Mussakkagrafa

By delights, I mean tomatoes—those much maligned red orbs that featured so prominently in the news during most of the summer.  With the days lengthening and the frosty breath of autumn soon to be upon us, I say make haste and enjoy fresh tomatoes while the vines are still producing.

I never buy tomatoes from the grocery store.  No matter how vibrant they look, how ripe they feel, they always disappoint the taste buds (and no bud should ever go disappointed).  Instead, I rely on a precarious network of home growers who are happy to share their brimming harvests with any takers.  "I've got so many of 'em I just don't know what to do!" they exclaim, as visions of tomato jam, tomato pie, Caprese salad, pizza margherita, and countless other dishes dance in my head, each showcasing the juicy red sugarplums in all their summery goodness.

Just this weekend, my mom had a bumper crop of grape and jellybean tomatoes.  She was going tomato crazy and eagerly sent me on my way with bags full of the little gems.  Spying the fresh basil growing nearby in her garden, I gathered a handful, savoring its licorice-y fragrance all the way home.  Once in the kitchen, I made the first dish that came to mind:

SPAGHETTI WITH JELLYBEAN TOMATOES

1 lb. spaghetti
¼ cup olive oil (use less if you must)
1 small onion, thinly sliced
1½ - 2 lbs. jellybean tomatoes, washed and cleaned
3-4 cloves garlic, minced or pressed
splash of white wine
several leaves fresh basil, chiffonaded (maybe a scant ¼ cup, very loosely packed)

Bring pasta water to a boil and have at the ready.

In a medium saute pan, heat olive oil over medium-high heat.  Add sliced onion and saute briefly.  You aren't looking for color on the onions so much as a change in texture, heading toward a reluctant limpness.  Toss in the tomatoes and stir to coat with the oil.  Add salt and pepper.  As the tomatoes heat through, they'll begin to pop and release their juice.  Have a lid nearby and reduce the heat if things get too crazy.  Don't cover completely, though, since you want the tomatoes to reduce in their own juices.

Once the tomatoes have gone all wrinkly and you've got a chunky, saucy thing going, with the liquid getting thicker, toss in the minced garlic.  Stir it all around and prepare yourself for the magnificence that is garlic marrying with hot oil. Allow the garlic to cook through, then add a splash of white wine (or whatever wine you have on hand...hell, even vodka would be nice—just be sure to add it off the flame if using unless you're into flambéing).  Reduce the heat to medium low.  Drop the spaghetti into the waiting pasta water.  Keep stirring the tomato sauce, adding some of the pasta water as necessary to prevent sticking/burning.  It should be a loose sauce, but not soupy.

Just before you drain the pasta, remove the tomato sauce from the heat and add the basil.  Stir well to combine.  Drain the pasta and reserve a couple of cups of the water in case you need it.  Mix together the spaghetti and the tomato sauce, using the reserved pasta water to loosen things up if it seems too dry.

Top with parmesan cheese and enjoy!

With price of meat reaching getting higher everyday, J. and I have been incorporating more soy products into our diet.  I've always enjoyed tofu (once I learned secrets to cooking it well) and love soy sauce, miso, tempeh, and other soy foods.

The change brings several advantages:

• Direct improvement of our diet and the added health benefits of soy
• Lower grocery bills
• Meals that are faster and easier to prepare
• Taste!

Going soy naturally brings more Asian-inspired dishes to mind.  Aside from being in a recent Korean food kick (another story in itself), now many of our weeknight meals have developed a more Far Eastern flair.

Here's one of our most recent favorites.

MISO & TOFU PASTA

I realize that my pantry likely features a few more "exotic" ingredients than many folks, but I made this in a flash with what I had on hand.  If you don't have the dashi or sesame seeds, you can omit or substitute.  But the miso, sesame oil, and soy sauce are crucial to the final taste.  Dashi is a master stock in Japanese cooking, made from shavings of dried tuna (katsuobushi) and dried kelp (kombu).  It's easy to make but most people opt to buy a pre-made version that's sold as granules like bouillon.  It's available in the ethnic foods aisle of most grocers or you can find it easily in Asian markets.  Look for the brand "Hon Dashi" by Ajinomoto.  Note that this product does contain MSG if that is a concern.  I'm sure there are MSG-free brands out there, but I haven't personally tried any.

1 lb. spaghetti or vermicelli

1 package firm or extra firm tofu
garlic powder
salt & pepper
cornstarch
oil

2 generous tablespoons miso (the lighter, more yellow one)
1/3 cup boiling water
1 teaspoon dashi granules (omit or substitute vegetable or chicken broth to bump up the flavor)
3 tablespoons soy sauce
1 tablespoon light corn syrup or honey
2 cloves garlic, minced or pressed
1 tablespoon toasted sesame seeds
2 teaspoons toasted sesame oil
2-3 carrots, julienned
1-2 zucchini, julienned
3 green onions, chopped (including green parts)

Heat oil in a deep saucepan or deep fryer to about 360 degrees.  Take care not to fill the pot more than halfway or you'll risk messy and dangerous boil-over).

Drain tofu and remove excess water.  For firm or extra firm tofu, my favorite quick method is to make a sandwich by placing the tofu between two lightweight plastic cutting boards and then gripping them by the sides with both hands and pressing them together like a gentle vice over the sink.  When the water coming out slows to a slow drip, the tofu is ready. Alternatively, you can wrap the block of tofu in a few paper towels and then place a weight (like a plate or a cutting board) on top and let it rest for 20-30 minutes, or simplest of all, squeeze the block gently between your hands (just don't get too crazy or it will break up).

Slice into triangles approximately 3/4" thick, or cut into 1" cubes.  Sprinkle with garlic powder, salt and pepper, then dredge lightly in the cornstarch.

Fry the tofu until lightly browned in a couple of batches (probably 5-8 minutes per batch).  Don't add too much at once or the oil temperature will drop and you'll get oily tofu.  Properly deep fried food shouldn't be greasy.  Drain on paper towels and set aside.

Start boiling the pasta.  While it's cooking, mix the dashi granules with the 1/3 cup boiling water.  Add the miso and whisk together until smooth.  Mix in the soy sauce, corn syrup, garlic, sesame oil and sesame seeds.

Take advantage of the pasta water to parboil the carrots:  About 2 minutes before the pasta is done, toss the carrots into the boiling water.  Both the pasta and the carrots should be done when the water returns to the boil.  Drain the noodles and return to pot.  Pour miso mixture over pasta, add the tofu, zucchini, and green onions and toss gently to combine and coat everything with the sauce.

For a non-vegetarian version, omit the deep fried tofu and substitute cooked shrimp, roasted or sautéed chicken or pork, or thinly sliced beef.

We have a homeless guy who comes by work each day, scavenging half-smoked cigarettes from the ashtray back on the outdoor break area.  He's a tall, disheveled scarecrow of a man, clad in a dusty sports coat and mismatched clothes that are two sizes too big for him.  He's a fairly good-looking man, actually, with a grey beard peppering his strong jawline and deep laugh lines furrowing his mocha-colored skin.  He's always friendly but reserved, keeping conversation down to a simple how are you and have a good day.  I've never known him to ask for money, food, or anything, really.  He just collects the discarded cigarettes.

I generally sit on the picnic bench outside to read and escape the calamity of my office on my breaks, so I see him once in a while, maybe a couple of times a month.  Yesterday, as I sat reading Dreams Underfoot, enjoying the quiet and absorbing the story, I looked up when I heard the leaf-crunching sound of footsteps rustling softly through grass.

It was the Cigarette Guy.

He greeted me as he came up on to the concrete, heading directly for the ashtray.  I said hello to him, partially returning to my book while keeping half an eye on him.  He's never caused trouble, but it pays to be wary all the same.  This time, instead of just saying have a nice day afterwards, he stepped a little closer and asked how my holidays were.  I said they went well; that we'd had a relaxing Christmas for a change since money was tight and we decided not to fret over giving gifts and everything this year—just enjoy family.  He took a single match from his pocket and lit one of the used butts, cradling it in his hand.  I asked how things had been for him and he said it had been good, but his sister had died up in Virginia.  She'd had sugar (diabetes) for about 15 years and it just got the best of her.  I told him I was sorry to hear that and asked if he'd been able to get up there for the funeral.  He got a kind of distant look and said no, he'd wanted to, but just wasn't able to make it.  I could see a lifetime of memories wash over his eyes for just the smallest whit of a second and then he focused on the present.  I felt so sorry for him.  I thought to myself how lonely he must feel at times and how awful it was that he wasn't able to grieve the loss of his sister with others.

Unsure what to say, I volunteered that my own father had passed away just before Thanksgiving.   Instead of a passing I'm so sorry like people usually say, he looked directly into my eyes and expressed his sorrow at hearing the news.  Genuine sympathy instead of the appropriate conversational fill-in-the-blank.  A brief, true reaction.  He asked what had happened, had he been sick long, and I told him that he'd died in a head-on car collision, just out of the blue.  The Cigarette Guy looked downward and said that it was awful news and then asked how was I holding up?

I just smiled and told him I was fine, that my father and I weren't very close.  In my mind I instantly thought back to the funeral and the whole concentrated conundrum of that weekend.  You see, my father's death, while upsetting and unexpected, hasn't been something I've grieved over.   Our paternal bond became little more than genealogical fact after he and my mother divorced 28 years ago.  There was the awkward visitation initially, which faded into nothing—no phone calls, no birthday cards, no Christmas wishes—within two years.  I grieved his loss back then.  His continuous lack of interest in being a father was the nail in the coffin of our relationship and I buried him those long years ago.

But back to the Cigarette Guy.

He said he was still sorry, that it's always sad to lose someone.  I told him yeah, that was true.  He just smiled and said, well, you have a good day.  I told him to stay out of trouble and to take care.  I followed him with my eyes as he rambled down the hill toward the highway.  For just a moment my mind wandered and I imagined his life, conjuring up images of how things must be for him and what stories he could tell.  Then I picked up my book and started reading again until I had to go back inside.

I'm glad I got to talk to him that day.

Over the past couple of months I've read two of Holly Black's (of Spiderwick Chronicles fame) young adult novels, Tithe and Valiant.  Ironside, the third (and final?) book in the series is recently released.  She bills the books as "tales of modern faerie,"  which essentially feature the lives of mid-teen female protagonists who find themselves suddenly caught up in the Otherworld and the intrigue between the Light and Dark Courts on a voyage of self-discovery.

Mind you I don't normally read books from the young adult section, but the cover art for these books caught my eye just long enough to read the synopsis on the back and figure they might make a light, interesting read.  They didn't disappoint.  Black's language is descriptive and full enough to engage an adult and the young heroines are complex enough to hold interest.  The plot seems to hiccup in a couple of places, but overall I quite enjoyed the book and plan to pick up the third novel as soon as possible.

In the meantime, I've turned to more complex faerie tales by Charles de Lint, whom I've only recently discovered.  Much of his work takes place in an imaginary city called Newford, where the connection between Here and There is less tenuous and magic seems part of everyday, modern life.  On his website he recommends his short story collection Dreams Underfoot as the best introduction to his series of novels.  His writing is more literary, more full-bodied than Black's, but one would expect that given the target markets for their respective work.

All this magic and fairytale interest of late has returned me to one of my favorite childhood books, The House with a Clock in Its Walls, by John Bellairs.  The story revolves around a young man who moves in with his uncle (or some male relative) to find the old man is a warlock and the mysterious ticking sound that can be heard at night in the house is actually a clock counting down the end of the world.  At least that's the plot as I recall it.  I haven't read the book in god knows 30 years, so my recollection may be fuzzy.  I think I'll be getting a copy of the book for Christmas, however.

One interesting note is that The House with a Clock in Its Walls is illustrated by Edward Gorey, whom many know as the illustrator of the intro to Mystery! on PBS.  His signature style is unmistakable--you've seen his work even if you don't know his name.  I'm excited that Santa is bringing some of Gorey's work my way, too.

I'm not sure what's brought about all this interest in the fey and Gothic novels, but I loved all these things as a child.  I can still vividly recall when I first read Bellairs' novel, how I sat on the front porch during a chilling, wind-swept October afternoon with a cup of hot cocoa and a blanket, totally engrossed in the book, oblivious to the nip in the air.  There's just something to be said about such a palpable recollection.

I'm looking forward to more.

I was just thinking the other day that as I get older, I'm slowly turning into my grandmother, at least from a culinary standpoint.

The recent trend foodwise is comfort food and its kissing cousin slow food.  Both hearken to food that actually means something on an emotional and soul-satisfying level.  It may not be the healthiest, but it's the kind of food you simply want to revel in, cholesterol and saturated fat be damned.

For me, comfort food means rice.  Both sides of my family have been in the South Carolina Low Country at least since the 1700s (as far back as I've been able to trace) and as a result we are deeply steeped in rice culture.  While Charleston emerged as the first major port in the state, the 1732 declaration of Georgetown as a port of entry made the it the epicenter of rice cultivation.  By the early 19th century, rice was the major export of the state.  In fact, the Georgetown area produced nearly half of all rice exported in the United States and continued doing so until the Civil War.  South Carolina rice. known as "Carolina Gold," was particularly prized for its flexibility in cooking. Midway between a medium and long grain variety, it could yield fluffy, separate grains or risotto-like creaminess depending on how it was cooked.  As a non-aromatic rice (unlike fragrant cultivars like basmati or jasmine) it took on the flavors of other ingredients and provided a neutral canvas upon which to build dishes.  "Carolina Gold" got its name from the color acquired during the milling process.  The outer husks were separated primarily through pounding by hand, which also polished the rice through abrasion and lent it a light amber hue.

Where there is serious rice planting, there is serious rice cookery.  Consider as well that the African slaves brought over for their expertise in rice cultivation (not to mention free labor) also brought with them centuries of rice-based culinary experience.  Thus emerged many of the great rice dishes of the Low Country: pileau (pronounced "per-loh," a catch-all name for rice cooked with any variety of meats, but primarily chicken, onions, and sausage), chicken bog (much like pileau, but cooked with more liquid, yielding a stickier, "gummier" dish), red rice (rice cooked in stewed tomatoes), Hoppin' John (rice cooked with either black-eyed or field peas), Limpin' Susan (rice cooked with okra), and a plethora of rice dishes prepared with stock produced from meats such as game, poultry and other domesticated animals.  Nearly every part of the animal could be used in rice preparation.  To this day my grandmother swears that boiled chicken feet make the best rice you'll ever eat.

In addition, the plantation owners adapted older European recipes to use rice.  Stews were served over rice.  Rice was made into gruel or added to soups or served topped with a variety of gravies and sauces.  Even vegetables were (and are) served over rice: beans, peas, greens, etc.  Leftover rice was incorporated into yeast breads, quick breads (biscuits, scones and such), fritters, stuffings (a favorite included oysters, sausage, giblets, onions and rice), or stirred into scrambled eggs.  Rice appeared in numerous desserts, from rice pudding all the way to rice pie.

Out of this rich culture, recipes from older generations found their way into the hearts of the younger generations, who in turn created new recipes to pass on.

This is what I mean when I say I'm turning into my grandmother.  The first thing she always did when preparing a meal was put on a pot of rice, even if she had no idea what the rest of the menu might be.  She knew it would be something with rice.  Rice was the meal.  Everything else just dressed it up.

Rice is so profoundly ingrained in our family history that I recall once that my grandfather complained when my grandmother had made spaghetti for dinner, there was no rice!  From then on, she made sure he had rice upon which he would eat the spaghetti.

Of late I've found myself turning to rice more and more for inexpensive, tasty, satisfying meals.

For the past two weeks, I've been craving one of my grandmother's standbys, chicken and rice.  Her version is the epitome of simplicity but full of flavor.  I've not had it in years, certainly not since moving to Raleigh.  Lately, though, I've been hankering for that particular taste of childhood.  Despite being very comfortable with more elaborate rice cookery, having run the gamut from elaborate Indian biryanis and Middle Eastern pilafs to simpler fare such as red rice, I've never actually made something as "plain" as chicken and rice.  Not that I consider it common or plebeian, far from it, but I've never really thought about making it.  I seldom buy whole chickens, opting instead for quicker cooking boneless, skinless breasts or thighs.  With only two of us, an entire chicken seems overkill.  But, after two weeks of craving, I decided that damn it, I was going to make chicken and rice.

Naturally, given it's hallowed place in my genealogical and culinary memory, this was a Production.  I bought a nice, plump, whole organic chicken.  I consulted the hand-written booklet of recipes I have from my grandmother, (which I requested as a Christmas gift a couple of years ago), got out my biggest cast iron pot, and proceeded to the kitchen.  A couple of hours later, dinner was ready.

The chicken was tender and full of flavor.  The rice was separate, but not dry.  With nothing more than chicken, rice, salt, and pepper, plain as it was, I couldn't have been more pleased.  Even the more seasoned side dishes of okra with onions and hoe cakes couldn't compete with its depth of flavor.

Perhaps even more important than the food itself were the memories it conjured--thoughts of us children competing over who got pieces of breast, of Sunday dinners at my grandmother's, of the corresponding flavors of butter beans and potato salad that often accompanied the main dish, of the occasional accident of getting a piece of chicken liver in my mouth.  Thoughts of home, hearth, and knowing in no uncertain way that you are deeply loved and cared for, all conveyed a mundane but magical forkful of chicken and rice.

Slowly but surely, I'm turning into my grandmother.

CHICKEN AND RICE

This isn't a measurer's recipe.  The only critical part is having the correct proportion of liquid to rice, but this is explained later.

First, you need a chicken (kill one fresh if you're ambitious enough, but one from the grocery store will suffice).  Rinse it thoroughly and place in a large pot with enough water to mostly cover it.  I used a whole chicken, but depending on your pot it might be better to use one already cut into serving pieces.  If you use a cut-up chicken, be sure to fully cover the pieces with water by at least an inch.  Bring a to a boil and skim away the white foam that floats to the top (many people say these are impurities rising from the meat...I think it's just coagulated protein that doesn't add anything to the dish).  Add salt and pepper, reduce heat and cover the pot, simmering at medium-low heat for about an hour, or until the chicken is completely tender (with a whole chicken it's ready when the legs pull off easily from the carcass).  Carefully remove the chicken from the pot and pull it apart into pieces with tongs.  You can either debone it or leave the bones in (which makes for a more flavorful stock.  I left them in).  Carefully measure the amount of liquid you have and return the chicken to the pot.  You can boil the chicken the night before or earlier in the day, leaving it in the stock in the refrigerator until ready for the main event.  Once you're ready to finish the dish, bring to a simmer if necessary and add slightly less than half the amount of rice as your liquid (e.g., if you have 6 cups liquid, then add just under 3 cups of rice).  Add a bit more salt when you add the rice, unless you think the stock is already salty enough.  Be sure to add a generous grinding of black pepper, however.  Bring the uncovered pot to a rolling boil for about a minute, then reduce the heat to low.  Cover and cook about 30 minutes, at which point you can turn off the heat.  The pot is plenty hot enough to continue any cooking necessary and keep the dish warm.  Serve and enjoy.

OKRA WITH ONIONS

I know a lot of people object to okra due to its mucilaginous qualities, but the addition of vinegar helps keep sliminess to a minimum here.

1 small to medium onion, diced
1 lb. or so fresh okra, cut into quarter-inch rings (or a 16-oz package of pre-cut frozen okra)
1 tbsp. vinegar
1 cup water
2 tbsp. oil

Heat oil in a medium saucepan.  Add chopped onion and sauté for just a minute or so, then add the cut okra, vinegar, and water.  Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and cover.  Simmer over low heat for about 30-45 minutes, or until the okra is very tender and most of the liquid has evaporated.

HOE CAKES

This is not my grandmother's version of hoe cakes, but tasty nonetheless.  The texture is somewhat like a cross between corn pone and hush puppies.  Some would say this is much like fried polenta.

1-1/2 cups corn meal
1-1/2 cups boiling water
1/2 small onion, grated or finely minced
1 tsp. baking powder, unless you have self-rising meal
oil for frying

Combine the meal and baking powder, then add the boiling water.  The mixture will stiffen immediately, so be prepared to give it a good stir with a wooden spoon.  Allow the mixture to cook enough to handle, then add the grated onion.  You may find it easier to use your hands to mix in the onion at this point.  Heat the oil over a medium flame while you shape the mixture into balls and flatten into patties maybe 3 inches across.  Add the patties to the oil without crowding the pan.  Cook on one side about 3-4 minutes, then flip over and cook on the other side.  They should be golden brown and shouldn't be sticking to the bottom of the pan.  I like them best when they have a bit of darker brown on them.  These are excellent with greens or stewed vegetables (especially tomatoes).  

When I first moved to North Carolina, I struck up a quick friendship with a couple who were among a larger circle of friends.  Initially, our whole circle had a regular night out every Friday.  We'd hit a local restaurant for dinner and then convene on an oh-so trendy coffee house to see and be seen while enjoying each other's company.

Whenever we all got together, we were often entertained by one member of this couple's dramatic descriptions of conflicts he had faced throughout the week.  Drama at work, drama at home, drama while shopping...all drama, all the time.  For a long time, I thought all the conflicts were simply stories embellished for humor's sake.  And they were funny.  The flamboyant, wide eyed descriptions of the latest affair left us all reeling with laughter.

At the same time, though, this person was often verbally abusive to his partner.  Things started slowly at first, with just a minor quip here and there, but soon it festered into all out spite and vitriol.  He spewed entire diatribes about how dumb and incompetent the other was.  Bear in mind this always happened in polite society, among friends, while we were at dinner or in a position where one wouldn't want to make a scene.  The venom was always quick and stinging.  I remember some of us exchanging shocked glances at the viciousness of the attacks, usually making an off-the-cuff joke to turn the conversation to a more convivial direction.

Ultimately the group developed its own problems and personality conflicts arose, stemming primarily from the fact that certain individuals sought to control the agenda for the entire group.  Eventually, the dinner group disbanded and paired off into different factions of friends.  There was no real animosity, just a mutual fatigue of the way things were.

As time went by, I became better friends with the couple.  We had varied interests, complimentary dispositions, and common backgrounds.  Because one partner worked third shift, the friendship tended to alternate between the two, though the primary focus usually fell onto one of them.  We'd go on day trips, go shopping, have dinner, just spend time together. As singles, everything was fine and life was good.

But, there was a dark side.

The drama intensified.  Conflicts became more and more outrageous.  Nothing was ever good enough.  Something always gnawed at the spiteful one.  More onerously, though, whenever both of them were assembled, the venom and vitriol intensified.  The constant belittling of the other partner seemed to be a spectator sport for the antagonist.  I remember often asking the victim of these attacks why he put up with it, only to be told that he let the attacker know when he'd taken the insults too far.  In other words, my concern was met with rationalization after rationalization as to why the aggressor waged his verbal war.

Once I met my own partner, we'd all go out on the weekends but oh-so-often the fun was shattered by the spiteful  interjections of this person.  How exactly does one respond when someone belches a conversational turd onto the table?  We were stymied by the stench of it.  And the drama!  Conflict after conflict, situation after situation, morass after morass.

After enduring the situation for so long, we finally decided we'd had enough of it and moved to break things off.  Suddenly, this individual ended up in the hospital with a near-fatal staph infection.  Not being so callous as to abandon someone in their time of need, we stood by our friends, visiting the hospital regularly and providing much-needed stress relief for the partner.

Inwardly, I hoped the gravity of the situation would prompt a more introspective phase in the drama queen's life.  Slowly, he convalesced back to full health.  He did change, only it seemed for the worse.  Now, just a month after having an infection that nearly killed him, he went out and got a tattoo, because it was something he always wanted.  He bought a motorcycle, because he no longer cared how dangerous they might be.  If he died, he died, according to him.  For the third or fourth time, he stopped taking the medications that kept his HIV in check; never mind refusing to take necessary medication is what landed him in the hospital in the first place.

We fell back into our old schedule of dinner on the weekends, except now when we got together, his apathy (and often antipathy) was palpable.  It seemed like he could care less whether he saw us or not, as if it was a chore to be around his friends.  The drama grew more and more frenetic, not to mention the asinine behavior toward his partner as well as his dramatic quest for self-destruction.

My partner and I talked with him, voicing our concerns about his behavior and suggested he might benefit from counseling.  Depression is common after major illnesses, we said, maybe a professional could help you explore a less harrowing path?  But it all fell on deaf ears, or even worse, ears that heard but resented.

Enough was enough.  His drama was spilling over into our lives far too much.  We felt we'd given him enough chances, enough friendly advice, enough support.  We had to make a clean break or we'd be stuck in the quicksand of despair even longer.

My partner wanted to flat out tell him we were done, but I opted for a more subtle approach.  The result was the same, either way.  So we stopped calling.  We were suddenly busy on the weekends.  We went "out of town" more often.  We simply became unavailable.  Funny thing is, he's never called once to see what was going on.  His partner (with whom I'm in fairly regular contact) has told me that he's never even questioned him about it or voiced concern over our not getting together, which just confirms my belief that we've done the right thing.

We've closed the curtain on drama.

I've loved Ethiopian food for years, but despite my forays into Asian cuisines, European standbys (French, Italian, German, etc.), and the spice scented world of Indian fare, I've never actually tried cooking it at home.  For one thing, I always assumed they used herbs and/or spices that I would have a hard time locating.  Yet every time we ate at our favorite Ethiopian restaurant, I'd swear to myself I was going to figure out how to make some of the dishes.

The most famous dish, which I believe is considered the national dish of Ethiopia, is doro wat—a stew of chicken simmered in spices along with hard boiled eggs.  Other well-known dishes include kay wat (beef, prepared much like the doro wat), yebeg alicha (lamb simmered in a turmeric flavored sauce), and kitfo and gored-gored (raw or rare beef tossed in a spiced butter...the kitfo is finely chopped whereas the gored-gored is served in bite-sized chunks).  Also popular are tibs, which can be chicken, beef, or lamb, quickly stir-fried with herbs and spices.  One of my favorite dishes is kik alicha, which the restaurant here in Raleigh describes as yellow split peas cooked with a turmeric sauce.  It's extremely flavorful, despite the relatively simple preparation.  Then there are the more common foods familiar to most Americans but given an Ethiopian twist: cabbage, collards, green beans, carrots, peas, lentils and so on. The spiciness of the food can range from teeth-numbingly hot to wonderfully mild and subtle.

The quintessential element of Ethiopian cuisine, however, is injera.  A spongy flatbread made from teff (a millet-like grain), injera has a sourdough-like taste, since the batter is allow to ferment for three days before cooking.  The texture and mouthfeel of injera is unlike most familiar breads.  In some ways, it reminds me of slightly underdone crêpes, only thicker and with more "bounce."

At dinner, the server brings out a large tray covered with injera.  Thick stews and vegetables are spooned around the platter in little piles.  Diners are expected to share the meal, using the fingers to tear off bits of injera to pick up bites of each dish.  It's important to use the fingers of the right hand for eating, since as in many cultures, Ethiopians consider the left hand unclean.  It takes a little practice not to get food all over you, but by the end of the meal, you simply don't care that you're covered in doro wat.  

So,wanting to recreate some of the restaurant experience at home, I threw caution to the wind, and decided to try my hand at making the kik alicha and a version of kitfo.  I began by researching recipes online, which proved to be more of a challenge than expected.  The information was there, but sifting through its many permutations was the problem.  Nonetheless, I managed to suss out that most Ethiopian dishes start out with nit'ir qibe, or clarified butter spiced with onion, garlic, and ginger, cinnamon, cloves, cardamom, and turmeric.

Another hallmark of Ethiopian food is berbere, a seasoning paste of onion, garlic, ginger, chilis, and a treasure trove of toasted spices: cardamom, coriander, nutmeg, fenugreek, cloves, cinnamon, allspice, black pepper, and a generous amount of paprika (at least in the version I made).  I used a mortar and pestle to grind the ingredients into a smooth paste.

Once I made the nit'ir qibe and the berbere, I began the kik alicha by boiling yellow split peas until just tender.  I sautéd minced onion and garlic in the nit'ir qibe and then added the split peas along with turmeric.  The remaining heat continued breaking down the peas until they formed a nice purée.

I created a version of kitfo (yes, I know it's far from authentic) by sautéing onions, garlic, and ginger in more nit'ir qibe and then adding minced beef.  Once the meat lost its color I added a couple of generous dollops of berbere and a bit of rosemary and cooked the beef until fully done.  Since I was using purchased ground beef, I didn't feel it prudent to leave it rare (or raw even, as is the custom).

The food was actually quite good.  It had the taste and smell that I identify with Ethiopian cuisine.  Certainly it could use a bit more finesse, but for the first try, I was quite pleased.  Especially since I had been reluctant to attempt recreating my favorite restaurant dishes at home.  The one thing we were missing was injera, but I think the next time I make an Ethiopian meal, I'll see if I can't get some from the restaurant beforehand.

Fortunately, now that I have nit'ir qibe and berbere in the fridge, I'm sure it won't be long before I try some more recipes.

Maybe there's a doro wat in my future.

Ever since watching Nigella Lawson make her Mughlai Chicken recipe on the Food Network a couple of weeks ago, I have been eagerly awaiting the chance to make it.

I'd tried making a Chicken Korma a couple years back, before I had sufficient equipment to grind the nuts and spices.  I persevered bravely with just my food processor, but it lacked the finesse to get the nuts chopped down to a cornmeal-like consistency.  Rather, it yielded tiny pellets of nuts.  While not altogether unpleasant, the resulting korma was grainy and texturally off.

Flash forward about three years and behold the wonder that is Chicken Mughlai!  I downloaded Nigella's recipe and carried it eagerly into the kitchen.  I hummed as I cut the chicken into bite sized pieces, all the better to absorb the flavors of the sauce.  As the chicken received a proper bronzing in my trusty dutch oven, I chopped onions, ginger and garlic, ground the almonds, and measured and prepared all the spices that would soon join the pot.

First went in the burnished, coppery stick of cinnamon (proper stuff...none of this cassia madness that so often masquerades as cinnamon these days), the heady cloves, and the piney, sweet-scented cardamom.  Bay leaves, however, had to send their regrets, as they were absent from my cupboard at the time.  Not to worry!  As the whole spices bathed in the hot oil, their inimitable fragrance perfumed the kitchen.

Onions soon joined the aromatic symphony, adding their pungent sweetness to the pot.  Not be outdone, the ginger and garlic soon followed, quickly highlighted with freshly ground cumin and coriander seed.  In went the ground almonds and a hot spoonful of cayenne pepper, quickly soothed with cool, thick, sumptuous Greek-style yogurt and a dash of rich double cream to thin the sauce slightly and lend the buttery essence that only true cream has.  Amber-hued sultanas (golden raisins) finished the sauce, providing a sweet counterpart to the more savory personalities of the cumin and coriander.

At this point the chicken, cheerfully cooling its cheeks in nearby bowl, dove unceremoniously into the pot, luxuriating in the spiced bath of yogurt and cream.   A gentle sprinkle of garam masala, a bit of salt and pepper, and all were left to acquaint themselves for a good half hour, aided from time to time with a gentle stir.

As the sauce reduced, the onions and cream caramelized, giving it the slightest dulce de leche color punctuated with the plump orbs of amber raisins and golden chicken.

While the Mughlai Chicken simmered merrily on the stove, I started a pot of basmati rice, spiking it with cloves and fennel seeds, and made a simple side dish of Fordhook lima beans seasoned with cumin, turmeric and garlic.  Half an hour later, we sat down to dinner.

Heaven!  Delight!  Splendor!  The combination of the lightly spiced rice, the rich Mughlai Chicken, and the quiet but assertive limas all came together in a fantastic meal.  Neither of us said much as we ate, choosing instead to pass meaningful glances after each bite.

Suffice it to say Mughlai Chicken now holds a place of high esteem in my repertoire and I am forever in Nigella Lawson's debt.

Boy, time sure flies when you neglect your blog!

Tonight is one of those nights where I'm quite tired but when I lay down to sleep my brain goes into hyperdrive.  So, here I am surfing the web when I should have my tuckus in bed.

As I sit here, I'm being assaulted by the smell of our corn plant (Dracaena fragrans Massangeana) which is currently in bloom.  I never knew they flowered, but this is the second time the plant has blossomed.  First the plant sends up a long stalk that oozes a very sticky, clear fluid.  Shortly thereafter, little clumps of buds appear.  Then finally, the flowers develop.  They come out primarily at night and have a sickly sweet, baby powder kind of smell that is absolutely overpowering and almost cloying in its sweetness.  While pleasant for couple of nights, the smell grows old quickly.

I made a quick curry tonight of shrimp in makhani sauce tonight for dinner.  Normally the sauce is found on Butter Chicken, but I thought shrimp would make a nice change.  I just kept things simple and served it over basmati rice, sans side dishes.  Jamie worked late anyway, so he really just wanted a quick bite of something before going to bed.  Best not to stuff oneself before going to sleep.  Overall I thought it was pretty good, though I thought the sauce was a little heavy on cardamom.  Easy to remedy for next time, however.

Monday night we had the now famous Cilantro Chicken curry and a simple side dish of green peas with black cumin, coriander, and turmeric.  I say "now famous" because everyone I've given the recipe just raves over how good it is.  And simple!  Matter of fact, here's the recipe:

CILANTRO CHICKEN
5 cloves garlic, peeled
1 pecan sized nugget of ginger, peeled (or not)
1 bunch cilantro, washed, dried, remove lower 2 inches of stem
2 tsp. ground cumin
1 tsp. ground coriander
1/2 tsp. ground turmeric
1/4 cayenne pepper, or a couple of green chilis, seeds removed
1.5 lbs boneless, skinless chicken thighs (thighs work best, white meat may end up too dry)
3/4 cup chicken stock, or more as necessary
oil

Drag out the food processor (you know, that hulking machine nobody ever uses).  Toss in the garlic, ginger, (green chili if using) and cilantro and whizz until finely minced.  Drizzle in a little oil if the mixture doesn't process easily.  Add the spices and pulse to mix.

Cut chicken thighs into bite-sized chunks.  Salt and pepper.  Place frying pan on medium high heat.  Add oil, then brown chicken (in batches if necessary) until nicely golden.  You're not looking to cook it through, just get good color on it.  Remove from pan and reserve.  Reduce heat to medium, then add the mixture from the food processor.  Fry the cilantro mixture gently for about a minute and a half, or until fragrant, taking care not to burn the mixture.

Return the chicken pieces to the pan, along with any juice that has collected in the plate, as well as the chicken stock.  Take care to scrape up any brown bits stuck to the bottom of the pan.  Add salt and pepper if you think it could use it.  Stir to thoroughly coat the chicken in the sauce.  You'll want enough liquid in the pan to almost cover the chicken, but not quite.  Bring to a gentle boil, then cover and reduce heat to medium low.  Simmer 30 minutes, stirring occasionally, then partially cover and simmer about 15 minutes longer, to reduce the sauce.  It should be like thick and rich gravy, not runny.

Served over rice or just by itself and enjoy, child!
 
Try it it for yourself, even if you're not a huge fan of cilantro.  The spices and the cooking down of the sauce really mellow it out.  I keep thinking this is dish that my mom would like, and she's not a fan of Indian food at all!

Now that I've thoroughly starved you, I guess I'll drag my butt to bed.  I'm just getting droopy eyed now, so (fingers crossed) I'll be able to drift off to dreamland.

So, Dancing With The Stars is back on.  Cheesy as it is, I do like watching it—mainly because of taking ballroom dance lessons about 10 years ago (jeez...has it really been 10 years???).  We learned basic tango, mambo, merengue, samba, rhumba, waltz, fox trot, and swing (jive).  It was great fun while it lasted and actually I'd like to do again.  It's certainly great exercise and there's something primal about moving in tandem with rhythm that's extremely appealing.

I caught another ballroom dance series on PBS, America's Ballroom Challenge, and was blown away by some of the performances.  Far better than the ABC schlag.  One couple came out dressed in costumes reminiscent of karate gis and did a syncopated tango to this very percussive music.  The choreography looked like an elaborate martial arts sparring match and resembled something out of Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon.  Extremely cool and very well done.

Some of the music was so good I had to raid iTunes this afternoon and download a few of the songs.  Standards by crooners like Michael Bublé and Diana Krall, of course, but then it helped me find a new artist, Roísín Murphy, who is positively phenomenal.  I checked out a few songs off her release Ruby Blue and had to have the entire album immediately.  It's a great mix of her silky vocals mixed with electronic edge.

Right now I'm listening to the 300 soundtrack, which has an interesting multicultural feel.  It's great, moody background music.  I simply have to see that movie again soon.  I've been meaning to ever since we saw it the first time, but I haven't found the time to go back.  Vacation is coming soon, however, so I'll make a point to go to a matinée.

I've been meaning to see if Lisa Gerrard from the late Dead Can Dance has released anything new lately.  Aside from her soundtrack work, I don't recall seeing much since her CDs The Mirror Pool and Duality.  Hmmm...a quick search on iTunes turned up a 2006 release named The Silver Tree.  I'm going to have to check it out.