Fish and quips on St George's Day

I've previously spoken, as a guilty lurker, of checking out Pioneer Woman everyday (Sorry, you can't click through. She doesn't need ANOTHER link! C'mon, I'm not being mean... am I?)

Another blog I semi-lurk at is Sam's blog at Becks & Posh. Sam is English, living in San Francisco, and an ultimate foodie. Not only does she like to cook it, photograph it, and eat it, BUT she has the energy to blog about it too!

To celebrate St George's Day - which was yesterday - Sam launched a blampaign (blog campaign) called 'Fish and Quips', inviting all bloggers to do their bit to prove English food isn't a joke, and to post a delicious English tucker recipe on their blog to celebrate.

Well, I just popped on over to Sam's and started drooling immediately. The recipes and pics submitted by bloggers around the world look absolutely mouth-watering, and being an Aussie, there's a lot of familiar dishes there (I'd say I was brought up 60 per cent English stodge style, 40 per cent combined Asian (and in Oz, Asian is East Asia, not the Indian sub continent) and Mediterranean).

But looking through this list made me realise something else.

I actually feel sorta at home in England. Now... I'm still a proud Aussie, orright?! I've never lived in the UK, I've only been there a handful of times, and I still don't want England to win anything like the cricket or the rugby.

However, in light of the fact that my 'home' home is an expensive 27 hour flight away, and that I have many friends and family in the UK (oh, and I'm a British citizen), the UK is the place I go to when I need to speak English and stock up on Vegemite and Aussie wine buy products I'm familiar with.

And as it was, moving to Sydney made me realise that Poms and Aussies are very similar. We talk the same language (well, we do!). We're not selfish - we haven't taken you, I mean, the 'u' out of colour, favour, humour or favourite. And we're poncy with our spelling - we like writing cheques, changing tyres, and playing tennis with racquets.

And then there's the suburbs. In Australia, we have: Lewisham, Haymarket, Croydon, Paddington, Brighton, Kensington, Petersham, Chiswick, Camberwell, Camden, Guildford, Cleveland, Gladstone, Kew, Richmond and Hyde Park, to name a few...

(Then again, we also have Woolloomooloo, Kurri Kurri, Narraweena, Ku-ring-gai, Woolloongabba, Murwillumbah, Tallebudgerah, and Wooloowin... But just ignore me.)

And... we all love Jamie Oliver and Nigella Lawson. And we love fish and chips (and if you come from Noo Zulland, you'd love fush and chups).

So there you go. Check out the tucker. It makes me want to go to England.

Fun Monday for a fish out of water

This will be a quick Fun Monday, as I'm not on my own computer, not sitting in my own house, or not in either of the two countries that I currently call 'home'.

So, here's my take on Fun Monday. For all the participants, visit Beccy at Peppermint Tea.

This week Beccy challenged us to post a recipe that would inspire her to cook it, so here goes mine.


Warm duck salad

Get a bowl. Throw in two handfuls of rucola and mixed salad leaves. Blanch some green beans, then add them. Crumble a handful of fetta cheese in too. Boil up a few beets until cooked, quarter them, and chuck them in too. Toast some walnuts in a frying pan, then chop them and add them to the mix.

In a seperate bowl, spoon in two tablespoons of warmed cranberry sauce, the juice and seeds of one pommegranate, one heaped teaspoon of dijon mustard, a good splosh of red wine vinegar, and a couple of glugs of olive oil. Season with salt and pepper and whisk to mix.

Heat a frying pan and cook two duck breats (skin on). On medium heat, cook skin side down for about eight minutes, then turn onto flesh side and cook for about one minute. Then pop the breasts into a pre-heated oven on 180 degrees celcius for about 5 minutes. The duck breasts will be medium rare.

Slice the breasts, chuck them into the salad bowl. Toss the salad to mix, and pour dressing over.

Serves four as an extree. Accompany with a carb - e.g. polenta, risotto or potatoes to make into a main.

Enjoy, and sorry about being uninspring.

Sprung is spring (hang on, I'm not a kiwi), and Sunday lunch

(In case you're wondering why I've posted a Sunday post on a Monday, it's because our darling internet provider saw fit to leave us with access for the past 24 hours or so).

Today, Mr Moi and I 'entertained'. Which is an achievement in itself, as it's not exactly easy to fit more than him and me inside out 50 square metres. Or, be organised enough to entertain.

Nevertheless, we did. But before we could 'entertain', we had to go shopping. And in typical Moi fashion, we only felt the pressure to prepare at 11:30am, which is exactly 1.5 hours before our guests were due to arrive.

"Oh shiza, we'd better go to MegaMarket and purchase some actual food, otherwise our guests will eat gruel," said I to Mr Moi.

So off we popped to MegaMarket to save our guests from the hell that is gruel (or Ukrainian takeout. Same difference, really).

And, as Murphy himself dictated it would be, when you're in a bloody hurry for the first time ever in the history of your living in this town and entertaining - you run into someone you know. And not just one person, but three.

Yes, that's right. I've been in this town for going on five months, and I've never run into anyone I know at MegaMarket, but today I run into three people. Being the nice gal I am, I have to stop and share my life story with all.

I never shop on Sundays, and if I did, it wouldn't be before midday, by choice. Obviously, english speaking women do.

The good news is the guests were about an hour late, which gave me enough time to clean the kitchen before they came, and I felt like a good wife.

Und, vot vas on ze menu?

Starters
Fresh tomato in garlic, onion, olive oil and parsley, served on grilled bread rubbed with garlic
Home made hommous
Ukrainian sushi (flatbread spread with cream cheese, pickles and dill, layered with smoked salmon, rolled up and cut into sushis and topped with caviar mmMMmmMMmMm)

Main
Mediterranean chicken (chicken breasts cooked in dried fruits, olives, capers, wine and red wine vinegar) on a bed of cous cous
Rucola salad with stuffed olives and coriander in a garlic, sumac and red wine vinegar dressing

Dessert
Strawberries mascerated in sugar and balsamic vinegar, with ice cream.

Do you you wish you'd been invited?

Sometimes you just have to laugh...

On my way home from an afternoon coffee at a friend's house, I decided to pop into the supermarket to pick up some food for dinner.

Surveying the shelves with rather low energy levels, I decided I would make pasta puttanesca - an oldie, but a goodie (and a really bloody quickie). For this, I needed anchovies.

Surprisingly, this store had a large range of anchovies. I plucked a medium sized jar off the shelf, chucked a couple of other things in the basket as I zoomed through the aisles, and made my way to the checkout.

It was getting rather late, and knowing Mr Moi's voracious appetite, I stood impatiently in line while I waited for the checkout-chick to finish with the people in front of me. While I was waiting, a young fella came and stood behind me with nothing in his hands.

"Hmm, I wonder what he's buying," I thought.

It's times like this when my imagination goes wild. In the period of about five seconds, I first thought that he might pickpocket me (so I pulled my bag around to the front), then I thought he might be security and want to search my bag (so I shifted by back back around to my back), then I realised he looked like a cool cat, so he's probably just lining up to by some cigarettes.

By this time, the checkout-chick had started scanning my items. She picked up the anchovies, looked at the jar and said something to me in Russian.

Of course I didn't understand, and usually in this instance I will say, "I don't understand", in Russian. This, of course, leads people to believe that I do understand Russian, but didn't understand what they just said, so they will persist in Russian, which leads to a prolonged and frustrating exchange, which achieves nothing.

In order to avoid this inevitability, I lazily said to her (in English), "Sorry, I didn't understand what you said."

She proceeds to pick up the bottle of anchovies, point to it, then point to a barcode on another product. Pointing back at the anchovies, she said, "Nyet, nyet."

Fair enough. No barcode. I replied, "Da, harashoo," to prove that I understood her sign language. She looks at me, shrugs her shoulders with a smile on her face, puts the anchovies aside and continues to scan.

No sign that she's going to organise a replacement. No sign that she's going to get a price check.

So I said, "WELL! I'll just go and get another bottle shall I?" and stormed off, pushing past the cool-cat-security-guard-pickpocketer behind me, saying rather loudly, "F***ing couldn't get someone to f***ing get a replacement for me, f***ing great customer service grrr."

(It doesn't matter that I said f*** out loud. Because in Ukrainian, it means 'lovely and wonderful, smells like roses').

I stalked down to the anchovy section, grabbed a bottle (with a barcode), stalked back up to the checkout and slammed it on the belt.

As I'm pulling out my wallet to pay, I notice the cool-cat-security-guard-pickpocketer behind me has started humming a tune.

"Do, do do do do do, do do do do do do do do, don't worry. Do do do do do do do, be happy, do do do do do."

Well, coming from a Ukrainian, who I know to be rather terse, humourless and unhelpful (only when you don't know them), I just had to laugh. Just quietly, and just to myself (didn't want to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me happy; it's not the Ukrainian way).

As I walked off, he started to sing the words. I wanted to grab him and hug him, as it's the first time in five months that public interaction in a shop or the like has resulted in me breaking out in a grin. But again, it's not the Ukrainain way.

Still, I walked home happy. If it's good enough for a Ukrainain, it's good enough for me. I have a new mantra.

Now THAT's a sausage

I've learned that there are some days, as an expat, you just want to curl up and not face the world.

For me, today was one of those days.

Today I was strangely compelled to sit on the couch and do nothing but watch the telly and eat a bit of junk food.

(Or, more truthfully, I had to catch up on about a million Fun Monday posts).

So instead of depressing you with the reasons why I didn't want to front up to the world today (in fact, there isn't a reason), I thought I'd show you a picture of what we had for dinner last night.

This is half of a Ukrainian sausage.

I've seen some curly sausages in my day - I have many a Zimbabwean and South African friend who's treated me to the delights of boerewors over the years (and yes, it's a very yummy sausage. Good for camping, and brekky).

Here in Ukraine, there are lots of sausages available, always of the piggy persuasion, and always laced with a shizen-load of fat. So far, we've resisted the temptation to purchase, but when we decided to make a yummy risotto that calls for Italian pork sausages, we decided to brave the Ukie snag.

After we'd lugged the snag home and pulled it out to start the risotto, we were very surprised to find that, contrary to any other sausage we've ever eaten, this snag wasn't made with minced meat - rather, chunks of pork, and chunks of fat.

We used half the sausage for the risotto, and had to eat the other half for dinner last night.

The photo shows 'the other half'. It was seriously the most giant and chunkiest sausage I have ever seen.

Do you want to take a closer look? Here goes...

What do you think? That's some sausage...

Grocery shopping in Oo-kray-ii-na

I have a new blog friend, which is not surprising. I have only been blogging for one month, so all my friends are technically new friends.

My friend is Willowtree, and his blog is called 'A dingo's got my barbie' (what a tribute to Lindy). Willowtree lives in rural Australia (strangely considered the outback by a few of his readers), and he has inspired me to post about my grocery items. This is because he recently posted two rather entertaining pieces about groceries - part one is here. And part two is here.

So this one's for you, Willowtree.

Today I toddled off to the local supermarket to get some groceries. My local is called 'MegaMarket' and, like all supermarkets in Kyiv, it sells a random collection of goods. Whatever you want to buy is not there. What you don't want, is. For example, I might be looking for brown sugar, or cornflour. Not there. But if I want four aisles of Russian chocolate, I have it. Yum (err, not).

Or three aisles of vodka. Two aisles of beer. One of juice. One of really bad Crimean wine and champagne. Do you get the idea that Ukrainians don't mind a bit of a tipple? Well, you're right.

Really, it's not too hard to shop in Ukraine. Even if you can't understand the writing on pack, you can either see the product itself or a slightly representative picture on pack. Personally I sure can't tell from reading the label, because most labels are in Ukrainian. Never mind that most people speak Russian in this part of the country.

And, instead of stocking a range of goods, the store will only offer one good, in one brand. You want canned corn? You have to buy Bonnedelle. End of story. Instant noodles? Big Ben. Cornflakes? Nestle all the way, baby!

MegaMarket's range changes from week to week, so if I see something I like (like Heinz Baked Beans), I buy in bulk as there's every chance they will disappear within the week and not return for three years.

So. Today's shop was only a small shop. I purchased the following groceries for the royal sum of 70 gryvnias, or $US14.

Here's what you get for $14 in Kyiv:

(I have cropped the photo very close so you're not subjected to my landlord's horrid taste in wallpaper. Also, I already owned the toaster. The kitchen is so small, the toaster lives on the table).

Now, I could translate for you. I really could... if I was learning Ukrainian. But, as I mentioned before, in that cruel twist of fate, everyone in this town speaks Russian, but not one sign or label is written in Russian. So not only is Russian a bloody hard language, but I can't even soak it up via osmosis.

Let's look at some of these items a little closer. Firstly, the mushrooms. By the time I left Sydney, mushrooms were retailing for $8.99 (aussie) a kilo.

grib'i shampin'on i vesov'ie

In Kyiv, these babies retail for $US3 per kilo. Yes, some people do choose to steer clear of mushies in Ukraine, as mushrooms (and berries) absorb a lot of radiation. But I'm putting my faith in MegaMarket not to sell me Chernobyl mushies.

Next the carrots. This ubiquitous root vegie sells here for 50 cents per kilo. What a bargain! At that price, they sometimes come dirty, but I can live with that. I've eaten so many carrots in Ukraine my skin is turning orange. And I can see in the dark.

morkov' vesovaya

The price here -1.78 gryvnias - is about 35 cents.

Next we have some delicious chips. The brand name is 'Lyuks'. I'm not sure what that means, but the flavour is cheese and I trust this brand because it's a Kraft brand. I figure that means no MSG and a certain level of quality assurance.

Lyuks nizhniy sir

You can also see my Gallina Blanca pasta sneaking a peak in there, and again below, along with my 'toonets', or tuna.

toonets

I don't usually eat much canned fish, but I figure: when you can't trust the meat, or the butcher of the meat, you can always trust fish in a can. This tuna cost about $US1 per can, and comes in springwater. Oh, no, make that simply, water.

Now. Thank God for globalisation, without which, I wouldn't be able to bring you the worthy Snickers Bar and Mars Bar.

Pictured here is part of my Mars Bar Max, and the side of the Snickers packaging. The packaging pictured reads:

superpitatel'niy batonchik. Ne tormozi. Snikersni. (Russian)

What it means, I have no idea. Something about Snickers, I guess... "Eat me, I'm delicious, I'll make you strong and muscly BUT only if you go to the gym and work me off". Etc.

Last but by no means least is the beer.

This brand of beer is called Chernigivskye (in Ukrainian it's Chernihivske). It's made in the town of Chernihiv, about 200kms from Kyiv. This is the beer my body rejects the least (no headaches, not too many evil hangovers), so it's quickly become my favoured (but by no means favourite) beer brand.

Chernigivs'kye svitle. Zvareno v Ookraiini

What you see pictured here is one litre of beer, packaged in a plastic bottle. I purchased two litres of beer, which cost me $US1.20. What a perfect price for beer, no?

Now, I would love to end with a whiz bang photo of me combining all the items above into some delicious gourmet meal, but that's not going to happen. Firstly, combining the above ingredients would create a meal of sludge that tastes like sludge. Secondly, I'm not that energetic.

And as for the fallout of today's grocery shop: I'm already kicking myself cause I bought apple and carrot juice instead of just apple. Last week I bought peach juice instead of apple.

Damn me not looking at the pictures properly. I think I need to take a five year old shopping with me next time, their powers of observation are far more sharply honed than mine.



PS Just looking at the vegie labels, I think they might be in Russian, but it's hard to tell because the printer has printed the letters crap. Not that you really care, do you?

A job opportunity

My enterprising mind sprung on an enterprising way to make some money: copy off other people's enterprising ideas.

I've always been a bit of a foodie. I really love cooking and using fresh produce to create really yummy flavours that both feed and really impress people at the same time. So in my current employment-drought, I thought perhaps I can get a foot in the food industry here in Kyiv. And once again, I look to the source of all things wise: babushkas.

These women are survivors. While their husband-muzh throws back the vodka in the village, these ladies are up with the birds, on the train to the big smoke to sell their fresh farm produce, before going back to the village to haul her husband-muzh out of his vodka stupor and into bed.

The only thing about selling vegies is, they have to buy them first.

So on the way from the train-vagzal to the market-rinok, they detour to the local supermarket to buy up a day's worth of vegies. And then onwards to the rinok to sell said vegies at highly inflated prices to useless foreigners (like Little_Miss_Moi).

Ukraine is a land where the food flows a-plenty at generally cheap prices (probably to make up for the occasional say, pebble in one's yoghurt). But when you're asked to pay $12 for a single cauliflower, you know the joke's on you.

(Lucky for the Bessarabskii Babushkas, I'm a total pushover. With my head bent in shame, I paid the dosh and exited the rinok. If I'd turned around, I'd have seen those wily old tarts giving each other high-fives and circulating a picture of me for future reference with the caption: 'She can't say no'.)

Ukraine is a happy go lucky sorta country. I'm sure no-one would care if I entered the fruit-reselling market. Except the scary babushkas.

I fell off the (daily blogging) wagon

I was seeking some creative inspiration for the blog yesterday afternoon so when Mr_Moi suggested we head to the nearby Arena Bar for an aperitif, I agreed wholeheartedly.

Trudging through the snow, we arrived there at about 5:30pm, and we ordered a beer (500mL cloudy something-or-other that was brewed in the premises), and some sausages from the aptly named "Meals for Beer" menu.

After working non-stop all weekend, Mr_Moi was keen to have a couple of beers and go; in his words, "Early out and about, early home". But so engaging was our general chit chat that it eventually led to another beer, which lead to us philosophising about how darn perfect we are, another beer, and strategising how we can make the world as perfect as us.

Five hours and five beers each later, we asked for the bill (in my by then perfectly fluent Russian, which they totally comprehended), went home via McDonald's (the sausages weren't enough), and, with some more philosophising about the 'international language of fast food', skated home on the snow like loud obnoxious foreigners.

The only thing we didn't theorise a solution for was: what does 'democratic pricing' mean?