Glue. That’s what a bowl of oats meant to me growing up in boarding school. At breakfast, I could turn the bowl of porridge over my head and nothing. The gloop would hold its ground, strong and tenacious. I almost always never touched it. Oat porridge re-entered my life later on when I overcame my memories to try new oats recipes – both sweet and savoury. I’m partial to a bowl of savoury oats because I think it is incredibly versatile. It would so gladden my culinary cockles if this post encourages cooks to look beyond pre-flavoured instant oats (loaded with sodium and preservatives) to create their own imaginative oats recipes.
Crab curry with rice on a lazy Sunday afternoon with my family is a quiet affair. The cracking of shells and the sucking of juices the only sounds. A big bowl sits at the centre of the dining table, filling up fast with remnants of soft, chewed-up shells, and vermillion shards of hard shells; every tender crabby morsel having been patiently prised out. Crab curry, in my home, is normally cooked for lunch on a holiday, to be eaten patiently and meticulously so that the soul along with the belly is fully satisfied. This is slow food – spices roasted and ground up and cooked with artful care and taking time to savour and enjoy the meal. This feast is almost always followed by a nap.
Baking a healthy cake like my wholesome Gluten-Free Chocolate Beetroot Cake, gives me bone-deep satisfaction. In the last few months, I’ve struggled to perfect the recipe for a gluten-free, xanthum gum-free, light, moist, healthy and unapologetically chocolaty chocolate cake. Past experiments resulted in a few disasters when the cake crumb alternated between sawdust and sand. So, now that I have nailed that dense, intense mouthfeel of a real chocolate cake, (think dark, dew-soaked rainforest soil), I’m taking a moment. Call me kooky but cooking, like spilt ink smudges runs into most aspects of my life, and sometimes makes me question the time, thought and precious elbow grease that I put into it. But on occasion, when an experiment yields a near flawless result, it all seems worth it.
Big fish are overrated if you ask me. The giant tuna, sea bass and kingfish filets and steaks may be meatier but it’s the small fry that score big on taste, nutrition and sustainability. Fish recipes must focus on everyday catch that have traditionally been a vital part of our diet but are largely ignored these days for more expensive, imported, boneless, supermarket fare. This post on Fresh Anchovies With Coconut celebrates the little denizens of the ocean.
This is one of my favourite prawn recipes. My Firecracker Prawn 65 is inspired by the the undisputed big daddy of Indian bar snacks – Chicken 65. This crimson-hued, deep fried, hot and tangy chicken dish even has its own (ever-growing) lore woven around its intriguing name. Why 65 you ask? Well, the straightforward stories speak of 65 chillies in the marinade, other tall tales tell us of a marination period of 65 days and some even more imaginative ones say the age of the chickens has to be 65 days – no more, no less! But the real story is a little more staid – Mr.Buhari, the enterprising owner of Chennai’s iconic Buhari restaurant created this cracker of a dish, which appeared on their menu in 1965.
Sitting here listening to the roaring downpour and the powerful percussion of the waves outside, it’s hard to imagine the winter days we left behind just a few weeks ago. That world, life on another continent, seems strangely within touching distance and yet unreal, like a hazy dream. There, when the dark chill hushed the streets, we sought cheer in front of the fireplace, playing board games, catching up on movies and eating hearty, winter-warming meals. At the end of a cold day, we looked forward to the comforting embrace of those family dinners. And what better than classic, old fashioned French onion soup to infuse our tired bodies with gentle warmth, like a mother’s hug.
‘Cho-co-la’, say it out loud with deliberation. Swirling in your mouth like molten velvet, the word and its very sound, coaxes you to close your eyes and retreat to a secret spot where, in complete solitude, you can lose yourself to the pleasures of the glorious thing that is chocolate.
Today’s post on whole wheat flatbread is inspired by the ‘green lady’. I see her almost every Saturday at our local food market. She’s often brushing away truant grains of soil dusting the table under bunches of beetroot; their darkly glistening, purple-veined leaves nudging fat cucumbers jostling for space with fire engine-red peppadews, jars of fresh horseradish, chilli oil and trays of speckled quail eggs. A ready smile rounds off her robust Russian accent as she greets us and extols the freshness of her 100 percent organic vegetables and eggs. I love digging through the big boxes beside her table for spinach and Tuscan kale, crisp and shiny with health, and also for coriander, dill, parsley, rosemary and thyme, herbaceous and passionately aromatic, tied in neat little bunches. A Rolodex of recipes goes off in my brain and as always, there’s no getting away without buying some. Like invisible, secret spells, these little leaves add lift and nuance to any dish.
It has been a month now of baking my own bread and it’s time for a healthy but festive cinnamon raisin bread No more store-bought stuff if I can help it. This means that I have to get myself organised before the day of the baking. I find that early morning is a good time to start because it allows the dough 2 or 3 unhurried proofings, goes into the oven by late afternoon and by sunset it’s sitting on my kitchen counter, spreading its comforting aroma in my home (Nothing like cinnamon raisin bread to fill the air with cheer). Last week on my bread-baking day, a mirthless wind prowled outside, bringing the chill and gloom of winter lurking around the corner. “What better day to bake bread”, I thought. My home and hearth needed a warm hug. The kind of hug that would make my boys feel fuzzy and loved when they got home at the end of the day. It called for a cinnamon raisin bread, a bold and bright contrast to the cold outside. I had this picture in my head of a dollop of butter gently melting on a slice of cinnamon bread….yum! It is entirely possible that the thought of my home redolent with cinnamony scents was the single biggest motivation behind my choice of bread. This recipe is from Jeffrey Hamelman’s Bread. I have adjusted the quantities and part of the process for what I felt would help me get a better result.