Last year I was lucky to be able to spend the first few months travelling around the world and meeting various bloggers and friends, staying with them when they generously opened up their homes (and kitchens) to me, eating out all over their cities and generally having a blast. It was the most wonderful experience and the sheer generosity and kindness that I was shown was overwhelming – friendships that had before this point been only electronic blossomed, Twitter handles became real people and those real people had a wicked sense of humour, amazing creative ideas and fantastic friends and families whom I was introduced to. It really was a fantastic trip and my inner nomad was deeply satisfied (my wallet, not so much).

When in Austin I was supposed to be staying with and meeting the fabulous Monet and Ryan of Anecdotes & Apple Cores, an amazing and talented woman who was my first ever blog friend (!), but due to circumstances out of their control last minute plans changed (as they do), they were no longer able to accommodate me and I instead spent those few days with the lovely Megan of Stetted. Sadly, just as I was leaving Austin with my friend Andres to visit his part of Texas, San Antonio, I had a text message from Monet asking me if I was free to meet that day but alas, it was not to be, we were already an hour outside of town and I promised her that at some point, somewhere in the world we’d connect.

Clearly I have prophetic qualities because this spring Monet and Ryan travelled to Paris for their 3rd anniversary and whilst they were there decided to hop across to London on the Eurostar and stay with me for a couple of days. Even better, London decided to cease its grey, wet weather (apparently it’s supposed to be May over here – somebody must’ve pissed off Mother Earth recently…) and give us a little sunshine so I got to show them my city at its best! Wonderful few days – come back and see me again soon!

First stop – where to find good coffee and chocolates? Soho, obvs. After collecting Monet & Ryan at St. Pancras I took them into Soho to Milk Bar for a flat white and Paul A. Young for the best chocolate truffles you’ll ever taste (genuinely). A quick chat with Michael, head chocolatier extraordinaire, a purchase of the newest truffles in the shop (passion fruit and goat’s cheese amongst others!), we headed back into Soho to wander the backstreets (always fun to spend your first few hours in London lost amongst sex and lingerie shops…). And so to business! Off to Archer St. to hit up my fave Italian joint for a late lunch – Bocca di Lupo.

Bocca di Lupo has long been a favourite place of mine – the staff are friendly, the venue is great but, more importantly, the food is fantastic. Another restaurant where sharing plates are the order of the day, it’s perfect to bring friends… or, if like me, you’re greedy and just want to try a little of everything. Special mention goes to the signature celeriac, radish, pomegranate and pecorino salad with truffle oil and white balsamic dressing – it’s always my favourite dish.

No rest for the wicked, after gorging ourselves we headed back to my place to clean up, rest and then head out again for dinner, this time at Michelin starred Chez Bruce in SW London.

Though it’s long been on my list, this was actually my first visit to Chez Bruce and I’m glad to say that it did not disappoint. The food was simply excellent, of course paired with fantastic conversation and constant giggles. We were one of the last tables to leave the restaurant and had a merry wander back to Clapham for transportation home; I’m pretty sure we all slept very soundly that night.

The next morning I sent Monet & Ryan off along the Southbank (an ideal outing for a sunny day) and met up with them again at The Globe Theatre to head into Borough Market. We made a plan to cook something together for dinner that evening and decided the menu would be roast figs with ricotta and truffle honey, my signature roast rack of lamb, veggie couscous, a recreation of the Bocca di Lupo celeriac salad and, of course, for dessert Monet would bake something delicious. She decided on a zucchini bread topped with goat’s cheese, honey, apricots and cashews, a slightly altered version of something she and Ryan had eaten back home.

I headed home with a bag full of goodies from Borough Market whilst Monet & Ryan traipsed around the city a little more, before reconvening at home to cook our last night’s feast.

ROASTED FIGS WITH RICOTTA, BLACK PEPPER & TRUFFLE HONEY
Serves 4

Ingredients
4 ripe figs
4 tsps ricotta
2 tsps truffle honey
Freshly ground black pepper

Method
1. Pre-heat the oven to 180 degrees C.
2. Wash the figs then, using a sharp knife, cut the stems off and make a cross in the top of the fig. Push into the bottom of the cuts with your fingers so that the top of the fig opens up like a flower and sits happily on a baking tray. Be careful not to make the cuts too deep or the figs will fall apart during baking.
3. Fill each fig with 1 tsp of ricotta, a sprinkle of freshly ground black pepper and drizzle the top with 1/2 tsp honey.
4. Roast for 5 – 7 mins or until the honey has caramelised a little and the figs are meltingly soft – keep an eye on it. Serve hot.

BOCCA DI LUPO CELERIAC, RADISH, POMEGRANATE & PECORINO SALAD
Recipe courtesy Jacob Kennedy; serves 4 as a starter

Ingredients
For the salad:
1 bunch breakfast radishes (about 8), 1/2 ?black radish, or 5cm green mooli (Chinese greengrocers), or mooli – about 150g in any case
A chunk of celeriac, about 1/4 very small bulb, peeled (50–60g)
A little chunk of Pecorino Romano cheese (about 50g)
Pomegranate, seeds picked out, or 6 tbsps seeds
A few sprigs of flat-leaf parsley, leaves picked

For the dressing:
1 tbsp white truffle oil
5 tbsps extra virgin olive oil
1 tbsp white balsamic vinegar
Juice of a lemon (or 2 more tsps white balsamic)

Method
1. Make a dressing with the oils, vinegar, lemon, salt and pepper. Taste for seasoning.
2. Do the following just before you serve, as radishes dry out, and celeriac blackens with time. Wash the radishes (both red and black, don’t peel either), and shave thinly – best on a mandolin. Use a potato peeler to shave the celeriac and Pecorino. Toss the lot with the pomegranate seeds and parsley, and dress lightly.
3. Serve in haphazard but tall piles on individual plates, or in a bowl to share from.

JACKIE’S SIGNATURE ROAST RACK OF LAMB
As featured in the Nudie Foodies cookbook (altered slightly); serves 4.

Ingredients
2 medium racks of lamb, trimmed (ask your butcher to do this for you; think roughly 2 chops per person)
Large handful panko breadcrumbs (or old breadcrumbs; the crispier the better)
2 – 3 small cloves garlic, minced (alternatively use 1 large clove)
Large handful parsley, chopped finely (leaves only)
3 – 4 tsps English mustard
1 – 2 tbsps honey, plus extra
2 – 3 sprigs rosemary, plus extra
Salt and freshly ground black pepper

Method
1. Preheat the oven to 200 degrees C and season the lamb racks lightly with the salt, then somewhat more liberally with the black pepper (lamb can be a little gamey). Form the two into a Guard of Honour by threading the opposite bones together (fat-side of the lamb on the outside), as if clasping your hands together. Place on a baking tray on top of a few sprigs of rosemary.
2. Combine the panko, garlic and parsley in a separate bowl; in another bowl mix the mustard and honey together – you don’t want this to be too runny, if it is add a little more mustard.
3. Using your hands, cover the entire racks in the honey-mustard concoction then press the panko mixture into it. I found it was a lot easier rolling the racks back and forth into the panko mixture and using my hands to press it in firmly, before forming them back into the Guard of Honour on the baking tray. When entirely covered and back on the rosemary bed, drizzle a little more honey over the top and thread the rosemary sprigs across the bones.
4. Roast in the oven for 25-30 mins (lamb will be pink). If you have thicker racks you may need to adjust this time accordingly: check on it at the 25 min mark and make a judgement call.
5. Let rest for about 10 mins, covered loosely with foil, then carve the chops and serve.

MONET’S ZUCCHINI BREAD
Adapted from Smitten Kitchen, serves 4 – 6.

Ingredients
1 1/2 eggs
115 ml vegetable oil
100 g caster sugar
225 g grated zucchini (about 2 small zucchini)
2 tsp vanilla extract
340 g plain flour
1 1/2 tsps cinnamon
1/16 tsp nutmeg
1/2 tsp bicarbonate of soda
1/4 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt

For the assembly:
Unsalted butter (for toasting)
A mild goat’s cheese
Chopped apricots
Chopped cashew or pistachio nuts
Honey

Method
1. Preheat oven to 180 degrees C and grease and flour a loaf pan, liberally.
2. In a large bowl, beat the eggs with a whisk. Mix in oil and sugar, then zucchini and vanilla.
3. Combine flour, cinnamon, nutmeg, bicarbonate of soda, baking powder and salt, then stir this into the egg mixture. Divide the batter into prepared pans.
4. Bake loaf for 60 minutes, plus or minus ten, or until a tester inserted into the center comes out clean.
5. Remove to a cooling rack and when cool slice into 2 – 3 cm pieces.
6. Over a medium-low heat, melt a knob of unsalted butter and when frothy lay a slice of the zucchini bread in it and toast on both sides until golden brown.
7. To assemble: spread a little of the goat’s cheese on top, sprinkle over the chopped cashews (or pistachios) and apricots, and drizzle a little honey over it. Serve warm.

The next morning was time to say goodbye to Monet and Ryan, but not before one last meal together – delicious celeriac, goat’s cheese and radish omelettes, made by Ryan, Omelette Master Extraordinaire (can you tell we had a few leftovers?).

It was so wonderful to see, eat and cook with Monet and Ryan and it reminded me how much I miss friends like them in the States. Their passion for life and adventure, and enthusiasm for London was refreshing and something that I often forget, being as jaded as I am now.

One day I’ll return to America and I know somewhere, sometime in the world I’ll be reunited with Monet and Ryan again. Until that day, peace and love.

Jax x

As a child I didn’t like change. A fairly serious, determined young thing, I was very black and white in my thinking – sometimes literally. I remember being given an elephant to colour in at nursery school and whilst the other children coloured their elephants pink, red, yellow, blue or a combination of the four (shock, horror), I took a lead pencil and very carefully shaded in my elephant grey (all within the lines, of course). When asked if I wanted another colour I remember telling my teacher rather firmly and with some derision – she should’ve known this for herself, after all – “no. Elephants are grey.”

When I was due to start a new school year, every year without fail, I would start to feel an overwhelming nausea as I approached the school gates with my mother. There was nothing wrong with me but nerves would take their toll every time – fear about who would be my new classmates, about who would be my new teacher, whether or not they’d like me, where my classroom would be, why it had to be different every year, why it had to change. Of course, as soon as I entered the building and had read my name on the list of classes whilst clutching my mother’s hand tightly, I’d merrily skip off to class, all anxieties forgotten and ready to start anew, barely even remembering to wave goodbye to my bemused parent.

I’m somewhat more relaxed now (though if you give me a picture of an elephant I’ll still colour it in grey) and I’ve realised – somewhat reluctantly – that change is inevitable. Don’t fight it, just embrace it – it’ll make your life a whole lot easier.

I seem to be facing constant change in my life at the moment – maybe that’s the reason for my fresh outlook and zen-like approach to it. I’ve spent so long stubbornly trying to hold onto many things I should’ve let go of a long time ago and of course all that does is depress you and waste a lot of time and energy but now I’m ready to move on – summer’s coming and big things are planned for the rest of this year; for this new chapter of my life.

I didn’t like katsu-don when I first had it – though it seemed like something that would work perfectly on paper (tonkatsu, egg, onion and rice, all in a bowl together for ease), it made the tonkatsu crust soggy and that was simply something I didn’t like.

However, as with all things, over time and further exposure to it, I started to not just like katsu-don but to love it and when I found out just how easy it was to make for myself (if somewhat time-consuming) it fast became a staple in my repertoire.

Of course, if you can’t be bothered with the dashi/egg step you can always just eat the tonkatsu with plain rice and Bulldog sauce (if you don’t like Bulldog sauce then consider this me disowning you immediately).

KATSU-DON
Serves 1

Ingredients
For the rice:
200 g short-grain rice
Water (to wash and cook the rice)

For the tonkatsu:
1 boneless pork loin chop
Plain flour (to coat the pork)
1 egg, beaten lightly
Panko or breadcrumbs (to coat the pork)
Vegetable oil

For the katsu-don:
1 onion, sliced thinly
170 ml water
1 – 2 tsps dashi powder
1 tbsp soy sauce
2 tbsps mirin
2 tsps sugar
1 egg, beaten lightly

Special equipment:
x1 small pan (for rice)
x1 frying pan (for tonkatsu)
x1 wok + lid (for katsu-don)

Method
1. Start the rice first – wash a few times in cold water until the water runs clear then add enough water so that when you rest your little finger on top of the rice the water comes up to just below the first joint. Put it on the hob over a medium-high heat and when it begins to boil furiously turn the heat down to the lowest setting and place the lid on. Steam for about 20 – 25 mins or until cooked through, then remove from the heat. Begin the other steps as the rice is cooking.
2. Take the pork loin and, using a sharp knife, make a few cuts in the fat and sinew – this will help to relax the meat. Using the blunt edge of the knife, gently tenderise and flatten the cutlet to about a 2 cm thickness.
3. In three separate bowls place the plain flour, the beaten egg and the panko or breadcrumbs and then dip the prepared pork chop in each, starting with the flour and ending with the panko, making sure it’s well coated.
4. In a frying pan (make sure it isn’t too shallow), pour about 4 – 5 cm of vegetable oil and turn up the heat to medium-high. When the oil is hot enough that a breadcrumb dropped into the oil sizzles, place the coated pork chop into the oil, turn down the heat to medium and fry for a few minutes on each side (about 10 mins in total or so), using tongs to turn the chop. When cooked through remove the tonkatsu to a plate lined with paper kitchen towel to soak up the excess oil. When a little cooler, carefully cut the tonkatsu into 2 cm pieces.
5. In the wok add the water, dashi, soy sauce, mirin and sugar and whisk together over a medium-high heat. Add the chopped onion and cook until soft, turning the heat down to medium-low. You can cover it with the lid for a few minutes to help the onions along – as you can see from the above photo my wok doesn’t have a lid but I find that my Le Creuset crockpot lid does the trick.
6. When the onions are soft, carefully transfer the cooked tonkatsu to the wok and lay on top of the onions and liquid mixture (which should’ve reduced a bit by now). Pour the beaten egg on top of the tonkatsu, turn the heat up to medium-high and put the lid on for up to 30 seconds (use your common sense and remove the lid sooner or keep it on for longer, depending on how cooked you like your egg). As you can see from the above photo I decided to add an extra egg which I didn’t beat – it’s really up to you. Remove the lid and turn off the heat.
7. To assemble: place the cooked rice in a bowl and carefully transfer the tonkatsu, egg, onion and liquid mixture on top of the rice. Serve immediately with miso soup and enjoy the heck out of it.

I’ll be back soon – don’t worry, no matter what changes I’ll never turn my back on this little blog of mine.

Until next time, peace and love.

Jax x

I don’t think of myself as a particularly dramatic person and yet drama seems to follow me unnecessarily. Over the past couple of years I’ve faced more difficulties in my life than it seems any one person should have on their plate at any given time. From my health which took a sudden downward turn last summer to the stresses of being a freelance writer, it’s not been a particularly easy path to tread, certainly not helped along by a significant amount of sadness which has dragged on for over a year and a half.

In the past couple of weeks I’ve felt exhausted by it all, to the point where I’ve considered giving up on, well, everything. This blog – which has always been my escape, my refuge – has lately seemed a chore. Writing, which is for me an extremely cathartic process, has not helped me begin to unravel the tangled mess in my mind as it normally would and I’ve even started to consider a career away from food, away from the things that I love and away from my dreams. A hard thing for a person as proud as I am to admit, but at one point I hadn’t been able to afford groceries for two months and so had been living off frozen vegetables and lentils and literally lying awake until the wee hours of the morning, mentally calculating how much money I’d need to save up before I could pay off all of my debts. Needless to say, it’s been a tough start to the year.

But amongst all of the drama, all of the stresses, worries and difficulties, there have been small glimmers of hope and success, from the catering job I recently completed for 150 people, to the wonderfully supportive friends, family and particularly special person who entered my life a few months ago; and they’ve made me realise that all I really need is to drop the drama and simplify: rid my life of the things that make me unhappy and focus only on the ones that put a smile on my face. It’s so easy – I don’t know why I haven’t realised it before this point.

Part of simplifying is being selfish but sometimes you just need to be. It’s a horrible thing to say and to do, especially for somebody like me who would give the shirt off my back to anybody who needed it, but when you give away all of your clothes all you’re left with is resentment and a cold, naked ass, which is never a very good combination of things. I have to learn to be less giving or, at least, to only give as whole heartedly as I do to those who really deserve it, because frankly my good nature has been taken advantage of far too much and enough is enough. So here I am, a little older, a lot wiser and ready to live a much simpler and happier life.

When I made these brownies I was craving peanut butter and chocolate, two things that have recently been re-introduced into my life (damn you peanut M&Ms!) and that pair together beautifully. Add to that a hit of sweet raspberry jam and you’re looking at a whole new (bigger and fatter) world – just the way I like it.

With huge thanks to the fabulous Russell at Chasing Delicious for the base fudgey brownie recipe – his may be the best fudgey brownie recipe I’ve come across lately and I’m always looking for a good one (props must also go to Brian of A Thought For Food and Deb of Smitten Kitchen as Russell’s recipe was adapted from the two of them, so thank you all for providing me with a delicious brownie base!).

PB&J BROWNIES
Original brownie recipe courtesy of Chasing Delicious, A Thought For Food and Smitten Kitchen.
Makes 16 brownies.

Ingredients
225 g unsalted butter, chopped, plus extra for pan
450 g caster sugar
90 g (unsweetened) cocoa powder
100 g 70% cocoa chocolate bar, chopped (I like Green & Black’s)
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp pure vanilla extract
3 large eggs, cold
80 g plain flour + 20 g cornflour, sifted together and set aside
Chunky peanut butter
Raspberry jam

Method
1. Preheat the oven to 160 degrees C and liberally butter a (23cm) square baking tin (as you can see from the above photos my pan is not square so I only got 12 (very large) brownies out of this recipe).
2. Place the butter and chopped chocolate in a large heatproof bowl and over a pan of barely simmering water – make sure the bowl doesn’t touch the water – and stir with a heatproof silicone spatula until melted. When all of the butter and chocolate have melded together to a smooth consistency, add the caster sugar and cocoa powder and mix together thoroughly – it will appear grainy.
3. Set the bowl aside and allow to cool slightly – about five minutes. When cool, add the vanilla, stir, then add the eggs one at a time, beating in well with an electric hand mixer (or by hand with a wooden spoon, but it does get a little stiff after a while) and making sure each is fully incorporated before adding the next.
4. Sift in the flour and cornflour mixture and fold in with a spatula until just incorporated, being careful not to overmix.
5. Pour the batter into the buttered tin then, using a teaspoon, place 16 heaped 1/2 tsp blobs of peanut butter across the top of the brownie batter (you want one blob for every brownie square, so about 4 x 4 in a square pan). Next to the peanut butter add 16 heaped 1/2 tsp blobs of raspberry jam. Using a sharp knife, dip the tip into each peanut butter/raspberry jam blob and drag it into the batter in a swirl – as the peanut butter is very viscous you won’t be able to drag it cleanly through the batter and so will need to dip it in and out a few times to achieve the desired marbling pattern. Be sure to pull it around in a swirl and not just drag it in a straight line. You may want to add a little more raspberry jam if you find it disappearing into the brownie batter a little too much.
6. When your batter is sufficiently marbled and you’re happy with your peanut butter/raspberry jam ratio, pop the tin into the preheated oven and bake for 15 – 20 mins, or until a cake tester (or toothpick) inserted into the centre comes out covered in crumbs and a fudgey paste-like substance. If it’s still liquidy (ie. falls off the cake tester) then bake for a few more minutes and test again.
6. Allow the brownies to cool to room temperature, then slice into squares and remove to a plate. Serve with a glass of milk, a couple of scoops of vanilla ice cream or simply stuff into your mouth – I promise I won’t tell.

Until next time, peace and love,

Jax x

(c)Toby Kennedy, 2012.

It’s very easy to hide who you really are online. All that people know about you is what you choose to share, especially in a format like a blog. I’m generally a pretty open book – when I’m happy you know that I’m happy, when I’m sad you know why and when I started feeling that way; I’m a sharer, what can I say. But there is plenty that I don’t talk about because, well, it’s personal, and I like to try and keep my personal life as offline as possible. I’m not saying it’s how everybody should be, it’s just how I choose to be, because I like to protect those who are close to me.

Today I’m going to break that rule because today I’d like to talk about something which has nothing to do with food, is entirely personal and is still a taboo in society. Today I’d like to talk about cancer.

Cancer is one of those dreaded illnesses that we don’t discuss and yet almost everybody has been affected by, either directly or indirectly. Maybe we lost a family member or friend, maybe we know somebody who had the same, maybe we had our own cancer scare; the point is that cancer is all around us and so why is it so hard to talk about? Why is it the elephant in the room, crammed into the corner, staring at us and yet unacknowledged? I can only think of one reason: fear.

My Po-Po, my mother, my brother and I, waiting for the Star Ferry in Hong Kong.

When I was a child I lost two of my grandparents to cancer – my grandfather on my father’s side (my Yeah-Yeah) went first to bowel cancer, then my grandmother on my mother’s side (my Po-Po) died of lung cancer. On both of these occasions I was so young that the memories I have of my grandparents are hazy at best, though I very vividly remember certain occasions, like the time I shattered a glass on my foot after getting out of my Yeah-Yeah and Mah-Mah’s (maternal grandmother) swimming pool in Hong Kong because my hands were wet (my Yeah-Yeah told off the helper who had given me the glass because I was “only a small child and he should’ve given me a plastic cup,” then he picked up the glass from around my foot, bandaged my cut little toe and gave me a hug); or how his home office was filled with giant leather furniture and the chair he sat in behind his desk made him seem like a giant (a giant who was always happy to see us, even though we climbed all over him and knocked over all of the things on his desk). I remember the way my Po-Po always smelled of mothballs, the floaty shirts she wore, how soft her skin felt and how the veins on the backs of her hands seemed to glow blue under pale, delicate skin. I remember how they both wore huge glasses that covered half their faces and which, apparently, I was terrified of as a baby.

Every year we would walk down the ramp in the old Hong Kong airport and look for our family who would be lined up along the barriers to our left, waving, smiling, waiting to envelop us in hugs and bestow gifts upon us (usually strange electronic toys that always needed batteries, necessitating a midnight trip to the 7-11). One year my Yeah-Yeah was no longer in that line-up, and a few years later my Po-Po wasn’t either. Eventually the old airport was knocked down and replaced and now that journey down the ramp and into Hong Kong is something that, too, exists only in my memories.

But losing your grandparents when you can only remember snatched memories and moments seems like something that you get used to, and so once again cancer was swept under the carpet. Then when I was ten my father was diagnosed with throat cancer.

The Lee Family “kissy face”, featuring my father, myself and my Mah-Mah. My father can no longer pull this face.

It started as a persistent lump on the side of his neck. He would sit quietly in contemplation, two fingers against the lump, worry in his eyes but trying hard not to show it to us. A summer passed, we spent it in Spain, and when we returned to London and to school, my father finally had a biopsy, after which my brother and I were called into the living room to talk to him. This remains the only time I have ever seen my father cry – he broke down mid-sentence: it was cancer.

Without a word, my brother and I both hugged him fiercely and I could feel my father’s usually strong hands trembling on my back – I had seen my father happy, angry, disappointed and sad, but I had never seen him scared before. My brother chose to never speak about it – far more introverted than I, he would process things quietly in his own way (usually through sport) and so when he disappeared into his room to study, I went to mine to cry. I kept asking myself what it meant – was he going to die? Would he have an operation? What was cancer anyway?

Over the next few months my father underwent an operation to remove the tumour and a severe course of radiotherapy. The operation, though technically a success, left him with a huge scar that runs from his jaw to down and across his chest (one of my fondest and most cringe-worthy memories is the time that we were visiting my aunt in Sydney and, whilst strolling along Bondi Beach, my father opened his shirt and exclaimed loudly, “cor, the shark really took a good bite out of me, didn’t he?”), slurred speech, a broken jaw (from the radiotherapy) and issues with the muscles in his neck which make swallowing very difficult. I’ve watched my father literally diminish in size, from a mountain of a man to one a third of the size. A great orator, he now often struggles to be understood which is greatly frustrating for him. Though he has now been fifteen years “cancer-free”, it still affects him and every day brings a new challenge for him to overcome – it may physically no longer be in his body but you are never really “cancer-free” and this is something my father has had to deal with every day since his diagnosis.

The hardest part in all of this was watching my father become mortal. As a child your parents should be everything to you, they are god-like in that nothing ever seems to affect them. Fell over and cut your knee? Your parents make it better. Need advice? Talk to your parents. When I was a child I didn’t speak until quite late and at that point I came out with not a single word but a whole sentence, “who’s dead? Don’t worry, I fix it” – a phrase that my mother had said to me time and time again: don’t worry, I’ll fix it. My father’s diagnosis and subsequent treatment turned all of that on its head and made me realise, for the first time, that he was only human.

Since this time cancer has affected me directly relatively little. There have been friends’ parents who have “beaten” cancer, friends of friends who are in the process of fighting their own battles but on the other side of the world, and there have been sad stories of parents’ friends I used to know who, sadly, passed away; but nothing has really been so in-my-face as my father’s cancer.

Then, just before Christmas, one of my best friends – Sam – called me to tell me that she had been diagnosed with cervical cancer. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach, my tongue turned to lead in my mouth and I sat stunned, ear glued to the phone; I literally had no idea what to say.

(c)Toby Kennedy, 2012.

Just a couple of weeks earlier we had been walking up the road to my house and she’d mentioned that she was going for a routine smear test the following day, that her results had been coming back as irregular and it was a real pain to have to keep going in every six months or so. I’d reassured her at the time that it was probably fine, that she shouldn’t worry about it, and then here she was, telling me she had cancer.

After she hung up I sat for a while on my bed and then, I admit, I cried a little. I cried for the sad news that I’d received, I cried for the cancer that had affected my father and I cried for the cancer that had taken away my grandparents before their time; then I wiped my face and made an action plan which consisted of driving Sam to the hospital for her appointment and… that was it. The rest was a complete blank.

As a friend, there is very little that I can do for Sam other than be there when she needs me to be, and, honestly, I would drop everything for her at a word. Over the past few months Sam has shown so much strength and resolve in tackling this. Of course she’s had her moments of doubt and fear, we all do, but the most important thing is that she has faced it head on and not let the fear overwhelm her.

Because she is so young (only a couple of years older than I) and because she is outrageously strong-willed (she was working two jobs just before Christmas and studying for her degree in photography, she is now thankfully only working the one job and studying, though I often reprimand her for letting herself be overworked at said job), I know that she can fight this, but the cancer is now at a stage where she needs to start a much more aggressive course of radiotherapy. We don’t know what the future holds but Sam has determined to make the most out of every day, to fight and to work towards her goals and, as her friend, I’m there to support her in any way possible.

One of these goals is to participate in one of the Race for Life events in July with a group of friends, and so, on July 14th, that is exactly what we’ll be doing.

Race for Life is an annual 5 or 10k run, held up and down the country, intended to raise money for Cancer Research UK. A women only event, pink is the colour of the day and you can participate any way you want to – walk, jog or run – just finish. Hundreds of women take part every year, running for themselves, for friends or family, and I’m proud to say that I will be right alongside Sam, even if we end up having to carry her ourselves!

You can sponsor us too – we’re looking to raise about £1,000 for Cancer Research UK but please give whatever you can. Here’s an idea of what your money will go towards:

£10 could buy 300 glass slides for studying cells and tumour samples in detail under the microscope.

£30 could buy around 250 plastic Petri dishes. They’re an essential resource for thousands of scientists who are working hard to understand cancer.

£54 could buy 22 thermometers (range -10°C to 110°C) – indispensable for many experiments that need to be performed at very precise temperatures.

£94 could cover the cost for one woman to take part in a clinical trial aiming to improve survival for post-menopausal women with early-stage breast cancer.

£123 could fund one cancer information nurse for a day. Our experienced cancer information nurses provide a confidential service for anyone with concerns about cancer.

£260 could buy a sophisticated microarray, a powerful piece of technology, helping scientists to scrutinise thousands of genes in a single experiment, and identify which are switched on in cancer.

£677 could cover the cost of one person taking part in a clinical trial testing chemotherapy before and after surgery, and the antibody drug Vectibix, to improve survival for bowel cancer patients.

£1,000 could cover around 22 day’s running expenses for an important lab project into a type of children’s cancer called rhabdomyosarcoma. The study aims to identify molecules that are involved in driving tumour growth, and this could lead to improved treatments so that more children survive the disease in the future.

As you can see, sponsoring us and supporting Cancer Research UK could be life-saving and eventually, one day, may even go towards finding a cure. We live in hope, do we not?

Sponsor us by visiting our Race For Life sponsorship page – we’ll be sure to take lots of photos on the day and I promise that your money will be going towards a great cause. And that’s not all! If you are female, based in London, free on the 14th July and would like to join us, please get in contact – we would love to have you run with us!

I won’t let cancer be the elephant in the room any more – will you? Thank you for reading this.

Until next time, peace and love,

Jax x

]]> http://iamafeeder.net/raceforlife2012/feed 7 http://iamafeeder.net/spicypickledcucumber http://iamafeeder.net/spicypickledcucumber#comments Tue, 06 Mar 2012 22:04:17 +0000 Jackie http://iamafeeder.net/?p=2046

Every now and then we all need a break: from work, from friends, from life. When those moments occur I like to take a step back, take stock and figure out what’s really important to me and every time, without fail, my health and happiness come first.

I kept saying that 2012 was going to be my year and despite a bit of a rocky start, the past two weeks have me thinking that maybe my bold statement will hold true, maybe this is the year that the pieces will start to come together. Health and happiness are both ticking along nicely and with those things under my belt I feel like I can tackle the world – I’m even beginning to ease myself back into work very slowly and have plans for a mini get-away later this month to Morocco (very exciting, I’ve never ventured into that part of the world before).

So if you find yourself backed into a corner maybe you should do what I do and figure out what’s really important to you… then you should make my spicy pickled cucumbers and treat yourself because they’re freaking delicious.

JACKIE’S SPICY PICKLED CUCUMBERS

Ingredients
2 English cucumbers, sliced thinly
115 ml rice wine vinegar
60 ml mirin
2-3 tbsps sugar (or to taste)
1 tbsp mustard seeds
1-2 dried Thai bird’s eye chillies, de-seeded and crushed/chopped finely
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper (to taste)

Method
1. In a large bowl combine all ingredients, making sure the cucumbers are well coated, and let marinade at room temperature for 1 – 1 1/2 hrs. The cucumbers will release a lot of water over this time so don’t worry if the marinade doesn’t completely cover them.
2. Taste, re-season to taste then transfer all of the contents to a large kilner jar, or other airtight container, and refrigerate. Enjoy as a snack or accompaniment to a meal (I recommend it with Hainanese Chicken Rice (blog post to come)). Should keep for a couple of weeks refrigerated.

Until next time, peace and love,

Jax x

]]> http://iamafeeder.net/spicypickledcucumber/feed 4 http://iamafeeder.net/25 http://iamafeeder.net/25#comments Wed, 29 Feb 2012 10:36:15 +0000 Jackie http://iamafeeder.net/?p=2036
Photo courtesy of Toby Kennedy, 2012.

Hey, how’s it going? Remember me? I’m the girl who disappeared on you for a month. Yeah… sorry about that. Also you may have noticed that my website still doesn’t look quite right – that’s because I’m an idiot and accidentally deleted a vital bit of code a little while ago. Whoops. We’re working on it and it should be back up and running properly soon (hopefully), so in the meantime just ignore the, er, ugly broken design.

So what’s going on in my life since I was last here? Well, lots of cooking and eating, lots of Instagramming, I went to Hong Kong for a short holiday (post to come soon) and then I came back and oh look at that! I turned 25! Holla!

My actual birthday was fantastic, with lunch at Pitt Cue Co. with my girl Annabelle, a gift of Paul A. Young truffles (I ate the entire box by myself and no, I’m not even ashamed), a beautiful afternoon stroll in the sunshine and dinner at L’Anima with family.

So because I still need to get my head back in the right place and start actually blogging properly again I figured I’d share some photos from my 25th birthday celebrations this past weekend for now (I swear, there were about 50 people there, not 10 as the photos would suggest – people were being remarkably camera shy).

I was lucky enough to be able to enlist the fabulous Toby Kennedy that evening as my official photographer and he did a superb job with the photos. Seriously, if you need a photographer who will drop everything to work your party and do it AWESOMELY, Toby is your man. He totally stepped in last minute and made all of us look so darn pretty… plus he’s the first person to officially photograph me in my 25th year! We’re definitely going to have to get some more photo time in soon.

I also self-catered the party, with the help of my fabulous besties, Jun, Sami and Annabelle and it all went down a treat. Delicious food, great music, amazing people – what more could a girl ask for?

First image courtesy of Sam Morgan (food by me); second image courtesy of Annabelle Choi (tarts by Annabelle).

Photos courtesy of Toby Kennedy, 2012.

So without further ado, here are a selection of photos from the evening, featuring some of my nearest and dearest. I won’t throw names at you but some of these people are old friends, some are new friends, all of them are extremely special to me and I adore them! I’m a lucky girl to have such wonderful people in my life. Enjoy the hotness and I’ll be back soon (I promise, this time I actually will).

All photos courtesy of Toby Kennedy, 2012.

Peace and love,

Jax x

]]> http://iamafeeder.net/25/feed 11 http://iamafeeder.net/eatingoutinlondon http://iamafeeder.net/eatingoutinlondon#comments Mon, 16 Jan 2012 20:01:32 +0000 Jackie http://iamafeeder.net/?p=2007
This is Tower Bridge. Not London Bridge. You can tell because it has towers. Duh.

I get asked a lot what the best restaurant in London is and where tourists should go. The former I find a bit tricky to answer (and we’ll get to that in a minute) and as for the latter, I’ve sent out that list of ‘must dos’ so many times in the past year you’d think I’d have written this post long before this point. I hadn’t because I tend to steer away from this becoming a review blog – I review restaurants in my day-to-day so like this to be my own space; this time it’s a plea.

Guys, you have no idea how infuriating it is when somebody visits London and their response is, “meh, it was okay, the food is terrible, though”. What do you mean the food is terrible?! Where did you go? What did you have? Why didn’t you like it?! I usually find out it’s because said individual wanted to “eat like a local” and this meant dodgy fish and chips, watery tepid tea, a big name chef’s restaurant which did not live up to the hype and at least one obligatory pub lunch where everybody around them seemed more interested in drinking than eating; it drives me insane. When I see tourists lining up around the block at Planet Hollywood or the Hard Rock Cafe I want to grab them by the shoulders and shout, ‘WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO YOURSELF’ and the truth is they do it because they simply don’t know otherwise. We all know that feeling – you’ve been walking all day, you’re tired and you spot a beacon of familiarity amongst a land of grey and people trying to get from A to B: it happens. But did you know that just around the corner there’s a place which is a million times better and half the price? Probably not or you wouldn’t be subjecting yourself to tourist traps.

Well, that’s why I’m writing this, but first take every pre-conceived idea of “London” out of your head and throw it away: we’re not all friends with the Queen, my school life was not a scene out of Harry Potter, we aren’t obsessed with William & Kate’s every move and we don’t drink tea by the gallon… well, okay, we probably do the last one but we don’t go out for afternoon tea all the time. Now listen carefully because I’m about to blow your mind.

London is a huge capital city, soon to be host to the 2012 Olympic Games (nightmare) and incredibly diverse and multi-cultural. “Eating like a local” is no longer limited to English breakfasts (though they are a treat from time to time: a horrible, heart attack inducing, mid-hangover, greasy treat) or afternoon tea (not to be confused with high tea which is, in fact, a light supper).

We’re incredibly proud of our dining scene – home to some amazing restaurants and chefs, we’re spoiled for choice. “British food” is not just meat and veg, it’s Japanese yakitori, it’s French finesse, it’s Italian small plates and Spanish tapas, and so much more. Having said that, there are also fantastic movers and shakers, revolutionising the face of British food – we’ve got it all. Stop thinking of London as a dot on a map and start thinking of it in exactly the way it deserves: a metropolis of ever-changing food and excitement.

The other week I was having Sunday dim sum with some food friends and joked that one of the girls we knew had already been to the brand new highly-lauded restaurant in town within a week of opening. “Isn’t that funny? Doors are barely open and she’s already been!” I laughed, popping a wasabi siu mai (prawn dumpling) into my mouth. The two boys looked at each other, back at me and then raised their hands. “We’ve been too – within three days of opening.”

The casual dining scene, especially in the past year, has positively exploded. With the rise of food truck culture, the demand for a permanent home from these street favourites has been high. In the past few months alone we’ve seen a former burger cart take up permanent residence just off Oxford Street and a popular barbecue truck open the doors to their first restaurant in Soho (barbecue being a very new thing to the UK). Both of these venues have punters lining up around the block for a table, come rain or shine. Londoners, just like New Yorkers, know where the latest hot spot is within hours of contracts being signed, Twitter buzzes with claims of ‘it’s true, x was as good as they’re all saying!’ (who “they” are and what they’ve been saying within hours of opening is another matter entirely) and blog posts and reviews are written by the thousands of fans (and, of course, the not so impressed); so why do I still hear that old adage that British food is bad?

To eat well in London it takes, as most things do, a good bit of planning and organisation. With so much happening and so many good things to try, you can’t rock up at 7pm on the day and try to wrangle your way into a table – the bloggers alone will have secured their place weeks in advance. It’s akin to showing up to, say, David Chang’s Momofuku Ko in New York and being all, ‘alright D-Chang, just got into NYC – how about a table for 6?’ Plan. Book (if you can; the trend is now moving towards restaurants who don’t allow bookings). Get there early (a must if you can’t book ahead). Call the restaurant, don’t just rely on their online booking system (I don’t understand this aversion to talking to people on the phone – just pick up the phone, dial a number and talk to a human being). You will not be able to walk in to Heston Blumenthal’s The Fat Duck – the booking system is incredibly complicated and infuriates many. If you’re desperate to eat there then investigate the booking system (lines open at the beginning of each month, you can book 3 months in advance) and keep calling until you get through.

I can’t tell you where the best place to eat in London is because there’s just so much, it’s so very different and everybody’s tastes are different. I know where my favourite conveyor belt sushi joint is, or my favourite alternative pizza joint; I can tell you where to get a bangin’ Indian-style lunchtime wrap and a cooling lassi, or my favourite late-night Chinese joint to have lashings of siu-yook (roast pork) or wonton mein (wonton noodles) after a night out on the town (Canton, 11 Newport Place; incidentally this was my father’s favourite when he was a student and also my older brother’s, all by chance). I can even tell you one of the only places where you can buy guanciale (cured pig’s cheek) or where to source the freshest weekend produce.

If you need to experience fish and chips, at least go to a chip shop who know what they’re doing, and if you’re going to have tea, dress up and have it with champagne or at least do afternoon tea the way it’s supposed to be done. Pub lunches are great but make sure you go to a really decent gastropub or British brasserie, not just any old pub you spot whilst out and about. Still really just want a burger? Then I’ll steer you away from the “dirty burgers” of McDonalds & Burger King and tell you where they toast the bun just right, grill the patty so that it’s crisp and juicy and generally make it – according to some – orgasm inducing. Even better, I’ll let Daniel tell you his top 10 burgers in London, if that’s your thing.

Sound expensive? None of this stuff has to break the bank. I can, of course, recommend the best rhubarb gin & tonic I’ve ever had at a moderately priced restaurant, or the much pricier high-end side of London, but it all depends on how much you’re willing to spend.

I will pass you on to colleagues and friends, I will recommend food writers and bloggers, I will even take you to some of these restaurants if you’re dining alone; in short I will bend over backwards to give you the best damn experience you could possibly have whilst in London. But I will not, repeat not, stand for it if you come into my home city, go to the nearest tourist trap and then go home with the idea that the food in London is rubbish. If I hear that you’ve done this then I’m going to hunt you down and punch you in the baby-maker: don’t do it.

So how do you eat like a local?
1. Research (this includes things like: do they take AmEx? Mostly: no).
2. Ask.
3. Book ahead.
4. Enjoy yourself and that’s an order.

Questions? Want me to expand on any of the above? Just drop me a line and I’ll do my best. Until next time, peace and love.

Jax x

PS: American? Don’t forget that you’ve still got until the end of the month to submit your home State food memory to my project! Go, go, go!

]]> http://iamafeeder.net/eatingoutinlondon/feed 16 http://iamafeeder.net/greatamericancookbook1 http://iamafeeder.net/greatamericancookbook1#comments Thu, 05 Jan 2012 17:20:23 +0000 Jackie http://iamafeeder.net/?p=1996

Aaaand we’re back in the room! Happy new year, all – 2012 has arrived with a bang and I’ve found myself thrown back into life with barely a moment to breathe since Christmas. From a fabulous New Year’s Eve spent with good friends eating at Otto Pizza, followed by fireworks on the Thames and dancing in the streets of London with the London Eye behind us, to making new friends and getting to meet fellow blogger and Twitter friend Dan of Dan’s Good Side in London (an evening of not-so-good eating was followed by an awesome night of dancing through the small hours of the morning in one of London’s premier gay clubs with Dan & friends – ironically I still managed to get hit on by the only straight man in the entire club), I’ve been a busy girl and it doesn’t seem to want to slow down.

Want to know what else has been going on? Read on and find out how you can be involved in my project and this cookbook review! (It’s a doozy, I promise…)

On the health side of things, sadly I do not appear to be getting much better. If anything, I’m inexplicably getting worse, which means that radioiodine treatment is now imminent. I’m not looking forward to it but have resolved to do what it takes to get my health back on track so for the moment am continuing to take medication, follow my doctor’s advice and try to put a positive spin on my upcoming month’s quarantine from the rest of the world following treatment, due to the potential to give others radiation poisoning (eek). So far my favourite suggestions have been the possibility that the radiation may turn me into a superhero (or super villain – so much possibility!) and the offer from my close group of friends to make me a ‘Jackie Calendar’ for the month that I’m out of action, containing a different task each day which I am to film myself doing and post up for the world to see. I like this plan a lot and am overwhelmed by the love and comfort being sent my way.

So, in the very British spirit of keeping calm and carrying on, I have a favour and a fun task to ask all of you lovely readers. Recently, my dear friend Kavey of Kavey Eats passed on to me a giant tome entitled, The Great American Cookbook, a revised edition of Clementine Paddleford’s ‘How America Eats’. The book, at first glance, is fascinating and full of stories around the food Clementine is writing about, but more than that it’s simply enormous. It has 500 regional recipes from each of the US States and frankly I don’t even know where to begin.

So here’s my request: be a part of my project and help me review the book by sending me an email with the following:
1. Your name
2. Your age
3. Your home State
4. 1 food memory from that State growing up (2-3 sentences is perfect: what, where and when are great starting points!)
5. Your blog + blog address (if you have one)

I’ll take submissions from you until January 31st, 2012, at which point I’ll start choosing one of the recipes from each State to make and review, featuring you as my inspiration! Feel free to ask your friends and family too – the more the better! If anything it’ll be a little project to keep me going whilst I’m quarantined at home and help me work through this book.

That’s about it for now, hope you’re all having a super start to the new year and I look forward to receiving your home State food memories! Until next time, peace and love,

Jax x

]]> http://iamafeeder.net/greatamericancookbook1/feed 7 http://iamafeeder.net/christmas11 http://iamafeeder.net/christmas11#comments Fri, 23 Dec 2011 01:35:24 +0000 Jackie http://iamafeeder.net/?p=1972

It never really felt like Christmas unless it snowed. “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas,” the radio crooned every December 1st without fail – the idea was so ingrained in the people’s heads that they were convinced Christmas wouldn’t arrive without it. Sure, it would turn to grit and slush a couple of days later, but for that first crisp, white morning, that first blanket of manna from heaven, only pure childish glee would surround the city.

Over the last couple of days of term school children would gaze out of the window at the grey skies, willing the temperature to drop, for the clouds to burst open and pelt airy flakes onto the eager earthlings below. Dreams of skis and sleds would slip and slide over the teacher’s maths lesson, colliding with the blackboard with a giggle and dissipating amongst the scrawled long division and multiplication. A collective sigh would echo around the room as the children turned back to their school books, scribbling half-heartedly, doodling a sprig of holly in the corner of the page.

Snowmen would pop up on street corners, merrily smoking cold pipes, frost bitten carrots stuck clumsily into their faces (and, often, lower bodies); once surly businessmen would slip and slide on their way to work, dodging snowballs thrown by giggling receptionists who hid behind snow peaked mounds on the common, chasing assistants with handfuls of the cold stuff to pack into clothing, all accompanied by shrieks of high pitched laughter. For those first couple of days happiness prevailed and all the troubles of the year were forgotten.

When the snow didn’t come by Christmas week, the people started to panic. What if it didn’t snow this year? Did it snow last year? How about the year before that? It was a late summer, wasn’t it? Oh God, what if we never have snow again? What if global warming has robbed us of our Christmas?

“I don’t care if it doesn’t snow,” one genteel lady sniffed over tea, small dog clad in Christmas jumper on her lap, “I never much care for it anyway. Makes it too difficult to drive around, especially when it melts. So dangerous, too.”

The other five ladies shuffled nervously, glancing at each other from the corners of their eyes.

“I like the snow,” one companion offered nervously, giggling into her tea, “it always makes it feel so,” she gulped, “festive.”

She looked up with a smile, met a steely glare and quickly leapt back into her cup, executing a perfect swan dive and disappearing into the dregs. The others turned away from her empty chair and a waiter silently removed it. The circle of women waxed and waned and then there were four.

On the high street the Christmas tree vendors had taken to dealing with black market snow in order to sell their stock. Nobody wanted to buy a tree unless it was snowing, you see, it was sort of a tradition – struggle in a near blizzard to fetch tree, drag it home/attempt to lash it to the car roof (cursing mandatory) and lose several branches on the way, decorate half-dead said tree at home with gaudy baubles and an angel with a face that’d give the children nightmares for years, curse at pine needles that litter the carpet for months after the tree has gone, dispose of tree in neighbouring street’s skip, repeat the following year.

“Christmas trees! Only ten quid, love! Come get your Christmas trees,” the street vendor yelled in passersby’s ears, each word of alternating loudness, making the shoppers jump with shock. “Hey, mate,” the vendor sidled up to a young dad whose wife and child were looking in a shoe shop. “Mate, you want a tree?”

“Um, I think we’re going with a fake one this year…” The young dad trailed off at the steely look of contempt from the vendor.

“Nah, mate. Real, innit. That’s what the wife wants, mate.”

“She said the pine needles-…”

“Nah, mate,” the vendor stepped closer, “real. Innit.”

The young dad gulped. The vendor stared intently, unblinking, into his eyes, noses touching.

“The snow-…”

“Yeah mate. I got snow. You want snow? I got real nice snow, mate. Proper re-usable snow, innit mate. Only ten quid a bag, but I like you, I’ll do one for you half price, mate. That’s fifteen quid altogether, innit? Tree. Snow. Christmas, mate. You want your little boy to have a proper ‘White Christmas’, right mate? Mate?”

The young dad nodded quickly, trying to step backwards and away from the terrifying vendor but finding only a forest of trees behind him, blocking his way. The trees pushed him further towards the vendor, rustling their encouragement. ‘Buy us,’ they said, ‘we can give you a real Christmas. We can give you the smell of Christmas. A memory for your boy. Buy us, mate.’

“So mate,” the vendor’s breath was sweet, like pine, “fifteen quid for tree and snow? Whaddya say, mate?”

“Okay…”

And with an exchange of crumpled notes and packet of contraband pressed into the young dad’s hand, the vendor backed into the trees behind him, branches wrapping around him, enveloping him, transforming him, all pine and green.

‘Pick one of us,’ the trees rustled, shaking their pines seductively. The young dad tentatively reached a hand towards a full-branched tree, tall, symmetrical and full of rich pines. ‘Not that one,’ the trees snapped their twigs at him, ‘you only paid a tenner. Take the little one at the end, take the runt.’

Later that evening after they struggled home in the rain (“it’s not even snowing,” his young boy would pout all the way home as he was crammed into the back of the Ford Fiesta, itchy pine needles from the poor sickly looking tree falling all over his lap. The young mother wasn’t speaking to the young dad, the bent tip of the tree sticking into the back of her head), tree in living room with a few sad baubles hanging from it, boy and young mother in bed, the young dad would pull out his piece de resistance, the secreted bag of black market snow: ‘simply add water for instant snow, fun and Christmas!’

The young dad smiled as he added a glass of water to the mixture and threw it over the tree – it was remarkable, it really did look like snow. The sad little tree even seemed to perk up a little. Imagine that, the young dad marvelled, his boy would have a real white Christmas! Pride overflowing, he headed into bed and snuggled up to the sleeping young mother, planting a small kiss on her cheek. Still put out by his ridiculous purchase (“it wasn’t even snowing,” she harumphed) she stopped pretending to sleep, shuffled away from him and slapped a pillow in between them to ward off any further advances.

The young dad woke the next morning to a high-pitched shriek and sobbing. Stumbling down the stairs he found a scene of devastation – the sad little Christmas tree was dead, the floor around it covered in the white dusty remnants of the fake snow and next to that the body of beloved family pet, Mr. Winkles, the cat. In the night the fake snow had absorbed all moisture from the already dried out runt of a tree, killing it, then fallen to the ground, whereupon Mr. Winkles had tried to sup upon it (he remembered snow but alas could not distinguish between the real stuff and this black market replica), at which point he had discovered the crucial piece of information missing from the snow’s packaging: do not ingest, toxic.

The boy was wailing into the young mother’s dressing gown. She looked up at the young dad, scowling.

“Oh well, bloody well done – you’ve just ruined Christmas for everybody,” she sniffed angrily. “It wasn’t even snowing,” she spat at him, before sweeping the boy up into her arms and carrying him out of the room.

Christmas Eve came and there was still no snow. Tensions mounted and silly arguments broke out over the Christmas fare: you get to choose turkey or ham, not both! Cousin Linda’s a vegetarian? Well then she could bloody well stay at home and get some Linda McCartney in. What do you mean there were no cranberries left at Waitrose?! Well that’s it, Christmas is ruined! No, don’t even talk to me any more – just go away. Wait, did you pick up the appetisers from M&S? No, you were supposed to get them. No, you were. You were! Well what are we supposed to do without six different types of finger food for four people, before the pre-appetiser, appetiser, turkey or ham with all the trimmings, Christmas pudding and brandy butter?! Oh God, where are the sprouts?!

Without the snow to calm the situation, to send the children careering out into, the holiday makers picked fights over carrots and potatoes, over forgotten custard and turkeys that wouldn’t defrost. Out into the chilly afternoon they trudged, despite having vowed never to be forced to the shops on Christmas Eve again, along to the local mega-mart, where the heating was blasted out so fiercely thirty seconds inside had the shoppers sweating and peeling off layer after layer. One busty twenty-something wandered around in her underwear, apparently unaware that this was not a beach (she was to be forgiven, there was a large summer display complete with sand in the middle of the store, already prepared for the next big holiday season, where she attempted to build a sandcastle then fell asleep in a deck chair for an hour).

High above in his office, the mega-mart mogul rubbed his fat hands together, pound signs in his eyes, smirking as he watched the panicked shoppers grabbing last minute items. “Ho, ho, ho!” He laughed maniacally, hands on fat belly that jiggled with every ‘ho’, rosy red cheeks glistening with mirth and whiskey. He pulled his giggling assistant, clad in elf green, onto his lap.

“Now tell me young miss,” he winked, “this year have you been naughty… or nice?”

“Oh sir,” she giggled, her laughter like a bell, “very, very naughty.”

“Well then, you’ll be going on my list!”

And with one last ‘ho’, the mega-mart mogul pulled on a red hat and drew the blinds.

On Christmas morning the people woke early and ran to their windows, hoping for a Christmas miracle… but hearts fell as they realised that this year there would be no snow and no White Christmas. Instead there was only grey and condensation on the windows.

Wearily they trudged to churches all over the city, fiddled in uncomfortable wooden pews and pulled at tight collars wives had made husbands wear (“I wear ties every day of the week, surely Jesus won’t mind if I wear a t-shirt, right? I mean, this is basically his birthday and I reckon he’d prefer us all to be comfortable and casual”). They listened to sermons that lasted forever and spoke of ‘joy’ and ‘peace’, all the while resenting the warm weather, the lack of festivity, the lack of snow; resenting Christmas.

They stomped back home, not even realising that the weather had suddenly turned, that it was brisker, more frosty, and when they got in they sat around watching Christmas TV (‘The Sound of Music’ was always on at this time of year, wasn’t it?) and drinking mulled wine, waiting for Christmas dinner, waiting for this day to be over.

And then the amazing happened. Somewhere in-between ‘Climb Every Mountain’ and the second helping of turkey (or ham), it started to change outside. A sudden drop in temperature, a shift in the atmosphere, and something drifted down from the sky. It landed on a blade of grass where a curious cow licked it up – the first snowflake. And then a second. And a third. And before the people knew it, snow was falling thick and fast, blanketing the countryside and city alike, masking all imperfections with beautiful, white cotton-like droves. It had finally come: it was a White Christmas after all.

But after all that, you know who noticed it? Not a single person – they were all too busy with Christmas – and when they finally looked out of the window again on Boxing Day, every last snowflake had gone.

And with this short story which has nothing at all to do with food, I wish you all a very merry Christmas, happy Hannukah, joyful Kwanzaa or any other holiday you celebrate at this time of year and, of course, a very happy new year. Thanks for sticking with me through 2011 – see you next year.

Until 2012, peace and love,

Jax x

]]> http://iamafeeder.net/christmas11/feed 3 http://iamafeeder.net/shabushabu http://iamafeeder.net/shabushabu#comments Wed, 14 Dec 2011 10:30:53 +0000 Jackie http://iamafeeder.net/?p=1944
All photography in this post brought to you by my iPhone & Instagram!

The flavour hung thickly in the air, flickering across my tongue and creeping down my lungs tantalisingly. I swallowed hungrily, saliva collecting in my mouth again almost instantly. The lid of the red pot was lifted and with a heavy sigh more fragrant steam was released, condensing against the cold windows of the conservatory. I stood against the sliding glass door, watching carefully as plates piled high with meat and vegetables were shuffled; I wondered whether the condensation would taste like the air and watched a single drop make its jagged way down the blinds, dropping to the floor and shattering like a liquid crystal.

Time moved in slow motion as my stomach rumbled in anticipation of the great feast ahead of us – was it ready yet? Could we eat now? How about now? Patience was not a virtue I possessed but could you blame me? It was shabu shabu season.

One of the great discoveries in life is that the older you get the more you crave simple home pleasures. These days I find myself longing for the dishes of my childhood – a golden and steamed whole chicken, white rice, dim sum (always on a Sunday), stir-fried beef with tomatoes; even the dishes that became routine hold a small corner of my taste memory (the dry pork cutlet served with a creamy mushroom sauce and spaghetti that after 10 years we would eventually declare we despised and then never eat again and the retro Chicken a la King that was always the dish we ate on return from holiday, spring to mind). Every meal had its time, every day a different food given pride of place on the dining room table and, I admit, we were spoiled, growing complacent with these offerings, tired of the same foods in circulation week in, week out.

As we grew older Asian food featured less and less prominently on the menu, partially due to my teenage rebellion against my heritage, but now I find myself needing a change. Maybe it’s a result of too much rich eating – a sad downside to the life of a food writer – or perhaps it’s simply because I’m nostalgic for the days when food seemed to appear magically on the table. Either way, as the cold weather settled in and I found myself on my sofa bundled up like an eskimo, the only solution for these winter blues was a shabu shabu party, as I had enjoyed every year as a child, just when the frost started to appear on the windows.

Shabu shabu is a Japanese hot-pot dish, (usually) consisting of thin cuts of meat and assorted vegetables cooked in a hot broth at the table, served with various dipping sauces and rice. The term ‘shabu shabu’ literally translates as ‘swish swish,’ referring to the sound of the meat being ‘swished’ around in the hot broth as it cooks. Many of the Asian countries have their own versions of shabu shabu and apparently the Japanese adapted it from Chinese hot-pots, who were influenced by Mongolia – these things are always a bit of a case of mix and match, it seems!

It’s no surprise to me that shabu shabu is so popular – at its core, aside from the good food (which is one of the easiest and yet still most impressive meals to throw together – barely any effort is actually required on behalf of the cook as guests cook their own food!), is a desire to share and a gathering around a singular table with the hot-pot at the centre of it. Certainly in Chinese culture, this gathering is more important than the food itself and when I was growing up meal times were family affairs – dinner time was the only period of the day when we were all together, could sit back, relax, and enjoy our food and company; it was a sacred time.

Now that I’ve moved away from the family nest, I still like to bring my new “family” (made up of friends) together around a table and still see dinner time as a special period of the day. It brings me an inordinate amount of pleasure to be able to share this with people I care about, so I was overjoyed that I could welcome good friends Annabelle, John, Becky and bestie Jun to share in my first solo shabu shabu dinner party and my return to my culinary roots.

Shabu shabu is a very traditional affair for me, so I didn’t stray much from the version I knew and loved as a child – I even borrowed the same red electric wok from my mother that I grew up with, which has remained in excellent condition over the past 20-odd years. You can, of course, mix up your food combinations and use whatever you like, be it fish or meat, just make sure you use quite thin cuts. For this version I used two different types of beef (a slightly fattier beef rib cut (used for Japanese shabu shabu) and a leaner feather blade cut (used for Korean bulgogi)) and thinly sliced pork belly, which is becoming very popular (and deservedly so – it’s terribly unhealthy but utterly delicious). You can find everything you need at good Asian supermarkets.

LEE FAMILY SHABU SHABU
Serves 4-6.

Ingredients
For the stock base:
3 litres unsalted chicken stock (homemade is best, see my slow cooker chicken stock for a basic recipe)
2 litres water
1/2 large daikon radish (also called mooli), peeled and cubed

For the hot-pot:
1/2 large chinese cabbage, washed and sliced (discard the tough root end; I find that halving the cabbage lengthwise is most productive)
5-6 medium pak choi, leaves separated (except for tender inner leaves) and washed thoroughly in cold water (be sure to wash pak choi really well between leaves, as they often collect dirt and small fruit flies towards the base)
Handful shiitake mushrooms, cleaned and sliced
3 (100g) packs enoki mushrooms, roots chopped off, rinsed and separated into smaller clumps
2 (349g) blocks firm tofu, cubed
3 (170g) packets of shirataki (yam paste) noodles (these noodles come vacuum sealed in a clear liquid and have a beautiful crunchy texture)
1 packet frozen cuttlefish balls (around 10 balls)
300g frozen shui kau dumplings or wonton dumplings (around 2-3 dumplings per person)

For the meat (if using frozen be sure to move into the fridge to defrost the night before):
350g fresh or frozen thinly sliced feather blade beef
350 g fresh or frozen thinly sliced beef rib
350 g fresh or frozen thinly sliced pork belly

To serve:
Sesame dipping sauce
Soy sauce (low sodium)
Steamed white rice (I like Japanese short grain rice – it’s stickier than Jasmine)

Special equipment:
5 1/2 litre electric wok or electric hot pot
Slow cooker or large stock pot

Method
1. The night before you want to serve your shabu shabu: combine the stock base ingredients in your slow cooker, turn up to high for an hour, then down to low overnight. Turn off in the morning and back onto high about two hours before you want to serve it. When it begins to bubble furiously turn it back down to low until ready to serve. If using a stock pot, simply combine all the ingredients, bring to the boil then simmer for 1-2 hours to allow the flavours to infuse. When ready to use, bring back up to the boil, turn off and ladle into your electric wok/hot pot.
2. When setting your table, give each guest a bowl (for rice), side plate (for cooked meats), side sauce dish or bowl, pair of wooden chopsticks (for cooking) and a separate pair of chopsticks (for eating). If you have it, you can also give each guest a shabu shabu skimmer – a small basket-shaped utensil which makes removing items from the hot-pot much easier, or, failing that, a large ramen spoon, Chinese soup spoon or regular spoon.
3. Slice and prepare all of your vegetables and hot-pot ingredients, place on a few large plates and onto the dining table (be sure to separate the vegetables, noodles and tofu, and meat from one another).
4. When ready to eat, strain the stock and pour it into the electric wok or hot pot. Add the noodles, tofu, vegetables, frozen dumplings and cuttlefish balls first, turn the heat to high and place the lid on for 5-10 mins. Remove the lid, turn the heat to medium-low and allow your guests to help themselves to meat and cook it in the hot broth. It tends to cook very quickly, so keep an eye on it and move it around in the stock (“swish swish”). If you find that too much liquid has evaporated off after a time, you can either top it up with more stock or with water (turn the wok/hot pot back up to high for 5 mins when adding fresh stock or water). The dumplings and cuttlefish balls take about 15 mins to cook and the noodles about 20 mins. The tofu needs about 5-7 mins to heat through thoroughly.
5. Dip the cooked meats into your desired dipping sauce (I like to combine the soy sauce and sesame sauce together) and eat with hot rice. When you’ve finished eating the hot-pot be sure to drink the flavourful broth – it’s delicious!
6. Sit back, enjoy and add this recipe to your winter collection.

Until next time, peace and love,

Jax x

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