Okay, well, not everything, exactly. The bit about making it out of flour and butter is pretty important. And water. I'm talking about the bit where you have to get the little globs of butter just the right size — not too big, not too small — in order not to end up with pastry the consistency of damp cardboard.
So perhaps it would be more accurate to say 'forget 10% of what you know about puff pastry'. (It's a pretty crucial 10 percent. But then, I'm being mighty presumptuous about your familiarity with puff pastry, so let's all agree that the intro to this blog post is a bit of a disaster and move on, shall we?)
If, like me, you have a fraught relationship with puff pastry (the making thereof, not the eating), you'll want to read this post on Serious Eats.
I don't do butter-cutting. The practice reminds me of those depressingly interminable afternoons (double lessons) spent in Mrs Foulks' Home Economics classes, learning to make scones, or some such. She was humourless, ill-tempered and squint. (It was only after a few minutes of plodding castigation — directed squarely at the person to my left — that I'd realise she was talking to me.)
There was a lot of butter-cutting in Home Ec.
So, these days, on the odd occasion that a powerful craving for quiche hits — and a memory lapse means said craving is unobstructed by recollections of many, many failed attempts at making puff pastry — to the food processor I go.
And cock it up completely.
Usually, I forget that the desired consistency — before adding the water — is crumbly, not mashed potato.
So there I stand, at 8pm on a Wednesday night, staring in horror at a bowl of floury paste. The fact that I'm hungry and tired tips this event from the 'minor inconvenience' category into the 'this is more tragic than The English Patient' category.
What to do?
Start crying, for starters.
Perplexingly, this has no effect on the pastry.
I should have just made an omelette with the egg ingredients and called it a night, but some part of me (which I refer to as 'Scarlet' because it reminds me of that scene in Gone with the Wind when she clenches her fist and says, 'As God is my witness, I'll never be hungry again!' all tenacious-like) was determined to make quiche, even if it meant eating at 3am. So thank fuck I found the Serious Eats post titled 'The Science of Pie Dough'. It uses science (and words) to tell us why not only is the homogenous gloop outcome not the end of the world, it might actually be preferable.
All you do is add some more flour and mash it in with a spatula.
For me, this was a revelation on par with learning how to colour my own hair, or go on Facebook at work without my colleagues noticing (i.e. profound).
Of course, this could all be about as interesting to you as the annual Anglo-American fiscal report.
Use it, don't use it.
Life's too short to be cutting butter, is all I'm saying.
Oh, and someone told me I need to put the word Christmas in my post a lot if I want to get loads of hits, so... Christmas, Christmas, Christmas, Christmas, Christmas, Christmas, Christmas, Christmas, Christmas, Christmas, Christmas, Christmas, Christmas, Christmas, Christmas, Christmas, Christmas, Christmas, Christmas, Christmas, Christmas, Christmas.
Though it pains me to say it, I am not immune to the charms of the cultural phenomenon that is kale: curer of cancer, rescuer of kittens from trees, solver of the crisis in the Middle East... At least, you'd think that was the least of its magical powers, the way people go on about it.
Now, I have been favourably disposed towards kale for quite some time. I read about cavalo nero ('black cabbage', not kale, but close enough) in the first River Cafe cookbook the Guinea Pig bought me about 10 years ago, and was completely seduced by the dark, velvety leaves: they seemed mysterious, potent, and infused with the sense of rustic romance westerners wilfully impose on all things Italian. Of course, back then, no one in SA had even heard of it, except members of the most esoteric food circles. Today, Woolies stocks kale, and it's a best-seller at farmers' markets. Yesterday, I bought several bunches of cav. nero and kale at OZCF.
Now, if you have a food blog addiction, as I do — particularly of the health-obsessed, manic-pixie-dream-girl variety, God help me — you will almost certainly have encountered more than a few kale salads. Kale and blueberry salads, more specifically.
Because super foods.
Most people (and I include myself in this) who describe themselves as 'health-conscious' — actually, let's say ... most people, in general — are sitting ducks for marketers. Man, whoever invented the term 'super food' must surely have their own hallowed shrine in the Museum of Marketing. (I suspect it was Dr Oz.)
Blueberries were the first to be ordained a 'super food' (correct me if I'm wrong?), and all us 'healthies' (cringe) ran out to buy them. And still do. Thanks to that success, a slew of other foods, mostly exotic, began to vie for the super food title, like a messy, produce version of WWE SmackDown.
Gogi berries. Cacao nibs. Black soy beans. Edamame. Chia seeds. Hemp seeds... Eventually this trend culminated in the deification of kale: a humble, tough, bitter-tasting member of the cabbage family.
The problem is, we're after that magic bullet that's going to give us perfect health and make us live forever. Our obsession with health foods is a denial of our mortality. Of course there's nothing wrong with being health conscious, but this obsession with singling out foods and venerating them above all others makes many of us blind to the bigger picture: which is that all fruit and veg are 'super foods' and you should eat a lot of all of them if you want to live a bit longer.
But this post is sidling closer to a lecture on health, so let's step back from the brink and look at the kale & blueberry salad I made.
Look, it's not bad. But it's not great, either. I can only assume I thought it would be a good idea because I'd been brainwashed by the countless hysterical blog posts I'd read on the subject.
Raw kale, even after being lovingly massaged with olive oil (a weirdly intimate practice that is supposed to mellow its slightly leathery fibrousness), still requires some committed mastication. It's chewy. The blueberries, roasted almonds, avo, croutons and goats cheese go some way towards palatability, but frankly, I would rather have made this salad with some shredded red cabbage and lettuce. And bacon. It's chief allure is that it bestows a solid sense of righteousness, the culinary equivalent of saying 200 Hail Marys.
DON'T make this salad. (Kale is much better cooked, imo, especially in this soup.) Rather, DO buy Willow Creek's Blood Orange Flavoured Extra Virgin Olive Oil*. I got a bottle from work a while back, and it had been sitting in my cupboard for ages before I decided to try it, because I don't usually go in for flavoured oils. But it was a revelation. It's delicate, fresh and slightly floral, with that unmistakable citrus tang underneath. It helped me work my way through this kale salad, and almost enjoy it.
*I haven't been paid or asked to promote this product — I just genuinely like it.
ever read about the Buddhist practice of creating mandalas out of sand?
A mandala is
a spiritual ritual symbol representing the microcosm of the universe —
basically a stupendously complicated circular pattern. ‘In various spiritual
traditions, mandalas may be employed for focusing attention, as a spiritual
guidance tool, for establishing a sacred space, and as an aid to meditation and
trance induction.’ (So says Wikipedia.)
mandalas... Well, that's a whole new level. This is a traditional Tibetan
Buddhist practice where monks spend up to several weeks creating an enormous,
elaborate mandala using coloured sand. And get this — once it's done, once
they've created this magnificent, exquisitely detailed artwork that represents all
life and meaning…
Ever since I
first read about it, I found this practice baffling. I mean, to spend weeks or
months of your life painstakingly creating something of extraordinary beauty,
only to eradicate it, as if it never existed… It just didn’t compute.
Then I had
my existential crisis, started having Deep Thoughts, and began to see this odd practice through new eyes.
the subject with the Guinea Pig one Sunday as we ambled through Newlands Forest.
GP: 'No, say
on, what were you going to say?'
*whinyvoice* 'Say iiiiiit.'
well, I was just thinking I finally understand why Buddhist monks create those
sand mandalas, and then destroy them afterwards. It's about trying to understand
the transience of life. Of trying to accept that all things are ultimately
destroyed, sooner or later. Struggle is pointless. It all ends.'
it's because they don't have DSTV?'
gentlemen, may I present my husband: The Philosopher.
He is, in
fact, very wise though. He has weathered many of what he calls my STO's —
short-term obsessions — with the patience of, well, a wise Buddhist monk.
the time I became a bit of an environmental extremist, putting up posters on my
car windows urging people to use more electricity-efficient light bulbs, and
getting very annoyed that the Guinea Pig wasn't taking these Extremely
Important Issues as seriously as I was.
was the time I became a viciously judgemental vegan for two months. (The poor
Guinea Pig, not terribly partial to vegan fare, would buy Woolworths meatballs
and add them to whatever I made.)
recently I became a bit LCHF mad, after interviewing Tim Noakes for an article,
and the Guinea Pig patiently listened while I haughtily explained why animal
fat is good and carbs are evil. (Thankfully I've recovered, and the GP
graciously refrained from saying 'I told you so'.)
get that familiar tingle that tells me 'I Have Found The Answer to EVERYTHING’,
I try to take a step back and think: 'Okay, let's see where this goes, but
you'll probably be over it in a month. Don't make any sudden movements, and
above all don't start preaching to anyone who'll listen about your Amazing
Discovery.' I try not to get too attached — which I think is very Buddhist of me.
So it is
with my recent personal mission statement to Eat Less Bread (it's got all the hallmarks
of a classic STO). Not because I believe gluten is evil (I don't actually know
what gluten is), but because bread is so delicious and so goddam convenient that I
can easily have it three meals a day, which leaves me feeling crap.
(Sensitive readers, skip to the next paragraph.) We're talking bloating,
cramps, indigestion, etc.
bread, the one you see in the picture, really is an Amazing Discovery if you're
trying to eat less of the flour-based stuff, because it is so fucking
delicious, and at the same time isn't really bread at all. It's mostly just
seeds, oats, and those psyllium husks Banters are so fond of. Mainly though, it
tastes incredible: rich, roasted, creamy, satisfying. I make a loaf each week,
slice it and freeze it. A decent sourdough is never going to be off the menu
for me, but this convenient substitute prevents me from ODing.
(It's not my
recipe, though. It belongs to Sarah Britton of My New Roots. She dubs it ‘The
Life-Changing Loaf of Bread’, which is a bit melodramatic. Life-enhancing, maybe. But she’s a hippy
Earth Mother, and I love her for it. Plus her pictures are pretty.)
Britton's flourless seed bread
Makes 1 loaf
You can use
any combination of nuts and seeds you like, but I think the chia seeds are
pretty NB. Anyway, if you want more detail, check out Sarah's extended post.
1 cup / 135g
½ cup / 90g flax seeds
½ cup / 65g hazelnuts or almonds
1 ½ cups / 145g rolled oats
2 Tbsp. chia seeds
4 Tbsp. psyllium seed husks
1 tsp. fine grain sea salt
1 Tbsp. maple syrup [I just used a Tbsp. sugar]
3 Tbsp. melted coconut oil or ghee [I used olive oil]
1 ½ cups / 350ml water
1. In a loaf
pan (preferably silicon, but if using a metal one my tip would be to line it
with baking paper) combine all dry ingredients, stirring well. Whisk maple
syrup (or sugar), oil and water together in a measuring cup. Add this to the
dry ingredients and mix very well until everything is completely soaked
and dough becomes very thick (if the dough is too thick to stir, add one or two
teaspoons of water until the dough is manageable). Smooth out the top with the
back of a spoon. Let sit out on the counter for at least 2 hours, or all day or
overnight. To ensure the dough is ready, it should retain its shape even when
you pull the sides of the loaf pan away from it.
2. Preheat oven to 175°C.
3. Place loaf pan in the oven on the middle rack, and bake for 20 minutes.
Remove bread from loaf pan, place it upside down directly on the rack and bake
for another 30-40 minutes. Bread is done when it sounds hollow when tapped. Let
cool completely before slicing (difficult, but important).
4. Store bread in a tightly sealed container for up to five days. Freezes well
too — slice before freezing for quick and easy toast!
It happened as I wandered through the Paul Cluver vineyards one Saturday in autumn ... oh, about two years ago.
I had a glass of Pinot in one hand, and was trailing my fingers lightly along the foliage, soaking up the warmth of the fading sun, the earthy scent of decaying leaves and the haunting beauty of neat rows of vines in shades of plum, russet and butterscotch. It was a perfect moment. Not only because I felt grateful, content, full and light — but also because I felt clear. Just as the contours and veins on a nearby leaf were illuminated in immaculate, sparkling clarity, my inner contours also felt vivid, sharp, emphatic. I sensed consciousness streaming through me as though I were no more substantial than a breeze, and at the same time infused with brilliance; bright and precise, like cut crystal. The fact of my existence needed no substantiation.
It was at once a hyper-real and dream-like encounter, as though I were experiencing myself in high-resolution for the first time. (What do Paul Cluver put in their Pinot?)
Then I looked down.
I saw my feet, sure. But, after a heartbeat, I didn't, because my subconscious, clearly waiting for this exact moment, superimposed an image of an enoromous belly — my belly — over my feet, treating me to a portentous vision of my heavily pregnant self.
In that second, the marrow-deep yearning that I had not dared put a name to could no longer be denied.
I wanted to be a mother.
You see, I really had tried — very hard — to deny it, because the prospect of parenthood absolutely terrified me.
For the longest time, I didn't have the slightest maternal urge, and was quite confident that I'd be happy to go through life child free, solvent, unshackled. Then I began to cry during toilet paper commercials. Or whenever I saw anything remotely related to a woman struggling with the decision to have a child, or a caring maternal gesture... Being in the vicinity of a baby made me feel squelchy and light-headed.
(As an aside, I do not subscribe to the notion that women have a 'biological clock' — if that were true, we'd all be getting broody at the age of 16 or so, when our bodies are primed for childbirth —
not in our 30s [!], which seems to be the case more often these days.
If there is a clock of any sort, I think it's a cultural construct, but
that's a different conversation.)
Still, I tried to tamp down my growing curiosity. I thought about the money, for one. 'DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH CHILDREN COST?!?!' I'd shout-think at myself. 'You'll be broke. You'll never have any time to yourself. You'll be tired constantly. Your marriage will buckle under the pressure. You'll regret it, you'll be unhappy. You'll have to put all your dreams on hold...'
But the feeling kept growing. I developed a lump in my throat whenever I thought of my mother or father holding a baby. My baby. I thought of what a brilliant dad the Guinea Pig would make, and how it would take our incredible, supernatural (that's how it fees sometimes) love for each other and magnify it, grow it, plough it. I thought about all the magic moments from my own childhood, and how much I wanted to experience that all again, only this time from the other end of the equation.
The fact of my desire to be a mother came as a complete surprise, which is why it's taken two years, even after realising it, to work up the courage to make the attempt. What's helped, recently, is finally understanding that living a good life isn't about being happy. It's about embracing purpose, depth, challenge. To keep experiencing new things. Hard things. I want to live a meaningful life, and hopefully 'happiness', whatever that means, will be a side effect. But it's really not the point.
So now that the decision to move forward has been made, I find myself fantasising about what it'll be like. These daydreams frequently involve food. What will be my children's favourite foods? I think back to my most-loved dishes as a young 'un, and remember how easy to please I was (my parents will probably snort when they read this, remembering how notoriously fussy I became in my teens, but I'm referring to the earlier years). Rice pudding was up there, with its comforting starchiness. It tasted like home. It's one of many I can't wait to make it for my own children, and when I do, it will be this recipe, because it is heaven in a bowl, especially on a bitter winter's evening. It's like a hug from the inside.
You can leave out the pears and caramel if you like, it's good on its own (and a great deal simpler), but do try them all together at least once. The pears offer a slightly tart counterpoint to the creamy pudding, and the caramel... Well, I'm sure I don't need to sell you on caramel.
Creamy rice pudding with vanilla roasted pears & caramel
For the vanilla roasted pears:
¼ cup sugar
½ vanilla bean
4 pears, halved though the stem and cored
2 tbsp lemon juice
2 tbsp water
2 tbsp unsalted butter
For the rice pudding:
1 cup arborio rice
1 litre milk, plus extra
½ cup caster sugar
1 vanilla bean, split and seeds scraped
½ cup cream
For the caramel:
3 tbsp brown sugar
1 tin condensed milk
1. For the pears: Preheat oven to 160°C. Place the sugar in a small bowl. With a thin,
sharp knife, split the vanilla bean lengthwise in half and scrape out
the seeds. Stir the seeds into the sugar. Arrange the pears in a large baking dish, cut-side up. Drizzle the
lemon juice evenly over the fruit, then sprinkle with the sugar. Nestle
the vanilla pod among the fruit. Pour the water into the dish. Dot each pear with some butter. Roast the pears for 30 minutes, brushing them occasionally with the pan
juices. Turn the pears over and continue roasting, basting once or
twice, until tender and caramelized, 25 to 30 minutes longer.
2. For the rice pudding: While the pears are roasting, make the pudding. Place the rice, milk, sugar, vanilla bean and
seeds in a medium saucepan over high heat and bring to the boil. Reduce
heat to low, cover and cook, stirring occasionally, for 25–30 minutes or
until the rice is tender. Remove from the heat and stir through the cream. If the mixture feels too thick, loosen it with a little milk.
3. For the caramel: While the rice is simmering, make the (cheat's) caramel. Melt the butter in a saucepan, stir in the sugar and the condensed milk. Stir, over a medium heat, for anywhere between 10 and 20 minutes, until the mixture turns a deep caramel colour. (Be careful to keep stirring so the sauce doesn't burn.) Remove from heat.
4. Spoon the hot, creamy rice pudding into bowls, top with the pears and a generous drizzle of caramel. Eat, swoon, be transported back through time and space to the cosy kitchen of your childhood.
*Credit where credit's due: The above dish is a combination/adaptation of this Donna Hay recipe and this creation from Smitten Kitchen.
1. TheFranschhoek Literary Festival: I attended for the first time with my friend Paige Dorkin. That's her in the image above, taken late last Saturday afternoon — we stayed in an old house with a clementine orchard, which we wandered through at dusk, talking about husbands and writing and books and, yes, gossiping a little. It was a magical weekend, if a little overwhelming, and I am quite anxious that I have to wait an entire year for the next one. Highlights included Margie Orford and Rebecca Davis (I want to be just like them when I grow up), Tim Noakes debating heart surgeon Lionel Opie (a bit of a farce, but an entertaining farce), and Redi Tlhabi chairing a debate on racism. I've been having flashbacks all week.
2. Encountering a gorgeous new food blog always gives rise to my obsessive tendencies, but for Local Milk, a blog by writer/cook/photographer Beth Evelyn who lives in Tennessee, I've fallen hard. When I read the opening lines of this post, I felt a swelling my my chest and my heart started yammering against my ribs...
She writes like a dream. She writes the way I want to write. So that was
it, what I was feeling: pure envy. Along with a hefty dose of awe, and the
first fervent flutterings of infatuation. I actually might have to stay away for a while because her writing makes me feel ill with longing for the Deep South. (This woman's writing also makes me ache.)
4. I've made this crazy-simple Lamb neck stew with lemon & thyme three times now, and I just can't get enough. A handful of everyday ingredients (lamb, thyme, lemon, olive oil and stock [optional], black pepper) get naked in a pot together and make sweet, sweet love to each other, resulting in a kind of unctuous, umami-flavoured crack. Seriously, it's addictive. I recommend it with bread, as pictured, and this salad.
5. I've discovered whiskey. A committed wine drinker, I couldn't see the point of venturing into new alcoholic waters when I was so happy drinking wine, but I had to write an article about whisky recently, so in the name of research, naturally, I drank the stuff. I think that's the key — the more you learn, the more interesting the subject of study becomes. Somehow, suddenly, I found myself intrigued. And then drunk. But the intrigued bit is the important part. So, yeah, me and whiskey, who knew? I have a small glass next to me, right now, of Monkey Shoulder Blended Malt Scotch Whiskey, and I'm utterly enamoured of it. (If you'd like to read about what I gleaned on the subject, grab a copy of the August issue of Fairlady magazine.)
I was recently knocked over by the flu — we're talking WWE Smackdown, the RAW Total edition (not that I know about such things, ahem). This time last week, I was shivering away in a sweaty tangle of duvets, in the grip of a fever the likes of which I have not experienced since childhood — this I know, because it was familiar. 'Ah,' my overheated brain informed me, 'We've been here before! But not in many moons.'
My regression was almost total. Not only was the desire to have my mother at my side pathetically strong, but I felt a deep, primal longing for the foods of my early youth. Not that I had much appetite to speak of, but the only things I would even consider eating held the promise of nostalgia and comfort — perhaps it was my brain's way of compensating for my mother's absence.
I hadn't lusted after fish fingers since my teens, when I first examined the greyish, gelatinous block of fish mush without its coat of crumbs. But while I was convalescing, I could have devoured an entire plate of the things, with large puddle of All Gold tomato sauce on the side for good measure. Heaven.
I didn't indulge all of my regressive food fantasies, seeing that I was too sick to go to the shops (and too fussy, impetuous and foul tempered to ask the poor, beleaguered Guinea Pig to do it), so I basically subsisted on Marmite toast and biscuits.
My stomach still lurches at the thought of red meat right now, but I'm starting to feel the effects of too much beige, starchy food. I know I am close to fully mended because yesterday I craved a salad. Something green.
This was the first proper meal I'd had in over a week. Nothing fancy. Some caramelised roast potato chunks rubbed with dhukka, laid out on a bed of watercress, and sprinkled with feta, walnuts and pomegranate seeds... I only used pomegranate because I had one left over from my trip to Calitzdorp. It could just as easily have been chopped apple or sliced pear. It was simple and satisfying and easy to digest. Nowhere near as comforting as macaroni cheese, of course, but nourishing, which is just what I needed.
You lie awake at night, unable to sleep, and try to find a
still place inside. But all you feel is an emptiness, a vacuum where something
used to be, closely followed by fear: that everyone you love will slip through
your fingers eventually, no matter how tightly you hold on — whether taken by
disease, or a car accident, or quietly in the night, like some ghastly magic
You think about how your dad wept openly on the phone when
you spoke on the morning following his sister's death, how it was the first time you’d
ever heard him really cry, how grief can connect the living, which is at least
something beautiful amidst the pain and confusion.
But mostly, you think about your aunt. The sound of her
voice. The way her pretty blue eyes crinkled when she laughed. How absurd it is that these things no longer exist. You think about
all the times you were together, how few there seem to have been, and of a
life you were really only aware of in your peripheral vision.
You think about her diagnosis in October, about how hopeful
she seemed; about her 60th birthday party in November, how happy she
seemed. If you’d known it was the last time you were ever going see her, would
you have said or done something differently?
You think about her sons (your cousins), her husband (your
uncle), and how devastated they must be, how robbed they must feel, how
utterly inadequate anything anyone says or does is in the face of that kind of
grief. You want this to make you feel more appreciative of all the love in your
life, of everything you still have, but mostly you just feel afraid, because
you finally understand that all things end: eventually, surreally, pointlessly.
You joke that you’re having an existential crisis, but it’s more like an
existential malaise, a slow-burn disillusionment. But you also understand that
these times are probably necessary, and — like quicksand — it’s best not to
struggle against them.
You can’t make the memorial service — the last-minute
flights to Joburg cost more than you can afford — but you drive up to Calitzdorp a few days later to be
with your parents, to talk about your aunt, to remember her, toast her. You hug your
dad and don’t want to let go, because … who knows?
You spend time in your mom’s herb garden, you go for
walks at dusk, you take in the ancient beauty of the Klein Karoo. You try to
snap out of it, and almost succeed.
But in the dark, quiet hours, these thoughts still rattle
around your head like dice in a cup, and you know you need to get them out, to
write them down. So you put on your dressing gown, close the bedroom door
quietly on your sleeping husband, pick up a pen, a writing
pad, and tip-toe to the couch...
You think about your aunt, Dianne MacLarty Van Dyk.
I am obsessed with Woolworths' Chai Rooibos. It is the Most
Amazing Beverage Discovery since ... since ... WATER. Has it been on the shelves for ages? Why wasn't I informed?
It's aromatic and dreamy and comforting.
Just spices (cassia, cinnamon, ginger, cardamom, black pepper, cloves) and
rooibos, nothing else. I think it'll be amazing in warm coconut milk, but I haven't tried that yet.
Earthsprout blog, by certified nutter Elenore Bendel Zahn.
I discovered this blog a little while ago and
am completely addicted to it, which is odd because I'm not a vegetarian or a
tree hugger... I don't even think GMOs are evil, so I'm pretty sure she would
not approve of me. But I can't stop reading it, because she's completely
bonkers, in the best sense. Her writing is bursting at the seems with manic,
frenzied passion and positivity... I don't know what she puts in that green
juice of hers, but if that's truly the source of her magical powers, I'd drink a litre
of it every day. Her broken English is adorable and hilarious. Here are a few
'I seriously felt like I was hallucinating but then I
remembered I hadn’t sprinkled hemp seeds on my breakfast that morning, phew!'
'So what is it that’s so rocking about Romanesco, it’s
obvious bold Lady Gaga-ness set aside?'
'Well, let me start by saying that this year round I so not
felt like making a raw food cake for my B-day. Nope I wanted an over the top
real life baked cake (gasp!).'
I know — imagine wanting an actual baked cake for your
I don't want to rip her off, because her verve is massively
inspiring, even if I'm too cynical to buy into her idealism. Mostly I like her kooky
writing and beautiful pics (she lives on the edge of a wood somewhere in Sweden with her husband and baby,
and she ain't exactly hard on the eyes). My brand of lifestyle porn, I guess.
But thanks to her I've started eating more veggies (example, this morning's breakfast: chopped tomatoes and grated beetroot [!] on toast, topped with poached eggs, garlicky yoghurt and dill; insanely good), and even drinking a
strange concoction of fresh ginger, lemon juice and turmeric in the mornings (my take
on this)... I don't know if it's doing any good, but I do feel like some of her
fairy dust is rubbing off on me. Heck, if it's a placebo, I'll take it.
Chopped tomatoes and grated beetroot on toast, topped with poached eggs, garlicky yoghurt and dill.
In other news...
Vice has launched a food site called Munchies. (Oh you knew that already did you? Well bully for you.)