Borough Market Photos

Took the new camera out last Saturday since it was the hottest weekend of the year. Gloriously sunny and not a cloud in sight.

I still wore a thermal and a coat.

I don’t trust these meteorologists and their optimistic predictions. I especially don’t trust the British weather.

Rule of thumb – always carry a jacket and/or a sweater.

I haven’t been to Borough market since I was a fresh-faced foreigner just off the boat, although there are shots of it on nearly every cooking show – Masterchef and Market Kitchen especially.

I was shamelessly taking photos like a tourist all over the shop. I don’t even look kosher because the camera is so small and clearly not the camera of a professional photographer, but it does the job and 12 Mega Pixels (not just regular big pixels, but ‘Mega’ pixels. I wonder who named it? It’s rather lame.) is a lot of pixels for someone who never prints but likes to imagine she will one day.

A friend bought some Pate and got another one free since the seller was closing for the evening which she then bestowed on to me. So I got some free pate! Better than that Sainsbury’s crap. Smooth, creamy and utterly spreadable on toast. I ate it 2 days in a row.

Anyway here you go, lots of photos. I rarely am able to exercise restraint with a camera in hand.

Market light under dome

Parsley & Blood Orange

Free Taste Girl. The Free taste was way too salty. Horrid stuff. I pretended to like it.

Free Taste Green Curry. They were loudly yelling 'Free Taste' for ages. I don't know who was buying.

Pork & Liver. Mmmmm liver looks so good raw.

Colourful Chalkboard at the Juice Stall

Purple Flower. Not sure what flower this is.

Herbs, Flowers and a Stall Lady

Veg Boxes

Lily at posh Florist

In Season painted board & Lavender

Flowers by wall

Apples, Pears and Pimms. There really couldn't be a better combo.

Walk back via London Bridge southbank walk

Tower Bridge with Tree

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.

Sausage Nipples

Zion The Sausage Queen

We went to a lovely BBQ last sunday.

I brought sausages, mini burgers and Ginger beer.

The ex refuses to eat the ends of sausages – Cutting them off instead, rather delicately with a knife.

I remarked they looked just like nipples and promptly ate them with gusto.

The ex cringed. It’s true they did look like nipples. Not that’s unappetising - Delicious sausages! Fresh off the barbi

I haven’t ever been to a fetish/sexy-party club night.

I’d like to go just to see it maybe once in my life, but the ex said my tolerance level would be 20 mins or so, then I’d be bored and want to leave.

(Quite true. Watching other people have sex is like watching people play tennis. What’s the point? I’m not playing tennis.)

The ex said,

“Of course I would probably stay longer.”

So I don’t understand if you’re willing to watch real people, regular flabby people even having sex in public, then what’s the problem with the sausage nipples?

Headline for May 30, 2011:

Man addicted to sausages seeks help

Best quote:

‘Apparently I just like sausages, plain and simple,’ Mr Harding said, after admitting that therapy hasn’t helped.

Domestic Comforts

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This is a highly domesticated post. Bear with me. Or skip it if you prefer.

I’m going through some phase with eggs. There used to be a point when I couldn’t stand them.

Now they’re the highlight of my weekend. The ex was jetting about on a British Passport, to Milan dahling, while I was at home making eggs.

I’ve only now realised there’s no need to chuck the ruined eggs (if the water boils over the cups). It doesn’t matter if they get submerged in water. Idiot I am.)

Russell Moore, that genius man, introduced me to the cling-film method which I haven’t tried yet but this video makes it look easy enough.

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

Masterchef Finale. Alas.

I’m behind on all my cooking shows. There are so many all on at the same time I’m struggling to keep up.

I’m also watching 7 bids on eBay. I’m no longer even sure if I really want to win them or I’m afraid to win them now because if I win all of them I will be broke. 52 x Agatha Christie’s and 34 x Barbara Cartland’s. Then 24, 14, 6, 6, 14 Barbara Cartland’s.

I bid for all of these at 2:00 a.m. Saturday morning. The ex was away. When the ex is away my life falls apart. I do nothing, I eat poorly, I stay up way too late and regret it all by the end of an unproductive weekend.

Back to my neglected cooking programs, I noticed that Hugh Fearnly Whittingstall, his wife and his mother all seem identical. In the hair department especially. Maybe its a Dorset thing. Maybe its a farmer, farmers wife, farmer’s mother thing.

Unless that’s his sister and his mother.

Or both….which would be wrong…. very, very wrong. I had to screen grab it regardless.

The Fearnly-Whittingstall Thriplets

I finally got around to watching the finale of Masterchef. On a similar note why won’t this Masterchef guy below just wash his hair and buy a couple of sweat bands? He’s been looking damp for weeks now. I’m surprised he isn’t growing his own mold.

A towel, can’t he just get a towel and some sweat pads?

So greasy & sweaty, terrified too.

Even Michel Roux Jr. has had enough of the sweating. Look how mad he is. Crazy mad.

He's appalled. Just Appalled. "Wash your hair man!", he says.

And so we come to the end of beloved Masterchef. No more cooking show updates after this. One can screen grab Nigellas boobs only so often. (this is, of course, debatable)

To celebrate the end of Masterchef, that genius man Russell Moore sent me this brillpots video and I laughed so hard I nearly cried. I feel its my bound duty to share and share alike. It’s everything I could have wanted from a Masterchef finale parody….

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.

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?