Parsi Rava Recipe (Or Look How Domesticated I Am)

Parsi Rava. Ok so I stage managed this photo a little bit. I mean that mint plant isn't really there usually. But I wanted to hide the kettle.

Rava closer. Little auto magnet from Goa.

Parsi rava is like a yummy rice pudding but uses semolina instead of the rice and boiled milk instead of a custard.

So really it isn’t much like a rice pudding at all, but it’s a white-creamy colour and I guess that’s close enough. The semolina has a really lovely texture, that I prefer to a rice pudding anyway.

My Bombay household usually makes this in the morning for special occasions like birthdays, anniversaries and Parsi new year

Parsees must have rava for Parsi New Year and birthdays. It’s crucial. Hell, it’s the crux of our family meal. Parsees everywhere would throw terrible tantrums if there was no breakfast rava… well I’d throw a tantrum.

Eat it for breakfast or as a dessert (or both if you like). Lately I’ve been craving some in chilly ol’ London. Also I felt like procrastinating. I was supposed to scan some drawings over the weekend but I’m being lazy.

So I cajoled the ex into making the first batch. The ex forced me into the role of su chef (read that as ‘lackey’) to help out and then I felt relatively confident about handling it on my own.

I should mention that I’m not much of a chef. I once nearly burned down my flat kitchen. The exhaust above the stove melted, there was charcoal everywhere. We didn’t have a fire alarm or extinguisher. Then the ex came over and fought with me. To say it was a bit of a bad business is an understatement.

The incident was slightly traumatic and I feel nervous around fire and oil now, but this recipe is so simple, even a dolt like me can manage it.

Also all the recipes out there on the internet seem a little odd or convoluted and involve rose-water and all sorts of nonsense so I thought I’d post this pretty straightforward recipe. I’m helpful like that. Sharing and caring.

Parsi Rava for 2 people

Or one greedy person. I’ve finished all of that bowl above. It’s a very moreish pudding.

Total time: 15 mins

• 3 teaspoons melted butter or Ghee (Clarified butter)
• 2 tablespoons semolina
• 2 cups milk with 2 tablespoons sugar mixed in it
• 2 tablespoons soaked raisins (or as many as you like, I like a bit more, soak for 10 mins in hot water)
• 2 tablespoons pistachios (soak with raisins)
• small handful almonds blanched and finely sliced (or add as many as you like)
• a pinch of nutmeg

Optional extras instead of or to go with the nutmeg:

• rosewater
• cardamom (power I think)
• drop or two of vanilla essence

1. Lightly brown the almonds in 1 teaspoon of ghee.

2. Then add the raisins and pistachios to the same ghee.

The soaked raisins look wonderfully plump and luscious in their glistening coat of ghee.

Don’t I sound like Nigella? I’m channelling.

Although unlike the seductive and sensuous Nigella, the first thing that came to my mind when I saw the wrinkled raisins all swelled up was of a engorged tick sucking the blood of some hapless dog. I loved pulling them off and dropping them in kerosene. I hated those ticks but the way they morphed from a paper-thin bug into a swollen monster fascinated me. This memory is probably not something I ought to mention halfway through a recipe. Oh well. Don’t let that put you off.

3. Remove once roasted (about 1 min or so) and keep on the side in a bowl.

You can pop one or two in your mouth. The ghee or butter does something to the raisins. It just makes it better. Ghee makes everything better. Ask any Guju. Go on ask ‘em.

4. Add 2 more teaspoons of ghee + 2 tablespoons semolina & stir until it turns light golden. (It cooks pretty quickly – so don’t let it turn brown, which means it’s been burnt. Apparently. I didn’t get to the burnt stage.)

Ghee ghee ghee! The ex carted a little tub back all the way from the Punj. We’re both such Indians – We’re constantly carting back food and jars of pickle. The ex’s ghee is white, which puzzled me. I always thought ghee was yellow. Drawings of child Krishna always had him grabbing mutkas of yellowish ghee and stuffing his face. Artistic license I suppose.

5. Then pour in the milk bit by bit and keep stirring. Don’t pour all at once, because you’ll lose that rich flavour of the boiled milk.

This is what my mother told me, and what my Great-granny told her. My Great-gran and my mother were at each other’s throats for the better part of 20 years, so she could have lied about the milk. You never know.

6. Once you’ve poured in all the milk, add half the raisins and nuts and keeping stirring. If the mix is too solid add more milk. Should not be too thin or too thick. (Pretend you’re Goldilocks.)

In my combined greed and sloth I doubled all the ingredients (so it was a 4 person batch) when I made a second batch of this and was stirring for a good 10 mins. A 2 person batch is much quicker. (Greed because I’m going to eat all of it, the ex is not a fan. Sloth because I don’t want to make it again so I made a bulk batch.)

7. Add a pinch of nutmeg. You can also add cardamom, rose-water or a drop of vanilla essence if you like.

I don’t add any of those things. Just the nutmeg. I don’t like the idea of rose-water, but I daresay it could be quite fragrant and shit. I’m not exactly sure how much nutmeg goes in. I put in a liberal pinch. It seems alright.

8. Pour into a dish, sprinkle the rest of the almonds and raisins on the top and allow to set.

Try not to stick your finger in yet. Just lick the ladle. That should hold you.

9. Eat warm or cold. (Mmmmmm warm. 30 seconds in a micro. So good.)

Give it a shot. It’s a lovely winter pudding.

Wow I can’t believe I just posted a recipe. That shows how far I’ve come since the days of burning down the kitchen.

Now I need to go lovingly prepare my ready-meal dinner.

Let Us Eat Cake

Had a fight with the ex about cake a couple of days ago.

Birthday cake.

Every year we fight about cake. It is utterly ridiculous.

I’m checking bakeries and then with the ex about the cake, and feeling frustrated. The margin of error is high and the risk of having the cake flung at my head in a temper tantrum equally so. The window within which the cake will be graciously tolerated is small.

The ‘ideal’ cake is difficult. It’s not even just about the flavour. No no, that’s far too simple. No icing, No chocolate, No marzipan, No cream, No cupcakes. It’s basically a long list of ‘don’ts’ and I’m supposed to navigate my way through.

“Look, if you’re going to make this cake thing a big deal, then just forget about it.”,

says the ex to me when I momentarily forget myself (stupid creature!) and hint at my frustration. (Last year I ‘forgot’ about the cake, and let me just say that turned into a big deal.)

That would be a perfectly fair and reasonable statement to make, if it hadn’t immediately followed this rather more tyrannical threat:

“I’m warning you now – If you don’t get me the right kind of cake, I’m going to be really upset…”

Gosh, no pressure then.

But not to worry.

I have ordered the minions to shower the roads generously with rose and hibiscus petals. The ex will then be carried, lounging delicately on a palanquin, about London. The minions will serve the ex haunches of roasted & basted chicken, followed by sweet white grapes that have been gently washed in mountain dew and have had their skin removed. The feasting is capped with a refreshing champagne and baby’s breath sorbet.

A procession of painted and decorated elephants and horses all with bells and cymbals jingling gaily on their feet follow the palanquin. A 100 strong marching band, will accompany them and will be playing a variety of Madonna and Kylie songs loudly and with gusto. After all the day the ex emerged from the womb demands celebration!

After the magnificence of this procession all the way down Angel and through Farringdon, the palanquin will finally reach St. Paul’s where there will be the usual ritual of the burning of incense and the blood-letting of a sacrificial snow-white lamb by a virgin maid. This will promptly be culminated in an orgy of bacchanalian excess of epic proportions.

Also I baked a cake.

My first cake ever. So domesticated of me no? (It was from a packet. Baby steps.)

It rose rather proudly. I’m quite pleased.

I have a singing candle to place on it’s bulging center.

Here, some photos.

I made a right old mess all over. Also I accidentally read 210 ml of water as 120 ml. I wondered why the batter was so difficult to beat. Luckily I caught the error in time.

Look at it rising! All that beating did the trick. And I beat it by hand!!

Not bad for a first attempt, if I do say so myself. The ex was pleased.

Monica Galetti Gay

Monica Galetti giving the Lazer Eye. Her beams will turn you on! They'll heat you up! Just like an Aga.

This is the most searched for term used to find for my blog. (So proud)

People still seem to be obsessed with Monica Galetti’s apparent gayness, even though Masterchef ended a while ago. (When I say people I mean like a steady trickle of about 2-3 a week).

Although admittedly, I have also frantically googled…

“Is Monica Galetti gay??”

…while watching Masterchef.

I’m very susceptible to the stereotype of the short-haired-angry-woman-lesbian.

Besides all those faces she makes, I have totally seen dychees with those faces.

I’m sorry, but I just can’t help it. It seems to be hard-wired in my brain.

My gaydar goes all over the place for short-haired, angry women.

For example, when I look at those trendy Shoreditch girls with their “cool” (fake) glasses, vintage indie clothing and funky do’s – well, it’s confusing! (Sometimes teenage boys too)

I was discussing this with The Fourth A. the other day and we decided that we ought to make the Shoreditch girls badges saying

“NO! Not lesbians. Just hipsters.”

It would be a public service, especially in these difficult, sexually ambivalent times.

Anyway, to anybody who has found this blog while googling “Monica Galetti gay”, I can confirm from my earlier intensive research that she is from New Zealand, I believe she is Samoan (could be wrong), and…..married to a man.

Disappointing, I know. But there you go. Whaddayagonnado?

Previous post: The Many Faces of  Monica Galetti

Eggs

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Aside from multiple pictures of the building outside work and Fairy Tale Kings cross I also have been proudly documenting my breakfast eggs.

Because I am stupid.

Think of it as a fashion shoot á la eggs.

We bought these little poacher cups – you hang them over the side of your pot of water and it’s meant to make your life easier.

You’re supposed to bring the water up to the boil, then leave it at a simmer for 3-4 mins.

So far my poached eggs have been weekend after weekend of disasters.

I have not managed, bar the one or 2 flukes, to make a single egg without screwing something up in the process.

Last weekend I brought it to the boil, then accidentally turned down the wrong stove (which wasn’t even on in the first place).

So in about 2 mins the water had boiled over the cups and the first set of eggs were completely ruined.

I had to chuck them down the sink. There is, though, something very satisfying about watching the egg yolks not burst, as they circle the drain. I had to poke the sac with a knife and then all the bright yellow goo trickled out of it, which was equally satisfying. It was quite the egg murder-fest.

Then I didn’t top up the water in the pot for the second go and the poached eggs took twice as long to cook (because they were being steamed instead of poached), so I ended up taking them out early and there was some runny whites underneath (yuck)

It is wrong to take pictures of food. I know it is wrong. It is despicable and boring, but what the hell, this is my blog.

Screw you. Screw you all.

Masterchef Update

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I love the occasional understatements from Masterchef contestants :

One experimental (that’s always a sign) Suth Aafrecan (in your mind, say that with an accent) chef says…of his Quail on chocolate sponge cake served with a creamed chilli cabbage and a red wine emulsified chocolate sauce (seriously)

“Maybe putting a chocolate cake with quail was a little bit of a step too far….”

I am a cooking show junkie. I admit I have a problem.

Everyone needs a bosom for a pillow

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In a cunning stats-oriented move Russell Moore (An Adam and Joe fan, once referred to by the duo as “some kind of a genius man”) has convinced me that cooking show + screen grabs  =  stats boost. I’m curious to test out this theory.

In an even shrewder move Russell suggested I turn my focus from Masterchef to the lofty peaks of Nigella. (that wasn’t really meant to be a breast reference but lets roll with it).

The problem is, Nigella doesn’t bring up the same amount of bile in me as Masterchef does. It’s a laid back, casual sort of vibe on her show.

She says stupid, flowery things, sometimes, utter and complete nonsense. One such flowery outburst from a recent episode, that sticks in my mind was

“Mmmm I just love blackberries, jet and gleaming, glinting darkly from their snowy duvet of cream…”

I mean, who talks like that? Snowy duvet of cream. Sheesh.

And do I think those people, just ‘popping-in’ for lunch or dinner are really her ‘friends’? That probably isn’t even her house. She’s married to Saatchi (of Saatchi and Saatchi fame). They probably live in a gold palace paved with pigeon blood rubies and have diamonds in their chandeliers.

Does the camera focus on her licking her fingers and/or eating and pan to her cleavage a little too often? Sure it does.

But really, can you complain? Like a hindi movie, you must suspend your disbelief and just sink into it….After all, everyone needs a bosom for a pillow (Cornershop).

On a recent episode of Nigella - She says to a young and attractive man…(one of her ‘fake friends’ probably sourced on Gumtree)

N: “It’s a very artistic package you have there, if you don’t mind my saying so…”

Him: “…Uhm I think I just got a bit over excited by the chicken…”

Him “Mmmmm they are so good!”

N. in a husky voice “I’m glad you like my fajitas…you want to come again I hear?”

I’m sure it’s just my filthy mind but all I heard was -

“…artistic package”
“…got over excited…”
“mmmm…. so good”
“I’m glad you like my ‘fajitas’…”
“…you want to come again?

The Many Faces of Monica Galetti

What is this face?? Seriously? What is this?

Adam and Joe once asked the listeners in their ‘Text The Nation’ feature, (you’ll need to download my illustrated guide to the Adam and Joe show to understand this reference, assuming of course, that you give a fuck. Which I doubt.) what people they absolutely hated on the telly and many, many people (including myself) emailed in to complain about Masterchef.

They mostly complained about the way Greg Wallace eats (holding the fork or spoon backwards and then slowly, very slowly pulling it out of his mouth).

But I’ve recently discovered that Monica Galletti’s face-pulling ability (A judge/su-chef on Professional Masterchef – BBC) positively infuriates me. Every single time the camera pans back to her, she has a new and entirely ri-donc-ulous face on.

In fact that largely seems to be her role on the show. Cooking is just an additional bonus. I’m sure the producers tell her to do this because the amount of faces and the sheer range involved can’t be accidental.

This both winds me up and simultaneously fascinates me so much I’ve taken to screen-grabbing every time she makes a face. Each of the images below are totally separate shots.

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Melodrama in the Kitchen

I have always complained that dramatic things happened to other people and never to me.

I seem to spend my life watching other people do interesting things.

My school diary had about one page that was about me, while the rest was all about,

What Shipali did with Aditya, What Shreya said to Ayan, What Karishma did to Farzan, what Shanaha told this one. What that one did. Omg Haw!

I didn’t do anything. I was just the voyeur. The watcher. Observing the drama. Taking notes.

I wish that was still applicable these days (even though I’m still take notes, but now they’re just about myself).

I miss the good ol’ days of being on an emotional plateau.

So last Friday I nearly burnt down my kitchen.

I left some oil in a wok to heat, barely left the room for a minute before I heard this odd crackling noise and suddenly realized

“OH SHIT!! THE OIL!!!”

I walked into the hall, which had filled with a deeply ominous thick smoke floating at the top like rolling black waves.

The kitchen was pitch dark except for this eerie bright orange glow over the hob coming from the wok that was by now entirely engulfed in flames.

Being the pro that I am in a difficult situation, I then ran around in circles, waving my arms and yelling at the top of my voice,

“OHMYGODOHMYGOD! MONTY! THE KITCHEN IS ON FIRE!! THE KITCHEN IS ON FIRE!!”

I didn’t even think of turning the hob off. It was still burning away merrily, as I ran in a circle. I couldn’t think at all. We didn’t even have a fire extinguisher. I kept looking for this fire extinguisher we didn’t even have.

Monty hadn’t even noticed all the smoke. He came out of his room slightly confused before beginning to swear profusely and open all the doors and windows. He ran into the kitchen and quickly took the flaming wok outside.

He told me later that he just assumed the burning smell was my cooking.

The fire alarm never went off either (although if I must be honest, it going off would probably have panicked me even more).

Finally I remembered to turn the burner off. The wok had burned itself down outside in the cold. Then at last I could witness the devastation around me. Smoke everywhere, the plastic panels over the cooker hood lights had melted and warped, an oily soot covered the grill as well as the sides of the cupboards, while the exhaust and charcoal filter inside the cooker hood was a melted wreck of plastic and soot.

When I opened the cooker hood I the charcoal from the damaged exhaust exploded and spilled just about everywhere. (I spent half the night cleaning up all the bits of charcoal and burnt plastic.)

At this truly beautiful moment my ex walks in.

That’s when the drama really started.

I got a the evil eyes, scoldings and unhelpful sarcastic remarks.

That’s all well and good, but when things are going wrong the last thing you need is someone just telling you that things are wrong and how stupid you are. How is that helpful?

So I was in no mood to have my lack of any common sense rubbed in my face. I felt that any “I told you so’s” could have been saved for later, when there was less cleaning up to be done.

Additionally if anyone should have had a go at me, it was Monty, (and he was really helpful and not horrible at all.)

So I yelled.

If the ex wasn’t going to be helpful then the ex might as well just go. These nasty glares and stank face were seriously not required.

So the ex ran off into the street in a huff, to go back into town.

On the streets of London at night, one of the most persistent sights is groups of people, or couples, yelling, screaming and generally having a brawl.

You always look at them and,

1. Hope they don’t start brawling with you.
2. Smile because it’s so ludicrous to quarrel on the street. You would never do it.

Well the ex and I fucking did.

Half way down Brixton hill and back, at 1:00 in the morning.

Swearing, yelling. All sorts of abuses and accusations all triggered by my burning down the cooker hood.

By the time we got back to the flat and the ex had settled for the night on the living room couch, I thought

“This is it, for sure. It’s over now.”

By light of day, happily, things were much more reasonable.

We both woke up with sore throats and the urge to kiss and make up and then make some puri bhaji. (Which I was trying to make before all hell broke loose.)

I priced a new cooker hood and it was to my relief less expensive than I had feared.

Now I must call them up and ask them how the hell can I fix the damn thing to my wall.

Update:

It is not less expensive than I feared.

It is, in fact, exactly as gutting wrenchingly pricey as I imagined it would be.

Well no holiday for me in Easter. No shoes, no books, no nothing for a good while.

Damn. DAMN DAMN DAMN FUCK!

Why don’t I have a time machine?

Apple And Sausages

It is a strange yet intriguing fact that blogging about food seems to generate a lot of comments. Being the comment whore that I am, I intend to exploit this as much as possible.

Right now seems to be an ideal time to do so. ‘Ready Steady Cook’ is on TV and I’m also feeling quite drowsy and bloated (perfect for blogging) from stuffing myself with lunch that I actually, hallelujah, made myself from scratch. And it only took 10 minutes.

For me cooking should :

• Take minimal effort
• Minimal time
• Leave the least amount of dishes to clean

Apple and Sausages
Very yummy very easy.

Sausages

Finale

1. Oil in a pan, (30 secs)
2. Dump in sausages, (1 min)
3. While they brown cut up apples into chunks, (2 mins)
4. Bung the cut apples into the pan, (3 secs)
5. Sprinkle sage on top [I used dried sage but fresh, they say, is better] (30 secs)
6. Put some mustard in as well, couple of spoons I guess? (10 secs)
7. For some reason I put a small peg of apple juice in as well. I don’t know if that helped at all. (5 secs)
8. Anyway when everything looks like its cooked turn off heat (5-6 mins)
9. Place on a plate and eat (15 mins)

Total Cooking Time: 10 mins 18 secs
Total dishes/cutlery used: 1 frying pan, 1 plate, 1 fork, 2 knives

Tomorrow I shall tell you all about making sandwiches.
Welcome to the student food blog from now on.

Other helpful tips:

• Avoid eating more than one meal a day. It saves energy making it.
• Avoid eating food that takes time to prepare.
• Buy fruits and tomatoes and cheese, which are excellent for munchies.

Disclaimer: Any food poisoning is not my responsiblity.