Category: Photography

chili-crusted chicken or how to juice up a breast

Alright. Grab your coffee and pull up a chair because we need to talk about this chicken.

This chicken is hot property. In fact, I can still hear the two leftover pieces sizzling in the baking dish in the kitchen. And its been at least three hours since I’ve had dinner.

Every time I roast whole chickens, I whip up a concoction of ginger-garlic paste, soya sauce, white sugar and Xiaoxing wine and pour it over the chicken and under its skin. And I’ve always served it with roasted red peppers and cucumber salad.

I’ve always felt that as an Indian I should automatically tip towards khichdi or daal as comfort food. But as much as I hate to admit it, it is true — roast chicken calms me down.

If my mother’s reading this, then we’ll have a lot to talk about very soon.

And yes, coming to the subject of breasts and thighs; I’m a thigh-person through and through. I go straight for the dark meat. No apologies. Besides, what is it with all the oohing over chicken breasts? Unless cooked sous vide or doused in sauce, those breasts usually have a tough time staying plump and juicy. I worry about that.

And that is exactly the reason I winced when I read a recipe of black-pepper crusted chicken breasts. I wanted to try making something “crusted” and the recipe seemed appropriate. Except those breasts. They loomed before me with a sneer in their faces.

In the end I settled for smoky chili and garlic instead of black pepper. And to keep the breasts moist, some orange juice. That’s right. You heard me. Orange juice.

Kind of a botched very-weak poulet version of duck a l’orange.

P.S. – If you’re wondering about the strawberries swimming in cream….well, as an homage to my grandmothers who moved to England 70 years back at the tender age of 16 or 17, I decided to have their favourite dessert for breakfast. And also, I had a ton of strawberries lying lonely in the fridge.

Chili-garlic crusted chicken

4 chicken breasts
1-2 tsp of unsalted butter
1-2 tbsp of olive sauce
2 tbsp of minced red chili (leave the seeds in, if like me you like it hot. For a milder taste, remove the seeds)
1 tbsp of dried chili flakes
2 tbsp of minced garlic
1 cup of orange juice (with pulp)
Salt and pepper, to taste

Pre-heat the oven to 160 deg C. Prepare a baking tray by greasing it.
Make diagonal cuts on the skin-side of the breasts; each cut just about quarter of an inch deep. Rub in the garlic, chili flakes, minced chili and butter into the cuts. Drizzle orange juice and olive oil over the breasts after placing them in the tray. Add salt and freshly ground pepper. Roast for about 30-40 minutes, or till the juices run clear.

In the picture I’ve served it alongside a watercress and arugula salad dressed in a mint-pecorino dressing.

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lack of fall…and shoes that kill

It’s like I’m going crazy.

Just when you think things cannot get any worse around here, they do.

Exhibit A: just as I thought how last week’s interview was a breeze and how the interviewers seemed duly impressed, they call this week and say ‘the position has been filled by someone more suited to it’, followed by ‘could they wish me good luck for my future?’.

Bitch. I am not amused.

Meanwhile, to rub salt over the wound, summer’s gone and fall hasn’t even arrived yet. Its just drafty, cloudy and wet all around with sudden bursts of indecisive sunshine. I suspect the sun is not amused either.

My habit of stalking people over the internet is at its strongest when I’m depressed. And yesterday as I furiously went through blog after blog, I came across Athena Plichta’s work. And man, that girl can cook. Stunning, is all I have to say.

Exhibit B: aka, How the Universe Conspires Against You When You’re Broke.
Right at this moment, when I’m surviving on leftovers, wrenching myself away from Miu Miu’s mouth-watering store display, Garance Doré, the beloved trendsetter, has let Elle & the Coveteur photograph her stuff.
And she’s got stuff I could mindlessly kill for.
Take a look at those red Lanvin shoes. The brazennes of the colour apart, just the curve of that heel is enough to suggest the certainty of a great fuck.

on london

I always get excited when I stumble upon videos on London. It’s the curiosity of finding out what others think of my beloved home.

I wake up every morning and go to work. Through the train-window I stare at the Gherkin sparkling in the sun or glittering in the rain. At the station I’m engulfed by the crowd, all suited and booted, rushing towards their workplaces. They don’t have time to stop and notice the city. On the way back home I shake out my umbrella and curse the rain. I stare at couples on their uncomfortable first dates sitting at coffee tables. They stare back at me trying not to look at their partners. But I don’t notice the city. The weekends are filled with hauling around colourful shopping bags and smirking at the attractive woman with chipped fingernails sitting across from me on the tube. The city goes to sleep without a goodnight kiss from me.

And that is why when I come across movies on London made by others, I look. I envy visitors. I envy Londoners who take the time to get to know her. I play the videos over and over again and again, and try and spot all the details.

This movie is by Cyrill Oberholzer.

of crossroads and chocolate

It doesn’t feel like October here. I’m reporting dank, drowsy and drizzly from London. And here I am, with the first full-fledged food post on The Subjectivist.

I need a place to store everything that catches my eye. Everything that sounds in my ears and fills my tummy to the brim. I need to write. I need to photograph. I need to cook and make. I need to sketch and dance every one in a while. And I need to share it with all of you. But there is only so much a single girl can do or remember. And hence, a blog.

While I drool over Ralph Lauren’s fall-winter collection this year, I sit in my white-washed room trying to chose between two crossroads. Should I continue walking alone along the platforms of Liverpool Street, straight to my day-job as an Architect? Or should I head back to India, back to my family, back to my old friends? Back to an old life?

But while I contemplate all that over a steaming hot cup of coffee and a virus-infected laptop, let me tell you how Nigella Lawson has helped me improve my mood.

Strawberries still dot the shelf at the supermarkets. So I stuffed a couple of boxes in my bag and came home trying to decide between a berry crumble or a strawberry sauce to accompany cakes and meringues. In the end, the weather convinced me to go for something hot, gooey and chocolatey (insert sarcastic quip about fickle-mindedness here).

The strawberries stared up at me forlornly from the shopper bag. So as an immense act of gluttony, I dunked all of them in a lusciously honeyed serving of cream. Some of them even made it to the top of the hot pots. The recipe can make about 4 hot pots, although I had to downsize the quantities to make for one.

Nigella Lawson’s Chocolate Hot Pots

1 cup of chocolate chips (or chopped dark chocolate about one and a half 100gm bars)
1/2 cup softened unsalted butter
3/4 cup caster sugar
3 tbsp all-purpose flour
Icing sugar, to dust
Strawberries and cream, to garnish

(The original recipe calls for 3/4 cup of dark chocolate chips and 1/4 cup of white chocolate chips, but since my addiction to dark chocolate leaves no room for its white cousin, I’ve used up a whole cup of dark)

Pre-heat the oven to 170-180 deg C. Grease 4 ramekins and place them on a baking tray. I find that leftover butter-wrappers, or fingers dipped in olive oil work best for greasing ramekins/tins.
Melt the chocolate and butter in a double-boiler and set aside to cool a little. Combine eggs, sugar and flour in a bowl and mix in the chocolate mixture.
Divide the mixture equally into the ramekins and pop the tray into the oven. bake for about 15-20 minutes or till the tops are cracked . On inserting a toothpick or skewer, it should come out greasy and smothered in chocolate goop.
Sprinkle the tops with icing sugar. Garnish with strawberries and serve with some lightly whipped cream.