The ultimate in fast food.
With my son temporarily home from uni, breakfast can no longer be a haphazard mix of nothing, chocolate or a large coffee.
I lost my cooking mojo when Josh swapped rural Wales for Cheltenham three years ago, so when he comes back it's a great excuse to take baking to extremes.
And today is the long forgotten bureka.
Nostalgia in a pastry puff, bringing with it memories from Jerusalem in the fabulous 80s.
As a teenager in Jerusalem the bureka was the answer to everything.
Hungry? Grab a bureka.
Midnight munchies? A bureka.
Meeting friends? A bureka and coffee in the sun.
I had a good teacher for bureka making.
She was a very strict, very talented matriarch on Kibbutz Maabarot, called Naomi.
And she ruled the kitchen with a rod of iron.
Being four foot nothing she would only work with tall girls, so being 5ft 8'' I was recruited very quickly during the summer of '88.
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| Naomi, Queen of Burekas. |
Her grasp of english was on a par with my hebrew.
If I did well,she smiled and kissed me.
If I did wrong, she would slap my arm.
I loved Naomi.
And the volunteers liked me working with Naomi too, as she would send me back to Boat People Straab with boxes of broken meringues!
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