- Full Title: I Quit Sugar Christmas Cookbook
- Autor: Sarah Wilson
- Print Length: 109 pages
- Publisher: I Quit Sugar Pty. Ltd
- Publication Date: November 22, 2013
- Language: English
- ISBN-10: B00GW9GTQW
- Download File Format | Size: epub | 1,81 Mb
Around the World in Eighty Wines
Exploring Wine One Country at a Time
ROWMAN & LITTLEFIELD
Lanham • Boulder • New York • London
Published by Rowman & Littlefield
A wholly owned subsidiary of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc.
4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706
Unit A, Whitacre Mews, 26-34 Stannary Street, London SE11 4AB, United Kingdom
Distributed by NATIONAL BOOK NETWORK
Copyright © 2018 by Rowman & Littlefield
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Veseth, Michael, author.
Title: Around the world in eighty wines : exploring wine one country at a time / Mike Veseth.
Description: Lanham, Maryland : Rowman & Littlefield,  | Includes bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017017271 (print) | LCCN 2017021538 (ebook) | ISBN 9781442257375 (electronic) | ISBN 9781442257368 (cloth : alk. paper)
Subjects: LCSH: Wine and wine making. | Wineries. | International travel.
Classification: LCC TP548 (ebook) | LCC TP548 .V459 2017 (print) | DDC 663/.2—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017017271
™ The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.
Printed in the United States of America
Part I: From London to Beirut
4 Syria, Lebanon, and Georgia
Part II: Rounding the Cape
7 Out of Africa
8 India and Beyond
Part III: High and Low
12 Southern Cross
Part IV: Sour Grapes?
13 Napa Valley Wine Train
14 A Riesling Rendezvous
15 Cannonball Run
16 Back to London
The Wine List
About the Author
From London to Beirut
The Challenge Is Made and the Journey Begins
The Reform Club is an imposing stone structure that is warmer and more ornate inside than out. If you have visited London you may have walked right past it without appreciating its significance. It sits serenely, surrounded by other imposing buildings, on Pall Mall, just down the road from Charing Cross tube station and Trafalgar Square in the midst of what is sometimes called London’s clubland. The architecture bears a distinct resemblance to Michelangelo’s Palazzo Farnese in Rome, according to club documents, and on close inspection the similarities are clear even to an untrained eye.
The Reform Club was founded in 1836 as an opposing force to the Tory Club and the palatial clubhouse building opened in 1841.1 Membership was originally limited to those who had supported the Reform Act of 1832, hence the name. The grand palace became for a time the de facto headquarters of the Liberal Party although today there is no particular political affiliation associated with the organization. You can tour the place if you like, providing you appear on a particular Saturday in September having previously made application to the General Office. It’s a private club, you see.
The reason that you may remember the name of the Reform Club, even if you are not an authority on Victorian political movements and even if you are not well acquainted with Italian Renaissance architecture, is that it was here, on Tuesday, October 1, 1872, that club member Phileas Fogg accepted a wager from a fellow “Reformer” that would change his life. You are familiar with the story if you have read Jules Verne’s account of the adventure that followed. Its title is Around the World in Eighty Days.
It is a short walk from the Reform Club on Pall Mall to Berry Bros. & Rudd at 3 St. James’s Street, just down the road and to the right. You can walk there in six minutes, according to Google Maps, or maybe a little less time if you are in a hurry, as Phileas Fogg might have been. There’s no record to indicate that Fogg stopped at Berry Bros. on that famous day in October, or any other day for that matter, but the shop in the plain, dark-red brick building with the ornate arched windows was certainly open that day, having done business there since its founding in 1698 by the Widow Bourne. George B
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o learn that a significant contributor to chronic inflammation comes from what we eat. You may be surprised, however, to find out just which foods trigger it and how many of them are part of your regular menu. Over time, this incessant inflammatory response can lead to weight gain, drowsiness, skin problems, digestive issues, and a host of diseases, from diabetes to obesity to cancer.
To be fair, inflammation has become a bigger part of the overall health and wellness conversation. But it’s still in the minor leagues when you talk about media coverage or, in particular, healthcare circles. Example: Your doctor will routinely have conversations about your weight, or blood pressure, or fasting blood sugar/A1C readings. Those are big red flags with easily understood number ranges. But has your doctor ever once mentioned chronic inflammation as a risk factor for your health? I bet not.
Why is that a problem? Well, if you’re overweight with blood pressure/blood sugar issues, chronic inflammation has already done a number on you and will continue to do so. But there are a lot of people out there who haven’t hit that level yet. You may be, say, moderately overweight with health scores that most doctors would consider “okay,” as in no critical red flags at the moment. But your body could be harboring chronic inflammation behind the scenes, helping, encouraging, pushing your body toward eventual health issues like type 2 diabetes, inflammation-based diseases, and yes, heart disease and cancer.
That’s why, when my friends at Eat This, Not That! asked if I’d be interested in helping to create a diet-based book that takes on inflammation, I jumped in. I’ve been writing and editing health/fitness/weight-loss magazines for millions of people for nearly 20 years. I’ve co-authored more than a dozen books designed to help people live healthier, more active lives. My mission has always been bringing that positive message to as many people as possible: You can be healthier.
Another reason: I see myself in the mirror. I’m not as gray-free as I used to be. I’m a little heavier than I should be. And I don’t always eat the way I should. I live in eastern Pennsylvania, which has become ground zero for some of the most amazing craft-brewed East Coast-style IPAs you could ask for. I have a cheese problem. And Pop Tarts and I share a love that dare not speak its name. In short, I’m just as much a candidate for chronic inflammation as anyone. I wanted to learn as much as I could about it so I could do something about it.
There’s more. In the last 2 years, I learned more about my family medical history than anyone would want. My father died in 1989 from stomach cancer. Now, stomach or gastric cancer isn’t one of the Big Ones that get the headlines. About 26,000 people were diagnosed in 2018 in the U.S., according to the American Cancer Society, and while gastric cancer is more common in places like Japan, 26K doesn’t exactly make the disease a hot-button issue. But here’s the catch, for me: Stomach cancer is generally an older-person’s cancer, with the six out of 10 diagnoses happening after age 65. My father was diagnosed at age 59—and his case was advanced because he’d ignored the symptoms. Still, in my eyes at the time, it wasn’t an issue. It was just the thing that killed him. But years later, my father’s niece got her stomach cancer diagnosis. She passed away at 53. Then, two years ago, my older sister got her diagnosis. She died in early 2018 at age 55.
So now I’m staring at three close-family stomach cancer fatalities all diagnosed before age 60. And there’s that food-stomach relationship thing that I can’t avoid. For me, diet now matters more than ever.
So let’s talk about this.
As you’ll read later on, there are several possible reasons a person can have chronic low-grade inflammation. Some conditions are genetic. But in many cases, especially when you’re talking about inflammation from belly fat, or drinking too much, or eating the wrong foods, the cause is pretty obvious. I’ve interviewed dozens of doctors over the years. Some you’ve heard of—Mehmet Oz, Travis Stork—and many others you haven’t. But with all of them, no matter how extensive we discussed science, research results, how the body works, what-is-or-isn’t-healthy, every conversation could be boiled down to one word: choices.
Our choices, in many cases, define our health.
That’s why the 14-Day Anti-Inflammatory Diet is so exciting. It gives you a chance to take control of your choices for a short period to reverse the cascade of inflammation in your body. Here’s a partial list of the benefits:
You’ll Attack the Number on the Scale
Yes, we call it a “diet,” and yes, it is food-based, so yes, it’s designed to help you shed pounds. Here’s the thing: Science has shown again and again that certain foods can cause inflammation in the body, whil
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as big as the prow of a ship could be built, erected, painted, and then broken down and shipped off to the city for load-in. Every year when he got the job to build the sets for the Ringling Bros. and Barnum and Bailey Circus there, we would go after school and zip around on the dollies, crashing into the legs of the chain-smoking union carpenters and scenic artists who were busy with band saws and canvas and paint. We would run up and down mountains of rolled black and blue velour, laid out like in a carpet store, and dip our hands into oil drums full of glitter. Prying back the lid on a fifty-gallon barrel of silver glitter—the kind of barrel that took two men and a hand truck to wheel into the paint supply room of the shop—and then shoving your hands down into it up to your elbows is an experience that will secure the idea in your heart for the rest of your life that your dad is, himself, the greatest show on earth.
We made our Halloween costumes out of lighting gels, backstage black velour curtaining, scrim, and Mylar. When we went with our father to see the actual circus at Madison Square Garden, we spent almost the whole show backstage where we met Mishu: The Smallest Man in the World, and petted the long velvety trunks of the elephants in jeweled headdresses. We met Gunther, the lion tamer, and marveled at his blond blond hair and his deep deep tan and, giggling like the children we were, his amazing ass—high and round and firm, like two Easter hams—in electric blue tights.
I associate my dad almost exclusively with that lamb roast because he could dream it up and create the scenery of it. My dad has an eye for things. He can look at the stone rubble covered in scaffolding that is the Acropolis, for example, and without effort, complete the picture in its entirety, right down to what people are wearing, doing, and saying. In his mind’s eye, out of one crumbling Doric column, he can visualize the entire city, its denizens and smells, the assembly’s agenda and the potted shrubs. Where the rest of us saw only the empty overgrown meadow behind our house, riddled with groundhog holes, with a shallow, muddy stream running through it and a splintering wooden wagon that I had almost outgrown, he saw his friends: artists and teachers and butchers, scenic painters and Russian lighting designers, ship captains and hardware merchants all with a glass in hand, their laughter rising high above our heads and then evaporating into the canopy of maple leaves; the weeping willows shedding their leaf tears down the banks of the stream; fireflies and bagpipers arriving through the low clinging humidity of summer; a giant pit with four spring lambs roasting over apple-wood coals; the smell of wood smoke hanging in the moist summer nighttime air. I mean it. He sees it all romantic like that.
He says, about all of his work, “Everybody else does the bones and makes sure the thing doesn’t fall down. I do the romance.”
It must have been my mother, the cook, who was in the kitchen with the six burners and the two-bin sink making the lima bean salad and the asparagus vinaigrette and the all-butter shortcakes, counting out the stacks of paper plates with the help of my older sister—the two of them doing “the bones” as my father called it. But it was from him—with his cool, long sideburns and aviator sunglasses, his packet of unfiltered Camels, and box of watercolor paints (and artist’s paycheck)—from him we learned how to create beauty where none exists, how to be generous beyond our means, how to change a small corner of the world just by making a little dinner for a few friends. From him we learned how to make and give luminous parties.
There was a Russian Winter Ball, I remember, for which my dad got refrigerator-sized cartons of artificial snow shipped in from Texas and a dry ice machine to fog up the rooms and make the setting feel like a scene from Dr. Zhivago. And there was a Valentine’s Day Lovers’ Dinner, at which my father had hundreds of choux paste éclair swans with little pastry wings and necks and slivered almond beaks that, when toasted, became their signature black. He set them out swimming in pairs on a Plexiglas mirror “pond” the size of a king’s matrimonial bed with confectioner’s sugar snow drifts on the banks.
“Swans,” he pointed out, “mate for life.”
For a kind of Moroccan-themed party that my parents threw, my dad built low couches from sheets of plywood and covered them with huge fur blankets and orange velour brought home from the studio. By the time the candles were lit and the electric lights extinguished, the whole house looked like a place where the estimable harem of a great pasha might assemble to offer their man pomegranates, pistachios, and maybe more carnal treasures. There were tapestries and kilims stacked as tall as me, where adults stoned on spiced wine and pigeon pies could lou
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e touched and that it won’t destroy her means that all is not lost or hopeless or unredeemable. I nod my head and ask if she wants to keep talking to me. She says, “I think this is enough for now.”
I ask people to pick up their silverware and take a few more bites—noticing what they want to eat, how it tastes, how they feel.
A few minutes later, Nell, a student at the retreats for seven years, raises her hand. “I am not hungry anymore, but I suddenly realized that I am afraid to push the food away.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because . . .”—and she starts to cry—“. . . because I realize I am not broken . . . and that you will be angry at me if you know.”
“Why would I be angry at you?” I ask.
“Because you’d see who I really am and you wouldn’t like it.”
“What would I see?”
“Vitality. A lot of energy. Determination. Strength.”
“Wow,” I say. “And what wouldn’t I like about that?”
“I wouldn’t need you then. And you would be threatened by that.”
“Who are you taking me to be? Anyone you know who was threatened by how gorgeous you are?”
Nell starts to laugh. “Hi, Mom,” she says.
The room erupts in a wave of laughter.
“She was so depressed,” Nell says. “And if I was just myself, that was too much for her. I needed to shut down the bigness—I needed to be as broken as she was—otherwise she’d reject me and that was unacceptable.”
“What’s happening in your body, Nell?” I ask.
“It feels like a fountain of color,” she says. “It’s as if I am streaming with vivid hues of red, green, gold, black streaking in my chest, my arms, my legs . . .”
“OK, let’s stop here for a minute. . . .”
I look around the room. Anna, who’d wanted to tell me to fuck off, is crying. Camille, who has looked bored since the retreat started, seems utterly absorbed in what is happening. The group attention is riveted by what Nell is saying about the need to be broken. They can relate to the belief that if they keep themselves wounded and damaged, they will be loved.
I look at Nell and say, “When you stop and let yourself feel what is being offered to you, it is never, ever what you thought it would be. You go from being afraid to being a fountain in three minutes. . . .”
Nell says, “It feels as if this quiet, calm space has been waiting for me to come back to it, like it’s been here all my life, like it’s more me than anything else.” And then Nell stands up and looks around the room. She pulls her chair aside and says, “Listen to this, girls! I AM NOT BROKEN!!!!”
More laughter. Then Nell continues, “This process amazes me. First I had to deal with the food thing. I really did have to stop using food to comfort myself—otherwise I felt too crazy—and there was no time for this spiritual stuff. Then, when my eating calmed down, I had to at least allow myself to feel the feelings of brokenness—that was tough. That was the part where I just had to believe what you were saying, Geneen—that my resistance to the pain was worse than the pain. But to actually feel that I am not broken—I can hardly explain what that is like. It’s like being a piece of holiness. It’s like saying that goodness is not just for everyone else, it’s also for me. It is me!”
Since it’s almost time for the next session to begin in the meditation hall, I ask people to check in with their hunger levels, to rate themselves on a scale of one to ten, with one being hungry and ten being full, and to eat accordingly. “We’ll meet down in the meditation hall in thirty minutes,” I say, standing up from my seat.
As I am about to walk out the door, a woman named Marie grabs my hand and says, “I just have to say one thing to the group. Is that OK?”
I nod my head, bracing myself for what is coming. Marie has been a skeptic since the retreat began. She has sat in the sessions glaring at me with her arms folded across her chest as if to say, “Prove it to me, honey. Prove that this food thing is anything more than just shutting my mouth.” After each talk I’ve given, she’s challenged me, confronted me; yesterday she told me she was sorry she ever came. “This is just AFGO,” she said. “And I’m tired of it. I just want to lose the damn weight and be done with it.”
“What’s AFGO?” I asked.
“Another Fucking Growth Opportunity,” Marie answered.
I laughed so hard I started snorting. “I’m sorry for laughing,” I said. “But it seems as if AFGOs have gotten a bad rap. Maybe you will find that this retreat opens you in ways you never imagined.”
“I doubt it,” she answered, and stomped away, her loose ponytail of curly red hair bobbing as her body receded in the distance.
Now, in the dining room, Marie says, “It just occurred to me that everything we believe about our lives is right here. The whole world is on these plates.”
“Amen, sister,” I say. Before stepping out the door, I bend down to Marie’s ear and quietly say, “Let’s hear it for AFGOs.”
On my way to the
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and Skyline Chili (page 170).
You’ll also find many recipes here for re-creating your favorite items from quick-service chains. A clone recipe for the amazing Barbacoa Burrito from Chipotle Mexican Grill is included (page 33), along with Burger King Onion Rings (page 14), Carl’s Jr. Six Dollar Burger (page 18), and the Boston Market Sweet Potato Casserole (page 11), which makes an awesome holiday side dish.
You’ll also find a great collection of clones for your favorite famous pastries in this volume, including Krispy Kreme Original Glazed Doughnuts (page 89), McDonald’s Cinnamon Melts (page 115), and the secret technique for making New York-style cheesecake just as they do at Carnegie Deli (page 21). There are even a whopping ten recipes for cloning the most popular and most requested Starbucks pastries! You’re bound to have a favorite among these babies.
Having a collection of clones like this guarantees that the tastes of food you love will live on forever—even when the original product is no longer available. There are several recipes in this book that will show you how to resurrect tastes that are no longer with us. KFC Cajun Honey Wings (page 77), Wendy’s Wild Mountain Bacon Cheeseburger smothered with the great Southwestern Pepper Sauce (page 249), and Coca-Cola Blāk (page 41) may be gone from stores, but the recipes in this book will bring them back to life in your own kitchen. You’ll even find a simple formula for Spatini Spaghetti Sauce Mix (page 191) that was sold in stores for more than forty years before Lawry’s discontinued it in 2006. I bought a box of the stuff off of eBay, replicated it, and now you can make it for yourself anytime you like.
I hope you have fun with these recipes and blow everyone away with your new ability to duplicate your favorite famous foods. I write these books so that you’ll have a great time in the kitchen when you decide to do some cooking.Then, the next time you taste something great and say to yourself,“Man, I wish I could make this at home,” you’ll know you can. Get yourself some Top Secret Recipes, gather around the kitchen, and get on with the cloning!
ARBY’S HORSEY SAUCE
Even though Arby’s has diversified its menu over the years with toasted subs and deli-style sandwiches on sliced whole wheat bread, it’s the thinly sliced roast beef piled high on hamburger buns that originally made this chain famous. Since roast beef and horseradish go so beautifully together, Arby’s created this delicious mayo-based horseradish sauce as a spread for the roast beef sandwiches. It also happens to be great on your homemade sandwiches too, but it just isn’t cool to hoard handfuls of those blister packs to take home with you. So, with the help of this secret formula, you can clone as much Horsey Sauce as you want. First step: Get out the blender. You’ll need it to puree the horseradish into the mix so that the sauce is smooth and creamy like the real deal.
1. In a small dish, dissolve the sugar and salt in the vinegar.
2. Measure the mayonnaise and horseradish into a blender. Add the vinegar solution, and then fire up the blender to medium speed for about 10 seconds, or until the sauce is smooth.
3. Pour the sauce into a container, cover, and chill it for at least a couple of hours to let the flavors get happy.
• MAKES 1 CUP.
BAJA FRESH SALSA BAJA
You won’t find freezers, can openers, or microwave ovens at this national Mexican food chain. Since 1990 Baja Fresh has been serving up great food, made fresh with each order. As you’re waiting for your food to come out, that’s when you hit up the salsa bar, where you’ll find several varieties of delicious fresh salsa, from hot to mild, ready to be spooned into little tubs that you can take to your table or to your car. One of the most popular selections is called Salsa Baja: Its medium spiciness, smoky flavor, and deep black color make the salsa unique and mysterious. That is, until now, since I’ve got a Top Secret formula for you right here. Blacken the tomatoes and jalapeños on your grill, then dump all the ingredients into a blender. Now you’re just a button press away from 3 cups of amazing homemade salsa.
1. Preheat the barbecue grill to high heat.
2. Place 6 of the tomatoes, stem-side-down (remove any stems), directly on the grill. Roast the tomatoes over the flame for 10 to 20 minutes.When the tomatoes are very charred and blackened on the first side, flip them over and continue to grill for another 10 to 20 minutes, until most of the surface of each tomato is black. When you flip over the tomatoes, add the jalapeños to the grill (take the stem off first). The jalapeño skin will blacken like the tomatoes.Turn the peppers as they cook so that all the skin darkens.
3. Take the tomatoes and peppers off the grill and put them in a bowl to cool for 10 to 15 minutes. Dump the tomatoes and peppers and any liquid in the bowl into a blender. Add the garlic and salt
milk and the mustard. Make a well in the centre of the dry ingredients and stir in the wet ingredients until combined.
4.Divide the mixture among the 12 paper cases and bake in the oven for 20–25 minutes until golden and a skewer comes out clean from the centre of a muffin. Transfer to a wire rack to cool.
MAKES ABOUT 12 PANCAKES
Our boys loved these when they were little, and they still love them now. The bananas are great for adding natural sweetness and, of course, nutrition-packed goodness, too.
150g (5oz) plain flour
1 tsp baking powder
¼ tsp bread soda (bicarbonate of soda)
1 tbsp caster sugar (optional)
150ml (5fl oz) buttermilk
25g (1oz) butter, melted
1 large or 1½ medium bananas, peeled and mashed just before using
a few knobs of butter
butter or maple syrup, to serve
1.Sift the flour, baking powder and bread soda into a bowl. Add the caster sugar (if using) and stir to mix.
2.Crack the eggs into another bowl and whisk, then stir in the buttermilk and melted butter. Make a well in the centre of the dry ingredients and pour the liquid into the dry ingredients, whisking as you add it. The batter is ready to use or can be stored in the fridge overnight.
3.Just before you want to cook the pancakes, fold the mashed bananas into the batter.
4.Heat a large frying pan over a medium heat and melt a couple of knobs of butter, making sure the base of the pan is covered with a thin layer of butter. I normally wipe the butter all over the pan with some kitchen paper, which I’ll use to re-butter the pan for each batch of pancakes.
5.Drop large spoonfuls (about 50ml/2fl oz each) of the pancake batter into the hot pan – leave plenty of space between them as the pancakes spread while cooking. Turn the heat down slightly or the pancakes will burn before they’re cooked in the centre. You should be able to fit four or five in the pan at a time. Cook on the first side until bubbles appear and pop on the upper surface – 1–2 minutes – then, using a fish slice or something similar, turn the pancakes over and finish cooking on the other side for another minute or so until golden brown. Cook all the pancakes in this way in a few batches, keeping the cooked ones warm in a low oven until they are all ready. Serve with butter or maple syrup – or both.
My friend Helen, who grew up in England with an Irish father and a mother from New Zealand, says that the taste of kedgeree will always bring her back, in an instant, to when she was little, sitting round the table with her family having brunch. It’s a great recipe for feeding a crowd and, of course, it’s good at any time of the day. This curried rice dish, made with delicious fresh or smoked fish, hard-boiled eggs and lots of intensely green parsley, is inspired by Helen’s mum’s recipe. Thanks, Beth!
450g (1lb) white or brown basmati rice
15g (½oz) butter
500g (1lb 2oz) smoked haddock (you could smoke your own as on here), skinned, deboned and cut into 2.5–5cm (1–2in) chunks
4 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil
2 large onions, thinly sliced
2 tsp ground cumin
2 tsp ground coriander
¼ tsp ground turmeric
pinch of cayenne pepper
½ tsp garam masala
225g (8oz) fresh or frozen peas
75ml (3fl oz) regular or double cream
2 tbsp chopped parsley
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
1.Bring a large pan of water to the boil, add the rice with a good pinch of salt and cook over a medium heat, stirring from time to time, until tender – be careful not to overcook it or it will go mushy. White basmati rice will take only 10–12 minutes, while brown basmati rice will take 25–30 minutes to cook.
2.Place the butter in a frying pan over a medium-high heat and allow to melt and foam. Add the smoked fish pieces and 1 tablespoon water. Season with black pepper, turn the heat down slightly and cook, tossing regularly, until the fish is just opaque, 4–5 minutes.
3.Meanwhile, place a large frying pan over a high heat and heat the olive oil until hot, then add the sliced onions and sauté for 5 minutes, tossing regularly, until almost softened and golden at the edges. Add the ground cumin and coriander, the turmeric, cayenne pepper and garam masala. Turn the heat down to low, cover the pan with a lid and continue to cook the onions until they are completely softened, 5–8 minutes.
4.While the onions are cooking, bring a pot of water up to the boil, gently drop in the eggs and boil for just 6 or 7 minutes, depending on the size. When they are cooked, drain and pour cold water over them to stop them cooking. Once they are almost cool, peel the eggs, handling them gently as they’ll be slightly soft in the centre.
5.Drop the peas into a pan of boiling water and boil for just 2 minutes or until cooked.
6.Once everything is cooked, you can assemble the dish. Add the drained rice and peas to the onions in t