Wednesday, April 8, 2009

Keju cake

9 april 2009, kamis

Masih ada sisa keju di kulkas, nyoba bkin cheese cake. Resepnya mpir sama dengan pie cheese cake, tapi cuman bkin isi nya aja, ga pake kulitnya.



Bahan
100 gr keju, potong potong
40 gr gula
2 bh telur
3 sdm tepung trigu
100 ml krim kental
100 ml susu segar




Cara
- masukkan telur n gula ke blender, blender lalu masukkan keju n tepung trigu, blender lagi
- terakhir masukkan krim kental, blender lagi
- masukkan di loyang, oven 180 drajat 40 menit.
- angkat, dinginkan di kulkas

Ternyata bikin tanpa kulit juga enak...yummy de, praktis n gampang..

PhotoFunia

8 April 2009, kamis

Iseng pagi pagi abis chat ama temen, dikasih tau web buat photo lucu2, jadi iseng dah bikinin buat anak2...hehehe
boleh juga dicoba di www.photofunia.com

Smoked Mackerel Pâté

Sometimes speed and convenience are quite important. Throw taste in there as well and you have yourself a near perfect lunch.

If this isn’t the quickest, easiest, most delicious-ist pâté you’ve ever had then I’ll happily eat my trilby (proof required before hat-eating will commence).

Take a smoked mackerel fillet.



Remove the skin

Flake the fish into a bowl.

Mash it up with the back of a fork.

Add a squeeze of lemon juice and a tablespoon of mayonnaise (or plain yoghurt if you are feeling the pull of the health-side). Season with black pepper (go easy on the salt).

Stir the whole tasty lot together and serve with oatcakes, perhaps?



For more quick fixes, follow me on Twitter

edit3


td sy buat private
sbb sy edit layout nih.
yup3...obviously x reti lg!
sambung esok plak.

wawawa~~~ buta IT
-_-

Guest Blogger: Gordon Ramsay (!)

Wow. In something of a coup for Just Cook It, I’m delighted to launch a brand new feature with a very special guest indeed: none other than the star of Hell’s Kitchen, Hell’s Kitchen USA and numerous adverts: *** chef Gordon Ramsay.

Whilst clearing out the fridge the other day I came across what I thought was a shrivelled mushroom. ‘Hang on,’ said my girlfriend ‘let me take a closer look at that, I’m sure I recognise it from somewhere. It’s not…’

‘It is,’ I replied excitedly ‘it’s potty mouthed, walnut-faced superchef, Gordon Ramsay!’



‘’kin-ell,’ he said. ‘Call yourself a food blogger? F***ing disgrace. Two weeks I’ve been waiting here. Not even offered a menu. F***ing joke. At least get me a glass of water, I look like a f***ing prune.’

‘F***ing unbelievable. This guy. Doesn’t know what the f*** he’s doing. Supposed to be a professional writer, yes? Well then f***ing write something! Don’t leave me sitting here like a f***ing idiot. What you take me for? Some sort of f***ing w**ker?’

‘What’s all this Just Cook It b*llocks? You’ve got so much going on here that it’s all f***ing sh*t. Front of house are desperate for some f***ing leadership. Two chefs in the kitchen don’t know what the f**k they’re doing and a manager that smokes more than a f***ing smoking f***ing chimney. Always outside. F***ing disgrace.’

‘Grow some f***ing b*llocks, yes? You’re the owner, yes? Then f***ing tell them what to do! I’m wasted here. I don’t think even I can f***ing save this f***ing place.’

After much begging he promised to stay until the blog was fulfilling its potential. So now he watches from a vantage point, surveying the kitchen from high upon the windowsill.

The best f***ing motivation I’ve ever had.

For more from me (and Chef Ramsay) follow me on Twitter.

lihat bulan yg same.

post yg tertunda almost a week. yeah~

friday 3rd april 2009 -
nothing much. went to mr sukhry's class.
then jmpe TTM. pot pet pot pet.
mlm, 8:45pm, went to JJ au-keramat.
there, i met 4 other bloggers. alaaa... mcm x kenal.
3 of them mmg da kenal. 1 of them, 1st time jmpe.
me. nora. akid. ainaa. ayak. huhu~
mkn steamboat d johnny!

ainaa K. hehe. she's a 18 years old girl.
she's smaller, fairer & shorter than i thought.
n die mkn pon skit je!!! hehe. x pe fhm2...
mkn pon x kenyang ye ainaa? haha XD

akid. ayak. mmg bnyk buat lawak.
yeah. sy bnyk gelak. sgt bnyk. nora plak.
sian die. tgh skt dlm n luar. huhu.
x mkn pon just minum hot milo~

then. anta ainaa blk dlu d wngsa maju.
n ayak, akid, nora - the syakirinS. tlh buat surprise utk sy.
mrka tlh buat mcm2 helah. d mane sy blur2 pon caye.
and finally... mulot sy nganga luas2 lg.
yeah2. mrka bwk sy ke look up point~ 1st time.
jakon gile. wakakakka. n sgt la happy!!!

cantik. nmpk sume view kl. hee. i like~
gelak gile2 lg. yeah. bnyk bnde lawak. esp.
mcm mane sy bgitu bendul ikot je pe die org ckp.
wakakakka. anyway. mmg appreciate sgt2 guys.
thanks a lot. seriously happy gile =]


saturday 4th april 2009
bgn pagi2. siap2 ikot mama. yeah.
serang masjid jamek + jln tar etc. grrr~ crowded gle.
mama maw beli kain baju. yeah. sgt bnyk~
sampai la lewat ptg. huuu. then mama penink.
terkena hujan n leteyh. then TTM dtg jap.
hantar dinner utk mama yg x sehat.
hee. thanks! =]


sunday 5th april 2009
bgn pagi2 jgk. and habiskan mase with fmly.
kak long n anak2 nye dtg. auntie skali.
huu... leteyh~ haha. but enjoy.


nape post tajuk 'lihat bulan yg same?'
erm. ketika d look up point. sy melihat bulan.
n bintang. n nora said 'bintang hati'
huu~~~n akid said 'aku rase die memandang bulan yg same'
haha. hope so! hurm... rindu~ XD



Butcher's Apprentice [Part Two]

Last month I wrote a short blog piece about spending the day with a butcher.

Here is the full article from Home Farmer magazine whose ethos is simple, effective and close to my own heart:

‘Not everyone can keep a cow, but everyone can make cheese. Not everyone has a field of wheat but we can all make our own bread.’

Click here to subscribe.

The Butcher’s Apprentice




‘Right, I’ve got one final job for you,’ says Miles Nicholas, head butcher at Gog Magog Hills Farm Shop, just south of Cambridge. ‘The butcher’s block needs sanding down.’ Although an apparently unglamorous job, it’s one that is deeply pleasing.



There’s something wonderfully symbolic about tossing a few handfuls of sawdust over the wood and cleansing it of the day’s detritus. In an age where technology rules, these small constants that have endured for so long are not just important, they are essential.

I was lucky enough to spend the day with Miles and the Bradford family who have been selling locally sourced produce from their farm for almost half a century.

For a long time ‘butchery’ was used as a byword for a job done badly but surely this isn’t a fair summation? Indeed, learning the skills necessary to turn an animal carcass into parts that the consumer will recognise, and buy, can take a lifetime.

‘You’re always learning something new,’ Miles tells me. ‘Different butchers do things in different ways and I find it fascinating to spend time with butchers who’ve developed their own methods. You can never know everything but you can always learn something.’

This passion and interest is keenly apparent when watching him work. It appears effortless, with an ease and fluidity that only comes with years of practice.

‘I’ve been doing this since I was fifteen. I started as a butcher’s apprentice on the bike and haven’t stopped. It was this or become a builder.’

I ask him if he has noticed a change in the attitude towards butchery. ‘Oh yes,’ he replies earnestly. ‘I used to be embarrassed to tell people what I did. Now I’m proud of it.’

And understandably so. The more time I spend watching, the more the skill and dexterity required became evident. The more it became obvious that this is an art form in itself. But couldn’t a machine do this?

‘A machine doesn’t have a sense of smell or a pair of eyes. All animals are different and we’re not just cutting them up. It’s important to touch the meat, to smell it and to look at it to make sure nothing is wrong. We are constantly checking it every step of the way.’

This is reassuring, especially considering the quality of the meat that is being dealt with here: free range, rare breed high welfare animals.

What sort of problems are they looking for?

‘Any abnormalities at all, anything that means the meat is less than perfect. Arthritis for example, or an abscess. I can see these immediately and the meat goes back. We won’t sell it to our customers because it isn’t perfect. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does it’s essential that it’s spotted.’

I see this firsthand when I am entrusted with a boning knife of my own and an entire leg of Gloucester Old Spot pork. Any mistakes made here can cost money.

Following Miles’ lead, I follow the leg bone up until I feel a noticeable indentation - where the point of the knife is to go in. Just before I make the first cut I’m offered some valuable, and sobering, advice: ‘Follow the bone as closely as you can. Keep your fingers well out of the way. And don’t cut towards yourself.’

Having only just recovered from nearly losing a fingertip at Christmas, it was advice that went heeded.

Once the leg had been divided, the ‘H’ –or hip – bone has to come out, a fiddly task for the beginner thanks to its awkward shape. Only after five minutes of making deft little cuts, and a little help from my mentor, was it possible to get underneath it and start using the weight of the meat to ease it out.

But it wasn’t to be.

‘You see there?’ says Miles, pointing to a slight discoloration in the meat that I would never have noticed. ‘That’s what I was talking about earlier, that’s what I’m looking for. I’ll send that back.’

I’m given another on which to hone my skills and finally manage to completely bone out the leg. Pleased, I look across at Miles. He’s done four in the same time, and the bones have considerably less meat on them. Mine seems to have about a dozen sausages’ worth still left on it. ‘Don’t think I’ll be giving you a job,’ he jokes. At least, I think it was a joke.

After the pork, it’s time to move onto the beef – a colossal hind quarter that dwarfs the leg of lamb it’s next to, making it appear no bigger than a chicken leg. Intimidated by the size, it was surprising to learn that the process is almost identical.

‘The anatomy of lambs, pigs and cows is virtually the same, the only difference is the size and the number of cuts you get off each.’ Only when I see the bones in comparison is it possible to truly grasp this fact.

Feeling less confident, I stand clear and watch the expert turn this huge primary cut into joints of meat, the shapes of which gradually became familiar.

Silverside, rump, topside and leg are all neatly cut, rolled and tied with the famous butcher’s knot, another skill that appears to take much practice to master: ‘I was given a milk bottle to practice on,’ he says.

Seeing my own cack-handed efforts on the pork, I wonder if I should have done the same.

By the end of the day, I’m tired. My wrist and feet hurt and I’m in awe of the skill I’ve witnessed first hand.

With the ever-present march of the supermarkets and industrialisation of meat production constantly threatening to swallow up small, independent business, it can be a depressing thought that we might lose these expertise for good.

But as long as there are a few experts out there, and a growing army of consumers unwilling to accept pre-packaged, sub-standard meat, happy to think more closely about where their produce comes from and take advice from people like Miles, we might just be able to preserve these skills and allow them to flourish once again.

Cuando éramos punks.


Cuando éramos punks todo parecía mucho más simple. Search and Destroy. Ataca, ataca, sólo tienes que atacar. El descontento era lo único que podías sentir, y la rabia que te producía dicho descontento alimentaba tu furia paranoica y tus ganas de seguir avanzando para atacar y destruir.

Pero de pronto ves cómo los demás crecen y tu te vas quedando solo con esa rabia invadiendo tus entrañas y sin nadie a quien gritar. Los que peleaban contigo de pronto se visten con trajes de chaqueta y esconden sus tatuajes, y te instan a que debes sentar la cabeza y formar una familia, a que hagas "lo que se espera de ti".

Pero tú te sientas en el suelo y te niegas en redondo, esperando poco a poco a que vuelvan a ti.

Search and destroy. Ahora no hace falta buscar, ellos volverán tras las migas de pan para intentar destruirte. Y tú los estarás esperando con una media sonrisa en los labios.

Cuando éramos punk todos nos reíamos de la anarquía, del fascismo y de la democracia. Ahora sólo seguimos riendo los que estamos sentados en el suelo pacientemente, recordando cuando perdíamos poco a poco la inocencia... viendo a las termitas pasar.


Yo

Soy el susurro del silencio
y la flor mustia del cementerio;
la lágrima del que no llora
y la venganza del que es traicionado.
Mi nombre se perdió entre los siglos
y no es recordada mi persona.
Mi vida se fue entre tus lágrimas
cuando te perdí.

Y soy la risa del loco
y el rostro del que está escondido;
la locura del cuerdo
y la malformación del niño.
El Demonio es mi amante
y el Anticristo, mi hijo.
Mi vida se perdió en tu garganta
cuando no volviste a hablar.

Discuto con un tal Dios todos los días
mientras le escupo e insulto.
Nadie sabe quién soy.

Soy un asesino de fantasía
y tú mi dulce víctima.
Todas las noches penetro en tus sueños
mientras que en mundo real te pongo un cuchillo al cuello.
Seguí el camino del asesino
no por ser el más fácil:
era el más divertido.

Pienso que las cosas van a cambiar,
pero nunca cambian, nunca sucede.
Nunca cambian en mi triste ciudad.

Soy el susurro del agua
y el grito del silencio.
Soy el llanto de los niños
y el secreto que guardas con anhelo.
Soy tu más cruel pesadilla
y tu más dulce sueño.