Luscious Labneh

There is nothing more wonderful than transforming the banal into the beautiful. One of my favourite transformations is that from yoghurt to labneh. I got to know it as a Middle Eastern cheese, but like most things, it has roots and variations from all over. The basic process consists of putting yoghurt into muslin and allowing the whey to drip out over time until you're left with a soft cheese. The simplicity of this process, the patience it requires, the lush end result - all from goopy yoghurt - is to me the culinary version of the caterpillar turning into a butterfly. 

Add to that the fact that you are bound by nothing but your imagination and you bring me to my knees. Labneh can be made plain, or mixed with, or rolled in, pretty much anything. To me it is an empty canvas that allows me to be Salvador Dali (surrealist surprise - black pepper and mint) or Jackson Pollock (abstract anarchy - cayenne pepper and honey). For this particular labneh, with a tongue in cheek reference to its destination, I decided on Rubens (bold baroque - chilli, garlic & dill).

CHILLI, GARLIC & DILL LABNEH 

Mix 1l thick Greek yoghurt with 1t salt, 1T chilli, 1T dill & 2 crushed garlic. Pour into muslin cloth and tie with string. Put into a colander then into a smaller container so the colander hangs. Put the whole lot in the fridge for around 3 days. You can check the container daily to pour out the whey that drips off. If, after day 2, you check and it seems far from having a cheesy consistency, you can put a weight on top to force the liquid out. 

Once the yoghurt has turned into cheese roll it into ping pong balls and preserve in olive oil, which I mixed with dried chilli, smoked paprika and black pepper. It's absolutely delicious spread on toast, biscuits or pita and can also be added to a salad.

xx

J

Marmalazy

I'm not a fan of quick 'n lazy cooking because to me cooking is therapy and I swear, 20 minutes of therapy is nothing, it's like a stone skipping off a lake. I need to sink and submerge to feel better. Nothing heals me as much as hours of complicated time-consuming steps to complete a recipe. The longer it takes to make the meal the less time I have left to deal with the noise in my head. In fact, in short, the more I deal with the meal the more I heal. 

I'm sorry! I couldn't help it. It was so obvious I couldn't resist... (Don't worry, I'm throwing up a little in my mouth too...)

Anyway, sometimes I forget this. I focus on the time consuming part and forget the me involvement part. I hit upon marmalade last week. That takes ages right? It's almost like spending the whole day with a therapist. Great idea! And being, well, ME, I didn't choose a good old fashioned perfectly acceptable orange marmalade. Noooooooooo. I made grapefruit, orange, lemon AND lime marmalade. (Overcompensating much?)

The kink was the attempt to speed up this extremely boring boiling boiling boiling procedure. Look, I can hang out with a pot of stew bubbling away for days and days. But a pot of citrus? After the first half hour I feel like I've had inappropriate relations with those thingies people hang on the rearview mirror of the car. So I whipped out the presto and gave the citrus a lesson in hurry-the-fruit-up. Bottomline? Good marmalade, bad therapy. 

Re the therapy - I need my food to want me and need me and bubble my name frequently and wistfully. You can't hear your name being called above the whistle of a presto. And though the presto cut the time initially it messed up the whole pectin science - thereby requiring hours of boiling which led to hours of hallucinating about swinging cardboard trees.  And though that's more PG than most of the stuff I hallucinate about, it simply didn't cut it as far as cooking therapy was concerned.

Re the marmalade - Hey, it worked. Eventually. But I got nothing out of it. My clients did my neighbours did my friends did my family did and ironically one enemy did. But next time I make it I will soak up my therapy and let Miss Marmalady take her sweet, sweet, (cloyingly) sweet time.

GRAPEFRUIT, ORANGE, LEMON & LIME MARMALADE

4 Grapefruit
4 Oranges
3 Lemons
2 Limes

All of the above weighed 3kg. Aim for that weight. If you don't have it I like bitter so I'd knock out a grapefruit before I'd knock out an orange. But who cares. Knock out whatever. Bitter is always a bit weird but ironically people always think you're cool if you like weird.

I presto'd two batches of 1.5kg for 40 minutes from start to finish, each with 1.5l of water. Strain but keep liquid. Cool fruit then scoop out all the stuff inside. Chop the skins as thin as you want. Put back into the pot. Bundle all the gunk inside into muslin and put into the pot with the juices and the skins. Simmer till your biological clock stops ticking. If you lose hope, add lemon juice. If it still gives you grief, let it go man. It's bloody fruit.

xx
J

Fish What Fish

I'm not a fish person. Bleh. It might have something to do with growing up in Saldanha where everything on my plate for the first 12 years of my life, however disguised, when poked, prodded and investigated, contained fish. Ironically it also conjures up the rather quaint memory of fishing trawlers dragging their gunk onto the beach about 10 metres from my bedroom window. We'd storm down there trembling with an irrepressible morbid attraction to the fish and, best of all, jellyfish and octopus. (Octopi? Octopussies?) It's a charming memory, but floppy fish don't exactly inspire gastronomical attraction. 

So I was rather surprised when I awoke this morning with a craving for fish pie. No, I'm not pregnant. I have, however, recently slapped eyes on someone that I believe could probably impregnate me if he breathed too close to my ear. You think that's funny? It's not. The Incubus is alive and well and inspecting the condiments in Pick 'n Pay. There are dangerous creatures out there people, and not just the types dragged in by fishing trawlers. (Beware, above all, of the ones that AREN'T floppy...) 

While we're on a roll with the fishing theme, what sexually repressed individual thought I'd be comforted or inspired by the platitude that there are plenty of fish in the sea?! Who wants a fish? For God's sake, give me something to cling to, some hope, some sense of anticipation!! You want to inspire me? Try this:

There are plenty of lions in the veld!
There are plenty of crocs in the river!!
There are plenty of grizzlies in the woods!!!

And as for fish being plentiful? Yeah right. Except for the floppy with the charminq quirk of winking after every joke, or the one sniffing to the side, or the one wearing tassled shoes, or, God help me, the one called Norman.

Here's what I do with the likes of you:

SAFFRON & DILL FISH PIE

1.25l milk
1 onion, chopped
1 bay leaf
4 peppercorns
400g haddock
400g hake
75g butter
75g flour
1T parsley
1.2kg potatoes
Pinch saffron
75g butter
250ml cream
1T dill

Put milk (I used fat-free), onion, bay leaf and peppercorns into pot, bring to the boil then simmer for 10 minutes to infuse. Pour milk over the raw fish and simmer for 10 minutes. Once done, take out fish but keep milk. Remove skin and bones if required and break into big pieces.

Melt butter, add flour, cook for a minute then add flavoured milk to make a thick white sauce. Add more milk if required. Add parsley and season. Mix with fish.

Make mash, this is a fancy version. Boil the potatoes with the saffron, it's really cool, it goes yellow and gorgeous. You're welcome to go cheapo and add 1/8t turmeric, it gets the same look and most people don't know the difference. Either way, mash with butter, dill, s&p and the cream (I used reduced-fat). Spoon on top of fish and bake at 180C for 30-40 minutes to get golden brown.

xx
J

Pity the Poussin

Vegetarians avert your eyes....

Then again, carnivores draw the line somewhere too. Even though most of them eat lamb, they are outraged by veal (baby sheep, baby cow, what's the difference?). Since poussins, aka baby chicken, is a relative novelty in South Africa I've no idea what the ethical line is wrt cooking them. Me? I love them. They're adorable and succulent and a whole chicken on a plate looks great. I used to eat them all the time when I lived in London with my ex. (I still regret not shoving one up his ass. Then again, there was no space, what with the sun shining out of it and all.)

So - if you're a carnivore that draws the line at looking at naked chicks, best you avert your eyes too...

The reason for the poussins is a special dinner for my parents for our annual I Love You Day. This day was created between my mom and myself way back in my turbulent teenage years when hatred was the order of the day. She said there should be at least ONE day a year that I didn't hate her. I chose 21 June - the shortest day of the year. What a bitch... (Even so, the sentiment disappeared but the celebration stayed).

The reason for 7 poussins for 3 people is, of course, my coocoocookness. You see, several months ago I discovered frozen poussins at Checkers so I pounced and kept them for that special dinner. But recently, they've upgraded to occasionally having fresh poussins. So I defrosted the frozen ones but also had to buy the fresh ones so I could see how they compared. I chose two recipes - Coq au Vin for the frozen (slow and steady to overcome cryogenic issues) and Old Fashioned Roast for the fresh (to bring out the best).

POUSSINS ROASTED IN LEMON & THYME WITH SPINACH STUFFING BALLS

 

For the Balls:

600g spinach (ish - I used 2 x 300g bags but it's flexible)

1/2c parmesan (for this, those cheapo packets will work fine)

100 g breadcrumbs

2 egg yolks

Mix the above together with s&p and form into golf balls. 

For the Chicken:

I had 4 poussins. Semi-melt a cup of butter, add s&p and mix with 5ish cloves of garlic & some chopped parsley. (Dried will do – to me parsley is just for pretty). Tear off a sheet of foil big enough to cover a poussin, put him in the middle and rub all over with the butter mixture. Add some thyme, sage & a few slices of lemon. Drizzle with olive oil and scrunch the foil together into a teardrop shape, leaving the top slightly open for steaming.

Heat the oven to 220C. Put all the poussins in a roasting tray and add 1c water. Roast for 15 minutes. Turn heat down to 180C and roast for another 15 minutes. Add the stuffing balls then roast for another 15 minutes. Lose the foil, turn over the balls, drizzle some more olive oil and roast for another 15 minutes.

I served them with roast potatoes and pumpkin. (Btw, I boiled my pumpkin in water and a bit of honey, then added cinnamon, black pepper & breadcrumbs to give it bulk).

COQ AU VIN

 

3 poussins

20 baby onions 

20 mushrooms

1/2 pack bacon cut up

1/2c brandy

500ml red wine

500ml beef stock

Bouquet garni

3 cloves garlic

Fry onions, bacon & mushrooms on high to get a bit of colour. Remove. Roll poussins in flour and fry on high to get colour. Add brandy and set alight. I did it twice. Just cause it's pretty and I have a deep-seated pyrotechnic/arsonistic fetish. 

Add the wine, the stock, the bouquet, garlic, 1T brown sugar and s&p. Bring to the boil, cover and simmer for an hour. Add the onion/bacon mix and cook for a further 30 minutes. Remove everything but the sauce and boil down to reduce a bit. Thicken with maizena/flour. Combine everything and serve.

My parents left the next day with full bellies and 3 days' worth of leftovers. At the end of the day both dishes were exceptionally tender and succulent, (sorry vegetarians and line-drawing carnivores, but that's why we eat the young ones). The final verdict however, surprisingly, was that the defrosted poussin beat out the fresh poussin. It essentially had the same amount and time of heat exposure. But the old ex-frozen meat that I expected to be tough was more tender than the fresh juicy meat. 

Which brings us full circle to I Love You Day, today. 

Turns out that a young poussin can be a bit of a tough bitch, who limits her love for her mother to the shortest day of the year. But an old, cold poussin is capable of forgiving the times it was frozen out and is able to turn soft and tender. All it needs is a little bit of warmth. 

xx

J

Pies for Peace

I never really despair about or think about world relations. I despair at the sight of my face in the mirror, my weight on the scale, my invoices waiting to be done, my sex life, the fear that I might hurt myself rolling on the floor laughing about my sex life. I swear. When oh when must I have time for the world's relations?

Picture putting an Iraqi and an American in a room. What do you imagine they're talking about? I'm sure normal people would imagine they're either beating each other to a pulp or having a deeply intellectual debate about the war. Me? I'd like to imagine the Iraqi explaining to the American that a true kebab is like having a burger on a stick, not a cut up steak on a stick. And the American would tell the Iraqi about this incredible spice called Spike and how it could enhance the kebab without it losing its authenticity.

Can food transcend geographical, political & racial lines? No. DUH. How much Vicks Medi-Nite do you think I drank?! (How much Vicks Medi-Nite do you think we have to feed the world before it COULD??)

But today, still feeling sick and also fragile from yesterday's gastronomical disasters, I didn't want to go for hard, I wanted to go for good. I wanted to go for plain and simple and warm. And there's something about mince and mash that just makes me feel good. So I chose Cottage Pie.

And inadvertently, serendipitously, learnt that the world is a wonderful place.

I bet you knew that Cottage Pie is similar to Shepherd's Pie. They're both kinda English/Irish. But did you know that there's a similar dish in France called Hachis Parmentier? Being French they jazz it up but it's the same old thing. And the Americans? They have the same thing, they just call it Cowboy Pie. The South Americans have really cool names for it – the Argentineans call it Pastel De Papa, the Brazilians call it Bolo De Batata. The Lebanese call it Kibbet Batata. And the Russians call it (altogether now) Картофельная запеканка.

How cool is that. We can fight like cat and dog but way down, way down at stomach level, you put mash on top of mince and it makes us all feel good, no matter who we are or where we're from.

I swear. They should put it in the water. Of course then the water would look like shit. Then no one would drink water. We'd all dehydrate. We'd go mad. We'd be at war. We'd all die.

All because of ... The simple Cottage Pie.

xx

J

COTTAGE PIE

700g mince

8 shallots, chopped

2 garlic cloves, crushed

3 carrots, chopped

4 sprigs thyme

2 bay leaves

2T tomato puree

50ml worcestershire sauce

200ml red wine

350ml chicken stock

200g frozen peas

6 medium potatoes

100ml milk

3T butter

2 egg yolks

Fry shallots and garlic in butter and oil until soft. Add the carrots and fry for another couple of minutes. Add the thyme, bay leaf and mince and fry until meat browned. Add tomato puree, Worcester sauce, wine and chicken stock and simmer for 30 minutes. (I read somewhere on the Internet that you should always use chicken stock with beef and beef stock with chicken, and as you know, one should ALWAYS trust what one reads on the Internet).

Add the peas and season and, depending on the amount of liquid left, some maizena to make a thickish but not dry sauce. Remove thyme sticks and bay leaves.

Make the mash. Add two egg yolks to make the mash rich and brown and crusty. (PS - You want to know the secret of mash? Add a teaspoon of baking powder. It'll change your life. Trust me.) 

Heat oven to 180C, put mash on top of mince mix (scribble to make it look good) and bake for 30 minutes. Allow to stand for 5 minutes to settle.

Eat and go forth in peace.

Bleddy Beans & Bread

I have de flu. My dose is blocked and my head frobbs. Since dere's no one to give me sympitty I have to mudder myself...

And what could be more comforting than soup. (And gin.) Chicken Soup for flu is SO last season so I decided to try Tuscan White Bean Soup. Now let me make something clear. I don't do legumes. In fact, I do most vegetables reluctantly. To me a plate of food is a bit like a good rock band. I know it has band members on the side that need to be there for something or other but all I care about is the meat in the middle. I mean, who knows/cares about anyone but Steven Tyler in Aerosmith. Or Adam Levine in Maroon Five. Or Jay Kay in Jamiroquai. Occasionally you have a potato on the side, in which case you have a Rolling Stones meal - Mick Jagger's the man but Keith Richards is pretty cool. You see? (Hmmm, maybe one shouldn't mix Vicks Medi-Nite and Degoran and Gin but I'm sick OK!)

Anyhoo, that was all background to explain how I ended up at war with white kidney beans. I researched the bastards. I soaked them, boiled them, simmered them, coddled them in my sickly snotty state. According to my lovely (stupid) recipe they will then only need another hour of simmering to become beautiful tender little beans. HA! They had the consistency of gallstones. So I whipped out my trusty presto and whacked them for another hour. An hour's presto will make a bicycle wheel tender. Yet these guys were like OK, you can bite through me now but if you think I'm going mushy you can bite me. Unbelievable.

That said, the soup was pretty awesome. I haven't been to Tuscany but I'm convinced it tasted Tuscany. Nutty and comforting and the chilli/garlic combo on top was like a gastronomic hot toddy. I've amended the instructions to go straight to the quick fix. 

But hark, my failure for the day was not complete. For what is soup without bread? Lovely crusty country bread. So I baked one. I kneaded with passion and allowed it to rise on three separate occasions with gleeful anticipation. And what do I get for all that hard work and dedication? A bleddy weapon. You want the recipe? Here it is. GO TO SPAR.

In the wise words of the Rolling Stones, my favourite meat & potato combo:

And though she's not really ill
There's a little yellow pill
She goes running for the shelter
of a mother's little helper

Next time I need mothering I'll just stick to the gin and the chemicals.

xx
J

TUSCAN WHITE BEAN SOUP

500g white kidney beans - soak overnight, changing water a few times

0.5 pack back bacon
1 onion, quartered

1 celery stalk, big chunks
1 carrot, big chunks
2 cloves garlic, peeled & bruised

1 bay leaf

1.25l chicken stock
Chilli flakes, garlic & parmesan

Place everything except the last item in a presto pot and whack it for at least half an hour. Check it, maybe you're luckier than I am. Keep going until they're tender. Remove from the heat and allow to cool in the liquid. NB - Do not add salt to beans until completely done, it will only escalate the war.

I like a thick soup so I poured out excess liquid until the level was just above my solids. If you like it thinner you can leave in more liquid. Puree with a couple of tablespoons of olive oil then push through a sieve. You'll have a beautiful smooth bean porridge. Fry crushed garlic and chilli flakes in olive oil and drizzle on top. Sprinkle with parmesan. Serve with Spar bread.

My Ma se Bredie

Allison has gracefully given me permission to make her and Chloe supper. This is quite a terrifying prospect. The list of food Chloe hates vs what she'll eat is like my list of people I want to sleep with vs the people who want to sleep with me. As for Allison, though she's dying of flu she's still an intimidating judge. Unlike my other friends and family she doesn't lie about liking my food and she's utterly unimpressed by my foreign or fancy foods. She therefore requested tamatie bredie. God help me - this is something SHE can make so I'm convinced I'm screwed. One Does Not Compete With Allison. (Well, one does, but one will lose). That said, I'm fairly confident about my tamatie bredie. I was taught by my mother and, considering she only ever made two dishes she, by virtue of the law of averages, had to be good at it. (Unfortunately in adulthood I learnt that her secret ingredient was whatever was going off in the fridge at the time, but I'll spare you that in my recipe!)

TAMATIE BREDIE

1.2kg lamb (neck & knuckles)

2 onions, sliced

3 tins chopped tomato

1 chilli

3 cloves garlic

0.5c tomato paste

3 potatoes

Fry the lamb in olive oil and butter until browned. Remove and presto for 0.5 hour. Meanwhile fry the onions with the chopped chilli and crushed garlic until soft. Add meat back to pan, setting juices aside. Add tomatoes, tinned and paste. Add 2t sugar, 0.5-1t chilli powder, 1t paprika, 2t mixed herbs and 1 chicken stock cube. Spoon the fat off the meat juices and add to pan. Allow to simmer slowly for 2.5 hours. Cut up potatoes and add. Simmer for another hour. Now you'll have to do the thickening - I used about 5T maizena, but it's up to your taste, I like a thick sauce.

Tamatie bredie is even better the next day but it had to do. I dished up with trepidation. (Totally unwarranted as it turns out). Waited with bated breath for the constructive commentary. (Which never came).

And isn't that just typical! I drive myself crazy worrying about what people think. So many fears, so much insecurity, such constant worry. For what?

You know what? I can do constructive commentary too:

You don't like it?

JOU ma se bredie!

xx

J

Perfect Pie

I love chicken pie. Unfortunately I need a chicken pie like I need a hole in the head. Or sex with Colin Farrell - in the short term it'll be yum but in the long term I know I'll probably end up with unwanted growth...

This is where my dad comes in. To him chicken pie is the holy grail and, by making it for him, I get to have some AND I get to be titled Most Amazing Daughter.

Although I've researched pies for years my basic recipe stays pretty much the same because, well, because it's awesome and because, to me, a chicken pie needs to be more Johanna Olivier than Jamie Oliver. There is a contender for awesome pie though - my dad's sister - Aunty Suzy. For years I've heard about her chicken pie. Recently at her 70th birthday party I asked her for the recipe. There was prevarication, reluctance and deflection but I stood firm and wrung the recipe from her unyielding hands. Or rather, some vague tips with the rest to be filled in by my imagination, but it had to do.

Yesterday I went home to visit the parents and, since Father's Day is coming up, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to pit chicken pie against chicken pie:

AUNTY SUZY'S CHICKEN PIE

Spice 2 whole chickens, stick half a lemon up each ass, pour olive oil on top, pour in 2 cups of water and put in the oven at 200C for 0.5 hour. Turn down to 150C for another 1.5 hours. Debone, discarding skin and icky bits. Sieve what's left in the pan and set juices aside. Once the fat has cooled spoon it off. Add enough water to juices to total about 3.25 cups and put in a pot with 4T sago. Allow to simmer until sago is translucent. Add about 2T Bisto and 3T maizena until sauce has thickened (it must plop, not pour). Mix with chicken, slap on the pastry, eggwash and bake at 160C for 0.5 Hour.

MY CHICKEN PIE

Put 2 whole chickens in a presto pot. Add 3 broken carrots, 2 broken celery sticks, 1 quartered onion, 6 bay leaves, 1t whole peppercorns, salt & pepper and 3 cups water. Presto for an hour. Debone, discarding skin, icky bits and veg. Sieve what's left in the pot and set juices aside. Once the fat has called spoon it off. Put juices in a pot with 4T sago. Allow to simmer until sago is translucent. Add or throw away juice until you have about 2 cups left. Melt 4T butter in a pot. Add 4T flour and heat a bit. Slowly add a cup of milk while stirring, then add the juices until you have a thick white sauce, (it must plop, not pour). Mix with chicken, slap on the pastry, eggwash and bake at 160C for 0.5 Hour.

Note 1: Chickens come in different sizes and anyway, I generally eyeball the amount of sauce required and what it takes to thicken it. Use your discretion people!

Note 2: Since I wanted to compare apples to apples I didn't add anything else to my pie. However, I usually fry up a chopped onion and a punnet of mushrooms and mix that in with the chicken. I also add that juice to the chicken juices before reducing it to 3 cups.

Tip: There's nothing that pisses me off as much as spooning fat off juices. It's great if you have time to wait for the fat to thicken but I usually don't. Wait for juices to cool a bit then pour it into a ziploc bag. Keep your pot ready next to the sink. Hold the bag over the pot with a corner pointing down and you'll see the fat will settle at the top, the juices at the bottom. Cut a small piece off and let the juices run out into the pot. When it gets close to the fat part just quickly dump the bag in the sink and you're sorted! (PS - Don't do this if you've been drinking!)

I decorated the pies differently so we could tell them apart when the judging began.

The moment arrived. My dad inhaled about a quarter of mine and a quarter of Aunty Suzy's while I waited in breathless anticipation. "So?" I asked. He returned a blank gaze. "So how IS IT". "Oh!" he says, "delicious!". "Yes, but WHICH ONE!" Blank gaze. "They're different? Really? I didn't notice..."

Now I get how addicts don't notice someone put omo in their coke or tea in their dope. Like my dad, they could care less they're just so damn happy they got their fix. Which, I guess, is more important than who won.

xx
J

PS - I did

Going Greek

There is an incredible Greek restaurant in Dunkley Square called Maria's. On death row their Spanakopita, Lamb with Artichokes and Ouza and Vegetarian Moussaka are high on the list. Last Tuesday I went there with Jean and Fabs. And they didn't have the lamb. Let me say that again. They.Did.Not.Have.The.Lamb. This is like going to Pisa and they say sorry, we don't have the leaning tower today. I was deeply offended.

By Thursday I'm still thinking of the Damn Lamb. And OK. There's also The Situation. Which I'm not ready to discuss but suffice to say, I'm kind of going through something right now. And it's hell. And horrible. And what's left of my mind is making calls to travel agents to book flights outta here. Put the two together and the obsession starts. You know those weirdos that claim they get twitchy if they haven't been to the gym in 3 days? That's me. Only with cooking. (I must say, one of life's great mysteries is why I don't fit in their jeans...)

So I decide to make my own Damn Lamb. And the Spanakopita. Because by this time I can feel the runaway train in my brain. And what I know, what I know for sure, is that once I've made this food, which is complicated and time consuming, I will have shed whatever sadness and fear and anger I had before I started. And in the spirit of full circle, I pass the food to my loved ones, friends and neighbours. And I feel better for it.

(But, in the spirit of full circle, it would be kinda nice if one of them loved ones passed me a Greek. So I could have something for dinner, too.)

xx
J

PS - Please note I don't put stupid stuff in my recipe ingredients. If you don't have olive oil, butter, maizena, bay leaves etc etc you must be lost. Or my mother. Either way, not my problem. 

SPANAKOPITA 

1 onion, chopped
1 kg spinach
200g crumbled feta
150ml cream cheese
3 eggs
15ml chopped dill (dry is fine but use half)
10ml chopped oregano (dry is fine but use half)
10 sheets phyllo
100g butter

Add spinach to pot with little water and wilt. Squeeze as much water out as you can through sieve. Chop. Add olive oil to pot and stir fry onions until soft. Allow to cool then add feta, cream cheese, eggs, herbs, salt & pepper. Take a sheet of phyllo and cut in half with a knife. Brush a third with butter. Fold over. Brush. Fold over. put a fat tablespoon of spinach mix on left corner. Take bottom left corner of phyllo and move to top right. Take top left corner and move to bottom right. Continue consertina until you have a triangle. Brush with butter and put in pan. Repeat for rest. Bake at 180C for 15 minutes but keep an eye on it so it doesn't get too dark. 

LAMB WITH ARTICHOKES AND OUZO 

1.5kg (ish) leg of lamb
3 garlic cloves, quartered
2 lemons
20ml tomato paste
50ml ouzo (non-drinking people can use star aniseed but I haven't tried it because I, like, drink)
250ml cream
1 can artichokes

Debone the lamb. You don't need a degree. Find the bone. Stick your knife in and saw and saw until you find your way around it. You can hack to your heart's content it doesn't have to be pretty (pretend it's HIM). Once it's done you can whack it with a kitchen hammer if it's thick (pretend it's HIM). Then squirt a lemon over it, salt & pepper it and splash some olive oil. Now take some string and tie into a secure unit, once again, it doesn't have to be pretty. Repeat lemon/s&p/oil. Put in the oven on 200C for 20 minutes. Wrap the baking tray or whatever you have it in tightly in foil, turn down the oven to 150C and let it go for at least 4 hours but 6 is even better. Allow to cool (I usually do this part the day before). Slice or break up the lamb. Put a big knob of butter in a pan and a crushed clove of garlic. Add the tomato paste, ouzo and cream. Add the lamb and artichokes. Simmer to heat through. Maria's serves it with roast potatoes and a Greek salad. I usually hand out/finish mine before I think about a side dish. The picture isn't great but trust me. This is food for the gods.

Who and Why

My name is June. I live in Obz. And the only thing that stands between me and madness is my stove. 

I like food. I like making it. And sometimes all I'm doing is just that, making food. But there are times that I cook because I NEED to.

I'm not sure I can explain it, but let me try with a humourous/disturbing anecdote, depending on your personality/alcohol intake:

A couple of years ago I woke up on a Sunday morning with an obsession. I had to make Huevos Ranchoros. (Mexican breakfast of eggs cooked in tomatoes and chillies). I just HAD to. As one does.

So I go to Pick & Pay. On a Sunday. This is a measure of how driven I get. I'm a hermit. I'm sure I have a masters in it from the University of I Hate People. Going to Pick & Pay on a Sunday, when everyone and their extended family is there for an outing, can only be described as lunacy.

So I shower and get dressed and swallow my breakfast medication and storm out and buy the ingredients and rush back. And take my breakfast medication. Again. It's hardly an overdose and God knows I've taken enough drugs in the past to sink a passenger liner but somehow this particular combo sends me over the edge. My heart's going a million miles an hour I'm sweating I'm flushed I'm freaking out. I call Jenny my neighbour to notify her of my impending death and to arrange for the dogs to be taken care of. She however goes psycho and the next thing I know I'm in Vincent Pallotti trauma unit getting ECG's and Nurse Ratched is approaching me with a needle in her hand and I'm terrified, I'm terrified BEYOND BELIEF.

And all I can think is this:

Can you HAVE Huevos Ranchoros for lunch??

I rest my case.

xx
J