5 am: Thinking About Anise

I woke up around 4:30 am and could not go back to sleep. There's a somewhat ambitious project coming my way later today which is keeping me up. It involves 4 hours of work (ok, 2 1/2 of those require me to do nothing and I could even just let the thing happen overnight, but still, 4 hours!!!), it needs to be photographed and then written about, and then eaten. It involves a spice that is all but new to me, anise seeds. I've only ever known anise as a liqueur used in Spanish cooking so the the smell of these little seeds brings me visions of Roscón and Easter and the taste of sweet licorice embedded in a warm sweet bread encrusted in sugar and dotted with dried fruit and almonds. Spanish cooking at its very best. What I plan to make is only once removed from that. Its a Mexican sweet bread called Pan de Día de los Muertos (or Day of the Dead Bread). I'll post about it tomorrow when I make it.

Now I'm not doing this for myself. Squash and blue cheese pizza, I do for myself. Homemade whole wheat bread, I do for myself. Apple crisp, I do for myself. This is a project for work, which is another reason I'm up thinking about anise. I'm mentally writing my article, having decided on a new approach to this once annoying, now approaching cool website I work for called Fabulous & Frugal. At this point its smeared with enough of my writing that I'm starting to care for it. I'm particularly proud of my beer article and Part Two of the Student Loans trilogy (I don't pick the titles). So I want to start applying what I learned during my food writing course and start to incorporate structure into my articles as mindfully as I would if I were writing something for the New York Times (no, I'm not comparing Fab & Fru to the New York Times, one is my current place of employment, the other an aspiration, ok?). Lede, nutgraf, body, close.

While thinking about the lede I realized something that makes Day of the Dead Bread particular, specially when made within the context of American culture: its sweet (and it contains anise, but that's what makes it particular to me). Even Jewish Challah and Americanized French Croissants don't quite make it to the sweetness level inherent in Iberian and Hispanic sweet breads. Roscón is a classic example. My best friend's mother, originally from Galicia, makes these bread cakes every Easter and every Three Kings Day. The texture is bready and flaky but the intensity is that of pastry glazed with granulated sugar and liqueur because even confectioner's sugar would be too light. Not that confectioner's sugar doesn't have its place. Take the Puerto Rican majorca, even when you eat it with ham and cheese its still sprinkled with white dusty sugar. The Portuguese have their own sweet bread, Massa Sovada, and like Roscón and Day of the Dead Bread, its baked mostly for Easter and Christmas. I would say, though, that Massa Sovada is closer to Puerto Rican Pan Sobao, a bread that's sweet but still more bread than cake. In any case, both are still sweeter than anything found in the American spectrum of breads. [Correction: I glanced at the backcover of my latest issue of Cook's Illustrated and prominently displayed was the Louisiana King Cake, an American version of Roscón doused in sprinkles for Mardi Gras.]

Since bread-making has become my new thing lately-- so far I've made two pizzas, 5 loaves of 100% Whole Wheat Bread and all but one have been light, sweet, and very good, two loaves of beer bread, and two loaves of something that wanted to resemble a baguette but wasn't sure how-- now I'm going to enter that netherworld of the cake-bread hybrid. Luckily, I'm not starting with the ones I know and love, the ones from home for which I have high expectations that can never be met (its me, not the recipe, take for example my disastrous experience with Sazón, the Puerto Rican restaurant that although good, wasn't up to snuff with my expectations; even the coffee I make here doesn't taste like coffee back home even though my mom ships me Yaucono and my favorite gourmet stuff that comes straight from the plantations in Yauco and Lares). When entering undiscovered territory you might as well go all the way so I'm starting in Mexico, with a tablespoon of anise seeds.

Puerto Rican Goulash

Goulash is a Hungarian meat stew popular in the Czech Republic, Germany, Italy, and the US. Many, many variations exist, this is mine.

I must make a confession, and with it I ask to be excused for my actions further on, even if they seem unforgivable from a purist stand point: I originally thought Goulash was Czech. Bearing this in mind, and also considering my limited, repetitive (albeit very delicious) spice cabinet, you will hopefully understand why I've taken a classic HUNGARIAN recipe and turned it into something similar, but at the core very different. In fact, what I have simmering on the stove at this very moment is closer to a ragu than it will ever be to a goulash. 

But I wasn't looking to make a classic Goulash to begin with. 

The inspiration is Czech, the ingredients Puerto Rican, but most importantly: it smells amazing.

After looking up what makes a Goulash (that is after I already set my Goulash to cook and wrote the recipe for it), I learned something about widely recognized dishes like this one: though the variations reach far and wide, the flavor palette and technique is the same. I violated one of those rules by substituting certain key flavors and adding some new ones but I followed the same technique and kept the base of the recipe the same. Necessity and convenience are the parents of Re-Invention. 

To make a simple, straight forward Goulash the combination is as follows: beef, onions, peppers, water or stock, and lots of paprika. Beyond that, caraway seeds, marjoram, and garlic are classic innovations, as is adding dry wine or beer for flavor, and as a thickening agent either potatoes or a roux made with flour and either sour cream or water. Sometimes they add tomatoes (I added diced tomatoes and tomato paste, the latter was too much). 

Since I'm still working my way through our 10 lbs of kosher lamb, I looked for a lamb goulash recipe specifically and based it on that. My variations reflect my own personal flavor palette. (If I'd had sofrito you can bet that would've made it in there.) By the end of this experiment I had a redish, thick, sweet Goulash. 

You've heard of Hungarian Goulash, you've heard of Czech Goulash, you may even have had American Goulash, I give you Puerto Rican Goulash Ragu. Ideal to make with lamb or veal or whatever cute dead baby animal you may have on hand.

Puerto Rican Goulash 

Ingredients:

1.5 lbs. stewing lamb or veal, cubed 

1 large onion, chopped

1 large green pepper, chopped

2 cloves of garlic, minced

1 can diced tomatos, with juice

1 cup beer (pilsner ideally, lager otherwise, Medalla if possible)

1.5 tbls. Paprika (the sweet kind, not the spicy kind)

½ tsp. oregano or marjoram

1 tsp fresh chopped parsley

½ tsp. cumin seeds or caraway seeds

Salt and pepper

Olive or vegetable oil

Instructions:

If possible prepare the lamb the night before. Trim excess fat, cut into cubes, and season with salt and pepper, leave sitting overnight (lamb will have a better flavor, see Food & Wine article). It’s fine if you only have time to season it a few hours earlier (which I did).

In a crock pot or dutch over, coat bottom with oil. When hot (but not smoking), add lamb and cook until browned. Toss in onions and green peppers and cook, stirring frequently, until softened. Add garlic, let cook for about a minute then stir in paprika. Mix in cumin seeds, oregano, and parsley and stir in with diced tomatoes. Finally, add beer, season goulash with salt and pepper, stir and bring to a low boil. Leave simmering, partially covered, for an hour or until lamb is fork tender. Stir frequently! (The beer makes the sauce thicken and it can stick to the bottom of the pot.)

Let the goulash sit for 10 minutes, partially covered, before serving.

Serve with potatoes, rice, egg noodles, or bread dumplings.

**After having this for dinner, I have a few adjustments I would make. I already eliminated the tomato paste. I would stick with the classic goulash flavors of caraway and marjoram since they make it darker, more savory, and would work much better with veal or beef. BUT if you make it with the Puerto Rican flavors then I recommend adding either some red pepper flakes or cayenne pepper to balance out the sweetness of the tomatoes and sofrito if possible for a more savory edge. I would also substitute the beer with stock and add beer near the end of cooking to round out the flavors and thicken the stew. But aside from that, this was really good.

Thanksgiving Syndrome

Hi David.

At some point I realized I was beyond full and found myself pleasantly surprised at my own capacity to continue eating. It was almost my responsibility to do so. My body observed me place another cracker with cream cheese and caviar in my mouth in a state of utter confusion. One thing was perfectly clear to my poor body, though, this was not an occasion where its protest would be of any relevance. 

I collapsed into bed a couple of hours later, full of serrano ham, deep-fried chicken livers, hot dogs with parmesan cheese and truffle butter, cake, wine, cocktails... I'd been home in Puerto Rico for less than 12 hours and that was only the first of several parties being held in honor of my homecoming. I vaguely recall calling my boyfriend, who was safely in New York losing weight in my absence, and groaning, "Oh my god, I haven't eaten this much since lunch." Several hours before this first cocktail party my family had celebrated my arrival with a two hour lunch at Al Dente restaurant complete with bacon wrapped escargot and pumpkin ravioli. This pace did not let up for the next two days.

Each and every visit I make to Puerto Rico is a homecoming, the fatted calf is slaughtered, cakes are baked, and champagne bottles pop, figuratively and literally (maybe not the calf part). But this isn't something unique to me. Homecoming, graduations, holidays, weddings, any joyous celebration, and even sad ones like funerals, require an obscene amount of food to make them complete. It's what I'm going to call Thanksgiving Syndrome: a cross-cultural need to celebrate by eating and drinking in large groups to the point of collapse. 

Evidence of this tedency can be found as far back as the cave drawings. What did prehistory humans like to draw and tell stories about? Hunting the big bison that would become the weekly dinner feast (the metabolism stayed, the eating habits changed, what's happening evolution?). 

In Homer's Odyssey, every time Odysseus set foot on a new land, some sort of cattle was slaughtered and he and his new friends, who never asked what his name was until the tenth course, would feast all night. 

In the Bible, Jesus feeds a throng of people with two fish, a loaf of bread, and a skin of wine... all of which conveniently never ran out despite the hundreds of people devouring seconds and thirds. 

Food is a common offering to the gods, from bowls of milk to cakes left at the feet of statues then distributed among worshippers. 

Times of fasting usually culminate in feasts, from the breaking of the Yom Kippur fast at Katz's Deli for the Jews (or at least the Jews I know) to streets flowing with the blood of slaughtered animals at the last sundown of Ramadan (true story). 

I don't think I need to go into Thanksgiving, except to reiterate the 5000 calories generally consumed on that day and the inexplicable abundance of leftovers after the gorging. 

It's culture, it's tradition, it's human nature.

We could just as easily do something else and omit the food part, play music all night, dance, go somewhere special like a beach or church (maybe not church). And, we do. But without the giant meal throughout those festivities it would feel like something is missing. These special, large, no-holds-barred meals are what make the event. On a practical level, you need tons of food, if you're going to feed tons of people. But that much?

Your stomach hurts, you get tired, you can barely move, you've gained at least two pounds in two hours, but somewhere deep inside you are at ease. You feel warm, your mind calms down (food coma), you feel, um, satiated, to say the least. There is something comforting, grounding about being able to eat as much as you can and then eating more. And being able to stop and go back to your normal eating habits once the party is over. Overeating in the context of a party, something that happens occassionally and with many people, is more than OK, it's the whole point. In a way it reminds you how good it feels to not do that all the time. What elevates binging to celebrating, though, is that celebrating is collective binging. It's social deconstruction of you body and brain (if you're drinking). 

Food is important to people for reasons of survival, comfort, energy, nutrition, but what makes food special is eating it with other people. It's one of the most complete sensory experiences you can have as a group. Memories are triggered, places and events are relived collectively through the palate. And somewhere around this point, there is an understanding. A line is crossed usually after the first set of appetizers, lubricated with booze, and once you reach that point, there is no turning back, there is only pressing forward. You know that by continuing to eat and drink you will cause harm to yourself and you know it's going to be awesome. 

That's why desserts exist.

Squash Stuffed with Lamb

I've gotten good at bullshitting my way around a kitchen. I often read in blogs about people taking this and that recipe and putting them together to create their own recipe that already exists. So I did that. 

Having volunteered at my CSA July 4th I got to stock up on double and triple my usually quota since so many vegetables were leftover (yeah, I guess two heads of cabbage is excessive when you have no idea how to cook cabbage) and I had about six different sized squashes and zucchinis. 

And the lamb. 

One is naturally meant for stuffing the other.

I quickly made a tomato sauce with diluted tomato paste, onions, garlic, herbed olive oil, and a touch of honey, a doctored recipe I've read over and over again when searching for how to make North African stuffed peppers. Set that aside, then I put some onions (scallions work better for this) to sizzle in olive oil in a large pan and preheated the oven to 450.

While that combo worked its olfactory magic I went about the tedious task of gutting out the squash. I never realized the insides are solid previous to cooking, though I guess I should have known that since it's obvious when you slice them. Which I do often for ratatouille and stuff. But these are not natural connections one makes on a day to day basis. (Shut up.)  All my spoons were resting complascently at the bottom of an overflowing sink and trying to work the solid skin and seeds out with a knife resulted in pierced skins and uneven insides. I finally used a serving spoon and decided adamantly against making stuffed cabbage as a side dish. I'd had enough of stuffing things, thank you.

Garlic joined the onions in the hot oil. They caramelized very nicely, and shortly after the garlic came the insides of the squash (a step taken from two recipes online, my friends who make stuffed things usually just combine the meat with a starch like rice or potatoes, discarding the insides) and the crumbled ground lamb, dotted with fat and a hazy pink color. I salt and peppered it the night before since I hear you get a much better flavor from doing that (according to Food & Wine, apparently this is a technique you should avoid at all costs when making pork), then sprinkled liberal amounts of cumin, allspice, and cayenne over the mix. And more salt and pepper. 

The whole thing cooked more quickly than I expected. I'm into slow cooking but haven't mastered it so I always speed through my slow cooking. The squash melted, the lamb turned brown, the pan filled with liquid. As I spooned this mix into the empty squash shells I had a feelings I was missing something (as I tend to) then spooned some of the liquid over each of them. When I do things like that I have some vague notion of why I'm doing it which is rarely backed up by any concrete evidence. The idea behind adding the liquid was to keep the meat from drying out and for it to stew. I guess.  

The squashes looked pretty sitting in the roasting pan covered in crumbled meat but also looked incomplete. Something was just off. I added the tomato sauce, a marked improvement and remembered what I had meant to do: I wanted to mix in chopped parsley and lemon zest into the meat mixture. Next time, if there is one, I will add the parsley, maybe some cilantro too or some mint or scallion greens, something green for color and taste, lemon zest, and eggs, as a binding agent so the whole thing keeps together. But on with what I actually made.

I sprinkled parsley over the tomato sauce and squirted lemon juice over each squash (it sort of worked as a replacement) and put the whole thing covered in foil into the oven.

Somehow Eissa manages to cook this for 3 hours. Since last time I'd asked for a recipe I'd gotten snapped at I fought the temptation to text him and relied on published sources. All my recipes called for 30-40 minutes, I did 45 in the spirit of slow cooking but 30 would've been enough. The pan was filled with liquid again and the squash were fork tender without being mushy. Transferring them over to a cookie sheet revealed weakness in their structure, which can be remedied with a shorter baking time, no liquid spooned in along with the meat, and eggs. I crumbled queso fresco over them, I think a cheese with more flavor would've worked better, like mozzarella, but part of this exercise was to use stuff I had at home. Broiled them (more liquid came out, where was this coming from?) then served it with some fresh parsley for garnish and more lemon juice.

Robin says it's the best thing I've ever made for him, the flavors harmonized really nicely. It was better than I expected but still a work in progress. What I love about a recipe like this is that there are several key things you do: empty shells, be it squash, zucchini, tomatoes, bell peppers or potatoes, then you combine meat (chickpeas are a nice vegetarian substitute, although the two combined are also quite nice) with the insides of the shell, eggs, cheese, or a starch, something to give the mix some body, add herbs and spices, then add a sauce. One recipe called for a yogurt sauce but the tomato sauce is more traditionally North African which was what I was going for. And bake. It's relatively easy, though time consuming, and the rest of it is so much what you choose to add to it.

10 lbs. of Kosher Lamb

Two sets of ribs, some five pounds of nicely marbled ground meat, and a hunk of fat, flesh, and bone I can't even identify because the label is in Hebrew, are currently residing in my freezer. Meat has returned to my kitchen after nearly two years' absence. When I told my writing professor, a New Englander of Portuguese origin, he responded with a hearty, "Welcome back." 

We'll think of the slaughtered lamb from Mitzvah Meats as a sort of celebration.

Why I came back to meat is obvious: meat is delicious. As a foodie, my pseudo-morals about not killing animals and the fact that humans don't need to eat meat (it is bad for you to eat it every day, in my opinion) have never held enough water to keep me out of the blood and flesh pool for more than a few months at a time. Come on, I grew up watching entire hogs with metal poles sticking out of their mouths and rear ends rotate slowly over an open fire. Before my age had entered the double digits I picked at blood sausage and charred skin along with all of the adults, luxuriating in the meaty wonder of it. I've been a closet foodie most of my life and when I finally decided to embrace this obsession with food, meat was right there grabbing at my pseudo-vegetarian ankles, begging to be heard or, rather, prepared.

And finally I did. On Monday I made pork chops. The first meat I cook since I left Spain in 2007.

But my qualms about the killing of animals (and all the rampant cruelty of corporate America's industrialized farms, see Food, Inc.) for what I consider a luxury item still bring up images of horrifying cruelty, eyes wide with fear and confusion before a bloody, painful death. So I decided that the only way I could really enter the meat cooking world was to buy meat from a provider I knew had given my dead animal a good life. Enter my CSA and their connection to Mindful Meats, or Mitzvah Meats. Although the price for all the lamb was steep, it was kosher, humanely raised, and pasture-fed. And most importantly, you knew this meat was going to taste awesome.

The clincher was the idea of making a lamb ragú. I have no idea how I'm even going to make that with the weird cuts I was given and my utter lack of a meat cleaver, but a ragú will be made, along with a tajin and... ribs, I guess. This is a bright new world that has opened up for me in the kitchen and while chicken is off-limits for now and vegetables will still hold the upper hand, I'm finally catching up with the rest of Food World. Many great vegetarian cooks will argue that you don't have to make this stuff to be considered a foodie but the bloodlust is ingrained in me. My culture, my upbringing, my tastes all demand a meat fix every so often. Usually red. Usually rare.

I'm excited.