2011 was the year of the sweetcorn sweet chilli (sweetcorn-chilli?) frittata. Often a morning friend. More of an egg flattie really. It never needed anything
else; egg, sweetcorn, sweet chilli. Consistently good; no other breakfast could better its pleasures. Sustenance.
Nuts made an impact. The protein-packed
goodness of bite sized endorphin-releasing crunchiness accompanied me through many a day/night/morning breakfast bowl. The
almond, that has left me unsatisfied before, made a comeback. The
brazil. The buttery Macadamian. ... The cashew fell by the wayside. The
peanut was overshadowed years ago.
The winter work lunch of leftover broccoli and/or cauliflower in white sauce with some sliced ham, a dash of tabasco and a smear of mustard was surprisingly tasty, satisfying and healthy. Cherry tomato, mature white cheddar, basil and seed pasta drizzled only with olive oil and balsamic vinegar; a slightly altered version of one that was served to me in the Knysna forest from an organic garden still remains the healthiest, happiest meal. My Nanny agrees. Mature white cheddar substitutes fresh buffalo mozzarella. Ciabatta salad a la panzanella. At some point I made tiny poppy seed biscuits with white lime icing but I have lost the recipe and it hurts.
Crunchie Oats. We've been through this.
Winter held discoveries of horlicks heated to the point where I'm peeling the milk condom off the top, splashed with kahlua and sometimes cinnamon if feeling sensitive. Drunk at deep night, often with a nighttime companion.
Citrus french toast was created in Lubanzi, on a mountain perched over the sea. Fresh orange, cinnamon, sugar in the mix, dried fantasia nectarines or peaches it didn't matter it was delicious. Back home with full pantries mascarpone was added, though perhaps it should have been greek yoghurt. Peasant food was also devised due to dwindling supplies in the Transkei; a tasty, hearty stew of fried potatoes, garlic, tomatoes, sweet chilli and baked beans. Preferably eaten with bread, a fierce hunger and smatterings of rain. The fiercely good mushroom sauce that dripped off chicken at Terra Khaya in Hogsback is restored as soon as I close my eyes and picture the backgammon board next to the fire. The same chef handed me Xhosa bread and butter in the morning to enjoy with my Earl Grey and fresh cow's milk. (Why we drink anything else is ridiculous.)
Salticrax and chocolate.
The year ended almost too well, with baskets of dried black figs, the sweetest oranges sprinkled with cinnamon, date and chocolate roasted nuts, lupin with organic vegetables. Fresh rolled couscous in the Atlas mountains, doused with olive oil from the trees in the villager's backyards. Drinking yoghurt, strangely, of which I've never been a fan. Chitterlings: Baby camel intestines wrapped in lamb intestines perched atop vegetable couscous in the black, flat desert of the Sahara. Nomad bread dipped into date syrup and creamy harira for breakfast. A camel burger in Fez with a couple of Mexican biologists. A cheesecake almost too fresh and hot sweet almond milk served with solitary and Henry Miller. A baguette sandwich with tuna lettuce eggs chips polony tomato everything else on the wall of a Spanish mosque. A whole rotisserie chicken with lemon preserve and olives and bread devoured as a foursome. Lamb eaten off a barbeque at 1am at a public bus stop. The flaky square Moroccan crepe; mixed with tomato and mushroom and onion to create a pizza bread, pounded with experience, sliced open on the grill and filled with egg and cheese, or spread with Nutella, eaten folded and hot. Saccharine mint tea served by strangers and friends in back rooms, overlooking the sea, in the middle of the desert, with a fresh rolled croissant in the middle of the night. A cauliflower tagine with fresh bread and olives, served with a view of donkeys, sunshine and a Berber woman with eyes unfilmed.
2012 has given me fresh harira in a carpet shop. A gumbo sandwich with children. Free tuna in an airport. Prickly pears and amazing uttered under my breath. Glass jar cookies sprinkled on top of Greek yoghurt and honey ice cream. A french toast sandwich with mature white cheddar and ham. Fresh figs from the tree.
Winter held discoveries of horlicks heated to the point where I'm peeling the milk condom off the top, splashed with kahlua and sometimes cinnamon if feeling sensitive. Drunk at deep night, often with a nighttime companion.
Citrus french toast was created in Lubanzi, on a mountain perched over the sea. Fresh orange, cinnamon, sugar in the mix, dried fantasia nectarines or peaches it didn't matter it was delicious. Back home with full pantries mascarpone was added, though perhaps it should have been greek yoghurt. Peasant food was also devised due to dwindling supplies in the Transkei; a tasty, hearty stew of fried potatoes, garlic, tomatoes, sweet chilli and baked beans. Preferably eaten with bread, a fierce hunger and smatterings of rain. The fiercely good mushroom sauce that dripped off chicken at Terra Khaya in Hogsback is restored as soon as I close my eyes and picture the backgammon board next to the fire. The same chef handed me Xhosa bread and butter in the morning to enjoy with my Earl Grey and fresh cow's milk. (Why we drink anything else is ridiculous.)
Salticrax and chocolate.
The year ended almost too well, with baskets of dried black figs, the sweetest oranges sprinkled with cinnamon, date and chocolate roasted nuts, lupin with organic vegetables. Fresh rolled couscous in the Atlas mountains, doused with olive oil from the trees in the villager's backyards. Drinking yoghurt, strangely, of which I've never been a fan. Chitterlings: Baby camel intestines wrapped in lamb intestines perched atop vegetable couscous in the black, flat desert of the Sahara. Nomad bread dipped into date syrup and creamy harira for breakfast. A camel burger in Fez with a couple of Mexican biologists. A cheesecake almost too fresh and hot sweet almond milk served with solitary and Henry Miller. A baguette sandwich with tuna lettuce eggs chips polony tomato everything else on the wall of a Spanish mosque. A whole rotisserie chicken with lemon preserve and olives and bread devoured as a foursome. Lamb eaten off a barbeque at 1am at a public bus stop. The flaky square Moroccan crepe; mixed with tomato and mushroom and onion to create a pizza bread, pounded with experience, sliced open on the grill and filled with egg and cheese, or spread with Nutella, eaten folded and hot. Saccharine mint tea served by strangers and friends in back rooms, overlooking the sea, in the middle of the desert, with a fresh rolled croissant in the middle of the night. A cauliflower tagine with fresh bread and olives, served with a view of donkeys, sunshine and a Berber woman with eyes unfilmed.
2012 has given me fresh harira in a carpet shop. A gumbo sandwich with children. Free tuna in an airport. Prickly pears and amazing uttered under my breath. Glass jar cookies sprinkled on top of Greek yoghurt and honey ice cream. A french toast sandwich with mature white cheddar and ham. Fresh figs from the tree.
