Charmed, I'm Sure

photo illustrative magic courtesy of Philip Brooker

I have always been a hard sell when it comes to magic. Back when I toggled my first loose baby tooth, my parents explained about the Tooth Fairy -- your tooth falls out and the Tooth Fairy appears while you sleep, takes the tooth and pays you for it (your original Cash for Clunkers concept). I looked at them, smiled coolly and nodded. I didn’t believe a minute of it. I was over magic by the time I was five. Kind of too bad, but that’s the way I’m made. I didn’t burst my parents’ bubble. The idea of the Tooth Fairy seemed to make them so happy, and I didn’t object to handing over my teeth in exchange for the coins my father left by my bed.

Several years later, my adult teeth affixed firmly in my head, I’m beginning to believe magic isn’t such a bad thing and might, even, in fact, exist. Paul Bowles defined magic as “a straight connection between the world of nature and the consciousness of man, a hidden but direct passage that bypasses the word.” I might add it bypasses the eye, too, unfolding within its own damn time frame which is not necessarily ours. Perhaps that’s why we say a watched pot never boils, because though there’s science behind cooking, if the end result is any good, there’s magic’s involved, too.

It may also be why with Joe Meno’s otherwise excellent novel The Great Perhaps and with the film Henry Poole Is Here, two works about belief, magic, transformation, the whole shebang, the pivotal moment, the sea change, felt false or even forced to me. As with the Tooth Fairy, I wanted to believe, but I didn’t. Magic is not interested in proving itself to you, it just happens. I mean good magic, white magic. The other stuff -- when the roof leaks or your honey dumps you or the doctor says pathology, that to me isn’t magic. That’s life doing its best to bleed magic right out of you. Magic can happen despite that stuff, but you can’t set your watch by it. Like H1N1, it comes, it goes.

Maybe magic is Blake’s energy, eternal delight. I see magic with P, who makes art, and with S, who makes bread. Sometimes I’m even capable of magic myself -- more often, my husband says, than I realize. I certainly wasn’t capable of it at three this morning, in a knot of insomnia-induced dread (see previous post). Magic does not come on demand. It cannot be forced -- God knows I’ve tried. It can sometimes, however, be coaxed.

Ritual helps -- you know, indulging in the notion that something you do or say or wear can affect change. This is known as magical thinking, a rather sparkling term made famous by Joan Didion’s memoir The Year of Magical Thinking. Magical thinking is probably a mild form of delusion. I see nothing wrong with this. Magic comes with surrender, with infatuation with possibility, with being loose and giddy right up in life’s ugly little face.

And if magic is being coy or annoyingly elusive, the next best thing is to appreciate it and be grateful for it when it comes. This is what I tell myself, anyway. Then I curse and make dinner.

Magical Moroccan Tagine

Most Moroccan tagines take hours. The transformation that comes from slow-cooking is part of their magic. You can make this one, with very few ingredients, in minutes and you don’t even need a tagine. That is its own kind of magic. Freewheelingly adapted to the point of being unrecognizable, its origins can be traced back to a recipe by the oh-so-magical Paula Wolfert.

Enjoy over whole grain couscous or quinoa. Also very nice stuffed in a pita.

2 tablespoons olive oil

4 cloves garlic
1 head of broccoli

1 15-ounce can of diced tomatoes

1 tablespoon smoked paprika

a pinch of red pepper flakes or, even better, Aleppo pepper

sea salt to taste

1 large handful cilantro

In a large (14-inch or so) skillet, heat oil over medium-high heat.

Mince garlic and add, stirring, just for a minute or two.

Chop broccoli into bite-sized pieces, both florets and chunks of stem. Yes, you are using the entire broccoli. Magic does not appreciate waste. Neither do I.

Add broccoli to skillet, along with tomatoes, paprika and pepper flakes. Stir together. Reduce heat slightly, so tomatoes are still on the boil. Stir constantly. The tomatoes will (magically) thicken and turn jammy and the broccoli will become tender, in less than 10 minutes. Remove from heat.

Chop cilantro. Add to broccoli. Season with salt. Enjoy the magic.

Serves 4.

Next up: Fowl play.

Edgy Veggie Meets Crackerman

Serendipity can happen in the kitchen, with a surprising but happy-making combination of flavors, or it can happen elsewhere, with a surprising but happy-making combination of people. With Crackerman, I got both.

Crackerman, aka Stefan Uch, has Michelin star chef creds and a gorgeous wife, Theresa. Together, they make Crackerman crackers (www.crackermancrackers.com).

Stefan and I met to discuss their crackers, which they're just launching, and wound up talk about everything -- global cuisine, literature, whackdoodle ideas about nutrition, food writers we like, how who you are plays out in what you cook (he's German, I'm mongrel, he purees, I'm into crunchy) and what we believe in.  For Stefan, that's science, his sense of smell and pheromones.  How could I not like the guy?  It was one of those wonderful coming togethers, meeting for the first time yet feeling we'd been friends for ages, realizing we were of the same tribe. 

It was after we spoke I finally tried the crackers -- big sheets of golden seed-flecked goodness, organic, of little yeast, big crunch and big flavor, great to crack apart, hence the name (I'd figured they'd named themselves after the Stone Temple Pilot song  (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tOfmNSHTWaI&feature=related) and excellent as dip conduits.  Crackerman also makes a kickass organic whole bread, chewy and seed-studded, earthy and honest.  

Right now, Crackerman crackers and bread are sold online and at Miami farmers markets. Stefan and Theresa are working to get their products into local markets and beyond.  I hope they make it.  Of all the products I get pitched, this was the softest pitch with the biggest payoff.  Crackerman crackers and bread are as real deal and delicous as the couple who makes them.  I love when this happens.

To mark the occasion, I wanted something that showed off the coming together of bread and vegetables. It could be a sandwich, no brainer-y enough, but I wanted more, a melding of the two, an effortless affinity. So here it is, a Tunisian bread and pepper and tomato salad, freewheelingly adapted from Paula Wolfert's outstanding The Slow Mediterranean Kitchen.  The Italians do something similar called panzanella. It's popular in the Middle East made with pita and feta, tomatoes and cukes, in which case it is called fattoush (eating too much gives you one, says a punnish friend).  

I really like the combination of flavors in this salad, especially with Crackerman bread.  Puffy grocery store bread won't do for this.  It sops up the vegetable juices and turns immediately to mush.  You want bread with oomph and chew, produce deliciously full-flavored and ripe.  

This substantial salad must be started a day ahead, but time does the work, not you.  It employs the lazy roasting technique used in my June 4 blogspot and the final tossing together happens in minutes.  It's best served not straight from the fridge but edging towards room temperature.  This serves 4, but you can double or triple it for a party.  It's luscious, durable and looks impressive as hell.

Tunisian Bread Salad

3 or 4 handfuls of spinach or arugula

2 large ripe tomatoes

1 red pepper

1 green bell pepper

1 serrano pepper

4 garlic cloves

1 teaspoon dried mint (I love fresh herbs, but this goes into the dressing and using dried really works -- a serendipitous discovery)

1 teaspoon caraway seeds

1 teaspoon ground coriander

1 teaspoon cumin

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 tablespoon capers

1 teaspoon harissa (Moroccan hot sauce) 

1 tablespoon cider vinegar

4 generous slices whole grain or country bread, cubed

kalamata olives for garnish

fresh chopped cilantro and mint for garnish

nonvegans can garnish with 2 hard-boiled eggs, halved

sea salt and freshly ground pepper to fininish 

The day before you enjoy your salad, preheat oven to 400. Tomatoes, peppers and garlic go into a large baking pan, the pan goes into the oven and you let the whole thing roast for 30 minutes, until vegetables are nice and soft.

Remove from oven and let cool.  Chop tomatoes and peppers.  This will let loose a torrent of juice. Save every drop to a large bowl. Mince garlic and place into the bowl.  Place colander atop bowl, fill with the chopped tomatoes and peppers.  Refrigerate overnight, allowing vegetable juices to drain.  Vegetables do not need to be covered.

The next day, take your roasted vegetables and veggie juice from the fridge.  Remove the colander of vegetables and set aside for a few minutes.  To the bowl of accumulated vegetable juices, add dried mint, caraway, coriander, olive oil harissa and vinegar.  Whisk together briefly.

Place greens on a serving platter or in a shallow bowl.  

Lightly and swiftly, dip bread cubes into dresssing, letting the flavor permeate, not the wetness.  Scatter bread cubes on top of greens, arrange peppers and tomatoes on top.   Garnish with olives, capers, chopped cilantro and mint (and for nonvegans, egg halves).  Drizzle any remaining dressing on top.  Sprinkle with a pinch of sea salt and a generous grinding of pepper and knock yourself out.

Next time: And yes I said yes I will yes.

It's MY Recipe

Some people (and you know who you are) do not share recipes.   It's time to give, darlings. Wouldn't you rather be known as a big-hearted person who shares the wealth?   And even if you write out your prized recipe in painstaking detail, your friend's version will come out different.  Different stove, different cookware, differerent cook.  We each make recipes our own.

 

Yesterday, I made black-eyed peas with fennel and kale, guiltily sure I'd pinched the recipe from the excellent Paula Wolfert. With my fragrant stew simmering, I checked her book The Slow Mediterranean Kitchen and found my version, which I've made dozens of times, has almost nothing in common with hers.  I couldn't believe it -- where was the garlic in her recipe?  And the jalapeno?  And the anisette?  I was sure her recipe had tomato paste.  Mine sure does.  

 

Suit the recipe to your taste.  Make it your own.   If you're jalapeno-wary, it'll be fine without it.  No anisette?  

Use wine.  Go with whatever greens you have at hand.  I've given my recipe to a friend who's evolved it by adding a pound of sausage.  You can, too, but I don't need to know about it.

Lovely for Lent Black-Eyed Peas With Fennel and Kale

1-1/2 cups dried black-eyed peas*

1 tablespoon olive oil

1 large onion

1 jalapeno

4 gloves garlic

1 fennel bulb, chopped into bite-sized pieces, fronds and stalks saved for another use

10 ounces kale, collards, spinach or the greens of your dreams, rinsed well and patted dry

1 15-ounce can diced tomatoes

2 tablespoons tomato paste

1/4 cup anisette (this may seem like a lot.  So?)

salt and fresh ground pepper to taste

*The bean bit needs to be started the day before.   Soak them overnight in water.  Then rinse.  Pour beans into a large soup pot, cover with water.  I usually add a few bay leaves, pepper cloves, even a star anise, which really brings out the fennel taste in the stew.   Bring to a boil.  Then reduce heat to low, place lid on pot and let beans cook for an hour or so until tender.  Drain and cool. Alternately, if you want to circumvent all this nonsense, you can use frozen beans, that's fine, too.  Just don't use canned, they're nasty.

Pour olive oil into the now vacated soup pot.   Chop onion, garlic, jalapeno and fennel.  Heat oil over medium-high, and add chopped vegetables.  Stir to coat and reduce heat to medium.  Saute vegetables, stirring occasionally, until soft, golden and fragrant, about 15 minutes.  

Slice greens into ribbons and add to soup pot.  Stir until wilted, about 5 minutes.

Stir in diced tomatoes, tomato paste and anisette.   Cover pot, reduce heat to low, let everything get happy together for about 15 minutes.  Add the black-eyed peas and season generously to taste.   

It's nice with crusty bread or quinoa.  

Serves 6-8, keeps several days in the fridge (it's even freeze-able) and flavor improves over time.