Spring Rolls

Xiaosui's Home Cooking

The photos were taken with my travel camera at home, which is why it is very average. I wanted to show you that you can do this cooking at home. At times I have found a professional photo if mine did not work out.

Spring rolls (bao bing)

Ingredients (makes 24 rolls):

1 small cabbage, thinly sliced

1 carrot, grated

2 small or 1 medium spring bamboo shoot

300 g green beans, thinly sliced

200 g beancurd noodles (doufu si)

Lettuce leaves

1 tablespoon sweet bean paste (doujiang)

4-5 cloves garlic, chopped

Salt to taste

24 spring roll wrappers

Garnishes:

2 eggs, made into thin omelettes and thinly sliced

1 Chinese sausage, thinly sliced and fried lightly

300 g prawns, blanched, peeled and sliced into half lengthwise

1 cucumber, sliced into thin sticks

1 whole bulb garlic, skinned, finely diced and deep-fried to a golden brown

Method:

1. Blanche the bamboo shoots and slice them into shreds.

2. Heat up some oil in a large wok or frying pan and fry the garlic until fragrant. Add the bean paste and stir until you can smell the fragrance.

3. Add the shredded vegetables and bean curd noodles and toss to mix well.

4. Reduce fire and simmer until the vegetables are tender. Season to taste.

5. Pile the filling into a large bowl (so the juices drain to the bottom) and let cool.

6. Assemble the spring rolls by placing a wrapper on a flat board or plate.

7. Place a lettuce leaf along one end and spoon filling on top. Don't be too greedy or else you may find it difficult to wrap up the roll.

8. Garnish with some egg, sausages, cucumber and a few prawn halves. Scatter some crispy garlic on top.

9. Bring the edge of the spring roll over the filling and roll up as tightly as you can. Tuck the sides in and finish the roll with the edge tucked tightly under.

10. If you like your spring rolls fried, shallow fry them in a pan patiently over medium heat until they are golden brown all over. Cut into half and enjoy.

Vietnamese spring rolls

Ingredients (makes 20):

300 g mince (pork or beef)

2-3 cloves garlic, skinned and minced

1 small bunch coriander, chopped

1 teaspoon sweet bean paste

1 large bunch fresh mint

1 carrot, cut into matchsticks

1 cucumber, cut into matchsticks

20 Vietnamese rice-paper wrappers

Method:

1. Fry the garlic and bean paste in a little oil and add the mince. Stir fry until the mince is cooked through. Stir in the chopped coriander and remove from heat immediately.

2. Place the mince mixture in a deep bowl and prepare to assemble the rolls.

3. Prepare a deep dish with hot water and dip each rice paper wrapper in it briefly to soften.

4. Place wrapper on a damp towel and place a spoonful of mince along one edge. Add a few mint leaves and top with carrot and cucumber sticks.

5. Carefully bring the edges of the rice paper wrapper together and roll up tightly. Cut into two for easier handling.

Xiaosui's Home Cooking

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Set in Zanzibar in 1910, it is the story of two people from different worlds falling in love. Susan immerses herself in Zanzibar. Asim falls in love with this woman from the nation that killed his wife. Susan is a spy. Asim is the chief advisor to the Sultan of Zanzibar. Germany and France are holding secret negotiations to form a Pan European alliance, which would isolate Britain and destroy her power. Susan and Asim are caught up in all this and their love is finally dashed on the cold, hard reality of international high politics.

 

Available on Amazon's Kindle $4.99 - Over 400 Pages

 

 Chapter One

Zanzibar

'A maharaja’s ruby cast on a Persian carpet by the blackest of hands'

 

Their souls danced, honouring his promise.

The ancient dhow stirred in the soft morning breeze. Like a sleepy lion, it began to move through the water, snuffling about the other boats on the harbour; some scurrying, some at anchor, some darting before a brief gust of wind. The lateen sails a bustling panorama of blood-red and sun-bleached white.

Aft, the woman's eyes searched the skyline, drinking in the architecture of Stone Town, the heart of Zanzibar; its jagged, cluttered silhouette so familiar, so much a part of her soul.

Abruptly, her eyes ceased their restless searching, jagged by an invisible hook, transfixed by the grand buildings on the northern shore, Beit-al-Ajaib, the House of Wonders, Palace to the great Sultan of Zanzibar. The distinctive architecture captured in the tropical light: coconut white outlined by contrasting shadow plays of pepper black.

A smile, ever so slight, started to play on the edge of her mouth then disappeared. A memory that should have been fond instantly turned to sharp unbearable pain. Her eyes hardened and moved on.

Without warning the captain threw the rudder over. Stumbling, the woman barked her shin on a wooden box, a rough-hewn coffin. She recoiled, knocking over an untidy stack of cane baskets. Imprisoned in the baskets, rusty cockerels, their scruffy heads straining through the latticework, snapped at her, cried out to her; their raucous din overwhelming her, drowning her.

Dimly, through the fog of noise, the strident swearing of the sailors in Kiswahili seeped into her conscious. Understanding, she smiled mirthlessly.

The coffin had been carelessly stowed, a chore, rather than a labour of respect or love.

London 1910

“Hello, who are you? I am Oliver, is Edward at home?”

The words were spoken by a tall, impeccably dressed young man as he rushed into Edward’s flat shaking off surplus water and calling for whisky while shoving his umbrella into a stand. It was a blustery, grey, bitterly cold February afternoon in the heart of London. He brushed a curl of soft auburn hair from his forehead and smiled charmingly.

Susan laughed, her hazel eyes dancing with the exhilaration of the new. “Yes, he is having a bath. I think he is trying to get warm. I’m Susan, Susan Carey, his sister.”

“Ahhh yes, from Australia. How do you do?” said Sir Oliver, smiling broadly and offering his hand. He noticed the laughter in her eyes, and the depth, particularly the depth, intensified by jade flecks that made them striking and alluring. “So, you have arrived, good trip I trust.”

“I am very well thank you, and yes, it was a good trip,” replied Susan.

He laughed and glanced at the sitting room, “whisky?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, please come in…….. that was silly of me, after all, it is your flat.”

Oliver smiled and gestured for Susan to lead the way. He followed her into the room, and after helping himself to a generous portion of whisky, walked over to the fire.

Shortly after, Edward, wrapped in a huge ruby-coloured dressing gown and wiping soap from his ear strode into the room. He was of similar age to Oliver, late twenties, well built, if slightly podgy, with dark auburn hair and a full moustache. Susan looked up and smiled to herself, she could see now where he had picked up some of his new mannerisms.

“Thought I could hear voices. I see you two have met, no need for introductions then.”

As he was speaking, Edward walked to the side table and grabbed a whisky decanter by the neck. He glanced at Oliver who nodded. A long finger snaked into one of the tumblers followed by the distinctive clink of crystal. He swept the decanter off the table and carried it to where Oliver was sitting. After pouring the whisky, he sank into a lounge chair and sipped from his glass, enjoying the warm glow as it spread through his body.

Suddenly he sat up exclaiming, “Sorry sis, would you like something to drink?”

“Kind of you to remember, but no thank you, and yes, Oliver has already inquired.”

Edward nodded and sank back into his lounge chair.

They chatted, tentatively at first, getting to know one another. Edward had not seen Susan for two years and was unsure how his sister would take his new relationship. Oliver was intrigued by Susan. An attractive, self-assured young lady of high intelligence with a degree was a rare find. And, as fate would have it, she was also a trained and experienced teacher. He suggested a picnic at Oxford, which was met with ready acquiescence. Arrangements were made for the following Sunday.

“I’ll see if the Rolls is available,” mused Oliver. “Must ring father, haven’t spoken to him in ages.”

Oliver, Sir Oliver Marchmaine, was an unaffected young man of intense intelligence who saw life as a great adventure to be lived to the full. He was also unyieldingly loyal to his country, England, which is why he had joined Military Intelligence on leaving Oxford.

It was 1910 and Europe was stirring. It was a time full of interest, intrigue and danger. The European chessboard was becoming increasingly complex, the moves more subtle. A time when an unexpected move or feint could have profound consequences.

Regaining her balance, the woman’s eyes were drawn, hesitantly at first, resisting back to Beit-al-Ajaib. She wondered if it was still the same. Still the same centre of power and intrigue that had been so much a part of her life all those years before; that had defined her life.

She remembered those first few moments, remembered standing in the foyer of the palace, .………… remembered the breathtakingly beautiful Persian tapestry ........

The sea breeze stirred her clothes. She smiled a little sadly, and in her mind the tapestry gently swayed. Two small apparitions ran giggling up the stairs: two small exquisitely rich burkas disappearing along the first floor landing. Childish squeals of mischief and joy left in the air.......

“Move to seaward, you accused of Allah! Move!”

Her thoughts were clawed back to the dhow, the captain crashing the tiller over to avoid another boat on the crowded harbour. The woman instinctively ducked her head to avoid the heavy boom as it swung over her, the rusty cockerels squawked their raucous indignation, their heads straining through the latticework, relentless.

The collision avoided, the dhow continued on its way. The cacophony dying down to the occasional command by the captain or the cry of a seagull.

The woman's thoughts returned to Beit-al-Ajaib

  …………. laughing and giggling, girls of seven or eight. A door on the first floor slammed and all sounds of them disappeared. Silence. The woman smiled. She could see herself, a young woman, dressed plainly, unselfconsciously, her sexuality tantalisingly just out of reach, hidden beneath the thin veil of her clothing. She remembered standing alone in the foyer, looking around, perplexed. Asim came through a door to the left of the tapestry.

“Salaam.”

The woman started and looked around. Then, realising, was cold again. Alone again. Alone, rocking to and fro to the rythm of the sea. Alone, beside a rough-hewn coffin.

 

 

Now Available on Amazon's Kindle $4.99 - Over 400 Pages