Respect the food (or, how I burnt the bulgur)

I honestly don't know why I was so cranky that morning. Maybe I hadn't had enough coffee. Maybe I hadn't had enough sleep. Maybe I was just cranky. Whatever the case, I walked into the kitchen  annoyed and snippy. The day didn't get much better from there. Out of sheer stupidity I cut myself opening a box by disregarding the cardinal rule of cutting away from oneself. Then I lost count counting out the schnitzels and had to start all over again and when it came time to cook the bulgur with lentils, I burnt the bulgur. I burnt it so badly that a good quarter of the pot wasn't serve-able and the other three quarters had a lovely smokey flavor. Then, as the second pot of bulgur was cooking, I realized that I had left out a package of lentils. "What the hell", I thought, "what harm could it do?" So I threw in the lentils. I'm sure you could all guess where this is going. Service that day featured smokey bulgur with undercooked lentils. Yum.
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.

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.

Adventures in Israeli Couscous

First of all, I want to apologize for the delay. International travel and jet-lag do not make for good writing and cooking conditions. I really do hope that from this point forward blog posts will be a weekly occurrence.
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

Preheat oven to 475

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. 

Serve at room temperature.

In My Mother's Kitchen (Passover Interlude)

I grew up cooking in a kitchen the size of a shoebox. I am being only slightly hyperbolic. My mother's kitchen was a small, square room with dark laminate cabinets, a squeaky oven and two small windows. We fed a lot of people out of that kitchen. About 8 years ago my mother renovated and expanded her kitchen. It is now long and bright and a pleasure to cook in. It has dark marble counter tops and big bay window doors looking out into the yard.  She still feeds a lot of people out of her kitchen.

Every Passover, I leave Jerusalem and come back to my mother's kitchen. This year has been no exception. I expected things to feel different- for the kitchen to seem smaller and the prospect of feeding the many family members and guests that join us for the holiday less daunting. After all, I've spent the last 3 months learning how to feed 200 people on a regular basis. But the kitchen still seems long and bright and big, and  the sheer amount of food that needs cooking is still overwhelming. Somehow, though, I don't mind much. What would Passover be without the menu planning sessions, the endless runs to the grocery store and those moments when you realize that you haven't left the kitchen once all day?

This year one of our guests had a severe nut and egg allergy, leaving us in a real bind regarding dessert. The two main components of Passover baking are nuts and eggs. Thankfully though, my sister-in-law had already introduced us to the wonders of homemade sorbet last Passover. It was a no-brainer.  Chocolate sorbet, strawberry granita and almond granita- who needs sponge cake?

Contrary to popular belief, you don't need an ice-cream maker to make sorbet. You don't even need a food processor (though having one is quite helpful). All you need is some time and a method for breaking up the ice crystals that form as the sorbet starts to freeze. If you don't break up the crystals your sorbet will turn into a block of flavored ice.  My sister-in-law's method involves removing the sorbet from the freezer just as it is beginning to set and giving it a whirl in the food processor. But if you don't have a food processor, or just don't feel like getting it dirty you can also get good results by checking on  the sorbet  every half an hour or so until it freezes completely and giving it a good stir by hand.

There are endless flavors of sorbet. These are the three I made:

Chocolate Sorbet
Adapted from David Lebovitz

2 cups water
1/2 cup sugar
pinch of salt
1/2 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
4 oz. semi sweet or bittersweet chocolate, chopped
1/4 tsp vanilla
1 tsp instant coffee

1. In a saucepan, bring water, sugar, cocoa and salt to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer for about 30 seconds, whisking all the while

2. Remove from heat, stir in the chocolate, vanilla and coffee

3. Dump into the food processor and give a whirl.

4. Freeze. After about 45 minutes, when the sorbet is just starting to set, remove and give it another whirl in the food processor.

5. Freeze again

Almond Granita
From The Man Who Ate Everything  by Jeffery Steingarten

1/2 tsp almond extract
2/3 cup blanched almonds
1/2 cup sugar
1 cup + 4 tbl hot water
3 cups water

1. Combine almond extract, almonds and sugar in food processor and grind to a fine powder. Slowly add the four tablespoons hot water, one tablespoon at a time until a smooth cream is formed. Add  1 cup hot water to dilute the cream.

2. Pour into a bowl and add 3 cups water.

3. Follow freezing instructions as in the Chocolate Sorbet, above.

Strawberry Granita
The amounts in this recipe are vague. Adjust according to taste.

1 cup water
1/2 cup sugar
2 sticks cinnamon
a knob of fresh ginger, peeled
a slice or two of a jalapeno
16 oz strawberries, hulled

1. In a saucepan, bring water, sugar cinnamon ginger and pepper to boil. Reduce to simmer and whisk until syrupy. Remove from heat. Cover and allow to seep for 15- 30 minutes

2. In the meantime, blend the strawberries in the food processor and pass through a fine-mesh strainer to remove seeds and any chunks the food processor may have missed.

3. Remove ginger, cinnamon and hot pepper from the syrup and discard. Combine strawberry with the syrup and give it a whirl in the food processor

4. Follow freezing instructions as in the Chocolate Sorbet, above

Inspiration (Spring)

Welcome

I am Tiki. I like food and feeding people;words and old things. I am a refugee from academia, finding my place in the wider world. I live in Jerusalem with my sister and a fat, asthmatic cat.

Welcome.

About the Project:

נשים מבשלות עסק (Women Cook Up a Business) is a program run by the feminist organization קול האשה (Kol Ha'Ishah). The goal of the project is to help women start their own culinary businesses. The project includes a course in small business management, but is centered around work in a community kitchen. Once a week the members of the project are expected to put out 200 plates to feed members of a day care center for people with special needs. The goal of the kitchen work is to familiarize participants with the industrial kitchen as well as to give them experience feeding large numbers of people.

About the Blog:

This blog will be a chronicle of the my year in the community kitchen.

The Recipes:

The food featured in this blog will not be the food we cook in the kitchen. I seriously doubt most people need to know how to make rice for 200 people (hint: it involves a lot of rice), nor do I want to describe how to make rice for 200 people. Instead, this blog will be tangential to the work I do in the kitchen. A lot of times the prep work I do, or the food I cook will remind me of things I cook at home. This blog will feature those recipes.

Firsts

My first day in the kitchen was a three hour trial run. I arrived with a stomach full of jitters. I didn't know what to expect and I had doubts- many, many doubts. When I walked in, I was greeted with a warm smile by the head of the kitchen. She gave me a quick walk around. I was surprised at how quiet the kitchen was. No one was rushing or screaming. The three women on shift that day were just cooking. Calmly. Competently. I took a deep breath- sure the counters were gleaming metal, and the pots were big enough to hide in, but other than that (and the strange looking machine in the corner, which I was soon to find out is an industrial food processor) it was just a kitchen. I can do kitchens.
"So," C said, "you want to work?"
"Sure," I answered, though I was decisively not sure.
And that's how I found myself staring at a sink full of dirty fennel waiting to be washed, trimmed and prepped. It was more fennel than I had ever been confronted with before in my life. All the fears and doubts that I had tamped down rose up into my throat. I picked up a bulb of fennel. It was almost too large to fit into my palm, but it felt familiar. I thought of my friend and former roommate who taught me to eat fennel sliced thin and doused in fresh lemon juice. I thought of my friend Sweet Amandine's roasted carrot and fennel soup. The bulb smelled slightly sweet and green. I took another deep breath. I got to work.

I used to be one of those people who hated fennel. In general, I'm not so fond of licorice and fennel always tasted like licorice to me. But then my roommate, who pretty much ate only raw vegetables, (not on principle, mind you, she just liked raw vegetables) somehow convinced me to taste her fennel salad. Fennel with lemon juice, salt and pepper- a slight sweetness under a wave of lemon.  That's all it was. I was converted. I ate fennel that way for years and never considered doing anything else with it. Well, then came the soup- the soup that has converted many a fennel-hater. The soup that has convinced me that the only right thing to do with carrots is to roast them (excepting carrot cake with cream cream cheese frosting, of course). I adore that soup. But this is not a post about that soup. This is a post about braised fennel.

I don't remember why I went looking for a recipe for braised fennel. I think, perhaps, I was looking for something to do with a lot of fennel- too much for salad or soup, and I'm pretty much obsessed with braising. It's my default mode. This recipe has five ingredients and three steps, but the results are so elegant one would think it had many more. The fennel mellows as it cooks and just sort of melts into the white wine and tomatoes. I served it with fish. You can serve it with whatever you'd like.


Braised Fennel and Tomatoes

 From the lovely Sunday Suppers

The  recipe calls for 4 bulbs of fennel. I had 6, so I upped the recipe appropriately. It came out just fine.

4 fennel bulbs
2 cloves of garlic, minced
1 onion, thinly sliced
6 tomatoes, halved and seeded
1 1/2 cups white wine
salt and pepper
olive oil

Quarter the fennel, leaving the cores intact. Saute the onions and garlic until soft and translucent. Add the tomatoes, fennel, white wine and salt and pepper. Stir and simmer for 35 to 40 minutes until the fennel is soft and can be pierced with a knife. Finish with a drizzle of olive oil.