The Yays! (and Boos) of a Mixed Race Marriage

While our families didn’t oppose our interracial marriage, we were the first in both our families to marry outside of our race, so they did have a few concerns. Daddyken’s parents were worried that our mixed kids would be bullied at school because one, they’d ‘look’ different, and two, they’d be taking rice to school instead of sandwiches. My parents were worried that this Westerner was just out for some fun – the ‘love you and leave you’ stereotype they had of a Westerner. It didn’t help that both sets of parents lived in suburbs not conducive to extensive interactions with cultures wildly outside of their own.

My mother-in-law coped by reading anything in the newspapers about everything remotely connected to ‘Asian-ness’ and reading it out to me… I remember telling Daddyken that I’d never been so reminded that I was an Asian person than when I was with her! And my mum told everyone that her daughter’s fiancée was a gweilo (ghost or white man)… BUT he was a really nice one.

I think that even if you marry someone from your own race, you’re still going to encounter some challenges, not only between yourselves but also the extended family. The merging of two different extended families who didn’t necessarily choose to be together isn’t always going to be a smooth ride. But naturally, when you add the extra ingredient of two different races, it’ll inevitably add some extra bumps to the journey.

For the record, we’ve just had our 14 year wedding anniversary, we live in an area where mixed kids form a sizable chunk of the population, and while the Cherubs love rice (and Panda does sometimes take fried rice to school), they also love their vegemite and cheese sandwiches.

So to celebrate, I’ve put together my top 4 list of advantages and disadvantages of an interracial marriage (I know 4 is an unlucky number for the Chinese, but 4 + 4 = 8, and 8 is a favourite number of the Chinese because it means ‘make a fortune’ : )).

Note that I could wax lyrical about the amazing romantic-ness of the union of two different cultures etc etc, but life isn’t lived in the serendipitous clouds all the time – let’s get into the nitty-gritties.

Boo for Interracial Marriages:

1. Separate togethers: My in-laws don’t speak any Asian languages, and my parents’ English is good for general conversations about the weather. Awkward for everyone when there’s a family get-together. As a result, we have separate family gatherings… some may say that’s a good thing though, and I admit I deliberated a bit when trying to decide whether it was a Yay! Or a Boo : )

2. Language Block: The Cherubs can be a little shy with my parents because they aren’t able to fluently communicate in Cantonese with them. I take some of the blame for that because my Cantonese isn’t so flash either, and I speak to the Cherubs in English. I’m reluctant to send them to Chinese school though because I hated it when I my parents sent me to one when I was young.

So my parents converse with the Cherubs in broken English, with a few Chinese words thrown in, and the Cherubs use the few Chinese words they know whenever they see my parents, like hello, good morning, good night and good bye. And I think they all also assess the situation they’re in and just bluff their way through.

3. Pure Misunderstandings: I’ve perfected the outwardly calm, nonchalant, show-your-teeth-slightly smile, while frantically messaging Daddyken with my eyes and (hopefully) subtle movements of my head to give him an ‘ABORT. I REPEAT: ABORT LINE OF QUESTIONING/COMMENT/JOKE IMMEDIATELY’ signal.

It may have happened many, many years ago, but don’t put China.

Japan.

And War. together in the same sentence to a Chinese man who grew up in the aftermath of that conflict.

Also, try translating a joke into another language. There are SO many things that can get lost in translation that it gives me heart palpitations just thinking about it. Best case scenario is that the joke just falls flat and there’s an awkward silence. I repeat, BEST CASE.

4. The Issue Of Prawns: The Cherubs don’t like prawns. What Chinese kid doesn’t like prawns, albeit a half Chinese kid? Just eat half a prawn then. One cannot thrive on vegemite or cheese sandwiches alone, says this Chinese mother. I blame Daddyken for that. The White half of them has got the Chinese half in a headlock over prawns. I’m working on this difficult situation and will keep you posted.

Yay! for Interracial Marriages:

1. Cultural Collision: The Western side has an advantage with this culture thing because we live in Australia. However, I’m very close to my family and we live a few minutes away from both my parents and sister, so the Cherubs get the full Chinese family experience on a regular basis.

Our interactions with Daddyken’s family is very calm, orderly and planned. We ask how the other is, discuss the weather, what the other has been doing since we last met and how much rain each family has received in their respective locations. We eat quietly and the conversation is very polite.

As to my family? (Daddyken has a lot to say about this, but his main point would be that when he married me, he didn’t realise that he also said I do to my whole family) I’ll summarise: eating too much, having family members drop by all the time, any day of the week, any time – not necessarily to see us, maybe to get something out of the pantry that they need (even while we’re sleeping… yes, they have our house keys), cooking for 16 when there’s only 8 for dinner, being upfront and blunt about anything and everything (Your hair looks bad today or Those pants don’t suit you or Denim’s not in this winter and This doesn’t taste very good at all), an insane focus on eating all the time and the loud incessant conversations that overlap one another with no break in-between because everyone’s trying to say something and not willing to wait for an appropriate break in the conversation because frankly if you do wait you’ll never be able to get a word in and then apparently it’s just your bad luck you didn’t say something when you had the opportunity.

I like to think the Cherubs will grow up well-rounded.

2. Bridge of Pardons: Don’t like what the other is doing? Typical crazy Chinese people. Don’t understand why that’s happening? These white people have no idea. There’s a world of pardons that helps to smooth the bridge between our 2 families.

3. Happy obliviousness: Daddyken doesn’t understand many Chinese words except for gweilo, go lo (tall man) and a hand-full of random words that you wouldn’t be able to string together to make a coherent sentence. Which can have its advantages. For example:

Daddyken sat between my parents at dinner once, and mid-way through that dinner, my parents started arguing loudly and heatedly behind and across the front of him (I’d like to say that they fought over the top of him, but at 183cm tall, not many people would be able to do that, let alone two elderly Chinese people) about who dug up whose chives in a certain large black pot and now who won’t have any chives in their noodles and who should have marked that black pot in the corner with a sign so that there would be no confusion as to whether or not the large black pot was empty and who should have known…

Daddyken calmly ate his dinner, finished eating, thanked me for cooking and left the table. After they went home, I commented on the fight my parents had just had. When? and Really? Your family always speaks so loud and fast all the time I didn’t notice. So how did it go?

4. And the ultimate pièce de résistance: THERE’S NO FIGHTING OVER WHO’S HOUSE WE GO TO FOR CHRISTMAS OR CHINESE NEW YEAR!! Christmas is Daddyken’s domain, Chinese New Year is mine, and never the twain shall they ever, ever collide.

What’s in Honey Soy Chicken Wings?

I’ve espoused the virtues of chicken wings before in a previous chicken wing recipe, but I’m surprised it wasn’t for this honey soy recipe (probably because I’ve made it so many times I’m on auto-pilot and forget that I’m actually making them).

The actual name of the dish is pretty misleading. If you just mixed honey and soy with chicken wings, it’ll taste pretty flat. It should actually be called Garlic, ginger, honey and soy chicken wings, because it’s really the garlic and ginger that gives it that delicious kick. When I first found the recipe, I scoffed because I really did just want to mix honey, soy and wings together. Who wants to fuss with garlic and ginger? Well, you need to if you want something yummy.

If the Cherubs have a friend over for dinner for the first time, there’s a fair chance they’ll ask for honey soy chicken wings to be served. It’s almost an initiation ritual – if you like these wings as much as I do, then you’re ok and we can definitely be friends. Thus far, luckily for the Cherubs, the wings have received a resounding thumbs up from everyone. And I usually then get a text from their friend’s mum asking for the recipe. So here it is!

img_4583

Honey Soy Chicken Wings

Serves: 6 people

 Ingredients:

  • 2 kg chicken mid-wings
  • 1/2 cup honey
  • 1/3 cup soy sauce
  • 6 garlic cloves, finely grated
  • 2 tablespoons ginger, finely grated

Cook:

  • Preheat oven to 180 degrees
  • Line 2 baking trays with baking paper
  • Mix honey, soy sauce, garlic and ginger in a large bowl until combined
  • Add the chicken mid-wings and mix well
  • Arrange the mid-wings in a single layer on the baking trays
  • Bake for 20 minutes, then turn mid-wings and bake for another 20 minutes or until the chicken is nicely browned.
  • Serve with rice and steamed vegetables or salad.

Notes:

  • Mid-wings are the wing bits of choice in our family, but if you’re keen on meatier parts, go for the drummettes.

Pronunciations of the edible kind

Many years ago in my youth, I was a management consultant and worked in Italy at a multi-national beverage company for a few months.

I lived half an hour’s walk from the city centre in a serviced apartment with a pizzeria, bakery and gelateria across the road. I wasn’t keen on the rock hard bread they seem to like there, but the pizza and the pasta was amazing – I seriously still drool when I think about those meals. And don’t get me started on the gelateria’s spectacular seasonal gelato flavours or the fact that I shipped back 16 pairs of shoes… that’s a story for another time.

Anyway, after the first week of reveling in their glorious restaurants and gelato, I craved simpler meals back in my apartment. Not accustomed to supermarkets even back at home (I was living at home and my mum did all the cooking and shopping), I found the local Italian supermarket super confusing. So in the second week, my meals alternated between pizza from the pizzeria and canned tuna (because tuna in cans is easily recognizable and the canned tuna aisle was close the supermarket entrance) and pasta.

Another week went by and I craved some steak or chicken. I braved the supermarket again, but couldn’t find the meat section and I was too shy to ask because I couldn’t speak Italian. I’m sure the security cameras would have been following me – that small Asian woman is back again, walking up and down the aisles again, looking up and down and around again and then finally just paying for a tin of tuna. Again.

The local staff at work helped me with my Italian language skills during lunch later that week, emphasizing the importance of pronunciation. I marched into the supermarket that same afternoon and walked boldly up to a staff member at the back of the shop, brimming with my newly acquired confidence in the Italian language. Well, for buying meat anyway.

Scusi, car-ne? I said triumphantly.

He looked at me alarmed. No, no he said nervously.

Um… Car-ne? CAR-NE? (because of course, if you speak louder, they’ll be able to fully understand what you’re trying to say).

No, no! he repeated, shaking his head vigorously and looking somewhat distressed.

Determined, I repeated Car-ne! Car-ne! and gestured a little desperately at the shelves (avoiding the canned tuna aisle) and doing eating movements with my hands.

He seemed to grow a little frantic No, no, no! And then he paused. No bow bow. Another pause. Then he put his hands in front of him and impersonated a dog. No bow bow.

Ohhh… cue the lightbulb please.

Um… moo moo? Baa baa?  Um… oink oink?

Ah! He looked relieved. Card-ne! si! card-ne!

Wasn’t that what I had just said? Sort of?

Looking excited, he took me over to the refrigerated (why didn’t I think of that?) section and happily pointed to the lamb chops and steaks nicely packaged up, with minuscule pictures of the relevant protein on the front.

The next day, the local staff at work pointed out to me the difference in pronunciation between meat and dog. They also found it exceedingly amusing, while my Australian colleagues benefited from my gallant effort. But at least I got to have my steak and eat it.

The Price Of Tea At QVB

The first time I went to high tea was about 15 years ago for a girlfriend’s birthday at the Victoria Room in Darlinghurst, Sydney. It was very bohemian and very dim. Sheer fabric separated the tables and the room looked a little bit like an old claustrophobic antique store. Crammed into the room were tassels, fringes, crystals and bejeweled items in a room full of strong red and purple colours. Bottles of champagne popped amongst teapots and teacups and I wondered if the name should have been changed to high booze.

I had expected something more ‘English’, more country manor, less dimness, more restraint in colour and noise. Surely the English spoke in muted tones when partaking in such an esteemed event as high tea? Surely the English would not have popped champagne in the middle of the day?

Fast forward 15 years, and I’m at The Tea Room in the Queen Victoria Building (QVB) in Sydney with Panda, her friend G and G’s mum. The QVB itself is a beautiful historic building built in 1898, and the girls are extremely excited to be posh ladies for 2 hours. I’m also extremely pleased – things are as I expect high tea to be.


The Tea Room is located in the original Grand ballroom (swoon). The lift entrance is encased in glass and reception is outside the actual dining room to keep noise levels down. When you walk into the large room, you barely hear a murmur even though there are guests already enjoying their morning tea. We are seated on large single person lounges at a low table. Baccarat crystal chandeliers hang from the very high ornate Victorian ceilings, the carpet is soft and thick, and there is a huge urn in the middle of the room with a large pastel-hued flower arrangement. Sumptuous is the word.

There’s also something very grand about drinking tea from a silver teapot and dining on delicate morsels of food from a 3-tiered plate stand, and a Royal Albert one at that.

With my carb-sensors switched off, the afternoon high tea is all fresh and reasonably tasty. The hot course includes Peking duck pancakes (bingo! say Panda’s eyes) and a savoury cheese biscuit with smoked salmon.

14222225_1359351417423443_7313920918625521751_n

For the cold course we have crust-less sandwiches (which were a little lacking in the wow factor that I was expecting for the price we’re paying) with fillings like coronation chicken (chicken in a curry sauce is our explanation to the girls), egg and chives, and cheddar and chutney.

high-tea

The sweets are done well and include a salted caramel macaron, chocolate mousse cake, blood orange jelly cheesecake and a lovely mini fruit tart. I struggle to finish an extra-large scone which comes with jam and cream, however I do enjoy the sweet and slightly crumbly texture.

14191570_1360309327327652_317842078_o

The girls share a serving, which turns out to be a wise move, because we go from totally famished to Oh no, you have it, I can’t fit anything else in with 3 sweets and a scone left. Although the girls do manage to polish off the bowl of cream (I’ve always told Panda that dairy is good for you).

While the food isn’t going to get them into any food guides, in between the girls fluttering their eye-lids while drinking tea with their pinkies raised (because apparently that’s what posh ladies do when having afternoon tea), the attentive service of the unflappable waiters, the lavish surrounds and tranquil atmosphere of The Tea Room, it was a great afternoon out for two harried mums and two wonderful tweens who deserved the day out.

Verdict: High tea isn’t cheap – you’re paying for both the food, surrounds and the feelings that the experience evokes (which isn’t always a bad thing). It’s definitely not something you would do on a regular basis, and it’s best shared with family and friends.

14192677_1359351340756784_8483147882197739046_n

Cost: Afternoon tea $45 pp and $6 for a glass of orange juice

Website: http://thetearoom.com.au/

Photo Credits:

Exterior of QVB: denn via VisualHunt / CC BY-SA

Interior of QVB: NickiMM via Visualhunt.com / CC BY

Prosperity: Crispy Skin Pork Belly

As I’ve mentioned before, the Chinese believe that having meat or even just a lot to eat is a sure sign of prosperity.

If you’ve ever been to a Chinese wedding at a Chinese restaurant, you’ll know what I mean. It’s an 8 to 10 course meat and seafood fest, with vegies just there for aesthetic reasons.

I loved those banquets (I’m at an age where pretty much all my friends are married, and I now have to wait for the next generation to offer me such a feast). I could never pace myself properly and was always almost too stuffed to eat the moreish carb-rich longevity noodles they serve at the end. I said almost, because you need to balance all the protein with something and it may as well be a plate full of white noodles. And then it would be disrespectful not to eat the desserts on offer…

Many years ago, a Chinese friend’s dad came home grumbling about a Chinese couple’s wedding he had attended at the Hilton Hotel in the city. He complained about only being served 3 courses, how they brought out huge plates but didn’t fill them up – there was only a tiny bit of food in the middle, and the only option for dessert was the wedding cake! He consoled himself by driving down to Chinatown afterwards for congee with salted pork and century egg for supper.

The same thought process applies to Chinese New Year – duck, chicken, pork, beef, fish, prawns and abalone – preferably all served in the same meal. The goal is to stuff yourself to the brim, and the aim is to still have food left over because it means you’ll have a prosperous year. And who doesn’t want a prosperous year?

One of my favourite meats is pork belly with crispy skin. The Chinese sometimes refer to pork belly as ‘three layered meat’, but I think ‘three layered fat’ is more to the point. However, meat (and fat) this tasty shouldn’t be shied away from – just embrace the amazing flavoursomeness, the juicy, tender layers of white pork lovingly sandwiched between soft, melt-in-your-mouth fat, topped off with crunchingly fabulously fatty crackling… just don’t embrace for too long or too often. It’s definitely a sometimes food!

With Chinese New Year just around the corner, in honour of those gluttonous protein packed banquets and looking forward to many more, here’s my easy crispy skin roast pork belly recipe.

Crispy Skin Pork Belly

Serves: 6 people

Gluten free

Ingredients:

  • 750g pork belly (ask your butcher to score the skin for you)
  • 1 teaspoon salt
  • 1 teaspoon Chinese 5 spice powder

Sauce:

  • 2 tablespoons hoisin sauce
  • 1 tablespoon lemon juice

Prep:

1 day before:

  • Scrape the bristles off the pork rind if there are any
  • Dry the pork rind with a kitchen towel
  • Rub the pork with the salt and spice
  • Leave uncovered overnight

Cooking:

  • Take out the pork an hour before cooking
  • Preheat oven to 240 degrees celsius
  • For the sauce, combine the ingredients and set aside
  • Place pork, skin side up on a rack in a roasting tin
  • Roast for 20 minutes, then reduce the heat to 200 degrees celsius
  • Cook for 40 – 45 minutes until crispy
  • Let the pork rest for at least 10 minutes and cut into pieces
  • Serve with the sauce, rice and vegies

Notes:

  • Yes, you do need to prep this up the day beforehand (I sometimes do it 2 days before) because you want to dry out the skin as much as you can – this helps with the crisping process. The advantage of doing the prep the day before is that all you have to do on the day is pop it into the oven.
  • Score the skin in widths that you would like to serve the pork in. This makes life easier because you can just slice along the score lines when you’re ready to serve.
  • The skin should crackle and bubble. During the cooking time, if the skin isn’t bubbling or blistering – take the pork out and brush the rendered fat sitting on the bottom of the tin onto the skin – this will help the crisping process.
  • The lemon in the hoisin sauce helps to cut through the fattiness of the pork.

Camping Glory

I am, at this very moment, basking in the glory of a victory.

Daddyken, for some weird primal reason, bought a tent a few years ago, presumably with the hope that I would eventually want to camp anytime soon. My requirements for a camping trip includes running water – both hot and cold for a shower and an actual flushing toilet – all within the confines of my own tent, decent cooking facilities, comfortable beds and not having to carry my own accommodation with me… requirements which funnily enough weren’t conducive to the type of camping trip he had in mind.

He and the Cherubs happily camped in the backyard for a few summers, while I communicated with them from within the comfortable confines of our house via a walkie-talkie. I thought it a most satisfactory state of affairs until I accidentally organised a day trip to Cockatoo Island in the middle of Sydney Harbour. Unfortunately it had camping facilities which I was impressed with, and then Daddyken played his For my birthday I would like to go camping card.

*#^%*%>!$^.

On Daddyken’s birthday, the day started out lovely – warm and sunny, with blue skies and serene fluffy white clouds above us. We drove 10 minutes to the ferry wharf, lugged our 4 sleeping bags, 1 camp chair, tent, snacks, dinner, 2 air mattresses, 1 mallet, air pump, clothes and other paraphernalia onto the ferry and in 5 minutes we were at Cockatoo Island. I know, I know – it’s not a bona-fide camping trip out in the bush where we’re communing and roughing it with nature – but that pull-along suitcase weighed a tonne ok?

We pitched our tent close to five women who had opted for the glamping option (tent, bed and chairs are already set up for you) and had just started a bottle of wine.

By the time we finished pitching our tent into the hard dry earth in the windy afternoon, the women were onto their second bottle of wine. At least.

The afternoon was idyllic. The Cherubs climbed down the rocks that surrounded the island and played in the water. We explored the island’s buildings which were mostly built by convicts, sandstone tunnels built during WWII, discarded ship yards (ships used to be built here for the war) and made seagulls furious by peering into their nests.

The evening sent the day-trippers home, and in the half-light of dusk, the island transformed into an amazing communal world where there were no fences to keep people from traipsing right across the front, back or side of your tent. Kids played handball and soccer in the open spaces, music wafted in from the wedding across the other side of the water, the women campers were still into the wine (we only ever saw them drinking by their tents, walking to the cafe to buy liquor or walking back from the cafe with liquor), kids scootered around, seagulls squawked, families cooked dinner on the BBQs, we ate our sushi (who wants to fuss with sausages when you can eat sushi purchased earlier that morning?), we admired the tents adorned with Christmas lights, toasted marshmallows in the bonfire and the Cherubs did not once ask to play on our phones.

And then night came.

A camper tripped over one of our pegs and confiscated it. With horrifying images of being executed in the dark of night by vengeful campers, I apologised profusely, retrieved our offending peg and hammered every peg in until they bent.   The change in temperature from day to night caused the Cherubs’ asthma to join the camp-out, so they coughed, wheezed and their noses ran.   For fear of being eaten alive by mozzies (and also execution by revenging campers) I zipped the tent up securely so we could slumber uncomfortably in an extremely small, hot and stuffy space not designed for unseasoned campers.    Memo to Seagulls: There is absolutely no need to SQUAWK all night. I get it that your rookery is close by and you’re trying to protect your chicks and eggs – but ALL night? Really? Don’t you need a rest so you can squawk even louder during the day since you’ve built your nests right next to the walkways of this island where at least a hundred people tramp through every day?    The volume of the dance music from across the water competed with the rhythmic coughs from the Cherubs.     Now I know why those 5 women drank all afternoon.     Did you know that not all campers sleep at a reasonable time and walk around discussing in high volume how the contract hasn’t been signed and so they won’t be able to go in extremely close proximity to the sound absorbing walls of your tent ?         We should have brought pillows because that would have helped Soccer Boy with his blocked nose and he wouldn’t have had a sore neck and woken me up each hour to reacquaint me with his woes.     For your information, Cockatoo Island is very well lit, so when you get up at 1 am to take your Cherubs to the toilet because they can’t sleep because it’s hot and stuffy and loud and they’ve got a runny nose and they’re not comfortable and you were just on that magical cusp of sleep – you won’t stumble around in the dark and trip over a tent peg (which should have been hammered into the ground properly in the first place).    The patter of rain on the roof of one’s own home is comforting, but the patter of rain on the tent roof IS NOT.    Also for your information, the first ferry of the day from Cockatoo Island back to your car which will take you back to your home where it’s quiet, you don’t have to rock on an air mattress with 2 wiggly boney kids, there’s pillows and no seagulls scream at you, DOES NOT start at 4 am. So when your Cherub tells you he wants to go home NOW, you can let him know that you’ve already made it very clear that even though you would also dearly love to get off this wonderful adventure that THEY all so excitedly embarked on – We. Can. Not.

And then morning arrived at 6:30 am courtesy of the violent rock of the air mattress as the Cherubs sat up and chatted like they slept like, well, angels all night.

Daddyken said Let’s never do this again.

I would have video taped that statement, but based on the night we had, I knew I didn’t even need to bat an eyelid. I couldn’t anyway, my eyes were so tired each time I blinked I ended up having a snooze.

We performed our toilette, ate breakfast, packed up and joined the throng of bleary eyed campers at the ferry wharf.

Happy Birthday.

Summer Tapioca Pudding

Ah summer. How I wished for your visit the minute winter reared it’s chilly head…

Summer. When the washing dries to a crisp after only 2 hours. When it’s already 25 degrees by the time we finish breakfast. When it’s all dim inside the house because we close the blinds and curtains to keep out the sneaky glare of the hot sun. When it’s even too hot to wear a singlet and shorts to bed.

When it’s MANGO season! Mangoes here in my cereal, mangoes there in little cubes in a bowl – mangoes everywhere in my smoothie!

img_4542

Summer brings a plethora of yummy tropical fruits – watermelon, lychees, cherries, strawberries and blueberries. And mangoes.

Ah mangoes, how I miss you when all I have during dreary winter is apples and oranges and pears.

But enough of dreariness! Winter is a distant 5 and a half months away, and summer is everywhere NOW! Let us revel in the fruits that summer has to bear…and make tapioca pudding topped with my favourite coloured tropical fruits – and that includes MANGO!

img_4552

What an amazing colour combination!

I chanced upon a tapioca pudding recipe in the newspaper a while ago and it brought back memories of my childhood when my mum used to make it for us. The childhood version I had didn’t have any tasty fruit on top, even though we always only seemed to have it in summer, and it was a lot runnier than how I make it. But I still remember it being yummy and sweet and full of summeriness!

My take on the pudding has a lot less sugar, but I still have to confess that it’s a pure carb-fest (tapioca is made from the starch of the cassava plant, a root vegetable)… but sometimes a carb-ie detour is just what one needs when one decides to indulge : )

Tapioca Pudding with Summer Fruits

Gluten free

Serves 6

Ingredients

  • 2 tins of coconut milk
  • 500 ml of milk
  • 1/4 cup of sugar
  • 1/3 cup small tapioca pearls
  • Mango, watermelon and blueberries – or whatever fruit you like.

Let’s make pudding!

  • Mix all the ingredients except the fruit together in a pot and soak for about 20 minutes
  • Turn the heat onto a medium heat and bring to a simmer for about 20 minutes or until the pearls become soft and translucent

img_4536

  • Make sure you stir every few minutes, making sure to scrape the bottom of the pot and move the pearls around otherwise the pearls will stick to the bottom and burn
  • Take the pot off the heat and let it cool and then chill in the fridge
  • Chop the larger fruit into little cubes so all the fruit are basically the same size
  • Spoon the tapioca into bowls and top them with the fruit
  • Garnish with a mint leaf if you’re so inclined!

Notes:

  • The pudding can also be eaten warm, in which case you can enjoy it during winter
  • The pudding will become gluggy after you’ve chilled it, but it’s still very yummy! If you don’t want to eat it warm but not keen on glugginess, you could add a little bit of water or more coconut milk to make it runnier.
  • Also, if you’re not keen on milk, just substitute the milk for water instead. This does mean that you’ll get a thinner consistency, but I think it’ll be just as good.

img_4556