Leftover Saver: Curried Lemon Chicken Pieces

There are two kinds of people: those who love and those who hate leftovers.

My mother insisted on cooking huge batches of food, so we ate leftovers regularly.  But we didn't have a microwave.  Everything had to be reheated on the stove-top.  Ever tried to reheat roasted chicken pieces on a stove top?  It can be a bit challenging.  The chicken can come out very dry and tasteless. And since we did not grow up in the land of boneless skinless chicken breasts, all of our chicken was cooked on the bone, usually roasted.  Then the next day, my mother would pick the bones clean, save the bones for stock, and fry up the meat a second time, seasoning it generously with her stash of Middle Eastern curry powder and finish it with a splash of lemon juice.

So I grew up to love leftover chicken.  I think I may even love this more than the original meal of roast chicken.  I just can't stop picking at the bowl of juicy, caramelized chicken pieces, flavored with the sweet and mildly spicy curry powder.  The final squeeze of lemon juice brightens up the whole dish, balancing out the flavors of the curry.

If you have leftover chicken, this whole dish will take you five minutes, start to finish.  If you don't have any leftover chicken, I do like to use boneless chicken thighs here for a very quick dish.  For a fabulous sandwich, serve this tucked into a loaf of pita bread.  Otherwise, serve it next to rice, a plate of green beans - really, whatever you have in your kitchen.  It is as forgiving as it is delicious.

How to Make Fluffy, Flavorful Rice (Like an Arab)

Sticky rice, fluffy rice, gummy, gluey rice, bland, wet or crunchy rice.  I have made all of these things.

I remember rice as my first culinary challenge out of college.  If I can just cook rice, I thought, I can feed myself.  And while the instructions on the sack always seemed so simple, so straight forward, the results were rarely good.  My Chinese roommate had a little electric rice cooker that she swore by, and I loved the beautifully steamed rice that she produced, but even that little gadget alluded my attempts.  For a while, I gave up and accepted half-soggy, half-crunchy bland rice.

It was very sad.

Because we Arabs love our rice!  Like our friends farther east, from India all the way to Japan, we love our rice.  Our rice style is more similar to Indian rice, and every time I dig into a vibrant dish of biryani, it reminds me of home.  Arabs pride themselves in producing light, fluffy rice, with a nutty and rich flavor, well seasoned enough to stand on its own.  We love to serve mounds of fluffy white rice, warmly spiced with the flavors of allspice, turmeric, cinnamon or nutmeg, topped with buttery pine nuts or almonds fried in ghee.  For a simple childish favorite, we serve this with just a scoop of fresh plain yogurt, and we call it rooz ma' laban.  Please, mama, we would beg my mother, can we skip the sauce and just have rooz ma' laban?

Can you blame me?

After watching my mother, badgering her with questions, and then (this was the hard part), actually doing what she told me to do, I learned how to make a decent pot of rice.  If you want to make delicious rice that will wake up any basic fish, chicken or steak meal, look no further.

How to Make Arabic Coffee, or Boiled Coffee with Cardamom

Nothing takes me home like the sight of my father standing over the kitchen stove, making a pot of Arabic coffee.  He stands over the stove, heating water in a small metal pot, waiting for the right moment to spoon in the mounding spoonfuls of coffee.  Then he stirs the boiling coffee down, and lifts the pot, stirring again, then returns to the pot to the flame.  It's a little dance, to boil the coffee without overflowing the pot.  The rich smell of coffee fills the house, scented lightly with the sweet aroma of cardamom.  He pours the little cups, as small as a child's play teacup, and carries one to my mother. They sit and sip in the afternoon sun, reaching for a bowl of chocolates.This is the daily afternoon ritual in my family home, and it is a ritual repeated all over the Middle East.

Savory Palestinian Cauliflower Pancakes

Any day that my Palestinian mother fried up a batch of these garlic and onion-scented cauliflower pancakes was a good day for me.  Served with a pile of Arabic bread, some fresh cut vegetables and olives, these savory omelette-like pancakes, full of softly-cooked cauliflower and fried in pungent olive oil, are enough to make you a believer in cauliflower.  Unless, that is, you already are.  In that case, ahlan wa-sahlan.

The Jewel of Middle Eastern Pastries: Honey-Walnut Baklava

Crispy, crackling layers of paper-thin dough, soaked in butter,  stuffed with a rich nutty filling, and then drizzled with a honey-sweet syrup, baklawa is the crown jewel of Middle Eastern pastries. 



This composed pastry dish actually harkens back to the Ottomon empire, so you will find variations on baklava throughout the Mediterannean, from eastern Europe to the far reaches of the Middle East.  The word baklava, then, is of Ottomon origin, but Arabs have adopted and adapted it to their tongue, so I grew up calling this pastry ba'lawa.

Ba'lava is a layered pastry made from phyllo dough.  Phyllo dough is an unleavened paper-thin dough, made with flour, water, a little oil and vinegar.  You can purchase this in the freezer section of your local grocery story, but I am sure that with a little elbow grease, you can make it yourself.  The ba'lawa is built with layers of buttered phyllo dough, and then a couple of thick layers of crushed nuts.  The pastry remains unsweetened until after baking, when a sweet syrup is poured over top, and allowed to soak for several hours or overnight, to set.

My Palestinian Grandmother's Orange Chiffon Cake

Pictured with my grandmother's hand-crocheted lace.

Teta, can you make a cake for me? 

Yes, habibti, yes, my dear.  Let's make cake.  And into our kitchen we would go, where my grandmother would pull out eggs, oranges, flour, sugar, yogurt.  With a little twinkle in her eye, she would tell me that brandy would make the cake delicious. 

My mother learned how to make American-style cakes, chocolate cakes and yellow layer cakes, cakes that looked like bunnies and cakes that were frosted and sprinkled with coconut.  My mother read English cookbooks, studied them, jotting down her notes in the margins in Arabic. 

But my dear grandmother, my teta, who as far as I know never read a cookbook in her life, only knew how to make one cake:  orange cake.  Why can't you make another flavor, I would ask her.  This is the cake I know how to make, she would tell me.  She would pull out a bowl, a spoon, and a mug.  A mug!  No measuring spoons?  No measuring cup?!  She used a clear glass mug to measure out her flour, her oil, her sugar.  And so she beat the egg whites, and stirred the yolks into the sugar and the yogurt.   I watched in awe, wondering how she knew what to add, and how much to add, and would this cake really turn out?  I kept watching, and waiting, and was gifted with witnessing the miracle:  the cake baked, the heady fragrance of orange slowly blossomed in the kitchen until the cake swelled and browned, slightly crispy at the edges. 

Palestinian-Style Stuffed Cabbage Rolls, or Malfouf

Sometimes a little time produces a lot of joy. 

For us, this is a dish of joy.  Palestinians are known for their love of stuffing things with rice and meat, and if you are ever so fortunate to find yourself in a Palestinian's home, chances are good that you will be invited to share a meal like this. Garlicky and lemony, these tender rolls of cabbage filled with spiced meat and rice play a special role in the cast of dinner dishes that rotate through the Palestinian kitchen.

Behind us are the days of cousa mahshi, or stuffed summer squash; now, the cabbage beckons.  I had one last beautiful one from our final delivery of our CSA, and I considered its destiny.  It took some time for me to build up the gumption to create this meal, but once I did, I discovered that while this stuffed dish takes time, it is actually less fussy and easier than most of the other stuffed dishes. Malfouf, (or malfoof), is the Arabic word for cabbage, and this dish is so ubiquitous that if you way you are having cabbage for dinner, everyone will understand that you are referring to this dish.

Interview: Real Food is Real Work

Last week, I sat down with my dear friend, Laura Fabrycky, who writes for the Missio blog at the Washington Institute for Faith, Vocation and Culture.

Here's the thing about Laura: she asks the good questions: the hard, the important questions:

Why did you start a food blog? How is yours different than others? What have you discovered about yourself, the larger story you inhabit, and life in general because of it?

 

Do you think of yourself as an exile?  How much of your exploration of food is an exploration of your own identity, a passing on of an identity to your children?

 

Wow.

 

It was hard work to answer these questions, and at times, even smarted a little bit.  We had to do the interview twice (due to technical problems with the first recording), but even that had its advantages.  For me, it was a time to step back from the work itself, from the recipes, the writing, the community, and to look into my heart instead. 

Why do I engage in the real work of real food, when I don't have to?

How has engaging with the world through real food deepened my faith?

Read my answers here, in the interview: Real Food is Real Work.



I am so grateful that Laura made me ask myself these questions, made me find my answers for them.  But really, for me, this is just the start of the conversation.  I hope that you will continue to join in the conversation with me. And so I ask you, too:  How would you answer these questions?

On Thanksgiving: Food as Identity-Forming Story

 

All morning long, the family cooks work in the kitchen -- trussing the turkey, tearing bread for stuffing, rolling out pie crusts -- and the familiar scents of Thanksgiving begin to drift out of the oven: sage and pumpkin, turkey and yeasty bread.  Thanksgiving is not like any other meal that we enjoy throughout the year, is it?  We have set aside this day to enjoy eating particular foods, foods that we sometimes reserve to eat only at this time of the year, or at least, that is the only day when we eat all of those dishes with our family.

Thanksgiving is probably the one holiday in America that focuses exclusively on food:  on creating a table of bountiful, delicious food, and then enjoying it wholeheartedly. You don't have to buy cards or wrap presents, you don't have to churn through a bunch of holiday-themed activities or try to create and then sustain family traditions.  The goal is simple:  gather around the table with loved ones, give thanks, and then feast. 

Is this our culture's last ceremonial meal?  Perhaps. There is something about it that reminds me of Pasach, of the Passover meal shared in Jewish homes, to mark the great exodus.  Like the Jews who celebrate with Passover, we eat particular foods, on a particular day, to remember a time of  great need and great redemption.  We eat the foods, and we remember, and we explain them to our children. 

On Thanksgiving, the foods that we eat tell a story - a story of where we came from, and who we are.  This is an identity-forming meal, and one that certainly shaped my own sense of cultural identity when I was growing up.

 

Returning to the Old (Arab) Ways: Why I Soak My Grains

Here is what I remember about my mother's kitchen: no matter what kitchen, whether we lived in Mundelein, outside of Chicago, or Beit Hanina, outside of Jerusalem, you could always find on tje counter top a bowl full of water with something or other soaking in the liquid.  If I looked into those bowls in the morning, I could see my future:  the hummus I would eat tomorrow, the rice I would have for dinner, the lentil soup my mother would make later on that day. 

It was all a part of the mysterious rhythms of Rhoda's kitchen, first do this, then do that, and as a child I just followed the contours of my mother's movement, eating at her table, and sometimes even pouring rice into a bowl and covering it with water for her.  She taught me to let the rice soak, then rinse it several times until the water ran clear before cooking it, so that each grain would cook just right, tender, but still firm and fluffy. 

But then I grew up.  I moved across the world.  I graduated, I inherited her old pots, and bought my own bag of rice.   And when I started cooking, I asked her questions, such as why do I have to soak the rice?   Her answers were always the same - because it will cook faster.  Because it allows the grains to open up, to taste better.  Because that is the proper way to do it. 

Welcoming Autumn: Hummus with Spiced Lamb, or Hummus bi Laham

The leaves are piling in drifts around my house, forming crunchy alleys for my children to march through. 

It is time to pull blankets more snugly around our shoulders, to wrap our fingers around warm cups of tea, to dip our bread into something a little warmer, a little more substantial.

Here is a way to "spice up" your hummus:  serve it topped with warm, spiced minced lamb and toasted pine nuts. Add a pile of hot Arabic bread and some fresh cucumbers and tomatoes, and you have a hearty spread, guaranteed to satisfy and delight.

When We Share Our Bread

When I was a new teacher and on the brink of nervous exhaustion, another more seasoned teacher presented me with a bowl of lentil sausage spinach soup and a hunk of homemade bread to get me through a particularly hard evening (my first back-to-school night).  I remember sitting in the dark, empty classroom eating the warm soup and bread and being brought to tears.  This was a small kindness, perhaps, but it pierced me deeply.  How could someone who was just like me - a teacher, also preparing for her next day's classes - be so generous to share her dinner with me?  She owed me nothing, and yet, she offered me this kindness?  This very busy teacher could have saved that soup for another day.  But she chose to give it way, almost recklessly, without thought for herself.  I ate the soup, humbled and grateful.  And I have not forgotten. 

There is something about breaking off a piece of your bread and giving it to another.  There is something in taking a piece of your allotment, your sustenance, and giving it to another.  Here you go, have mine.  Tomorrow, I have faith, I will find more.  In the meantime, take this.  You need it.