TANGY BEAMMUS WITH SPICY EGGPLANT AND MUSHROOM

BY ANY RELATIVE COMPARISON, IT WASN'T REALLY A BAD DAY IN MY PROGRESS TO MATURITY. [ezcol_1fifth] [/ezcol_1fifth] [ezcol_3fifth] OK, last night, was a rough night. It was at the inconvenient juncture of 3 am, when this garlic-tolerant vampire usually pop herself a good reliable melatonin-jelly bean and wait for it to propel into a semi-decent night of sleep, that she found, Marnie. Of course, to Marnie's fluffy highness, it was no big deal with her mighty presence of 1.4 M followers (M, guys, not K anymore. K apparently is for losers), but for me, for me it was devastating to say the least. The fact that they'd hit that big M, and are still growing, is amazing. To be honest it's making me wonder about how to grow instagram followers myself. There are so many options that I've always been a little intimidated and resulted in just trying to grow my account naturally. However, by reading reviews similar to https://thesmallbusinessblog.net/goread-io-review/, I now have a better idea of where to begin and how to get myself on track for 1.4 MILLION too. It turned me into a living hybrid of Forest Gump and Ewok, two most endearing mystical creatures in the

FILET-O-FISH’N CHIPWICH

[ezcol_1half] SOMEWHERE ALONG THE LINE OF LOSING CHILDHOOD INNOCENCE AND MATURING FOOD-PHOBIAS, I'VE GROWN ESTRANGED TO THIS WONDERFUL THING THAT PRACTICALLY RAISED ME [/ezcol_1half] [ezcol_1half_end] I've been wanting to do a fried fish sandwich for some time now.  In fact, it's strange even to myself that it has taken me so long, considering that battered fried fish, from both the perspective of nostalgia and deliciousness, holds a very special place in my heart. Myself, circa 1992, fresh off the boat in Vancouver and practically English-illiterate, this was one of the very first introduction I had into the then-completely-alien world of western food culture.  Once in a while, friends and families would make a special night out of dinning at the New England-style seafood restaurants lining the river-port, for this was a scarce enjoyment where we came from, and for me, watching the seagulls pirating scraps off of the table, it served a foreign exhilaration of this new place to call home.  Back then, with the inability to understand the menu, a dinner in a place like this would almost certainly meant having the same entree over and over again, and that was, yes, fish and chips.  A funny dish that, I was told, the child I was should really appreciate.  To be honest,

RE-CONSTRUCTED BANANA AND PEANUT BUTTER MASCARPONE PIE

[ezcol_2third] As seen on my Instagram, this vibrantly yellow bowl is from Dishes Only. [/ezcol_2third] [ezcol_1third_end]   I DON'T KNOW.  IT'S NOT A DESSERT.  IT'S THING. When it comes to the awareness for Del Posto's celebrated pastry-chef that is Brooks Headley, as well his critically acclaimed cookbook Fancy Desserts, I'll admit, I was late to the game.  To start, I've never been to Del Posto, even for the time while I was still living blissfully in New York, I never.  I knew where it was.  I knew it was good.  But for the many times that I've passed it by, I dug into my dangling shallow pocket, and went for the Halal-truck parked around its corner instead, unregretted.  Then to further my negligence, I didn't even give it the slightest consideration when their Brooks published his first, wacky and unconventional cookbook named - reeked of intimidations - Fancy Desserts.  I mean those who know me, from experiences perhaps too personal, already mourns my biological disability to even execute the dumbest-ass desserts, let alone, as if,  fancy.  The title only sounded slightly more appealing than watching a documentary on spaceship engineering.  But, my firmly footed ignorance all began to shake when my loyal advisor, The Piglet, out of many many other the-Gisele-Bundchen of cookbooks, named

MY FAVORITE ROAST CHICKEN

[ezcol_1half] IN A NECESSARY IF NOT RELIGIOUS FINALE, YOU ARE GOING TO PICK THROUGH EVERY LAST SNIPPETS OF OFFERINGS ADHERING TO THE REMAINING CARCASS [/ezcol_1half] [ezcol_1half_end] Hello friends. I am an absolute sucker for a good roast chicken recipe. As soon as I hear the words "roast chicken", my mouth is watering and my stomach is rumbling. I'm sure I won't be the only one. If you were previously convinced that you know roast chicken, or how to do one right, well to that I say, I'm convinced that you don't. This is a recipe forged through years of corrections, beginning from the inspiration of Thomas Keller's roast chicken doused in thyme and garlic butter, and manipulated by my own techniques through experience, then re-polished through a vinegar bath anew. The chicken is not only accompanied by baby potatoes and garlics roasted inside its own grease, but - yes, I'm not done yet - but it has to, has to, be eaten with a runny sunny-side up. That's right. Chicken and egg, I don't know why you have to ask. This is now a roast chicken recipe, with its entirety, a simple elegant yet unbeatably tasty form

THE BLUSHING BOULE (PURPLE YAM COUNTRY BREAD)

[ezcol_1half] HOW DARE I BARGING IN WITH MY "ORIENTAL" VEGETABLE, LIKE A BRUTE IMBECILE WAVING A BOX OF STUPID CRAYONS, JUST SO I CAN PAINT AN ALREADY-PERFECT LOAF OF ART, PURPLE? [/ezcol_1half] [ezcol_1half_end] So lately, if you have been paying attention, you'd notice that I've been somewhat, disturbingly obsessed with this color here.  Hey, I swear, I didn't know I had it in me either.  I mean, com'n, pastel purple?  What am I, Hanna Montana?  But seriously, starting exactly 7 days ago, I swear it came at me like a never-ending nightmare too dazing and beautiful to wake up from, I kept and kept baking things - FOUR loafs of bread as we speak to be exact - obsessively colored in this gigglish hue which I was never that into even when I was 4.  What's happened to me? To trace back steps, I must say that it started out innocently enough, as it happens to all of us, by an epidemical mental illness called PGSD - Piggish Grocery Shopping Disorder.  I have been haunted by this persistent disease, which I have no doubt that I've gotten from my mother, for much longer than this ever-expanding body of mine can endure.  On my weekly shopping routine, online as

THE SHIT I EAT WHEN I’M BY MYSELF – GRILLED CURRY CHEESE, iPHONE ONLY

[ezcol_1third] NOT KNOWING IF (THE SWEAT) WAS DUE TO THE HEAT OF THE KITCHEN, OR HOT-FLASHES AS EARLY SIGNS OF MENOPAUSE [/ezcol_1third] [ezcol_2third_end] OK, so it's been awhile since I last did The Shit I Eat When I'm By Myself Series, and I thought today - the day I turn 35, the day when the oestrogen has officially left the party, the day when avocado becomes a face-cream instead of food - is a good time to rekindle (it's called letting it go).  And also, because I got this lovely birthday present from you-know-who, I thought I will follow Tiffany and do a post entirely shot/edited by iPhone 6 only!  Initially, I thought it would be the most liberating thing ever, not having to carry a heavy and bulky camera while dripping sweat, not knowing whether it's due to the heat from the kitchen or hot-flashes as early signs of menopause

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