Category: Dairy Free

Roasted carrot kushari

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This weekend I asked my modest number of Instagram followers whether they were currently feeling burnt out. 54% of people said yes, medically, 38% of people said they were very tired and almost burnt out. A mere seven total people said they were fine. Why did I ask? Well, I would describe myself as currently spending time googling the symptoms of burnout, if you know what I mean. But as I suspected, burning out is rarely something you’re doing alone.

One such prong on the serving fork of tentative burnout claims is my famous ongoing inability to carve out enough time to keep this blog updated frequently—which then leads to time-consuming self-flagellation and further stress and misery as the last blog post fades further into the calendar—and the cadence of posts here has continued to dwindle so much that there’s barely any pattern-recognition to be had. Nevertheless, here I am in the month of August—just—with a recipe that has truly kept me tethered to the earth on a weekly basis, which is why I’m eager to share it with you at last: Roasted Carrot Kushari. To be clear, this recipe will in no way solve your burnout. But I promise it won’t add to it.  

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Sardine supper

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A white fish-shaped dish of sardines on a blue patterned background

I’m experiencing a certain sardine fixation of late; my partner and I each night serenely sitting on the floor (my apartment is too small for a dinner table) like two opulent cats attending to their suppers of glistening, omega-rich sardine fillets. And I’m yet to hit the wall of what is possible for this tiny fish. This includes:

  • Sardine and kimchi fried rice
  • Sardine curry with tamarind
  • Lemony sardine pasta with snap peas and ricotta
  • Teriyaki sardines, greens and rice
  • Pasta with sardines in a spicy tomato sauce

And the two parallel favourites: sardines with a Palestinian green lemon sauce, and sardines with Vietnamese flavours. Both fresh with herbs, boisterous with citrus, and jolted awake with chilli. Furthermore, they’re so very simple (and pair so well together) that I thought I’d include both recipes here today.

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Big green soup

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A bowl of soup on a wooden board with a bushel of flat leaf parsley and a spoon on it

Whatever it is going on in my brain, be it nameable or undesignated, it only occasionally manifests in the form of what is commonly known as ‘food hyperfixation’. I’ve always been emotionally fixated on the idea of food, specifically, cooking it—experiencing a certain scarcity-minded franticness when I’m unable to cook, which I suspect is, at the least, a bit weird. Now and then, though, a certain food will cohabitate with my habits, like having a writer in residence staying with you: this past week it was lentils. I yearned for their collapsing bodies, tipping them like a rainstick into a bowl ready to soak with cool water, endlessly testing little simmering spoonfuls—no, still not cooked yet.

This recipe for Big Green Soup actually uses split peas, but! Lentil Week is a state of mind type of nomenclature. Speaking of nomenclature, the recipe title misleads not at all: it’s Big (makes over a litre); it’s Green (if you have 400g of silverbeet drooping malevolently in the fridge, this is for you); and it sure is Soup. It is also, of course, delicious. That’s why we’re here.

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35 recipes for the cost-of-greed crisis

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A plate of gnocchi in front of a serving tray of more gnocchi


I hate not having enough time to write. And I hate starting a blog post with “it’s been ages since we spoke”. This month both remain true, and I thought I’d circumvent the circumstances by doing a round-up post instead of a new recipe; forgetting just how monumentally time-consuming round-ups actually are.

However, with the government dropping a typically cruel and economically lacklustre budget and Chlöe Swarbrick coining the “cost of greed crisis” as a useful way to augment the frequently called-upon but admittedly passive phrase ‘cost-of-living crisis’, I figured now was as good a time as any to round up, specifically, recipes that might meet people where they’re at.

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Pasta with two chillis

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A fork resting in a white plate of pasta and chilli

Despite having never actually worked as a chef—which I doubt surprises anyone who’s seen me try to poach an egg—I occasionally like to evoke the feeling of being an off-duty chef. A feeling that usually involves deli containers. I did famously spend five years as a bartender which lends some modest credence to this notion; I nonetheless respect and fear the actual dinner service shift. This recipe for pasta with two chillis is the kind of hastily-won, stupid-simple dish that you might bleary-eyedly whip up for yourself after many hours of plating filet mignon for uncaring customers, or indeed, after many hours of doing anything. It’s fast, it’s furious, it revives and recalibrates, and it’s so delicious that I’m feeling self-congratulatory in a “my viral pasta with two chillis” way (even though the word ‘viral’ next to any recipe is foul and vulgar and we shall speak no more of it!). And really, this is merely a descendent of say, Pad Kee Mao, and the sacred art of throwing spoonfuls of Lao Gan Ma onto noodles.  

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Vietnamese-adjacent noodles with beef, chilli and mint

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Chopsticks and a mint sprig on a pink and white plate of beef and noodles

Now, ‘adjacent’ might be a clunky suffix for this recipe when ‘inspired’ is right there for the taking. As someone who isn’t Vietnamese, I intend to acknowledge the combination of flavours, familiar in nước chấm among other Vietnamese recipes—while making clear that I’m not breezily swooping in with entitlement to improve upon anything. But then, I think recipe titles should tell a brief story in and of themselves—in the case of Vietnamese-adjacent noodles with beef, chilli and mint, it’s flagging necessary attribution, that the noodles are as prominent as the beef, with a warning siren for chilli, mollified by the promise of mint’s tempering coolness. It also tells you, I guess, that I am amused by words, and like to play with them as much as I do with ingredients. Whether ‘adjacent’ catches on as a modifier or even makes sense to anyone else, we’re nonetheless never eating anything devoid of context, are we?

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Pappardelle with roasted carrots, hazelnuts and dill

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a fork resting on a pink and white plate of pappardelle with roasted carrots

Having emerged this week from major dental surgery into recuperation mode, I am finally afforded some time to write this blog post. I am also, unfortunately, still firmly quagmired in the soft-food-only stage for another couple days so the act of crunching or chewing anything is but a poignant memory. Which perhaps will add a yearning piquancy to my description of this pappardelle with roasted carrots, hazelnuts and dill. I was joking with a best friend that I shouldn’t be this excited to have ‘me time’ via major surgery, but such is modern life! This anticipation also distracted from fear of the real and present risk of permanent nerve damage, which, I am relieved to inform you, didn’t come to pass. One day I shall enjoy this pasta again. Luckily for you—although I assume everyone cool is probably also suffering dentally in some regard, there’s a lot of crossover—it’s so quick to make, that you could enjoy it within about half an hour if you hop to it.

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Carrot granola muffins

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A tray of carrot granola muffins with two butter knives

Though all baking has ebbs and flows of what makes the process appealing and easy for the baker, the muffin stands alone—I believe—in not being weighed down by visual pressure. By which I mean, muffins are the baked good least susceptible to yassification. Muffins should look sturdy and muffin-shaped, adorned at most with a snowfall of sieved icing sugar. No more, no less. Couple that with the necessary under-stirring and a quick oven time and they not only alleviate any baking-related stresses, muffins go so far as to alleviate other, unrelated stress you may be undergoing with their eagerness to make life easier. These carrot granola muffins do involve grating carrots, which is mildly annoying, but their flavour rewards all efforts and as you can see from the photos, you really don’t have to worry about how they look.

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Spiced Pearl Barley Pilaf

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A red casserole dish of barley pilaf with a serving spoon and sprigs of thyme in front of it

If you’re not convinced that eating barley is a great way to spend the summer, think again—unless it’s winter where you are, in which case, I guess you can just continue thinking steadily. My mother got me a second-hand Lynn Bedford Hall cookbook for Christmas—Ms Bedford Hall, the author of one of my already most-beloved, most-1980s cookbooks, and this new-to-me volume was every bit as full of camp panache and gelatine despite being published in the futuristic year of 1993. Rocket is a “trend-setting herb”, tuna mousse is “ubiquitous” but “impressive”, while chilled broccoli and apple soup has “a quiet dignity”. It’s all charming stuff. It’s also surprisingly practical, and by and large alluring to both cook and eater—even the light-refracting wobbly solidity of gelatine starts to call one’s name after some persistent repetition and my desire to “add a splash of drama to a ladies’ luncheon”. From this volume, I’ve lightly adapted her spiced pearl barley pilaf recipe and in turn, urge you to adapt it further as you see fit. This pilaf is a stunningly bolstering dinner or packed lunch, and so delicious (and cheap, or as Ms Bedford Hall would say, “economical”) that it overcomes all unphotogenic shortcomings.

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The 15th Annual Hungryandfrozen edible gift guide with 60 recipes for you

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A jar with a ribbon around it surrounded by baubles.

Something we can all count on, or at least, that we can all count: The 15th Annual HungryandFrozen Edible Gift Guide is back! This year you have a round-up of:

  • 60 delicious gift-ready recipes
  • Many also-delicious off-the-shelf ideas if you hate cooking or are simply not up to it at this juncture
  • Gift guide suggestions and further worthy places to powerfully channel whatever consumer dollars you may have

Although it’s hellacious to format I love the work of making this annual list because it serves to disabuse you of the notion that Christmas gifts have to be things. People love food, and food gifts are nothing but upside. They have immediate practical application, they will eventually cease taking up space in the recipient’s house, and it’s a simple way to demonstrate care, appreciation, and love especially in this continually punishing economy. My fifteen-year accumulative model was getting excitingly close to three figures, but in 2025 I respect your time more than mine and have whittled down the list so you have fewer decisions to wrestle with and less scrolling.

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