Chocolate Caramel Cups and My Friend.

As I type this, I am sitting in an airplane, Switzerland-bound from Bodrum, Turkey.

And if I am to be completely honest, I am still asking myself.. What happened in Bodrum ? 

 I worked in a Japanese restaurant making desserts. I was responsible for the divorce of hundreds yolks and whites daily and I cleaned the ice cream machine so often I might as well live in it. I met an old flame and found a soulmate in a Thai girl. I found some new friends from countries like Indonesia, Germany and even my own, Malaysia. I made friends with a Japanese sushi chef old enough to be my grampa. I've gotten into so much trouble, seen so much drama, cried enough for a lifetime and very dramatically excited the country. But enough about that. 

I want to tell you about my friend N.

We were from the same elementary school. I remember his face - he was never very outstanding, seemingly keeping a neutral profile all the way to college, where we studied the same course. I remember him asking me about culinary arts and how working was like. I remember him asking me where I worked at before, and me telling him about the hotel I was an intern at and then explaining how people were like in this industry. I remember speaking to him before in high school, I remember his voice and his expressions and the way he laughed.

I found out just yesterday, that he was gone.

I didn't understand at first. The sad posts on Facebook about someone passing away. The name was oddly familiar, well, I hadn't spoken or heard from him in more than a year now. I did see him post some pictures from college and he seemed to be enjoying it, so I dismissed my doubts, thinking maybe it was someone I didn't know of the same name. Then I saw another post. And another. So I clicked onto his Facebook wall and stopped dead in my tracks. 

No. Oh god, please, no.

I immediately texted my mom. Something about what I had read didn't seem right - I didn't think much about it during the time, seeing as I was going to be leaving the country and I, along with three other friends, was trekking around the island in a rented car, lugging along my 27 kilos of luggage to be sent home. It was only when I finished running around, dripping in sweat that I pulled out my phone to see that my mom had texted me back. She's a teacher in my high school, see, so I figured she'd know what was going on. 

"N committed suicide. He was having family problems, he jumped from the 7th flood of your college, maybe the hostel. He was still in his chef's uniform."

I was too shocked to even cry. I climbed into the car, stunned, and sat in silence until time went by and something else came to my attention. He hadn't crossed me mind since then.

But now, sitting here alone in this flying airbus over the sea, I have time to think and write and all I could think and write about was him. I didn't know him that well, I probably wasn't significant to him except for being a senior in college, us both one of the few people from our high school who chose to work in the kitchen. But now thinking about all the sad posts I saw on Facebook... I can feel my heart shatter. You know how people start to "remember" and "thank" and place flowers on graves after someone has passed ? Yes, I've read that it's because regret is stronger than gratitude. It's only when someone is gone that the world starts to wonder why they never got to know the person more when they were alive. It's heartbreaking.

The part that struck me most was how hard it must have been for someone to chose to end their life this way. I wish someone could have been there for him. I tell myself I'll never take someone's sadness for granted ever again. And I hope I will never, never see posts like that anywhere, ever again. 

Rest in peace, dear N. May you be happy, may the food be good, and may the universe be kinder to you from now. I miss you.

For the chocolate cups :

Milk chocolate, melted

Caster sugar

Cream

Butter

Sea salt

1. Put a tablespoon of chocolate into a little muffin paper cup and swirl it around to coat the inside of the cups. You want to make a shell, like a Reese's peanut butter cup. Pop them in the fridge to set the chocolate. 

2. In the meantime, make the caramel filling. Put a cup or so of sugar in a saucepan with a splash of water. Heat until it melts and starts to turn brown, swirling the pan so it browns evenly. Add a 

little cream, maybe around a quarter cup and whisk but be careful, it'll bubble up. Add a tablespoon of butter and stir to melt, then remove from the heat and leave to cool.

3. Put a tablespoon or so of caramel into the chocolate shells. Pop the cups back into the fridge to set the caramel, then cover the caramel with the rest of the milk chocolate. Sprinkle a little sea salt over the top. Put them back into the fridge to set completely. Remove the paper cups and eat.

White Chocolate Pistachio Shortbreads.

Six days ago, I was staring at the clock in the kitchen, wondering why the damned hands wouldn't move. Time just didn't seem to pass at the normal rate, if anything, it might as well had been moving backwards.

Five days ago, I was running around the kitchen frantically, remembering that it was probably going to be my last time doing that so I might as well go ahead and run around frantically and get as many things done as possible.

Four days ago, I walked around the kitchen in a stupor - I didn't feel like talking much and I didn't feel like eating. I was mindlessly munching on some almonds and cleaning the insides of the cupboards when I felt someone throw ice at me. It then hit me (along with the very cold ice) that I was going to be finished with my six month internship that very day.

I went back for dinner service, still rather dazed, and commenced with my usual job of chopping up tomatoes for snacks for the cafe and watched the chef pour nine glasses of champagne, knowing we had a group tonight. I was putting the tomatoes into little bowls when the chef waved everyone over and then only did I realize that the bubbly wasn't for the group - it was for me.

I swallowed, hard.

Everything became a blur after that. I remember watching six of my friends who so happened to be working that fateful Thursday evening, along with the sous chef and the head chef, pick up a glass each and gather around me. I remember the chef explaining that it was my last day and the ones who didn't know looked surprised while the ones who know looked at me with expressions that made me feel like I was dying and it was my last day on earth. I remember just flapping my arms nervously and squeaking for them to don't look at me please don't look at me otherwise I'm going to cry. Then they were raising their glasses to me and I was holding the biggest one full of champagne and I was clinking glasses with them one by one, and they were thanking me and hugging me and kissed my cheek. I remember downing mouthfuls of champagne just so I would have something to do and somewhere to look, then my friend and the sous chef, looking horrified, managed to stop me from causing myself more severe allergies by insisting I put down the glass right now. I promptly handed it to the head chef who downed the remainder in one go. I spent the rest of the night scratching and feeling like a radiator - my face felt like it was burning. Damned alcohol.

And then, I was done. I walked around the kitchen, thanking everyone I saw from the pastry chefs to the room service people to the waiters and waitresses in the chef and then patting every available surface I could reach and walking out of the kitchen half-skipping while trying not to bawl. It was all rather confusing.

There were moments in my last few days (goodness, it does sound like I'm dying) that stuck with me in particular - the sous chef, who barely spoke to me at first, smiling warmly at me and pulling me in for a hug. A colleague-turned-good-friend who annoyed me to death with his nagging but kissed me on the cheek as I held my glass of champagne. Six of my closest friends, who bought me a Polaroid. A Polaroid ! Me, who was just an intern, who made nothing but club sandwiches and burgers and later some tapas for half a year, received a Polaroid from people who I could never imagined I would ever meet, let alone fall in love with. My heart had never felt so full of love, yet it had never ached so badly before.

Not so long ago, I fell in love again. With Pollito, who could have brushed me aside for being a lowly intern girl but instead took me under her wing and gave me so many little gifts and cheered me up and looked after me like a little sister. With Champignon (or Champy as I call her) who never let me work more than she thought I should, which wasn't a lot, who defended me fiercely, who looked after me and everything I did so I would not get into trouble. 

With M, who I worked with for a month, who drank tea with me and could read my thoughts and predict my actions to the extent where working with him was like having telekinesis. With Bilel, who was funny and cheerful and annoyingly naggy but always tried to make me smile and was also more clumsy than I was. With Ju, who helped me with a ridiculous amount of bits and bobs and made me promise to marry him should I be single in five years' time. 

With Samosa, who nicknamed me sushi and kept me company and gave me chocolates and treats even when he moved to the kitchen next door. With Panda who I rarely saw, but treated me like family all the same and proved to be one of the loveliest girls ever. With my little Swedish fish, whom I only got to know recently but said one of the nicest complements to me, ever, "what would we ever do without you?" 

With Chef Mozzarella, who scared the life out of me when I first came, but made jokes and silly faces to see if it would make me laugh, and gave me back massages when I was feeling tense. With A, who loved fishing and had the best sense of humor, who I spent hours giggling with and plotting to kill everyone we didn't like. With Robbie, who, when finding out that I loved cherries, stole so many for me that my entire work station disappeared under what seemed like a hailstorm of the lovely red fruit. With MrGoldenPillarofSeaweed (yes that is his official nickname) who made me copious cups of tea and left my presents at my door and sat with me when I broke and who, I will forever regret losing. 

And with Peperoni, who was the kindest, sweetest soul I ever met, who kept me company and always made me smile and who knew when something was wrong before I even realized it myself. I never liked green eyes but suddenly, one day, those became my favorite. 

I've been spending every moment I could with them. I leave the country in two days. I haven't packed, I haven't closed my bank account, my skateboard is still out, my ingredients are unused and my bed is still unmade. I don't want to leave. Yes, another adventure awaits, but for now, I want to drink my thoughts away (with coke), dance my heart out (with my two left feet), take so many pictures I run out of film (with my bright yellow Polaroid), love till I cannot give any more.. And see those eyes again. 

"You will never be completely at home again because a part of your heart will always be elsewhere. That is the price you pay for the richness of knowing and loving people in more than one place."

I made pistachio cookies today, along with packaging a million little presents and writing like notes because there was someone I knew who loved pistachios. And also because I had always wanted to play Santa and I was terrified everyone would forget me within my first week of leaving. But then again, the presents I got for them were perishable so I don't think I make a very good Santa.. Neither did I do a very good job of cementing myself in their minds. But I digress. It was the very least I could do, the only way I knew how to say I love you. 

For the cookies:

3 tbsp butter

3 tbsp sugar

2 tbsp pistachio paste

Tiny pinch of salt

1 tbsp sweetened condensed milk

1 1/2 tbsp cornflour

4-5 tbsp flour

40g white chocolate, melted

15g pistachios, chopped 

1. Cream the butter and sugar until light and fluffy. This shouldn't take long even by hand. Add the pistachio paste and the salt, mix well. Beat in the sweetened condensed milk as well. 

2. Beat in the cornflour then the flour, adding the minimal amount just till the dough comes together. It shouldn't be dry, just to the point where it doesn't glue itself to your fingers. Don't over mix.

3. Pop the dough into the fridge for an hour. Roll into 1/2 tbsp sized balls and put on a microwave safe plate. Microwave on medium (I used 400w) for 20 second intervals until the entire cookie is bubble but not too browned. Test one cookie first. It's done when it seems dry, not greasy and the top is riddled with popped bubbles (not a smooth ball of dough. Not the prettiest cookie but the taste is spot on).

4. Leave the cookies to cool completely on the plate. They're too fragile to move otherwise. Once cooled, carefully dip half of each cookie in the chocolate and then sprinkle with pistachios. Leave the chocolate to set before boxing and giving away or just eating them all since this makes a relatively small batch.

*you could use another chocolate or another nut, or even sprinkles of hundreds and thousands if you are so inclined but I have a friend who adores pistachios and white chocolate but has never had them together. This is my (experimental) way of trying to convince him. In the meantime, I've already managed to convince myself - these cookies are amazing. And the dough, don't even get me started.

A Myriad of Cheesecake Tartlets.

"Write hard and clear about what hurts."

-Ernest Hemingway-

How do I explain what hurts ?

In four days, I will have worked here for five months. In a few hours, I will wake up on the only day off I have after a mad week of work and head off to the Turkish embassy to apply for a permit to work in Bodrum with the very same hotel group I am currently working with, for another five months. If it goes as intended, I begin on the 6th of July. Six days after I am done with my intern. A few days after I have packed and moved to Turkey. Too little days for me to say goodbye. No days for me to go home.

Moral of the story: try not to be too compliant to your significant other who tries to convince you it is a good idea to go job hunting for a job you don't need while you still have a job you like. It is not a smart thing to do. Especially now that said other is no longer significant.

But. Having just turned 21 - okay, I turned 21 more than a month ago - oh god has it been that long already ? - I can say that the easy thing and the right thing are never the same. And for now, I choose to do what is probably the right thing. After all, it is a big hotel group and I have a reputation to upkeep. Finger crossed. 

Was that what I wanted to tell you about ? No. Well, maybe a little, but then what I really wanted to say was that I finally understand what people mean when they say that they feel raw.

In the past few weeks, so much has happened. I've loved and lost. I've gone to work with puffy eyes and have the chef put an arm around me and give me a massage (!) and talk to me like a friend (!!). I dropped some plates and been yelled at and I've have people say the meanest things about me in a language they thought I didn't understand. I've found best friends in the most random people - an Italian who is old enough to be my dad who saves me pork sausages everyday, two beautiful girls who call me "little sushi" and have become the older sister(s) I've never had, a Spanish-Swiss boy, younger and taller than me who never makes me work more than he thinks I have to (which is not a lot) and a chef who terrified me at first but now makes random impersonations of people just to make me laugh. 

I've stayed up till 4am dancing (I cannot dance) and gone back to my room with my hair smelling like cigarette smoke. I've been in a room full of people smoking stuff besides ciggies and been the only one not to touch the little white roll. I've watched two of my friends fight, on one of their birthdays, over a girl. I've seen kisses with random strangers after a particularly good song. I've seen countless ways of love defined, whether it be something wild like a night out drinking or something as tame as a hand on one's knee. For a girl who's been brought up very very conservatively, this is new to me. It's like all my storybooks reanacted in real life. By my friends. How odd. Not surprising or bad, just odd. 

 

I've had people who scared me to bits before, bring me pieces of cake or brownies and tell me I have a lovely smile (I buried my face in cheesecake in embarrassment). I've been thrown over someone's shoulder like a sack of potatoes (which I probably am) and walked around with, just because. I've had people say my name just because they liked the ring of it (Viyerne with a French accent. Viyernina with an Italian one). I've eaten so much dessert in one day that I threw up (not proud). I've spent days on my feet for hours only to go for a long run after. I've burnt the skin off one finger on my right hand, literally, and rendered myself left handed for a week. I've grown to love the people here so so fiercely that I would cry, I think, if I found out that they didn't love me, too.

So do you know what's hurting now ? It's not being yelled at or insulted. It's not breaking up. It's not even having to delay seeing my family for another few months. What hurts is loving, and being loved, then having to leave. What hurts most, is loving, being loved and having to leave... And knowing that there will come a day when they'd forget me and how I loved them so. 

So for now I say, party hard, dance like nobody is watching (even thought you cannot dance and everybody is, in fact, watching) and eat dessert. And smile. And love. And always, always mean it.

These are little tartlets I made a while ago when I was on vacation from work. I was thinking of cheesecake and I had a point to prove - you didn't have to bake them and you didn't have to have an oven and they didn't have to be big... I think somewhere along the line I lost sight of the sole purpose and just went with whatever random flavours I had in my head. But there were delicious, and I got a ridiculous amount of enjoyment from how good they tasted even when I was just throwing things into bowls and stirring away. Improv, I say. 

I have to apologize. This is not a good recipe by any standards, just rough measurements and estimates. I am sure that if you do attempt it that there will be minor glitches here and there but pleas understand, I have no scale, no machines and no oven. How is a girl to bake ?

The way she cooks, of course. Throw everything into a bowl with abandon, stir with a fork and bung into the microwave. And then pray.

I hope you adapt my ideas into your own. Measure and fix them, then share them with everyone else. That's how food is supposed to be.

For the cookie crust:

Use whatever cookies you want. I used butter biscuits but you can use Oreos or graham crackers or Marie biscuits... Whatever floats your boat.

Blend up the cookies in a food processor. Or put them in a ziplock bag and bash the living day lights out of them. Either way, you want fine crumbs. If using a machine, throw in some butter (around 40g to 150g cookies) and blend till you get a sandy consistency that clumps together when you squeeze it. If you're doing this by hand, melt the butter and stir it into the crumbs till you get, yes, a sandy consistency. Add more butter if needed.

Press the mixture into your fancy silicone muffin cups (3.50 at my local supermarket for 12 of the mini ones) or muffin tins or paper liners. Bake for 5-7 minutes at 180 degrees celcius. Or in my (desperate) case, microwave at 200w for like 30 seconds until yummy smelling. Hey, girl wants her tarts, man.

Leave to cool in the liners. Pop them in the fridge while you make the filling.

Ah, the fillings. My tarts were tiny - I think you can see by the scale of tart-to-hand ratio - I have been told I have smallish hands - so all I needed to fill each tart was a meager teaspoon of cream cheese plus less than a teaspoon of whatever addition I used to flavour. Taste and adapt as desired. Remember, these are only ideas.

Strawberry: 

Cream cheese + strawberry jam (I used homemade - how awesome is it that I finally get to say that ? Back when I was at home, strawberries were a luxury. Even eating them was a rare occurrence. But I digress. Use storebought if you like.) + a little dollop of jam on top for the heart.

Nutella:

Cream cheese + Nutella. This thickens up the mixture quite a bit and it will taste like the best goddamn cheesecake you have ever put in your mouth. Garnish with sprinkles just because the best goddamn cheesecake deserves some sprinkles.

Jasmine tea:

Cream cheese + very, very strongly brewed jasmine tea + a tiny bit of honey. This makes a loose mixture so you'll want to eat it quickly. But before you do that you can also swirl in more honey on the top and sprinkle a few jasmine tea leaves as well. Makes a very zen tart.

White chocolate:

Cream cheese + melted white chocolate. Very dangerous. Garnish with nonpareils to warn others of impending doom.

Coffee:

Cream cheese + espresso + powdered sugar. Swirl in some coffee syrup if you so happen to have some.

Simplicity:

Cream cheese + lemon zest + a little honey. Garnish with a pistachio because pistachio + lemon + honey = YES. And also if you managed to nick some of the most beautiful jade green pistachios you have ever seen in your life.

I have no idea how long they will keep. They were all gone the day after I made them. And I made twelve. Granted, they were mini...

Strawberries, Strawberry Jam, Strawberry Ice Cream.

As of today, I will have been to Venice twice. My favorite place in the entire world, I would have now visited twice in the span of a year. Before this, I would never have even dared to hope that I would even get the chance to set foot in that lovely city.

Also, as of today, I would have been to Venice twice, with a broken heart. 

Is it stupid ? Maybe. Am I just being overly sensitive ? Possible. However, it was enough to reduce me to tears. Having also misplaced my bank card on the morning of my afternoon flight, I spent a good part of the day running to and fro from the bank and haphazardly packing my luggage and trying to withdraw some cash so I would have some money to spend during my impending holiday. Upon reaching the hotel and acquiring an working internet connection, I once again found myself on the verge of tears. So I did the next best thing - dump all bags on the floor of my ridiculously quaint room and run out onto the streets for three scoops of gelato.

The next morning, I dug myself out of bed, having fell into the best sleep I had in weeks. After a good run, I walked into the lobby of the little hotel I was staying in - little in a good way as it was alright, I suppose, by Venetian standards, seeing as all their hotels were compact to suit the winding streets that ran through the city - and greeted the concierge buongiorno. He was a very kindly middle aged man, with crinkly eyes and he did not speak much, just wished me a pleasant day and reminded me to remember to have a good breakfast. I thanked him and ran out into the city for more gelato.

Arms full of bags of chocolate, I returned to my room for a brief rest. I silently cursed the Internet as the reality of what I had been trying to escape came bearing down on me yet again, after a long talk with the bearer of the news, I walked out of the room again with red eyes and a sniffly nose. The man at the lobby said nothing about my face, just smiled at me and waved me onwards. I proceeded to hunt for some bananas.

The next morning, as I quietly waited in the lobby for the handyman to open the gym, staring at my feet and fiddling with the buttons on my trench coat, I felt the eyes of the concierge on me. I looked up carefully, my eyes still sore, and gave him the biggest smile I could muster at that moment. His crinkly eyes smiled back in return as he asked if I had a good night.

Oh, what the heck, I thought. 

I told him I came to Venice as an escape. It was my second time here. I loved it so much, I had to come back. And I worked with some Italians (for the record, my work wasn't the reason for my momentary sadness, it was personal life. I love love love my job. And I am not sad anymore :)) who told me that it was a beautiful city. His eyes lit up and his voice filled with warmth as he chattered away about the place and the things one could do. He handed me his card, a map and some recommendations and waved me away as I followed the man to the gym. After a long run and a good shower, I bid him a good day and promised to return before noon for my luggage, and as I left, I heard him say "what a beautiful girl."

It made my entire trip. 

I guess I've been lucky. The first time I went to Venice, I stayed on Venice Lido, a small beach island off the main island that was Venice itself. The resort was larger and calmer, being off the beaten path. It was accessible but a little out of sight, and seeing as I was a lone traveller, and being a girl lugging along a huge luggage at night, I was met with a kind man at the lobby who helped me to my room. I met another on the second and third day who helped with transportation and sent me to the boat station early, free of charge. 

This time, I got to met Sergio, wonderful wonderful Sergio, who offered to make me tea coffee a biscuit anything as I sat tying my shoelaces trying to hurry before I missed the next water taxi. He explained everything in great detail and made me promise to come back. He would be there to welcome me, he said. And the next time, I would get to see more of the city I loved so much.

Yes. I have been very, very lucky.

****

I made some strawberry ice cream a while ago. See I've been so occupied with work, I haven't had time to breathe, I work twice as long as I sleep and my meals have been various - and numerous - items of food popped into my mouth throughout the day. I am terrified of what the scale will tell me but my heart has never been so full of people and their kindness.

So when I found myself with two weeks of holiday (which has sadly come to an end, but I have a little mini vacation of which I managed to jet off to Italy for three days and then return to write this) and a beautiful punned of strawberries at the supermarket, I knew I had to have them. Whether to eat or cook with or even just look at, I wanted the whole basket. I mean, I could smell them when I walked in. Have you ever smelled fresh, sweet smelling strawberries before ? It's like spring, and after a long cold winter, I was more than happy to see the bright red fruit.

The first thing I did when I came home was to snap a few pictures of the fruit. Then I proceeded to stuff my face with them. When I couldn't eat any more, I made them into jam. When I couldn't eat any more jam, I turned the jam into ice cream. It's a circle of life.

Strawberry jam:

500g fresh strawberries

3 tablespoons of sugar (more or less depending on how sweet your berries are and how sweet you like your jam)

It's easy. Just hull the berries and cut them into halves, or quarters for the large ones. Put them in a pot with the sugar and bring to the boil. They'll start releasing their juices after awhile, just cook and stir and cook and stir until thick, lucious and the berries have broken down. Taste and add more sugar if you wish. Store in sterilized jam jars. Or, even better, use to make your own strawberry ice cream, or strawberry milk.

Strawberry ice cream:

A cup of cream

4 tbsp of strawberry jam, plus one or two more for swirling

Whip the cream, fold in 4 tbsp of jam until an even pink color. Pop into the freezer until the sides have started to freeze. Take it out, give it a good whisk, then put back into the freezer until sides start to freeze again. Repeat the whisking and freezing process until you get a beautiful, smooth and creamy ice cream. Be aware, it freezes quicker towards the end ! Swirl in the last one or two tbsp of jam for a prettier look, if you want, during the last whisking. Freeze for an hour, at least, before serving. 

Simple Fried Rice and Saying Thank You.

I am, once again, working. Only this time, I am in the kitchen 11 hours a day, five days a week. Which isn't bad, considering the fact that I get a weekend of sorts every five days. Even if my weekends turn out to be Wednesday's and Thursday's.

I am here in my little room, on the fifth floor of a building right next to the hotel. I am lying on my stomach in bed as I type this, using my mobile data because I have no internet connection. To my left is my table filled with bananas and stupid amount of chocolate - which reminds me, I need to get a jar of Nutella again soon. Finished mine this morning.

A little further away is the bathroom with a bathtub I never use - my break times consist of runs and quick showers at the gym and when I'm back from work, a long bath is the last thing on my mind. A little nearer to me is the kitchen which I've never used. Up till today, that is.

But let's backtrack a little.

I've been here before, in the kitchen. Of the place I work, I mean, not this little thing in my room. It was November last year, I think, that I literally begged for an interview with the department. I tried so hard to convince her, that pretty lady, to give me a shot. Me, of all the mad amount of people who slipped in an interview with their files full of documents like encyclopedias, was given a chance to go to the kitchen for a trial.

It was December last year that I came here for the first time. I remember being scared sick and wanting to just crawl back into bed. I went into the kitchen and met the first person who would teach me how to do the random little things that they needed here and there - pluck some herbs, chop tomatoes.. And then someone slid a black plate full of sweet smelling bread in front of me while I was concentrating on my bunch of rosemary.

"Brioche," said a voice. "You want some ?"

I looked up and saw a smiling face and an extended hand. I had met my first friend.

I met everyone else after that. They were all guys and a girl, an intern as well who had been there for months now. I clung to her like glue that day - she was very kind. As were they all. I remember that the most. I also remember shaking their hands before I left and not knowing whether I would see them again - and also asking the chef where he was from and telling him I loved the place. I think I was supposed to have done my homework and tell him where he was from but.. Oh well.

A week later, I got the job. I nearly cried.

And then I came back in January, not knowing what to expect. Would it be different now that I was not here just for a day ? No. They were as nice as I remembered. And they remembered me.

It was an odd sort of feeling, to be remembered by people you just met for a day. I liked it.

I didn't talk much at first - I barely spoke french and they barely spoke English. But we tried and there were a few who spoke to me more - the girl being one of them, having impeccable English - and she helped me translate and kept me company. Then the jokes started - and I had to be louder - yelling YES CHEF during service - and I made more friends. And I proceeded to fall in love with the people.

Which was why I found myself stirring a pot of chicken curry and pouring it over a bed of fried rice, and carrying it down to the room of my Italian friend. Italians could love rice and sushi, who would've thought ?

It was a thanks of sorts from me. For the brioche. And the kindness they showed me since I got here. It's only been two weeks, I still have a long way to go but I am definitely happy. I only hope to improve and help them more, but in the meantime, I am very content with cooking them fried rice, and snacking on cheese and watching their silly antics and listening to Italian rap.

Who would've thought someone like me could end up here ?

Thank you. For making this place like a home to me. I doubt anyone ever reads this - let alone the people I am writing about (!) but thank you. Hugs and kisses.

I cooked this on a wonky stove with a wonky pan. I had nothing else so my measurements are stupid. Forgive me. I am just happy it turned out to be edible. And that my rice-loving italian friend finished the entire bowl.

Simple fried rice:

2 fistfuls of rice

2 cloves garlic, minced

1/2 onion, minced

2cm knob of ginger, minced

1 small carrot, diced

1/2 cup baby peas (petit pois)

50g lardons, diced

2 eggs, beaten

Soy sauce, to taste

1. Put the rice in the pot with about 2 cups of water. Bring to the boil, cover and simmer until cooked. Spread out and leave to cool.

2. Fry the lardons until crispy and they release their lovely fats into the pan. Put the lardons on a plate and fry the onions, garlic and ginger in the fat until fragrant.

3. Add the carrots and cook for a minute or two. Add the rice on medium heat and stir to break it up a little, add a tablespoon of soy and toss to mix. 

4. Lower the heat and pour over the beaten egg. Toss the rice so it gets coated and add another tablespoon of soy. Toss in the peas and lardons and stir over medium heat until nicely browned and smelling like a chinese kitchen. Taste and add more soy if you like. 

5. Serve at once. Maybe with a drizzle of sesame oil, with some curry on the side. Or a fried egg on top. Or some soup. Whatever makes you happy.