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Food is everything we are. It’s an extension of nationalist feeling, ethnic feeling, your personal history, your province, your region, your tribe, your grandma. It’s inseparable from those from the get-go. —Anthony Bourdain


Rooted in the days of New France, this humble, nourishing soup is an accolade to the spirit and tenacity of the French Canadian people. It goes by many names—soupe aux pois, habitant soup, Québec pea soup or French Canadian pea soup. Certainly, it has evolved over the years into versions each family calls their own. Long after the 1763 Treaty of Paris  and The Louisiana Purchase in 1803, the political presence of France in the New World remains through the descendants of  her settlers and the cuisine they contrived into their own. In the cookbook “La Cuisine Traditionnelle de Charlevoix” by Micheline Mongrain-Dontigny, soupe aux pois is made with not much more than dry peas, salted pork and onions. My husband’s family’s version includes carrots and celery but can’t be made without ham hock, I was told. But it’s the version of Aube Giroux that we like most anyways. She even gives permission to make it without any meat and it can easily be made vegan by substituting the butter with olive oil. One thing for sure, with or without the meat, vegan or not, this is good soup— a classic, a staple, sacred here in Canada for a reason.I prefer using whole peas instead of the split version. Above, is a photo of the peas after they have been soaked overnight. 

A Vegetarian Version of the French Canadian Yellow Pea Soup

  • 400 g (2 cups) whole yellow dry peas
  • 2 medium carrots, finely chopped (about 1 cup chopped or about 125 g)
  • 2 medium celery stalks, finely chopped (about 1 cup chopped or about 110 g)
  • 1 medium leek , finely chopped (about 1 1/2 cup chopped or about 200 g)
  • 1 large onion, finely chopped (about 1 1/2 cup chopped or about 200 g)
  • 3 tbsp butter (or olive oil for vegan version)
  • 8 cups vegetable stock
  • 1 bay leaf
  • salt and pepper to taste
  • 2 tbsp fresh chopped parsley (optional)

recipe can be found here

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To begin is easy, to persist is art. —German Proverb

I’ve been delving into the world of sourdough bread baking lately. Not for the want of putting an end to my reliance on my local baker,  but simply out of personal curiosity. To date, I’ve had more failures than successes but there are two things that keep me going. First, bread-making failures can easily be turned into croutons. Secondly, I know very well what an art form making something that looks as easy as flatbread is; I imagine the same can be said for sourdough bread. I make roti without measuring ingredients;  the dough just comes together by eye and instinct and in much the same way, I roll out the rotis without much thought or plan, just an innate feeling in my hands that know what to do, where to apply pressure, where to stop rolling, where to begin again. It’s all learned behaviour. I imagine the art of sourdough entails the same little learned nuances, so I plod on, knowing that with practice, patience and persistence, I will learn this age-old art that is new to me.

When friends who have no experience in making flatbread, express an interest in learning to make roti, I always steer them away from the traditional roti recipe and ask them to start with easier flatbread recipes, namely tortilla, pita or the recipe of this post, my samosa pastry recipe.  You can make samosas with it or you can just roll out the dough into flatbreads and cook the flatbread in a skillet. The dough is easier to work with, the cooking process is easier and even when they are imperfectly made, they make for a perfect snack to eat on their own, all the while giving one the experience to take on the age-old art of roti-making.

Samosa Pastry

(yields 12-13 flatbread)

  • 225 g white whole wheat flour, plus additional for rolling
  • 60 g semolina (also known as sooji or rawa), medium grade
  • 2 tsp salt
  • 1 tsp roasted cumin seeds or cumin powder (optional)
  • 50 g yogurt
  • 40 g ghee or olive oil, plus additional for cooking (optional)
  • approximately 130 g hot water
  1. Mix flour, semolina, salt and cumin (if using) in a medium-size dough bowl.
  2. Mix in ghee (or oil) and yogurt.
  3. Add most of the the water and blend to form a dough. Add additional water, 1 teaspoon at a time as required. The final dough should be soft but not sticky.
  4. Cover and set aside for 30 minutes.
  5. Divide the dough into 12-13 balls and flatten.
  6. Roll out each roti on a lightly floured surface. (If using dough to make samosa, avoid using additional flour when rolling.)
  7. In the meantime, place a cast iron skillet on medium heat and allow it to heat up.
  8. Place roti, one at a time, on the skillet. You may lightly brush surface with ghee or oil before placing on the skillet, likewise, brush the top surface before flipping over.
  9. Cook each side until slightly browned, about 1.5 minutes each side.
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It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade. —Charles Dickens

Spring is a just few weeks away on the calendar but for us here in Montreal, we are still months away from gardening, from apple blossoms, from local strawberries and rhubarb; no better time than now to indulge in tropical fruit. Fruit is perfect on its own but sometimes a drinkable version comes in handy.

Banana Lassi

(serves 1)

  • 80 g banana
  • 150 g buttermilk
  • 75 g yogurt
  • 1/4 tsp ground cinnamon
  • 1 tbsp maple syrup or honey (optional)
  • crushed ice (optional)
  1. Put all the ingredients (except ice) into a blender and blend until completely smooth.
  2. Pour into serving glass and stir in crush ice if using.

Pineapple Lassi

(serves 1)

  • 80 g fresh pineapple
  • 110 g buttermilk
  • 75 g yogurt
  • 1/4 tsp fresh ginger, minced
  • 1 tbsp maple syrup or honey (optional)
  • crushed ice (optional)
  1. Put all the ingredients (except ice) into a blender and blend until completely smooth.
  2. Pour into serving glass and stir in crush ice if using.

Orange Lassi

(serves 1)

  • 80 g orange
  • 110 g buttermilk
  • 75 g yogurt
  • a pinch of cardamom
  • 1 tbsp maple syrup or honey (optional)
  • crushed ice (optional)
  1. Put all the ingredients (except ice) into a blender and blend until completely smooth.
  2. Pour into serving glass and stir in crush ice if using.
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Both light and shadow are the dance of love. —Rumi


Here in the North, we have just passed Imbolc, the midway point between Winter Solstice and Spring Equinox. Here in this modern city, during these modern times, these markers and meanings so valued by and significant to our ancestors are mostly lost. All my life, Imbolc came and went, myself blissfully unaware. But now as someone who spends an awful lot of time looking through a camera’s view finder, Imbolc has new meaning. The minute changes that accompany the slow but steady shift of seasons no longer pass unnoticed. With each passing day, the days are filled with more light and the sun’s path through the sky arcs higher, affecting the very nature of light itself before it makes its way through my kitchen window, casting shadows on my unsuspecting food scene. More importantly, although all appears lifeless looking out through the same window, I know that deep below the snow, life is stirring and nature is preparing for rebirth. There is hope of spring.

In Christianity, Imbolc is Candlemas and in Mexico, hot chocolate is traditionally served on this day. Coincidentally, I also like my hot chocolate the Mexican way, with a pinch of spice.

Spiced Hot Chocolate

(serves 5)

  • 720 g (4 cups) milk of your choice
  • 240 g (1 cup) additional milk of your choice or water (when using dairy milk, I prefer to dilute with water)
  • 3 tbsp Camino fairly traded dark cocoa powder
  • 3 tbsp maple syrup
  • 1 tsp cinnamon powder
  • 1/2 tsp cayenne pepper
  • whipping cream (optional)
  1. Mix all the ingredients in a saucepan.
  2. Bring to a slow simmer.
  3. Continue to simmer for about 5 minutes, stirring to ensure no cocoa clumps remain.
  4. You may top with whipping cream and a sprinkle of cinnamon.
  5. Enjoy!
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Maybe the journey isn’t so much about becoming anything. Maybe it’s about unbecoming everything that isn’t really you so you can be who you were meant to be in the first place. ―Paulo Coelho

Years ago, my husband and I tallied up how much sugar we consumed in a single day after watching this documentary. This would be our first step in a years-long journey to take control of how much added sugar we consumed. One of the first things we did was stop adding any sort of sweetener to our cups of coffee and tea because that alone was an exorbitantly high amount. (For my husband it was like flicking a switch, he went from adding sugar one day to none at all the next. I took the gradual route, at first replacing sugar with honey, then reducing the amount of honey until I no longer felt a need for it.) We also stopped buying store-bought cookies, processed cereals, fruit yogurts, etc. We did this gradually, replacing an item at a time with a homemade healthier alternative. Initially, we still used refined sugar for our homemade recipes but we felt okay knowing it was much less than the amount in the store-bought stuff and that our homemade alternatives were also void of other not-so-good ingredients. But finally, about a year ago, we cut the cord and stopped buying refined white sugar altogether, forcing us to always have to turn to options like unrefined cane sugar, muscovado, jaggery, honey or maple syrup for all of our recipes. The first thing one notices about these alternatives is their price; they are definitely a lot more costly than their cheap wannabe. We saw this as a good thing as it forced us to want to use even less of it in our recipes. A healthier diet is not only about replacing the refined white stuff with healthier options, it’s also about reducing the amount of added sugar in your diet.

When I look back, I can see our journey on paper very clearly. In my handwritten recipe notes I see things like “white sugar” being crossed out and replaced with “muscovado”. I see things like “200 g” being replaced with “150 g” and then with “100 g”. What one doesn’t see is that over the span of 5 years, our taste buds have changed too. I can drink of cup of tea now without any sweetening whatsoever and not feel that something is missing. Five years ago, I could never have imagined this possible.

All that said, we’re not extraordinary people and we don’t live in a bubble. We go out to eat, attend birthday parties, and give into cravings for Magnum ice cream or pastries from the nearby French bakery that I can never recreate at home. I even have recipes on this very blog and many more in my notebook that call for lots and lots of added sugar. But these are exceptions to the rule. We still have ways to go but we no longer feel as overwhelmed as we use to when we started this journey.

Please take note, I’m not sharing my story to show how amazing I am or to point fingers to those surpassing the maximum recommended sugar intake— far from it. I’m writing this to inspire others who feel as overwhelmed as I used to feel five years ago that change is possible. Anyways, why should I sit idly and watch large food corporations line their pockets at the expense of public health?

Global sugar consumption has skyrocketed in the past 160 years but just prior to that we humans got by just fine and I do believe we can all go back to a healthier state of eating.

That I would choose a cake recipe to talk about reducing the amount of sugar from our diet may seem odd. But the way I see it, if you keep your sugar intake in check, you can have your cake and eat it too! Low in sugar, made with whole wheat flour but still incredibly moist, this pineapple and coconut cake is a perfect little indulgence.


Pineapple and Coconut Cake

(yields one loaf in a 10×4 inches rectangular pan)

  • 175 g (about 1 1/4 cups) white whole wheat flour
  • 1 1/4 tsp baking powder
  • 3/4 tsp baking soda
  • 1/2 tsp salt
  • 60 g olive oil
  • 100 g unrefined cane sugar
  • 70 g maple syrup
  • 2 large eggs
  • 150 g fresh pineapple, puréed
  • 40 g desiccated coconut
  1. Preheat oven to 350°F.
  2. Sift together first 4 ingredients in a bowl
  3. In another bowl, beat together oil, sugar, maple syrup and eggs  (I actually do it manually).
  4. Add the dry ingredient mixture to the wet mixture and stir to combine.
  5. Stir in the pineapple and coconut using a spatula.
  6. Pour the batter in a well greased cake pan.
  7. Bake for 40 minutes or until an inserted toothpick comes out clean.
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January is my favourite month, when the light is plainest, least colored. And I like the feeling of beginnings. —Anne Truitt

I can’t say that I’m very fond of cold weather, but I do like January. My husband belongs to the camp that believes January 1st is like any other day, but I disagree. There’s something special about new beginnings, about starting again, about that point where the past, present and future intersect momentarily. In the very least, it allows us to look at the past in a new light, to look to the future with much hope; in the very most, it allows us to trade fear of the unknown for trust in it, allows the things that held us back to set us free to start again.

I worked as an engineer for nearly two decades. It was rewarding and exciting and challenging for my ever curious mind. Theory, formulae, and numerical calculations were my comfort zone but needless to say, I got bored often. In those moments of boredom, I felt something missing; there was a sacred pull to wanting something more, not in a materialistic way but spiritually. About ten years ago, I found a way to ease my restless mind. I would sneak away to an unoccupied conference room and write. The fifteen or so minutes I’d spend drifting away were sufficient to reel me back to the monotony that awaited. I didn’t know it then but I had begun what I hope will one day become my first novel. By the time I quit my job three years ago this January, I was 50000 words richer.

Last week, I narrowed it down to 10000 words (I suppose inflation affects all things) after I reread my work and hacked away most of it. But now with nothing but a few bare-bones, I’m ready to put in the sweat and work that it takes to complete the task. It may take a few more circles around the sun to finish but I’m excited to begin again.

Two winter bare-bones, cabbage and carrots, a bit of seasoning and a whole lot of shredding produce this healthy, flavourful salad that pickles into a supply of ready-to-serve slaw for the rest of the week. This simple coleslaw is staple in our home come the winter months when salad greens are hard to come by.

Classic Vinegar-Based Coleslaw

(yields a week’s supply for a family of 5, proportionately reduce quantities for less)

  • 1700 g cabbage (1 medium head), finely shredded (core and tough stems removed)
  • 175 g carrots, peeled and finely shredded
  • 1 tbsp raw sugar
  • 1 tbsp salt
  • 1/2 cup olive oil
  • 1/2 cup vinegar
  1. Toss all ingredients to combine well. Let sit an hour before serving. Store in the fridge for up to 1 week, it will pickle into a slaw with time.
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And if you worry that not finishing the food on your plate is a slap in the face to all the hungry people everywhere, you are not living in reality. The truth is that you either throw the food out or you throw it in, but either way it turns to waste. World hunger will not be solved by finishing the garlic mashed potatoes on your plate. ― Geneen Roth

It’s been over four decades since my family and I left India and settled in Canada. Throughout this time, we have returned often for a visit.  The last time that I visited was with my husband and children (two, at the time). We spent most of our visit in the tiny village of my ancestral home, where I had spent the first three years of my life.

It’s the kind of place where everyone knows everyone and there’s always someone to lend a helping hand, doors are left open and women gather around to hull vegetables collectively, meals are homemade and wholesome, food is never wasted, nor overeaten.  Over the years, a lot of the younger generation has moved away, seeking fortunes and a modern lifestyle in big cities within India or elsewhere, but still, they call this place home, as I do too. Money is always sent back, so the village is thriving. It still lacks the telephone lines various governments had promised with each upcoming election but there is no longer a need as everyone, young and old, sports a smartphone, complete with Facebook and WhatsApp, connecting them to the rest of the world. But still, life here remains simple and slow, humble and nonchalant, as the sway of palms in the gentle breeze of the Arabian Sea, adapting to modern India but still bound to rooted traditions and the cycle of seasons.

One afternoon, my mother handed me a bowl of dal, leftover from lunch, and asked me to bring it over to one of our neighbours.  I walked past our tamarind tree, down the shallow slope of the little hill atop which our house sits, past my children playing with their new friends and came to a row of small humble homes occupied by a joint, multi-generational family. I walked into the center unit, as instructed, and by memory, to the back of the home into a dimly lit kitchen. Apart from a few modern amenities that had been added in recent years (ceramic tiles, a gas stove, a fridge and solar-powered running water ), everything else seemed as time-tested as the owner herself, an 80ish-year-old widow. She was gathering ingredients and rudimentary equipment required for making roti. She was expecting me, she told me in our native Gujarati, as she motioned me to sit while taking the bowl I was carrying and dumping its contents into another.  She apologized for the lackings of her kitchen and went about, unknowingly I supposed,  compensating with deft hands mixing, kneading and finally rolling rotis in the familiar, time-honoured rhythms etched in her DNA as well as mine, while speaking of memories of a time before my birth, memories I didn’t know of but that had already shaped my life, a time when there were no telephones or televisions in the village, nor running water, nor electricity, when ancient recipes transformed the waste of livestock into the fuel for cooking as well as plaster for walls, when the scarcity of basic needs taught you inherently to not waste, to reuse and recycle, and more importantly, to have tremendous joy for what little you had.

There was always fear of hunger here, she explained, inherited in the womb, passed on from mother to child, unspoken yet tenacious in its grip of our people—fear a monsoon would betray our trust, fear the crops would fail us, fear the surplus of the previous year would not suffice, fear of another famine*, and ultimately fear of being wiped away, completely this time, without the world even knowing.  And then she spoke of my father, who was a teenager when she had come to live in the village as a young bride. Apparently, he was quite the big deal. Every so often, he would return home from a cricket match that had ended too late and some sort of calamity could be heard coming from our home she recounted. The next morning, at the water well, the village women would gather with their lotas clanking about and ask my father’s sisters what the commotion had been for. In time, their reply became a regular grievance. Under the cover of darkness, my father would bring home homeless people that he’d befriended along the way; untouchables, they were called. He would wake up his sisters and coax them to prepare dal and rice and a pot of chai (if there was any milk left from the day); grudgingly they would concede. In the meantime, he would warm water on the hearth out back for the homeless to wash up with and finally, he would offer the cot on the veranda for the night. The homeless would never overrun the generosity offered to them and by sunrise, there would be no proof left of them to validate the complaints coming from my aunts.  But still, my father would speak up in his own defense. We only have a fear of being hungry, he would say to the women fetching water in complete abhorrence, but they, they are hungry.

Simple advice from a simple life: eat well, don’t waste, don’t overeat, feed whomever you can.

If you can’t feed a hundred people, then feed just one. —Mother Teresa

*The last famine occurred in 1899-1900.

Mung Bean Roti (Dal ki Roti)

(yields 14)

  • 210 g whole wheat flour, plus additional for rolling
  • 100 g leftover yellow mung bean curry (see recipe here)*
  • 50 g yogurt (preferably homemade)
  • 40 g ghee
  • 1/2 tsp salt
  • 1/4 tsp turmeric powder
  • 1/4 tsp red chili powder (adjust to taste)
  • approximately 60 g hot water
  1. In a dough bowl, mix together flour, salt, turmeric powder and red chili powder.
  2. Add dal, yogurt and ghee and mix well using your hand forming a crumbly mixture.
  3. Add most of the water and start to form a dough. Add additional water as required. Knead well. You should end up with a soft dough, that holds well together and is not sticky.
  4. Divide into 14 portions and roll each between the palms of your hands to form a ball. Press your palms together to flatten the ball into a disk.
  5. Coat each disk with flour and roll to about 5″ diameter. Place on a clean towel. You may want to roll out all the rotis before starting to cook or you can start cooking the first one and continue to roll the next one during the downtime in the cooking process.
  6. For cooking, heat a cast iron skillet (a tortilla griddle works best) over medium heat. The roti are cooked one at a time. Place a roti on the hot skillet and allow to cook until the surface starts to bubble (about 1-2 minutes, the surface should have brown spots), flip and cook for another 1-2 minutes (again, the other side should have brown spots). Although, parts of the roti will puff up, these roti will no puff up into a ball as the traditional ones. If the roti starts to burn immediately when placed on the skillet, reduce heat and allow the skillet to cool down a bit.
  7. Best eaten freshly cooked. Reheat leftovers in toaster on lowest setting.

*This recipe makes about 360 g of cooked dal

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Sometimes you end up being exactly where you need to be at exactly the right time. Maybe it isn’t sometimes. Maybe we are always exactly where we need to be. —Carrie Day

Hello my dear ones! This is my final post of 2018 and I want to leave you with one last recipe for the year and some news for the coming year.

But first and foremost, something more important. I want to wish you a happy Christmas or simply a wonderful holiday season and a 2019 that’s filled with love & laughter, peace & health. I also want to thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for your kind comments and support and following along my day-to-day on Instagram. Yes, I started this little venture as a personal recipe book for my family with absolutely no pursuance of fame or fortune but that you have join along has made this journey ever so extraordinary and fulfilling, more than you’ll ever know. Thank you so much! 

As I write this post, I’m thinking back to the first posts I published here. Believe it or not, they were accompanied with so much anxiety when it came time to hit the publish button. It wasn’t the thought of whether anyone would appreciate my recipes that made me nervous though, it was my writing—sharing my deepest, personal thoughts and stories was not easy for me. But now, 2½ years later, that feeling of uncertainty has been replaced with a feeling of something fresh and exciting. I’ll still be adding recipes here (as you can see from my first post, I have a promise to keep) but a little less often as I’m finally feeling confident to take on something I’ve been wanting to do for quite some time but feeling completely and utterly fearful about— complete my first novel. So in a way, this little blog has been exactly where I needed to be to go where I want to go. And as it has been with this blog, the hope is that one day, I’ll be remembered for the words I left behind. See you in 2019!

Much love,

Annika, xoxo

Speculaas

(yields about 28 cookies)

  • 195 g white whole wheat flour*
  • 50 g ground almond
  • 1/4 tsp salt
  • 1 tsp ground cinnamon 
  • 1/4 tsp ground ginger
  • 1/4 tsp freshly ground nutmeg
  • 1/4 tsp freshly ground cloves
  • 1/2 tsp fresh lemon zest, fine
  • 113 g butter, unsalted and at room temperature
  • 80 g raw cane sugar*
  • 1 large egg, at room temperature

Find the recipe at The Joy of Baking

*This is where my version deviates from the Joy of Baking. As usual, I’ve replaced AP flour with whole wheat but even more interesting, I use only half of the sugar in the original recipe… go on and try it this way, with so many other flavours coming through, there really is no need for all this sugar.

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Learn how to see.   —Leonardo Da Vinci


Growing up in the Mile End neighbourhood of Montréal in the 70s and 80s, we had a lot of neighbours of Italian heritage. I secretly envied them. Not counting the Jewish population, who kept to themselves, the Italians were visibly more affluent than the rest of us. They were homeowners, occupying the duplexes and triplexes characteristic of Mile End with their multi-generational families. Their homes were adorned with vegetable gardens in the front and/or back. They had their own churches and their own shops. They even had their own cooking show on television from which my Indian parents learnt to cook pasta dishes by watching Chef Pasquale, despite not understanding a word of Italian, except of course mangiare. 

Not far from Mile End, Montréal’s very own Little Italy had already been established. Though we would pass through it occasionally, we never had the need to go there. We did, however, frequent the neighbourhood Italian grocery store, Latina, a short distance from our home, for an emergency purchase of tomatoes or milk. It was always an exotic affair. The smell of cheese would make me want to hold my nose and the sight of beef tongue would make me cringe that I would be grateful we would cut right through the meat section. But my parents would always linger by the barrels of olives sitting in brine; they look like gunda they would say but it would take years before they would venture into buying some.  Italian opera always filled the air only to be muted by overly excited, jovial greetings between friends— in Italian, of course. I always felt a sense of community here, a community though, that we were not a part of. Though my parents never seemed very concerned, I always had a feeling that we had overstepped some invisible line, that we were not welcomed there. Mile End was a mosaic of so many immigrant groups, but we were newcomers, visibly new, visibly different and as I stared at everything unfamiliar and fascinating in that neighbourhood grocery store, I always had this feeling that a thousand pairs of eyes were staring right back at me.

It wasn’t only the gap in wealth or race that divided us. Other measures to divide us children were already in place when we arrived, thwarting any chance at friendship. Back then, the public school system was divided not only by language (French and English) but by religion as well, namely Catholic and Protestant. The Italians and Portuguese children would attend the neighbourhood Catholic school, while the rest of us—mostly Asians, South Asians, and Greeks would attend the neighbourhood Protestant school. Each morning, on our way to school, the two groups of children crossed paths and exchanged pleasantries across that thin line we imagined between “us” and “them”.

It wouldn’t be until I was out of the public school system and attending CEGEP and university and in the workforce that I had a chance to really get to know Montréal-Italians. They told me stories of their parents or grandparents coming to Canada as economic migrants escaping poverty of the Italian countryside, of the discrimination the community faced in its early days and especially during WW2. We compared stories of growing up ethnic in Canadian society and found that we had much in common. I realized that the envy and prejudices I once had were so unfounded. And that’s the problem inherent to humankind, that we allow the differences that we perceive to divide us even before we can get to know each other.

These cookies are essentially a vegan version of the Italian brutti ma buoni (translates to ‘ugly but good’) cookies. Instead of coarsely chopping the hazelnuts though, I blitz them in a food processor to obtain a fine consistency. They may not be the prettiest of cookies, but if you can look past that, they are pretty good!

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I not even going to lie, I’m not going to start with a lovely quote, or write an epic story as a distraction. I’m not going to sugar-coat it at all. Here’s the truth: I wish I had never learnt to make caramel, learnt how easy it is to make, learnt that it only takes a few ingredients, let alone make it in my favourite flavours. Nevertheless, homemade is always better than store-bought, and if used in moderation, it’s ok (I think?), plus homemade caramel makes a wonderful gift this time of the year. So as promised on Instagram a while back, here’s the recipe, not just for apple caramel, but for coffee caramel as well. Enjoy and use in moderation!

Apple Caramel Sauce

(yields approximately 350 ml)

  • 480 g freshly pressed apple cider
  • 160 g raw cane sugar
  • 120 g 35% cooking cream
  • 113 g unsalted butter
  • 40 g maple syrup
  • 1/2 tsp salt
  1. In a medium sized saucepan, heat apple cider to a boil.
  2. Reduce heat and simmer, stirring occasionally, until reduced to about 1/2 cup.
  3. Add sugar, cream, butter and salt and bring to a boil.
  4. Simmer, whisking constantly, until thickened.
  5. Turn off stove, mix in maple syrup.
  6. Pour into jar, let cool completely before covering.
  7. Store in fridge for up to 2 weeks. 

Coffee Caramel Sauce

(yields approximately 250 ml)

  • 2 tbsp ground coffee, plus 80 g hot water
  • 160 g raw cane sugar
  • 120 g 35% cooking cream
  • 60 g unsalted butter
  • 1/2 tsp salt
  1. Make coffee and pour into saucepan. 
  2. Add sugar, cream, butter and salt and bring to a boil.
  3. Simmer, whisking constantly, until thickened. 
  4. Pour into jar, let cool completely before covering.
  5. Store in fridge for up to 2 weeks. 


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