Sardine supper

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

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

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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Lentils, feta, dates and mint

A fork resting on a plate of lentil salad on a wooden board on red and brown fabric

To paraphrase Billy Bragg, who himself was paraphrasing Paul Simon, I was 21 years when I started this food blog, I’m 40 now (as of last Friday, that is) and still writing it, obstinately unchanging as the internet around me evolves but also largely turns to sludge. I was student-broke back in 2007, and now everyone is sucked under by the economy; whether or not you have a solid salary and full-time job, you never quite feel like you can see further than the next week, jaw perpetually clenched. A year ago I canvassed people’s opinion via instagram story polls to find what they sought in recipes; “girl, the cost-of-living crisis” ranked highest. A year later, the vibe prevails, and I’m not sure how many more birthdays will tick over before it’s simply considered endemic. It certainly feels well on the way. Amid this context, I bring you a fairly modest recipe, which nonetheless enraptured me: Lentils, feta, dates, and mint.  

(Also, my birthday was terrific and I’m delighted, if mildly startled, to be 40—it really seemed like something that only happened to people much older than me—but let’s face it, the real landmark birthday on the horizon will be when hungryandfrozen.com turns 20 next year.)

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Vietnamese-adjacent noodles with beef, chilli and mint

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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Pea, mint and feta dip

A blue dish of pea and mint dip with pretzel crackers and mint leaves

A new year is upon us. And like so many before it, we once more stand upon the precipice of a fresh 365 where things are ALREADY dreadful, globally-wise. I myself am no stranger to the minor inconveniences that can feel like they’re setting the tone for the year ahead against your will: wisdom teeth (that I thought had been removed! At great expense!!) dancing a merry ceilidh directly into my nerves, a will-they-won’t-they of trying to find the singular nice affordable apartment to rent in this city with my girlfriend only to have previously accepted offers retracted, like riding a rollercoaster directly into a brick wall. One only has to glance at the internet briefly to put all this into stark perspective and I was still blessed with a charming and delightful Christmas and an antic-filled, if woefully brief, summer break. While I feel neither rested nor organised, I nonetheless have spatula-d myself together for 2026 to bring you this recipe for pea, mint and feta dip. Much like the summer break, it’s quick.

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

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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Chicken, red grape, pecan and brie salad

A top-down shot of a leaf-shaped bowl of salad with a fork on a dark wooden board

Now that my debut novel Hoods Landing is past-tense launched in Wellington and Auckland, normal transmission must resume, and yet! Every time I blink an hour has passed and it’s next Thursday and a certain flat the-party’s-over malaise threatens.

Nonetheless I’m clambering onwards like a self-absorbed and energetic goat with a food blog, and bring you a salad of such glad tidings that it could only be inspired by a hedonistically carefree Silver Palate cookbook, whose authors address the reader as if we all have holiday homes in Portugal and the Hamptons, and let’s face it, the government still hasn’t worked out a way to privatise and flog off one’s personal vicarious thrills so you might as well get them while you can. And although it has a lot of words in the title, this chicken, red grape, pecan and brie salad is more or less practical, and can make quite a lot out of a little lux-ness.

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2 x Hoods Landing Cocktails

Two cocktails in tall glasses with mint garnish and four books in the background

Although my debut novel Hoods Landing is now out, alive, sharing the same realm as us; I hope you’ll permit me one more literary-culinary flourish ahead of Thursday’s launch party in Auckland. For what it’s worth, despite actually being a double flourish of two cocktail recipes, I’m going to keep this relatively succinct as I am no less feverish and hectic and wild-eyed than I was eleven days ago when we launched it for the first time (and exceptionally so) in Wellington. Thus far I can tell you that the life of a novelist involves a lot of refreshing notification screens and being immensely humbled and grateful. To celebrate that launch, I made chocolate mousse; to féte Auckland, an Old Fashioned variation that I call the Hermit; plus a bonus reminder of the Hoods Landing Punch recipe that I shared on Instagram before the last launch in a fugue state of optimistic tangential self-promotion.

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Rita’s chocolate mousse

Two coupe glasses of chocolate mousse, one resting on a stack of small plates with two pink teaspoons also on the plates. A stack of Hoods Landing books are in the background

Kia ora, and welcome to a special edition in honour of my debut novel Hoods Landing launching TODAY, 31 October 2025. If you’re in Wellington, please join me at Unity tonight to fete its arrival, if you’re in Auckland I will see you on 13 November, Christchurch—something’s imminent. And no matter where you are, you can order this book online or ask for it by name in your local indie bookshop! Thank you all so much for both bearing with me and being part of this momentum and this momentous occasion.

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