Thursday, June 30, 2011
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Remember that time in Madrid....
All I wanted was to use a clean bathroom.
The day I got stuck in the elevator was the same day I squeezed a good 7 kilo of oranges by hand (ok, more like 3 kilo- I had help.) Why was I squeezing more oranges than the world by hand, you ask? Well, the kitchen is pretty well equipped- we've got an industrial food processor and mixer, two nicely sized ovens and a range that shoots out a scary amount of flame when you turn it on. We've got stainless steel counters and two very large sinks. But, we don't have a juicer. Nope-all we've got is small, plastic lemon squeezer. Mostly we make do since we don't really juice much other than the odd lemon here and there. But on that particular day we had received a 7 kilo shipment of small, late-season oranges- the type of oranges that are meant to be juiced, not eaten. There was nothing to be done. The oranges had to be juiced or they would go to waste. So myself and two of the other women I work with rolled up our proverbial sleeves and went to work. We worked in shifts. We gave each other pointers on how to more efficiently juice the fruit. We encouraged one another. By the end of the day the kitchen was littered with the empty half shells of oranges. I was tired and sticky. My hand had a nasty cramp. I needed to pee.
Going to the bathroom while working in the kitchen is a tricky prospect. The bathrooms on the floor main floor (where the kitchen is located) serve a good number of people. Sometimes there's no toilet paper. Sometimes, there's no soap. Luckily, there's also a super secret bathroom up on the top floor reserved for the administration. It's a clean bathroom with soap and toilet paper. Preferable in every way.
Because I was so tired, I opted to take the elevator up the two flights. Well, the elevator chugged it's way up the two flights and then settled. The doors opened a crack and then, didn't...I pressed on the door-open button. Nothing. I banged on the doors. Nothing. I yelled. Nothing. I pressed the alarm. Repeatedly. From downstairs I heard somebody yell-"hey, stop playing with the elevator." Luckily, I'm not claustrophobic. Luckily, also, I had cell phone reception. I called C, the head of the kitchen.
"Listen," I said, "I think I'm stuck in the elevator." I could hear her yell from all the way down the hall and up two flights of stairs.
"Abed, Tiki's stuck in the elevator!" Within minutes the elevator doors closed and it jerked to life. On the ground floor I was unceremoniously yanked into C's arms the minute the doors opened. She lifted me up and started to carry me into the kitchen. Over her shoulder, I could see Abed, the maintenance guy, laughing. I started to laugh as well.
"C," I said, "put me down." She put me down. Through my laughter, still sticky and smelling of oranges I managed to say, "I still need to go to the bathroom."
I took the stairs.
Citrus Semolina Cake
Adapted from The Book of New Israeli Food by Janna Gur
If you don't like semolina cake, this cake is not going to convert you. If you do like semolina cake (and really, why wouldn't you?) this cake is lovely and nice and bright. It's worth the squeezed oranges.
6 eggs, separated
1/2 cup (100 grams) sugar
1 cup (100 grams) ground coconut
1 cup (140 grams) sifted flour
2 1/2 cups (270 grams) semolina
1 1/2 tbl (25 grams) ground almonds
4 tsp (20 grams) baking powder
1 cup (240 ml) vegetable oil
1 1/2 cups (360 ml) orange juice
2 tsp orange zest
1 cup (240 ml) orange or lemon marmalade.
The Syrup:
1 cup water
1 cup sugar
Preheat the oven to 350.
1. Beat the egg whites with the sugar until they hold stiff peaks.
2. In a separate bowl, whisk together the dry ingredients.
3. In yet another bowl, beat the egg yolks, gradually adding the oil, juice, zest and marmalade
4. Stir in the dry ingredients until well combined. Gently fold in the egg whites.
5. Pour the batter into a well-greased 9 x 13 pan and bake for 30 minutes, until the cake turns golden and a toothpick comes out dry.
6. While the cake is in the oven prepare the syrup: bring the water and sugar to a boil and simmer for 20 minutes. Cool slightly.
7. Pour the syrup evenly over the cake. Cool completely before serving.
The day I got stuck in the elevator was the same day I squeezed a good 7 kilo of oranges by hand (ok, more like 3 kilo- I had help.) Why was I squeezing more oranges than the world by hand, you ask? Well, the kitchen is pretty well equipped- we've got an industrial food processor and mixer, two nicely sized ovens and a range that shoots out a scary amount of flame when you turn it on. We've got stainless steel counters and two very large sinks. But, we don't have a juicer. Nope-all we've got is small, plastic lemon squeezer. Mostly we make do since we don't really juice much other than the odd lemon here and there. But on that particular day we had received a 7 kilo shipment of small, late-season oranges- the type of oranges that are meant to be juiced, not eaten. There was nothing to be done. The oranges had to be juiced or they would go to waste. So myself and two of the other women I work with rolled up our proverbial sleeves and went to work. We worked in shifts. We gave each other pointers on how to more efficiently juice the fruit. We encouraged one another. By the end of the day the kitchen was littered with the empty half shells of oranges. I was tired and sticky. My hand had a nasty cramp. I needed to pee.
Going to the bathroom while working in the kitchen is a tricky prospect. The bathrooms on the floor main floor (where the kitchen is located) serve a good number of people. Sometimes there's no toilet paper. Sometimes, there's no soap. Luckily, there's also a super secret bathroom up on the top floor reserved for the administration. It's a clean bathroom with soap and toilet paper. Preferable in every way.
Because I was so tired, I opted to take the elevator up the two flights. Well, the elevator chugged it's way up the two flights and then settled. The doors opened a crack and then, didn't...I pressed on the door-open button. Nothing. I banged on the doors. Nothing. I yelled. Nothing. I pressed the alarm. Repeatedly. From downstairs I heard somebody yell-"hey, stop playing with the elevator." Luckily, I'm not claustrophobic. Luckily, also, I had cell phone reception. I called C, the head of the kitchen.
"Listen," I said, "I think I'm stuck in the elevator." I could hear her yell from all the way down the hall and up two flights of stairs.
"Abed, Tiki's stuck in the elevator!" Within minutes the elevator doors closed and it jerked to life. On the ground floor I was unceremoniously yanked into C's arms the minute the doors opened. She lifted me up and started to carry me into the kitchen. Over her shoulder, I could see Abed, the maintenance guy, laughing. I started to laugh as well.
"C," I said, "put me down." She put me down. Through my laughter, still sticky and smelling of oranges I managed to say, "I still need to go to the bathroom."
I took the stairs.
Citrus Semolina Cake
Adapted from The Book of New Israeli Food by Janna Gur
If you don't like semolina cake, this cake is not going to convert you. If you do like semolina cake (and really, why wouldn't you?) this cake is lovely and nice and bright. It's worth the squeezed oranges.
6 eggs, separated
1/2 cup (100 grams) sugar
1 cup (100 grams) ground coconut
1 cup (140 grams) sifted flour
2 1/2 cups (270 grams) semolina
1 1/2 tbl (25 grams) ground almonds
4 tsp (20 grams) baking powder
1 cup (240 ml) vegetable oil
1 1/2 cups (360 ml) orange juice
2 tsp orange zest
1 cup (240 ml) orange or lemon marmalade.
The Syrup:
1 cup water
1 cup sugar
Preheat the oven to 350.
1. Beat the egg whites with the sugar until they hold stiff peaks.
2. In a separate bowl, whisk together the dry ingredients.
3. In yet another bowl, beat the egg yolks, gradually adding the oil, juice, zest and marmalade
4. Stir in the dry ingredients until well combined. Gently fold in the egg whites.
5. Pour the batter into a well-greased 9 x 13 pan and bake for 30 minutes, until the cake turns golden and a toothpick comes out dry.
6. While the cake is in the oven prepare the syrup: bring the water and sugar to a boil and simmer for 20 minutes. Cool slightly.
7. Pour the syrup evenly over the cake. Cool completely before serving.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
The Onion Queen
My recurring onion duties actually probably derive from the fact that I don't mind shedding a few tears while I'm cooking. Cooking isn't baseball- you're allowed to cry. I'm happy to let the other women in the kitchen do things that won't irritate their eyes. So, the onion queen it is. I could do worse.
Lisa's Onion Jam
This isn't really a jam. It doesn't quite congeal. I like to call it jam anyway just to be contrary.
Also- unfussy. Want to use red onions? Go for it. Don't have demerara in the house? Use white or brown sugar. Play with the proportions and flavors. Go wild.
2-3 medium onions, thinly sliced
oil
3/4 cup demerara sugar
3/4 cup red wine
1/2 cup balsamic vinegar
a nice pinch of salt
pinch each of freshly ground black pepper, cloves, nutmeg (optional)
1. Saute onions in oil over med-low heat until they're nice and soft like.
2. Add the rest of the ingredients and simmer on a low heat for an hour, or more if you have the time. The jam is done when the onions are soft and the liquid is slightly syrupy.
3. Burn your fingers while trying to take the pot off the heat. Hop around the kitchen a bit, swearing all the while. Run your hand under cold water.
4. Try again, this time with pot holders.
5. Transfer to empty mustard jars. Why mustard jars? Why not?
The jam will keep for quite a while in the fridge. Eat with everything. Especially in a sandwich with cheese.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Kubbe II
I was remarking to one of the women I work with the other day that I am beginning to develop a complex about my culinary heritage. My family is about as Eastern European as you can get- my dad's family was from Poland and my mom's from Hungary. In contrast, the women I work with are Yemenite, Moroccan, Bukharin and Indian. They make exotic cubano and lahukh and zhug and sambusak. My grandmother's delkelach seem so tame in comparison. In truth, I am fully aware that I have a rich culinary tradition and that I come from a long line of very good cooks. But still, it is at once exciting and intimidating to be exposed to so many new foods and traditions in such a short span of time.
The thing about traditional food is that, paradoxically, everyone's got their own version and everyone is certain that their's is the one authentic version. I'm fairly certain that the recipe for kubbe I'll be posting below could be vigorously, and legitimately, disputed. (You should just hear my grandmother and her sister debate honey cake). Traditions develop and evolve. They differ according to geographical location, religious affiliation and family. They get tweaked by whim, or necessity. In the small amount of research I did for this post I found at least 5 different "traditional" kubbe recipes, and each one of them was unlike the other in fundamental ways. The one I am posting is the one that most closely resembles the version that A taught me. Tweak as you'd like.
Again, rolling kubbe is tedious work. Friends are recommended.
Fried Kubbe
Adapted from Rafael Cohen. Translation (loose), mine.
The Dough:
400 grams fine grain bulgur
1 tbl. paprika
1 tsp freshly ground black pepper
1/2 tbl. salt
3 tbl. flour
1/2 cup water
1. Place the bulgur is a bowl and cover with water. Soak for 40 minutes.
2. Add the rest of the ingredients and knead until a uniform dough is formed.
3. Pinch off about a walnut sized piece of dough and form into a ball. Repeat with the rest of the dough.
The Filling:
1/2 kilo roughly chopped beef
2-3 cups of finely chopped onion
5 stalks of celery, finely chopped
1/2 cup olive oil
salt and pepper
1. In a wide pan, heat the oil. When hot, add the onion and fry for 5-7 minutes, stirring occasionally, until golden.
2. Add the celery and cook 2 minutes more.
3. Add the meat, salt and pepper. As the meat cooks, move it around with a spoon or spatula so that it breaks up.
5. Cook until all the liquid has evaporated- about 10 minutes
6. Transfer the meat to a strainer and let cool. The filling should only be used after it is dry and cool.
Making the kubbe: (even if you do not read Hebrew, I highly recommend visiting Rafael's site and having a look at his photographs. They very clearly demonstrate the correct way to fill kubbe. It is a lot less complicated than it sounds.)
-Take a ball of dough and place in the center of your palm. Using your other thumb, make a small crater in the center of the dough. Use your fingers to widen the crater, so that you create a sort of bowl in the center of your hand. Fill the "bowl" with the filling. Cup your hand and pull the dough over the filling, closing it with the tips of your fingers. Make sure that the filling is completely covered and that there are no cracks or holes in the dough. Roll the dough into an oval shape between your hands, pinching at the ends, so that it looks a bit like a torpedo. Repeat with the rest of the dough and filling.
At this point the kubbe can be frozen and fried at a later date.
Frying the kubbe:
1. Heat oil for deep frying in a wide, deep pan.
2. Place the kubbe in the oil, and fry until they become a dark brown.
3. Remove and drain on paper towel-lined plated
Serve with tehina on the side.
The thing about traditional food is that, paradoxically, everyone's got their own version and everyone is certain that their's is the one authentic version. I'm fairly certain that the recipe for kubbe I'll be posting below could be vigorously, and legitimately, disputed. (You should just hear my grandmother and her sister debate honey cake). Traditions develop and evolve. They differ according to geographical location, religious affiliation and family. They get tweaked by whim, or necessity. In the small amount of research I did for this post I found at least 5 different "traditional" kubbe recipes, and each one of them was unlike the other in fundamental ways. The one I am posting is the one that most closely resembles the version that A taught me. Tweak as you'd like.
Again, rolling kubbe is tedious work. Friends are recommended.
Fried Kubbe
Adapted from Rafael Cohen. Translation (loose), mine.
The Dough:
400 grams fine grain bulgur
1 tbl. paprika
1 tsp freshly ground black pepper
1/2 tbl. salt
3 tbl. flour
1/2 cup water
1. Place the bulgur is a bowl and cover with water. Soak for 40 minutes.
2. Add the rest of the ingredients and knead until a uniform dough is formed.
3. Pinch off about a walnut sized piece of dough and form into a ball. Repeat with the rest of the dough.
The Filling:
1/2 kilo roughly chopped beef
2-3 cups of finely chopped onion
5 stalks of celery, finely chopped
1/2 cup olive oil
salt and pepper
1. In a wide pan, heat the oil. When hot, add the onion and fry for 5-7 minutes, stirring occasionally, until golden.
2. Add the celery and cook 2 minutes more.
3. Add the meat, salt and pepper. As the meat cooks, move it around with a spoon or spatula so that it breaks up.
5. Cook until all the liquid has evaporated- about 10 minutes
6. Transfer the meat to a strainer and let cool. The filling should only be used after it is dry and cool.
Making the kubbe: (even if you do not read Hebrew, I highly recommend visiting Rafael's site and having a look at his photographs. They very clearly demonstrate the correct way to fill kubbe. It is a lot less complicated than it sounds.)
-Take a ball of dough and place in the center of your palm. Using your other thumb, make a small crater in the center of the dough. Use your fingers to widen the crater, so that you create a sort of bowl in the center of your hand. Fill the "bowl" with the filling. Cup your hand and pull the dough over the filling, closing it with the tips of your fingers. Make sure that the filling is completely covered and that there are no cracks or holes in the dough. Roll the dough into an oval shape between your hands, pinching at the ends, so that it looks a bit like a torpedo. Repeat with the rest of the dough and filling.
At this point the kubbe can be frozen and fried at a later date.
Frying the kubbe:
1. Heat oil for deep frying in a wide, deep pan.
2. Place the kubbe in the oil, and fry until they become a dark brown.
3. Remove and drain on paper towel-lined plated
Serve with tehina on the side.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Respect the food (or, how I burnt the bulgur)
I burnt the bulgur because I'm not strong enough to reach all the way to the bottom of the pot when it's full to the brim with grains and water, but I also burnt the bulgur because I was cranky and annoyed and unwilling to ask for help. To channel Carla Hall of Top Chef- it's all about the love and respect you put into your food. And I don't mean that it the metaphysical sense- I simply mean that if you respect the food and the people you are feeding you will be attentive and contentious. You will pay attention. Your food will reflect that. You will not disregard that burning smell, or under-cook the lentils. I try to keep that in mind. There will always be days when I'm cranky. There will always be days when I feel like nothing goes right. But when I'm in the kitchen I put that aside. My work in the kitchen is about food. It's about feeding people. It's about doing the things I love to do. My bad day can wait.
The following recipe is a mystery. I've been making it for years, but I have no idea where it's from. It's written on a yellowing piece of paper that gives no clue as to it's source. It is also the first thing I thought of when lentils and bulgur appeared on the menu in the kitchen. This is a great salad. It's herby and light and a full meal all on it's own. It anyone recognizes it and can tell me who to attribute it to, it would be much appreciated. As usual, feel free to play with the amounts in this recipe. Personally, I never really measure herbs. I just sort of grab as much as I can and chop.
Lentil and Bulgur Salad
1/2 cup brown or green lentils
1/2 large red onion, thinly sliced
salt and pepper
4 tbl olive oil
1 tsp minced garlic
2 tomatoes, chopped
1/2 tsp cayenne pepper
1 tsp ground cumin
1 cup medium-grained bulgur
3 cups vegetable stock, or water
1/2 cup chopped mint
1/2 cup chopped parsley
2-3 cups romaine lettuce, chopped
lemon juice, to taste
yogurt, to serve
1. Soak lentils in cold water for one hour. Drain. Soak the red onion in water until ready to serve.
2. Put 1 tablespoon of oil into a large saucepan and heat over medium heat. Add the garlic, cook 1 minute. Add the tomatoes, cumin and cayenne. Cook 2-3 minutes until the tomatoes soften.
3. Add the bulgur, cook 3 minutes. Then add the liquid and lentils. Bring to a boil, cover and lower the heat. Simmer for 20-30 until the lentils are tender and the liquid is absorbed. Cool.
4. Toss herbs and lettuce with remaining olive oil and lemon juice. Mix in the bulgur-lentil mixture. Add salt and pepper to taste. Serve with onions and yogurt.
Note: You may notice that the photograph above is missing one crucial ingredient- bulgur. This is because, as I was informed in the supermarket-"there is no bulgur." Why? Who knows. Perhaps I was under the mistaken assumption that supermarkets stock staples such bulgur. I guess I was wrong.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Kubbe I
Because kitchen shifts rotate, I'm never quite sure who I"m going to be working with at any given week. This is great since it gives me a chance to a) meet more of the women and b) figure out who I work with best and try and arrange it so they we work together often. One of my favorite cooking partners is A. A. reminds me very much of my aunt. I'm not sure why but it could be because she shares the same wide smile, perfectly manicured hands and air of competence. Or, it could be their shared habit of calling everyone "darling". For this reason alone, I took to her immediately. A. also taught me how to make kubbe, which made me like her even more.
Kubbe, for those who aren't familiar with the dish, are meat-filled semolina dumplings that are traditionally served in a sour, lemony soup. (There is also a type of kubbe that is made with bulgur and fried, but we'll get that a different week). Kubbe is highly popular in Israel, but I had never tried my hand it. I just assumed that you had to be an Iraqi grandmother to make kubbe, otherwise you'd just get it all wrong. So when A. offered to teach me, I jumped at the chance.
Making kubbe is slightly complex, but once you get the hang of it it's not that bad. You first make a filling of sauteed ground beef, garlic and some celery. Set it aside and let it cool. Then make a dough of semolina and water.Wet your hands. Grab a fist-full of dough and roll into an evenly shaped ball between your palms. Holding, the ball in the palm of one hand, press down with two fingers of your other hand, from the center-outwards to create an even, flat circle of dough. Place about a tablespoon of filling in the middle of the circle of dough and cup your hand, pulling the dough up and over the filling. Roll the dumpling between your palms to reshape into an even ball. Wet your hands again and repeat.
Kubbe is gossip food. It's slightly tedious and annoying to do on your own, but when you're sitting with a bunch of friends, talking and laughing and keeping your hands busy, it's a pleasure. The recipe below is not precisely the same one I made with A., but it's near enough. Also, note that the soup the kubbe is cooked in is quite tart. Don't fret. When eaten together the kubbe, the richness of the dough and the meat offsets the tartness quite nicely.
Kubbe Hamousta
Adapted from, The Book of New Israeli Food, by Janna Gur
The Kubbe Dough:
1 cup coarse bulgur wheat
1 cup fine bulgur wheat
1 cup semolina
Salt
1-2 tbl. flour
The Kubbe Filling:
1 3/4 lb beef, ground finely
4-5 stalks celery, finely chopped
3-4 cloves crushed garlic
Salt and pepper
The Soup:
3 tbl oil
5 large onions, diced
2 liters chicken broth
2/3 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice
The rest of the celery stalk, chopped
1 bunch of Swiss chard, cut into strios
Salt and pepper
1. Prepare the dough: Mix the two types of bulgur and add enough water so that it is covered by at least 1 1/2 inches of water. Let sit for 45 minutes. It should remain covered in water at all times.
2. Squeeze the bulgur and discard the water. Add the salt and semolina and mix thoroughly. Add the flour and knead by hand to form a soft dough.
3. Prepare the filling: Heat oil in a large skillet and fry the meat slowly on a low heat until completely dry. Add the chopped celery, garlic salt and pepper and fry for a 4-5 minutes. Let cool.
4. Prepare the dumplings as described above.
5. Prepare the soup: Heat the oil in a large pot and saute the onions until golden. Add stock and bring to a boil. Add the celery and Swiss chard. Season with salt and pepper. Add lemon juice gradually, reduce the heat and cook for about a half an hour. Add the dumplings and cook for 20 minutes. Let the soup stand for at least an hour, reheat and serve.
Kubbe, for those who aren't familiar with the dish, are meat-filled semolina dumplings that are traditionally served in a sour, lemony soup. (There is also a type of kubbe that is made with bulgur and fried, but we'll get that a different week). Kubbe is highly popular in Israel, but I had never tried my hand it. I just assumed that you had to be an Iraqi grandmother to make kubbe, otherwise you'd just get it all wrong. So when A. offered to teach me, I jumped at the chance.
Making kubbe is slightly complex, but once you get the hang of it it's not that bad. You first make a filling of sauteed ground beef, garlic and some celery. Set it aside and let it cool. Then make a dough of semolina and water.Wet your hands. Grab a fist-full of dough and roll into an evenly shaped ball between your palms. Holding, the ball in the palm of one hand, press down with two fingers of your other hand, from the center-outwards to create an even, flat circle of dough. Place about a tablespoon of filling in the middle of the circle of dough and cup your hand, pulling the dough up and over the filling. Roll the dumpling between your palms to reshape into an even ball. Wet your hands again and repeat.
Kubbe is gossip food. It's slightly tedious and annoying to do on your own, but when you're sitting with a bunch of friends, talking and laughing and keeping your hands busy, it's a pleasure. The recipe below is not precisely the same one I made with A., but it's near enough. Also, note that the soup the kubbe is cooked in is quite tart. Don't fret. When eaten together the kubbe, the richness of the dough and the meat offsets the tartness quite nicely.
Kubbe Hamousta
Adapted from, The Book of New Israeli Food, by Janna Gur
The Kubbe Dough:
1 cup coarse bulgur wheat
1 cup fine bulgur wheat
1 cup semolina
Salt
1-2 tbl. flour
The Kubbe Filling:
1 3/4 lb beef, ground finely
4-5 stalks celery, finely chopped
3-4 cloves crushed garlic
Salt and pepper
The Soup:
3 tbl oil
5 large onions, diced
2 liters chicken broth
2/3 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice
The rest of the celery stalk, chopped
1 bunch of Swiss chard, cut into strios
Salt and pepper
1. Prepare the dough: Mix the two types of bulgur and add enough water so that it is covered by at least 1 1/2 inches of water. Let sit for 45 minutes. It should remain covered in water at all times.
2. Squeeze the bulgur and discard the water. Add the salt and semolina and mix thoroughly. Add the flour and knead by hand to form a soft dough.
3. Prepare the filling: Heat oil in a large skillet and fry the meat slowly on a low heat until completely dry. Add the chopped celery, garlic salt and pepper and fry for a 4-5 minutes. Let cool.
4. Prepare the dumplings as described above.
5. Prepare the soup: Heat the oil in a large pot and saute the onions until golden. Add stock and bring to a boil. Add the celery and Swiss chard. Season with salt and pepper. Add lemon juice gradually, reduce the heat and cook for about a half an hour. Add the dumplings and cook for 20 minutes. Let the soup stand for at least an hour, reheat and serve.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Adventures in Israeli Couscous
Now that that's taken care of, let's talk about Israeli couscous. Israeli couscous is not couscous. It's baked pasta. And while it has somehow evolved into an upscale "in" food, in Israel it maintains its role as a humble side-dish served to children in kindergarten or lathered in ketchup by poor students. Which is not to say that it isn't awesome- because it is. It's got a couscous like texture, but is more substantial and has a deeper flavor than regular pasta. It is endlessly useful and is easily prepared. It can be eaten warm or cold and lends itself to a great variety of seasonings and flavors. In other words, awesome.
So I was plenty pleased when I found myself, on my second week in the kitchen, faced with an enormous pot of Israeli couscous. Even more pleasing was the fact that I was given free range to prepare it as I liked. Just one week into my kitchen experience, and there I was being told to use my own judgment. It was both satisfying and slightly frightening. I really didn't want to screw up my first real cooking assignment. I got the idea of cinnamon from the following recipe for Israeli couscous with roasted butternut squash and preserved lemon, which I had been making, on and off, throughout the fall and winter, and I like quite a bit. I didn't expect to cause quite the ruckus I did though, when I asked where the cinnamon was kept. Nobody in the kitchen had ever conceived of adding cinnamon to Israeli couscous. It was as if I revolutionized the whole concept. Well, I wouldn't quite call it a revolution, though it was quite good. Now I seem to be to be on perpetual Israeli couscous duty. Any time I'm in the kitchen and Israeli couscous is on the menu, it's pretty much a sure thing I'll be cooking it. At least now I know where the cinnamon is.
This recipe is endlessly flexible. The original recipe calls for preserved lemons. I use preserved limes because that's what I have in the house. Likewise, I have substituted cilantro for the parsley, almonds for the pine-nuts and at some point, having failed to find butternut squash in the supermarket, I once used carrots instead. It is also a really good picnic dish- it travels well and feeds quite a few people as a side dish.
Israeli Couscous with Roasted Butternut Squash and Preserved Lemon
Adapted from Gourmet, Sep. 1999
- 1 preserved lemon, or lime
- 1 1/2 pound butternut squash, peeled and seeded, and cut into 1/4-inch dice
- 3 tablespoons olive oil
- 1 large onion, chopped
- 1 3/4 cups Israeli couscous or acini di pepe (tiny peppercorn-shaped pasta), about 1 pound
- 1 (3-inch) cinnamon stick
- 1 cup chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley, or cilantro
- 1/2 cup pine nuts, toasted
- 1/2 cup golden raisins
- 1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
Toss squash with 1 tablespoon oil and salt to taste in a large shallow baking pan and spread in 1 layer. Roast in upper third of oven 15 minutes, or until squash is just tender, and transfer to a large bowl.
Cook onion in 1 tablespoon oil in a 10-inch heavy skillet over moderately high heat, stirring occasionally, until just beginning to turn golden. Add to squash.
Cook couscous with cinnamon stick in a large pot of boiling salted water 10 minutes, or until just tender, and drain in a colander (do not rinse). Add couscous to vegetables and toss with 2 tablespoon oil to coat.
Add lemon peel and juice, parsley, nuts, raisins, ground cinnamon, and salt to taste. Toss to mix well.
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