Lemons & Limes

Even among frogs, differences are only skin deep.

The minister officiating my wedding ceremony. four and a half years ago, wanted to talk about the challenges of a cross-racial marriage. We decided against it as the differences he alluded to are only skin deep. So he went on to talk about the hills we'll climb growing old together, after all in his mind I was already 43 and my hubby to be was seven years older. This topic wasn't any better but at least he was now focusing on individual differences rather than just racial ones.

And so it is with lemons and limes. Think west, and you tend to mention lemonade, pan seared salmon with caramelized lemon; even a lemony-citrus hot toddy as a remedy for the common cold. Think east, and you bring up lime juice as the thirst quencher for a hot and spicy curry dinner, lime as an a vital ingredient for a Viet inspired nan jin chicken and a sprinkling of this green citrus to liven up the palate for a serving of freshly stir-fried char kway teow.

But just as hubby and I are both homo sapiens, so are lemons and limes sour citrus fruits. The differences are really only skin deep. And that means that we can safely swap a lemon for a lime and vice versa while preparing a dish. So the next time you are marinating freshly peeled ocean fresh prawns with salt and paprika, reach instead for the limes. And when you want to twang up the flavours for oyster sauced deep fried chicken wings, squeeze the juice out of some lemons instead.

And when you have a little of both citrus fruits, mix the two together. For what's better than home-made lemonade or lime juice? Well, a fresh batch of lemon lime of course! You get the best of both worlds in one thirst-quenching, palate-cleansing drink.

Fresh Greens are In

Veggies as lushly green as the Malayan rain forest.

Before my family converted to Christianity, we’d frequent the Chinese temples for ancestral worship. And that was culminated by a vegetarian lunch on temple grounds. And I was always amazed by the variations of vegetarian mock meats on the nuns’ menu. Delicious though they were, I’ve always had a preference for the honesty of a traditional vegetable dish.

So in my kitchen, I ensure the dominant green showcases its dominant taste. This is one principle I apply to all my fresh and cooked salads. Hence, the anchovies play a secondary role seasoning my cauliflower dish, as the slivers of almonds do in the way I dish out my broccoli.

In a raw apple slaw, the spritely green koo chye serves only to enhance the flavours of the finely chopped cabbage. And the spring onions are only added into a serve of Asian greens for the sole purpose of highlighting the contrasting crunch of the blanched snow peas swimming daintily in a sprinkling of fragrantly light soy sauce.

Even when King Island blue cheese is added to a refreshing rocket and Peckham pear salad, its prime presence is to sharply define their abundance of distinct flavours, when dress with extra virgin olive oil and coyly aged balsamic vinegar.

And that is the crux of this message: the authentic flavours of garden fresh greens deserve to be showcased. Over powering them with too many added ingredients does them a grave injustice, for the fresh greens are in.

This Thing with Fresh Mussels

Mussels just cooked to the freshness of its origins.

Picture this: at low tide, the rock pools are filled with eight-pronged starfish trying hard to stay immersed in the sea waters, and the delectable baby mussels are clamped shut till the tides return to shore. So it’s little wonder that Eden’s coastline is dotted with mussel farms and its restaurant with wharf views offer them truly fresh as appetizers and mains.

What a great promise for a divine dinner watching the sun setting below the dreamy blue horizon. But it is a promise unfulfilled: the mussels were rubbery and tasteless from spending too much time in the cooking pot. It’s only saving grace was the sumptuous new Asian slightly spicy soup in which the mussels are cooked.

It is doubly disappointing because I have three great ways to serve mussels to my dinner guests’ satisfaction. The first is inspired by the way the restaurant, Three Chimneys, prepares its mussels in the Belgium (European?) traditional fashion: speedily poached in a dry chardonnay with hearty chunks of celery, carrots and shallots. The moment their mussel shells gap open, they’re equally speedily served.

But that is out rivaled by a wonderfully modern and equally simple Australian take: it smolders the fresh mussels in sparkling verjuice and creamy basil-infused tomato passata. Again, the mussels are cooked a relatively short time, so that they retain their orangey muscle and keep its insides truly creamy.

That both features must be retained holds true even when the raw mussels are added into a Spanish paella. For only then can it lend its wonderful flavour to complement the seasoned rice and remain a tender contrast to the pleasantly spiced grainy grains.

So I’ll drink to my good fortune that I live in this garden city, no bigger than a little red dot on the globe left under the sun, where we get a fresh catch of all sorts of seafood from our surrounding neighbours. For cooking the above dishes with pre-cooked air-flown varieties will lend that rubbery and tastelessness to all three of my dishes drastically. Now that will never do, a double crime to over cooking fresh mussels.

Leftovers with a Twist

As twisted as this little critter in Langkawi.

Sweet Sour Salt, Orange’s recent addition to the new Asian culinary scene, lifts the growing food and wine town in New South Wales to new heights. That its resident chef is Lebanese holds testimony that Australia’s forte is fusion cuisine.

But what I liked about this restaurant is its decision to include offering Asian fare in a beautifully presented tasting plate. So two dainty bowls of deliciously spicy pumpkin soup sit on one side of the square plate; balanced by a plate with superbly prepared tandoori fish on the opposite end of the dish. The other two corners of the tasting plate get two halved to-die-for mother-in-law eggs and two servings of crisply roasted pork belly seated in total contrast juxtaposed in opposite positions. All these were served as an entrée, minus the steamed jasmine rice.

That I must admit is brilliant out-of-the box thinking and should be generously applied to sizable leftovers from any of last nights’ home-cooked dinners. So what’s left after stuffing the wholesomely creamy mash of tantalizingly cooked minced crab and prawn meat into savoury crepe suzettes can be reheated and now served as a light lunch on whole meal toast the next day.

Or what remains of a sumptuous beef and mushroom casserole can be reheated as a tasty gravy; now generously spooned over a lovely heap of al dente sundried tomato laced fettucini. Just garnish the chunky sauce with freshly grated parmesan cheese and a few spritely sprigs of parsley.

These transformations then add new tastes and presentations to day-old leftovers; breathing a new lease of life to the dish served the next day. It’s almost like having something refreshingly different the second time round.  

Balancing Dijon Mustard

As delicate as balancing on this fallen tree branch.

I love kir royales, the way their fizzy slightly acidic champagne is delicately balanced with sweetish pinkish cassis. This nifty trick on the balance beam is only out-rivaled by the bubblies the Union Bank House in Orange, New South Wales serves. Its sparkling wine is beautifully poised with wild hibiscus dipped in sugary syrup. So this lends that same balance but one better: this fizzy concoction is not only more palatable as a thirst quencher, it entices our visual realm as well. As one sale staff at Orange’s kitchen ware shop cum deli, The Essential Ingredient, testifies, “we ran out on our bubblies, even though none of our invited wedding guests were champagne fans. Every one wanted the sparkling wine as there’s a pretty flower in their drink!” 

And I’m so endeared with this New South Wales restaurant’s sparkling wine with wild hibiscus that I’ve actually rushed into The Essential Ingredient and bought those irresistible hibiscus flowers dipped in pinkish subtly sweet syrup (and no, I’ve never been enticed by kir royales to buy some cassis). That is one steady feat I want to repeat in Singapore. And should it work, hubby will be sent on a mission to stock up on those pretty syrupy flowers the next time he’ll be in Orange.

And as champagne or sparkling wine seems to pair up well with a sweet liquid, so does the acidity in a Dijon mustard pair up very well with a sweet or savory sweet ingredient. So I have three ways I can actually serve my lamb. The mustard can be equal parts stirred into pure golden honey and then pour as a sauce over the oregano roasted lamb racks. Or it can be laced with sweet soy sauce and that is splattered over the freshly bought lamb chops, lovingly marinating the red meat for at least a speedy hour before barbecuing the individual chops till they are charred on the outside by nicely pink inside.

And if you have run out of the soy sauce, this dilemma is easy to remedy: Just swap this all time time-honored Chinese sauce with an extra sweet fruity jam or chutney. The essential trick is to balance the Dijon mustard with something intensely sugary. Then the char grilled lamb will still be beautifully marinated before the burning charcoal caramelizes the sugar in the mixed marinate.  

A Diet that Saves Gas

His diet doesn't even need gas.

My neighbourhood uses bottled gas for cooking over the stove. And some of my neighbours find this a nuisance as they have to get a replacement every two to four weeks. That surprised me completely as I’ve lived in the Novena area for more than a year and a half now, and have yet to empty the bottle I had put in when I first moved in.

But it soon became clear why there was such a huge disparity in gas usage: my neighbours choose to chow down on traditional Asian cuisine breakfast, lunch and dinner. And that means stir-fried, deep-fried, stewed, steamed and boiled dishes that often take a long cooking time.

Unlike them, I only use my trusty gas stove when I prepare my mains for dinner. And that is deliberately confined to recipes that need only a quick sauté or boiling of the meat, served with a raw salad on the side:  the tropical climate is just too hot and humid to induce me to serve every dish cooked.

And that is the only meal I use my stove. It’s definitely cereals, fruit or yoghurt with an orange juice for a quicky breakfast. Lunch finds me serving the equivalent of John West oysters on toast. Or the microwave will thaw out and heat up the generous slices of quiche lorraine, baked in the electric oven the week before. And my thirst is quenched with icy cold diet Coke or a refreshing home made lemonade – made by stirring the freshly squeezed lemon juice into hot water that was boiled in an electric kettle.

Given the rate I use my stove it’ll be another year or so before I need delivered a new bottle of gas for twenty-seven dollars.