The three minute breakfast

Thank you, Gordon Ramsay. What a brilliant idea. Poached egg, on mushrooms, on toast!

an egg
sliced baby portobello mushrooms, or any mushrooms
a slice of toast – in this case, rustic Italian from Amy’s on Bleecker Street

Put a small pan of water on to boil. Grab a frying pan, swish in a little olive oil and cook the mushrooms fast over a highish heat. Crack an egg into a small cup. Turn the boiling water down to a slow simmer, create a whirlpool, and gently tip the egg into it. Stick the bread in the toaster. In three minutes, the egg will be poached to perfection. Take it out of the water with a slotted spoon. Drain on kitchen paper. Pile the mushrooms on to the toast, and top with the poached egg. Scramble to take a photo of it before he eats it!

Bat sandwich

There are times when only bacon will do, whether it’s breakfast, lunch, or supper. Bacon with avocado is better still, as I learnt a few years ago in London. And bacon and avocado is further improved by fridge cold, juicy tomato slices. Bats, or bald mice, as they’re called in French, and which have nothing to do with this sandwich – are rather adorable. But dear, kind, ancient, TV-addicted Annie, who lived with my grandparents, maintained that bats got tangled in your hair and had to be cut free with scissors if you weren’t very careful, leaving you pretty bald as a result. I believed her until I realized it was nonsense. To this day, Dad is deeply scared of bats. Especially ones that fly into hotel rooms without warning.

A BAT, anytime, anywhere
Grill two rashers (slices) of really good bacon. The best you can get.
Cut an avocado in half. Slam the blade of a sharp knife into the stone, twist, pull out the stone, chuck it out. Patch up your hand with Band-Aid. Slice across the avocado without piercing the skin, then spoon out the slices on to a plate.
Slice a tomato.
Toast two pieces of bread.

Assemble. (Yes, of course it’ll fall out all over place. That’s OK, no one much is watching.) If you want to minimize the collapse, smush the avocado on to the toast before adding the bacon and tomato.

Spring is sprung

Spring is sprung,
The grass is riz.
I wonder where the birdie is?
They say the bird is on the wing …
Why, that’s absurd!
I thought the wing was on the bird!

New York is warming up! Comfort food, be gone. I feel picnics coming on.

‘Everything that’s in the fridge’ salad
a handful of cherry tomatoes
a radish or two
a couple of spring onions (scallions)
half a cucumber
some white or green asparagus spears
half a small pepper – any colour
a handful of mange tout or snow peas
some shelled edamame
two carrots
two celery sticks

Put a small pan of water on to boil. When it boils, throw in the asparagus spears, then the peppers, then the edamame, then the peas. Leave for a couple of minutes or so then drain and refresh in very cold water. Slice all the other ingredients into the finest, longest slices you can. Mix everything together in a large bowl. Dress the salad either with olive oil and lemon juice or with a light mix of sesame oil, soy and rice wine vinegar for a more Asian touch. A curiously therapeutic salad to make on a sunny day in March.

 

Informal things to sip

So I called my Japanese friend to ask how to cook the soba noodles. These being the buckwheat soba noodles that I bought not realizing that the instructions were written entirely in Japanese. Her answer? ‘Oh, come on. You know how to cook noodles!’ Very helpful, I must say. And my next question was what does mono mean in Japanese, because I was puzzled by the Japanese clear broth I’d bought, which was called osuimono. It obviously couldn’t mean the same as it does in Greek. Mono, in Japanese, apparently means things. And osuimono means things to sip. Good. That makes perfect sense. And the ‘o’ makes the ‘sui’ more formal. And so I learn something new …

Here’s a thoroughly informal slurpable soup
a sachet of osuimono
soba noodles
shiitake mushrooms, fresh or dried
pak (bok) choy
sliced spring onions (scallions)
finely sliced fresh ginger

No, I didn't take a bite out of it!

Cook the noodles according to packet instructions (if they’re in a language you understand). Or cook for about 5 minutes. Just keep an eye on them. Like Italian pasta, they shouldn’t go gloopy.
Put the contents of the packet of osuimono into a saucepan. Add boiling water.
Toss in the shiitakes if you’re using fresh ones. If you’re using dried ones, soak them first for 30 minutes in boiling water, then toss them in. Also toss in the ginger and spring onions. Finally, chuck in the pak choy and the noodles. Bring to a simmer. Decant into a bowl. Watch the rain fall outside. Slurp.

My friend Mr Leakey’s mangoes

I can’t so much as see a mango without at once visualizing a bath. It’s all JBS Haldane and Quentin Blake’s faults.

‘Aha,’ said Mr Leakey, ‘this is where I have a pull over Lord Melchett or the Duke of Westminster, or any other rich man. They might be able to get mangoes here by aeroplane, but they couldn’t give them as dessert at a smart dinner-party.’

‘Why not?’ I asked.

‘That shows you’ve never eaten one. The only proper place to eat a mango is in your bath. You see, it has a tough skin and a squashy inside, so when once you get through the skin all the juice squirts out. And that would make a nasty mess of people’s white shirts. D’you ever wear a stiff-fronted shirt?’

Mango and blueberry dessert for stiff-fronted shirts
a ripe mango
two handfuls of blueberries
thick Greek yoghurt
a teaspoon of acacia honey
a sprig of mint

Get the mango and turn it into a hedgehog, like this. Cut in half along the stone. Then cut first lengthways, then horizontally, without piercing the skin. Now turn inside out.

Blitz the blueberries with two tablespoons of yoghurt. Next, in a clean blitzing thing, blitz about half the mango, two more tablespoons of yoghurt, and a teaspoon of honey.

Layer the blueberry yoghurt mix at the bottom of a glass, scatter over fresh blueberries. Next layer the mango yoghurt and scatter over fresh mango. Add a sprig of mint. Good enough for any dinner party, or just a solitary indulgence.

Call me soppy …

… but it makes me smile. Some mornings I walk into the bedroom and find the bed made (that’s normal and good). Other mornings, I find the bed made and a convention of teddy bears (or ‘stuffed animals’ in American English, which always seems a bit too close to taxidermy for my liking,) engrossed in conversation. That’s just one of several reasons I make his lunch to take to work. And yes, I’m on a tofu kick again.

Chinese broccoli, tofu and ginger for a cheerless day
Chinese broccoli
firm tofu, cut into cubes
ginger, finely diced
garlic, finely sliced
3 or 4 spring onions (scallions), sliced
a dribble of peanut or sesame oil
soy sauce
a teaspoon of peanut butter
hot water

You could obviously substitute pak (bok) choy, Chinese cabbage, spinach, or any other leafy green vegetable you like for broccoli. It’s just what I happened to have kicking round the fridge. Bring a pan of water to a fast boil, drop in the Chinese broccoli, and parboil for a minute or two till it turns vivid green. Drain and run under freezing cold water to stop it cooking any further. (Alternatively, go and treat yourself to dim sum, order far too much broccoli and bring it home, which will mean you can skip that last step.) Put the tofu on a couple of sheets of kitchen paper to get rid of the excess water, and cut into cubes. In a frying pan, with the peanut or sesame oil, ginger, garlic and spring onions, stir fry the tofu until it begins to turn golden brown. Add in the Chinese broccoli and heat through. Finally, mix together the soy, peanut butter, and sesame oil with a tablespoon of hot water. Dress the tofu and broccoli with this concoction. Boot the other half out of the house and off to work so you can get on with something much more important, like taking daft photos of a teddy bears’ picnic with your iPhone.

Jet black with pink

The thought of glossy jet black rice contrasted with baby pink shrimps was suddenly irresistible, so I did it. I’d intended to make some noodly concoction along the same lines, but then I was in Bed, Bath and Beyond trying to buy some water glasses to replace the ones I smash daily, when a pack of rice caught my eye. I have no patience with doing the same thing twice in a year, so …

Black rice and shrimp salad

Black or mahogany rice, or a blend thereof, which is what’s in this photo, or any other rice (as long as it’s blackish)
tiny cooked shrimps, or bigger if little ones aren’t available – does size matter? No, whatever’s available will be fine, though beware the really tasteless ones that have been cooked, frozen and air-miled out of their tiny little minds –
spring onion (scallions) cut on a slant
red pepper, finely sliced
a scattering of shelled edamame beans
fresh ginger, cut into matchsticks
fresh coriander (cilantro) leaves to make it pretty

Cook the rice according to packet instructions (usually for longer than seems feasible or reasonable). Drain and run under freezing cold water to arrest cooking.
Bring a small pan of water to the boil and throw in the peppers for a minute, then the spring onions for a further 30 seconds. Drain and run under freezing cold water.
Combine rice, shrimps, peppers, ginger and onions. Dress with sesame oil and soy sauce. Scatter over coriander leaves.

It doesn’t get much easier than this. No longer ‘jet black and pink’, more ‘multi-coloured rainbow’ but who cares?

Kippers from the Raj to New York

My grandmother, who lived to 97, was born in April 1908, in the foothills of the Himalayas.

From Kathgodam, you travel 40 miles along a road once described as a ‘cart road’, to Nainital, a town that Jim Corbett, tiger-hunter, and my great-grandparents, lived in. The house my grandmother was born in, Plains View, still stands to this day, complete with English roses in the garden.

For the Hindus, Nainital is the direct result of the eye of the goddess Parvati falling to earth as her bereaved husband, Lord Shiva, performed a tandava across the skies, carrying the half-charred corpse of his wife. The modern Nainital was founded by Mr P Barron, a British sugar trader from Shajahanpur, in Uttar Pradesh, who got lost while hunting in the area. Mesmerized by the beauty of the eye-shaped lake and the seven forested hills that surround it, he resolved to turn the place into a refuge and resort for colonial officials and soldiers.

Back in the kitchen of my West Village apartment, on a particularly grey and drizzly day, here is …

Kedgeree for supper – an Anglo-Indian dish
(unconventional but it works) kippers –
I can’t find smoked haddock in NYC, which is what, traditionally, should form the basis of this dish. I bought these at Citarella on 6th Avenue.

basmati rice
an onion, finely chopped
fresh parsley or coriander (cilantro) leaves
a couple of hard boiled eggs – organic, obviously
a smidgen of turmeric
good quality curry powder (up to you how hot you want it – I suggest mild)
(optional) bashed coriander seeds and cumin seeds
(very optional) a handful of peas

This is the 20 minute version. Sweat off the onions in a drizzle of olive oil or olive oil and butter until translucent. Add the curry powder (and bashed up spices if you feel like bashing something). Leave on the heat for a few minutes to soak up the flavours. In the interim, cook the rice according to the instructions on the pack. Drain, cool under the cold tap to stop it cooking further. Also heat up or cook the kippers according to the instructions. Boil the eggs and dunk immediately in cold water to avoid that nasty grey ring effect round the yolks when you quarter them. Flake the fish, discarding all bones and skin. Peel and quarter the eggs. Now combine the whole lot in the same frying pan you used for the onions. Add peas if using, check for seasoning, heat through, and scatter over fresh parsley or coriander leaves to serve.

Kipper kedgeree: a cultural memory, from Nainital to New York.

Tofu or not tofu?

All my life I have churlishly and misguidedly thought that tofu was deeply suspect. It used to conjure up images of old hippies with floral patterned flares, dodgy sandals, and beat up camper vans. I also decided it was bound to be slimily tasteless. But now, having tried EN Japanese Brasserie’s made on the hour, every hour, freshly-scooped tofu, I know better.

An extremely waist-friendly stir fry
firm tofu, cut into little squares
a handful of mange tout or snow peas
a handful of fresh spinach leaves
finely sliced red and green peppers
some green beans, blanched for a minute
shelled edamame beans
4 or 5 spring onions (scallions)
slivers of ginger
a squirt of peanut, sesame or olive oil
a dribble of soy sauce

Over high heat, quickly stir fry all the ingredients, adding them in this order: peppers and onions; edamame beans, ginger, green beans and tofu; peas and spinach. This takes 5 minutes in total. Drizzle over some soy sauce. End of story. And for anyone who’s interested, this scores two points on Weight Watchers. Happy waistline …

The pea soup ferry to Flushing

Pea soup is one thing. Pea soup with a frankfurter in it on a blustery day in the middle of Zeeland, south-west Netherlands, when you’re under ten is quite another. A regular treat we had as kids was an excursion on what became known as the pea soup ferry. The pea soup ferry used to carry cars from Breskens to Vlissingen (Flushing), but was discontinued in 2003 when a transport planner thought that building the Westerschelde bridge was a better idea. Clearly that person had no idea how good the pea soup was. My Dutch friend, Tom, is a transport planner. It was probably all his fault.

Pea soup with mandatory Frankfurter, many years later

a packet of frozen peas (obviously), though fresh are good, they have to be really fresh and it’s five times the work
good quality vegetable stock, or organic chicken stock, homemade or bought
an onion
the best Frankfurters you can lay your hands on
fresh mint to garnish or add to the soup (optional)
salt, pepper, olive oil

Gently sweat the onion in olive oil till translucent. Chuck in the peas and stock. Simmer. Talk to your mum on iChat. While that’s happening, heat the frankfurters in barely simmering water. Come back ten to fifteen minutes later. Blitz the pea soup with a hand blender while thinking of your least favourite person (the transport planner, for instance). Season to taste. Pour into a large mug. Drop in a hotdog. Cuddle up on the sofa and wish you were still under ten. Things were simpler then. Just like this recipe.

Tom, the transport planner