Crunchy Bottoms

Striking the caloric balance. Barely.

Monthly Archives: September 2010

Nutella Banana and Fleur de Sel Pizza

Nutella Banana and Fleur de Sel Pizza.

There are few things that irk me more when I’m rummaging through kitchen cabinets and the pantry than to find out that I am completely out of salt.

But not just any salt.

I’m talking sea salt, all kinds of sea salt in fact.

Flaky, coarse-grained, grey, fine, kosher….

There is, however, never a shortage of table salt in the kitchen. But I don’t care for that.

So you think salt’s just salt and what’s with all the fancy schmancy names? I mean, it’s no big deal right? Sure, salt’s important because without it, food’s going to taste like ribbons from the paper shredder, and oh, what with all the low-sodium products bursting forth in grocery stores, perhaps it’s best not to discuss potentially health damaging substances hm?

I apologise, but as you can see, I’m not really giving a damn.

I treat all my salt at home (and when I say ‘all’, I mean the total of 4 kinds of salt that I now have handy when I need them) more precious than any other gourmet ingredient – with the exception of my lone bottle of white truffle oil – because sodium chloride is king.

Have you ever forgotten to include that teaspoon of salt into your batch of cookies? Or perhaps intentionally left it out of your brownies for whatever demented reason? How’d that turn out?

Betcha didn’t really know why no one was helping themselves to seconds. Read more of this post

The Roti Prata House

Kaya Bomb Prata

When I was a little tyke, Sunday mornings were spent at Lakeview market, tearing up bite-sized pieces of prata with my bare hands, plunging each into a mound of sugar before stuffing my face with glorious amounts of dough and ghee. But ever since they razed Lakeview market (and left the land desolately empty and barren for more than a decade, presumably for another MRT station or something, although that’s what they always say…), the only other prata place that my family would make the effort to go to is the one at Jalan Kayu.

We don’t really go for prata anymore, anywhere. But sometimes, on the very rare occasion that I get slapped with the crushing and unrelenting yearning for FCB (Fried, Crispy Bread, essentially any kind of dough that gets deep-fried, pan-fried, grilled, roasted, toasted…and not some new acronym-ed vulgarity), I cannot sit still till I find some for my stomach. My brain will not let up on sending life-and-death, SOS signals for copious amounts of Fat and Carbohydrates till it gets it. There’s no fooling thy brain, if that’s one thing I’ve learnt. No amount of gnawing on raw carrots and chomping on apples is going to work. Nope. Just give in, and then spend the next day gnawing on raw carrots and chomping on apples. Read more of this post

Choupinette

Choupinette

I’ve never been a brunch person.

At least not intentionally because, I mean, can I be blamed if I sleep in and have breakfast at 10-11am? I still consider that breakfast, by the way. Feel free to contend with me on what you’d like to call a meal at that time. I thrive on confrontation.

Meals, to me, are the fundamental three: Breakfast, Lunch and then Dinner.

Anything else in between is subject to preferential labeling. Brunch, tea, lunchner, dinch (you know, since breakfast + lunch = brunch. Therefore lunch + dinner = lunchner/ dinch), dinper, supner. Whatever.

I don’t care what time I’m eating something at, because regardless of how school life has been granting me only lunchners and supners, the only and important fact to me remains: I’m eating.

‘Nuff said.

Yet this was a planned brunch. Afternoon classes make certain of that. And have I mentioned how there should be more weekday French brunch places to cater for the increasingly prominent crowd of late-rising tertiary zombies? Oh any kind of brunch place is fine. But I’ll be a regular at any French cafe. Give me a piping hot croissant anytime and you’ll seal the deal. Read more of this post

Europe Day 2 – Switzerland (Thun)

Breakfast!

The entire day before, I was silently anticipating breakfast the next morning, right from the moment Angela placed that very loaf of bread in the grocery cart and told me that was her favourite. I knew I would love it. Regardless, nothing beats the sweet smell of toasted bread in the morning – a rather frigid morning might I add, because all I’m really used to the moment I wake up is humidity a slight chill (that is if I am alive and kicking before 7am).

Hell-good bread. Industrial toaster.

I wandered into the kitchen naturally, and seeing the Weizenbrot Hell (which I thought was very aptly named because it was hell-good) all wrapped up in plastic and sitting demurely atop the kitchen counter, I knew I’d be making short work of the loaf in no time. So while Angela kindly brewed me some of her mighty espresso, I cut me up some slices and stared in wonderment at the…machine…next to the cutting board. Read more of this post