Wednesday 29 April 2015

Imagine...if you will

Imagine, if you will, the following...

I dawned shorts that day. Which if you know me, I rarely ever do. I wore my old school tee that says "I Love My Fry Guys," which was a canary yellow with a faded picture of the MacDonald's fry guy characters plastered on the front.

My instinct is to turn on the oven first. Years of classical training tells me I would much rather have the oven wait on me than vice versa.

I yank the freezer door open and a gust of icy air hits my face. I look at the Tetris-like masterpiece that is my frozen foods section. Delicately organized so that if I pull out my tub of French vanilla ice cream I won't get be knocked out by an avalanche of frozen solid whole chickens or a sack of frozen carrots. 

On the door is a shelf where my packet of neatly wrapped phyllo pastry slept. I should have pulled it out sooner but this was an impromptu baking session.

I saunter over to the microwave which I've now knighted as "Chef Mike" (Mike, like short for Microwave...I think it's clever no?) He can zap the hell out of anything you put in him. He can cook or REcook if you don't give him clear instructions. In this case, he was set up to merely thaw my pastry just enough so I can work with it.

20 second intervals. Chef Mike sometimes gets carried away.

I return to the refrigerator, this time to the chill chest, and more specifically, the cheese drawer. Yes, I actually store my cheese in the cheese drawer. 

I then pull out my ricotta (250 g to be exact) and proceed to drain it over a fine sieve. Why? Ricotta has quite a bit of moisture, moisture I didn't need.

Chef Mike beeps at me.  I open him up to find my pastry thawed and ready.  I replace pastry with a small bowl containing butter.  I love the smell of melting butter and prepared myself to once again relish the lofty aroma of that milky, nutty, and dare I say fatty liquefied butter.  I put my electronic sous chef to work once more.

I gently unwrap the papyrus thin leafs of phyllo.  I only need enough to make six. I take out what I need and replace the rest in a ziplocked baggy and back in the fridge. I'll make Salmon Wellingtons this week I said to the inner self, justifying ways to eat more of that crispy buttery pastry.

I take one sheet, lay it on my bench. Opp, uhh! My hair falls in my face. It wasn't a tactful hairstyle, using just a clip to hold my hair back.  I run to the powder room and readjust. I have too much hair on my head, time for a haircut? I quickly call the salon to book an appointment for the following day.  How easily I digress.

Back to my pastry, that I playfully paint the warm liquid gold, slightly salted, over the first sheet. Sugar and spice makes everything nice! I sing to myself as I then scatter a blend of cinnamon and castor sugar over the buttery layer.  My finger tips glisten from the oily shellack and the grainy texture of the sugar. I lick my thumb and then my index and middle fingers together. 

So imagine, if you will: Savoury-sweet. But more sweet than savoury! Rich slightly salted melted butter with a lingering warmth of cinnamon and flash of sweetness at the end. What does it remind you of? Christmas? Thanksgiving? Maybe Snickerdoodles? When's the last time you had a Snickerdoodle? *note to self...make Snickerdoodles*

I finished the layers trying not to lick my fingers between each addition.  Who cares? I'm the only one eating them! Might as well lick the pan you're going to bake them in! I dared myself. No, no...no licking pans or fingers. I frantically wash my hands. Then I washed them again after each layer. A thought of my childhood flashes by, as I remember licking the last Dorrito chip in the bowl before my little brother could get to it. The things kids do. Haha!

I had doctored up cylinders out of tin-foil, 6 in total, to wrap my greasy sheets of cinnamon-sugar around. They held well and sat in military fashion, 2 up 3 across. I like military fashion. I liked the tidiness of it. 

Into the oven my six butter cigars go. I turn my attention to the heart of the matter. The ricotta cream.  

I push down with my finger, the top of the cheese, stark white and fluffy. If clouds had a flavour, I'd hope it tasted like whipped ricotta cheese with vanilla and sugar.  

I plop the billowy puff of ricotta into a bowl and turned it round and round with my rubber spatula. I pull open my baking cupboard and tip-toe to reach my warm spices. You know the ones...

The ones that taste of comfort and joy. Of mulled wine and apple pie. Maybe banana bread or plum pudding. A flashback to my Nanny's Black Cake comes to mind.

But I don't need ALL of these to appear. This is about the creamy unctuousness of that ricotta! So my final choice...freshly grated nutmeg. Less often means more.

Sand paper sounds of the hard husky nutmeg grated over the ricotta floating down like delicious saw dust. The fragrance reminds me of eggnog. Nutmeg has the ability to make the mellowest of flavour profiles become rich and satisfying. Nutmeg = Magic. Not too much, as we decided, less is more.

I turn to the other end of my counter top and see a brown jar that says "SUGAR" on the front. Beside that jar were two other jars that say "COFFEE" and the other "TEA." I feel compelled to make a cuppa (tea) and do so in my favourite teacup. 

Imagine, if you will: A kettle whistles. Water is boiled. On standby is a teabag and 2 lumps of sugar in a small teacup.  Now, pour your just boiled water into that idle cup.  Watch it go from clear to rusty red, then to an almost crimson brown. Clanking your teaspoon in that cyclone of orange pekoe, crushing those sweet lumps, dissolving.  Keep stirring, and while you do, pour that milk (or in my case evaporated milk) in the middle of that typhoon. A pinch of cardamom powder and sip.

But my affair with my sugar tin was not over. I grab a tablespoon and add a scoop into my ricotta. Whipping and folding, adding vanilla then chopped dark chocolate. Have I made too much?  I mean there's only 6 cannolis. I could make more shells if need be. No need to waste such a lovely filling. Then I thought...No, you can't just EAT the rest. Crazy.

I rest my ricotta mash-up in the fridge, and continue to sip my tea.  I peep in the oven, oh! The shells look well tanned.  They lay on a red sil-pat, sizzling away like they've spent the day at the beach, fell asleep and woke up just in time to turn over, and NOT burn. 

I catch a hint of the cinnamon as I open the oven door and I get excited! I do a little half-time performance in my kitchen doing a pirouette on my tip-toes. Socked feet, grey surfer shorts that say "Billabong" on the tush and my beloved fry guys tribute tee.  Super Bowl, eat your heart out! Keep your chili dogs and nachos with Chez-Wiz...I got the cannolis!

I remove my crackly cinnamony vessels of joy out of the oven and allow them to cool.  

Now...the waiting game.  Everyone involved in this operation needs to chill out. Time to check Twitter, Facebook...Twitter again.  Oh Instagram, Facebook. Comment, comment, like, wait no, UNlike...nah Like it anyways.  WhatsApp, change settings, change background. Download app. Uninstall it, because it's the wrong one.  

Wait. Let's decorate these babies! I run back to the kitchen, grab the chocolate and give Chef Mike another assignment. I begin to riffle through my baking cupboard again to find pistachios and spill them frantically across my cutting board.

Slicing through emeralds. My chef's knife rocks back and forth to create a crumble of green gems scattered on my wooden block.  I scoop them into a bowl, my chocolate melted perfectly. Chef Mike to the rescue! 

I dip one end and then the other into the shiny chocolate. 

Imagine, if you will: Velvet chocolate, rippled cocoa ribbons looking for a companion to meet, fall in love with and never let go of. That companion is Her Majesty, the elegant pistachio who sits in a bowl beside him. The soft texture of the warm chocolate collides with chopped jewels of verdant wonder and they join. A holy matrimony indeed.

I fetch my filling and load it into a zip-locked bag.  I snip the corner and begin to pipe the filling into the cooled and bedazzled cylinder. From one end, then the other, the pastries fill up. 

I line them up, once again, in military fashion. This time on a white platter. 

My heart leaps. I feel inspired. I feel happy. 

To the gentleman who inspired the idea and then to write it down, I say many thanks.

Here's hoping your imagination tastes what I write!

With love,

The Girl who Likes to Cook

xo 







Tuesday 28 April 2015

Georgetown Mornings


The distinctive chime of a bicycle bell. A rap on the door. 
My eyes stare up at the rickety ceiling fan spinning slowly as if to make the room warmer before getting cooler.
Sssss click sssss click.

It turns and whirls in its turquoise glory pushing the cob webs in the corners aside with its less than adequate breeze.

My toes stick to the freshly mopped hard wood floor as I creep to the edge of the kitchen where Nanny, my grandmother, stood.

She swats the fruit flies away from sliced pink guava gleaming on the windowsill.
"Milk man here! Edward, take the change from the table we need 3 bottles for today!" Her raspy voice calls out the window down to the courtyard.

Sweet onions sizzle and a chopped tomato hisses as it hits the skillet.
The tapping of eggs as if they're dancing in a boiling watery bath, 
Doing a jig at the bottom of an aluminium pot.

The smell of bread being toasted over the stove top and the sizzle of butter in a scorching warped frying pan.

She glances in my direction to catch me peaking around the corner, rubbing sleep from my eyes and yawning a gulp of morning air into my lungs. Shy me...my face grows warm and I try to make a mad dash.
But she scoops me up and kisses my face.

"You're the first and that's why you get the most love" my Nanny says as she sits me on counter top.  Her touches of grey hair around her temples fade to black with her neatly tied up-do.  Her frock, navy blue with small pink flowers, feels silky as I thumb the corner of her sleeve.  She cuts slices of cheese and lays them on the china plate next to the saltine crackers slathered with rich butter so yellow it reminds me of Big Bird's feathers.

I wiggle my bottom to the edge and leap hoping my acrobatics would impress her. Not to mention my stunning Care Bear pj's were also quite impressive.

I hear mom stirring in the living room with her sisters. Dad sits at the long cherry wood dining table, flipping through the local newspaper, shaking his head and furrowing his eyebrows.

Nanny misses my dismount and I land with a thud. She turns and I make my escape. My feet grip the sea foam green kitchen tiles as I collide into him.

The smell of Old Spice Aftershave fills my nose and I throw my arms around Nana's burly neck. Once again I'm mid-air in his arms. Swinging me, twirling me as I giggle. A dignified man he was.  Serious yet silly.  His tickles would bring me close to suffocation...death by laughter.

In his pocket he carried a single tiny notebook, wrapped with multi-coloured rubber bands and a pencil. I always wondered what so important in that little book that it needed to be held so tightly with elastics. Next to that was a small comb, in case of a hair emergency.  For a man his size, he dressed to impress. Platinum white hair with a touch of noir slicked in place strand by strand. Important business for an important man.

Tea simmers away and boiled eggs are peeled. The kitchen overflows with the scent of something growing crispy and golden. I can smell how deliciously brown its becoming. She lines up dish after dish, and the aroma floats through the house.  All 4 of my uncles rumble up the stairs passing mom, highly focused on the delicious presentation steaming away at the table.
                    
But my grandfather, Mr. Oscar, The Boss...whom I called Nana, carries me away in my laughing state to the veranda.

The clip clop of hooves, the smell of diesel in the open air. Palm trees peak over terra cotta roofs and in the distance I see Edward carrying a sack of rice on his head and a bucket of blue crabs in his hand.

Nana made me a special bench that I sat on as we watched together; a Georgetown morning come to life.

I was the first one after all. A seat that's just for me.

Then appeared a mystery.

A bowl. A stainless steel one polished to shine and entice.

"Eh boss! Boss! Where we keep de 3/4 inch bolts? I find de nut dem but no bolts!"
The voice of Uncle Tarquin echoed up to him over the concrete.
"Check the back store room!"

The banter over and under the veranda still didn't get me to take my eyes off that bowl he held so firmly in his hands. His fingers were chubby, I looked at mine, tiny and pale.

What's in it? Is it for me? What could it be?

He sits in his wicker chair as if it were a throne and he like a King. His hard hands grip mine with grace and finally I managed to sneak a peak...the contents of this mysterious bowl.

"Come. Let me show you how to eat and enjoy!" He bellows in his deep voice.
There they were, mangoes small and leathery. With beauty marks of black and rosy pink cheeks.

He placed the ripe fruit in my hands, as he held one of his own.

"Do like what I do," he said.  Holding the mango and bringing it to his lips. He bit a hole into the greenish yellow flesh and tore it with his mouth.  I did the same and the bitter skin left a tingle on my tongue.

Slowly he tore the skin with his fingers, "But don't pull it all off, leave enough to hold, baby..."

The smell was rich and sweet. As florescent orange as the sun, the daunting task of eating this mango is too complicated. How? Where do I start?

He smiles, then laughs! His belly shakes as he shows his toothy grin from ear to ear. He watches on in amusement. Blushing again, I wipe my face with the back of my arm as the juice drips down my chin and onto my blue and white sleeper.

"I don't know how..." I say "Cut it for me?" I ask.  Holding up the mushy, man-handled mango - batting my eye lashes.

"Eh!" He bellows! I jump in my seat.
"Learn to eat it the right way! Come now, try!"

Frustrated.  I don't care! So I bite down. I tear in and sink my teeth into this golden fruit.  Feeling my teeth hit the stone in the middle I hold on for dear life.  I just may lose this fruit if I don't!

Chewing away, slurping up the pulp while licking my fingers. My cheeks are sticky, and the stringy pieces of fleshy fruit catch my teeth and tongue.  Like shrapnel after a grenade going off, strewed bits of green and yellow peel lay on the concrete floor of the balcony.  I flick the skin off my fingers, and it lands on my toe. It is then I notice my pj's are no longer the same colour as when I woke up that morning.

An orange abstract painting on my one perfectly clean jammies.

I look up and see mom watching me through the rot-iron gate of the veranda. Gently smiling. 

I then see him neatly devour his fruit with not so much as a lost drop. He pears up and grins as he pulls out his handkerchief. Wiping my chin, fingers, hands and my toe. Then lifting me to sit on his lap to complete mission: clean-up.

I hear the clattering of plates, men talking loudly, then sharply interrupted by a honk from the lorry in the street.

He carries me through the house once again and puts me down in front of that cherry wood table where my uncles and father sit. My smile wide, mango in one hand, and yellow handkerchief in the other. A sense of victory. I did it.  I ate my first mango. Properly.

He sits at the head of the table, joining his sons and begins to eat from the spread in front of him, laughing and chuckling.

Nanny picks me up, holds me over the sink and washes my face. Sitting in her lap she feeds me breakfast...so begins my day...

So goes my Georgetown Morning

xo,

A Girl Who Likes to Cook & Loves to Eat - age 5 and a half


Tuesday 14 April 2015

She is Shy...

She is shy with
Long black hair
Twisted into a bun

She still wears kajal over
Chestnut shaped eyes

Smiles to herself in the locker room
As she slips a crisp chef's jacket
Over slender shoulders.

She is shy.
She gracefully drapes an apron 
Over her hips, hiding her petite body

She is shy.
Seeking shelter behind the bench 
Kneading golden pasta dough

Shy she is...
Day dreaming of a mysterious man
Who loves pastries and 
Midnight picnics on the beach 

She giggles at the thought 
She blushes to herself
She bites her lip 
She is shy

She confidently stirs
White wine beurre blanc
Gingerly seasons with finger tips
Tasting on the back of her hand

She ran back to the walk-in
Tip-toeing reaching to the top shelf
Fresh herbs, bright and green

Sharpens a knife
Shiffonade

The side door opens
Frank the Bread Guy
Italian Olive oil skin and built bakers arms
Dusty brown hair and hard jaw line

She blushes again
Frank says hello
She smiles as she tugs her apron

Indeed she is shy but still has
A voice that is gentle but firm


Bursts of steam billow from ovens
Dead of summer
Blistering hot kitchen

Sweat trickles down her spine
Pooling at the dip of her back
A crisp white chef's jacket
No longer hides that petite figure
But clings to her curves

Her knife skills are precise
Her palette is developed
But she never claims perfection

She is shy
And She is strong
Will lift a sack of potatoes on her own

She won't take the credit
Humbled by the compliments

She stays behind the scenes
Happy to peak out at a
Live service, smiling customers
Jolly tummies

She caves to her sweet tooth
Sharing the last slice of tiramisu
With Capone, her partner in crime
Kitchen duo

He yanks her side towel
And flicks the back of her ear
Undoes her hair

She pouts
Burns him with her gaze
Elbows him in the ribs
Pulls the draw string on his apron

Endurance to go to the end
A heavy sigh at the close of the night
A coy smile and a sensation of relief
Face glowing
Eyeliner smudged

She is shy
But has energy to last
Passion to drive

She is shy 
But she's tough

Still a lady

She is shy
She is a chef
She is A Girl who Likes to Cook


xo,

The Girl 






Tuesday 7 April 2015

At First Sight of You

Funny how love at first sight gets you. And if it does, how lucky do you feel? Maybe you feel a little mad? A touch of insanity? Loopy and dizzy yet alive! As if each cell in your body has one single purpose, and that is to attain your muse.

*giggle*

Sometimes...crazy is good.

At First Sight of You
I recall the first time I saw you, I wasn't alone. 
And I blushed, feeling my face grow hot.
I held my breath.

This is love and,
Love is simple. 

And since I had heard about you before 
Then finally was given the opportunity to meet face to face...
I couldn't object, it would be rude, no?

Then there you were...
Oh my heart fluttered the second you appeared. 

Life wasn't the same again.

I fixed my hair and bit my lip as I often do. 

My palms were in a fist and I could feel 
A trickle 
A shiver slip down my spine
I wiggled in my little black dress.

But you looked aloof. 
Maybe you're just confident in your simple existence. 
How wicked you play! 

In my bold and eager manner 
I looked you up then down. 
Your glow, your heat and then I catch a hint of your sweet smell. 
Gosh, what are you doing to me? 

You're wearing me down...
And how!
Very few possess the power oh but you
You...How wicked you play, indeed!                
                              
   
Through amber stained glass windows you peak up to see me 

And knowing so shamelessly I stare back at you.  
I'm looking through you searching for maybe a sign?
Or maybe a secret.             

I cannot resist you. 

My mind began to flicker out of frustration and excitement. 
You looked so good and I want to jump into you. 
Golden, Silky...I bet your taste....sigh intoxicating...      

The crazy is setting in! 

You make me want to ruin you to get to you. 
Crush you. 
Destroy your simple perfection.
So no one else will want you...only me

I need you badly. I cannot fight my desire to have you any longer!

I lose control and I hit you. Then I hit you again.  

It excites me because now I see your inner beauty. 
Now mine.
I dig deep into you and my eyes close.

You're sweeter than my imagination lead me to believe.  

Your cool yet tough shield was easy for me to break, 
Like you wanted me to shatter you into pieces.  
My intentions were to get to all of you and I did.

Like satin you wrap around me. 

Your taste is on my tongue. 
I've forgotten where I am and the company I keep.

And in a flash I loved you. You loved me. Then you disappeared.  

Leaving me longing for our next mad encounter.

You made me crazy over you

You made me crave you. 
I tried to forget how deliciously bad  
Yet how blissfully good you make me feel...

You are the one

You are the end of days
You are my first Creme Brulee...