Cauliflower and brown rice soup

Last night I wanted something light and tasty. I had some chicken stock in my freezer that I’d made a week or so ago, so I thought I’d make a soup. I trawled the isles at Woolies and ended up with chives, parsley, cauliflower, lemons, and artichokes. A further cupboard raid at home presented me with brown rice. I love brown rice in soups – it balloons up like pearl barley, and keeps its shape (i.e. it doesn’t turn the soup to mush overnight). The resultant recipe was surprisingly delicious, considering how basic it is. Obviously, the quality of the chicken stock is critical.

Cauliflower and brown rice soup

Serves 2

1.5 litres home-made chicken stock
1 handful chives, chopped
1 handful parsley, chopped
100g artichoke hearts, roughly chopped (optional)
Half a medium cauliflower, broken into small florets
200g rice, parboiled
Juice of one lemon

Bring the chicken stock to a simmer and add the rice. Allow to cook until the rice is tender, then add the rest of the ingredients. Season to taste with salt and serve (the cauliflower florets will cook very quickly – they should be tender by the time you’ve ladled the soup into bowls). It's very nice with a glass of Pierre Jourdan Tranquille Blush. But then I think everything is nice with a glass of Pierre Jourdan Tranquille Blush!

On a separate note, I’d like us to have a moment of silence to contemplate this ad I came across in the latest issue of a women’s magazine that shall remain nameless. Turducken? I am speechless.

Evening events and a potato salad...

We went to the Sidewalk Café in Vredehoek for dinner last night – it was the Grateful Guinea Pig's birthday, and he wanted to go there because apparently (don't quote me on this) it's just been sold to, and reinvented by, the same glorious powers that brought us Bombay Bicycle.

The muscle starter was truly delicious, the choc brownie dessert heavenly, but the main of grilled angel fish was tré disappointing. It tasted like it had been frozen for about ten years, and then grilled to form a rubbery, grey offense. We were somewhat confused because our waiter had recommended the fish, describing it as 'excellent' (maybe his idea of fine seafood is I&J fish fingers?).

Fish notwithstanding, it was a gorgeous evening – we must have happened to be in Vredehoek on one of its handful of still evenings a year – and not without a few entertaining misunderstandings. At one point our waiter asked if one of us drove a red Uno (note here, please, that I could quite easily have said Mini Cooper, or MX5, but I didn't, because I'm that kind of person), and I said yes. I'd unwittingly parked in someone's driveway, and this someone was standing, fuming, at his gate waiting for me to remove said Uno. I apologised profusely (and, coincidentally, quite genuinely), but the enraged resident began to shout that an apology was 'not enough'. I considered offering to name my first-born child after him, but when he told me his name was Howard I just got in my car and drove off.

At this junction I'd like to complain about some zucchini flowers I bought at the Neighbour Goods market recently. They were so beautiful, I got so excited that I nearly peed in my pants (I'm sorry, but editorial integrity forbids me from omitting this detail) when I saw them. You see, it's been a long-held foodie ambition of mine to make stuffed zucchini flowers, and I've just never encountered them anywhere before. They were sandy, but I thought a little soak in water would solve that problem. But it didn't. I just couldn't get the grit off them! I nearly cried when I had to admit defeat and throw them into the compost bin. Anyway.

This has nothing at all to do with a stunning little potato salad I made a few days ago. The picture I've provided is atrocious, but I promise it will knock your socks off. I'm not going to give quantities, because frankly I'm bad at it, and it's too much like admin, but I think it's pretty easy to figure out. Just follow your taste buds...

Stunning Little Potato Salad

Baby poatatoes, cooked (any old how),
halved, and allowed to cool a little
Proscuitto, fried till crisp and broken into pieces
Mixed salad leaves (rocket, cos, radicchio, etc)
Toasted pine nuts
Roma tomatoes, sliced (optional)
Boiled eggs, roughly chopped
Good quality anchovy fillets, finely chopped (optional)
Fresh Parmesan shavings

Dressing: Two parts extra virgin olive oil to one part vinegar (I used a mixture of lemon juice and red wine vinegar), plus a teaspoon or so of Dijon mustard. Mix it all up in an old jam jar.

Bang all the salad ingredients in a bowl (except the Parmesan), pour over the dressing, season to taste, mix it all up and finish off with a generous sprinkling of Parmesan shavings. Now eat (devour, gorge, glut, gobble, you get the picture).

Order envy

Is it just me? Does any one else suffer from order envy? It happens when you go to a restaurant, spend ages agonising over what to eat, and when the food arrives, your partner’s meal looks like the loving creation of a three-star Michelin chef, while your own is, well, less than. A bit off. Boring. Dull. Uninspired.
You know, right then and there, that the rest of the lunch is going to be comprised of longing glances at your partner’s meal, and thoughts along the lines of “I knew I should have chosen the duck. I could be eating that (insert mental image of succulent, glistening roast duck in a dreamy orange sauce here), instead of this (insert mental image of watery, bland fish and soggy greens here) right now”.
And it only gets worse when your partner cheerfully chirps, “You have got to taste this, it’s so good,” while shoving a laden forkful of said duck under your nose. You know you shouldn’t, but you do. You taste it. Now, instead of merely suspecting that you have ordered a massively inferior dish, you know you have. Lunch is ruined. Might as well get it over with minimal fuss, i.e. a bit of mechanical chewing and another glass of Sauvignon...

It's the oven's fault...

What an unproductive week in the kitchen! I’ve been so busy at work that all I’ve had time to do is heat up a bit of Woolies’ chicken soup. I made The River Café’s ribollita over the weekend, though, which had me swooning all over again. On Sunday I attempted Jamie Oliver’s roasted chicken on a potato rosti (from Jamie’s Kitchen), which was a disaster. The chicken was underdone and the rosti was just mush – not the delicately golden, crunchy delight that the image next to the recipe suggested I should end up with. I think the problem lies with my oven (not me, naturally). It is unpredictable at the best of times – I fact, it’s predictably unpredictable. It either singes food in a char-grilled-but-raw-on-the-inside fashion, or the poor dish is so dried out that it needs to be eaten with a chisel – and a healthy sense of humour. And possibly brain damage. (Once again, I must state that the fault lies with my oven, not my cooking).
These Parmesan-polenta fritters, on the other hand, are pretty difficult to screw up. Rich, crunchy parmesan crust with a creamy polenta centre – I enjoyed them with a smashed-pea spread, which I’ve also made on occasion with chopped anchovies added. And, of course, everything tastes better with a glass of bubbly...

Photo by Deryck van Steenderen.

Parmesan polenta fritters with smashed peas

400g fresh petit pois
1 handful basil leaves, roughly chopped
1 clove garlic
2 tbsp fresh lemon juice
50g Pecorino

3 cups water
1 cup polenta
flour, for dusting
2 eggs, beaten
50g grated Parmesan

For the polenta fritters: Bring the water to the boil in a medium saucepan, and gradually whisk in the polenta. Cook for 40 min with the lid on, stirring occasionally. Pour polenta into an oiled baking tray, and spread until about 1cm thick. Allow to cool, then cut polenta into squares. Coat each piece in flour, then egg, and finally the Parmesan. In a large frying pan, heat the oil and fry the polenta for about three minutes on each side, or until golden and crisp.
For the mashed peas: Place the peas, basil, garlic and a pinch of salt in a pestle and mortar, and smash until you have a rough puree (or you can pulse in a food processor). Stir in the lemon juice, the pecorino, and then enough olive oil to loosen the mixture a little.

The autocrat in the kitchen

I find it strange that even though I adore cooking, I don't enjoy cooking for a crowd. I enjoy planning the menu, but when the day comes I'm usually so worn out by the frenzy of shopping and preparing the food that I want guests to leave before they've even arrived. I'm not one of those people who likes to have friends and relatives huddled chummily around the kitchen as I cook (I get performance anxiety, and am easily distracted – things will burn), and I wouldn't dream of casually tossing a stick of celery at someone and asking them to chop it. I have read that some well-known chefs like to involved guests in the preparation of the meal, but I find the idea quite horrifying. You see, I want things chopped, stirred, sautéed and combined exactly as I want them chopped, stirred, sautéed and combined. I can barely allow Patrick to boil and egg without inquiring why his egg-boiling technique is different to mine, which is clearly flawless. Usually, I have to leave the viscinity for the sake of our relationship. And don't get me wrong – he can boil a mean egg – but I've had to face the ugly truth that I am a tyrant in the kitchen. And I'm really quite comfortable with this – it's better than being a pedant (read Julian Barnes' The Pedant in the Kitchen, it's a hoot).

The occasions I enjoy cooking most are when I'm making dinner for two – perhaps I'm trying something new, perhaps I'm preparing an old favourite. I like that it's relaxed, and I'm working with manageable quantities. Usually, somewhere along the way, something magic and unexpected happens. Patrick and I will sit and munch, and the joy of eating a truly good meal brings us closer. I really believe that food has the power to do this, but you have to make it with love and passion. So clichéd, but so true. Perhaps that's why my food never quite turns out as impressively as I'd hoped when I cater for more than two: I'm in a rush, and forget to really enjoy the experience.

This dish was inspired by a Bill Granger recipe. I don't think I can stress enough how easy these are to make, on a braai or under a grill. They simply shriek 'summer' and are oh-so moreish. (Images by Deryck van Steenderen – also from the Psychologies shoot.)

Crunchy prawn skewers with lemony avocado dip

Serves 4

Flesh of 1 avocado
125ml crème fraiche
Juice and zest of 1 lemon
400g breadcrumbs
36 medium prawns, deveined
30ml olive oil
12 wood or bamboo skewers

Combine the avocado, crème fraiche and lemon juice in a food processor until smooth. Season to taste and set aside.
Combine the breadcrumbs and zest, and season well.
Coat the prawns in olive oil and toss with the breadcrumbs. Thread three prawns onto each skewer.
Grill for 2 minutes on each side, or until crisp and golden, and serve immediately with the dip.
TIP: Soak the skewers in cold water for at least an hour beforehand to prevent them burning.