For one of these gadgets I’ll happily make an exception: my empanada maker. To make empanadas, the popular Southern-American pastries, you don’t even need this plastic tool. Latin ladies crank out perfectly shaped half-moons in a flash. And a bit of a rustic look is actually a pro for the home cook. But the thing is, if I don’t grant this empanada maker some precious storage space, I’ll forget to make them. Every time it comes tumbling out of the cabinet when I reach for something else, my friends are in for a treat!

Empanadas de carne

Makes about 8 large empanadas

These empanadas are my take on the traditional Argentinean/Chilean pastries. The dough is supple, not too flaky. It’s a tad bit sweet, which contrasts nicely with the spicy-sweet stuffing. A hearty winter snack!

For the dough:

• 1 egg yolk
• ½ cup water
• 3 tablespoons butter
• 3 tablespoons vegetable shortening (or okay, margarine)
• 2.5 cups of flour (300 grams)
• ½ teaspoon salt
• 1 teaspoon sugar

For the filling:

• 2 tablespoons olive oil
• 1 onion, finely chopped
• 1 carrot, finely diced
• 2 small dried chillies (no seeds, finely chopped)
• ½ teaspoon cinnamon
• ¼ teaspoon cumin
• ¼ teaspoon mild paprika powder
• pinch of ground cloves
• ½ teaspoon salt
• 400 grams ground meat (I asked my butcher for a 50% pork, 50% beef mix)
• 3 tablespoons tomato paste
• 3 tablespoons raisins
• splash of white wine vinegar (no more than 1 teaspoon)

Mix the egg yolk and water with a fork until blended.

With your hands (because you don’t own a hand mixer with dough hooks!) work the butter and vegetable shortening into the (sifted) flour, into which you’ve added the salt and sugar.

Add a little bit of the egg mixture and start kneading. Keep adding small amounts of the mixture and keep kneading until you have a supple, smooth dough. If it’s too sticky, add some flour. Shape the dough into a ball, cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least 2 hours.

For the filling, heat the oil and sauté the onion for a few minutes over medium heat until transparent. Add the carrots and sauté for another 2-3 minutes. Add the spices, keep stirring, and add the meat. Stir! When the meat is done, add the tomato paste, raisins and vinegar, mix everything, lower the heat and let simmer for another 10 minutes. If the mixture is too dry, add a spoon of water.

Preheat the oven to 200 °C (375 °F).

Use a rolling pin to roll out the dough until about 3 mm thick (0.12 inches). Cut out circles a bit bigger than the tool’s surface when open. Place the dough on the surface, add a few spoons of the meat mix onto one half (not too much!), close and press well. Scrape off excess dough with a knife, open the form and gently place pastry on a parchment paper-lined baking dish. With a fork, prick a few holes in them. Brush the top with a bit of egg yolk and bake the empanadas about 20 minutes until golden. Let them cool on a rack and serve warm or at room temperature.

Another few beautiful pictures by Luis Herrera!

Pakistan is not your average tourist destination, I know. Unless you have a reason to visit (I went for Children of Tomorrow, the education organization I volunteer for), western governments discourage visiting the country at this point in time. That’s unfortunate, because from what I’ve seen during two visits the landscapes are unique, the people most hospitable and the food just a-ma-zing. Pakistanis are true masters of barbecue and grill entire slabs of meat to sheer perfection.

The beautiful old city Lahore is known as the food capital of Pakistan, ever since the era of the Mughals. Here, all discussions sooner or later arrive at: ‘What are we eating? And when? ‘Food is the only real entertainment we have these days’, my host told me. He and his wife took me to Cuckoo’s Den. This famous restaurant is in the red light district of old Lahore (yes, Lahore has a red light district, Heera Mandi. Read more on it here). The owner is an artist, whose mother was a prostitute. Painted portraits of local women line the walls at the entrance. As you climb up three flights of steep marble stairs, encountering more objets d’art, dark carved wood and old tiles, the smell of grilled meat intensifies.

When we reached the rooftop, it left me speechless. Dimly lit by only a few bulbs that give the wafts of smoke a mystical air, the rooftop is a museum of curiosities. Roman busts mixed with carved elephants, mixed with buddha’s and ornaments. And, from any one of the wobbly tables you have a view on the majestic Badshahi Mosque.

The funny thing is, I don’t even remember the food all that well. I know it was good, very good indeed, especially the handi gosht (mutton stew). But in this ambiance, sitting outside in the sweltering Lahore air, you could’ve served me anything. I was under Cuckoo’s spell.

Handi Gosht (Pakistani mutton stew)

Handi gosht is a spicy mutton stew named after the type of cooking vessel, a handi. I didn’t have one, but used a Dutch oven instead. This recipe is adapted from Fazia’s Pakistan.

• 3 small dried chilies (seeds removed)
• 1 teaspoon fresh ginger
• 1 teaspoon fresh garlic
• ½ teaspoon cinnamon
• ¼ teaspoon cloves (or 1 whole)
• 3 black peppercorns
• 1 big black cardamom pod
• 4 tablespoons cooking oil
• 1 onion (chopped)
• 1 kilo or 2.5 pounds mutton (big chunks)
• 100 grams plain yoghurt (preferably Greek)
• 1 tablespoon of flour mixed with 2 spoons of water

With a mortar and pestle or in a food processor, grind chilies, ginger, garlic, cinnamon, cloves, peppercorns, cardamom and a pinch of salt to a spice paste. Add a little oil to smoothen.

In a Dutch oven, heat cooking oil. Fry the onions until transparent. Add the spice mix and fry for 5-7 minutes. Add a little water if the spices stick to the pan.

Add the mutton chunks and fry for a few minutes, until meat is coated. Add yoghurt and mix well. Add a cup of water, bring to a boil, then cover and let simmer until the meat is tender (an hour or so).

Add the flour/water mixture, stir and let simmer for another 15-20 minutes.
Serve with garnishes of garlic, fresh chilies and cilantro.

Not that I suddenly started to believe in supernatural causation after I do or don’t do something. I find myths and old wives’ tales highly amusing, but my no-nonsense nature prevents me from finding any consolation in them. However, I hate to step on toes, especially since I’m a minority. I decided to learn about the most common superstitions when my umbrella almost (by accident!) opened in a bar and I got yelled at. Rome blogger Eleonora Baldwin gave a great introduction a while ago, but I keep hearing new things every day. Who knew hearing a cat sneeze brings good luck!

Actually, if something is supposed to bring good luck, I’m all for it now, especially food-wise. If it doesn’t help, it doesn’t hurt and at least I ate well! Last week at the market an elderly signora told me pomegranates are supposed to be on the holiday table as they bring good luck. I knew they were considered lucky in Turkish culture (the seeds represent prosperity and money), but in Italian too? After a quick search I discovered this ancient fruit symbolizes long life, eternal youth, fertility, offspring and luck in love.

Wow, good thing I love to cook with pomegranates. They will be on the new year’s table together with the mandatory lenticchie con cotechino (lentils with traditional pork sausage) bringing money and good fortune, so we got everything covered for the new year ahead. Happy 2012 everyone!

Speck-wrapped salmon in pomegranate sauce

I meant to use bacon or thinly sliced smoked pancetta for this recipe, but when I couldn’t find that I decided to go for the nothern Italian speck. It’s nice and smoky, and has enough saltiness to balance out the sweetness of the sauce.

• 1 decent-size salmon slice per person
• 2-3 thin slices of speck, pancetta or bacon per salmon slice

For the sauce:

• 4-5 tablespoons pomegranate molasses (look for Turkish ‘nar ekşisi’ or Iranian ‘Rob-e Anar’)
• Seeds of 1 pomegranate
• Pinch of chilli pepper
• Salt to taste

Preheat the oven to 180 °C (350 °F).

Lightly wrap every piece of salmon in 2-3 slices of speck. Heat olive oil and sauté every slice carefully over high heat for 4-5 minutes on each side. Place in a baking pan, cover with tin foil and bake in the oven for 10-15 minutes.

Add the pomegranate molasses to the sauté pan. Stir over high heat, add a couple of spoons of water, a pinch of chilli pepper and salt and about half of the pomegranate seeds. Let it reduce to a velvety sauce. Reduce heat, add the rest of the pomegranate seeds (keep a few on the side), add the salmon and warm for another 2-3 minutes. Serve on heated plates and sprinkle with remaining seeds.

Picture: stock xchange (pomegranate) and Luis Herrera (salmon dish)

A couple of months ago at a party, my friend Luis mentioned he once carried a hefty iron tortilla maker in his hand luggage, from his native Mexico to Rome. Other friends immediately jumped at him: “Can you make us burritos?” And so he did, in a 4-course dinner that blew our minds. Weeks later I was invited over at Hande’s to have German food and most recently I organized an Indonesian dinner. I jokingly dubbed these nights “The Non-Italian Food Club”.

When a cab driver recently stated that Roman food is the best in the world I couldn’t say no. Just because he wouldn’t let me. Clinging to your traditions is a fantastic thing, because a lot of people including myself reap the benefits from unbending rules. But how many times do I have to say that ‘different’ doesn’t mean better or worse?

From a young age I was exposed to a variety of cuisines. Traditional Dutch food was only remarkable in the hands of both my grandmothers. My mom cooked a mean curry one night and a bouillabaisse the next. Obviously I followed her example. And then my horizon expanded even more during my stint in New York. Having great food at your fingertips 24/7 is exhilarating!

For the large immigrant population Rome has, the city boasts surprisingly few non-Italian restaurants. I’m not saying ethnic food, cause as mentioned in this article recently, is there such a thing as ethnic food? And besides, I mean ALL non-Italian food, whether it be Dutch, Scandinavian or Pakistani. Anyway, if you’re brave enough to venture out to one of them, you’re setting yourself up for disappointment most of the time. There’s a handful of half-decent Korean places, some Indian restaurants, Middle-Eastern maybe. But most of it is kind of bland.

I’ve set myself on a mission to find the best non-Italian eats in Rome, even if it means wielding through a lot of crappy food. My brave friend Katie already found a good number of them, including favorites as Mesob or Shawarma Station. But what about great Mexican? Or outstanding French cuisine? In the mean time, I hope there’ll be many more of these unforgettable home-cooked dinners!

Mole Duranguense de la abuela Elvira

This is a tried and tested recipe of Luis’s grandmother Elvira. ‘Mole’ is the general term for ‘sauce’. The best known version is ‘poblano’, containing chili peppers, chocolate, shredded turkey and some other 100 ingredients. This family version from the Durango region ‘only’ has 9 (excluding those used for the broth).

• For the broth: 1 onion, 2 garlic cloves and a bunch of fresh green herbs such as bay leaves, marjoram, thyme and so on.
• 3 chicken breasts
• 10 red ancho chilis
• 1 green plantain (peel included)
• 10 almonds
• 4 tablespoons sesame seeds
• 3 cm cinnamon stick, ground
• 3-4 slices of toasted bread
• 1 flour tortilla (browned in a frying pan with a bit of cooking oil)
• 1 ½ tablet of Oaxaca chocolate (alternative: 150 grams of 80% cacao dark chocolate)

In a large pot, bring water to a rolling boil, add roughly chopped onion, garlic, and fresh herbs and add the chicken breasts (whole) after a few minutes. Reduce the heat, and let the chicken boil until done. (This method is pretty common in Mexico, even so that it says ‘cook the chicken the normal way’ in the recipe). Remove chicken and set aside.

Slice the ancho peppers in half, remove the seeds and soak them for 20 minutes or so in some of the warm broth.

Slice the plantain horizontally (including the peel!) and fry the slices in a bit of cooking oil until golden.

Soak the almonds and the sesame seeds in a bit of warm water. Drain and place in a food processor, together with the chilis, cinnamon, the bread (in small chunks), the tortilla, and the plantain. Process until the paste has a velvety texture.

Add this paste to a heavy-bottomed pot, and, over low heat, add the chocolate piece by piece. Keep stirring slowly until you have a thick homogeneous sauce. If it’s too thick, add a few tablespoons of broth. Add salt to taste.

Shred the chicken breasts with a fork, add the shreds to the sauce, stir for about 5 minutes. Turn off the heat and let the mole stand for 1 to 2 hours. Reheat before serving.

We served the mole with a slice of fried plantain, refried beans and saffron rice.

Picture courtesy of Gina Tringali.

I guess I shouldn’t be saying this out loud in the land of olive oil worshippers, but I really LOVE butter. My mantra: “you can never have enough of a thing that is bad for you.” At its best, butter is creamy but light, with a slightly tart, buttermilky flavor (never sour!). It is bright yellow in color, has a slight shimmer and just screams: FARM FRESH!

So, I guess I shouldn’t even be thinking this at all in the land where every single national foodstuff is revered as a form of GOD, but: Italian butter sucks. It’s bleak and unattractive-looking, just tastes like fat and nothing else. I’m still looking for that one particular type that proves me wrong.

Butter really is one of the things the Dutch can be proud of. Especially of ‘boerenboter’ (farmer’s butter), made of the cream (yeah…butter should be around 84% fat) of fresh, non-homogenized milk. This ‘non-homogenized’ means that winter butter tastes completely different from summer butter, when the cows have been grazing in the meadows.

Pure lactic acid-producing bacteria are added to the cream after which they are left alone for about 36 hours. The cream comes out slightly soured, after which the churning can begin. Churning is basically shaking and beating the cream until it becomes so confused it transforms. Little ‘lumps’ of fat separate from the liquid – the buttermilk. Then, these lumps are rinsed with cold water and worked into a creamy mass that encapsulates the remaining traces of the liquid. The milk proteins emulsify the fat. The way this process is done determines the taste of the butter to a great extent (temperature, duration of churning, etc).

This is one of my favorite lazy recipes. Try to get your hands on some French (Bretagne, Normandie) butter or Irish butter.

Entrecôte with sage and orange butter

Serves 2

• 2 medium-sized entrecotes (rib steak)
• 3 tablespoons fresh butter, room temperature
• 1 tablespoon sage, finely chopped
• 1 tablespoon orange zest, finely chopped
• 1 teaspoon garlic, finely chopped
• 1.5 tablespoons fresh orange juice
• sea salt

Take the meat out of the fridge and its wrapping at least one hour before preparation. Season lightly on both sides with salt and fresh pepper.

In a small bowl, mix butter, sage, orange zests, garlic and juice with a fork to a creamy mass. Season with a bit of fresh sea salt.

Sauté the steaks ( = rare!) in butter and let them rest for about ten minutes, wrapped in aluminum foil.

Serve on preheated plates with a royal dollop of sage butter.

Picture courtesy of Luis Herrera.

I was a Kapsalon virgin until recently, just because soggy fries aren’t really my thing. But a couple of months ago, I had my first taste when I went back to Holland to write ‘Het Grote Frietboek’, a comprehensive book on ‘frites’. These famous Belgian and Dutch fries are usually served with mayonnaise (remember that famous scene in Pulp Fiction?), but you’ll find lots of other creative sauce combinations.

The book is doing well, we’ve sold about 60,000 copies and working on the second edition. I’m not hooked on the Kapsalon just yet, but I love the story behind it.

‘Kapsalon’ literally means ‘Hair Salon’. The snack was born in Delfshaven, a multi-ethnic neighborhood in Rotterdam. Nathaniel Gomes, a Cape Verdean hairdresser and owner of hair salon ‘Tati’, ordered lunch from the nearby restaurants and fry shops every day. Bored with the options, he decided to mix things up a bit. He asked the owners at the next-door kebab shop ‘El Aviva’ to pair fries and shawarma meat in an aluminum container. A Turkish assistant of the salon thought it was a good idea to top it off with gouda cheese, place the whole thing under the grill and serve it with garlic sauce, hot sauce and lettuce. Clients who saw Nathaniel relish the snack wanted to have it too, but since it had no formal name, he said they should ask for a ‘kapsalon’ (‘hair salon’). It became an instant hit, and all kebab and fry shops in the city soon added it to the menu.

Go to any fry shop in Rotterdam during the wee hours and you’ll find hoards of party people lining up for their portion of ‘Kapsalon’. The snack is a cross-cultural best seller: you see people of all ages, ethnicities and social groups thankfully dive into it.

To me, this is why the ‘Kapsalon’ represents Rotterdam for me. I’m definitely going to have it again, but I’ll make sure to have some beers before I order, because I’m sure pretty sure it’ll taste fantastic then.

Kapsalon

Serves 1 starving night crawler, ideally slightly intoxicated

• 1 portion Dutch fries
• 200 gram shawarma meat
• garlic sauce
• hot sauce (optional)
• 1 slice gouda cheese
• 1 handful of iceberg lettuce

Put fries into aluminum container, add shawarma meat, drizzle with garlic sauce and hot sauce (optional). Top with gouda cheese and place under a hot grill for 2-3 minutes until cheese has melted. Finish off with a layer of iceberg lettuce and serve with a plastic fork and lots of napkins.

Ah, l’amore!

In the birthplace of San Valentino, public displays of affection (so-called PDA’s) are everywhere. Couples, no matter their age, are walking hand-in-hand, stealing kisses, sharing a gelato. And of course, enjoying romantic vistas together. Lovely. But why do these über-romantic spots seem to be off-limits if you’re not in due?

I deliberately break the unwritten rules when I visit the most romantic spots in Rome by myself. Yes, my Italian friends, you heard it well: ALONE. After a week of hard work, I love to buy a few mignons at Cristalli di Zucchero. Delicate, petit, a perfect treat for one. I take them to the Giardino Degli Aranci, a perfect garden with orange trees and postcard panorama’s. Parco Savello, as is the official name, seems to be out of bounds for the solo visitor, but I can’t care less.

I just sit there on a bench, soaking up the sun and slowly indulging in bignè alla crema or pan di spagna alle mandorle. The entire city is my companion. If I feel extra Rome-antic, I peek through the keyhole of a large gate, which makes Saint Peter’s appear as if it were framed in rose bushes (definitely the worst-kept secret of the city).

I walk home and cook something for myself. Usually dinner is dessert, just because I can. I set the table with a napkin, poor a glass of wine, light a candle and enjoy my company.

I discovered this caramel ‘by accident’, when I was making a spice mix for mulled wine and left it on the stove too long. It’s a perfect sweet companion for the delicate vanilla risotto.

Vanilla risotto with orange and cardamom caramel

Serves 1 romantic soul including nightly leftovers

For the risotto:

• 2-3 cups whole milk
• ½ vanilla pod
• 2 tablespoons butter
• 1 cup arborio rice
• 2 tablespoons sugar

For the orange caramel:

• 1 cup fresh orange juice
• zest of 1 orange
• 3 tablespoons sugar
• 2 cardamom pods, crushed
• 1 piece cinnamon bark

You can prepare this rice pudding risotto-style entirely with whole milk, but I prefer switching to adding hot water at some point, because I don’t like it too milky.

Bring milk to a boil, remove from heat. Add vanilla pod and let it soak for 3 minutes. When soft, slice pod open lengthwise, scrape out seeds and add pod and seeds to the milk.

For the caramel, heat orange juice in a small saucepan with orange zest, sugar, cardamom pods and cinnamon bark. Bring to a boil and let simmer for 15-20 minutes until reduced to about one third. Sieve and let reduce further until liquid caramelizes and thickens. Be careful not to brown the caramel too much. Set aside.

In a heavy-bottomed pot, melt butter over low heat. Add the rice and stir about minute, until all kernels are coated. You shouldn’t let them brown. Bring heat to medium and add about half of the milk. Stir frequently, this will get the starch out of the rice and eventually produce a velvety substance. Slowly add milk when the previous liquid has been almost cooked away. Continue with hot water or more hot milk if necessary, on a slow simmer for about 17 to 20 minutes. The rice grains should be cooked but still firm. Add sugar and taste: the risotto shouldn’t be too sweet. Let the rice stand for a few minutes, then serve in a bowl and drizzle the orange caramel over.

Pictures again made by Luis, my ‘stylist-slash-photographer’. I loooooove your pictures, guapo!

In the early eighties, my dad followed a strict macrobiotic diet to battle rheumatism and he often took me to one of the few organic grocery stores in town. I hated it. I hated the penetrating sour smell, I hated the harsh lighting and endless wooden shelves, I hated the grey complexion and dull hair of the dungaree-wearing customers.

But most of all, I hated the food.

One bite of their bread felt like a steady rock in your tummy. The meat alternatives like seitan and tofu were awfully spongy, the germs of the brown rice got stuck between your teeth and worst of all, the ‘good for you’ candy was really good for no one.

Today it’s a bit more cheerful at organic and health food stores, but to say that they’ve had a complete make-over is an exaggeration (there are exceptions, like Marqt in Holland and of course, Whole Foods). A walk down the aisles is still a trip down memory lane. Please producers, update your packaging!

I’m always trying to eat wisely but I don’t need my food to remind me all the time how healthy it is for me. Spaghetti that takes forever to chew, beans that make your mouth dry, crackers that leave your palate gritty. Ugh.

Now that I’m training for the Paris marathon I’m extra careful with what I eat. Die-hard runners have advised me to eat lots and lots of protein-packed beans and good carb grains like buckwheat or spelt. And it’s surprisingly easy. Being in Italy helps. Here, legumes are not ‘health food’, they’re just food. At any market you’ll find an abundance of all sorts of dried beans, and the sheer sight of them makes me happy.

Those who coined the term must have been referring to artificial vanilla. Dull, uninspired, fake. But ‘vanilla sex’ is a terrible insult to real vanilla. There is no spice more enigmatic and sensual than the prized vanilla pod. It reveals its multidimensional taste slowly, like a seductive undressing act, but lingers long and languidly. Even the name of the spice is sensual, if you may believe Wikipedia. The Spanish explorers called it vainilla, or ‘little pod’, a diminutive that shares the etymological roots with the Latin ‘vagina’.

Vanilla plays a starring role in many unforgettable desserts, but it works wonderfully in savory dishes as well. With seafood such as shrimp or lobster it’s pure magic. Other than you may think, they don’t make a sweet couple, but just have an incredibly chemistry together.

Like the best vanilla sex, this dish is lush, exuberant yet comforting and tender. I can assure you, eating it will be an orgasmic experience.

Shrimp in vanilla-wine sauce

Serves 4 as a starter

• 400 gram large shrimp
• 1 cup dry white wine (about 2 dl)
• ½ vanilla pod
• 2 tablespoons butter (unsalted)
• 2 small shallots, chopped as finely as possible
• 1 tablespoon lemon juice
• 3-4 tablespoons heavy cream
• fresh ground black pepper and salt
• 1 teaspoon maple syrup
• 2 tablespoons vegetable oil for frying
• Fresh parsley, coarsely chopped

Clean and devein the shrimp, but keep the shells. Refrigerate the shrimp. In a wok, stir-fry the shells and heads over high heat until they start to turn red. Add 2 tablespoons of water, fry one minute more and strain to extract a shrimp ‘broth’. Set aside.

In a small sauté or saucepan, bring the wine to a boil and turn off. Add the vanilla pod and let it steep for 5 minutes until soft. Remove the vanilla pod, slice it open and scrape out the seeds. Put seeds and pod back into the pan and set aside for 20 minutes so the flavors can blend.

In a medium sauté pan, slowly melt 1 tablespoon butter and add the shallots. Let them soften for 5 minutes, make sure they don’t go brown. Add wine (remove the pod first), lemon juice and shrimp stock, bring everything to a boil and reduce the liquid on low heat to about half the amount. Add the cream and let it reduce further until you have a thick substance. If the sauce appears to be to thick, add some more wine. Add salt and freshly ground pepper to taste and slightly sweeten with maple syrup if you like (the sauce should by no means become too sweet). Turn of the heat, cut up the remaining butter in small pieces and vigorously stir them in, one by one until the sauce is velvety. Keep warm.

In a large wok, heat 2 tablespoons of vegetable oil over high heat. Stir-fry the shrimp until done (about 2 minutes). Add them to the sauce, mix well and serve immediately with chopped parsley.

(vanilla pods: stock picture)

You can also serve this dish with white (coconut) rice as a main dish.

“The moment when you first wake up in the morning is the most wonderful of the twenty-four hours. No matter how weary or dreary you may feel, you possess the certainty that, during the day that lies before you, absolutely anything may happen. And the fact that it practically always doesn’t, matters not a jot. The possibility is always there.”

That’s exactly why I love mornings. I usually jump out of bed, excited about a full day of possibilities lying ahead. And even when I know for certain that it won’t be eventful, there’s always breakfast. By far my favorite meal of the day, although I usually have the same bowl of oatmeal and the same cup of tea. The combination never gets old.

I recently described a typical Dutch and a typical Italian breakfast to a friend who was doing research on breakfast customs throughout the world. The two cannot be more different. As I mentioned earlier, an Italian breakfast is a quick affair. You storm into your local bar, order your cappuccio and cornetto, dip the latter into the former, hastily gulp the soggy substance down and be on your way.

The Dutch morning meal is much more private, enjoyed leisurely in the safe environment of the home, with a newspaper and maybe even still with your pj’s on. We eat a substantial meal of bread or crackers with an array of toppings. From ‘appelstroop’ (apple syrup), to cheese to ‘hagelslag’ (chocolate sprinkles) to peanut butter. At the average household, you’d find a selection of at least 5 varieties at the breakfast table.

I make myself a big mug of milky tea and wrap my hands around it, while I read the news. I have a big bowl of oatmeal (check this luxurious Sunday morning version) or cereals. Although there’s much to love about Italian habits, I’ll never be able to start my day so hastily. Even in the unfortunate situation that I am in a hurry, I still need to EAT. These oatmeal bran bars are perfect for when you have to have something on the fly.

Oatmeal bran bars

Makes about 6 large bars

• 2 cups oatmeal (200 grams)
• ½ cup bran (50 grams)
• ½ cup raisins (100 grams)
• ½ cup dried cranberries (100 grams)
• 1 (or 2) tablespoons cane sugar
• ½ teaspoon cinnamon
• pinch of salt
• ¾ cup milk (about 200 ml)
• 1 egg, beaten
• 1 tablespoon flour

Preheat the oven to 180 degrees Celcius. Grease a square baking dish with butter or non-stick cooking spray.
In a bowl, combine all ingredients to a smooth ‘batter’. If it looks too wet, add a tiny bit of flour.
Spread the mix in the baking dish and bake for about 15-20 minutes until cooked. Let cool completely and cut into bars. They are supposed to stay chewy, so wrap them firmly in cling wrap to transport.