happy endings in the kitchen episode 12: Irish Guinness Stew

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No luck with this Irish

Are you suffering from dating exhaustion? Tired of swiping right to disappointment? Kissed too many amphibians in princely clothing?

Well then there was NearlyKilledMe.

Yes, NearlyKilledMe.  Saturday night and it was a party.  For a one year old.  Hosted by a close friend it was one of those gatherings busy with screaming children, family, friends of family with more screaming children, and an endless supply of fairy bread and creaming soda.  I felt naked childless, and nervously aware of my tendency to use crass humour and drop the f-bomb.  Not a good mother figure.  I was standing alone, avoiding soda-foaming-at-the-mouth children, a piece of fairy bread in hand and a glass of wine in the other when I heard a humoured voice from above, “interesting combination”.  I looked up and up and up to where the voice fell from.  He was tall.  Very tall.  He stood at 6 ft 7, a gentle giant and a work colleague of the host, a chef by trade who preferred eating toast and yogurt on his nights off, he was a motorbike enthusiast and dog lover with shoulder length sun streaked curls and clear celestial blue eyes who spoke lovingly of his family and desperately longed to have a family of his own, and spoke proudly of his Irish heritage but had sadly lost any trace of an accent to the Australian surf at the age of eight.  Note: He had just been in an on-off-on-off relationship with a woman with two small children, and his eyes may have sparkled a little and his brow may have creased a tad when he talked about them.  But we talked and laughed and made our very own party.  And before we knew it there was not a frankfurter, party hat or screaming child in sight.  There was a spare bed though and we decided to share it, fully clothed, still full of conversation and slightly in awe of what we were discovering.  It was a largely sleepless night but I awoke entangled in his long branchlike arms feeling invigorated with a heart ready for love.  And with details exchanged we planned to meet again within the week.

And so, it was the beginning of something special.  My phone became my heartbeat in the days that followed as we shared practically every living moment with each other by text, counting down the seconds until we saw each other again.  He even opened a Facebook account so we could have another point of contact.  Ah, infatuation.  And the date was to be a surprise.  He would pick me up at six and take me to an unknown secretive destination.  I was dizzy with excitement.  So when he arrived on his motorbike with an extra helmet I nearly lost my pelvic floor.  I’d never pillioned before but I was so willing to try for my Irish giant.  Little did I know of the journey ahead and how unprepared I was for it.  It was nearly two hours on an open road in 56km/hour winds wearing no more than a pair of jeans and a lightweight jacket, nearly being blown into oncoming traffic, chilled to the very core, and clinging on for dear sweet life.  And our point of arrival was the same place we had met.  Only this time there were no screaming children and there was a hot meal and a bottle of wine waiting.  The first words out of NearlyKilledMe’s mouth were “man, I thought we were going to die”.  My heart pounding, I was in a state of wired shock, almost convinced by the joyful adrenaline coursing through my body that I’d just had a good time but realising as my heart slowed and clarity returned it was just because I was simply still alive.

It was no surprise that the wild weather inhibited us from returning until the following morning, and so another sleepover was on the cards.  Heart rates normalised, nuzzled by wine and good food we found ourselves lying once again in the same bed.  But the rough ride had created an awkward tension between us and sleep was preferable to talk.

The ride home was far less chaotic but memories of the night before still made me cling a little desperately by the knees.  We parted on good terms and he scooped me into his branches, promising to think of a way to eclipse the memory of our first nightmarish bike ride.  Would he cook for me?  That could potentially put us back on the love track.  Or perhaps a trip to the beach with his dog followed by home-made cocktails and a massage?  My mind was running with it.  But then I noticed as the day went on that my phone had lost it’s heartbeat.  And the following day it was flat-lining.  I checked Facebook and discovered that NearlyKilledMe had acquired a number of new friends.  Trying to resist the panic that was setting in I stayed busy for another day before attempting to make contact.  After writing and deleting multiple text possibilities I went a little stalker and checked in on Facebook again.  Only this time he had some fresh action on his page.  It was a simple message, four little words, but those four little words eclipsed the memory of that nightmarish bike ride.  “I love you babe”.  Apparently the ex was not so much of an ex anymore.  Her message seemed to confirm it.  All I can say is in that moment I hoped that all of that clinging for dear life by my knees pillioning had ruptured his testicles and rendered him sterile.  But I’m not going to let a rebounding, date spoiling, slightly balding, toast eating, promise-failing L-plater get the better of me.  He needs to be sent to the jacks.  But first I need to get me a pint of Gat and escape to the kitchen to create something tasty to put in my mouth and warm my belly.

A riverdance in my mouth

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Irish Guinness Stew

Ingredients:

800g chuck steak
3 tablespoons flour
salt and pepper
olive oil
2 onions, chopped
2 carrots, chopped
2 stalks celery, chopped
5 sprigs of thyme
1.5 cups chopped mushroom
8 small shallots
butter for cooking
2 tbsp tomato paste
1 tbsp worcestershire sauce
1 cup Guinness beer
2 cups beef stock
sugar to taste
1/2 cup extra beef stock

Directions:

Cut up your steak into large cubes and toss with flour, salt and pepper.  Add a tablespoon or so of olive oil to a deep saucepan and brown off the beef in batches.  Once cooked set aside and add onion to the pan allowing it to soften.  Add four sprigs of fresh thyme and heat until fragrant.  Then add the carrots and tomato paste and stir through.  Pour in the Guinness, stock, and worcestershire sauce.  Leave to cook on a low heat until the meat softens.  Season with salt and pepper to taste.  Add a little sugar if you would like it sweeter.

In a separate pan sauté the mushrooms with a little butter and olive oil and the remaining sprig of thyme.  Season with some salt.

Place your shallots and a little butter in another pan and cook over a low heat until just browning.  Add the remaining 1/2 cup beef stock and cover with a lid.  Cook until soft.

Add the mushrooms, shallots, and celery to the beef mixture.  Leave to cook for another 15 minutes.  Serve with hot potato mash.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph!  That is good.  Bad taste gone.

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Happy ending in the kitchen episode 11: Empanadas

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Always ask or you’ll never know

Are you suffering from dating exhaustion? Tired of swiping right to disappointment? Kissed too many amphibians in princely clothing?

Well then there was FailedtoDeliver.

Yes, FailedtoDeliver.  I first spied him at my local markets.  It was a 1 pm brunch kind of day.  I was weary from a boozy night out and probably still smelling a little beery.  But then there he was, silver jug in his right hand, left hand firmly gripping the foaming knob, masculine energy abounding, dominating the espresso machine.  As I approached the counter to put in my order his gaze lifted and I was zapped by his undeniable electricity.  “Hhhello, hhhow are hhhyou today?”  His voice was thick with a sexy Spanish accent, his eyes like pools of rich dark chocolate that I wanted to dip my senses in, lips that looked both angelic and devilish, tousled playful hair that was tempting to be tugged, and wore a simple  blue T-shirt with jeans that promised a rippling, pulsing world of beauty beneath.  Blood pressure behave!  I could barely muster a reply in my state of unexpected arousal.  “Hhhello”….oh shit no, I’d just done the completely unacceptable empathetic accent thing.  Clearing my throat I tried to reclaim the moment and put in my caffeinated order, blushing wildly.  But he seemed strangely curious and we chatted coyly over the squeal of the frothing milk, and within five minutes it felt like we had given each other the green light.  All systems go.  He was from Madrid, a masseuse by trade, was yoga mad, loved festivals and didn’t go anywhere without his guitar and cahon, and had a real passion for cooking, and worked at a weekend market stall that sold his culinary creations.  Note: He also used the words universe, soul, energy, spiritual, shine, and peace at least twice during our first encounter.  But as I wrote my number on a scrap of paper and passed it to him as requested, I could feel a surge of some kind of supernatural spark pass between us.  Had I been converted so quickly?

And so, it was sexual infatuation.  Our first date was spent in a corner bar that sold boutique wines and encouraged intensely spoken, low-toned conversation that occurred within a centimetre of each other’s body.  Wrapped up in his smell, his sweet breath on my face whilst the wine hummed through me I felt connected to my higher self.  It was bliss.  Our second date was a 9 course meal, cooked by him in his eclectic messy kitchen.  I was in tastebud heaven.  My senses were flying off the charts.  It was the best aphrodisiac I had ever experienced.  And I may have given him permission to enter my kingdom of heaven as a result.  And he came to glorify me.  I was his goddess and he devoutly worshipped at my temple all night, returning again and again to satisfy me.  But in the midst of our intimacies he never quite managed to finish….er, go to heaven, deliver his future children, get over the mountain, serve up a protein shake, had his ‘oh shi…’ moment.  It was new to me but I let it go and happily took my 6 or so orgasms without questioning his empty share.  Perhaps he was exhausted from one too many downward dogs?  But as we continued to see each other so his manhood continued to refuse to ‘deliver’.  Three weeks and counting, I was starting to feel selfish and oddly unsexy, in spite of my constant stream of orgasmic sustenance.  So I asked.  His answer was more of a set of conditions.  As it happened he practiced orgasmic abstinence with “all” of his sexual partners, revealing the only way he could truly climax was through the act of domination.  Then and only then could we be exclusive, as I would truly belong to him.  He urged me to open up, discover my truth, and trust in the power.  He then went on to describe the various acts and devices he liked to use on his chosen submissive but by then I could hear nothing but a buzz in my head.  My blood pressure was once again elevated but not from wild excitement.  More, nauseous panic.  My well had dried up and my vault was locked.  It seemed odd to me that a yoga loving, laid-back, guitar strumming type could only really want me hanging from a ceiling.  I made a hasty goodbye after expressing my inability to comply and went home to watch Disney films and hug my hot water bottle.

How had I missed this?  Or perhaps I had subconsciously known I was toying with fire and wanted to warm my fingers.  Each to his own.  He had his preferences and I had mine.  But the image of being tied and spanked and whipped into submission had left a rather rancid taste in my mouth.  Hmm, culinary gods I’ll need you on this one.  And this time I expect a happy ending.  Olé!

Si, Si, Si

Empanadas

Ingredients:

The dough:
1.5 cups plain flour
1 cup corn tortilla chips, blitzed
1 tsp baking powder
salt
1/2 cup butter
1/2 cup water

The filling:
1 tbsp olive oil
1 pound beef mince
3 garlic cloves, finely chopped
1 brown onion, finely chopped
1 green capsicum, diced
1 red capsicum, diced
1/2 cup stuffed green olives, chopped
1 red potato, peeled and diced
1 tsp oregano
1 tsp cumin
1.5 tbsp worcestershire sauce
2 tbsp tomato paste
1/2 cup chicken stock

Egg wash for basting

Directions:

Blitz the corn chips in a food processor until they are ground down. Mix together with flour, baking powder and a good dash of salt. Add the softened butter and mix through thoroughly. Slowly add the water until the dough reaches a good consistency, not too dry or too sticky. You may not need all of the water or you may need a little more. Wrap in cling film and place in the fridge for an hour.

Heat olive oil in pan and fry onion until translucent. Add the garlic and cook until soft. Now add the beef mince and cook through. Place the remaining ingredients in the pan and cook through, adding the chicken last. Season the delicious mixture to taste.

Remove the pastry from the fridge and divide to roll out. I used a large freezer bag which I cut down the sides and then placed the dough in between the folds to roll cleanly. Or you can just use a floured surface. Roll out to around 1/4 centimetre thick. Press out circular pieces of dough. Place some of the beef mixture in the centre of each and fold pastry over, pressing the edges together. Brush the tops of each pastry with egg wash, ie one egg and 2 tbsp of water beaten together. Cook in an oven at 180 degrees centigrade for approximately 30 to 40 minutes, until golden. Serve with a lime and coriander mayonnaise or just some good old fashioned tomato sauce. ñam ñam!

I’m practicing gratitude thatthe  universe aligned me with this flavour bomb.  And you too are worthy!

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happy endings in the kitchen episode 8: ricotta cheese & ricotta cheese tart

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I love to cock

Are you suffering from dating exhaustion? Tired of swiping right to disappointment? Kissed too many amphibians in princely clothing?

Well then there was Facebookcheat.

Yes, Facebookcheat.  It all started with a simple friend request.  I had no idea who he was but his photo had me intrigued.  Confirm.  He was an actor, a ridiculously good looking version of Roberto Benigni, made a 3 day growth look desirable, had wild curly hair that was come-hither disheveled, used adorably incorrect grammar, wanted to chat about everything and anything, was inquisitive about my life and the workings of my mind, plied me with praise and encouragement, and was funny, witty, and so wonderfully creative.  Che bello!  Note: He lived in Rome, made grammatical errors that were sometimes bordering on ridiculous that seemed to be a convenient segue into a sexually charged conversation (eg during a conversation about culinary delights he revealed “I love to cock”), only ever called from the holiday apartment he managed, seemed uncontactable during his evening hours….and did I mention he lived in Rome??

And so, it was infatuation.  Texting to the late hours, waking up to good night messages, Skype calls  lying side by side with only oceans dividing us, and devising the beginning sketches of a European holiday and first time meet up.  I found myself humming ‘That’s Amore’ a little too often, started drinking copious amounts of stove-top coffee, ate Nutella with everything, and watched ‘A Roman Holiday’ in anticipation.  I was walking on marshmallow clouds, the world was full of new colours, my senses seemed to multiply and I spoke Italian in my dreams.  It was the kind of thing I’d been waiting for.  Unexpected, a little crazy, and deliciously foreign.

Five weeks of blissful absorption until I logged onto Facebook one morning to discover him tagged in a wedding album….and he was the groom.  Mamma fkn Mia!!!  I felt like projectile vomiting nutella all over his wild curly hair and 3 day stubble.  I was in such a state of shock I didn’t know how to react.  I  definitely wanted to break his coglioni!  Instead I wrote a rather terse message about how the truth can set you free and clicked ‘unfriend’.  Uffa!  Because why would I waste any more time on a cheating, story-telling, social media stalking, big-haired, cock talking cazzo?!?  Time to make a Roman holiday of my very own, in my mouth.  Flavour awaits in la cucina.

A taste of Rome

IMG_0729.JPGRicotta Cheese

3 cups whole milk
1 cup heavy cream
1/2 tsp sea salt
3 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice

Combine the milk, cream and salt in a saucepan.  Using a food thermometer heat the milk to 190°F, stirring slowly to make sure milk doesn’t stick to the bottom of the pan.  Remove the pan from heat and add the lemon juice, stirring it through slowly a couple of times.  Leave it to sit for 5 to 10 minutes.
Line a colander with a few layers of cheese or muslin cloth and place it over a large bowl.  Pour pan contents into the colander and strain for a few hours.  Store strained curds in an airtight container and keep in the fridge until use. Use the whey to make a stock, a milkshake, a hair rinse, or feed it to your plants.

 

IMG_0728.JPGRicotta Tart

Ingredients:

The crust:
2 cups plain flour
half cup sugar
pinch of salt
1 stick of butter, cut into small pieces
1 egg
1 egg yolk
The filling:
1 pound ricotta
1 cup honey
3 eggs
half teaspoon lemon zest
A good squeeze of lemon juice
To serve:
Toasted pine nuts
morello cherries

Directions:

Combine sifted flour, sugar and salt.  Add the butter and rub through until it becomes like breadcrumbs.  Beat the egg and egg yolk separately and pout into the dry mixture and mix until combined.  Add a little cold water if still crumbly.  Wrap in cling wrap and place in refrigerator for an hour.
Set oven at 180 degrees Celsius.  Remove dough after chilling and roll out on a floured surface.  Aim for it to be an even thickness and larger than the dish you are transferring it to.  Transferring is the tricky part and don’t beat yourself up if it breaks into pieces when you do. Moisten your fingers with a little water and smooth into pan and up to the edges.  Return to fridge to cool for another 15 minutes.  Once cooled cover the pastry with baking paper and fill with baking stones or something that distributes weight across the pan evenly (I used dried split peas). Blind bake for 15 to 20 minutes.  Remove paper and weights once done.
Whilst the pastry is blind baking make your filling.  Whisk the eggs separately.  Combine the ricotta, honey, juice and zest in a large bowl.  Add the eggs and stir until combined.  Pour mixture into your pastry case and return to oven and bake for approximately 40 minutes, until the top is golden.  Serve with toasted pine nuts, morello cherries and double cream.

Oh!  Dio mio!  My tastebuds are singing.  Now that’s amore.  Bad taste gone.

 

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Happy endings in the kitchen episode 7: Rustic little Pasties

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 The trumpets shan’t sound

Are you suffering from dating exhaustion? Tired of swiping right to disappointment? Kissed too many amphibians in princely clothing?

Well then there was FauxBF.

Yes, FauxBF.   I was but 22.  I had just made a fresh start with new housemates and a new home, a rustic little settlers cottage with loads of character and a shitty extension constructed of plaster board and corrugated iron.  Life was good.  An ideal blend of work, friends, and fun.  But I was pathetically forever aware of the gaping hole in the almost perfect picture that could only be satisfactorily filled by a suitable boyfriend. 

At the end of my first week in my new abode I decided to venture out to see a pianist friend performing in a concert.  And therein I spied and was introduced to a rather attractive man.  He was tall, thoroughly handsome, was majoring in trumpet, had an adorable left-sided grin, was passionate about music and motorbikes (meaning he was in touch with both his masculine and feminine side), and was a cool blend of charming and laid back flirtatious.  Note: he had also just broken up with his once ever only girlfriend, and hadn’t traveled outside of Adelaide his whole life, but other than that he seemed flawless through my rose-coloured fogged up senses. He also happened to be a close friend of my ivory tinkling friend. Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match!  And before I knew it the three of us were headed to my rustic little cottage for after concert glasses of wine. To my shock and horror I found the place freshly burgled on our arrival. Suddenly rustic with character was more like squatter with trampy. And as I melted down into varied states of anger, grief, loss, and girlish fear I became even more aware of FauxBF’s manly, protective, comforting, and incredibly sexy presence. Apparently in my heightened emotional state Liberace had left the building.  It was just me, FauxBF, and his trumpet.  

And so, it was an instant relationship.  He moved in that night.  The man of the house.  No burglar alarm required.  I had my very own scarecrow.  Only he was a dream.  We’d go to work, arrange to be home at the same time for microwave dinners, listen to each other’s music, laugh a lot, have random water fights, and plenty of enthusiastic, youthful love-making.  I was in heaven.  My housemates were in hell. 

It had been two weeks of undeniable bliss and during the morning routine of discussing the day ahead, amidst cuddles and heavy petting, FauxBF mentioned that he had to make a stop by his once only ever ex-girlfriend’s place to collect some of his belongings.   As he kissed me tenderly on the tip of my nose goodbye I didn’t for a second imagine that it would be the last touch we shared.  But when he failed to return for toasted sandwiches, Villi’s pasties, and Neopolitan ice-cream that evening it became clear that I was just the bridge music before the key change and he only blew his born for once ever only. 

FauxBF never apologised or gave an explanation.   FauxBF never returned his freshly cut key.  FauxBF and his average trumpet were never to be seen again.  FauxBF clearly had testicles the size of a grain of sand.  But here, within these words, lies my opportunity to cleanse myself of such a smarmy, boyfriend faking, hero feigning, key stealing, hornblowing git.   So, in not so loving memory, to the kitchen I go to create a much improved version of a Villi’s pastey whilst listening to the god-like trumpet of Miles Davis, hmmm, a much improved version indeed.  

A taste of home

  
Rustic little pasties

Shortcrust pastry

Ingredients:

2 cups plain flour

125g butter, cut into pieces

1 egg yolk

1 tablespoon chilled water 

Pinch of salt

Directions:

Mix the flour, salt and butter in a food processor.  Whizz until it turns into coarse crumbs and butter has blended through.  Add the egg yolk and water and whizz again until it forms a not too sticky dough. Add a little more water if not combining.  Turn dough onto a floured surface and knead lightly until smooth.  Wrap in cling film and place in fridge to rest for 30 minutes.

The filling

The ingredients:

1 large sweet potato

1 potato

1 parsnip

1-2 carrots

2 onions, finely chopped 

1-2 sprigs rosemary, chopped

Olive oil

Salt & pepper

Feta or Parmesan cheese (optional)

Egg for basting

Directions:

Preheat oven to 200 degrees centigrade. Cut vegetables (minus the onion and rosemary) up into small cubes and place in baking tray.  Toss through a good slug of olive oil and season well. Roast for approximately 30 minutes, until vegetables soften and crisp at the edges.

Meanwhile sauté the onion and rosemary in a pan with a tablespoon or so of olive oil until translucent.  Add to the baked vegetables.

Reset oven to 180 degrees centigrade.  Divide pastry into half and roll out first batch on a floured surface.  Roll to a thickness of about 3 mm.  Divide into squares, as small or large as you would like your pasties.  Place a mound of vegetable mixture in the middle and fold over. Press edges together with a fork.  Baste with beaten egg and cook until golden.

Note: You could also add zucchini or red capsicum to moisten up the mix. I also added crumbled feta for a bit of sharpness. 

Little bundle of goodness in my mouth.  Bad taste gone.

  

happy endings in the kitchen episode 5: Chocolate fondant

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Blalerrrlalalerr

Are you suffering from dating exhaustion? Tired of swiping right to disappointment? Kissed too many amphibians in princely clothing?

Well then there was First Kiss.

Yes, First Kiss.  We met at church youth group.  He was in grade 11 and I was just finishing my year 12.  He had eyes the colour of turquoise, an infectious laugh, was tall, gawky and lanky, and was always up to mischief.

And so, it was teenage love.  We held hands in public, I went to watch him play basketball after school, we sat next to each other in church and stole glances during prayer time.  It was all foreplay.  Foreplay to the kiss.  It had been 3 weeks and my lips were burning at the thought of losing themselves to his.  It was a balmy December evening.  I had just watched him sweat it out on the basketball court and, whether he had or not, lead his team to victory.  We didn’t talk much.  Nothing needed to be said. The soft breeze caressed our quivering bodies as we came all the more closer.  As he leaned in towards me he smelt of salt, unbridled testosterone, and warm rubber.  My head tilted, my lips anticipating.  I was Sleeping Beauty ready to be awakened, a flower ready to bloom, a cherry ripe to be plucked.  Until……blalaalerlaalerlalallerlalala…lerrrrrr…his tongue violated my mouth, and ravenously took my first kiss virginity in one violently sloppy, spit drinking, tonsil quaking swoop.  My flower wilted.  I politely wiped my mouth and said goodnight, escaping to my toothbrush and teddy bear. Luckily my next kiss was an entirely different experience and my nightmares of being eaten by a giant tongue slowly receded.  Over the years I’ve discovered there are many types of kissing offenders.  And while some might learn after a carefully worded request, other offenders are unforgivable and need a lesson they won’t forget.  For example:

The kiss with accidental extras:  Have you ever found yourself mid kiss with an oral floatie that has been delivered on the tide of your kisser’s exertions?  Solution – Thank him for the unnecessary gift and offer him a glass of water, some floss, and a tic tac.
The darting in and out tongue kiss:  Have you ever had a tongue take you by surprise? It’s in and it’s out in a second, often with multiple repetitions?  This kisser hasn’t been tongue trained.  Solution – Try and grab on to his tongue with your teeth or if unsuccessful, batten down your lips and refuse entry.
The kiss followed too soon by the touching of the golden clam:  I find it remarkable how some guys have barely locked lips and they are already fiercely burrowing for treasure in our nether regions.  And usually through many layers of material that don’t feel so sensual pushed up and squished into our delicate bits.  Solution – In this instance one might slap that fossicking hand away, bite down hard on his lower lip, and ask him if he’s lost something.  Honestly, the Holy Grail deserves nothing but maximum respect.
The redirection kiss:  Now this is just rude.  Have you ever found yourself in the middle of an enjoyable pash only to feel your kisser’s hand spreading across the back of your head with a slow but steady application of pressure towards his peepee?  And the more you resist the more pressure is applied?  This perpetrator is only interested in your mouth being in one location.  Solution – Accidentally redirect the palm of your own hand to apply a good amount of downwards pressure to his crown jewels.

Further note: If someone is kissing you and you don’t approve of where the kiss is heading, remember it’s ok to say ‘no more’ to his mouth.  And if he doesn’t listen then make a move for the nearest exit.  It’s your mouth, it’s your body, it’s your decision.

So, how to get rid of the taste of that kiss gone wrong?  Put something warm, gooey, sweet, and deliciously evil in your mouth.

A taste of Chocolate

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Chocolate Fondant

Ingredients:

120 grams of butter, cut into small pieces
120 grams of dark quality chocolate
2 eggs and 2 egg yolks
100 grams caster sugar
2 tbsp plain flour
cocoa powder to coat

Directions:

Heat up your oven to 200 degrees centigrade. Butter up the inside of 4 ramekins well. Place a teaspoon or so of cocoa in the ramekin and coat the butter by covering ramekin and giving it a good shake. Remove excess cocoa by tipping into next ramekin.

Place butter and chocolate in a heatproof bowl over a saucepan of boiling water. Make sure the bowl isn’t touching the water. Melt, stir, and leave to cool a little.

Beat together the eggs, yolks, sugar and a pinch of salt until it turns pale and fluffy. Combine with the chocolate mixture and add the flour. Divide the tempting mix amongst the 4 ramekins. Don’t fill to the top as they will rise when cooking. If you are not planning on eating them immediately they can be refrigerated until cooking time.

Get them in the oven and cook for approximately 10 to 12 minutes….depending on the level of goo factor you are desiring. If ramekins are cold they will need a little longer. Once done, serve as quickly as possible as they will continue to cook. Perfect served with vanilla ice-cream. Now open it up and watch the tantalising eruption unfold before you.

Suggestion: Add a bit of orange zest to the mix if you want a touch of citrus.

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Bad taste gone.