TKG – Japanese fast food power breakfast

The old adage, “Eat breakfast like a king, lunch like a prince, and dinner like a pauper” is definitely true. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day because it sets you up for the rest of your day. I love preparing breakfast for my loved ones because I see it as another way of saying ‘I love you’ first thing in the morning (amongst others 🙂 ) but when I wake up in an empty house this is what I normally have for breakfast. Overnight oats and a big pitcher of green smoothie:

On some days, I put in a little more effort:

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And on decadent days, I do this for myself:


Recently, my non-foodie partner (who dislikes the stuff I eat) told me about this fast-food Japanese power breakfast called TKG (tamago kake gohan).  Hmm. I decided to give it a try.  It’s simple enough:

  1. Cook rice with a strip of kombu seaweed.
  2. Add one egg to a portion of hot rice.
  3. Douse with soy sauce.


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I experimented a bit. On my first try, it turned out horrible because the egg white was still slimy. The second attempt (without the egg white) was almost right, but I used too much rice so that it was literally just white rice.

Still not convinced.

I added other bits in: lots of freshly ground pepper, spring onions, fried garlic, sweetcorn kernels and sliced red chilli.

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Verdict: not to my taste, but you might like it. It’s certainly nutritious and filling.  Here’s TKG on wikipedia. Check it out, who knows, you might love it!

You’ll never know if you don’t knock on the door…..

About a year ago, I came across a really sweet little yoga studio perched on the cliff during my daily runs.


The door was locked on the occasions I ran past (I usually go for long afternoon runs), but one day, I decided to ring the door bell. And here’s the deal: strange things happen in life when you allow them to. The proprietor, Marion, and I became friends.

I would say we are very different character-wise: she’s a gorgeous, elegant and neat Frenchwoman whilst I am, well, English. She mops the floor perfectly attired (dress and apron), whilst I am uh, a lot more casual. But we sailed through some bumps in the course of our friendship and became firm friends – I always say, you know who your real friends are when things don’t go right.  Because you can tell a lot about a person from how they fix things when things go wrong, the words they use and their true character generally.  Anyway, it works for Marion and I.

And although I have no intention of running a yoga business ever again, I am so happy that this summer, I will be teaching at Marion’s. Who knows. It’s simply the loveliest place I have ever known, and I have found lots of peace and spirituality here.

For more information, please drop us a line at You can either train to be a yoga teacher or chill out with us for one week in the South of France in July 2018. It is more affordable than you think! 

Better bread

I must admit, I haven’t quite cracked bread-baking yet, though I love home baked bread, raised by hand, not bread machine, and fresh from the oven.

I went on a baking course, which taught me the basics. Simple enough, but sometimes, it is still hit and miss. So I have been experimenting.

And this is my latest:

Bowl 1: 1/2 cup warm milk, 1 tsp sugar and 3 tsp dried yeast. Mix in and leave until frothy.

Bowl 2: 500g all-purpose flour, 11/2 tsp salt.

Bowl 3: 3/4 cup plain yoghurt and 1 egg.

Mix all three together once the yeast mixture is frothy and knead until the dough feels bouncy (about 5-10minutes). Put in the mixing bowl, cover with cling film and leave to rise in a warm place until the dough has doubled in size.

You can use this basic dough to make literally any sort of bread. I used this to make cinnamon rolls, and for once, my cinnamon rolls are soft instead of rock hard.

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When a girl loves a river….

When you teach a child to really love Nature, they will love it for life. It becomes them.

This is my love story.


It’s beautiful how Life is constantly flowing and changing, showing you Her different faces at different stages of your life. And nowhere can you know Life as intimately as you do through Her many rivers.

In my youth, as a (south) Hampshire girl, the rivers I knew and loved were the Test, Itchen and Hamble. My parents are New Forest folks, and we often went for long rambles here, mushroom-hunting in autumn and long drives in winter. In summer, we picnicked in the woods. My parents, who are both biologists, know the Latin name of every single plant that grows here, as well as the folklores. I remember the book on river insects in my father’s study, The Brook and Its Banks by Reverend J Woods, written sometime in the 1800s, which accompanied us on our long walks, which made me fall in love with insects as I glimpsed their inner world amongst the mushrooms, rotting tree trunks and riverbanks. It felt as if those halcyon days would never end. Later, I would bring my children here to impart to them the magic I found here.

Last summer, we went for a walk along the Hamble in Fareham with my brother and it was as if we never went away, as if we never grew up, though we could now legally order a pint of beer at the Jolly Sailor, the sweet old-fashioned pub on the Hamble. Imagine my surprise when my 28-year-old son mentioned that on his second date with his girlfriend, he kayaked with her up the Hamble to the Jolly Sailor. Though like his siblings, the river of his childhood is the Serpentine in London, where they grew up. They used to cycle along its banks and sailed their paper boats in its genteel waters, and in my children’s time, London became magical.

I thought I knew London well. I thought I knew all her rivers. But towards the end of 2015, when I fell ill, I fell in love with the Thames for the first time. Before that, my acquaintance with this great river had been cursory. Here’s a photograph of me enjoying a glass of wine in October 2015, outside the Southbank Centre, smug and chubby-cheeked.

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Two months later, I was so ill that I could barely walk. Slowly, patiently, my partner taught me to walk and run again, along the banks of the Thames on cold winter nights. He made me walk when I had wanted to curl up in a ball and die. But walked we did, and later, we ran as we had always done, side by side, his masculine stride matching my “girly” one. I felt as if I knew every cobblestone from Battersea Bridge to Fulham. The expensive cars zooming past in the beginning of our walks to the less-known parts as we walked further west. Sometimes, we stopped by the deserted riverbank and skimmed flat pebbles in the moonlight. Once, I paused and picked up a whirligig beetle that was swimming round and round, and showed it to him. Many fascinating river insects go un-noticed, living in the depths of the river, hiding under rocks, crawling along the foreshore or drifting on the surface of the water but without them, the fish population would be without food. He had laughed at me, at my weirdness, and I knew then that I was getting better.

I came back in summer that year with him, to this ugly, lesser-known part of the Thames. I was still thin and gaunt, but I had started living, and this time, he the city boy, pointed out the dragonflies and the damselflies, the pondskaters and the boatmen to me with a wry smile on his face.

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Magic is here, on the River Thames. Come count the dragonflies with me x