But by the end of the day generally we wish we had brought more! More is always better when it comes to the amount of provisions you carry - a well stocked food bag lessens the potential for resorting to the fast food counter or vending machine when the munchies call. It also allows for delays. And being well-fed heads off any travel-induced rage.

Even for family holidays, we always bring basic provisions with us like oats, snacks, spices, and some of the kids' favourites that we might not find en route or at our destination. It's amazing the power that a food bag can have when it comes to ending tantrums and sibling squabbles! When we make up these bags we are a bit conscious of how neurotic we might look, but it's actually about practicality and convenience. This way we have a no-fuss way of making sure we eat the way we want to eat and don't waste time looking for suitable food when we're on the move.

This is a good one — we got the chefs in our main kitchen to try them, and their verdict was that they were super tasty and very close to the real deal. These freeze really well and keep for about three days in the fridge too. Simply heat up in a pan for 2 minutes each side defrosting them first, if frozen , until golden. Peel and finely chop the onion and garlic. Put the oil into a small pan on a high heat, then add the onion and garlic and cook for 2 minutes, stirring regularly.

Transfer the onion mixture to a food processor. Put the vital wheat gluten into a large mixing bowl along with the oats, nutritional yeast and ground flax seeds, and mix well. Add the contents of the food processor to the bowl and stir until combined. If it seems too dry to come together, add another tablespoon or two of vegetable stock. Knead by hand in the bowl for about 2 minutes, until it all combines into a lovely well formed ball.

In the meantime, cut 6—8 pieces of tin foil or baking parchment, each about double the length and width of a regular hot dog. Divide the mixture into 6 or 8 equal pieces.

Place a piece of foil or parchment on the counter. Place it on the foil or paper and roll it up, pressing lightly with your hands, to give it an even shape, then fold or twist the ends closed. Repeat with the remaining mix to form 6—8 vegan hot dogs! Place all the hot dogs in the top of the steamer, cover, and steam for about 40 minutes.

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Remove from the heat and allow to cool slightly before unwrapping. If you want to keep your hot dogs to eat at a later time, store them in a covered container in the fridge for up to 3 days. To cook, simply put 2 tbsp of oil into a non-stick frying pan on a high heat, place your hot dogs in the pan and cook, turning them constantly, till they golden up and start to smell delicious. Serve in a baguette or hot dog roll, with some vegan mayo, sweet chilli ketchup, mustard and kimchi or any other type of pickles.

It is really worth seeking out the nutritional yeast, as it gives a nice distinct flavour, and a couple of slices of vegan cheese, while not essential, takes these burgers to the next level. Drain and rinse the beans. Chop the mushrooms very finely. Put 2 tablespoons of oil into a frying pan on a high heat. Once hot, add the onion and garlic and cook for 1—2 minutes, stirring regularly. Add the mushrooms and cook for a further minute.

Now add the tamari, and fry for 2 minutes. Remove from the heat. Put the breadcrumbs, beans and nutritional yeast into a bowl and mix well. Add the mushroom mixture to the same bowl and mix. Leave to cool for a minute, then use your hands or a wooden spoon to mash and mix everything together. Shape this mixture into 3 burger-shaped patties, making sure to really compress them so as to remove as much moisture as possible. The patties are now ready to cook. We usually fry them in the pan in the remaining tablespoon of oil for 2 minutes on each side, until they go golden.

This is a wonderful traditional summer fruit dessert, with shortcrust pastry, a jammy fruit layer and a wonderful delicate almond layer, known as frangipane. For a gluten-free option, just replace the white flour with buckwheat or gluten-free flour. Line the base of a 23cm springform cake tin with baking parchment.

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Start by making the pastry. Put the flour into a large mixing bowl. Finely chop the coconut oil and add to the bowl with the salt, then massage with your fingers until the coconut oil has mixed with the flour to form a breadcrumb-like texture with no lumps — about 3 minutes.

Add 3 tablespoons of water, and press the mixture together into a firm ball. Wrap the dough in clingfilm and put it into the fridge for 5 minutes to firm up. Lightly coat your hands with flour. Pop the cake tin into the preheated oven for 10 minutes to blind bake no need for baking paper and dried beans. Take it out of the oven and place on a rack to cool, leaving the oven turned on. Next, make your frangipane mixture. Put the ground flax seeds and water into a bowl, mix well together and set aside until you have an egg-like consistency. Melt the coconut oil in a small pot over a high heat.

Once melted, transfer to a mixing bowl, add the ground almonds, maple syrup, baking powder and the flax egg, and mix until everything is well combined. To make your strawberry or raspberry jam, chop the strawberries finely no need to chop if using raspberries and put the fruit into a medium-size pot along with the water. Cook over a medium heat until the fruit starts to break down, which should take a couple of minutes. Add the maple syrup and chia seeds, bring to the boil, then simmer for 6—8 minutes to reduce and thicken. Stir regularly to prevent the jam burning or sticking to the bottom.

Remove from the heat, transfer to a bowl and leave to cool and firm up. Cover the cooled base with all the jam. Next, gently spoon the frangipane mixture on top of the jam layer, making sure to cover it all. Sprinkle on a layer of flaked almonds. Pop the tart back into the oven and bake for 30 minutes. Once baked, take out and leave to cool for about 15 minutes before slicing and devouring!

We came up with more than 10 different versions of these one afternoon, trying to get the right texture and bite while keeping the recipe easy and quick to make. We reckon we got it right with this recipe — let us know what you think! Put your oat flakes into a blender and blend for 30 seconds till they form a flour-like powder.

Transfer the blended oat flakes to a food processor and add all the remaining nugget ingredients, starting with the water and remembering to include the drained cashew nuts. Whiz until it all starts to come together into a dough about 30 seconds. If you think it needs more moisture, add an extra couple of tablespoons of water. Remove the dough from the blender, bring it all together with your hands and start forming it into small nugget shapes. In a bowl, mix the breadcrumbs and turmeric for the coating. Put some milk into a second bowl and dip the nuggets in this before rolling each one in the coating, making sure they are well covered.

Put a wide-bottomed non-stick pan on a high heat.


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Once warm, pour in 2 tablespoons of oil and add the nuggets in batches that will fit your pan without crowding it. Cook for a couple of minutes on each side, until they are golden and starting to brown. These are great served with hummus, sweet chilli ketchup or kimchi on the side. You could also stuff them inside a toasted pitta with hummus and slices of tomato, some vegan mayo and kimchi. This is the time of year when we are more likely to find ourselves inviting people over for dinner in our houses, and the prospect can strike terror into the hearts of inexperienced cooks and novice hosts.

But it doesn't have to be like that, if you heed the advice of some of the most experienced people in the restaurant business - whose job it is to make people feel at home and make sure that Geraldine Gittens The three golden rules of cooking a perfect steak are being disregarded in households across Ireland. Halloween is thought to have its origins in the pre-Christian Celtic festival of Samhain, celebrated on November 1, when the spirits of those who had died during the previous year were allowed to pass on to the next world.

Bonfires were lit, and gifts of food and Happy Pear twins reveal how their third book is more accessible, why they're more relaxed about food, and happier David and Stephen Flynn are Known as much for their handstands and sunrise swims as their vegan cooking. Here, Orla Neligan joins them for a summer picnic to find out how to live a truly joyous life The Happy Pear: Dave and Steve Flynn at their restaurant in Clondalkin.

Alistair Richardson 'Hot Dogs'. Alistair Richardson Bakewell tart. May 6 2: Irish Halloween food traditions: Where did barmbrack get its name, and why is champ Most Read Most Shared.

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Irish News Paul Williams: Comment 'Vigilantism will not be tolerated in this State' - Justice Minister 'deeply disturbed' by attack Life Newsletter Our digest of the week's juiciest lifestyle titbits. Emma Murphy on the silent damage of psychological What constitutes a real pizza and can you make it at home?

What's more basic than the humble pizza? We're talking dough, crushed tomatoes The town wasn't prosperous, not anymore, not by a long shot. Hell, it wasn't even original, being one of two Carthage, Missouris—ours is technically North Carthage, which makes it sound like a twin city, although it's hundreds of miles from the other and the lesser of the two: Still, it was where my mom grew up and where she raised me and Go, so it had some history. As I walked toward the bar across the concrete-and-weed parking lot, I looked straight down the road and saw the river.

That's what I've always loved about our town: We aren't built on some safe bluff overlooking the Mississippi—we are on the Mississippi. I could walk down the road and step right into the sucker, an easy three-foot drop, and be on my way to Tennessee. Every building downtown bears hand-drawn lines from where the river hit during the Flood of '61,'75, '84, '93, '07, '08, ' The river wasn't swollen now, but it was running urgently, in strong ropy currents. As I watched them, one suddenly looked up at me, his face in shadow, an oval blackness.

I felt an immediate, intense need to get inside. By the time I'd gone twenty feet, my neck bubbled with sweat. The sun was still an angry eye in the sky. I am smiling a big adopted-orphan smile as I write this. I am embarrassed at how happy I am, like some Technicolor comic of a teenage girl talking on the phone with my hair in a ponytail, the bubble above my head saying: I met a boy!

This is a technical, empirical truth. I met a boy, a great, gorgeous dude, a funny, cool-ass guy. It's not New Year's, but still very much the new year. Now, I like a writer party, I like writers, I am the child of writers, I am a writer. I'm using this journal to get better: To show don't tell and all that other writery crap. Adopted-orphan smile, I mean, that's not bad, come on. But really, I do think my quizzes alone qualify me on at least an honorary basis. You merely write quizzes for women's rags. When someone asks what you do for a living, you: I am the inspiration for a beloved children's-book series, I'm sure you know it, Amazing Amy?

Yeah, so suck it, snobdouche! Anyway, the party is being thrown by one of Carmen's good friends who writes about movies for a movie magazine, and is very funny, according to Carmen. I worry for a second that she wants to set us up: I am not interested in being set up. I need to be ambushed, caught unawares, like some sort of feral love- jackal.

I'm too self-conscious otherwise. I feel myself trying to be charming, and then I realize I'm obviously trying to be charming, and then I try to be even more charming to make up for the fake charm, and then I've basically turned into Liza Minnelli: I'm dancing in tights and sequins, begging you to love me.

There's a bowler and jazz hands and lots of teeth. Franz Ferdinand on the stereo: A clump of guys hovers near a card table where all the alcohol is set up, tipping more booze into their cups after every few sips, all too aware of how little is left to go around. I nudge in, aiming my plastic cup in the center like a busker, get a clatter of ice cubes and a splash of vodka from a sweet-faced guy wearing a Space Invaders T-shirt. A lethal-looking bottle of green-apple liqueur, the host's ironic purchase, will soon be our fate unless someone makes a booze run, and that seems unlikely, as everyone clearly believes they made the run last time.

I have lost Carmen to her host-beau—they are having an intense discussion in a corner of the kitchen, the two of them hunching their shoulders, their faces toward each other, the shape of a heart. I think about eating to give myself something to do besides standing in the center of the room, smiling like the new kid in the lunchroom. But almost everything is gone. Some potato-chip shards sit in the bottom of a giant Tupperware bowl. I am doing my thing, my impulse thing: What if I leap from the theater balcony right now?

What if I tongue the homeless man across from me on the subway? He is the kind of guy who carries himself like he gets laid a lot, a guy who likes women, a guy who would actually fuck me properly. I would like to be fucked properly!

My dating life seems to rotate around three types of men: The smart-boys fuck like they're composing a piece of math rock: I sound quite slutty, don't I? Pause while I count how many. I've always thought twelve was a solid, reasonable number to end at. James has up to three other food items in his refrigerator. I could make you an olive with mustard. Just one olive, though. It is a line that is only a little funny, but it already has the feel of an inside joke, one that will get funnier with nostalgic repetition. A year from now, we will be walking along the Brooklyn Bridge at sunset and one of us will whisper, "Just one olive, though," and we'll start to laugh.

Then I catch myself. If he knew I was doing a year from now already, he'd run and I'd be obliged to cheer him on. Mainly, I will admit, I smile because he's gorgeous. Distractingly gorgeous, the kind of looks that make your eyes pinwheel, that make you want to just address the elephant—"You know you're gorgeous, right? I bet dudes hate him: He doesn't act that way, though. His name is Nick. It makes him seem nice, and regular, which he is. When he tells me his name, I say, "Now, that's a real name.

He makes a series of awful puns.

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I catch three-fourths of his movie references. Rent The Sure Thing. It feels nice, after my recent series of nervous, respectful post-feminist men, to be a territory. He has a great smile, a cat's smile. He should cough out yellow Tweety Bird feathers, the way he smiles at me. I'm a writer, did I mention? He talks to me in his river-wavy Missouri accent; he was born and raised outside of Hannibal, the boyhood home of Mark Twain, the inspiration for Tom Sawyer. He tells me he worked on a steamboat when he was a teenager, dinner and jazz for the tourists.

His eyes are mischievous, his lashes are long. I can see what he looked like as a boy. We share a taxi home, the streetlights making dizzy shadows and the car speeding as if we're being chased. It is one a. As we turn the corner, the local bakery is getting its powdered sugar delivered, funneled into the cellar by the barrelful as if it were cement, and we can see nothing but the shadows of the deliverymen in the white, sweet cloud. There was only one customer in the bar, sitting by herself at the far, far end: Now she came alone every Thursday, never much for conversation, just sitting with a beer and a crossword, preserving a ritual.

My sister was at work behind the bar, her hair pulled back in nerdy-girl barrettes, her arms pink as she dipped the beer glasses in and out of hot suds. Go is slender and strange-faced, which is not to say unattractive. Her features just take a moment to make sense: If this were a period movie, a man would tilt back his fedora, whistle at the sight of her, and say, "Now, there's a helluva broad! Things might not be great, but things would be okay.

I've said this phrase so many times, it has become a reassuring mantra instead of actual words: We were born in the '70s, back when twins were rare, a bit magical: We even have a dash of twin telepathy. Go is truly the one person in the entire world I am totally myself with. I don't feel the need to explain my actions to her.

I don't clarify, I don't doubt, I don't worry. I don't tell her everything, not anymore, but I tell her more than anyone else, by far. I tell her as much as I can. We spent nine months back to back, covering each other. It became a lifelong habit. It never mattered to me that she was a girl, strange for a deeply self-conscious kid. What can I say? She was always just cool. When she caught me staring at the smudged rim, she brought the glass up to her mouth and licked the smudge away, leaving a smear of saliva.

She set the mug squarely in front of me. For my dad, a particularly unwanted stranger. This vision could be somewhat true; I can barely stand to admit it. I huddled over my beer. I needed to sit and drink a beer or three. My nerves were still singing from the morning. We spent more time in The Bar than we needed to. It had become the childhood clubhouse we never had. After Mom died, Go moved into our old house, and we slowly relocated our toys, piecemeal, to The Bar: I couldn't remember how you won.

Deep Hasbro thought for the day. Her left eyelid drooped slightly.


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It was exactly noon, , and I wondered how long she'd been drinking. She's had a bumpy decade. She was one of the original dot-com phenoms—made crazy money for two years, then took the Internet bubble bath in For act two, she got her degree and joined the gray-suited world of investment banking. I didn't even know she'd left New York until she phoned me from Mom's house: I begged her, cajoled her to return, hearing nothing but peeved silence on the other end. The Bar seemed to cheer her up. She handled the books, she poured the beers. She stole from the tip jar semi-regularly, but then she did more work than me.

We never talked about our old lives. We were Dunnes, and we were done, and strangely content about it. It was an easy question. Go, an expert panel of one. She smoked exactly one a day. She'd been a bridesmaid, all in violet—"the gorgeous, raven-haired, amethyst-draped dame, " Amy's mother had dubbed her—but anniversaries weren't something she'd remember. It was what her dad always did for her mom on their anniversary, and don't think I don't see the gender roles here, that I don't get the hint.

But I did not grow up in Amy's household, I grew up in mine, and the last present I remember my dad giving my mom was an iron, set on the kitchen counter, no wrapping paper. The problem with Amy's treasure hunts: That was my best year. Ever been in a spelling bee as a kid? That snowy second after the announcement of the word as you sift your brain to see if you can spell it? It was like that, the blank panic. I bit the side of my lip, started a shrug, scanning our living room as if the answer might appear.

She gave me another very long minute. The place was the point. I just thought it was special. Let's go do it again at McMann's. At McMann's, the bartender, a big, bearded bear-kid, saw us come in and grinned, poured us both whiskeys, and pushed over the next clue. That one turned out to be the Alice in Wonderland statue at Central Park, which Amy had told me—she'd told me, she knew she'd told me many times—lightened her moods as a child. I do not remember any of those conversations. I'm being honest here, I just don't.

It was enough to be near her and hear her talk, it didn't always matter what she was saying. It should have, but it didn't. You know I love you," I said, tailing her in and out of the family packs of dazed tourists parked in the middle of the sidewalk, oblivious and openmouthed. Amy was slipping through the Central Park crowds, maneuvering between laser-eyed joggers and scissor-legged skaters, kneeling parents and toddlers careering like drunks, always just ahead of me, tight-lipped, hurrying nowhere.

Me trying to catch up, grab her arm. It doesn't mean I don't love our life together. A nearby clown blew up a balloon animal, a man bought a rose, a child licked an ice cream cone, and a genuine tradition was born, one I'd never forget: Amy always going overboard, me never, ever worthy of the effort. In return, I'd presented my wife with a bright red dime-store paper kite, picturing the park, picnics, warm summer gusts.

It was a reverse O. We all exchanged silent smiles as she walked out. It was also the reason why, in high school, there were always rumors that we secretly screwed. We were too tight: I'm pretty sure I don't need to say this, but you are not Go, you might misconstrue, so I will: My sister and I have never screwed or even thought of screwing. We just really like each other.

No, Amy and Go were never going to be friends. They were each too territorial. Go was used to being the alpha girl in my life, Amy was used to being the alpha girl in everyone's life. For two people who lived in the same city—the same city twice: Before Amy and I got serious, got engaged, got married, I would get glimpses of Go's thoughts in a sentence here or there. It's funny, I can't quite get a bead on her, like who she really is.