Hairy borage quiche

In case modern society is one day wiped out by a virus or a comet, or in case the zombie apocalypse comes to pass, I like to be prepared. This does not mean my house if full of bottled water, torches, shotguns and medikits. Those are only the short-term necessities, and I’m sure some other crackpot will think of those. Rather, I try to be prepared for the long run, which means I try as many different foods as possible, to increase my chances of survival when there will no longer be farmers to cultivate the fields and shops to sell me the picked, cleaned and ready-to-eat fruits of their labour. Hopefully, knowing which plants I can eat and which ones I can’t, I’ll be able to roam the fields of our by then desolate world and pick plants, herbs and wild fruits without dying of food poisoning in the first post-apocalypse week.

The last plant I ate in my never-ending journey through the edible vegetation of Italy was borage (or borraggine as they call it here). Borage is a plant that I’d always seen and which I firmly believed to be exclusively decorative – accidentally decorative, no less, because I imagined it was a weed that was fortunate enough to look kinda cute. Anyway, they sell this stuff at the farmers’ market here in Turin, and although I had no idea at the time what it was, it looked pretty interesting, so I asked the lady about it.

borage

She was one of those hard-as-nail grannies, with skin that had been turned into brown leather by years of toil under the Piemontese sun. She looked at me with the type of contempt that country people feel for us pale city dwellers. “It’s borragine, missy.” How could you not know? It bloody grows everywere. I was enthralled. “And you can actually eat this?” I asked. “Of course you can.” Or I wouldn’t be selling it at a food market, would I? I had trouble believing her. “Really? And what does it taste like?” The woman got bored of me. “It tastes like borage.”

I had to have some. I was just so curious. The lady, who had figured out what an utter idiot I was long before then, made me buy a kilo. “I’ll give you half a kilo for 80 cents, or one kilo for a euro. You might as well.” She shoved a kilo into a plastic bag. There was no for discussion.

I took it home and tried her suggestion: cutting it into pieces and boiling it like that. It was absolutely disgusting, so of course the next week, when I found someone else selling it, I bought more. That’s right. I’m not about to get defeated by some bitch-ass plant, no matter how exotic I might believe it is. This time round, I went to a different person – a young boy, who, in a beautiful instance of symbolism, sold borage that looked much greener, fresher, younger. It cost a lot more (1 euro for 300 gr), but at least it was edible.

So what does borage actually taste like? I guess the lady was right: it tastes like borage. It has a spinachy kind of quality to it, but it doesn’t quite taste like spinach. The flavour seems more wild, as if you’re eating a bunch of random herbs that you picked from a meadow. It’s nice! The texture is unlike anything I’ve ever had before, and I’m not sure I like it. This plant is just so fucking… hairy. It’s just hairy everywhere. The stems are hairy, the leaves are hairy, even the tiny flower are hairy. I can’t put that in my mouth and chew it, it’s just too weird. So instead I’ve had to purée my borage completely, so as to be able to enjoy the flavour without getting freaked out at its hairiness. What do you do with puréed borage? Either you make pansoti (a type of ligurian stuffed pasta), or you make a savoury borage pie. Kind of like a spinach quiche, but with borage. Bring on the zombie apocalypse. I’m ready.

borage quiche

For one borage quiche, use:

  • 300 gr borage
  • 150 gr ricotta
  • 4 eggs
  • a round puff pastry base, or get a block and roll it out yourself
  • salt and pepper

To spice this thing up a little, you could add:

  • 50 gr of bacon lardons

OR

  • 100 gr of smoked scamorza, cut into cubes

So, first of all wash your borage thoroughly. Dump it in the sink to soak in water for a while, rinse, repeat. Now cut it up into the finest slices you can possibly manage, like, 2 mm thick, if you can. The hairiness of this plant really weirds me out and I’m one of those allergic types so I could only handle it with gloves on.

borage, you so sweet

borage you so fine

Now boil your borage. Everyone told me to blanch it, but Italian overcook their vegetables something awful so by that they probably meant “boil it for 8 minutes”, which is what I did. You’ll notice it’s still hairy afterwards.

hairy borage

Now leave it in a sieve or colander for a while, make sure there’s not too much liquid left in it, then purée the hell out of it. Grab your favourite hand blender or chuck all of it in a food processor and let her rip.

Next, mix in the ricotta and the eggs, some salt and pepper, and the bacon or scamorza, if you’re using them.

Make a nice little puff pastry pattern on top, fold the sides over, shove it in the oven on 180°C for about 45 minutes. That’s all!

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A gift from Our Guy

I have a guy. Or rather: our flat has a guy. Here in Italy, everyone has a guy. In most countries, having a guy means having someone who goes around breaking the kneecaps of people who owe you money or looked at your sister the wrong way. Not in Italy. In Italy ‘having a guy’ means knowing someone who makes a certain product, normally food,  and who enables you to bypass normal channels, such as shops, to obtain this product.

Our guy makes wine. When our stock starts running low, rather than going to shops like some sort of commoners, we text our guy and tell him we need wine. He then tells us when he’s next going to be in Turin, and we arrange to be at home to receive his delicious produce, which he delivers in a big-ass, 52-litre demijohn. We then invite him to stay for dinner, because it’s important to keep your guy happy and be in his good books.

We are in our guy’s good books, clearly, because the other day we were over at his house for a short visit, and he treated us particularly well, with wine, food, and banter. That day, as often, we were discussing wine – especially the various types of wine he makes. We always get Barbera (red) or Cortese (white), but he let us taste some of the other ones, too.

Then we got to the Brachetto, a slightly sparkling, sweet dessert wine. I didn’t want to offend, but I had to be honest: I hate sweet wine. That’s OK, he assured me, many people do. The trick, however, is to drink it not as if it were a wine, but a dessert. Throw some fruit in, he said. Strawberries, or peaches in syrup, so you can drink the wine and then eat the alcohol-soaked fruit. He reached into one of the many boxes of bottles that were standing around in the pantry. “Here, take this bottle. It’s a gift, just to see what you think. Let me know.”

I tried. It was good. I ended up going for nectarines, because they are a) kinda in season, and b) actually much nicer than strawberries, and  less sweet than peaches in syrup, which is good if you want to balance out the flavour of the sweet, sweet wine a little bit. We had this on a hot day, just after a barbecue, and it really hit the spot. It’s kind of like sangría, so this is probably nothing new to you, but if you ever get the chance to buy some Brachetto and some nectarines, give this a shot.

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So for 5 or 6 people, use:

  • 1 bottle of brachetto
  • 3 or 4 nectarines, ripe ones, preferably already on the soft side
  • ice cubes (optional)

Chill the Brachetto a little bit beforehand, but not too much.

Remove the skin from your nectarines. If they’re pretty ripe, you can probably pull it off pretty easily: make a small incision near the stick, then pull down.

Cut the nectarines into wee cubes, chuck those into the desired number of glasses, top with Brachetto, and if you feel it’s a bit too hot out, chuck in a couple of ice cubes.

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Genova, the home of focaccia and other earthly pleasures

Last Friday was Labour Day, which meant we had a three-day weekend! What do Italians do when they get a three-day weekend? They get out of town. So we did, too. The journey took us to Genova, well-established as the world’s best fucking city ever, or possibly a good third after maybe, I don’t know, Glasgow and Naples or something.

The journey from Turin took us through the beautiful Langhe, a zone in the south of Piemonte, where we tasted wine and bought cheese – the stuff people normally do in the Langhe. Then onwards we went to Genova. The journey and arrival weren’t entirely without trouble, and due to a series of unlikely but in hindsight highly amusing events, we ended up sleeping in a local whorehouse for a night – which, funnily enough, is the stuff that people normally do in Genova, on account of it being a port city and all. The bed was comfortable, but predictably dirty, and not even just with the obligatory ‘dodgy white stain’ dirty, but like, strangely dirty. After we lifted up the covers, we saw the mattress was strewn with crumbs. Presumably focaccia crumbs, because that’s what the Genovese eat all the time, even when they go to visit the local cathouse, apparently.

Let’s talk about this focaccia. Focaccia is delicious. Focaccia is a giant slab of soft, white, greasy, salty bread. You can have focaccia just like that, with only salt and oil, but you can also pimp it with some rosemary, or some onion, or tomatoes, or you can go all out like they do in Recco (a town near Genova) and add cheese and stuff.

The best focaccia in Genova, if you ask me, comes from focacceria Olimpo in Piazza della Nunziata. It’s the location that does it, I reckon: right in the university hotspot of the city, so all the dirt-poor students go in there for a 1 euro slice of focaccia – the cheapest, most satisfying lunch in town. The bakers at Olimpo are constantly pulling fresh focaccia out of the oven, and you can taste it. It’s always still warm, slightly too greasy and just salty enough. I love it. Back when I stayed in Genova I went there all the time, getting my fill of delicious delicious focaccia. But now I live in Turin and I can’t do that, so we’re just going to have to make our own.

Yeah, OK, of course there are places where you can buy focaccia in Turin. But making your own is fun, and surprisingly easy! I was going to do a recipe for a yeast starter one, but then someone gently pointed out to me that most people don’t have a yeast starter, and that such a recipe would be absolutely useless to most people who read this. Fresh yeast it is, then!

focaccia so tasty focaccia so delicious

For a decently sized focaccia you will need:

  • 8 gr baker’s yeast (I used compressed yeast, not sure about the quantities if you want to use a different kind)
  • 500 gr flour, plus extra for dusting
  • 3 tbsp of olive oil, plus 3 extra for coating and 3 more for greasing
  • 1 tbsp of fine salt
  • 1 tbsp of honey
  • a sprinkle of coarse (sea) salt
  • 200 ml lukewarm water, plus a little extra for dissolving purposes

First of all, crumble up your yeast in a large bowl and dissolve it in a little bit of lukewarm water. In a separate, smaller bowl, dissolve the salt in some lukewarm water, and add the honey to the concoction, stirring well so that it’s all mixed up together.

Add about half the flour to the yeast, add the 200 ml of lukewarm water and three tablespoons of the olive oil, then mix properly so that it becomes a fairly liquid paste. Now add the salt-and-honey mix, stir well, and add the last of the flour. Dust a work surface with flour, and start working the dough. If it’s very sticky, add a little bit of flour (directly on your hands is a good option), not too much, the dough should be quite soft.

When you have a nice, smooth ball, quickly grease a baking tray, and pop the dough on there. Gently rub some oil on its surface (use your hands or one of those funky silicone brushes!). Now stick it in the oven, not to bake just yet, only to rise, so do not turn the oven on, and open it as little as possible whilst the dough is in there. The oven is a nice and cosy environment for rising dough – no draughts, no changing temperatures, no one poking their head in to see how it’s doing… Nice and tranquil. Leave it there for about 3 or 4 hours.

focaccia dough so beautiful

After a few hours, your focaccia dough ball will have doubled in size, more or less. Good. Take it out, and gently spread it around the baking tray. You want the thing to be more or less the same thickness everywhere. Try not to rupture the surface tension, as I tend to call it for lack of a better word – the dough has a sort of skin that is best left intact. OK, shove it back into the oven (still off!) for an hour. Again, it will rise a little bit.

focaccia dough so spread out

Now pull it out again, and this time, we’re going to make that characteristic focaccia pattern. Use your fingers to press down lightly on the dough, creating little craters. At this point you can add your condiments. Mix some oil with water (mix really hard, it’ll work, trust me), rub or brush that on the surface, and also add some coarse salt, and maybe some rosemary. I think focaccia is great by itself, just salt and oil, but the rosemary version is more photogenic so I want for that one this time.

focaccia dough so cratery focaccia dough so salty focaccia dough so sprinkled with rosemary

OK, one very last time in the oven to rise. Maybe about 45 minutes, and then you pull it out, turn on the oven, preheat it at the hottest you’ve got – probably 250°C. Shove it in there for about 15 minutes, then, when it’s all golden brown and delicious, pull it out, and one last time, sprinkle or brush it with a little bit of olive oil. Just a little bit more. Now cut it into strips and eat it hot. Best day ever, man.

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The unhealthiest thing in the world

In various previous posts I’ve told you guys all about how weird Italians are, right? Well, we’re gonna do some more of that today. It recently became known to me that Italians have this irrational terror of peanut butter. They think it’s possibly the unhealthiest thing in existence (yes, I’m including drug abuse). The day I bought a jar of peanut butter (from the Chinese shop, of course – they cater to all my foreign desires), no fewer than three people felt the need to comment on how bad it supposedly is for you.

Now I realise that Italians have what is possibly the best diet in the world, and their grannies are the oldest grannies after maybe the Japanese or something, so surely they must have some idea of what is healthy and what isn’t. But I’m going to have to point something out here: this nation eats cakes for breakfast. This nation raises its children on milk, coffee and nutella. This nation worships Ferrero as if it were their king. No one would have bothered to comment if my jar of peanut butter had been a jar of nutella. Surely if hazelnuts-with-sugar is considered a breakfast of champions, then this is a nation that knows absolutely nothing about nut-based spreads?

Anyway, I really like peanut butter. It’s not really the coolest or the most sophisticated product, but goddamn, it’s tasty. It’s not really sweet nor savoury – it’s somewhere in between, which means that it goes with fucking anything. There’s of course the classic peanut butter and jam (my least favourite), but have you ever tried peanut butter and slices of cucumber, or peanut butter and cheese? Both are excellent, I guarantee it. Then my Canadian friend showed me something pretty bonkers the other day: stalks of celery, filled with peanut butter and raisins. I wasn’t too convinced at first, but it was good!

If you ask me, however, the best combination of them all is peanut butter and banana, the one that’s so good that it killed Elvis (or am I confusing peanut butter with drug abuse again?). And at some point in your life you decide that peanut butter and banana sandwiches just aren’t gonna cut it anymore, and that you need to indulge in something a little more decadent. That’s the day when you decide to make a peanut butter and banana Victoria sandwich, or in layman’s terms, two stacked spongecakes with a bunch of cream in the middle. And if you’re Italian? You can just replace the peanut butter with nutella and feel all healthy as you have this for breakfast.

IMG_2967 peanut butter banana time

Credit where it’s due: this recipe is based on Mary Berry’s banana loaf, with some small alterations. For one peanut butter Victoria sandwich, you will need:

  • 4 ripe bananas
  • 3 tbsp of peanut butter
  • 2 eggs
  • 100 gr softened butter
  • 175 gr sugar
  • 225 gr flour
  • 1 sachet (or 16 gr) baking powder
  • a splash of milk
  • 125 ml whipping cream
  • icing sugar

Keep two bananas and the whipping cream apart – you’ll need these for the cream.

All of the other ingredients go in a bowl together where you just beat the hell out of them until it’s a nice liquid batter. Go easy on the milk, just a couples of tablespoons first, and add only if you feel the mixture needs to be more liquid. Now line a small (20cm or so) cake tin with baking parchment (or if you don’t have any, slather it in butter) and pour in half the cake mixture. Bake on 180°C for about 35 minutes. Poke a knife in to see if it’s done inside, if yes remove from the pan, leave it to cool and meanwhile, stick the next cake in the oven.

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Once both cakes are done, you’ll need to leave them to cool for at least a couple of hours. When they’re cool, whip your cream so that it’s suitably hard – you want to keep mixing a bit longer than you would normally. Now use a (hand)blender or food processor to purée your bananas.

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Mix them with the whipped cream, so that you get a nice banana-flavoured mixture. Spread this over one of the cakes, then put the second cake on top. Finish the whole thing off with some icing sugar.

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My lunch is better than yours

For a living I go around all these offices trying to teach fully grown men and women English. It’s a dirty job but someone’s gotta do it, kinda, and it pays the bills, so I’m not complaining. Plus, I get to hang out in some pretty interesting places where I’d never go otherwise.

Some days of the week I actually head out of town and go to this giant IT complex out in the middle of nowhere. It’s lodged in between a bunch of motorways, so you can only arrive there by car or by using the shuttle bus for employees. It feels pretty remote in there because of this. It’s also impossible to nip out for a quick coffee, sandwich or anything, unless you want to risk ending up as road kill on your way to the nearest supermarket.

Because you can’t possibly leave 2000 people to starve within a complex that you can only enter and exit in motorised vehicles, there’s a giant canteen where people go for lunch. I don’t go to the canteen for lunch. I hate the canteen. It’s not only the fact that walking around with a tray of food looking for a place to sit makes me feel like a lost schoolgirl, although it does. It’s mostly the fact that they charge me extra because I’m not an employee, despite their employees actually making way more cash than me. It’s not even subtle. It’s right there, on your receipt: pasta €4.99, apple €0.50 OUTSIDER SURCHARGE €1. Well fuck you too, canteen. I’ll bring my own food.

Although a sandwich is always a fine meal, fit for kings, sometimes I want something slightly less bready. In those cases I usually bring fried rice. Last time I made Chinese egg and tomato rice, which is delicious and definitely much nicer than anything they sell in the stupid canteen. I’m not sure my preparation is the traditional Chinese one (I’ve understood that it exists in many varieties), but it works for me.

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For two lunches, use the following:

  • 2 cups of boiled white rice
  • 10 cherry tomatoes (or 4 normal ones if you don’t have cherry tomatoes), chopped
  • 4 spring onions, thinly sliced and white and green parts separated
  • 4 eggs
  • 2 tsp of sesame oil
  • a generous splash of vinegar (I use some funky ass vinegar from the Chinese shop – you decide)
  • some sugar, salt and pepper
  • some frying oil

First of all, you need to beat your eggs and add a little bit of sesame oil and salt. Now grab a frying pan, heat some frying oil in it, then add the egg. Be careful: you don’t actually want the egg to go all that hard. Every 5 – 10 seconds or so, when the egg on the bottom of the frying pan is about to go solid, you quickly scoop it all up and sort of flip it over. Repeat this three or four times, until you’ve got a fairly liquid mixture with some more or less solid chunks of egg in it, like maybe about 50/50 solid and liquid.

Now remove your eggs from the pan, chuck them back into the bowl where you beat them, add some more frying oil to the pan if necessary and chuck in the tomatoes and the whites of the spring onions. Add the vinegar and the sugar, a little more than what you’d feel comfortable with, probably, and fry on high heat for a couple of minutes.

Once the tomatoes have released most of their juice and they’re pretty sweet and sour, add the rice and mix well.Then add the egg, remove the pan from the heat and stir well. The liquid egg will coat the rice in a delicious eggy layer. Now either serve up straight away, or leave it to cool and have it the next day for lunch, in either case topped with the green of the spring onions.

I have my lunch surreptitious IMG_2937

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All the firsts of spring

As I said last week, the arrival of spring is possibly the most exciting time of the year. People coming out of their houses scantily clad, fruit coming back in season, animals copulating furiously everywhere. I love spring. In Scotland you always had to wait until May or June for spring to come, but here in Italy the 21st of March actually brings you sun, not just false promises.

Spring is a time of firsts: first sunburn of the year, first insect bites of the year, first time of the year you wake up with your eyes swollen shut because you forgot what a bitch hay fever can be… First bare-legs day of the year, first time going to work without a jacket, first outside drinks… And of course, the first barbecue of the year!

We had ours last weekend and it was a grand success. Lobster-red shoulders galore. Sore muscles because after a full season of inertia, playing frisbee for 20 minutes feels like top-sport. Asking your barbecue neighbours in the park for a bottle opener 3 times an hour because you forgot yours. I know it doesn’t sound like it, but I actually love love love all these things. They’re signs that life is going to be mostly outside again, in the sun, in the heat, in the park.

Of course as is traditional when barbecuing, we bought waaaay too much food. Because it had been out of the fridge all day, we couldn’t just freeze it, and instead it had to be cooked first. That is why on Sunday evening I was standing in my kitchen, half wasted, skin glowing red, insect bites itching, roasting a kilo of chicken and frying up another half kilo of sausages. The sausages were fried with broccoli, stuffed in a tupperware, and classified as lunch for the next day. The chicken was thrown in the oven just like that, cooled down overnight and stuffed in the freezer the next morning, except we didn’t have enough space in the freezer, so I was left with two chunks of chicken that needed to be eaten soon. No problem.

You can only eat so much meat and carbs (barbecues tend to be bread-heavy) – we want fibre. What to do? I figured I’d just use some of the chicken for a salad. Kind of like a Caesar salad, except in the meantime I’ve done some research and I’ve discovered that a Caesar salad isn’t meant to contain chicken at all. So just like a chicken salad, then. Chicken salad it is.

chicken on a stick with the dictatress you rarely get sick

For this thing here you will need, if you’re with a friend:

  • Some lettuce of your choice
  • 12 small tomatoes (like, cherry tomatoes or something)
  • 2 stalks of celery
  • a piece of chicken that you have left from the barbecue, roasted in the oven
  • 2 eggs
  • some parmesan
  • some bread to make croutons
  • some olive oil

Boil the eggs. Wash all your vegetables, cut your lettuce into strips, quarter your tomatoes and thinly slice your celery. Put them in a bowl. Grab your chicken and tear it apart into more or less bite-sized chunks. Add them to the vegetables. Grab a slice of bread and slowly roast it in a frying pan without oil, turning occasionally. Take a knife to it and cut it up into crouton-sized bits. Add them to the salad. Now add some parmesan (thin slices, use a cheese-slicer if you have one). Top with olive oil and you’re all set to enjoy a responsible, low-carb, high-fibre, leftover-based lunch.

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Posted in barbecue, chicken, cooking, Food, Meat, recipes, salad | Tagged , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

All year should be Easter

All that build-up to Easter, and then in just a couple of days, it’s over. What a shame. I’m gutted. Easter is my favourite holiday. Better than Christmas. Better than Halloween. Better than Valentine’s. What can I say, I just really like tiny bunnies and coloured eggs, and more than anything, I like the fact that it’s spring and therefore almost summer. Easter is the best by association, mostly.

Easter is just so good because it announces better times. I’m not too bothered about Jesus, I’m talking more Eostre, dawn, new light, new life, fertility and all that jazz. I’m talking about no longer being cold and miserable, and just celebrating that we can start sitting outside again.

Here in Italy they’ve got some pretty funky outside-sitting Easter traditions, ranging from eating fava beans and cured meats in a field to having barbecues just about anywhere, of course all of it accompanied by copious amounts of wine. I’d love to join my new compatriots in this grilling business, of course, but for me Easter equals eggs, so I headed up North for the weekend and got colouring. Every year, my parents hide Easter eggs around the garden for me and my (equally adult) siblings, and I’d missed out on it a couple of years, so this year I had a catch-up.

Normally I let my mum take care of the dirty work, but this year  I felt a strange urge to try some natural dyes that have been doing the rounds on the internet, so I took to colouring the eggs myself. They didn’t turn out as bright as usual (or as expected), but I actually kinda liked them. They looked pretty artsy and I’m contemplating dyeing eggs like this year round. I mean, why not? Dyeing eggs is ridiculous any time of the year, so why should it be acceptable one weekend of the year, but not the other 51? Try this, have some fun, and then amaze everyone with your artsy eggs.

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So, apart from about twenty (preferably white) eggs, you will need:

First colouring:

  • some flowers and small leaves
  • a bunch of onion skins
  • some string

Second colouring:

  • a soup bowl of boiling water
  • 4 tsp of curcuma
  • 1 tbsp of vinegar
  • some rubber bands

Third colouring:

  • 3 beets, root and leaves
  • a pot full of water
  • some vinegar
  • some string

First of all, prepare your kitchen surface or wherever your working like so.

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Make sure you’ve got everything handy – eggs, flowers, leaves, water, onion skins, string.

Soak the onion skins in water, they’ll be easier to work with later. Now dip your egg in the water – the flowers will be easier to stick to the shell this way. Cover the egg in flowers and leaves, then cover those with onion shells. Keep them in place with copious amounts of string. This is a bit of a pain but you’ll get it with a little bit of swearing and determination.

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Boil the eggs in their onion skins for about 10 minutes, then drain them and rinse them with cold water. They’ll look awesome!

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Next colouring:

Boil some white eggs in about 8 minutes, drain and rinse. Don’t pour the boiling water down the drain, instead mix it in a bowl with the curcuma and the vinegar. Mix well. Wrap the eggs with some rubber bands, creating a funky stripy pattern. Carefully drop the eggs in the mixture, and leave them there for at least 3 hours, or just overnight, what do you care.

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Last colouring! This one is a bit of a pain, but you get funky violet eggs.

Peel the beets, cut them into slices and boil them in about 12 minutes. Don’t chuck them out, you can use them for beet and goat’s cheese salad which is not my favourite thing ever, but still pretty good. Make sure you use as little water as you can possibly get away with.

Now when you drain your beets, again, save the water. Add some vinegar, and leave some white eggs to colour for at least 3 hours.

As for the beet leaves, you can put those to the same use as the onion skins before. Stick a bunch of flowers and leaves to an egg, wrap it in beat leaves, then boil them like that for about 10 minutes. The effect will be much more subtle, as the beet leaves give off far less colour than the onion skins, but they’ll still look really cool.

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Posted in cooking, eggs, Food, holidays, recipes, seasonal, snacks, Vegetarian | Tagged , , , , , | 2 Comments