My taste for porridge developed from reading Goldilocks and acclimatising to my new home in England as a child. The frigid weather meant I was a bundle of maladies — stomach aches, fevers, chills and coughs. I was always cold too and took to wearing a knitted balaclava and mittens indoors, shedding them only at bedtime when I crawled under several voluminous blankets.
My mother, busy trying to navigate the challenges of setting up home in a new country, had little time or patience for me. Being poorly came with the benefit of her undivided attention. She fussed and fretted and prescribed kitchen remedies: fenugreek seeds steeped in water for weak bones; milk shot with golden turmeric for a snotty nose; shards of toothsome caramel with pepper for a chesty cough; and fennel tea for bellyaches.
The monotony of those days was broken by the meals my mother carried in to me. In the half dark, a glass of Lucozade would cast a neon light on her face as she encouraged me to take slow, careful sips. She skilfully peeled and segmented oranges at my bedside, the citrus scent lifting my spirits. And there were the spoonfuls of porridge, sometimes sweetened with jaggery, other times fragranced with mustard seeds and curry leaves — soothing, dependable and easy to digest.
Occasionally, when her chores were done, she would sit with me, folding her tired legs into her chest, cheering me up with tales of our old home in Kenya. As the steam from the porridge rose up from the bowl, she’d recall the talkative parrot shouting profanities on our veranda or the puny kittens born in the chicken shed. She’d wonder if the jamun trees were still bearing fruit that was so sweet it seduced armies of ants to perish drunk and happy, stickily clinging to its branches.
To some, oatmeal is a joyless breakfast mulch that is nutritious enough to keep you alive, but devoid of the flavour that makes life worth living. Yet its blandness is its very badge of honour. It is forgiving in its preparation and variable beyond belief. When the world feels like a wilderness, I find safety — memories of my mother and the place I come from — in a bowl of it. Its presence is therapeutic.
In this recipe, the grains are simmered in chicken stock for a texture not unlike congee. Once cooked, it is boosted with a riot of chilli oil, mushrooms, ginger, softly boiled egg, sesame and spring onions that provide a glorious contrast to its thick, uniform texture. Goldilocks was a trespassing, precocious brat but even she would have to agree that this is “just right”.
Porridge oat congee with mushrooms and chilli oil
Serves two
Toppings
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Begin by boiling the eggs. Bring a pot of water to the boil, then gently lower the eggs in and simmer for six minutes. Drain and run cold water over the eggs to stop them cooking — you should have an egg with a lovely soft centre.
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To make the congee, soak the porcini mushrooms in the stock for about 15 minutes or until they have softened. Drain, reserving the stock, and chop the mushrooms. Put the rehydrated mushrooms, stock, oats, ginger, soy and Shaoxing vinegar into a saucepan and cook over a low heat, stirring frequently for about 10 minutes or until the oats have broken down and become beautifully creamy.
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While that’s cooking, heat a frying pan, add sesame oil and fry the mushrooms until they are nutty and golden brown. Drain on kitchen paper.
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To serve, divide the congee between two bowls and top with the mushrooms, eggs, ginger, shallots, spring onion and coriander. Spoon over the chilli oil and serve immediately.
Ravinder Bhogal is chef-patron of Jikoni in London; jikonilondon.com. Follow her on Instagram @cookinboots
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