Yum-mo (or what I'm all about these days)

My great big exciting news is that I've launched a cookbook this year (2014). It's called Yum-mo: Fun Fresh Food for students and beginners. It was hauled off a ship in the docks of Cape Town harbour at the start of May.

And now it is in major bookstores (real life bookstores) for people to pay R200 for. And cook from. They pick up my book (which is adorned with the face of Martha, a friend of mine) and then they read those words I wrote back in 2012 during my final, buzzing, dancing year at Rhodes. And my sister goes into bookstores and rearranges the displays so mine is on top. It's marvellous.

And they make decisions about what to cook. They buy things I recommend. It all blows my mind.

And that, dear folks, is the reason why I am never on black pepper plum anymore. I thought of exploding this blog - but no. It's a sweet, virtual monument to three years worth of rambling, cooking, tasting. It stays.

But if you want to see my student/ beginner/ everyone cookbook (and it really is for everyone - the recipes are often classics with twists. They're food you can eat every day) then move along to my website at yum-mo.co.za (where you can order it) or like the Facebook page.

Some pictures:

That's me and the main commissioning editor, Daleen, on the day I first saw the book. I was so delighted I danced in the elevators on my way up to the twelfth floor of Media 24. 

This is an example of some of the beautiful photography in the book. Photographers Andrew Brukman, Chris de Beer and Sara Garrun did a beauty job. I styled (or learnt to) and it was quite a journey. 

Here's a photo of stage two of the launch, when there was a lucky draw to win books. The students of TUKS University's Honours Marketing Management class made it all happen quite magnificently.

That's me, signing a book. I've never felt so swish in all my life.

And that is le front cover. Beautiful.

Delicious Dinner: A menu

This blog isn’t even a blog anymore, a pity. It’s a rusty old archive of things I cooked and words I wrote in orders and ways that sometimes make me cringe when I read them.

It is useful, though. I love how it takes me on a food-memory excavation, the click-through I can do of things I made and loved.

In this spirit, I might posthumously write up some menus and recipes I’ve done this summer. The favourites, a kind of note or memory-boost to my future self. So that next year, when I sit at this old Hermanus kitchen table, I can click through and take courage.

Notes on Last Night

Canapés:

Biltong cheese straws (Home-made rough puff pasty with egg-wash, and on the other side – blue cheese melted with butter and soy sauce, with fine biltong sprinkled over). Delicate and moreish. I'm not in blog-mode currently so I forgot to take a picture. 

Parmesan crisps with Jane Coxwell’s guacamole and pomegranate seeds. They look like little frogs on parmesan toadstools, and they taste incredible. I mourn every guac I made without fresh ginger in it, thanks to Jane. (Whose cookbook, Fresh Happy Tasty (see here is one of the very best books you can spend money on).

Starter

Crayfish salad with vanilla linguini, tomato, basil, thyme.

Steam crayfish in wine, bay, fennel. Cool, remove tails. Clarify butter, whisk in lemon juice and thyme leaves, coat the crayfish in this. Make vanilla linguini and cook until just done. Fork into centre of plate. Take some beautifully ripe tomatoes, and peel (blanch for only 10 seconds, refresh). Cut into petals. Deep fry skins for garnish. Plate: linguini. Torn fresh basil. Crayfish tail, tomato petals, drizzle some left over lemon butter sauce over. Sprinkle with picked thyme leaves and pop tomato skins on top.

Main course

Miso-marinated beef fillet

I crusted it in sesame seeds – a bad idea. Seeds burn and you can’t sear the meat properly. Still delicious, but leave the seeds off. Fry in sesame oil. Serve with jus that has miso, soy and drippings from pan.

Shoestring sweet  potatoes – a bit labour intensive without a deep fryer. I got over shifting pots of oil around to avoid burns and did half the sweet potato in the oven, so that there were some roasted bits and the crunchy thin chips on top.

Roasted pumpkin with lime, pistachio and cinnamon butter. This was the best idea I’ve had in ages. Pumpkin is so good. It’s so so good. I roasted it until soft, and the butter was comforting but fun at the same time.

Rocket broccoli

From another must-have cookery book The Kitchen by Karen Dudley (see here). I had to go to Banks in Woodstock this week, so I went it to buy a famous Love sandwich (gammon! yes!)  and I met her, Karen.  I just held her hand like some groupie and told her thanks for the recipes, which are a private chef’s godsend. She smiled and laughed and asked for my details so she could pass on work.

The recipe involves boiling (or blanching) broccoli and dousing it in a sauce made of rocket blitzed with olive oil. It’s so simple but it works.

Dessert

I made a recipe from Taste Magazine (the Jan/ Feb issue had loads of delicious things in).

Ginger mousse (which is airy, and actually more like a panna cotta cut into cubes – Italian meringue and cream folded into a gelatine mixture)

With almond biscuits (the recipe calls it’s crumble, but it’s more shortbread. I added fine ginger and cinnamon and cut them into triangles)

And geranium syrup (sugar syrup with geranium simmered in it, which also means you can now garnish with beautiful purple flowers)

And strawberry coulis and fresh strawberries.

The recipe calls for vanilla ice cream too, but I thought there was already enough going on.

With coffee

Blackberry macaroons

I’ve been trying for aeons to get perfect macaroons, with varying degrees of success. This time I used the basic Ottolenghi recipe, added some blackberry essence and purple colouring. For the icing, Philly cream cheese with soft butter and vanilla, with fresh blackberries. It was perfect because they weren’t too sweet but the fresh berries made them a little jammy. I’m about as proud of them as a momma-bear of her cubs.

Cinnamon and Naartjie Carrot soup

(Thanks @chef_grl for inspiring me to write a post again, even if it's just a quickie with a phone snap. Hope you like the soup) 

End of term.

Fridge full of scraps

Lots of deadlines

No-one wants to leave the house to shop.

I scrounge around the cupboard and the fridge, and find

1 bag of carrots

half a thingy of cream

and that’s about it.

I have flour and yeast in the cupboard, a naartjie in the fruit bowl, and 6 hungry, busy mouths to feed.

It's not exactly rocket science...

Cinnamon and Naartjie Carrot Soup

1 leek (all I had, but I’m sure an onion will do great)

1 bag of carrots, peeled and chopped

abour 3- 4 cups water.

1 naartjie

1 spoon brown sugar

1 teaspoon cinnamon

125ml cream

Fry the leeks in hot oil

Bang in the carrots.

Add the water, and the whole naartjie. Cook until carrots are soft.

Remove the naartjie, let it cool a little then peel and add the segments to the soup.

Blend with a hand blender, add cream, cinnamon and sugar and season well with salt. Serve piping hot.

I made huge breadsticks to go with mine, (a basic 4 cup flour dough divided into six long breadsticks and baked), and we didn’t even need spoons.

Full bellies and happy hearts <3

Oppikoppi: Sings to the senses

When you go to Oppikoppi you must leave your anxiety at the gate.

There is no space for it inside.

There are just 20 000 other people looking to dance and jump and gurgle with laughter.

We all experienced Oppikoppi in different ways

Body

My knuckles are cracked, skin still dry. My hands held another’s. Weaving in and out.

Skin a sun-shade darker. Dust in every crevice. Black boogas.

My knees shook and they shook; and my feet throbbed from adventures in tommy tackies. Boots, next time.

My arms waved, in praise, and in happy hellos, and goodbyes.

My mouth screamed and sung along. It giggled and laughed.

I licked my lips over and over, dry air. Kiss, kiss.

 Ears

As we walked up and down our home stretch, Beton Boer road, there was a constant cloud of dust above us, punctuated by bursts of conversation. About shows, about beer, about philosophy, about race and about South Africa.

But we came for the music and we flocked to see Die Heuwels Fantasties on Friday night, as did many who reveled in the electric air “It gave me goosebumps” someone said. Not to mention 340ml, Bombay Show Pig, Kongos, Aking, and Jeremy Loops who all blew my skirt up. 

Lonehill Estate was my surprise band highlight. Donning green streaks and pink goggles the lead singer was cheeky and vivacious, drawing the crowd in with his antics and confidence on a hot day amongst the rocks. 

Shadowclub and Beast (and many other grand bands) also graced the stages, although I confess I was at that time holed up in my tent. I hear they were fantastic.

French band Babylon Circus were a feast, but Eagles of death metal

Kiss from a quince

Everything we eat has a story. A story about where it came from, how it was made, born, or spouted; and how it travelled toward us.

Everything we eat also becomes part of our own story. A link in the web of meaning that flavour holds for us. Each bit of sustenance that passes over our lips has the potential to start a story, or to stir up a memory.

Quince, for me, is winter. It’s granny food. It exists, in bottled form, on the colour scale from fleshy crayfish to sensuous stripper red. It’s neatly layered in conserve bottled, lids tightly screwed on.

I don’t really remember by granny ever making anything with quince. Maybe she did, and I only associate it with her because the senses of smell and roots of nostalgia were affixed in me before my visual memories. Maybe I associate quince with the wrinkled faces of old women I saw as we paused at farm stalls across the country during family holidays. Neatly packed in rows with handwritten labels. Part of the granny-domain.

Either way, I walked into a local supermarket last week in a post-exam daze. My mind was still whirling with theories and ethnographic accounts. I was craving something I couldn’t name.

I saw the quince, bright yellow, bulbous on the shelf, larger than the surrounding fruit. I knew immediately that they were what I needed. I selected three, smooth skinned and heavy for their weight.

Quince poached in rosé wine with orange and vanilla

I bought them home, and started to put the exam out of my mind as I emptied the bottle of rosé wine (merlot and pintoage) that I had bought into a saucepan with 1 cup of sugar and 1 orange, cut into wedges. I peeled the three quinces one by one, with a peeler, nibbling at the skin to gauge it. Apple-y and sour, strong.

A Book deal with a side of sweet potato

Shock and horror.

I’ve been a bad blogger.

but I do at least have a book deal! 

(This photo is not really relevant to anything in this post, I just put it here because photos are nice. However, it will come into the story later.)

Yes. Despite the fact that this is meant to be my year of writing (that is indeed a part of what I’m studying) and despite the fact that it’s compulsory for me to blog every week for my course; I have left my poor little blackpepperplum to ferment in the back of a dark cupboard, just like the sweet potato we now have sprouting roots and feelers because nobody remembered to cook it. I am planning on planting it this weekend. Just like I am planning to blog more often.

In fact, the sweet potato with feelers is just the perfect metaphor for my life. This blog is the sweet potato, once fresh and budding with potential. It is currently in a stagnant stage. It’s on hold. Why? The cook has found other things to fry. Yes, by frying I mean writing. (I am getting heavily involved in my metaphors here, please just oblige me).

The thing that I am writing is a cookbook for students.

Its name is Yum-mo: Student Cooking 101.

(I am silly pleased about this, you have no idea) 

This is the story of how it came to be: 

Eet en onthou: Woordfees 2012

Ek eet, en ek onthou. My herinneringe is gevleg met maaltye, met proe sensasies en eet rituele. Verlede kwartaal vanaf die 9de na die 11de Maart, is ek en vyf klasmaats, deur die Nederlandse Taalunie na Stellenbosch toe gestuur om die Woordfees, en onder andere die Neerlandistiekdag by te woon. Heel gaaf, dankie.

Ek proe die naweek nog.

Die nederige standbeeld wat ons na La Motte verwelkom het

Die Greyhound bus was, voorspelbaar, twee ure laat. Op ons tasse het ons in die parkeerterrein gesit en uiteindelik, verveeld, ons lekkers uitgedeel. Wine gums en saggeel dinosouruse bedek my tande met ’n laag soetgoed. My goedkoop pastel gekleurde lekkers was fassinerend op die rak, maar in die mond was hulle hard, en skreeu- soet. Ons probeer die smaak uit ons monde kry met ’n vodka – suurlemoen – ment mengsel. Die gevolg is ’n gegiggelery en ’n goeie begin.

Ek het nog nooit lang afstand bus gery nie. En as ek weer daaraan dink, weet ek wat ek sal onthou. Die reuk van my mede passasier se toebroodjies, toe sy 3 uur in die oggend haar dosie se deksel oop kliek en die gis reuk van brood laat ontsnap.

Met honger mage het ons op Stellenbosch aangekom. Voordat ons selfs kon stort het ’n vriendin ons opgelaai en La Motte toe geneem waar ons eerder geld aan wynproe wou spandeer as ontbyt.

St Paddy's Day: Spinach and basil mayonnaise

St Patricks’s day in Grahamstown signifies many things: Primarily, its an excuse to dress up in green, brandish a beer glass all night and join thousands of others behaving abominably in bars. Great. Except that it also signifies green beer (whose bad idea was that anyway?!), sometimes accompanied by free green cane shots. Sies. The combination of these someone leads to a green mess in gutters. Not so Irish. 

This year, I squirmed at the thought of St Paddy’s. It was a rainy Saturday, and mugs of tea appealed to me more than liquor. I decided to resist the peer pressure and stay at home like a grandmomma, catching up on my work. Yes, I even wrapped my knees up in a crocheted blanky while I read.

It felt great. I thought of all the loud noises I was escaping; the squash of bodies and the smell of cigarettes, beer and burps. I made a green mayonnaise as my spirited token for the day, and settled back smugly. There is a time for everything.

Apple Crumble

Floury apples. I don’t understand them. I don’t understand how they are still sold in stores. I don’t understand why people still buy them, planning to eat them… for fun.

One of my housemates recently got hoodwinked into buying a pack of “sweet and crunchy” red apples only to find that the texture was a combination between sponge and sand.

Not fit for the lunch box, we decided to find a purpose for the apples. we decided that if you can get past the sif texture to the timeless ripe- apple taste, you're still the winner. 

When life throws you floury apples- make apple crumble.

Humble crumble

Yes. The 70's are back. We moved into a fully furnished house and it came with these period petal glasses. We love them so don't laugh. 

Fresh fig, Parma ham, and Rocket salad with Cabernet Sauvignon reduction

It's a scorching hot day. The kind where you'd rather not do anything, cause moving translates into sweating, unless it's in the direction of the pool or the sea.

Guests flew in from blustery England this morning. I could think of no better February salad than this one to welcome them in:

Fresh Fig, Parma ham and Rocket salad with Cabernet Sauvignon reduction

I was planning on going with the old goat's cheese standard, but this submission on my new fave Drizzle and dip blog, which credits Jamie Oliver, gave me the idea to use mozzarella instead. I love mozzarella. I think mostly because it's a word with two 'z's and two 'l's. Which ups it's dialogue cred and also makes it sound sultry in an Italian- only kind of way. If you can't get hold of a sufficiently sultry mozz, I recommend a nice Chevin (not the same sex appeal, really but you can't have it all)

Yakitori Chicken skewers

Nothing yukky about this Japanese treat. 

I used this grand Saveur recipe  to spice up my chicken skewers. The addition of spring onions (scallions, green onions, as you will) makes the recipe into Negima Yakitori. 

I adapted the recipe... 

Cloudy Prawn, Ginger and Sesame cakes

An elbow- watching, palm-clapping, enthusiastic high five to Food and Home magazine for a grand February issue. I don’t know when last I bought one, (I ignored them for a while because a flashy macaroon front cover recipe I sweated over didn’t work) but this one was worth it. Totally. The styling and photography is much improved except for a few photoshop hiccoughs. I feel that some thought really into went into this. And always one to appreciate a bit of serious foodthought, I thought I’d tell you why I like it:

There’s interesting niche stuff (chocolate focus,) the books, restaurant reviews, competitions and usual. But also some really thoughtful tidbits like useful salad dressings, a food market insight, recipes from movies (I’m going to make Uma Thurman’s pretty fucking good milkshake, from Pulp Fiction, soon) and a zoom in on seasonal produce. It also helps that they published an extract from the fantastic- looking Savour  cookbook by Hirschowitz, Alsfine and Sacharowitz that I have been eyeing out for a while. 

I tried out the Prawn and ginger fishcakes on page 62 for dinner. I adapted it rather a bit, as I do; but the foundation is theirs and it’s GREAT.

Granola squares

My granola glistens. It’s softer than you’d think, and it’s studded with all sorts of treats.

The recipe draws on inspiration from both the Essential Baking Cookbook and Ottolenghi. The list of ingredients is flexible- Play with it, see what’s in your storecupboard. But this is my fave combo of sweet, crunchy, chewy, citrus-y moreishness. Keep it in the the fridge.

• 1 cup cereal (like special K)
• ½ cup pecan nuts, toasted
• ½ cup flaked almonds, toasted
• ½ cup ground almonds
• 1 ½ cup rolled oats
• ¼ cup sunflower seeds
• ¼ cup pumpkin seeds
• 1 ½ cups dried fruit (I used prunes, raisins, soft apricots, nectarines and pears)
• 1 tablespoons (30ml) mixed candied citrus peel
• 1 tablespoon mixed spice
• 250g butter
• 1 cup castor sugar
• 2 tablespoons honey

1. Preheat the oven to 150 C, line a 25x 35 cm baking tray with baking paper and butter, leaving an overlay on the sides for easy removal.
2. Place all the ingredients in a large bowl, except for the butter, sugar and honey.
3. Place butter sugar and honey in a medium- large saucepan and stir without boiling until the sugar has dissolved. Allow to boil and continue stirring until a light coloured caramel has formed and thickened slightly.
4. Combine caramel with the dry ingredients and pour into baking tray, spreading evenly. If you like your granola a little thicker, use a smaller tin.
5. Bake for about half an hour, then check for doneness. It should be light brown on top.
6. Allow to cool in tin the refrigerate for a few hours until set before slicing into bars or cubes. Keep in the fridge.

Road tripping: The Garden Route

Storm's River  is a magical place. The background of dark trees, craggy rocks, course sand, and the wild sea make me feel sort of crazy and content simultaneously. We arrived just before sunset, and settled into our little forest cabin. Dammit; I like forest cabins. Then off to the beach for a look around. I reached happily back into memories of my childhood holidays there. Everything seemed to have shrunk, now that my lens was no longer that of a twelve year old's. 

Dinner at the restaurant surpassed all expectations (previous encounters had been tough, bland and poorly served). I had blackened sole,  the flesh melting tenderly in the mouth before giving way to a shock of well- selected spices.

Christmas fever: Quince, red onion, rosemary and rosé wine stuffing

You know it’s Christmas when the queue in the Hermanus Woolworths winds up and down three aisles at 7 30 am. It’s a killer hot day, and everyone’s dashing around trying to keep the festive spirit together.

I’m also getting in on the fever. I’ve baked like a banshee today, a second batch of mince pies, a lemon and vanilla biscuit wreath, a batch of puff pastry and a few other things are ticking over. The other day I attempted to bake some Lebkuchen but they turned out rock hard. So I whipped out the gold and silver dust, and a dash of yellow raffia, and did some cookie pimpin' for the tree.

My fave thing from today is the quince stuffing I dreamed up for the half- smoked turkey tomorrow:

Quince, red onion, rosemary and rosé wine stuffing

Decemberitis: The fear of cooking failure

Mageirocophobia: The fear of cooking. I am not a sufferer. But every year I fret from a dose of what I call Decemberitis: the fear of flops.  It creeps up on me towards the start of the festive season. After six months of my academic, student lifestyle (where I eat communally on a low budget, only cook once or twice a week, and leave my favourite kitchen equipment to gather dust in the cupboards) I start to prepare for my private cheffing stint in Hermanus.

The annoying worrying starts. What if I’ve lost my touch? What if I can’t chop fast enough? What if… what if…. They don’t like the food? I try to resist it, going through old blog posts, proof that I can. Paging through my favourite recipe books, hoping inspiration will strike. Googling away at food blogs while I should be studying for exams.

On my first day of work I get a caught by a speed trap en route to Hermanus. Then, the guests arrive late. The butcher order isn’t in yet and I go shopping elsewhere. The meat is not top notch. (I don’t recommend Woolworth’s sirloin, mine was super- stringy) A first lunch flop. This is exactly what happened last year and the year before. A tradition perhaps?

Road tripping: Eastern Cape

I'm writing now from Bantry Bay; the doors are open to let the sea air through and there is still sand between my toes from Glen Beach.

The sea was as cold as slush puppy but we stayed in, soldiers.

Beach bats.

Good friends.

Ice cold coke.

Paragliders suspended in the blue sky; Table Mountain grand behind us.

I feel rested and smug. My skin is browner.  My hair curlier from the sea. My brain has rebooted.  December has been a most beautiful month. 

It started in the Eastern Cape, with a Nanaga Pie that was confirmed to be the best pie ever (By a man who doesn't normally like pies) .Then Grahamstown: The rain had finally cleared, it smelled of dust and the stench of exams had finally been erased. We celebrated the holidays with wine at the Monument, and pizza at the Rat and Parrot, which is just as it should be. 

Bathurst toposcope.

The End of the Year

I love the end of the year, I really do.

It’s bursting with promises.

It unties the twisty knots that built up through the year.

It’s beach time. Families hanging out. Talking about 2011. And 2012. Stories and pipedreams.

It’s being silly with brothers and sisters.

Ching chong cha.

Road trippin’.

It’s ice cream and presents and listening to all the music on your iPod you’ve been neglecting. It’s finding new favourites.

It’s many cappuccinos and remembering how to be a tourist in your own country.

It’s moaning about the weather that’s never compatible with your plans.

Sunblock. 

It’s saying goodbye to sweet Grahamstown and its criss-cross networks of friends and people buzzing in and out from my home to the peripheries of this bubble.

It’s me getting the chance to go to Hermanus and private chef and play, play, play

Love: Chocolate mud Cake with Raspberry Meringues

I attended a very beautiful 21^st party recently. The kind with warm friends, great outfits and songs written especially for the birthday girl. Someone shouted “cake is love” before Candace cut the cake, and screamed; with a room full of people who adore her joining in.

Cake contains the kind of love that cut be portioned and shared, from plate to mouth to mouth. With receptive grins and crumb- cornered mouths and licking of icing off fingers.

I had a cake- making project coming up and I was feeling inspired. Efe is a cake- lover, a dark- chocolate lover; and the kind of person who generously shares her passions. She commissioned me to make the party centrepiece and I agreed, despite 7 looming academic pieces of work and all sorts of other little stresses hanging about my mind. I agreed because there is nothing as satisfying as

Googling chocolate cakes when you should be studying (thank you Sweetapolita, you are great.)

Going shopping and putting 2 kilograms of chocolate and 1kg of butter in your trolley. 

Discussing cake making with Chef Jenny, and Thandi from next door.

Making a cake of three tiers that you know will be dismantled in minutes

The reward that comes with a chocolate- smattered/ pink/ silver dusted dirty apron 

Watching the birthday girl’s face when she sees the sparkles and the pink fairy dust and the crowds of friends singing, and bursts into tears.

Before you start worrying that this is going to be a deeply emotional and teary post let me tell you that making this kind of cake requires brute physical strength. Well, ok, if you don’t have a whisk attachment for your mixer, that is. The rest is all quite sentimental and airy and fun.

Three tier Chocolate mud Cake with Raspberry Meringues

Rocking the daisies 2011

 (Because every now and then you experience a weekend that sits like a burnished blimp on the surface of your year. You feel compelled to write about it quickly, before it seeps away into your wash bucket of tousled memories. )

It started with a frantic phone call on Wednesday. A friend’s lift had bailed out and a free ticket was on offer in exchange for a driver. Keen, I said. It has dawned on me lately that life is too short to let the good things go.

Then in an eye- blink I was standing in throbbing crowd, surrounded by shrieking girls and the tang of sweaty bodies. Jack Parow was waving his armpits in my face, which is what you do when you’re cooler than everyone else.

There were squeezy bottles being filled with gin dry lemon, beer, vodka coke, redbull, and lots and lots of water in between. Hot air wrapped like a blanket around us. A sweaty, close blanket that could only be temporarily escaped by a plunge into the dam; in bikinis, onezies or your summer dress. Or starkers.  There was dancing waist- deep, toes squishing in the mud and wondering what the poor ducks must think of these crazed beings.  

 There were porter loos: Solidarity in lack-of-toilet- paper, and long queues. Volumes could be written on the twisted expressions