Life From Scratch (36 page)

1 pound basmati rice, rinsed

1 large onion, peeled and chopped

⅓ cup ghee

2 heaping tablespoons tomato paste

A couple large cloves of garlic

2½ pounds bone-in chicken (legs, thighs), extra fat trimmed

1 tablespoon salt

1 tablespoon garam masala

1 good pinch saffron

¾ cup water

Finishing touches:

½ pound carrots (about 4 large), peeled and cut into matchsticks (2 cups chopped)

1 teaspoon oil

1 teaspoon sugar

½ cup golden raisins

A good pinch cardamom

¼ cup slivered almonds

Rinse the rice in cold water until clear. Soak for an hour, more if you have it. Meanwhile, in a large, heavy-bottom pot with tightly fitting lid (something like an oval Le Creuset), brown the onion in ghee. Use a slotted spoon to remove the onion. Puree it with tomato paste and garlic. A food processor will do nicely, but a blender will work, too (just add the water to make the job easier). Set aside.

Brown the chicken pieces in the same pot over medium-high heat. Patience is a virtue here: The browner the chicken, the better the flavor. This can take 5 to 8 minutes per side. Move the chicken to one side of the pot and add in the onion mixture, salt, garam masala, saffron. Let it toast a moment in the hot ghee, and, if it hasn’t already gone in, add the water. Stir the chicken back into the mixture, lower heat, cover, and let bubble very gently.

Preheat the oven to 350°F. Meanwhile, prepare the garnish. In a large skillet over medium heat, cook the carrots in oil with the sugar until glossy (but not cooked through). Add cardamom and raisins. Cook another minute until plumped. Set aside.

Bring a pot of salted water (at least 6 cups) to boil. Drain the rice and dump it into the boiling water. Boil 4 to 5 minutes—no more—until half cooked. Drain.

Remove the chicken from the pot. Add the rice to the pot, stirring to coat with spiced broth. Put the chicken on top of the rice along with the carrot mixture. Cover and bake 30 to 35 minutes.

Finishing touches: Setting the chicken and carrot mixture aside, mound half the rice onto a large platter. Add the chicken, then bury with remaining rice. If a crust has formed on the bottom of the pot, be sure to scrape it up as well—some consider this the best part. Scatter the carrot mixture over the top, along with the almonds.

Serve immediately with a thick, doughy flatbread such as naan, preferably without silverware.

Enough for 6 to 8

CHAPTER 23

World on a Pl
a
te

T
HE FIRST FEW COUNTRIES GO BY
like a
Where’s Waldo
of world cuisine. I spend hours looking for authentic, viable recipes, subsumed by the curiosities I uncover—the more unfamiliar, the better. At home I lie on the carpet next to Ava, flipping through cookbooks. At the library I scan the reference section with her on my hip, only leaving after we find a cookbook for me and a picture book for her. I research the foods of dozens of countries in one sitting—sometimes resorting to the help of a Peace Corps site, an expat blog, or a YouTube video for help. But there’s a silence around many, as if they don’t exist.

The hunt is maddening and satisfying. It fills the cracks and crevices of motherhood, at once smoothing my nerves and stretching them to their limit.

Even at eight months, Ava is my little helper. When I show her my selections, she pats the cookbooks with her hand. She watches the cooking videos, hiccuping and cooing. I cannot bring myself to select just one or two recipes, so I choose a half dozen for each country. Each Saturday I race to prepare the food before she wakes up, using the blender in the laundry room to protect her from the commotion. I cobble together the posts after she goes to bed for the night. With each country, I select increasingly exotic dishes, relishing excitement but especially the shock on Keith’s face when I present him with each meal.

He heaves a great sigh, his lower lip blowing out into a pout when I offer up Albanian lamb roasted in a quagmire of yogurt and rice, called
tava elbasani
. He’s never had lamb before, and he hates plain yogurt. The meat emerges from the oven with a brown crust, each bite tenderized by the lengthy yogurt bath turned golden custard. Albanians are known for simple spicing, and one bite—filled with the citric warmth of paprika—says it all. But the revelation is lost on Keith. He cannot get past the homely presentation.

Dessert fares no better. Rose water–flavored Turkish delight—a sugar- and starch-based confection now enjoyed worldwide, but especially in the former Ottoman Empire—should be blushing, translucent, like the glow of a window covered in frost. A dusting of powdered sugar only enhances the illusion. But mine clumps together, a miserable failure none of us can bring ourselves to enjoy. Keith pokes his with a knife, brow crinkled.

For Algeria, I go beyond adaptation to create my own recipe inspired by Clifford A. Wright’s
A Mediterranean Feast
. I take traditional ingredients Wright recommends—chickpeas, potatoes, onion, and wide sheets of pasta in a spiced tomato sauce—but assemble them in an Italian-style lasagna to catch Keith off guard. For kick I add the requisite cocktail of spices: cayenne, cumin, coriander, and
harissa
, a scorching North African spice blend made with chili peppers, garlic, and oil. I spoon the warm mixture between lasagna sheets with ricotta, Gruyère, and mozzarella. Even before it goes in the oven, the cheese begins to melt.

When I pop the browned “lasagna” on the table, Keith smiles. But when a chickpea rolls from his slice, he raises his eyebrow. Still, I urge him on. We sink our teeth into the spice, our tongues catching fire even as the ricotta cools us. Only then does it occur to me that the combination of layered pasta with potato is an echo of my family’s own Genovese spaghetti with hunks of boiled potatoes.

Four bites in, Keith asks for seconds, and then begs me to make the lasagna again. But that would be too easy. Instead, I remake the less familiar Turkish delight to redeem myself, relieved that Algeria enjoys the tricky confection as much as Albania. I stir vigorously and get the lumps smooth. When Keith eats two pieces, his brow smooth, I consider it a triumph.

Hot Algerian Lasagna

This dish blends traditional Italian lasagna with chickpeas, potatoes, ground lamb, and a healthy dose of cayenne pepper. Although the recipe is an invention of my own, inspired by the work of Clifford A. Wright, Algeria does have strong connections to Italy—not the least of which is the Trans-Mediterranean pipeline, which runs from Algeria, through Tunisia, into Italy
.

Harissa and cayenne pepper provide the punch for this dish. Dried harissa mix can be found in the spice section of some supermarkets, whereas wet pastes are more often sold in Middle Eastern markets. A teaspoon of cayenne makes the lasagna mild—double this for good burn. Cayenne pepper’s heat is rated in “heat units.” This recipe was made with a 35,000 cayenne, which is on the low end of the scale. With a 90,000 cayenne, only ⅓ of the cayenne pepper will be needed for the same kick. Most spice companies include this information on their spices
.

For a more budget-friendly version, ground chicken or beef may be substituted though the result will be leaner, too
.

For the filling:

A few glugs olive oil

1 medium onion, chopped

1 pound ground lamb

A couple cloves garlic, crushed

½ teaspoon ground cumin

¼ teaspoon ground caraway

1 tablespoon harissa, prepared

1 teaspoon cayenne pepper, or more to taste

Salt

1 heaping tablespoon tomato paste

One 15-ounce can tomato puree or sauce, plus an 8-ounce can (2½ cups total)

One 15-ounce can chickpeas, rinsed and drained

2 medium Yukon gold potatoes, peeled and ½-inch diced (about 2 cups or 10 ounces diced)

½ cup water, or as needed

For assembly:

15 ounces ricotta

2 eggs

2 cups (½ pound) shredded Gruyère

2 cups shredded mozzarella

1 pound no-boil lasagna sheets

In a large skillet over medium-high heat, sauté the onion in a couple glugs of olive oil until golden. Add the lamb, and brown for a good 5 to 10 minutes, breaking it into small chunks with a wooden spoon along the way. Reduce heat and stir in the garlic, cumin, caraway, harissa, cayenne, and salt. Cook for a few minutes, until fragrant. Add tomato paste, 15 ounces of puree, chickpeas, cubed potatoes, and ½ cup water. Increase heat to bring to a bubble. Cover and simmer until potatoes are just tender—about 15 to 20 minutes, adding extra water if needed. Check seasonings, adding more salt and cayenne if desired.

Preheat the oven to 350°F. In a small bowl, mix ricotta with eggs and 1 cup Gruyère cheese. Add salt to taste.

To assemble lasagna:

Spread a glug of olive oil and half the remaining tomato puree on the bottom of a 9 × 13-inch (3-quart) casserole. Next, add a layer of lasagna noodles, a quarter of the ricotta mixture, a quarter of the lamb mixture, and ⅓ cup mozzarella cheese. Repeat three times. Finally, end with a layer of noodles and remaining puree sprinkled with remaining Gruyère and mozzarella. Cover with aluminum foil, and bake 55 minutes. Remove foil, and bake 5 minutes further to brown. Let rest a good 30 minutes before slicing.

Enough for 8

The blogging and cooking adventure consumes me so deeply that I wonder if I’m taking too much time away from my family. If, by flailing headlong into some imagined, perfect future, I’m stretching Keith too far, perhaps testing his steadfastness—and by extension, his love for me. Is this culinary adventure adding to the joy of the moment—or circumventing it?

When I get to Angola, I happen across a five-volume collection called
The World Cookbook for Students
, an encyclopedia of world recipes. It’s like the global cookbook jackpot, with recipes for every country in the world plus many territories and principalities. Even though the collection costs more than $200, I order it immediately. I tell Keith it will free me up since I won’t have to spend so much time researching. He nods in agreement a little too readily, relief written on his face.

When the book arrives, I flip to Angola and pick out a recipe for
bâton de manioc
, a grated cassava root packet steamed inside a skinny banana leaf envelope. Cassava root looks like a fat, brown carrot, with the texture of a hard potato. A South African friend explains that I’ll be able to find the cassava and the banana leaves at the African market down the road. She says it nonchalantly, as though it is totally normal to have an African market a mile and a half down the road, in the middle of Middle America. I must have driven past it a thousand times, yet never noticed it.

As I work on my adaptation, I compare the recipe with a few others. Several suggest I soak the cassava for two days, then grate it, mound it into packets, and steam them for six hours. All this work seems a bit over the top, but I have no one to ask. So I follow the instructions and soak the cassava.