thecoocoocook

You know what they say. You fall off a horse, you gotta get back on. I’m not so good at that getting back on the horse stuff. I fall off a horse and that’s the end of equestrianism for me. Like WC Fields said: No use being a damn fool about it.

But let’s face it. This is cooking. And I neeeeeeeed to cook. What am I going to do if I can’t cook? Become the coocoocrocheter? I can already see it. Every Thursday I’ll start researching doily patterns. And on Friday night I’ll lay out my wool and those hooky needles and maybe, ooh! ooh!, those little bitty glass beads you tie to the ends! … Please. Someone. Kill me now.

So cooking it is. But thanks to Allison and my parents I didn’t have to get up on that pony without some tools to boost my first ride. And I got seriously cool tools for my birthday. Allison raided yuppiechef for a pasta maker and an ice cream maker and my parents did two shopping trips to find me the perfect kitchen torch.

The best part is, with my fragile culinary self esteem still firmly in place, new tools were the perfect antidote. There’s no shame in screwing up with a new tool. Hell, it’s practically compulsory. I mean, if it just works effortlessly the first time you kinda think, well hey, I could’ve done that myself! I also kept the recipes short and simple. Very low key. Very unlike me. But of course, this IS me. And thus, inevitably, vanilla ice cream became chocolate silk ice cream, crème brûlée became coffee crème brûlée and tagliatelle became ravioli.

Agh, whatcha gonna do. You can’t keep a coocoocook down for long. I stopped cooking and it just made me feel worse so I started again. Like WC Fields said: No use being a damn fool about it.

xx
J

LEEK AND MOZZARELLA RAVIOLI WITH CHILLI TOMATO SAUCE AND BASIL CREAM

COFFEE CRÈME BRÛLÉE

CHOCOLATE SILK ICE CREAM

You can find these recipes at http://thecoocoocook.blogspot.com xx

I’ve lost my cooking mojo. My Coojo, if you will. He’s in the Pet Sematary. (Well, at least I haven’t lost my sense of humour).

It started with an epic fail. The 2nd of April was my birthday as well as my parents’ wedding anniversary so I planned a particularly ambitious menu to bulk package that with an early Easter celebration. I’ve often failed. Nothing new there. But this was the biggest cooking WTF ever. Everything I touched went to hell.

My parents were supportive and, with amazing restraint, managed not to fall apart laughing. Or puking. I tried to shrug it off, I really did. Until the chocolate mousse melted its way through the grid it was cooling on. It looked like Barbapapa had slipped and fallen through a sewage grill. It was awful.

It didn’t help that I don’t like birthdays. Every birthday all I hear at full volume is my biological clock tick tick TICKING away. Not the one wanting children. (Bleh, that clock never even struck one). No, the clock that’s ticking away year by year is the one waiting and wishing and wanting me to get my shit together. Every birthday all I can think is: “Another year gone and you STILL don’t have it together? Really? REALLY??

The recipes below are from 2 weeks ago. (Tested and repaired subsequently, obviously). I’m still licking my post-birthday wounds so I’m not cooking. You know what I had for dinner on Friday night, my traditional cooking-up-a-storm-night? County Fair Frozen Chicken Nuggets.

Or as they’re otherwise known – Misery.

xx
J

PS – Hey Stephen King, get outta my head!!

INDIVIDUAL BEEF WELLINGTONS

GRATIN DAUPHINOIS

You can find these recipes at http://thecoocoocook.blogspot.com xx

You can’t choose your family. We fling that out there with a heh-heh and a shrug of the shoulders. But sometimes it hits home. If you’ll excuse the nostalgic pun.

I have one sibling. And my boet is a great man. I look up to him and adore him, though I try extremely hard to pretend I don’t. That little bastard beat me up in my youth and humiliated me in my teens. Everything a big brother should do. I would eat scorpions rather than have him know I still think he’s ten feet tall.

But ten feet tall or not, the man’s a lunatic. He came here this morning to once again, despite my persistent insistence that I’ve a fear of foliage, pitch up with clumps of flowers which he’s proceeded to plant in my front garden. Where no doubt I will drive over them, step on them, my dogs will pee on them and at the end of the day they will perish and my big brother will once again be disappointed in me.

That disappointment, however, will pale in comparison to the look of contempt I received today when he asked me for my outside broom. My OUTSIDE broom. WTF is an outside broom? I don’t discriminate. My broom doesn’t discriminate. What criteria, exactly, does he use to identify an outside broom from an inside broom? The same criteria, I suppose, that made him comment on the fact that my bin was dirty. My BIN. The shame nearly killed me. Not.

So here’s the thing. If I could choose my family, would I choose this little shit that gave me donkey bites, dropped me a mile from the beach so he wouldn’t be seen with me, never (to this day) introduces me to any of his single friends, brings me fragile things he knows his fragile klutz sister will kill, the same one with a filthy bin and no discerning taste in sweeping implements? Would I choose him? No. Absolutely NOT.

And that’s why I thank God that we can’t choose our family. Because if it were left to a dumbass like me I would be without this wonderful man as my brother. And that would be an Absolutely Tragedy.

xx
J

SMOKED SALMON MOUSSE WITH BLACK PEPPER GRISSINI

SEAFOOD BISQUE

You can find these recipes at http://thecoocoocook.blogspot.com xx

Recently, in a moment of madness, I invited my cousin and his husband to dinner. I have no idea what I was thinking. It’s not that they’re not nice people, but they’re practically strangers. I don’t think I’ve seen them more than three times in the last ten years yet somehow coocoo here decides on a whimsical whim to invite her long lost cousin and his spouse over. Of course, I’m fairly certain they were blissfully unaware that they were lost. But theoretically to me they were: I cut ties as vehemently as Freddy Krueger.

You see, when you’re born with a self-deprecating gene the size of Texas, or if it’s been drilled into you via a Texas-sized oil drill, you assume you belong on Jerry Springer while everyone else belongs on Oprah. I avoid cousins, old friends, hey, even new friends, because I don’t want them to find out about my litany of failures and weaknesses.

As it turns out – and this is getting rather annoying – I was proved wrong. Again. I assumed we’d have nothing to say to each other, yet we spoke until almost 3 in the morning. I assumed it would be uncomfortable and awkward but we had a great time. I assumed they’d judge me, think less of me, because I should be richer, thinner, white-picket-fencer. And did they? Maybe. Probably. But they were perfectly bloody nice about it and over the course of the evening they fairly and evenly shared their own imperfections.

And so I learnt a great lesson from my bold invite. We’re all a little “pasticciata”. A little “messed up”. Some more than others, some less. Some might even look like they’ve got it all together but that’s all it is – looks. No one’s perfect. (Except Christopher Meloni of course, and both my guests enthusiastically concurred.)

Here’s the thing: At the end of the day all we can do is take a chance. Reconnect old ties or reach out to make new ones. Then take all our shit and put it out there. And hope we’re liked a little more than we’re not.

xx
J

CAREMELISED ONION, SALAMI, OLIVE & CHILLI FLATBREAD

VEAL PASTICCIATA

MINI TIRAMISU

You can find these recipes at http://thecoocoocook.blogspot.com xx

I had sex with Jeremy Clarkson last night. There may have been almost 6k miles between us and he presumably had no idea we were having sex, but trust me, I know him much better this morning than I did after watching a gazillion episodes of Top Gear.

I have to wonder/worry about my subconscious. When did he/she decide that of ALL the McSteamy’s and McDreamy’s out there I’d have a flaming hot dream about McMeany? Look, I’d shag him any day of the week before I’d touch Richard Hammond (girly) or James May (missionary) with a barge pole. Truth is, he’s so mean, so sarcastic, so utterly couldn’t-give-a-rat’s-arse that my subconscious is actually begging me to do the unthinkable with him. Even so, I’ve been begging my subconscious to let me dream the unthinkable with Daniel Craig too, but that request apparently got lost in the mail.

In the interest of full disclosure I have to say the dream was anything but a nightmare. In fact, that British accent and gravelly voice was pretty sexy when he told me to change gears. And he’s way more energetic than he appears to be, I’m definitely skipping the treadmill today. So Jezza, no regrets. None. Whatsoever.

While I’m confessing I may as well admit that I once had an incredibly horrific erotic dream about Rowan Atkinson. So I give up. My subconscious is a sick puppy and I’m going to feed it. I’m going to download the Top Gear episode where Jeremy Clarkson interviews Rowan Atkinson and watch some porn.

xx
J

PERI-PERI PRAWNS WITH SPICY RICE

MANGO & LIME MOUSSE

If you’re gonna shag Jeremy Clarkson this is a lovely refreshing dessert to cool you down afterwards.

You can find these recipes at http://thecoocoocook.blogspot.com xx

Statistically, how often do you think someone breaks down and starts sobbing in an appliance store? Based on the horrified look on Brian the Salesman’s face I’m going to guess not often. Well, he asked for it. You see, I went to buy a new stove not because I wanted to but because I had to. Replacing my deeply deeply loved old stove was a very painful decision which Brian should have considered before he asked me if I’d be “dumping” my old stove. Based on the amount of mucus on his Pep stores shirt I’m thinking Brian learnt a very valuable lesson on Friday.

My Defy Super Twenty was 46 years old. She was bought in 1966 when my parents got married and has fed our family and friends ever since. Though my mom officially retired from making anything edible a decade ago she used to be a cracking hostess that provided (the Mercedes owning) half of Saldanha with three course meals for 35 years. I’m surprised I didn’t grow up thinking crayfish live in ovens…

So naturally when the new stove arrived I glared at it suspiciously. I was overwhelmed by the choice of four functioning plates instead of just one. Not only that but I switched a plate on and it was actually hot and ready for me. Very annoying. I’m used to switching my plate on, then prepping my veggies, downing a bottle of wine, learning Mandarin, watching a few episodes of Top Gear, and then, and only then, will it have reached a heat comparible to that of a manhole cover on a hot day.

And let me not start on the oven. It has OPTIONS. Grills and fans and choices of where the heat must come from. It was like an interrogation. I was forced, absolutely forced, to down a bottle of wine once the shanks were in just to calm my nerves. That said, they were great. So we might get along once we’ve synchronised our coocooclocks.

But oh, how I will miss my big old shagadelic relic of the 60′s. I owe her my love of cooking, and for that I will be eternally grateful.

xx
J

BAKED LAMB SHANKS ON ROOT VEGETABLE MASH

You can find this recipe at http://thecoocoocook.blogspot.com xx

I know dogs are famous for that whole unconditional love thing. And yes, there’s something pretty awesome about the way they think I’m awesome even though they’ve seen me naked. Unconditional love rocks. I know this, because my mom loves me unconditionally…

Bwahahaha! I just laughed so hard I may have hurt myself. OK, I’m not being entirely fair. My mom DOES love me unconditionally. (As long as I keep the weight off, continue suffering to lose more weight, consider taking up bulimia, wear lipstick even when I’m alone, don’t forget I have cheeks, and for God’s sake try and find a man before she loses her last shred of dignity.)

So I’m the first one to be grateful for my dogs’ absolute acceptance. But for a glass-half-empty-kind-of-girl the dog’s bollocks isn’t their unconditional love, but their unwavering optimism. It amazes me every day. They’re so incessantly and persistently hopeful. If I pick up my tackie at 6 a.m. they go ballistic. Boo bounces up and down like silly putty and Nina turns into a barking biped. For crying in a bloody bucket I have never EVER taken them for a walk at 6 a.m. They’re lucky if they get a walk at 5 p.m. But that never stops them from hoping that today might be the day that mommy will stop being a selfish lazy bitch and take us to go smell some poop in the street.

And you know what else is amazing? Once they realise it’s not going to happen are they mad? Do they sulk? Do they hold it against me? Nope. They look at me with the same love and adoration and flop back down. (But keep an eye on that tackie, just in case.)

Unconditional love? That’s what I feel, every time I look at them. (As long as I don’t have to take them for a walk at 6 a.m.)

Oh crap. I’ve become my mother…

xx
J

PS – Though my dogs are the dog’s bollocks they don’t actually have bollocks. Be wise, sterilise. And a HUGE shout out to African Tails who are working their tails off to sterilise every dog in the Western Cape.

PPS – Boo wants me to tell you that if he DID have bollocks they would be bigger than my chicken balls. WAY bigger.

STUFFED CHICKEN BALLS

You can find this recipe at http://thecoocoocook.blogspot.com xx

On Sunday I had a panic attack. I was dying. Again. I think I’m dying fairly often. This could either be because I am, in fact, often dying but God always saves me at the last minute, or I am, in fact, never dying but my immense fear of dying makes me think I am.

It doesn’t help that I live alone. With two dogs, but they’re not trained in telephone etiquette. So I’ll die and my dogs will be terrified. And hungry (but hopefully not hungry enough to eat me). And I’ll quietly rot away. And be found like that. The sight, the smell and above all, you can’t suck in your stomach when you’re dead. Ugh.

I can’t remember whether I’ve always been scared of dying. I know I’ve always made lists of the attendees at my funeral. I would just die (again) if only 12 people rocked up. So every couple of years or so I make a list and count how many people I think will come. I realise I’m going to need a fairly small church but if I include my parents’ friends and my brothers’ friends and some clients it will hopefully not be too, dare I say it, mortifying.

So as I was saying, on Sunday I was dying again and freaked out enough to call Jenny next door to warn her of my impending demise. Being Jenny, overflowing-with-soul, she insisted I come around. I went there and, while she talked soothingly to me, her unplanned fourth child, I paced with the hotwater bottle she gave me clutched to my chest with every muscle in my body tensed to the max as I screamed in my head: Calm down!! Stop panicking!! Stop dying!!

That’s when Jenny told me to quit trying to tell my brain what to do – it won’t listen. I should tell my body what to do and my brain will follow. And she told me to breathe. Just breathe. It was the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. But when Jenny puts on her mommy voice you shut up and you breathe. So I did. And lived. OK, I would’ve probably lived anyway. But a lightbulb went off. Forget the brain, fix the body. Brain altering is hard. Breathing is surprisingly easy.

That’s my lesson for today kids. Breathe. It can save your life. And for God’s sake, make friends with your neighbours. They could turn out as amazing as Jenny. And if they don’t, they’ll probably feel guilty not to go to your funeral, so you’ll score more attendees!

xx
J

GARLIC & HERB FLATBREAD WITH ROASTED PEPPER AND CASHEW NUT PESTO

CHOCOLATE MUD CAKE WITH CRANBERRY COMPOTE

You can find these recipes at http://thecoocoocook.blogspot.com xx

I love slow recipes. I love how it pays off to take a breath, to be patient, to coddle and nudge instead of rush and push. It’s so unlike me. I’m like the roadrunner in the cartoon, only way fatter, not blue and a shitload less chirpy. I am ALWAYS late, running from client to client and pillar to post wondering where the time went. Even when I stop running and lie down I can’t slow down. As a kid I’d move my fingers, endlessly playing my piano pieces. As a grownup I still move my fingers, only now I’m endlessly typing. (If the world were fair my fingers would be still and my stomach muscles would be doing crunches – who needs thin fingers right?)

Perhaps it’s because I’m so hyped, so damn late, that my patience is so thin, my irritation so high. Dawdlers drive me crazy. Sunday drivers drive me ballistic. People who walk behind my car when I’m clearly reversing enrage me. Pedestrians who take their time to cross the street infuriate me. At night I lay in bed moving my fingers, imagining sticking them in the eyes of the asshole that came to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk today while his lizard brain tried to remember if he wanted to go left or right.

But with food I’m a different person. I slow things down. Take them down a notch. Turn down the heat. Throw away the timer and take out the calender. Because with food you are rewarded for that patience. Subtle flavours develop and grow and tough meat becomes succulent and tender. The pork in this dish, gently cooking away for 8 hours, is so tender they call it Pulled Pork, because you can pull it apart so easily.

Now if only I could slow cook myself. Become Pulled June. Instead of Panicked June. Learn to pause. And breathe. And practice slowing down.

Now hurry up and get out of my way already so I can start working on it dammit!

xx
J

PULLED PORK WITH TORTILLAS, THREE SALSAS, YOGHURT AND LIME

You can find this recipe at http://thecoocoocook.blogspot.com xx

J

CHICKEN CROQUETTES

You can find this recipe at http://thecoocoocook.blogspot.com xx