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Dead simple recipes: Lassaka
Jun. 9th, 2012 04:44 pm Or, a lasagne-like moussaka. Delicious, and low-carb, too, if you mind about such things; this has also been called "marry me -food". This recipe is adapted from a similar one I spotted a few years ago on, hilariously, a weight-loss site that was heavily focussed on no-fat, no-joy cooking. Go figure.
For one large oven pan you'll need:
2 big, handsome eggplants; sliced
500 grams (1 pound / 17 ounces, I think) of ground meat - pork, beef, whatever
2 tablespoons pureed tomato
250 grams (0.5 pound) bacon; chopped
1 big yellow onion; chopped
3 garlic cloves, or to taste; chopped
-also broccoli, cauliflower, zucchini if wanted
200 milliliters (7 ounces) cream
about 5 generous handfuls of grated cheese
spices to taste
First, set the oven to heat to 200 Celsius (390 F). Slice up the aubergines, either into discs or strips, and set a baking sheet on the baking pan. Sprinkle salt on the sheet, then lay the aubergine disks there, and sprinkle more salt on them - it's okay if the discs overlap a bit, or you can cook them in two batches, if you like, too. Put the baking pan into the oven so the aubergine bakes and shrinks a bit while the oven heats up.
Second, brown the ground meat in its own juices. Let the onions, garlic, and optional chopped up veggies sauté in the same pan as you do, and keep cooking the mix until the veggies are at least tender. Add the tomato paste and season as you wish, and set aside to cool a bit.
Third, heat the cream and add some two to three handfuls of shredded cheese. Season, but don't add salt. Black and green pepper, however, are excellent here.
By this time your oven should be heated and your aubergines baked. Remove the pan from the oven and drizzle some (olive) oil onto the baking sheet, then lay out the first layer of aubergine disks. It doesn't have to be a very dense layer. Then add a layer of the beef-and-veg mix, and pour the cheese sauce on. Add another layer of aubergine, and then top it with the chopped uncooked bacon and more shredded cheese.
Shove the pan back into the oven, and leave it there until you can't take it anymore - about 30 minutes should do it, although you can't really overcook this dish and it's even better the next day, in my opinion. Let it sit for about 15 minutes before digging in - some crisp salad with a vinaigrette on the side goes marvellously with this dish. As do kaipiroskas.
For one large oven pan you'll need:
2 big, handsome eggplants; sliced
500 grams (1 pound / 17 ounces, I think) of ground meat - pork, beef, whatever
2 tablespoons pureed tomato
250 grams (0.5 pound) bacon; chopped
1 big yellow onion; chopped
3 garlic cloves, or to taste; chopped
-also broccoli, cauliflower, zucchini if wanted
200 milliliters (7 ounces) cream
about 5 generous handfuls of grated cheese
spices to taste
First, set the oven to heat to 200 Celsius (390 F). Slice up the aubergines, either into discs or strips, and set a baking sheet on the baking pan. Sprinkle salt on the sheet, then lay the aubergine disks there, and sprinkle more salt on them - it's okay if the discs overlap a bit, or you can cook them in two batches, if you like, too. Put the baking pan into the oven so the aubergine bakes and shrinks a bit while the oven heats up.
Second, brown the ground meat in its own juices. Let the onions, garlic, and optional chopped up veggies sauté in the same pan as you do, and keep cooking the mix until the veggies are at least tender. Add the tomato paste and season as you wish, and set aside to cool a bit.
Third, heat the cream and add some two to three handfuls of shredded cheese. Season, but don't add salt. Black and green pepper, however, are excellent here.
By this time your oven should be heated and your aubergines baked. Remove the pan from the oven and drizzle some (olive) oil onto the baking sheet, then lay out the first layer of aubergine disks. It doesn't have to be a very dense layer. Then add a layer of the beef-and-veg mix, and pour the cheese sauce on. Add another layer of aubergine, and then top it with the chopped uncooked bacon and more shredded cheese.
Shove the pan back into the oven, and leave it there until you can't take it anymore - about 30 minutes should do it, although you can't really overcook this dish and it's even better the next day, in my opinion. Let it sit for about 15 minutes before digging in - some crisp salad with a vinaigrette on the side goes marvellously with this dish. As do kaipiroskas.
Upwards, Northwards.
Jul. 18th, 2011 03:44 pmRadio silence, finally over! ( *shesmovedon* )
But yeah. In Hulk-speak? Acquired future! Physical transition difficult! Yet 65°1'0″N won't know what hit it!
But yeah. In Hulk-speak? Acquired future! Physical transition difficult! Yet 65°1'0″N won't know what hit it!
Dear Internet...
Jul. 5th, 2011 01:39 pm... have you ever observed male bodybuilders (or similarly heavy-muscled specimens) attempting to eat an oven-hot pizza with plastic utensils? If not, make it a priority, as it's good for the soul and may just lead to cramping abs, not to mention the failure of the best poker face in your repertoire.
(Mystified? Touch the fingertips of your hand to the shoulder of the same arm. Now, imagine you have boulder-sized biceps and triceps. Bring said fingertips towards your mouth. Give your imagined self meaty, oversized pectorals. Add an already flexible plastic fork. Add a sliver of scalding pizza...)
P'raps I'm becoming mean-spirited and petty, but witnessing that wee vignette was very much worth waiting a disproportionate time for my meal at the nearby fast-food shack - in the same league of amusing things as a running Shar Pei.
(Mystified? Touch the fingertips of your hand to the shoulder of the same arm. Now, imagine you have boulder-sized biceps and triceps. Bring said fingertips towards your mouth. Give your imagined self meaty, oversized pectorals. Add an already flexible plastic fork. Add a sliver of scalding pizza...)
P'raps I'm becoming mean-spirited and petty, but witnessing that wee vignette was very much worth waiting a disproportionate time for my meal at the nearby fast-food shack - in the same league of amusing things as a running Shar Pei.
Improvements.
Mar. 4th, 2011 12:18 pmI've spent the past week sick to my bones and mostly in bed, a shivering, feverish wreck with a machine gun cough and congested pipes. Three days' sick leave Monday through Wednesday, of which I don't remember anything but a splitting headache flaring up from bad to worse at the winter sunshine sneaking past the blinds and a vague recollection of getting up on Tuesday to pay the rent online. A truly horrid, horrid day commenced on Thursday, most of which I spent back at work on and in a vile black mood and no physical strength to speak of left. A flight of stairs left me panting and sweating, but as I had no fever, fit for work I was. Yup. Uh huh.
You can imagine my delight waking up this morning feeling mostly like myself. No nausea, no vertigo, no woozy sense of "better grab a handful of the floor, the world's gone wonky". I was actually peckish for the first time in a week. (I'm mostly synonymous with my perennial appetite[s].) Granted, my flat looks like it needs both the tender mercies of an exorcist and PTSD counselling, but I feel like a person and not a bag of woe, and that is indeed something in my book. It's been a long-arse week feeling like I'm running a gauntlet with blinders on.
I'm not the girliest of girls, goodness knows, but I'm sitting here in a homemade oatmeal-and-honey facial mask watching Queen's Live at Wembley Stadium DVD, looking patently ridiculous and feeling rather nice and unapologetically gleeful if thoroughly knackered, wanting nothing but a good cup of tea which unfortunately isn't happening (I've coughed my throat rather raw, and some blood is still coming up occasionally, ick) - but the week's heading into the right direction, finally. My way.
(Watching Freddie getting his Little Richard on is definitely helping. Hee.)
You can imagine my delight waking up this morning feeling mostly like myself. No nausea, no vertigo, no woozy sense of "better grab a handful of the floor, the world's gone wonky". I was actually peckish for the first time in a week. (I'm mostly synonymous with my perennial appetite[s].) Granted, my flat looks like it needs both the tender mercies of an exorcist and PTSD counselling, but I feel like a person and not a bag of woe, and that is indeed something in my book. It's been a long-arse week feeling like I'm running a gauntlet with blinders on.
I'm not the girliest of girls, goodness knows, but I'm sitting here in a homemade oatmeal-and-honey facial mask watching Queen's Live at Wembley Stadium DVD, looking patently ridiculous and feeling rather nice and unapologetically gleeful if thoroughly knackered, wanting nothing but a good cup of tea which unfortunately isn't happening (I've coughed my throat rather raw, and some blood is still coming up occasionally, ick) - but the week's heading into the right direction, finally. My way.
(Watching Freddie getting his Little Richard on is definitely helping. Hee.)
Strange Days Indeed
Feb. 10th, 2011 12:18 amToday's... been well weird. Another endless, nasty winter's left my skin downright homicidal and brought allergy meds (namely, loratadine) back into my life, and all's been normal on that front save for the usual increased need for sleep, disturbingly vivid dreams and low capacity for concentration.
Today, the wondrous windows of creation aligned thusly:
Allergy medication + neo-perennial fatigue + rhythmically thump-thumping heavy machinery + Diablo Swing Orchestra on the iPod = seriously expecting Willy Wonka -ish tailcoated gents to spring from concealment at every turn.
I haven't felt like "ye gods, the universe is about to walk me into a cheesy musical, heeelp meee!" even when I was acting in a cheesy musical. And no, my brain does not suffer from Disney invasion when introduced to psychoactives (not that loratadine is one). 70 minutes and that madness wore off, luckily - but it was a disturbing yet fascinating upgrade from the rare mood when everything seems to happen according to perfect choreography, in impeccable rhythm, with the sun breaking through the cloud at just the right moment... Tcha. Getting out-weirded by my own sense of whimsy might be a great cause for a cardiac arrest, way down the line. At least I'd go smiling.
... but yeah, I am playing chicken with my before-bed glass of wine. Hee.
Today, the wondrous windows of creation aligned thusly:
Allergy medication + neo-perennial fatigue + rhythmically thump-thumping heavy machinery + Diablo Swing Orchestra on the iPod = seriously expecting Willy Wonka -ish tailcoated gents to spring from concealment at every turn.
I haven't felt like "ye gods, the universe is about to walk me into a cheesy musical, heeelp meee!" even when I was acting in a cheesy musical. And no, my brain does not suffer from Disney invasion when introduced to psychoactives (not that loratadine is one). 70 minutes and that madness wore off, luckily - but it was a disturbing yet fascinating upgrade from the rare mood when everything seems to happen according to perfect choreography, in impeccable rhythm, with the sun breaking through the cloud at just the right moment... Tcha. Getting out-weirded by my own sense of whimsy might be a great cause for a cardiac arrest, way down the line. At least I'd go smiling.
... but yeah, I am playing chicken with my before-bed glass of wine. Hee.
On a more serious note...
Feb. 6th, 2011 07:02 pm... I don't think I've watched this much Al Jazeera since my exchange trip to Örebro, Sweden almost a decade ago, where I had no common language with my very sweet, wee Muslim "spare Mum", who plonked me down in front of the telly to watch a live Arabic feed from wherever with the most epilepsy-inducing scrolling English subtitles. It was a live capture about a women's rights debate, and we managed a haphazard exchange of opinions and circumstances with windmilling hand gestures over fresh unleavened bread and hummus, and I didn't mind one bit that her daughter had ditched me in favour of a night of binge drinking.
I've been watching this feed, and enjoying the quality of the commentary. Finnish reporters have pulled out of Egypt already, and no great loss there - I don't miss their bland, humming-and-hawing, politically correct "journalism" one bit. If I wanted to see an uncertain man with gelled hair and a pink dress shirt with no opinions to call his own, I'd hunt down a boy-toy du jour from the Polytechnic U just 'round the corner, thanks.
TV Studio: Tell us, Jorma Junttinen, how are things there in Egypt?
Jorma Junttinen: Well, I suppose it is safe to say there's some consternation amongst the populance. Mubarak's support appears to be waning.
TV Studio: Thank you for that gripping reportage, Jorma.
... Yes, slightly exaggerated, but the forced politically correct attitude of it all makes me nauseous, as fond as I am of blistering understatements. There's neutral reporting, and then there's the unwilling-to-put-out-any-facts reporting parroting known and accepted information.
Considering the fact that whenever a political situation boils to the point of that the students and young adults take to the streets it is no longer a minor hiccup or a "civic disorder crisis" but a serious, serious rumble, it just ticks. me. off. to have the whole thing approached with less cranial effort than The Eurovision Song contest. I'm glad that most media here aren't fanning the ZOMG CRISIS flames, but I don't like the pussyfooting about, either.
I wonder if my "spare mum" is watching the same footage as I am, and what she's thinking about the whole shebang. I think I'd love to hear her out, never mind the language barrier.
I've been watching this feed, and enjoying the quality of the commentary. Finnish reporters have pulled out of Egypt already, and no great loss there - I don't miss their bland, humming-and-hawing, politically correct "journalism" one bit. If I wanted to see an uncertain man with gelled hair and a pink dress shirt with no opinions to call his own, I'd hunt down a boy-toy du jour from the Polytechnic U just 'round the corner, thanks.
TV Studio: Tell us, Jorma Junttinen, how are things there in Egypt?
Jorma Junttinen: Well, I suppose it is safe to say there's some consternation amongst the populance. Mubarak's support appears to be waning.
TV Studio: Thank you for that gripping reportage, Jorma.
... Yes, slightly exaggerated, but the forced politically correct attitude of it all makes me nauseous, as fond as I am of blistering understatements. There's neutral reporting, and then there's the unwilling-to-put-out-any-facts reporting parroting known and accepted information.
Considering the fact that whenever a political situation boils to the point of that the students and young adults take to the streets it is no longer a minor hiccup or a "civic disorder crisis" but a serious, serious rumble, it just ticks. me. off. to have the whole thing approached with less cranial effort than The Eurovision Song contest. I'm glad that most media here aren't fanning the ZOMG CRISIS flames, but I don't like the pussyfooting about, either.
I wonder if my "spare mum" is watching the same footage as I am, and what she's thinking about the whole shebang. I think I'd love to hear her out, never mind the language barrier.
The Good Stuff: February 2011.
Feb. 6th, 2011 04:05 pmReminder that about 9% of it all is Ab Fab, in the face of Ye-Gods-Two-More-Months-Of-Bloody-Winter-At-Least despair.
Rocking my socks right now:
-Apocalyptica: 7th Symphony. I hadn't really kept an eye on The Apos since 2003's Reflections, being content what I had on my shelves, thinking there wasn't any point diddling with perfection - and now I feel rather foolish. I'd gotten my mittens on Live at Sibelius Academy recently, and was spurred to splurge on this album. And no regrets, absolutely not - it's as solid an effort as any Apocalyptica has put out, but it has the added ear candy of a good selection of guest vocalists - I'd actually missed Dave Lombardo's voice without realising it! Also, Gavin Rossdale's vocals on "End of Me" were a pleasant surprise as I'd never heard anything from him or his band before. See, kids? Music isn't just food for the soul, it's a learning experience! (Twenty new ways to feel like you're sometimes behind your times, for starters...)
-Thelonius Monk with John Coltrane. Blowing dust off things while unpacking my CD collection might have been the smartest thing I've done in a while, all unawares. (I've also been playing Ip-Dip-Dog-Shit with a lot of albums and singles that are off to the record store to find them a new home, but that's another story.) This has got to be one of the very best albums on my shelves, and it's been getting a lot of play recently. Excellent music for unwinding, twitching happily through eargasm after eargasm. I think my new neighbours appreciate the respite from me singing Avantasia in the shower.
-Glen Cook's The Black Company series. A good reread before bed and on the bus, and the spare style does my nerves good, as does the no-nonsense realism in an otherwise fantasy-laden setting rare in the genre. There's apparently fanfiction on the web where The Black Company is hired to fight in the War of The Ring in Sauron's troops, and I've almost half a mind to look it up for a laugh.
-Shirley Jackson's The Haunting of Hill House and Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness, both oldies but goodies. I think I need new "scary books" to read, but on the other hand it's lovely to have on hand books that still stand out on their own on the umpteenth re-read, and leave the reader free to revel in the style of writing and the plot underway, even knowing where the whole thing is going.
-Hidden Rock Shiraz. Comes prosaically in a foil bag, but is better than the uninspiring packaging implies. Seems to go quite well with everything I've cooked lately, barring omelettes (which I'm not even attempting to pair off with anything besides a tall glass of milk - there are limits to my courage, after all.) Manufacturer's blurb exults compatibility with barbeque foods while I remain a bit sceptical - holds its own rather nicely with curried potatoes and spicy paella, though, and went with lamb wok like a house on fire. Lovely colour, pretty meniscus, generous ripe plummy flavour. A definite new favourite among Aussie reds.
-Chocolate & orange spelt cookies. Too good, and thus very dangerous in the fight against the perennial expansion of my... assets. I won't even touch the subject of the new passionfruit Jaffa Cakes: I haven't tried them for fear of doing away with the whole box right on the spot.
-Shrimp. It's a coming-and-going thing - most of the time I can't stand the stuff, and sometimes it finds its way in everything I cook. A bit like Meat Loaf's music, come to think of it...
-Chili-marinated garlic cloves. Another coming-and-going food obsession, and right now I'm for, not against. Dead easy to make, and absolutely sinful as snack food with good dark lager.
-Foyle's War. I'm rewatching the first two series as a sort of bed-time stories for myself, and plotting to get my mittens on the later series, too. Fascinating, wonderful, well-made period dramas are something irresistible to me, provided they aren't just candyfloss about ooh-the-good-old-days. WWII Britain is a bit prone to that treatment, but FW mostly skirts free of dewy-eyed nostalgia. And yes, the colours and lightning are pretty. (Also, the actors look like people, not bone-china dolls, and their clothes don't always fit perfectly, both which I find fabulous and not a little endearing.)
-I'm also getting sucked in the remake of Hawaii Five-O, but I'm not admitting anything. Doot doot doot. (Is "rather brainless but ultimately satisfying action/crime entertainment" a vital foodgroup whose existence I've not been privy to? Because 5-0 hits all the right buttons, damn it.)
Rocking my socks right now:
-Apocalyptica: 7th Symphony. I hadn't really kept an eye on The Apos since 2003's Reflections, being content what I had on my shelves, thinking there wasn't any point diddling with perfection - and now I feel rather foolish. I'd gotten my mittens on Live at Sibelius Academy recently, and was spurred to splurge on this album. And no regrets, absolutely not - it's as solid an effort as any Apocalyptica has put out, but it has the added ear candy of a good selection of guest vocalists - I'd actually missed Dave Lombardo's voice without realising it! Also, Gavin Rossdale's vocals on "End of Me" were a pleasant surprise as I'd never heard anything from him or his band before. See, kids? Music isn't just food for the soul, it's a learning experience! (Twenty new ways to feel like you're sometimes behind your times, for starters...)
-Thelonius Monk with John Coltrane. Blowing dust off things while unpacking my CD collection might have been the smartest thing I've done in a while, all unawares. (I've also been playing Ip-Dip-Dog-Shit with a lot of albums and singles that are off to the record store to find them a new home, but that's another story.) This has got to be one of the very best albums on my shelves, and it's been getting a lot of play recently. Excellent music for unwinding, twitching happily through eargasm after eargasm. I think my new neighbours appreciate the respite from me singing Avantasia in the shower.
-Glen Cook's The Black Company series. A good reread before bed and on the bus, and the spare style does my nerves good, as does the no-nonsense realism in an otherwise fantasy-laden setting rare in the genre. There's apparently fanfiction on the web where The Black Company is hired to fight in the War of The Ring in Sauron's troops, and I've almost half a mind to look it up for a laugh.
-Shirley Jackson's The Haunting of Hill House and Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness, both oldies but goodies. I think I need new "scary books" to read, but on the other hand it's lovely to have on hand books that still stand out on their own on the umpteenth re-read, and leave the reader free to revel in the style of writing and the plot underway, even knowing where the whole thing is going.
-Hidden Rock Shiraz. Comes prosaically in a foil bag, but is better than the uninspiring packaging implies. Seems to go quite well with everything I've cooked lately, barring omelettes (which I'm not even attempting to pair off with anything besides a tall glass of milk - there are limits to my courage, after all.) Manufacturer's blurb exults compatibility with barbeque foods while I remain a bit sceptical - holds its own rather nicely with curried potatoes and spicy paella, though, and went with lamb wok like a house on fire. Lovely colour, pretty meniscus, generous ripe plummy flavour. A definite new favourite among Aussie reds.
-Chocolate & orange spelt cookies. Too good, and thus very dangerous in the fight against the perennial expansion of my... assets. I won't even touch the subject of the new passionfruit Jaffa Cakes: I haven't tried them for fear of doing away with the whole box right on the spot.
-Shrimp. It's a coming-and-going thing - most of the time I can't stand the stuff, and sometimes it finds its way in everything I cook. A bit like Meat Loaf's music, come to think of it...
-Chili-marinated garlic cloves. Another coming-and-going food obsession, and right now I'm for, not against. Dead easy to make, and absolutely sinful as snack food with good dark lager.
-Foyle's War. I'm rewatching the first two series as a sort of bed-time stories for myself, and plotting to get my mittens on the later series, too. Fascinating, wonderful, well-made period dramas are something irresistible to me, provided they aren't just candyfloss about ooh-the-good-old-days. WWII Britain is a bit prone to that treatment, but FW mostly skirts free of dewy-eyed nostalgia. And yes, the colours and lightning are pretty. (Also, the actors look like people, not bone-china dolls, and their clothes don't always fit perfectly, both which I find fabulous and not a little endearing.)
-I'm also getting sucked in the remake of Hawaii Five-O, but I'm not admitting anything. Doot doot doot. (Is "rather brainless but ultimately satisfying action/crime entertainment" a vital foodgroup whose existence I've not been privy to? Because 5-0 hits all the right buttons, damn it.)
(no subject)
Feb. 6th, 2011 02:54 pmFebruary! Egads. I think this has been the longest, busiest, most annoying January since... I can't remember, really.
It seems as though I've gotten nothing done, though, which is strange considering I've moved, and done some surface remodelling on my new flat, and subbed in extra hours for someone's two-week winter vacation. Maybe it's that perfectionist streak piping up, demanding everything to be done faster-harder-before-yesterday!
It's Sunday, and I've dedicated the day to being selfish - read, just being still. I haven't had a day since the beginning of December when I haven't had to go somewhere, indulge somebody, had to do something pre-scheduled, and baby, my body's aching. I think my folks will throw a sulky fit over skipping Sunday lunch with them, but damn it, a girl needs some time to mooch around home sometimes. (Not that I'd made any promises on the subject, but I still feel guilty about it, which just goes to show that the greatest gift I could give myself could well be just a holiday from myself.)
It's with this in mind I've prescribed myself a Sunday with Cuba Libres, the seventh season of QI, and good books. I've still got a stack of reading from Christmas awaiting ravishing - some translated early Margaret Atwood, Rob Holdstock (whose books Mum loves) and Lavinia, Ursula LeGuin's latest, which I'm rather looking forward to. I suppose Mum parcelling up Holdstock for me is a retaliation for surreptitiously leaving my Dresden Files paperbacks by her bedside - an amicable war fought with literary addictions. And yes, she loved Dead Beat.
I sometimes wonder whether my folks and I would have ever managed to live under the same roof for so many years if it hadn't been for books and music - Dad and I can notoriously out-sulk each other and go six months without speaking (besides monosyllabic grunts) while living in rather close quarters, but the exchange of records has always been the proverbial olive branch, charred and manky as that twig at times may be... I gave him the newest Mellencamp album for his birthday this year (not as big a hit with him as Seasick Steve was a few years ago, but he seemed pleased if puzzled), and he seems hell-bent on fattening out my CD collection with "decent albums" from his favourite artists - and he's surprisingly hard on Dylan and Moody Blues, for such a fanboy. I learned to operate the cranky Pioneer turntable he had before I learned to ride a bike, for crying out loud.
I've been catching up on Bones, and of this Friday, I'm right back on track. I have to say that while the sixth season (and the one before it, at times) seemed rather bland, there have been some stellar episodes to this date. Episode 9, "The Doctor In The Photo", really was a classic - it reminded me why I stuck by with this show in the first place, and the latest ep, #12 "The Sin In The Sisterhood" had one of those adorable dorky moments for Booth and Brennan that we haven't seen in a while - they just got to be themselves and be silly for a while. I'm not a shipper, but I miss that part of their partnership at times in between the mock Serious Business (dunn dunn dunn) and drama-llama races, when they just have that "hee hee, we're a pair of idiots, and we don't really mind."
Also: I'm sofaless! My geographically-closest friends have tentatively asked after a housewarming party, and I'd love to indulge them, but seeing as I've nothing but a pair of hard kitchen chairs and a patch of free floorspace available, the answer is still "nay." I'ven't yet stowed away my suitcase and biggest overnight bag, either, and the place is a bit of a mess - I've just cooked, eaten, and crashed here most of January after getting everything moved in and set up, and it sort of shows. A lot. I really ought to haul arse for second-hand shops next week and get a beaten-up filing cabinet put to pasture for all my pencils and art supplies, and yes, a nicely broken-in sofa on which Yours Truly could flop down on like a beached whale. Very picturesque, I'm certain.
Son of also: Am I the only person who shops for groceries shrewdly and rather like the Apocalypse was coming, ie. thriftily? Such hue and cry over suddenly not having any money left for food! And people give me a look as if I'm mental when I mention that I eat quite well, thanks, on 10 euros a week. Paella and pea soup, babies, homemade baguettes and the occasional potato fry-up... Maybe there's a market for a common-sense cookbook.
It seems as though I've gotten nothing done, though, which is strange considering I've moved, and done some surface remodelling on my new flat, and subbed in extra hours for someone's two-week winter vacation. Maybe it's that perfectionist streak piping up, demanding everything to be done faster-harder-before-yesterday!
It's Sunday, and I've dedicated the day to being selfish - read, just being still. I haven't had a day since the beginning of December when I haven't had to go somewhere, indulge somebody, had to do something pre-scheduled, and baby, my body's aching. I think my folks will throw a sulky fit over skipping Sunday lunch with them, but damn it, a girl needs some time to mooch around home sometimes. (Not that I'd made any promises on the subject, but I still feel guilty about it, which just goes to show that the greatest gift I could give myself could well be just a holiday from myself.)
It's with this in mind I've prescribed myself a Sunday with Cuba Libres, the seventh season of QI, and good books. I've still got a stack of reading from Christmas awaiting ravishing - some translated early Margaret Atwood, Rob Holdstock (whose books Mum loves) and Lavinia, Ursula LeGuin's latest, which I'm rather looking forward to. I suppose Mum parcelling up Holdstock for me is a retaliation for surreptitiously leaving my Dresden Files paperbacks by her bedside - an amicable war fought with literary addictions. And yes, she loved Dead Beat.
I sometimes wonder whether my folks and I would have ever managed to live under the same roof for so many years if it hadn't been for books and music - Dad and I can notoriously out-sulk each other and go six months without speaking (besides monosyllabic grunts) while living in rather close quarters, but the exchange of records has always been the proverbial olive branch, charred and manky as that twig at times may be... I gave him the newest Mellencamp album for his birthday this year (not as big a hit with him as Seasick Steve was a few years ago, but he seemed pleased if puzzled), and he seems hell-bent on fattening out my CD collection with "decent albums" from his favourite artists - and he's surprisingly hard on Dylan and Moody Blues, for such a fanboy. I learned to operate the cranky Pioneer turntable he had before I learned to ride a bike, for crying out loud.
I've been catching up on Bones, and of this Friday, I'm right back on track. I have to say that while the sixth season (and the one before it, at times) seemed rather bland, there have been some stellar episodes to this date. Episode 9, "The Doctor In The Photo", really was a classic - it reminded me why I stuck by with this show in the first place, and the latest ep, #12 "The Sin In The Sisterhood" had one of those adorable dorky moments for Booth and Brennan that we haven't seen in a while - they just got to be themselves and be silly for a while. I'm not a shipper, but I miss that part of their partnership at times in between the mock Serious Business (dunn dunn dunn) and drama-llama races, when they just have that "hee hee, we're a pair of idiots, and we don't really mind."
Also: I'm sofaless! My geographically-closest friends have tentatively asked after a housewarming party, and I'd love to indulge them, but seeing as I've nothing but a pair of hard kitchen chairs and a patch of free floorspace available, the answer is still "nay." I'ven't yet stowed away my suitcase and biggest overnight bag, either, and the place is a bit of a mess - I've just cooked, eaten, and crashed here most of January after getting everything moved in and set up, and it sort of shows. A lot. I really ought to haul arse for second-hand shops next week and get a beaten-up filing cabinet put to pasture for all my pencils and art supplies, and yes, a nicely broken-in sofa on which Yours Truly could flop down on like a beached whale. Very picturesque, I'm certain.
Son of also: Am I the only person who shops for groceries shrewdly and rather like the Apocalypse was coming, ie. thriftily? Such hue and cry over suddenly not having any money left for food! And people give me a look as if I'm mental when I mention that I eat quite well, thanks, on 10 euros a week. Paella and pea soup, babies, homemade baguettes and the occasional potato fry-up... Maybe there's a market for a common-sense cookbook.
I aten't ded! Honestly.
I've made myself scarce on the Interwebs for the past few months - work has been murder, and I've been moving to a new flat... which took a little longer than the one-weekend heave-ho crunch moves that I've pulled in the past. I did a little light remodelling - on the landlady's money, no less, a fact that still pleases me greatly! - painted walls, scraped off tarry smoker's residue from the ceiling, made dainty holes in said ceiling for a new fire alarm with a hammer drill on New Year's Day (that gave me a wee bit of sadistic pleasure - I bet my new hung-over neighbours absolutely loved that), that sort of thing.
And then it was time for The Great Banana Box Cavalcade. Sixteen bloody boxes of just books. I've never before entertained the notion that I might have too big a library, but the first few weeks of this year sort of made me reconsider. Why?
Let me summarise: No elevator. Spiral staircase. (Also: Heavy box-spring mattress. Wrought-iron bed frame. Bureau. 16 boxes of books - about 32 kilos per box.)
I'm done now, mostly. Some of my stuff, like my ever-growing selection of leather jackets, is still slumming at my parents, but buses run and dogs bark and all that. All the essentials are here, and I'm all moved-in, if not quite unpacked. (16 boxes of boo-- you get it.) The place doesn't stink like stale old North State smokes and old man's arse, and as far as I'm concerned I am home.
(My dearest, darlingest mother thought it hilarious to uproot my old stuffed panda and plonk it into my bed under the covers when my back was turned. My dearest, darlingest father thought it equally hilarious to rig the rickety aluminium A-ladder right behind the front door so it fell with an almighty crash when I staggered home exhausted yesterday night just before midnight. And then they both gave me a call this morning to gloat. Fuckers. Sometimes I don't have to wonder whether we're related at all. The next time someone asks where I get it, I'll say "everywhere, and from all the directions, when least convenient," and it'll be the unmitigated truth.)
I'll also have to confess, now that my library's all moved-in, I've ordered myself a few more books. Well, seven books, nothing in comparison to 16 bloody banana boxes of... never mind. Better stop that before I turn into a living, breathing, typing drinking song. I think that's about the definition of my settling in: fixing pea soup in the wok pan (unorthodox! delicious, too! see also: smoked reindeer), making a nuisance of myselfwith cat-like tread singing in the shower, well, really anywhere (it's still deliciously echoey in here - see also: unpacked cubical containers) and sleeping in for the first time in months. I've been feeling manky for a few weeks, now - people are falling ill from some flu strain or another around me, and while my immune system keeps hammering the bug flat with precision and ruthlessness, it tires me out. Which is why I'm sitting here, typing, and not unpacking - I've decided to be a lazy bum for a change and take a night off from being The Machine What Labours. Maybe fix up a Cuba Libre and watch some horrible film. It's Sunday, after all.
I've made myself scarce on the Interwebs for the past few months - work has been murder, and I've been moving to a new flat... which took a little longer than the one-weekend heave-ho crunch moves that I've pulled in the past. I did a little light remodelling - on the landlady's money, no less, a fact that still pleases me greatly! - painted walls, scraped off tarry smoker's residue from the ceiling, made dainty holes in said ceiling for a new fire alarm with a hammer drill on New Year's Day (that gave me a wee bit of sadistic pleasure - I bet my new hung-over neighbours absolutely loved that), that sort of thing.
And then it was time for The Great Banana Box Cavalcade. Sixteen bloody boxes of just books. I've never before entertained the notion that I might have too big a library, but the first few weeks of this year sort of made me reconsider. Why?
Let me summarise: No elevator. Spiral staircase. (Also: Heavy box-spring mattress. Wrought-iron bed frame. Bureau. 16 boxes of books - about 32 kilos per box.)
I'm done now, mostly. Some of my stuff, like my ever-growing selection of leather jackets, is still slumming at my parents, but buses run and dogs bark and all that. All the essentials are here, and I'm all moved-in, if not quite unpacked. (16 boxes of boo-- you get it.) The place doesn't stink like stale old North State smokes and old man's arse, and as far as I'm concerned I am home.
(My dearest, darlingest mother thought it hilarious to uproot my old stuffed panda and plonk it into my bed under the covers when my back was turned. My dearest, darlingest father thought it equally hilarious to rig the rickety aluminium A-ladder right behind the front door so it fell with an almighty crash when I staggered home exhausted yesterday night just before midnight. And then they both gave me a call this morning to gloat. Fuckers. Sometimes I don't have to wonder whether we're related at all. The next time someone asks where I get it, I'll say "everywhere, and from all the directions, when least convenient," and it'll be the unmitigated truth.)
I'll also have to confess, now that my library's all moved-in, I've ordered myself a few more books. Well, seven books, nothing in comparison to 16 bloody banana boxes of... never mind. Better stop that before I turn into a living, breathing, typing drinking song. I think that's about the definition of my settling in: fixing pea soup in the wok pan (unorthodox! delicious, too! see also: smoked reindeer), making a nuisance of myself
Bah humbug.
Nov. 14th, 2010 11:26 amIt's Father's Day here, and I'm trying my best to keep myself out of the way and keep my big feet out of my big mouth, and presents delivered, have shuffled off to mind my own business. I've a shitload of stuff to do, but none of its urgent - just a pile of those small annoyances that keep on accumulating. Mountains of dirty laundry, books to shelve and organise, returnable bottles to take to the shop, recyclables to shift. That sort of thing.
And that is why I'm sitting on my ass, here. Sometimes convincing myself to just stop and stay still is an effort of gargantuan guilt-management, especially with recent family drama, but it should be enough that I spazz around like a squirrel on crack six days of the week. A little breather should be compulsory for everybody. Plus I've fractured bones on the mend that seem to take forever, and those twinges make me sort of disinclined to pull out my jazz hands.
I'm entertaining myself with the Scottish Wikipedia's random button, which delivers real gems more often than not. Laughter being the best medicine, and all... (Hey, people consider my dialect the ur-source of language humour in Finland - it's fair enough that I get to be, ah, gently amused at the intricacies of others'. Yes, that must be it. Hee hee.) That, and I'm catching up on South Park. And then maybe rewatching the movie for the bajillionth time.
And that is why I'm sitting on my ass, here. Sometimes convincing myself to just stop and stay still is an effort of gargantuan guilt-management, especially with recent family drama, but it should be enough that I spazz around like a squirrel on crack six days of the week. A little breather should be compulsory for everybody. Plus I've fractured bones on the mend that seem to take forever, and those twinges make me sort of disinclined to pull out my jazz hands.
I'm entertaining myself with the Scottish Wikipedia's random button, which delivers real gems more often than not. Laughter being the best medicine, and all... (Hey, people consider my dialect the ur-source of language humour in Finland - it's fair enough that I get to be, ah, gently amused at the intricacies of others'. Yes, that must be it. Hee hee.) That, and I'm catching up on South Park. And then maybe rewatching the movie for the bajillionth time.
Things... are things. After the last week picking up the slack at The Surprise Shit-Box! mentioned in the previous entry, I feel about as eloquent and clever as a sack of potatoes. Green, moulding potatoes, at that.
The Surprise Shit-Box! was... bad. (Again with the rapier wit!) I'd prepared myself for some heavy-duty scrubbing and swearing, but I'd not reckoned with things having gone to seed quite as badly as they had done. Ever seen an industrial washing machine that hasn't been properly cleansed for, oh, a few months despite heavy daily use? No? Well, y'know that beige foam you get on top of lattes? Picture an inch or two of similar gunk made of grease and what I'd politely call pork drippings, and attach the smell of rotten meat and rancid fat. Yeah. No wonder the health inspector hadn't been happy. I dragged my sorry carcass home around midnight that Tuesday and promptly felt like finding the nearest chainsaw... or maybe just pitching a kicking-and-screaming-and-flying-snot crying jag, like a frustrated four-year old.
It didn't get much better as the week progressed - I kept finding new vomit-worthy spots and making them go "poof!" in a cloud of sparkles and disinfectant and a whole lot of swearing (proof to you that yours truly isn't anybody's definition of a good fairy), and feeling like I wasn't generally making a whit of difference, like that sparrow sharpening its beak on a granite mountain. Clocking overtime might be good for my bank account, but it isn't good for me when it's the umpteenth week in a row - and suffice to say that working for a company that has been in the middle of strenuous co-determination negotiations (EU labor law thingamajig - it's a bit like a budgeting version of the Doom of Damocles that comes into effect once sacked people become numerous enough to turn from anomaly to a sad case of statistics) makes for some strained phone calls between me, my superiors, and their superiors. I do so enjoy being a special snowflake.
This week, though, they've eased off my workload somewhat, and I'm working half-days instead so I can finally begin burning off some of my vacation days. (I haven't had a vacation in the two years I've worked for my current employer, and I've some 40+ days off accumulated. Oy.) I''ve been catching up some sleep - and boy, is my body cranky - and indulging myself. Hot meals, music, orgasms, sleep - basic daily living stuff that seem a little alien after a few months of sleep dep, long-or-never-ending work weeks and running my body mostly on sandwiches or store-bought snacks. It's been a divine few days, and not just a little strange, either. I've been popping up around five in a frenzy of zomg-I-should-be-hoofing-off-to-work-already-aargh! Entertaining in retrospect, but I wish my body'd wise up already, and also exercise some forgivingness on the whole cramped-muscle-weary-brain front.
Baked some pastries today, and made my Hazmat Suit Special baguettes* yesterday to celebrate my laxening schedule and also because I was swanning about my home kind of aimlessly, needing to find something to do with my hands, heh. Maybe I ought to post more recipes just out of spite - I don't cook fancy dishes, but I tend to eat well, and I've filled out a fair bit from my teenage scarecrow days (which, unfairly, hasn't made it any easier for me to buy jeans or stockings or pantihose. I'm dimensionally challenged! Long legs and a fat, round arse are apparently rare enough a feat on female body that nobody even bothers trying to make things that'd fit me well, let alone flatter me...), and I'm still trying to get used to the idea that I'm not going back to wearing jeans with a 28-inch waist sans some major surgery, and that I'm stuck with 32, 31 at best. That said, I sort of dream of the day that I can finally turn into a rotund Bohemian rock'n'roll granny, kicking young'uns in the shins and cutting ahead of lines like some mildly benevolent ambulatory representation of one of Jupiter's moons.
* Hazmat Suit Special baguettes: Chop up red onions as you'd please - rings, half-moons, diced, whatever - marinate in apple-and-peach vinegar in a covered bowl in the fridge overnight; make baguettes as you usually do, but add some tomato purée [tomato paste in the US, I believe] and chopped-up black olives into the dough; next morning, bake baguettes; slice them open, knead disks of Sainte Maure or similar goats' cheese into the bottom half and butter into the top half, then fill with slivers of those marinated red onions and maybe some smoked turkey; devour (and remember to crack the window open, or else find a convenient dog to blame); gloat.
The Surprise Shit-Box! was... bad. (Again with the rapier wit!) I'd prepared myself for some heavy-duty scrubbing and swearing, but I'd not reckoned with things having gone to seed quite as badly as they had done. Ever seen an industrial washing machine that hasn't been properly cleansed for, oh, a few months despite heavy daily use? No? Well, y'know that beige foam you get on top of lattes? Picture an inch or two of similar gunk made of grease and what I'd politely call pork drippings, and attach the smell of rotten meat and rancid fat. Yeah. No wonder the health inspector hadn't been happy. I dragged my sorry carcass home around midnight that Tuesday and promptly felt like finding the nearest chainsaw... or maybe just pitching a kicking-and-screaming-and-flying-snot crying jag, like a frustrated four-year old.
It didn't get much better as the week progressed - I kept finding new vomit-worthy spots and making them go "poof!" in a cloud of sparkles and disinfectant and a whole lot of swearing (proof to you that yours truly isn't anybody's definition of a good fairy), and feeling like I wasn't generally making a whit of difference, like that sparrow sharpening its beak on a granite mountain. Clocking overtime might be good for my bank account, but it isn't good for me when it's the umpteenth week in a row - and suffice to say that working for a company that has been in the middle of strenuous co-determination negotiations (EU labor law thingamajig - it's a bit like a budgeting version of the Doom of Damocles that comes into effect once sacked people become numerous enough to turn from anomaly to a sad case of statistics) makes for some strained phone calls between me, my superiors, and their superiors. I do so enjoy being a special snowflake.
This week, though, they've eased off my workload somewhat, and I'm working half-days instead so I can finally begin burning off some of my vacation days. (I haven't had a vacation in the two years I've worked for my current employer, and I've some 40+ days off accumulated. Oy.) I''ve been catching up some sleep - and boy, is my body cranky - and indulging myself. Hot meals, music, orgasms, sleep - basic daily living stuff that seem a little alien after a few months of sleep dep, long-or-never-ending work weeks and running my body mostly on sandwiches or store-bought snacks. It's been a divine few days, and not just a little strange, either. I've been popping up around five in a frenzy of zomg-I-should-be-hoofing-off-to-work-already-aargh! Entertaining in retrospect, but I wish my body'd wise up already, and also exercise some forgivingness on the whole cramped-muscle-weary-brain front.
Baked some pastries today, and made my Hazmat Suit Special baguettes* yesterday to celebrate my laxening schedule and also because I was swanning about my home kind of aimlessly, needing to find something to do with my hands, heh. Maybe I ought to post more recipes just out of spite - I don't cook fancy dishes, but I tend to eat well, and I've filled out a fair bit from my teenage scarecrow days (which, unfairly, hasn't made it any easier for me to buy jeans or stockings or pantihose. I'm dimensionally challenged! Long legs and a fat, round arse are apparently rare enough a feat on female body that nobody even bothers trying to make things that'd fit me well, let alone flatter me...), and I'm still trying to get used to the idea that I'm not going back to wearing jeans with a 28-inch waist sans some major surgery, and that I'm stuck with 32, 31 at best. That said, I sort of dream of the day that I can finally turn into a rotund Bohemian rock'n'roll granny, kicking young'uns in the shins and cutting ahead of lines like some mildly benevolent ambulatory representation of one of Jupiter's moons.
* Hazmat Suit Special baguettes: Chop up red onions as you'd please - rings, half-moons, diced, whatever - marinate in apple-and-peach vinegar in a covered bowl in the fridge overnight; make baguettes as you usually do, but add some tomato purée [tomato paste in the US, I believe] and chopped-up black olives into the dough; next morning, bake baguettes; slice them open, knead disks of Sainte Maure or similar goats' cheese into the bottom half and butter into the top half, then fill with slivers of those marinated red onions and maybe some smoked turkey; devour (and remember to crack the window open, or else find a convenient dog to blame); gloat.
I've kept my distance from the brewing (oo-err!) bubbling frothing mad batch of vitriolic idiocy that is the so-called "Tea Party" movement, reasoning that scrubbing up other people's effluvia doesn't mean that I must stick my paws in every batch of sepsis I come across, but I can resist no longer. If even The Rolling Stone, that pseudo-indie-but-in-reality-a-rather-yuppie bastion of acceptably mild PC dissent towards popular twitchings has finally stopped contemplating Bono's navel to wise up, I can say this much:
Shut. Up. And behave yourself, you snivelling, moaning, whining spoiled hypocritical little idiots. Don't make me come over there and suplex the lot of you. And leave tea alone - you make me yearn to commit homicide by scalding darjeeling.
(Rolling Stone's Tea & Crackers article lies thattaway. Go read. It's good grim fun, at least if you happen to live on the other side of The Puddle...)
Shut. Up. And behave yourself, you snivelling, moaning, whining spoiled hypocritical little idiots. Don't make me come over there and suplex the lot of you. And leave tea alone - you make me yearn to commit homicide by scalding darjeeling.
(Rolling Stone's Tea & Crackers article lies thattaway. Go read. It's good grim fun, at least if you happen to live on the other side of The Puddle...)
It's always a good sign when my weekly schedule comes with a note from my supervisor, saying "please don't kill yourself." It's beginning to seem like I might not have to bother, myself.
The work week that was supposed to be condensed hours in the mornings picking up the slack from people off on sick leave has turned into a right barrel of harpies. From five to five. Augh. I don't even remember crawling to bed on Wednesday, or really anything after stumbling home around six. Spooky, since I've never in my life had memory lapses, even when partying quite severely. (I don't do hangovers either, but I've been getting annoying tension headaches too this week. Go figure.)
I'mma watch some Great Teacher Onizuka, have a glass of very cheap Romanian white and conk out for a few hours. Will play catch-up on Sunday - see you on the flipside, duckies.
The work week that was supposed to be condensed hours in the mornings picking up the slack from people off on sick leave has turned into a right barrel of harpies. From five to five. Augh. I don't even remember crawling to bed on Wednesday, or really anything after stumbling home around six. Spooky, since I've never in my life had memory lapses, even when partying quite severely. (I don't do hangovers either, but I've been getting annoying tension headaches too this week. Go figure.)
I'mma watch some Great Teacher Onizuka, have a glass of very cheap Romanian white and conk out for a few hours. Will play catch-up on Sunday - see you on the flipside, duckies.
Autumn's marching on, and fall colours are slowly starting to peek through as green flees leaves and stems. It's lovely outside, but not yet as brisk and nippy as I truly like it best. It's just around the corner, though: I can feel it coming, and I've stocked up on peppermint tea and honey in preparation.
I've been cuddling up with my laptop, organising my e-comic files.* I've been re-reading both my perennial epic length favourites Sandman and Hellblazer as well as my best-beloved, slightly trashy guilty pleasures Witchblade and Dogwitch. (For those who like Nemi, Dogwitch is sort of like that, but better. Violet Grimm is truly a heroine after my own heart. And Witchblade is far better than the name and the pin-up look of the earlier issues would suggest... although I don't personally mind the art style. At all.) Dogwitch especially is a seasonal favourite - it goes marvellously well with satin-soft darkening nights and rainy, stormy evenings. It's just too bad that the storyline's inherent subtle melancholy is beginning to break my heart slowly.
The newest Grinderman album, promptly titled Grinderman 2, is quite fab. Psychedelic, animalistic, romping rocking fun. A bit exhausting at places with the sheer enormity of the sonic volleys presented perhaps, but mostly it's just sheer pleasure prone to make me dance on my bed. The rhythm is fantastic, there's a snappy undercurrent of bluesy groove, and the rugged, unpolished sound is a real treat for those who've had it with sterile popular music.
* Who needs to turn on the radiator when you've got both a creaky, overheating laptop and a cooling pad constantly blowing out warm air? Ah, the wonders of technology...
I've been cuddling up with my laptop, organising my e-comic files.* I've been re-reading both my perennial epic length favourites Sandman and Hellblazer as well as my best-beloved, slightly trashy guilty pleasures Witchblade and Dogwitch. (For those who like Nemi, Dogwitch is sort of like that, but better. Violet Grimm is truly a heroine after my own heart. And Witchblade is far better than the name and the pin-up look of the earlier issues would suggest... although I don't personally mind the art style. At all.) Dogwitch especially is a seasonal favourite - it goes marvellously well with satin-soft darkening nights and rainy, stormy evenings. It's just too bad that the storyline's inherent subtle melancholy is beginning to break my heart slowly.
The newest Grinderman album, promptly titled Grinderman 2, is quite fab. Psychedelic, animalistic, romping rocking fun. A bit exhausting at places with the sheer enormity of the sonic volleys presented perhaps, but mostly it's just sheer pleasure prone to make me dance on my bed. The rhythm is fantastic, there's a snappy undercurrent of bluesy groove, and the rugged, unpolished sound is a real treat for those who've had it with sterile popular music.
* Who needs to turn on the radiator when you've got both a creaky, overheating laptop and a cooling pad constantly blowing out warm air? Ah, the wonders of technology...
Dead Simple Recipes: Mung Dhal
Sep. 11th, 2010 03:40 pmThis is a slightly zingy cheating bastard version of a classic, cheap bean stew. Easy to make and very filling and warming: perfect for fending off chilly fall weather.
1. Meddling with the beans.
-1 2/3 dl mung beans
-big bowl, colander/sieve, water
-whoo!
Pour your beans into a big bowl, rinse thoroughly with lukewarm water. Rinse again, twirling and rubbing the beans lightly - mung beans are often left to dry on the ground before being shipped off to parts unknown around the world, and plenty of dust and dirt cling to the crinkled surface of the beans. Rinse, and rinse, and rinse until the water runs clear, then put at least 2 measures of hand-warm water to every 1 measure of beans in the bowl. Leave to soak on a counter overnight (8-12 hours), not in direct sunlight.
2. Meddling with the beans, part 2.
-Drain the water from your beans.
-Rinse, twirl, drain; rinse, twirl, drain.
-Put beans and 1 litre of water and some salt in a cook-pot.
-Cook at a slow boil for 14 minutes.
-Drain, and set aside.
3. The rest of it.
-1 yellow onion, chopped.
-4 garlic cloves, chopped.
-2 tomatoes, likewise.
-8dl water
-oil/butter
-chili powder, cumin, allspice, black pepper, garam masala mixture (not required, but delicious), salt.
-lemon juice, honey (optional)
-Sauté the chopped onion and garlic in butter/oil in the bottom of a cook-pot. Sprinkle in the spices (not salt!) and let them cook for a few minutes, and enjoy the fragrance.
-Stir in the chopped tomatoes and let bubble. Add your boiled, meddled mung beans, and stir in the water gradually - it's difficult to judge how much water is necessary, as your beans and tomatoes play a large part in the moisture content of the dish. Suffice to say, you're making a stew, not a sauce, nor a soup.
-Let boil for 35 minutes, stirring occasionally.
-Set aside to steep for a few minutes, then stir in salt, lemon juice and a dollop of honey.
-Stir well, and serve either as-is, or with rice.
-Eat.
-Gloat. Mwahaha!
1. Meddling with the beans.
-1 2/3 dl mung beans
-big bowl, colander/sieve, water
-whoo!
Pour your beans into a big bowl, rinse thoroughly with lukewarm water. Rinse again, twirling and rubbing the beans lightly - mung beans are often left to dry on the ground before being shipped off to parts unknown around the world, and plenty of dust and dirt cling to the crinkled surface of the beans. Rinse, and rinse, and rinse until the water runs clear, then put at least 2 measures of hand-warm water to every 1 measure of beans in the bowl. Leave to soak on a counter overnight (8-12 hours), not in direct sunlight.
2. Meddling with the beans, part 2.
-Drain the water from your beans.
-Rinse, twirl, drain; rinse, twirl, drain.
-Put beans and 1 litre of water and some salt in a cook-pot.
-Cook at a slow boil for 14 minutes.
-Drain, and set aside.
3. The rest of it.
-1 yellow onion, chopped.
-4 garlic cloves, chopped.
-2 tomatoes, likewise.
-8dl water
-oil/butter
-chili powder, cumin, allspice, black pepper, garam masala mixture (not required, but delicious), salt.
-lemon juice, honey (optional)
-Sauté the chopped onion and garlic in butter/oil in the bottom of a cook-pot. Sprinkle in the spices (not salt!) and let them cook for a few minutes, and enjoy the fragrance.
-Stir in the chopped tomatoes and let bubble. Add your boiled, meddled mung beans, and stir in the water gradually - it's difficult to judge how much water is necessary, as your beans and tomatoes play a large part in the moisture content of the dish. Suffice to say, you're making a stew, not a sauce, nor a soup.
-Let boil for 35 minutes, stirring occasionally.
-Set aside to steep for a few minutes, then stir in salt, lemon juice and a dollop of honey.
-Stir well, and serve either as-is, or with rice.
-Eat.
-Gloat. Mwahaha!
