For a quick and easy taste of east meets west try this delicious fried pork dish, served with noodles and fried onions. Cheap, easy and tasty what more can you ask for.
500g Diced Pork
2 tbsp Honey
1 tbsp Dijon Mustard
3 tbsp Light Soy Sauce
2 Garlic Cloves
1 tsp Ground Ginger
Dried Egg Noodles
Peel and crush the garlic. Marinade the pork in the honey, mustard, soy sauce, garlic and ginger for a minimum of fifteen minutes or chilled in the fridge overnight.
Prepare the crispy onions by peeling and thinly slicing the onion. Heat a dash of vegetable oil in a frying pan and when hot add the onion. Stirring often, the onion will first soften and turn translucent. It will then turn brown. Keep stirring and do not remove until dark brown and sticking to the pan. Drain on kitchen towel and allow to cool and turn crisp.
Drizzle a large frying pan or wok with vegetable oil and heat. Add the pork and marinade to the pan and fry until the pork is cooked through and the marinade browned and turned sticky, stirring often.
While the pork is cooking cut a head of broccoli into florets and steam or boil for 3-5 minutes. Then add the egg noodles to a pan of boiling salted water to soften.
Serve the pork and broccoli on top of the noodles and sprinkle with the crispy onions.
A regimental row of wooden beach huts like soldiers on parade, replace winding lanes lined with hedgerows rich in food and teaming with life. At first glance visitors could be forgiven for believing Southwold is a sparse and barren place, as East Suffolk greets the North Sea. In fact this small town and civil parish at the mouth of the river Blyth breeds like rabbits artists and writers, literally bleeding creativity, history and culture from every crack and crevice.
Mid September, the sun beams low in the sky and a brisk autumnal wind whips breaking waves into foaming fury. Upon the pier each wooden slat rattles and creaks, with every rolling wave. In a tiny sheltered courtyard in denim jeans, checked shirt and weave apron an artist stands at her easel and paints, upon her head a straw hat. Tubes of oil paint in a crumpled plastic bag beneath a stool where her palette is precariously balanced. In one hand a postcard and in the other her paintbrush.
Her only crime was being a victim of sexual abuse, having epilepsy, learning difficulties and mental health including postpartum psychosis, but Childrens Services stole her child. Please sign my petition to force change within Childrens Services, so vulnerable parents are better supported.
Bring in the bottled lightening, a clean tumbler, and a corkscrew
It’s almost 2am and I am out of bed, brew in hand. The air is thick with heat and laced with anticipated electricity that silently lights the sky. A brief shower teasingly hisses upon the concrete, only for a moment fades then stops. And still the dark sky flares white, silver, and occasionally gold. For a while I lay then sat and watched, before standing in search of the pathetic breeze incapable of rippling the drapes.
A poet is somebody who stands out in the rain hoping to be struck by lightening.