HOW TO | Make quinoa porridge

THIS IS the bee's knees. It's a filling, yummy, warm way to start the day without a ton of stodge. You get your loads of protein (several amino acids in fact), fiber, phosphorus, iron and magnesium, little to no gluten (for celiacs) and is more closely related to, say, spinach than it is a real grain (so you're getting your veggies in from the moment you roll out of bed!).  There's little sugar, yet it has a wonderful, subtle sweetness. Cinnamon is anti-inflammatory, regulates blood sugar, helps lower cholesterol and is a surprising source for minerals. The pumpkin puree is jam-packed (seriously) with Vitamin A (you get a day's worth in one serving).

Without further ado, here's my beautifying, health-giving, warm, cosy, hearty, heavenly recipe for Red Quinoa Porridge:

Makes 4 to 6 servings

Ingredients:

• 1 c. rinsed red quinoa
• 2 c. unsweetened coconut milk (or soy, regular milk or almond milk but you'll need more sugar with these options)
• 1 tbsp (or as much as you like) ground cinnamon
• 2 tsp vanilla extract
• 3 tbsp pumpkin puree if you fancy it (and have it available)
• 1 or 2 tbsp sugar

Directions:

1. Combine quinoa, cinnamon, pumpkin, vanilla, sugar and coconut milk in a saucepan 
2. Bring to a gentle boil watching carefully so it doesn't boil over
3. Stir regularly to make sure it doesn't scorch on the bottom until the liquid is almost totally absorbed
4. Turn off the hob, put on cover and let sit for 10 minutes
5. Take off lid, fluff with fork, scoop into bowl and serve with whatever you'd usually top your porridge

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TRAVEL TALES | Agua fresca de sandia

That's right, mis amiguitos... it's that time of year again. When pick-up trucks spilleth over with the pink-fleshed fruit from that siesta-loving land of the Aztecs, Agave and rodents of unusual size. Qué? you say? It's summer! And with it comes one of my favourite things in the entire world - aguas frescas.

I once spent a summer alone in Mexico City on a fellowship to study pre-Columbian fertility goddesses (true story). Previous to those fated weeks, I had a passing relationship with the street cuisine of our kissing primos down south. After all, I grew up in a city where, not a block from my neighbourhood, the street signs, billboards, store names and voices floating in the air morphed from English to Spanglish to Mexican Spanish at an astonishing speed. I often squirreled away enough cash for a champurrado and tamale in the morning, a paleta in the afternoon and maybe some elotes if I was feeling particularly fiscally wanton with my meager savings. Lord was it tasty.

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