Scrumptious South Africa

This homely pie is similar to traditional Russian coulibiac or kulebyáka, but I like to think of it as a kedgeree-in-pastry, as it has all the elements that make that famous Anglo-Indian dish so tempting: soft flakes of fish, hard-boiled eggs, creamy rice and plenty of fresh parsley and dill, with a tingle of black and cayenne pepper.

This dish is quite easy to make using shop-bought puff pastry, although I have to admit that the fish shape is a bit fiddly to make. If you’re put off by the idea of such cheffiness and frippery, make the pie in a simple rectangle.

The sauce of melted butter and capers is wickedly indulgent (I am enslaved by melted butter), but you can leave it out if you’re watching calories: instead, make a cool sauce of equal parts good mayonnaise and thick Greek yoghurt, plus chopped capers and lemon zest and juice.

I used lightly smoked local trout  (see my previous recipe for Potted Trout) but you can use a fresh fillet of salmon, or smoked salmon or trout.   Or you could use your favourite smoked fish, such as lovely local smoked snoek, as I do in my favourite version of kedgeree.

Important note: I use still-raw lightly smoked trout that needs three to four minutes’ poaching time. If you’re using ordinary salmon, you will need to poach it for a little longer; that is, until it’s just soft and beginning to flake, but still quite rare within. If you’re using thin slices of smoked salmon or proper smoked trout, or smoked snoek, there’s no need to poach the fish first.

Shop-bought puff pastry works very well, but do buy the best you can afford (I always use Woolworths pastry, because it’s flop-proof, light and flaky, and doesn’t taste like margarine, solidified whale fat, or any other such horrors).

>> Want the recipe? Click here to find it (and a printable version) on my blog Scrumptious South Africa 

Find more of my original recipes at Scrumptious South Africa

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© Jane-Anne Hobbs 2007-2011. You may not reproduce this material without my written consent

One of the only disadvantages, I reckon, of living in the Southern Hemisphere is that salmon don’t live here too. We can buy salmon flown in from northern waters, but it’s eye-poppingly expensive and often not that good, unless it’s very wild or very fresh.

I’d rather spend my pennies on the high-quality trout that’s now quite extensively (and substainably) farmed in South Africa.

I’ve mentioned Franschhoek company Three Streams’ superlative trout before on my blog (here, here and here) and I’ve used it instead of salmon in this very old recipe. (This will, of course, work perfectly well with ordinary salmon.)

In this recipe, I’ve used a whole fillet of still-raw, delicately smoked trout (available, in South Africa, at Woolworths). Because it’s already lightly smoked, it takes only five minutes to poach, but if you’re using ordinary salmon, you may need to leave it in its cooking liquor a little longer.

This recipe (see original, left) dates from 1795, but is doubtless a lot older, as English cookery has a long tradition of potting meats and fish.

The recipe comes from a book called The New Experienced English Housekeeper  by Mrs Sarah Martin, which is available online at Google Books. In her admirably clear and simple instructions, Mrs Martin calls for an ingredient called ‘chyan’. This had me scratching my head for many hours, and even a concerted search of Google didn’t throw out the answer. After hunting through some other recipe books of the period, I eventually realised that she meant ‘cheyenne’ pepper: in other words, cayenne pepper.

At the end of this post you will find a slightly more complicated recipe for potted salmon – one I haven’t yet tried –  which comes from The Experienced English Housekeeper by Elizabeth Raffald (1786).

I was a little doubtful at first that smoked fish would taste good without a hint of lemon or any other sort of acidity, but once I’d tried this dish, I was quite smitten by the combination of lightly smoked fish, ground mace and cayenne. This is very good spread on slices of very hot buttered toast. (Have I mentioned that you can make excellent hot, golden toast using a sandwich press and thinly cut day-old baguettes?)

You can clarify the butter, if you have the time and energy, but this really isn’t necessary if you’re going to serve this within a day or two.

Mace (the hard filigreed case that encloses a whole nutmeg) isn’t a spice that’s seen in supermarkets these days, but it’s well worth hunting down. I buy it whole from Indian spice shops and grind it to a powder using a mortar and pestle. If you can’t find mace, very finely grated whole nutmeg will do, but use it sparingly.

I can’t give you exact ingredients here: my advice is to add the spices a pinch at a time, and taste the mixture as you go along. You probably won’t need to add extra salt to this dish, as I’ve specified salted butter. If you must use pepper (which I don’t think is necessary), use white pepper.

>> Want the  recipe? Click here to find it (and a printable version) on my blog Scrumptious South Africa 

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© Jane-Anne Hobbs 2007-2011. You may not reproduce this material without my written consent

Lovely big yellow quinces are in high season now, so I thought I’d share with you a recipe from my blog archive.  If you like fruit leathers (such as guava roll) you’ll love this!

No fruit was more highly prized in in Tudor and Jacobean times than the noble quince, according to scholar and author Hilary Spurling. ‘Why the quince and its products should have fallen utterly out of favour in England, when they didn’t elsewhere, is a mystery’, she writes in her wonderful, scholarly book Elinor Fettiplace’s Receipt Book (more about Elinor Fettiplace here). Spurling offers a fascinating insight into just how important and prized fruit ‘marmalades’ (with ‘marmalade’ used in its original sense; the word being derived from the word the Portuguese marmelada, meaning ‘quince cheese’ or ‘quince jam’).

Boxes of quince marmalade were a favourite mediaeval wedding present, ‘and they remained a luxury gift for anyone from royalty downwards until well into the seventeenth century’. Quince marmalades, Spurling adds, sold in boxes or by the brick, were an established favourite in England long before the arrival of the orange variety that ‘eventually got the upper hand on the breakfast table’.

Pastes, cheeses and jellies made from quinces live on in various forms: in Spain, Mexico and South America as membrillo, which is usually eaten with cheese; and in France as Pate de Coing or cotignac. And here endeth the history lesson.

I was determined to try my hand at making quince cheese, for several reasons: the shops here in South Africa are full of quinces, a fruit I have come to love; I wanted to know what quince paste tasted like; and last but not least, because this recipe for Quince Jelly is - peculiarly – one of the most visited pages on this blog.

The quince paste was easy to make, and tastes sensational: very intense and fruity, and a beautiful deep cornelian colour. It’s delicious paired with sharp, salty cheeses. Cubed and rolled in sugar, it’s not unlike those treasured South African fruit delicacies mebos and guava or apricot roll (fruit leathers), although it has less gritty texture.

The magic of this recipe is watching the honey-coloured quinces turn, over three hours of cooking, into a gorgeous orange-ruby colour.

A mistake I made was to make the poured-out layer of paste too deep (mine was about 12 mm deep; and it took a full 10 days to dry to the point where I could easily cut it into cubes; I had to turn it over several times).   I wasn’t in any hurry, but next time I’ll pour it out in a thinner – say, about 7 mm – layer.

None of the recipes I consulted (see below) specified a drying time, but I gather, in my reading, that the longer you keep the paste, the more leathery it becomes.

So what to do with the paste once you’ve made it? Er, that’s a good question. I’ve cut half the paste into cubes, tossed them in granulated sugar and stored them between sheets of greaseproof paper, for lunchboxes and sweeties, and cut the rest into bars for enjoying, in slivers, with cheese and pickles. I read somewhere – and I wish I could remember where – that a few cubes of quince paste are wonderful for enriching gravies, or adding a fruity sharpness to casseroles and stews.

I used as a reference for this recipe, several centuries-old recipes: Elinor Fettiplace’s recipe To Make a Paste of Quinces, from the book mentioned above; To Make Quince Paste, from The Complete Confectioner by Hannah Glasse and others; Quince Paste, from Domestic Economy, and Cookery, for Rich and Poor, by a Lady, and instructions from The Italian Confectioner.

Elizabethan Quince Paste or ‘Cheese’

6 large quinces

water to cover

a slice of lemon

white granulated sugar (see recipe for quantity)

Half-fill a big pot with cold water and into it squeeze a lemon quarter. Put the squeezed lemon quarter into the water. Using a cloth or tea towel, vigorously rub the quinces to remove any fluff. Now, using a heavy, sharp knife or cleaver, chop the quinces into big chunks – don’t bother to peel, core or depip them (these bits contain the pectin that will set the jelly) – and drop the chunks into the lemoned water as you go (this will prevent them from discolouring). When you’ve chopped and added all the fruit, adjust the water level by removing or adding water: the quince chunks should be

Remove from the heat and allow to cool for 20 minutes. Tip the contents of the pot (in batches, if necessary) into the bowl of a food processor or a blender fitted with a metal blade. Process to a fine purée.

Now tip the purée (again, in batches if necessary) into a metal sieve and, using the back of a soup ladle, strain the mixture into a bowl. This is quite a laborious process, and will take up to ten minutes, but persist until you are left with just a mush of fibrous material. Scrape down the outside of the sieve and discard its contents. Now measure the smooth purée as you tip it back into the rinsed pot. Add an equal quantity of white granulated sugar (ie, if you have three cups of purée, add three cups of sugar).

Put the pot over a medium heat and cook, stirring constantly, until every grain of sugar is dissolved. Now turn down the heat to its very lowest setting, and allow the mixture to simmer very slowly (you may need a heat-diffusing pad), stirring every 10 to 15 minutes, for about three to four hours. How long this will take depends on the type and ripeness of your fruit, the heat, and so on. As the mixture burbles (beware of volcanic bubbles) it will darken and eventually turn a deep, glorious brick-red. It is ready when it is very thick, and begins to pull away from the sides of the pot as you stir it: or when, as you pull a spoon through the middle of the paste, it leaves a gap (like the Red Sea parting) that closes very reluctantly. It should be very thick, like a polenta, and very red. Don’t be tempted to turn up the heat and overcook it: it will candy and burn.

Line a large (about 40 cm x 40 cm) ceramic dish or a metal pan with clingfilm [saran wrap] and pour the paste in, to a depth of about 7-10 mm. If you have any small fancy jelly moulds, with embossed bottoms, you can use these.

Cover with a net cloth or a metal-gauze food-protector to keep away insects, and set aside, in a warm, draughty place, or until the paste has set. For quicker drying, place the paste in the sun, and turn it every now and then. This will take between two and five days, depending on where on earth you live.

If you want the paste for sweetmeats, cube them, or cut them into lozenges, or use a small fancy cutter (such as a heart shape) to cut them up, and roll them in white granulated sugar. Stack the pieces between sheets of greaseproof or parchment paper, in a cardboard box, and store in a cool place. If you’d like to use the paste for serving with cheese, cut it into big chunks and allow to dry out completely (ie, it should have no trace of surface stickiness) before wrapping it in parchment paper. 

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© Jane-Anne Hobbs 2007-2011. You may not reproduce this material without my written consent

This is my lighter, brighter version of classic pea and ham soup, and it’s made quickly, with minimal boiling, in order to preserve some of the fresh green colour of the peas. Because I love the contrast of hot and cold, and to add sparkle to the soup, I’ve topped it with a cool mixture of thick Greek yoghurt, mint, lemon and Tabasco sauce, and a ripple of fruity olive oil. When everything’s swirled together in a bowl, the contrasts in flavour and temperature are delicious.

Frozen peas are essential for this dish (in fact, I never use anything other than frozen peas, because their taste and texture is so superior to unfrozen peas that’ve been sitting on a supermarket shelf for days).

Do try to find white pepper to use in this soup: it makes a small but appreciable difference to the flavour of both soup and topping.

If you have chicken or vegetable stock to hand, use that, but plain boiling water will do fine. (And the world won’t end if you add a good stock cube to your water. On the subject of which: I don’t use stock cubes at all, but I am a great fan of Nomu’s Fonds, which I use when I don’t have time to make a stock. Have you tried these super-concentrated liquid stocks? They have an excellent and natural taste, without a hint of the salty, dusty packet-taste of stock cubes. Though expensive, a bottle goes a long way.)

The cornflour in the soup is there is help bind everything together. The first time I made this soup, it kept separating, but the addition of cornflour in the next batch sorted out that problem. With peas cooked for such a short time, you won’t achieve a perfectly smooth purée, but I like a soup with a bit of texture.

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© Jane-Anne Hobbs 2007-2011. You may not reproduce this material without my written consent

You’ve been there, I’m sure: a houseful of hungry teens, and the cupboard is virtually bare. So is the fridge and freezer, apart from a pack of pork sausages, which are not enough to feed two thin cats, let alone six long-limbed late-night revellers. Here’s how to stretch a few ingredients into a warming rib-sticker of a stew that takes just half an hour to prepare.

I’ve just rediscovered this recipe in my blog’s archive (all I can think of right now, as I sit bundled up in scarves and coats, is hot stews and soups). I’m making this for supper tonight, so I thought I’d share it with you.

If you don’t have chickpeas to hand, use tinned beans.  If you don’t have any of the veggies I’ve listed, use whatever you find languishing in the bottom of the fridge.

If you don’t have teens, use every ingredient I’ve listed here to make a most delicious and satisfying quick supper.

For this dish, I used gorgeous pork, garlic, white wine and parsley sausages from Open Veld, which are made using organic, free-range meat, and are available at Cape Town’s Neighbourhood Goods Market. (My fellow blogger Jamie Who recently posted a lovely recipe using these sausages – check out his Wholewheat penne with pork sausage, blistered tomatoes and chilli.)

This dish is enhanced by adding a sliced chourizo sausage (fry it along with the onions) and is doubly good topped with cool Greek tzatziki.

Quick Supper Dish: Spicy Chickpea, Sausage, Potato and Tomato Stew

6 medium potatoes

3 T (45 ml) olive or sunflower oil

1 onion, finely chopped

3 sticks celery, sliced

4 carrots, scraped and diced

1 red pepper, sliced [bell pepper]

1 red or green chilli, finely chopped

3 cloves fresh garlic, peeled and finely chopped

½ tsp (2.5 ml) salt

6 pork sausages

1 T (15 ml) vinegar

3 T (60 ml) tomato paste

a tin of chopped Italian tomatoes

2 tsp (10 ml) Tabasco sauce, or similar hot sauce, to taste

1/2 cup (125 ml) wine, white or red

1½ tsp (7.5 ml) cumin

1 tsp (5 ml) paprika

2 tins chickpeas, drained

milled black pepper

To serve:

chopped fresh parsley or coriander [cilantro]

a tub of tzatziki (cucumber, garlic and yoghurt dip)

Cut the potatoes into chunks and cook, in plenty of boiling salted water, until just tender.  While the potatoes are boiling,  heat the oil in a large saucepan.  Add the onion, celery, carrots and red pepper and cook, over a brisk heat, until just softened. Add the chilli, garlic and salt and cook for another minute, without allowing the garlic to brown. Tip onto a plate and set aside. Add the whole sausages to the same pan and fry for five minutes, or until their skins are browned.  

Cut the sausages into short lengths using a pair of scissors or a sharp knife. Tip off any excess fat and return the vegetables to the pan. Add the vinegar, stand back, and stir briskly to loosen any sediment on the bottom of the pan. Now stir in the tomato paste, tinned tomatoes, Tabasco, white wine, cumin, and paprika.  

Allow to bubble for two minutes, then tip in the chickpeas.  Drain the potatoes and add to the pan,  along with a ladleful or two of boiling water in which you cooked them – just enough to create a rich gravy.  Turn down the heat and simmer for five minutes, adding more boiling water if necessary.  Season with pepper and  add a little more salt  if needed.  Serve hot, topped with chopped fresh parsley or coriander, and a dollop of tzatziki.

Serves 6-8

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A tender-flavoured winter stew of pork, sage and apple, a well-loved combination that I like to think of as a polygamous marriage (with pork being the boy, of course, and sage and apple the spirited gals*).

Apple is without a doubt the senior wife in this flavour alliance, because few other ingredients have such an affinity with the juicy sweetness of pork. ‘On a plate, these two are made for each other,’ writes Niki Segnit in her brilliant book The Flavour Thesaurus. ‘With a plate of proper roast pork, by which I mean one with a curly roof of crackling, your apple pulls back the curtains and throws open the window of your plate.’

Sage is an interesting but strident herb that works best when used sparingly. (In other words, an aggressive bitch among herbs; delicious in small doses.)

I almost always bake stews in the oven these days because I find that long slow cooking at a steady temperature produces a better result than a pot put over a flame. Oven-baked stews don’t catch on the bottom of the pot, and you can neglect them as they gently burble to perfect tenderness. Do stir the stew now and then, though. Or reach into the oven with gloved hands and give the dish a firm shake.

Ask your butcher for the most suitable cut for this dish. I’ve made it several times using pork neck (and it’s faintingly good) but I think, because this is such a mild-flavoured stew, a leaner cut is better suited.

* Please don’t admonish me for this. After all, ‘pork’ is not a suitable name for a woman.

>> Want the  recipe? Click here to find it (and a printable version) on my blog Scrumptious South Africa 

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© Jane-Anne Hobbs 2007-2011. You may not reproduce this material without my written consent

This is a great recipe for feeding a hungry horde of teens on a shoestring, because it uses only 600 g of lean mince and is thickened with nutritious (but cunningly concealed) tinned beans, which are the perfect fibre and energy food for teens.  This is an older recipe from my blog, but because I’ve made it twice in a week (they gobbled it up and demanded more), I thought I’d share it with you. 

If you’re a vegetarian, leave out the mince, or use soya mince. 

It’s called Blend-Ahead because it’s puréed before it’s cooked. (This is yet another variation on my beloved four-tin, ten-minute curry soup and is, essentially, a very liquid beef chilli).

There are a lot of ingredients, and a long cooking time, but the soup takes less than 15 minutes to prepare. Oh, and did I mention that it is delicious and addictive? 

Blend-Ahead Spicy Mince, Bean and Tomato Soup

2 T (30 ml) sunflower or olive oil

3 onions, peeled and roughly chopped

600 g lean minced beef

6 large, ripe tomatoes, roughly chopped

1 tin good tinned tomatoes, and their juice

3 cloves fresh garlic, peeled and roughly chopped

1 tin butter or kidney beans, and their liquid (see notes)

1 tin baked beans in tomato sauce

2 T (30 ml) mild curry powder

2 T (30 ml) powdered cumin

1 T (15 ml) powdered coriander

1 tsp (5 ml) Tabasco sauce

1 tsp (5 ml) chilli powder [optional; to taste]

4 T (60 ml) tomato sauce or 30 ml tomato paste

1.25 litres (5 cups) vegetable stock, chicken stock or water

salt and freshly ground black pepper

200 ml coconut milk (low-fat, if you can find it)

To serve:

a dollop of thick natural  yoghurt, chopped coriander and a few dabs of olive oil, plus anything else you fancy: grated cheddar, chopped spring onions, fresh green chillies, and so on

Heat the oil in a large saucepan. Put the onions in the goblet of a liquidizer fitted with a metal blade and whiz until very finely chopped. Fry the onions in the oil until they are softened and beginning to turn golden. Turn up the heat and add the mince, stirring with a fork to break up any lumps. While the mince is browning, put the tomatoes, the tin of tomatoes, the garlic and the tinned beans and their liquid into the liquidizer. Process until  fine.

Tip the cooked mince and onions into a metal sieve set over a bowl and press down with a fork to drain off excess fat. Now tip them back into the pot and add the ingredients you’ve just liquidised.

Add all the remaining ingredients, except for the coconut milk, and use a balloon whisk to combine everything and break up any stubborns lumps of beef. Bring to the boil, and then immediately turn down the heat. Cook over a moderate to low heat for about an hour and a half, stirring now and then to prevent sticking, and skimming off the foam as it rises. If the soup seems too thick, add a little more stock or water to thin it down. It’s important not to rush the cooking: the beef should melt into tender granules and the soup needs time to thicken. Stir in the coconut milk and serve very hot, with the cool and crunchy toppings.

Serves eight.

Notes:

• Any tinned bean and its juice will do, but this is my favourite combination
• Add a tin of sweetcorn kernels or chickpeas, or lentils, if you’d like to add even more bulk.
• You can use an equal quantity of tinned tomatoes instead of fresh ones, but the flavour somehow isn’t the same.
• You can also use dried beans in this recipe, but you will need to soak them and boil them in advance. Remember not to add any salt to the boiling water, which will toughen the beans.

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© Jane-Anne Hobbs 2007-2011. You may not reproduce this material without my written consent

A pile of squeaky green beans dressed with lemon, olive oil and garlic is my idea of heaven on a plate. In this recipe, I’ve added a luxurious touch to the beans by topping them off with crunchy fried prosciutto, breadcrumbs and a flurry of pungent, garlicky home-made aïoli.

As I mentioned in a previous post on my blog (Dill Baby Potatoes with Smoked-Salmon Mayonnaise) I’m a great fan of dishes that take a small quantity of a luxurious ingredient and spread it between many portions, and this is such a dish. Top-quality Italian prosciutto is very expensive, but you need only six large slices (although of course you are free to add more, if you’re throwing caution to the wind).

But, before I go on about this recipe, may I draw your attention to the South African Food Bloggers’ Showcase on Facebook? This is a page that offers you the chance to share your recipes with a wide Facebook audience.  Most of the leading Food24 bloggers post links to their recipes on this page, and I invite you to do the same. Anyone who is a local food blogger is welcome to share their links on this page (but please note that I don’t allow adverts or promotions. This is a non-profit initiative aimed at promoting the brilliant efforts of South African food bloggers). If you’re not a food blogger, but you’re interested in food, please visit the page and hit the ‘Like’ button!

Back to my recipe. Here, I’ve used Richard Bosman‘s excellent locally cured prosciutto, which is available in selected delis and other outlets in Cape Town. I know it may seem like heresy to fry prosciutto, but it is so splendidly crisp and flavoursome prepared this way that every time I taste it I want to fall into a dead faint.

Although authentic aïoli calls for olive oil only, I use a mixture of good fruity olive oil and sunflower oil for a lighter mayonnaise. Feel free to add more garlic, if you want your mayo to deliver a good punch in the nose.

You can serve these beans piping hot or at room temperature. If you’re not serving them hot, don’t omit the step of plunging them into iced water to set the colour. And don’t leave them to stand for too long once you’ve drained them, as they will turn a nasty khaki after a while.

Lemony Green Beans with Frizzled Prosciutto, Fried Breadcrumbs and Aïoli

two packs of young green beans (enough for six)

4 T (60 ml) extra virgin olive oil

the juice of a lemon

salt and milled black pepper

six slices of prosciutto

two breadrolls

sunflower oil for frying

For the aïoli:

2 large egg yolks, at room temperature

a pinch of salt

1 tsp (5 ml) Dijon mustard

150 ml light vegetable oil (such as sunflower or canola oil, or any other flavourless oil)

170 ml good, fruity olive oil

the juice of a lemon

a large clove of fresh garlic, finely grated (or more, to taste)

freshly milled black pepper

First make the aïoli. Put the two egg yolks into a small bowl (a ceramic soup bowl is ideal) and add the salt and mustard. Mix the vegetable oil and olive oil in a small jug with a sharp pouring nozzle. Place a damp cloth underneath the soup bowl so that it doesn’t skid around while you’re making the mayo. Using a rotary beater (electic whisk) beat the egg yolks and salt for a minute. If you don’t have such a gadget, use an ordinary wire whisk, and plenty of elbow power. Now, as you whisk the egg yolks with one hand, pick up the jug of oil with the other, and dribble a little splash of oil onto the yolks. Keep whisking and dribbling, a little splash at a time, with great energy, and within a few minutes you will see the egg mixture begin to thicken rather dramatically. Keep adding the oil, a dribble at a time, until you have a thick yellow ointment. You may not need to add all the oil: stop adding oil once the mayonnaise has thickened to your liking. Stir in the lemon juice, garlic and pepper, and add more salt if necessary. Set aside.

Fill a bowl with cold water and add to it a handful of ice cubes. Top and tail the beans. Bring a pot of salted water to the boil and add the beans. Boil rapidly for 2-3 minutes, or until the beans are just tender. (How long you cook them will depend on the size and age of your beans.)

Drain the beans. If you’re not serving this piping hot, immediately plunge them into the ice water. Leave in the water for three minutes, then drain and pat dry.

In the meantime, prepare the toppings.  Heat sunflower oil, to a depth of a millimetre, in a frying pan. When hot, but not smoking, add the prosciutto slices, a few at a time, and cook for a minute or so, or until frizzled and crisp. Drain on a piece of kitchen paper.  Now crumble the breadcrumbs into the hot oil and fry until crisp and golden (remember that they will carry on browning once you remove them from the heat, so don’t let them get too dark). Drain on kitchen paper.

To serve, toss the beans in the olive oil and lemon juice and season with salt and pepper.  Pile onto a platter (or onto individual plates) and top with the prosciutto and breadcrumbs.  Serve with a large dollop of aïoli.

Serves 6.

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© Jane-Anne Hobbs 2007-2011. You may not reproduce this material without my written consent

Oh, how I wish I’d discovered this when my kids were toddlers: here’s how to cook a chicken breast, in a flash, between the plates of an ordinary sandwich press. (Not that it’s too late: now that I’ve discovered this method, I’m merrily churning out low-fat, high-protein snacks for the teens in my life.) If you live on your own, and can’t be bothered to cook a proper meal for yourself, give this method a try.

Why, you might ask, cook a chicken breast in a sandwich press? Well, let’s talk first about chicken breasts. They are quite expensive, I grant you that, but they are also a fabulous low-fat protein source for children and teenagers. And, besides, kids like them: almost every child I know – bar the very pickiest of eaters – will happily munch on tender, juicy, well-seasoned slices of chicken breast.

My teens are really enjoying these quick-cooked breasts on open sandwiches layered with crunchy ingredients (the picture above includes cucumber, dill, Parma Ham and a lovely mushroom-filled brie), or eaten as-is, in piping-hot strips, with a dollop of home-made mayonnaise.

And here’s how to serve chicken-breast strips for toddlers and under-tens: hot, with crunchy fresh vegetables and big dollop of what I call Yoghurnnaise. This is a mixture that I make three or four times a week, and that my kids love: two-thirds natural yoghurt to one-third good mayonnaise (home made, or Hellman’s), with a spritz of lemon juice, a whisper of garlic and some salt and pepper.

Cooking chicken breasts this way is also so quick and convenient. First, the breast is done in half the normal time, because it’s cooked simultaneously on both sides. Second, there is no tedious washing up of a frying or grill pan involved: all you need do is wipe down the non-stick surfaces of the sandwich press. Third, this is a tummy-filler that even a five-year-old child can make on his or her own, with little risk of burning, or setting clothes on fire, or getting an eyeful of spitting-hot fat. And last, most new sandwich presses heat very quickly, so this is a good way of saving energy.

You can cook these chicken breasts as they are, but they are better when well seasoned. I buy eight or ten chicken breasts at a time, flatten them (see below) and then toss them in a little lemon juice and olive oil, with a few fresh herbs and spices added to the mix. I store them in a lidded plastic container in the fridge, and the kids help themselves – and cook the breasts on their own – whenever they’re hungry.

A tablespoon or two of natural yoghurt added to the marinating mixture helps to tenderise the breasts, but don’t add too much, or the breasts will turn to mush after a day or two. You can use any of your favourite flavourings for the marinade – basil pesto, some lemon zest, commercial spice rubs, chilli flakes, mustard, and so on – but don’t add any extra salt, which will make the breasts ‘weep’ in the fridge. If you’ve marinated the breasts, be sure to pat them quite dry with a piece of kitchen paper before you cook them.

Uncooked chicken breasts soaked in a slightly acidic marinade keep well in the fridge for up to four days, but should not be stored for longer than that.

Flattened chicken breasts take exactly two and a half minutes to cook in my sandwich press, but you might need to experiment with yours to find the optimum cooking time.

Quick, Easy Sandwich-Press Chicken Breast for Kids and Singletons

a deboned, skinless chicken breast

salt and pepper

spices and seasonings of your choice

a little butter

Heat your sandwich press for five minutes. In the meantime, place the chicken breast between two sheets of clingfilm or baking paper. Using a rolling pin or a heavy frying pan, gently and evenly ‘bash’ the thick end of the chicken breast to flatten it to the same thickness as its narrow end. The breast will spread out a bit as you flatten it.

Season the breast with a sprinkle of salt and pepper, and any other flavourings you fancy. Rub a small knob of butter or a dash of olive oil on the bottom surface of the hot sandwich press, then close the press briefly to coat its upper side with fat. Place the chicken breast on the lower surface and close the press. Cook for two to three minutes, or until they are just done, and there is no sign of pinkness when you cut a small slash through the breast.

Remove from the heat and allow to rest for a minute. Slice into ‘fingers’ if you’re feeding a child or toddler. If you’re feeding yourself, put a thick slice of bread into the hot sandwich press and toast it for a minute or so. Top with some lovely crunchy ingredients, and eat piping hot.

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© Jane-Anne Hobbs 2007-2011. You may not reproduce this material without my written consent

The word ‘dip’ implies a cold mixture, but why shouldn’t it be piping hot, molten and herby? Because winter’s coming roaring towards us in the Cape, my thoughts have turned to comforting food, so here’s my first cold-weather recipe of the season.

I’m such a fan of good ricotta cheese. I admit that it doesn’t have the sexy, fatty, stringiness of melted hard cheeses, or the creamy crumbliness of a good feta or similar white cheese. But I love the plainness and cleanness of the taste of ricotta, and its wonderful grainy texture.

Here’s a basic recipe for a hot ricotta dip that you can gussy up with all sort of interesting ingredients. Here, I’ve used chopped artichoke hearts, lemon juice, garlic, herbs and dried chilli flakes, but you can really add anything you please, provided that it’s an ingredient that tastes good hot. Avocado, for example, is out, and I’d avoid anything with a vaguely bitter taste, such as olives.

Make sure you serve this piping hot, and straight away. The leftovers are lovely on hot toast, for breakfast. This makes quite a large quantity, but the recipe is easily halved.

Hot Ricotta Dip with Herbs, Chilli and Garlic

350 g fresh ricotta cheese

100 g finely grated Pecorino or Parmesan

1½ tsp (7.5 ml) dried red chilli flakes

the juice of half a lemon

a clove of garlic, peeled and very finely chopped

2 tsp (10 ml) fresh thyme leaves

2 tsp (10 ml) finely snipped chives

2 T (30 ml) olive oil

a tin of artichoke hearts, drained and chopped

salt and milled black pepper, to taste

Heat the oven to 180ºC. Set aside a quarter of the grated Pecorino. Put all the remaining ingredients into a mixing bowl and stir very well to combine. The mixture should form a slightly firm paste. If it looks too dry, add a little milk. Pack the mixture into bowls and top with the remaining grated Pecorino. Bake at 180º C for ten minutes, or until the mixture is bubbling and heated right through. Now turn on the oven grill and grill for a few minutes, or until the topping is golden. Serve very hot, with nachos or crackers.

Serves 6 to 8 as a starter

Find more of my original recipes at Scrumptious South Africa

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© Jane-Anne Hobbs 2007-2011. You may not reproduce this material without my written consent