it produces great pineapple – sorry to disillusion you, Sunshine State, but you’ve got nothing on our Lankan babies. Insipidly coloured, hardly yellow, and often sour, these are as far removed from the vibrantly sweet Sri Lanka fruit as chalk and cheese.

Anyway this jam is simply wonderful – one bottle was gobbled up, lickety-split, within a week at our place. Time to make some more.

Jambalaya

2018-06-06T21:22:00.000-07:00

"Creole and Cajun cooking, the food of New Orleans and the surround countryside, is one of the most vibrant and exciting cuisines in the world today. French in its origin and accents, this spicy and sometimes fiery tradition also embodies elements of Native American, Spanish and African cooking… The Creole cooks of New Orleans created a sophisticated and complex cuisine that blends French techniques with local products and traditions… Cajun cooking is the earthy, flavourful and sometimes fiery cooking of the southern Louisiana countryside.”

– Denis Kelly, ‘Creole & Cajun Cooking’

This jambalaya is an amalgam of two recipes – one from Denis Kelly’s book and another from my grandmother’s old cookbook. This was the book that she started compiling when she took cooking lessons (as young ladies of the time did) and was one she added to throughout her life. Aachhi was a formidable cook and some of my earliest memories are of helping her in the pantry. Her book is yellowed, tattered and generally a bit worse for wear, but I got it re-bound with a lovely leather cover and it is one of my favourite cookbooks, full of recipes accumulated over the years, many of which I have enjoyed at the ancestral dining table. I love the book as much for the memories it holds as for its recipes.

Aachchi’s recipe for jambalaya was always going to be a winner. I mean, spicey fried chicken, prawn AND chorizo all in the one dish?!? HellO there! Who cares if the last is not all together completely authentic – it is probably the secret ingredient which makes this dish really special. Chorizo is not easy to find in Sri Lanka, but I'm sure bacon or pancetta would more than pass as substitutes. Most of the other ingredients were in Mr Kelly’s recipe – onion, garlic, tomato, celery and capsicum. We used the Cajun spice mix prescribed by ‘Creole & Cajun Cooking’, which is a peppery mix of paprika, black pepper, cayenne, garlic powder and onion powder. It’s super flavoursome and really adds a certain something to this dish.

Jambalaya is not particularly tricky to make. There is a bit of chopping of the ingredients, but nothing too arduous. After frying up the chorizo and the chicken and softening the onion and other vegetables, everything goes into the pot with a swirl of chicken stock and bubbles away for half and hour or so until the rice is cooked. I didn’t dry it out too much but left it nice and moist which added to the flavour I think. Seasoning is simple – Worcestershire sauce and salt along with generous dashes of Tabasco to add a bit of kick. I made this in a cast iron casserole dish which, I swear, made it taste better. I insisted on playing ‘Jambalaya’ by The Carpenters to get myself into the mood – corny, I know, but who’s to judge?

Rhubarb crumble ice cream

2018-06-02T08:29:00.000-07:00

So I have an admission to make: I have not always been a fan of rhubarb. Growing up, I could never quite see what the fuss was all about, and I staunchly steered clear of any and all rhubarb dishes. Was I missing out or what? Alas for this recent convert, rhubarb is not always easy to find in Colombo and even when I have managed to stumble upon it, it looks tired, woody and not at all inspiring.

My family and I spent a lovely long weekend in the misty, mountain town of Nuwara Eliya. At an elevation of 1,868m above sea level and nestled among emerald green tea plantations, Nuwara Eliya takes you back in time to an era when the British would escape the stiflingly hot confines of Colombo and the South for some much needed respite in the cooler climes of the mountains. Although today, the illegal buildings mushrooming everywhere have robbed the town of much of its old world charm, there is still a wistful, nostalgic feel about the place as if it is remembering better times.

Vegetable cultivation is abundant in those parts and we stopped at a couple of roadside stalls on our way home to stock up on beautiful fresh produce – plump, plum-coloured aubergine, traffic light capsicums, perfectly shaped carrots and beautiful, ruby-red rhubarb. I think we might have been hasty in our eagerness to get our hands on the great produce because, as we wound our way down the mountainside, each subsequent stall we passed seemed to boast even bigger, perkier and more vividly red stalks of rhubarb. I returned to Colombo, planning all the rhubarb dishes I was going to try out but realized, after washing, trimming and stripping off leaves, that I was only left with a precious half kilo.

So what to do? After flipping through most of the recipe books in my library, I was tempted by Nigella Lawson’s recipe for Rhubarb Fool. It looked delicious, but I thought that perhaps it could be even better in ice cream form, as, well, most things are. I resorted to Google for some guidance and, wouldn’t you know it: one of the very first recipes that popped up for rhubarb ice cream looked divine. Even better, it had a crumble swirled through it. How could that possibly be bad?

I got to work and was gratified to learn that my instinct was spot on. This is a deliciously light and dreamy ice cream, that still surprises you with the depth of flavour of the tart rhubarb. Its ingredients are simple – cream, rhubarb, lemon and sugar. The crumble mixture is toasted at the same time that the rhubarb is roasting in the oven. But the finished product is so much more sublime than the sum of its parts. A lovely, blushing pink from the roasted rhubarb purée, this ice cream has all the comforting familiarity of a classic warm rhubarb crumble, but the fact that it is an ice cream means that it is as coolly refreshing as a weekend in the mountains. It is exactly the coping mechanism that I need right now, to deal with the oppressive heat that May brings to Colombo.

Aubergine with buttermilk sauce

2018-05-30T04:32:00.002-07:00

I love Yotam Ottolenghi’s books on cooking vegetables, Plenty and Plenty More. I always think of them like that – books on cooking vegetables, rather than as vegetarian cookbooks. I’m one of those people who struggles without having meat or fish to get my teeth into, so to speak, for a meal. I love vegetables, of course – roasted or raw, steamed, sautéed, curried or crunchy and fresh in a salad – but I always think of them as sides, and never as taking centre stage on the plate. But, there is something about Ottolenghi’s recipes that convinces me, at least for the duration of the meal, to change that attitude. Almost every vegetable dish I have cooked from Ottolenghi’s books, I’d be happy eating by itself. And that’s saying something.

This recipe from Plenty is in a chapter aptly titled ‘The Mighty Aubergine’. There are few veggies that are as versatile as the aubergine. You can do so much with it – char grill it to infuse its flesh with dusky smokiness; deep fry and pickle it; layer its silky flesh in a moussaka; curry it with aromatic spices – and it tastes so different depending on what you do to it, but still so familiar. It really is a bit of a superhero vegetable.

This recipe is one I have had my eye on for a while, so I was excited to try it out for a casual dinner with family. The method was pretty simple – the aubergine is brushed with oil and sprinkled with herbs, then grilled until goldenly tender, and dressed with a lovely buttermilk sauce. The tricky part was finding the correct herb – the recipe called for lemon-thyme. Might has well have asked for moon dust.

Now, it is far easier to find herbs in Sri Lanka these days than it was 10 or even 5 years ago, but some are still quite elusive. I’ve dealt with that problem by planting my own herb garden on our rooftop – along with the usual suspects (mint, basil, rosemary, thyme and oregano), I’ve also proven myself a big of a green thumb with dill, sage, flat-leaf parsley, tarragon, orange bergamot mint, thai basil and lemon balm. Unfortunately, though, no lemon thyme yet (I’ve sown the seeds but it will be a while before I can harvest for cooking)… so what to do? I improvised by using thyme and lemon zest to dress the aubergine prior to grilling, and then went out on a limb and used lemon balm leaves as a garnish. This second improvisation was a brilliant move, if I do say so myself. Besides looking wonderful, scattered over the buttermilk dressing along with jewel-bright pomegranate seeds, the lemon balm leaves added a wonderful, citrusy zing to the dish. It would, I think, have been wholly different (though also amazing, I am sure, because Ottolenghi is a genius after all) if lemon thyme had been used.

Ottolenghi says that he "can't think of a more rustically elegant starter" than this beautiful dish, and I am inclined to agree, even if that IS a contradiction in terms – the richness of the tender, grilled aubergine, cut by a cool, subtly garlicky buttermilk sauce, the ruby pomegranate seeds providing texture and nuggets of sweet, tart flavour and the lemon balm… oh, that lemon balm. Definitely on the list of firm favourites… as a main or appetizer.

The beginning

2018-05-24T09:59:00.002-07:00

I love food. It is the reason why I can never, ever, say no to seconds; why I am always starting a diet... tomorrow; why one of my mother's most recurring admonitions as I was growing up was that my eye was bigger than my belly; and why, most recently, a case of gastro that should have been nipped in the bud by a hefty bout of antibiotics, has taken almost two weeks to leave me alone. Simply put, I love preparing food and eating it, and I rarely let anything get in the way of either.

For me, food has always represented a journey, on a number of different levels. It is an essential accompaniment to the journey of life. Dreadful cliché aside, there is really no other way to say it. Some of my earliest and most cherished memories revolve around food and its preparation – my very first cooking lessons with my grandmother (fascinating sessions involving ancient manual balancing scales, an antique Kenwood mixer which emitted a thunderous roar that seemed to rock the foundations of the house, and a yellowing recipe book, bursting at the seams with recipes in my grandmother’s loopy cursive); lunches cooked over an open wood fire at my grandfather’s coconut estate – simple, home made Sri Lankan fare at its most authentic and delicious; my grandfather’s exacting instructions to the staff on how to prepare the perfect tempered basmati rice or fish curry made with the catch of the day from the Negombo fish market; losing my first tooth while eating a delectably plump and juicy mango; the family coming together to indulge in decadent Christmas dinners complete with roasted turkey, all the requisite trimmings and a blazing plum pudding.
 
To eat food, is to go on a journey – a well-cooked meal transports the eater to a completely different place, on the wings of aroma and flavour. The herbaceous freshness of coriander, lemongrass and kaffir lime whisks you off to Thailand; the zesty sharpness of lemon, basil and parmesan beckons you to Italy; coconut and lime welcome you Sri Lanka; cardamom, cumin and cinnamon entice you to India; smell a sizzling steak on a barbecue and you're in Australia. My favourite thing about food is how it can take you to places you have never been before. Obviously, the delicious flip side is that, in my opinion at least, the best way to experience a new country when traveling is to dive wholeheartedly into its cuisine.
 
My relationship with food has developed over the years, in different places. Having grown up in beautiful, tropical Sri Lanka, I’m lucky to have been raised with a keen appreciation for a wide array of cuisines. When I moved to sunny Sydney in Australia for university, I fell upon the huge diversity of food that that melting pot of a city offered. Thai and Vietnamese, Italian and Indian, Lebanese and Moroccan and more – I tried and got intimately acquainted with them all. It was in Sydney that I really started cooking different types of cuisine and experimenting with flavours and cooking techniques in a way that made me realize that cooking is something that I was born to do. After nearly 15 years in that beautiful, harbourside city, my young family I recently moved back to Sri Lanka. Settling back into this country has also meant reacquainting myself with its unique cuisine and learning how to cook with the ingredients that are available here. This little jewel of an island boasts a stunning array of fresh produce from its abundance of ocean-fresh seafood to its glorious fruit and vegetables. Starting this food blog is a way to document this new journey. I am not entirely sure where it will lead me… but I am excited to discover what lies beyond the bend.