Chocolate peppermint slice

A top-down shot of squares of peppermint slice on a rack on top of a blue cloth

Although I’d never be so callous to rank food—partially due to indecision, and mostly due to the fact that talking about food in such absolutes is folly and not the behaviour of a real Food Lover—but—I had previously been so vaingloriously certain of my stupid convictions about peppermint and now I’d casually call it a top three flavour. Again, if I was to rank the unrankable, that is, food. And I’m only being rewarded for my incorrect opinions, because, well, now I’m just going to keep making peppermint-related recipes. Like this entirely no-bake Chocolate Peppermint Slice.

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23 Bean Recipes for you

Hummus with pomegranate seeds and pine nuts.


To paraphrase Robert Altman: Beans, now more than ever! Real ones know beans shouldn’t be introduced with an apologetic tone—yes they’re cheap and nutritious, but they’re also elegant, buttery, robust, with the axis of history contained within their stout little bodies. If you’re after further inspiration, here’s a round-up of 23 recipes from my back catalogue for all the bean lovers out there, from Palestinian Msabaha to salt and vinegar beans, to freeform black bean cobbler. I’ve broadly included a few lentils in there, too.

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Noodles with smoky gochujang bokkeum

A pan full of noodles and vegetables

Some years ago I posted a recipe for a vegan variation on gochujang bokkeum, a Korean fried chilli sauce, and though I’m no longer vegan, the sauce in this iteration has lost none of its monumental appeal. Here I’ve simply stirred it through wide, chewy noodles with some flash-wilted greens and a hazy splash of liquid smoke; it makes for a dinner of such wild splendidness that even though it’s something of a retread; it does both bear repeating and stand alone on its own merit. Indeed, I’ve made a slight variation of this three times this weekend alone because it has thrice been the exact correct answer to ‘what should we have for dinner’, prosaic though that is.

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Ricotta, peas and greens on toast with black garlic

Portrait view of greens, peas and ricotta on toast with a knife and fork next to it

Sometimes, of a drab, sink-coloured Tuesday or glooming Sunday evening with Monday sitting on its chest like a sleep paralysis demon, I want something stupid for dinner that reclaims a sense of whimsy from what’s left of the day. Food that in its odd vividness jolts you awake and reminds you that you’re alive and—somewhat—living in the moment. The sort of dish, like this ricotta, peas and greens on toast with black garlic that is potentially non-scalable because the more people you have to explain it to, the less likely you are to gain a consensus. But for yourself, as a droll supper, sidestepping the prosaic meat and three veg? Spectacular. The next night after this I had pasta, then noodles the night after that, but the day after that? I had this again and it felt as giddy as the first time.

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Hummus Qawarma

a green plate of hummus and lamb on a white background with blue fabric

If you’re going to have hummus—which may be commonplace, but never prosaic—then you might as well go as close to the source as possible. Its connection to place is indelible—as Palestinian chef and cookbook author Sami Tamimi puts it, “hummus with tahini is the intellectual property of Palestine, Lebanon, and Syria”. Here, in this recipe for hummus qawarma from the Palestinian cook and food writer Yasmin Khan’s beautiful book Zaitoun, it takes you from a dip to a feast, without too much more effort than opening a gritty tub of supermarket hummus. Useful and delicious though that may be, this dish is, comparatively, the culinary equivalent of going from a cold ankle-deep paddling pool to the warm surf of the Pacific Ocean at sunset. Celebrating the food of Palestine is not something I do lightly—especially when countless people within its borders are being starved and violently disconnected from their families, culture, food, and basic safety. As well as celebrating, I am acknowledging and upholding—this cuisine can’t be erased and neither can the people. But I am lucky to eat it, and so are you.

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Pink grapefruit posset with white chocolate pumpkin seed mendiants

A sliced pink grapefruit on a green plate next to four coupes of grapefruit posset

There are a few load-bearing moments in my youthful journey towards becoming a food blogger slash person obsessed with cooking; the epiphanic first time ever I saw Nigella Lawson’s face and cooking show in 2001, winning the best cake award at the 1998 Calf Club, my childhood adventures in microwaving (largely borne from the fact that we only had a microwave, but). Another such signpost is the lemon posset recipe from a Cuisine magazine—I want to say it’s from April 2002 but regrettably I lost the hard copy years ago—being my signature dessert at family gatherings for several years in my teens. It’s one of those recipes that feels like magic, and for reasons I can only chalk up to time management and perception of time itself, this is the first time I’ve recreated this dish for my almost eighteen-years-old blog. Except, here I’ve hoisted up the citrus stakes by replacing lemon with bitter pink grapefruit.

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Shawarma-spiced roast vegetables with feta

A serving spoon in a dish of roasted veges

A tray of roast vegetables is a noble dinner. Huddled low topographically yet covering so much surface area; the magnificent juxtaposition of tender internal cellular structure and crisp-lipped exterior; so much result for so little fuss. If you want to make a modicum of fuss, however—perhaps by borrowing the multiplicity of rich spices present in shawarma—and then crumbling over a genuinely modest quantity of feta—then you’re really in for a good time. The hardest part of these shawarma-spiced roast vegetables with feta, for me at least, is that every time I open up my spice drawer the boxes of spices have re-ordered themselves or got themselves all wedged and bunched up the back like an upwardly-directional pair of underwear; I intend to be the kind of person who has spices neatly contained in small, labelled containers but it never comes to pass, luckily this doesn’t put me off using them.

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Salmon, mango and coriander salad

Salmon mango salad on a green plate, on a baking tray with a fork below it

Mango? Salad? In these final shrinking vestiges of autumn as it descends, sighing and officially, into winter? First of all, deliciousness knows no practical response to temperature, so jot that down. Secondly, every now and then I dunk my head under the humbling waters of my site analytics and am reminded that a shocking number of my viewership comes from the United States, despite my distinct non-Americanness — to wit, the very nomenclature of this recipe, which, stateside, would be cilantro. While America does enough self-pandering to last us all a lifetime, some of the best and coolest long-term mutuals that I’ve never met are from the US and it does occur to me that this Salmon, Mango and Coriander Salad would be particularly tempting if I lived somewhere with summer rapidly approaching. On the other hand, I’ve had this for dinner three times this week alone here in increasingly frosty New Zealand. Once tasted, you’ll want to make time for this recipe all year round. And with frozen, cubed mango, it’s quite possible to do this. (And, I feel strenuously driven to make clear above the fold, if you hate coriander I have a variation for you.)

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Very easy chocolate-cherry macaroons

A top down view of evenly-spaced macaroons

Despite it being monumental false economy, not least because the same people who make the butter make the cream, I found myself purchasing a full litre of cream the other day in order to hand-churn my own butter in order to feel some semblance of control over the avaricious and extortionate pricing; and let’s not even think about eggs. This recipe for very easy chocolate-cherry macaroons sidesteps both ingredients, indeed, it sidesteps most ingredients altogether — and before I lose you, you can easily lose the cherries.

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Freeform black bean cobbler

a dish of black bean cobbler with a serving inside a bowl in front of it

After last week’s rampant whimsy we’re back to something practical with this freeform black bean cobbler; so named because it’s so adaptable that it might veer all the way around to being annoying again — in that sometimes having too many options just means you have to make more decisions, but I shall attempt to make it clear why the main suggested path is worth traversing, culinarily.

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