To the Girls of Sophia High School

A big thank you to all my Sophia girls for your many messages to me in anticipation of this. Thank you for the words of encouragement, and thank you for sharing your memories - you took me back 21 years, to a truly special time and place in my life. I don't know if this particular post is about the samosas or the memories, but I hope you enjoy both. Miss you all.

I joined Sophia's in 1990, in the Sixth Standard when my father was transfered from Madras (now Chennai) to Bangalore (now Bengaluru). My class was the corner room on the ground floor of the Mater (now Cuvilly) Building. My class teacher was Sister Mary Ranita (thankfully, still unchanged from Sister Mary Ranita). And I was petrified of her. I was petrified of everything actually. Sophia's - when I joined - petrified me.

There were girls everywhere. I wasn't used to girls everywhere. In Madras, I had gone to a co-ed. Two sections, twelve to a section, eight boys, four girls. There were so few of us girls that I think we became honorary boys. We wore shorts and climbed trees and played cricket.  At Sophia's - three sections, thirty to a section, all girls. So, there were girls everywhere. And I had no choice but to be a girl. And I was petrified.

Everything else was different too. Much stricter, much more formal. You had to stand up before and after a class started as the teachers came in and left. You had to memorise and recite prayers - there were prayers to help you in your studies and prayers to make you brave and prayers before a sports game. You had to sing songs together about love and truth and suchkind. At my old school, they didn't care if your socks "weren't pulled up" or your hemline "wasn't pulled down." Here, my hemline became a constant source of distress for the nuns - "Pull down your skirt, my girl" Sister Ranita used to say to me, almost every day, "Doesn't your mummy know how to stitch??"

But what was hardest for me was that everyone already had their friends. During tea break, the girls would break off into their "groups" chattering loudly about this and that as they headed together to the Tuck Shop to buy munchies to share. The same thing happened at lunch. Everyone was always very polite but no one invited me to join them. I was simply "the new girl." I ate alone in that corner classroom on the ground floor of Mater Building every day that first week, the tomboy in me refusing to cry even though on the inside, I had never felt more miserable.

And then, out of nowhere, in my second week, I got a peace offering. One of the girls - I know you're reading this, and I think you know who you are - bought me an onion samosa at tea break. I had never eaten an onion samosa before. So far, I was accustomed to the more traditional samosas, large and doughy with a half-mashed-potato filling. This one was different - a thin, crisp, perfectly shaped triangle filled with spiced onions. I smiled as I accepted it, and we both ate our samosas together, sitting on the "stage" in front of Duschene Building, our legs dangling down. The samosa was fantastic, the conversation flowed easily and
for the first time in a long time, I was happy. The next day, I bought two samosas, and offered her one. This slowly became a regular ritual and tea break became defined by samosas and chats. Slowly, others started joining in and before I knew it, I was in a "group," standing in line at the Tuck Shop, swapping homework and lunches, waxing lyrical about Tom Cruise, waxing (a bit less) lyrical about cute real boys, partnering up in chem lab, meeting on the weekends at Mac Fast Food and Casa Piccola followed by HCF at Corner House...(do they still do this bowl of heavenly wonderful-ness?)

And as they say, time flies when you're having fun. So in what seems like the blink of an eye, my high school years had passed and we were at our very-solemn 10th Standard Graduation ceremony listening to the "Happiness is a Butterfly" speech and biting our knuckles to stop from laughing out loud. The end of an era. But there we were, all grown-up and elegant in white sarees, signing slambooks and making promises to keep in touch forever - "A ring is round, it has no end. That's how long I'll be your friend."
I think some of us have. It was that kind of friendship.

And for me, it all began with a samosa.

Here's the recipe:

- 3 onions, chopped lengthwise
- 1 tsp red chilli powder
- 1 tsp ground coriander powder
- 1 tsp ground cumin powder
- A pinch of turmeric powder
- Salt, to taste
- Pastry sheets

I am cheating a little and using pastry sheets (Pepperidge Farm, Jus-Rol, Borg's - they all work!) instead of making the dough from scratch, but it's frankly just easier this way. I'm more than happy to share the purist option with anyone who wants it, so please feel free to email me. And while I’m positive the Sophia’s ones were deep fried, pastry sheets give you the option to bake if you prefer, with only a small compromise on taste. I'm doing both methods below.

Heat 1tsp of oil in a pan and fry the chopped onion with all the powders for a few minutes until soft. Set aside and allow the spiced onion mixture to cool. 

Separate the pastry sheets with a piece of plastic wrap between each. Thaw the sheets at room temperature for about 30-40 minutes. Unfold the sheets on a lightly floured board, countertop or pastry cloth and cut into small triangular shapes. If the pastry becomes too soft or hard to work with, chill it in the refrigerator for a few minutes. Top the onion mixture onto one of the triangles, cover with a second triangle, and seal the edges by pinching or pressing together with your fingertips. Repeat this for as many samosas as you want to make.

Baking:
Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F. Place all your samosas on a flat ungreased pan and bake at 400 degrees F for about 10-12 minutes. To turn pastries a deep golden-brown, brush tops with a mixture of 1 egg yolk and 1 teaspoon water just before baking. The samosas cook quickly, especially if you’ve cut a thin layer of the pastry, so check progress at the halfway point. Remove when the samosas are crispy and turn a deep golden-brown.

Deep Frying:
Heat oil in a deep pan, and deep fry samosas until golden brown.

And as I crunch my way through these delicious, crispy samosas, the memories overwhelm me. I emailed a few classmates while writing this to ask if they remembered what subject a certain teacher taught. In her reply, one of them remarked "it's scary how much you forget." True, but it's also scary how much you remember. For while some memories have faded, others remain so clear, that when I close my eyes, I can feel them. And so, just for fun and in no particular order, here are my personal top 10 memories of Sophia's:

1) The neat brown and white checked uniforms, especially the universally loved chocolate-brown wrap around sports skirt - very sexy, no kidding.

2) Music lessons taught by one of two men in the entire school (the other was the PE instructor), Ashley Williams - God bless you, how did you put up with us?? And K and S - I hope you are still singing, no one sings better than the two of you.

3) Fainting, on Sports Day while standing at attention during 'March Past', waiting for the Chief Guest to arrive, customarily late.

4) Practicing for interschool competitions - elocution, debate and "what's the good word" (UM and SS - we kicked some serious St. Josephs bu**!!)

5) Imitating the wonderfully musical Malayali Christian lilt of our nuns. And getting thrown out of class for doing it.

6) Reciting "Our Father in Heaven" at Assembly every morning. To this day, it is the first prayer that comes to mind when I close my eyes to pray.

7) Mrs. Ponnappa, you taught me to love words, Mrs. Sen, I was so scared of you, I can probably still draw a perfect India on a TTK map in 5 minutes! Mrs. Belliapa of 7B, you go down for the loveliest historian in History; Mrs. Shivram, you made Maths fun (and that is really saying something); Mrs. Narayan, you taught me that Chemistry is cleverer than I will ever be; Mrs Sharma, meri Hindi abhi bhi nahi sudhri...  And so many more of our teachers, I remember you all. I may not remember your subjects, but I remember your faces, and in the grand scheme of things, I think that's the more important one. Thank you for making me a lady.

8) The Sophia Girls - You are too many to name, but you are in my thoughts, all of you. The times spent together, both inside and outside the classroom, remain among the happiest of my life.

9) Barat House. We always came last on Sports Day. But still, proud to have worn the RED badge! Go Barat!

10) And finally - aggregating daily at break time at the Tuck Shop. Try hard enough and I can still taste all those goodies: pink tuck - gooey, obscenely sweet and sort of flavourless; coconut tuck - same deal, but apparently with a coconut flavour (?!); stick ice-cream - orange and mango and grape - invariably leaving the corresponding colours on your tongue, sweet popcorn and 'khara' popcorn, hot and freshly made; 50 paise red boiled sweets, distributed by all as birthday treats....and of course, my favourite, honest-to-god-yet-to-taste-better, The Famous Sophia High School Onion Samosa.

I have to end this by admitting (to my great chagrin) that until he read this blog a few minutes ago, my husband of almost four years thought my old school was called "Sapphire High School." Now, he won't stop with the old "Oooh its SOFIA..." :(

Beat the Heat!

Today's note is short and sweet (literally) to make up for tomorrow's, which is considerably longer and much sweeter (but only metaphorically. Stay tuned - Sophia's Girls!!)...

So anyway, it's 30 degrees and HOT. And there's no ice-cream on this island.
At least, there's no ice-cream worth writing about. We ventured out to charming English Harbour a few days ago and gave their ice-cream a go. Let's put it this way - I offered my 7 month old a spoonful of the stuff and he made a face. This is from someone who eats mashed up broccoli with a smile. Hmm. My grandmother always says - if you don't have anything good to say, don't say anything at all. So, mum's the word. Sid was brave enough to try it again today - different flavour this time. I took a lick from him and am keeping my vow of silence. Which sadly does nothing to beat the heat.

So home I come, and make my own. Give it a go!

- 3 eggs
- 2 cups heavy cream
- Sugar, to your taste
- 1/2 cup blueberries (or any other fruit you like - passionfruit, cut mangoes, oranges, peaches, strawberries...)

You need three separate bowls. Combine one whole egg and two egg yolks in the largest bowl. Combine the egg whites from the two eggs into another bowl. To the first bowl, add sugar and beat with an electric whisker for 5 minutes until the mixture is light and fluffy. Separately beat the cream in your last bowl until thick and fluffy. Add to the egg and sugar mixture. Mix well. Beat the egg whites with a pinch of salt until they are stiff and gently fold into the ice-cream mixture. Put into a metal container and cover with foil. Allow 4-5 hours to set. Top with blueberries!

Endorsed by my 7 month old.

Non Such Bowl

Picture this:

You wake up in the morning to sunlight streaming in through the sheer white curtains in your bedroom. You sit up and sneak a glimpse outside as the curtains flutter open, dancing to the gentle breeze. Beyond is the vast blue-ness of the Caribbean Sea, glittering gold in the sun. White specks dot the horizon, one of the many sailboats anchored at sea, in preparation for Sailing Week. You walk out of the bedroom, make yourself a cup of coffee and step outside onto the patio. The tiles feel cool to your bare feet, yesterday's swimsuits lie out on the chairs, drying in the sun in happy, cheerful colours. You hear nothing, except for the rustling of the palm trees in the balmy island breeze, and in the distance, the sound of the waves, as they roll in, one by one, to kiss the sandy shoreline, "Goodmorning"
"Goodmorning" you say to yourself.
Another glorious day in Non Such Bay.
Just the thing for Non Such Bowl.

Here's how you do it:

- 2 mangoes, peeled and cut into cubes. As I've said before, always Alphonso, if you can find them!

- 2 bananas, peeled and sliced

- 1 small fresh pineapple, cut into chunks

- 2 oranges, peeled and sectioned

- 2 kiwi fruit, peeled and sliced

- 1 cup seedless black grapes, halved

- 2 passion fruit, halved

- Zest of 1 whole lemon

- 1/2 cup coconut, grated and toasted

- 1/4 cup light rum

Any light rum will do, but I am using Wray & Nephew white rum. Native to Jamaica, this crystal-clear rum  gets soaked up beautifully by the fruit, lending a lovely rum-punchy flavour to my fruit salad. And it's never too early for Rum Punch when you're in the Caribbean!

Start by preparing the fruit. To stop the banana from going brown, squeeze the lemon juice over it. Mix all the fruits, except the passion fruit and the coconut, together in a glass bowl. Pour the rum over the fruit and mix it well. Scoop out the seeds from the passion fruit and top the remaining fruit with it for a wonderful tangy crunchiness when you take your first bite. I would allow the fruit salad to sit for a good 30 minutes for the flavour of the rum to really soak in. Finally, sprinkle the toasted coconut over the salad just before you are ready to serve.

Toasting the coconut:
You can buy toasted coconut ready-made from the store, but just in case you can't find it, it's easy to do yourself.  Buy fresh, grated coconut which is more readily available. Preheat your broiler, and place the grated coconut on a foil sheet under the broiler for 1 minute. Toss to make sure the coconut is evenly toasted. Remove when you start to smell the rich aroma of roasting coconut as the sugars begin to caramelise. Thats all!

While your fruit is soaking up the rum, walk a few steps out, onto the beach. Throw away your slippers. Feel the powdery, golden softness of the sand on your toes.  Look out onto the horizon where sky melts into sea in a one-ness of azure blue. Walk up to the water and sit down on the sand. Hug your knees as the shimmering waves lap at your ankles, cooling you instantly. Close your eyes and listen to the sounds of the sea.
Take it all in, every last bit of the stunning tranquil haven that is Non Such Bay.

When you are ready to come back, (IF you are ever ready to come back), head to your patio where the shadows play games in the sunlight. Pick up your fruit salad and dig in.
Take it all in, every last bit of the delicious fruity freshness that is Non Such Bowl.

Dave, Beans and Baby

June 2010. Wembley Arena. 1500 people, awestruck at the sheer brilliance of the man performing in front of them. Dave Matthews, a living legend, a true performer in every sense of the word. He has the voice, the music, the lyrics, and the personality. A truly insane amount of personality. We are in the standing area, upfront. So close that I can see his brows furrowing in concentration as he connects with his audience. The air is charged, the energy is electrifying. I am 5 months pregnant, but I am dancing with the best of them. Who can resist that voice?

The tickets were bought before we knew I was pregnant. Actually, the tickets were bought before we were even thinking of trying to become pregnant. Because Dave Matthews belongs in that enviable category of people, who to get lucky enough to see, you have to compete furiously in cyberspace against an unknown number of competitors in a time-warp. And win. It’s usually all over in a matter of seconds.

Anyway, we are the lucky ones, not only with tickets, but with tickets so close that I can see his brow furrowing in concentration. And I am loving it, every mindnumbingly phenomenal moment of it.  

Two hours in, as I ponder upon both the extreme genius and the extreme lewdness of his lyrics, and I wonder what goes on in that brain of his, I realise there's only one thing going on in mine.

I am absolutely, flaming ravenous.

I look at Sid. "Can we...like get something to eat?"
He looks surprised. "Didn’t we just have the burgers?"
And he's right, of course.  Just as we'd staked out our prime viewing spots, we had indeed consumed one HUGE burger each. Cheese and all. True, very true.
I sigh. And bite my lower lip. "Umm...that was a while ago, no?" I say hopefully.  And then I add quickly – "It's this baby you know. All it's fault...always hungry. I mean, what can I do?"
"Ok, ok," he says, "Don’t make those sad eyes – let’s go and find you some food!"
I squeeze his hand gratefully. "You're the best, you know?"
He squeezes my hand back. "I know," it means.

We step out. I don't want burgers again. Not in the hot-dog mood. Not fish & chips. Not ice-cream.
I look at Sid again. "I want something...different."
"Like what?" he asks
"Like...Rajma." (Indian red bean stew)
"Like what??"
"Like Rajma," I repeat with infinite patience.
"Honey, we're in Wembley arena..."
I make ‘those sad eyes'. "I know, I know" I say, "I'll settle for something else"

I sigh again. This is really the crux of the pregnancy problem, isn’t it? You want food all the time, but you don’t want just any food. You want that one thing.  

I’m just about ready to compromise (big time) for a side of mushy peas from the fish & chip guy when I spot him! Way in the corner, the very last stall of all, but with a promisingly long line emerging from his counter, its none other than the Chilli guy!
My heart jumps gaily. There. I tell Sid, triumphantly - Rajma!!!
I choose a vegetarian three-bean chilli.

Nothing could taste better. It’s not Rajma, but it’s right up there with it. A hot bowl of delicious wonderfulness. Perfectly seasoned, so I can taste the tartness of the tomatoes and the sharpness of the capsicum and the garlickyness of the garlic and the coolness of the sour cream. There is nothing like getting what you want, when you want it. I am in heaven.

My baby inside me - the one who is always hungry, the one whose fault it is - agrees. He has started kicking furiously. I feel the growing roundness of my belly, his little kicks against my hand. And I am filled with so much love for this body, inside my body. So much love that I didn’t think my heart was big enough to hold.

We go back inside, Sid and I, hand in hand. Dave Matthews is still singing and my baby is still dancing. I wonder if he is listening to the words:

"It's crazy, I'm thinking, just knowing that the world is round
And here I am, dancing on the ground
Am I right-side up, or upside-down
And is this real or am I dreaming?"

-----------------------x-------------------------x----------------------x---------------------

Please try it:

- 1 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil
- 1 green capsicum
- 1 onion
- 3-4 cloves raw garlic
- 2 tomatoes
- 1 can tomato puree
- 1 can Red Kidney Beans (rinsed and drained)
- 1 can Pinto Beans (rinsed and drained)
- 1 can Black Beans (The Spanish frijole negro!) (rinsed and drained)
- 2 tsp chilli powder
- 1 tsp ground cumin powder
- 3 cloves
- 1 bay leaf
- Salt, to taste

Garnish (optional)
-  1 cup shredded Monterey Jack cheese
- 1 tbsp sour cream
- 2 scallions, finely chopped

Heat the oil in a large pot. Chop the onion finely and add to the oil. Cook until the onion is soft. Add the cloves and bay leaf. Mince the garlic, and chop the tomatoes and capsicum and add to the pot. Next, stir in all the beans, tomato puree, chilli powder, and cumin. By now, you should be able to smell the flavourful, earthy, aromatic tastes all cooking together. Add salt to taste. Simmer for at least 30 minutes before serving, stirring occasionally so that all the flavours are properly mingled. I like leave it to simmer at least an hour before serving. When you are ready, ladle generous servings into a bowl and top with scallions, shredded cheese and sour cream.

Even as I try a spoonful of what I have just cooked, I am transported back to that evening in June. Try hard enough, and I can still taste that chilli. It wasn’t fancy, served from a tin shack in a paper bowl, but I tell you, nothing could taste better. The cheese melts in the heat of the bowl, the beans melt in my mouth, and my jumping heart melts somewhere inside me.  

A Club Classic

The Club Sandwich. A Classic.

There are few dishes more iconic than The Club Sandwich.

For my Indian compatriots, especially those who grew up in the Indian “club culture,” the image of the club sandwich probably stirs up feelings of nostalgia – swimming lessons, tennis lessons, Sunday lunches with family, carefree times spent with friends after school – the association is strange, and hard to explain, but I know those who understand, understand.

For the Club Sandwich - distinguishing itself with having three slices of bread instead of the usual two - is a lifer on the food and beverage menu of any Indian club. And somehow, it doesn't matter if you're in Bangalore or in Madras, in Delhi or in Bombay, it's not a city thing, it’s a "club thing" - no matter where you are, they all seem to make it the same way. And really well!

Although food historians credit the inventor of the generic sandwich to John Montagu, 4th Earl of Sandwich, interestingly, it appears that the club sandwich was probably created in the United States during the late 19th/early 20th century. The most popular theory contends this sandwich - as the name suggests - originated in men's social clubs, most notably the Saratoga Club in Saratoga, NY. The specific where & who behind this classic sandwich remains a matter of culinary debate as does the fascinating question of how it came to India and of course, how it remains such an integral part of the modern diet of the country.

I think back to my recent trip to India this past winter. Here's some food for thought (and my puns are always intended):

Sitting out in the Delhi Gymkhana Club lawn on a sunny December afternoon under colourful umbrellas fluttering in the breeze, you think to yourself - could life be any better? Cheerful waiters, dapper in their starched white uniforms, scurry back and forth carrying plates of freshly made food and drink to various tables. There must be close to a hundred people having lunch, but somehow, they seem to greet everyone by name. You are sitting under a jolly looking red and white peppermint striped  umbrella, sipping a cool "fresh-lime soda, half-sweet, half-salt" (another club classic, this time on the beverage side) and piled high, on a plate in front of you, is a perfectly made, perfectly toasted, perfectly presented, club sandwich.

Granted, the ambience has much to do with it, but as you take your first heavenly bite, you wonder - what on earth am I doing in New York (or London or Chicago or whichever other part of the developed world it might be) I mean, Man - this is the life!

That's a serious question, by the way. If someone in my boat has that figured out, do let me know.

Anyway – from that sunny afternoon in Delhi to my sunny kitchen in London – I can't replicate the ambience, sadly, but here's how you make the sandwich:

- 3 slices of toasted wholemeal bread
- Mayonnaise, to spread
- 1/4 pound chicken breast, cooked and thinly sliced
- 4-5 tomato slices
- 3 strips of cooked, crispy bacon
- A handful of lettuce leaves
- 1 fried egg
- Salt and pepper, to taste

Now, for the fun bit - build your sandwich! Spread the mayonnaise over all the slices of toasted bread. Place a small pile of torn lettuce leaves and 2-3 tomato slices on top of the mayonnaise coated side of the bread. Season the cooked chicken and fried egg with salt and pepper, place on top of the lettuce and tomato and add the next slice of bread, mayonnaise side down. Next, add another layer of lettuce, another layer of tomatoes and 3 rashers of crispy bacon. Place the final slice of toast, mayonnaise side down, on top of the bacon and press the sandwich lightly. Carefully slice the sandwich on the diagonal into 4 triangles.

Put your feet up, grab your plate and enjoy with a side of potato crisps, and a chilled glass of fresh-lime soda!

A Toast to Virtue!

Salads make me feel virtuous. 

Let's be honest: As the weather gets warmer and we head towards Summer - that glorious Season of all seasons - I want to be able to wear a bikini on my beach holiday. And look good in it.

I also love food. Too much.

It's a difficult dilemma, this.

I ask my beautiful French friend, AE, how French women stay so skinny.

"Aah, to be honest Ameee," she says to me smiling sweetly, "they eat breakfast and lunch but most of the time, for dinner, they just have a glass of wine and, you know, they 'forget' to eat..."

Hmph.

I don't think - for all the bikinis in the world – that I could ever 'forget' to eat. 

And since I’ve given up on the starvation idea before even attempting it, I am just quite happy with myself when I eat something healthy. And in the end, it’s all about feeling happy isn’t it?

So salads make me feel virtuous. Cool, crunchy, and full of nutrients, salads are a super-convenient way to work in a couple of servings of fruits and vegetables into a single meal.  There is so much research out there expounding the health benefits of salads that I won't bore you (and myself!) too much with the scientific jargon. Very briefly though – all the raw vegetables in salads provide fibre, which in turn lowers cholesterol levels. Eating salads is also a smart way to get “good fats” - the essence of brain function, into your body. Good fats are found in olive oil, avocado and nuts, all common salad ingredients. And finally, the most obvious of them all - simply the health benefits of the fruits and vegetables themselves, which provide a whole host of powerful antioxidants including vitamins C and E, lycopene, folic acid, alpha- and beta-carotene...

All this and the fact that I genuinely like salads. Both making them and eating them. I enjoy the mix of colours and flavours and textures, the simple, beautiful, refreshing zinginess of a well-made salad. And of course, the fact that you can put together a salad that both looks and tastes good in about 10 minutes!

I'm going to make my salad and eat it on my deck. I throw open my patio doors. The sky is blue and cloudless, a slight breeze carries the distant voices of children playing, a red robin hops happily in my sun-drenched garden.

Its a salad day.

I decide to keep it simple, use just whatever I have in the fridge:

- 1 head of red-leaf lettuce

- 2 tomatoes

- 1 Granny Smith apple

- 1 clove raw garlic

- 1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil

- 1/4 cup red wine vinegar

- 1/4 cup chopped walnuts

- 1 tbsp cranberries

Wash the lettuce and tear it into bite size pieces. Chop tomatoes into small pieces. Core and cut the apple into chunks, leaving the skin on. I am using Granny Smith, mostly because that’s what I have (!!) but also because it usually works really well in salads - it is a hard, crisp apple with a tart, refreshing taste and a distinct, juicy "crunch" to its bite. Combine lettuce, tomatoes and apples in a large serving bowl. Sprinkle chopped walnuts and cranberries into the mix and toss well.

Dressing this salad is a simple affair. Mix together the olive oil and vinegar. Peel a clove of raw garlic and mash or mince. Add the garlic to the dressing and combine well. Pour the dressing over the salad just before you are ready to serve.

This salad contains sweet, sharp, nutty, and salty notes – the perfect thing to get your tastebuds going on a warm Spring afternoon! And just to create a small scandal in France, I decide decadently on both food and wine.  I pour myself a glass of sparkling white – cool, crisp, refreshing – much like my salad!

Breakfast in Bed

Who says the old "way-to-heart-through-stomach" adage only applies to men? Because it most certainly applies to me, and oh-so-fortunately for me, I married a man who knows just the way to my heart (in more ways than one)!

Sid, hands down, no contest, is the better of the two of us at Breakfast. Maybe its because I'm still too sleepy at breafast time for creativity of any sort to kick-in, but not Sid. Sid whips up a whole array of breakfast dishes expertly, whether its eggs, french toast, blueberry pancakes or a steaming, frothy cup of perfectly brewed cappucino.

It is therefore sort of assumed in our home that if we don't have other plans, weekend brunch is his department. This usually involves us traipsing down the stairs in our pyjamas, settling down on our couch, opening up our respective favourite sections of the newspaper (money and football - you're on the other team), and when the hunger pangs start to strike, we have a cursory "shall we have x for breakfast honey?" conversation, and off he goes.

So imagine my utter and absolutely amazement when he actually woke me up yesterday - a warm, lazy, Sunday morning, holding - (take a breath, ladies and gentlemen) - a Breakfast Tray!!

Not much renders me wordless, but that sight? Totally and completely wordless.
For on his face, was the happy, shy grin,  that I haven't been able to resist since I first set eyes on him, and on the tray was a delicious looking prawn omelette, 2 slices of wholemeal toast, a bowl of cut fruit and a cup of coffee! What took me over the edge was that the tray had, in the center of it, a small vase with a single bright pink (fake) flower!!

I bit my lower lip the way I do when I am searching for the right words, but can't.
If I wasn't such a tough cookie, I would have cried a little. I mean, this is love, no?

No one has ever made breakfast in bed for me, and that too, such a fantastic breakfast - wonderful nutty bread, toasted to exactly the right crunchiness, freshly cut fruit, crisp and cooling and - golden brown, juicy and delicious, the dish that I'm writing about today - just a perfectly made prawn omelette!

Here's how he did it:

- 3 eggs
- 2 tbsp of milk
- 10 prawns, peeled and de-veined
- 4 spring onions, washed and finely chopped (optional)
- 1 tspn extra-virgin olive oil
- Salt and pepper, to taste

Combine eggs, salt and pepper to a bowl and whisk until the yolks and the whites are completely mixed. Adding a splash of milk to the egg mixture usually makes them fluffier. Add prawns, and the spring onions if you're using them - they give a bit of an Asian kick to the dish and add some colour as well, so using them definitely adds on some brownie points in the presentation coloumn. Heat up the olive oil in a non-stick frying pan on medium heat. Pour in the egg and prawn mixture. Use your spatula around the edges of the omelette to make sure that it is not sticking. When the bottom is browned, flip over the omelette until it is golden brown on both sides. Serve open or folded in half.

Incomplete without lots of love and a single bright pink (fake) flower!