Communal Table

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On Not Hurrying and Making Harissa

February 21st, 2012

Do not hurry. Do not Rest.
Goethe

These words hang over my desk in hand-written scrawl on a tiny brown notecard. I’m looking at them now, as I do often. Somewhere in the balance of those two simple clauses is a perfect moment of calm. Sigh.

Hurrying always backfires on me. I get caught in a tizzy and this hurrying alter-ego takes over. She does things like stomp around as she tensely rushes the kids out the door in the morning, chiding them to put shoes on faster, threatening how late we’ll all be if they don’t HURRY THIS MOMENT. Then we arrive at school with all these unruffled families ambling down the street. I glance toward the front door of the school and realize, in horror, the first bell hasn’t even chimed yet.

“Mommy, how come we’re hurrying because we’re late, and then we’re early?” If only I had remembered Goethe.

This phrase comes in most handy when I’m sitting at the computer pecking away and that small voice in my head starts in. It stomps around in my consciousness doing that same thing I was doing to my kids. You’re never going to get all this done, it screams. Hurry up and get there.

This afternoon when the small voice piped in, I decided to go make lunch instead of listening to its constant, high-pitched chatter. I had been wanting to try my hand at a kale salad a friend made us one night. It had a heady aroma and a tangy topnote that lingered just long enough to keep me going back for more.

Harissa was the first ingredient on the recipe she had clipped for me, and I almost tucked the recipe back in the box for another day. I don’t keep store-bought harrisa around. Oh well.

But wait, didn’t I used to make spinach & egg soup with harissa? And didn’t that recipe call for a few spices crushed together with garlic and lemon juice? I grabbed the mortar & pestle off the shelf. With half a thought that I should hurry back to work, I decided to give this a try.

Next out of the cabinet was a petite, patina-worn black steel pan I use for toasting spices. Soon, the edges of the spices started to brown and a faint whisper crackled as the smell of cumin hung in the air. I closed my eyes. Just closed them and took it all in. It wasn’t until I reopened them that I realized I had been suspended in that perfect balance for a brief, blissful moment.

Reset.

I started peeling garlic and juicing lemons and measuring out bright red and yellow powders. The mortar nestled it all together, and I grabbed the pestle to feel it give under my weight, crushing and breaking and releasing fragrance right there before me. I started to daydream. The floral, yet corporeal fragrance of cumin and garlic, a love affair that was certainly meant to be, filled the kitchen and went to my head. It was almost like my senses had whisked my psyche off to Marrakech for a long retreat. In those few moments, passion crept back into my day and I was about to eat it for lunch. Not hurrying and not resting.

Kale & Farro Salad with Harissa

This salad bursts at the seams with flavor and aroma, especially if you make the harissa—as I’ve done here—from scratch. It only adds a few minutes and the flavor difference is quite noticeable. This recipe was inspired by the Pastaworks Farro salad in the January 2012 issue of MIX magazine (www.mixpdx.com). Try swapping out the cherries and almonds for apricots and pistachios for a whole new twist.

Serving Size: about 8 servings

Ingredients

  • 2 teaspoons whole cumin seeds
  • 1/4 teaspoon cayenne powder
  • 3/4 teaspoon sweet Hungarian paprika
  • 3 cloves garlic, minced
  • 1 teaspoon tomato paste (I use double-concentrate)
  • 2 teaspoons lemon juice (use meyer lemons, if available)
  • 2 teaspoons salt, plus more for seasoning the cooking water
  • pinch of sugar
  • 3/4 cup olive oil
  • 2 cups farro
  • 1 bunch lacinato kale (also called Tuscan kale)
  • 1 1/2 cups slivered almonds, toasted
  • 3/4 cup dried cherries
  • 1/3 cup sherry vinegar
  • 4 ounces feta cheese, crumbled

Cooking Directions

  1. First things first, get out that little, black dusty pan that looks frumpy, but toasts your spices to perfection (any pan will do, really). Measure the cumin into the pan and turn the heat on medium-high. Agitate and swirl the pan so that the cumin toasts evenly. Don’t walk away because a magical transformation is about to occur and if you’re not paying attention, it will sneak right by and leave those spices a burnt mess.
  2. The cumin, at first, will flirt with this notion of aroma and throw a musky scent into the room. Cumin smells, to me, like a person who has just been outside running in the fresh air and sunshine. You might imagine a certain someone—whose smell drives you wild—walking through the door, trailing a smile and electrifying scent. Keep swirling that pan. The aroma will get stronger and stronger until it’s toasty and intoxicating. This is the very moment to pull the pan off the heat and put the seeds in a bowl, then sit staring in wonder. How could something so little have so much to say?
  3. If you have a mortar & pestle, you’re in for a treat. If not, find some other way of grinding. A designated coffee mill works great. That said, I highly recommend a mortar & pestle, which adds two minutes to this whole transaction, but somehow captures the aroma more purely because you’re standing over the bowl putting your muscle into its release.
  4. Okay, now that we have the cumin seeds crushed, add the cayenne, paprika, garlic, tomato paste, lemon juice, salt, sugar and ¼ cup olive oil. Mix well and then let it rest for about a half hour (or as long as three days in the fridge if need be). The smell in your kitchen will be so good, you’ll just have to close your eyes and enjoy this moment.
  5. Meanwhile fill a medium pot with two quarts of water and enough salt to make it taste briny like the ocean (about 2 tablespoons). When it comes to a full boil, throw in the farro and cook for 25 minutes or until tender. Drain and set aside to cool.
  6. Wash the kale and cut out the tough stems, and cut the tender leaves into small slivers. Add the almonds, dried cherries and cooled farro. Toss to combine.
  7. Remix your ripened harissa and add the sherry vinegar, along with the last ½ cup of olive oil. Taste to adjust seasonings. It may need a smidge more salt, a few grinds of black pepper and/or a little more lemon. You decide.
  8. Dress the kale & farro mixture with the harissa and add the feta cheese right before serving. This salad is delicious served right away, but also keeps nicely. I’ve left it in the fridge for up to a week and noshed on it for lunch for several days in a row. Enjoy!

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Pudding Cups

February 10th, 2012

I developed this chocolate pudding recipe in opposition to those wasteful, vapidly-flavored little cups that always tempt my kids. They see those damn things and practically go into beggar’s hysterics. IMHO, buying them is basically the equivalent of paying good money for chocolate(ish)-tinged puddlewater emulsified with motor oil. What a culinary sham. Not to mention the landfill hoarders those little cups become. I said as much to Amelia (Hello soapbox middle-class white lady in the middle of Target!), and she rolled her eyes: “Then why don’t you just make some that’s better?!?” Duh?

I, of course, marched home and started measuring ingredients.

I decided to shun the use of any ingredient that would make this pudding more volatile to lunchbox conditions. An egg yolk or two would add richness, but I was also afraid it would add a stink-factor that I’d rather not send my kids to school with. I tried at least four variations and finally landed on this one. My goal was to make something that was rich enough for me (I am she of the chocolate mousse childhood, after all), but would also fulfill my kids’ vanilla-heavy, stand on the spoon, chocolate pudding cup fantasy. And of course, I wanted this recipe to be easy. Something you could throw together the night before and have ready for the lunchbox in the morning.

Note: I tested this recipe with regular ol’ terrible sugar here, but you can use whatever kind you want. For one batch, I was out of sugar and had some unrefined maple sugar sitting around. It added a different flavor dimension, but I put it in little cups and the lunchboxes all came back totally empty. Success!

Chocolate Lunchbox Pudding

Ingredients

  • 1/2 cup sugar
  • 1/4 cup cornstarch
  • 3 tablespoons dutch-processed cocoa (make that heaping tablespoons)
  • 1/4 teaspoon salt
  • 3 cups milk
  • 1 tablespoon butter
  • 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
  • 1 ounce finely chopped bittersweet chocolate (optional)

Cooking Directions

  1. Whisk the sugar, cornstarch, cocoa, and salt together in a small 2-quart saucepan. Slowly drizzle in the milk while whisking to keep lumps from forming (this lowers the need to strain the pudding later, which kind of defeats the point of quick and easy). Make sure the dry mixture in the corners of the pot are well-incorporated. Cook on medium, stirring occasionally, until the pudding thickens. Stir a little more often and little more vigorously as the pudding starts to change. You’re looking for that wonderful gloop and jiggle of cafeteria pudding, but it will thicken and set up in the fridge, so stop cooking before it’s too stiff. When you reach the desired consistency, turn the heat off and quickly add the butter, vanilla and chopped chocolate. Stir until everything is completely melted and incorporated. Transfer to a clean bowl. If you’re pudding-skin-averse (I’m not), press parchment paper directly onto the top of the pudding.
  2. You can eat this pudding warm, as we often do on the night we make it. It’s at its best when cool and quivery and stowed away in the lunchbox for an afternoon treat. Enjoy!

Has anyone noticed how custardy this site is becoming? If chocolate lunchbox pudding isn’t your thing, you could always follow my instructions for crème fraiche panna cotta, chocolate mousse, or crème brûlée.

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