My quest for the perfect chocolate chip cookie began some time ago, you could say to the point of obsession. I've been playing around with recipes for a good couple of years, determined to find the holy trinity of cookie greatness; that crunchy Maryland style exterior, chewy Millie's Cookies vibe and a hint of shortbread madness, and up until now my attempts have been futile and full of failure - tasty failure - but still failure nonetheless. 

And then I found the one. I first tasted the best cookie in the world at Cafe Grumpy in Chelsea, NYC. I clocked that bad boy through the glass counter, skeptical of its vegan title given its clear good looks. Obviously I felt compelled to try it, keen to prove its mere existence wrong - surely it couldn't be good and vegan, I scoffed. I carefully removed it from the grease-marked brown paper it had been wrapped in and dove right in.

It was delicious. The first bite took me by surprise, 'but it's vegan!' my brain screamed at itself, sure that there had been some kind of error on the labelling. 'Those grumpy coffee aficionados must be messing with me', I concluded before inhaling the rest of the best cookie I had ever tried in about 0.3 seconds flat. 

When I got back to London I began trying to recreate the magic, and settled on using Ovenly's vegan choc chip cookie as a base. The first attempt was incredible, following their recipe pretty much to the T I found that I had a deliciously classic, chewy and slightly crunchy cookie - but it was missing that shortbread aspect I like so much. I wanted it to be crunchy, chewy and crumbly all at the same time. What can I say, I'm hard to please. 

I revisited the recipe, this time subbing canola for coconut oil and found that I had struck GOLD. The dough itself was more shaggy and crumbly, but came together nicely when I pressed it into mounds - like a shortcrust pastry would. When the cookies emerged from the oven, just crisp yet almost lava-like before cooling, I basically couldn't handle my life. 

But I still wasn't 100% happy. They didn't have that speckled chocolate flex that I'm all about, the choc chips instead gave off too much of a cookie next door all-American vibe, plus I wanted a more balanced salt flavour, rather than a heavy game on top. 

This is where Lindt's Dark Chocolate with Sea Salt came in. Not too much salt but not too little that the flavour fails to come across, I chopped a couple of bars into chunks and shards and threw them into the mix. The result? Speckled, salty, crunchy, chewy, ever so slightly crumbly - everything you could want in a cookie. 

Suck on that, Chips Ahoy.   

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Dark Chocolate + Sea Salt Cookies

Yields approx. 18

Recipe adapted from Ovenly's heavenly Vegan Choc Chip Cookies

Ingredients

240g all-purpose flour

1 + 1/4 teaspoon bicarbonate of soda

1/2 teaspoon salt

200g Lindt Dark Chocolate with a Touch of Sea Salt

80g caster sugar

70g soft light brown sugar 

100g coconut oil

60ml water

Coarse sea salt flakes like Maldon for garnish

Method

1. In a large bowl whisk together the flour, bicarbonate of soda and salt. Chop up the chocolate into small chunks and shards and stir into the flour mixture. 
2. In another bowl combine the two sugars, breaking up any clumps with your hands or the back of a spoon. 
3. Heat the coconut oil until melted, then add to the sugar along with the water - whisk until smooth. 
4. Add the sugar mixture to the flour and stir to combine with a wooden spoon until no flour is visible and the dough just comes together - it should be quite shaggy, don't worry about this. 
5. Cover the bowl with cling film and refrigerate for 12-24 hours - DON'T SKIP THIS STEP!
6. After the dough has rested in the fridge, preheat the oven to 180°c (165°c FAN).
7. Using your hands roll the dough into 2 inch balls (you should be able to make about 18) and place them on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper. 
8. Use a spoon to gently press down the balls slightly, and sprinkle the a pinch of sea salt flakes. 
9. Bake for 13-15 minutes until the edges are just golden. 
10. Leave to cool completely before serving. 

Today is one of those days where I find myself just looking forward to the next. Maybe it's because today is probably one of the most miserable days this year, and fittingly I've spent the majority of it either caught in the rain, or staring at it from within the warmth of my flat. Or maybe it's the fact that I'm still mourning the end of blood orange season that's putting me in a particularly bad mood. All I know for sure is that I'm finding a little slice of happiness in the memory of this sweet, citrus marmalade.

Preserving fruit when it's in its prime is the best way to guarantee enjoying it when it's out of season, and I find citrus works particularly well in that respect. Blood oranges have a more intense flavour than their plain Jane cousins, and make for a pretty lip smacking marmalade. All you need to do is add a touch of lemon, a hefty amount of sugar and prepare not to burn yourself on hot jars after canning like I did. 

Just a note on the consistency here; I like to keep this marmalade quite chunky as I love that extra burst of flavour it gives, however you can get yours more jam-like if you cut the oranges up into smaller chunks. 

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*when blood oranges are out of season, you can substitute for regular oranges for an equally delicious marmalade.

Blood Orange Marmalade

Makes 2 small jars (roughly 340g)

Ingredients

8 medium-sized blood oranges

2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice

500g caster sugar

Method

1. Remove the peel from the oranges, being careful to also remove any white pith. Using a sharp knife cut the peel into very thin slices and set aside. 
2. Remove any membranes from the orange segments and cut into rough pieces. Place the oranges pieces, lemon juice and sugar into a heavy-bottom pan. 
3. Bring to a boil over a medium heat, stirring often. Then reduce to a simmer and continue to cook for 45 minutes -1 hour until a candy thermometer reads 225°F. 
4. Meanwhile, place around 2 tablespoons of the sliced peel (you can discard the rest or add more if you like) in a saucepan, cover with cold water and bring to boil over a medium heat. Reduce to a simmer and cook for around 5 minutes, then drain and set aside ready to stir into the marmalade in the last few minutes of cooking. 
5. Spoon the marmalade into sterilised jam jars fitted with sterile lids. 
6. Place the jars in a deep, heavy-bottom pan filled with boiling water. Keep the jars in the water bath on a medium heat for 10 minutes, or according to canning-pot instructions. 
7. Carefully remove the jars from the water bath and place on kitchen towel - make sure the jars don't touch one another and have enough space. 
8. Once cool you can store the marmalade in a cool, dark place for up to a year, but you'll need to refrigerate once opened. 

I’ve been thinking a lot about family history lately, where it all began and how I came about being on this earth. Brace yourself, I'm about to go deep. 

On my mother’s side it’s relatively straight-forward; our ancestors travelled from England to North America on the Mayflower, my grandpa was in the Navy, they settled in North Toronto. Thanks to a cousin taking an interest in our ancestry I’ve also discovered a bit more. For instance I have Dutch blood (in addition to the English, Irish, Scottish, French, German etc.) and it turns out I am a very distant relative to Clement Clarke Moore (that guy who wrote Twas The Night Before Christmas). I also know having looked through old photographs, that the family genes are remarkably strong – my younger brother is a clone of our grandpa, I resemble many of the women in our family, and my older brother has the family forehead, or so I’m told.

Despite being far closer to my dad’s side of the family, I can’t say I know as much about them. Knowing them (grandparents, cousins, uncles, aunts) isn’t the problem, it’s our broken history that is. Like all Armenians my family originate from Turkey, and when it became clear that they would have to leave or face ‘deportation’, they conceded and with that left and lost everything they had. My great-grandpa wrote a book about his experience of the genocide, in it listing the names of our family who perished; tragically only a handful made it to Ethiopia.

I know that from Ethiopia they moved to Cyprus where my dad was born, and as such where a lot of my inherited culture comes from (my father is a Cypriot of Armenian descent, as he likes to say). But what I’d like to know is what it had been like back in Turkey before they were forced to leave and start again. I want to know where they lived, how they’d drink their coffee and what music they’d listen to. Did they eat Armenian food or was there more Turkish influence? Did they stuff lahmajun with salad or roll it with lemon juice? Did they eat Çilbir for breakfast?

It’s just one of those things that I’ll probably never know. Either way, I’m going to continue enjoying these Turkish eggs for breakfast and imagine that my family once did too.

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Turkish Eggs [Çilbir]

Serves 2

Ingredients

2 or 4 eggs, depending on how many you’d like

250g Greek or thick strained yoghurt

30g unsalted butter

2 teaspoons smoked paprika

Sumac

2 wholemeal pittas, toasted

Method

1. Divide the yoghurt between two bowls.
2. Melt the butter on a medium heat until it starts to sizzle. Take it off the heat and whisk in the paprika. Set aside.
3. Poach the eggs in simmering water. Add a splash of white wine vinegar to boiling water, reduce to a simmer and slip the eggs in one at a time. Poach for 3-4 minutes for a runny yolk.
4. Remove the poached eggs using a slotted spoon and place on top of the yoghurt. Add a dash of sumac and drizzle with the chilli butter.
5. Serve with toasted pitta.

I’ve been told the three most stressful things in life are death, divorce and buying a house.

I’ve sadly experienced death, luckily never divorce and for the first time ever I am finding out what it’s like to buy and build a home. I’m basically at the mercy of arrogant estate agents who haven’t got the time of day in a seller’s market, in a city where buying a house is like some kind of competitive sport. Like a 200m sprint for a period conversion close to a tube station. And what’s with all the phone calls? Have any of these property negotiators heard of email? SIGH.

It is a stress that prior to a few weeks ago I never knew, which is why I’m now feeling very stupid having scoffed when my dad warned me about the absolute ball ache that buying a house is. Why can’t buying a house just be easy, a good old fashioned spit and shake on the sale? WHY?

Anyway, thanks to the aforementioned stress I’ve been under, I’ve been keeping it simple in the kitchen recently. Baking is therapeutic, and banana bread is the epitome of simple. Plus it gives me a great excuse to ignore calls from estate agents.

Enjoy!

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Brown Butter Banana Bread

Makes one 9x5" loaf

Ingredients

175g unsalted butter

240g all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon bicarbonate of soda

1/2 teaspoon salt

2 large eggs

60ml buttermilk

1 teaspoon vanilla bean extract

350g ripe banana, roughly mashed with a fork

175g dark brown soft sugar

Method

1. Preheat oven to 180°c (160°c FAN) and prepare a loaf tin with parchment paper
2. First brown the butter. On a medium heat melt the butter, whirling the pan occasionally. It’ll crackle and pop for a while, then it will stop. Give it a few swirls then pour it into a bowl to stop it from burning and to allow it to cool slightly.
3. Whisk together the flour, salt and baking powder in one bowl, then in another whisk together the eggs, vanilla and buttermilk.
4. Add the sugar and whisk well, then add the banana and finally the brown butter. Next add the dry ingredients to the wet ingredients and whisk roughly.
5. Pour into your loaf tin and bake for 1 hour or until a toothpick comes out clean. Cut into mega thick slices and serve with butter. Lots and lots of butter.

Let this be the saddest hey y’all of the year.

I’ve been having a bit of an off week with my mind all over the place and my financial situation pretty dire, a given towards the end of January. Let’s face it, January is the worst month of the year, December’s ugly sister, 31 days of sadness. This song is and isn’t helping.

Whenever I start feeling like this, you know, questioning the meaning of life and my existence, I try and counteract the feelings of borderline self-loathing with things that will perk me right up, from the inside out. I’ve started running again, I’m not really drinking, I’ve quit smoking (hurrah!) and I’m eating clean. Well… kind of.

When I’m on a health kick I look at incorporating seasonal ingredients into my diet more so than usual, after all seasonal produce is not only fresher and tastier (strawberries, I rest my case), but it’s like, totally zen reconnecting with natural food cycles.

Blood oranges are right in season at the moment, and they are disguising themselves as oranges all about town. I realised that I hadn’t had a blood orange for a while, probably since it was last in season, and so the below was born. The almond milk makes these oats creamy and slightly sweet, and the roasted blood oranges add a fresh and tangy punch. This breakfast is my happy place right now.

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Roasted Blood Orange Oatmeal

Serves 2

Ingredients

200g coarse oatmeal

750ml water

Pinch of salt

250ml almond milk

4 blood oranges

Coconut oil

1 tablespoon soft brown sugar

Unsalted pistachios

Pumpkin seeds

Method

Preheat the oven to 200°c (180°c FAN)

1. Halve the blood oranges and remove the peel. Place on a baking tray and drizzle with a little coconut oil and a sprinkle of sugar. Roast for around 10-15 minutes.
2. Meanwhile make the oatmeal. Add water and a pinch of salt to a pan and bring to the boil. Add the oats and stir, then bring up to the boil again. Reduce the heat to low and add the almond milk. Simmer the oatmeal stirring occasionally for 15-20 minutes.
3. Divide the oatmeal between two bowls, top with extra almond milk, the roasted blood oranges, chopped pistachios and pumpkin seeds.