A Hill of Beans

Moroccans don’t go to supermarkets, they go to the souks. They haggle with the vendors, they study the wares -- barrows full of thistly wild artichokes, bins of lustrous purple eggplants, baskets of fresh, fragrant mint, pyramids of dried apricots and figs, pillar-sized jars of spices, piles of grains and dried beans.

People cook together – friends and extended family. In the kitchen of my Marrekesh riad, I chopped carrots, onion and zucchini for a vegetable tagine – Morocco’s famed slow-simmering stew – while Latifa the cook steamed and fluffed couscous and her friend Fatima flipped semolina griddle bread. We chopped, stirred, danced and ululated (well, they did) along to their favorite song. The pleasure of working together, the easy intimacy it inspires overcame our lack of common language, creating a richly flavored day and meal.

I was thinking about all this as I peeled favas, or broad beans, here in Miami. I was thinking how far I am from Morocco in almost every sense.

Peeling a dried fava bean is not so hard. Soak your beans in water overnight -- this is a must -- rinse and drain. Take a pre-soaked bean between your fingers. It’s not a single unit but comes in two halves, like an almond. Manipulate it a bit and you can feel the two halves give within their skin. Then the fava will pop out, like a butterfly freed from its chrysalis. This takes less than a minute. For one bean.

If you have a pound of them, it’s a daunting task, made more so by the fact for every bean that comes along quietly, there’s three that won’t give. These you must nick with a knife and then wiggle until they’ve been freed from their shells. Favas are not papery-skinned things, but have sturdy carapaces like thick plastic.

The first time I made fava dip, I did so in the hope of cheating. Bigilla, the classic Maltese dip, is a no-peel deal, traditionally made with favas cooked in their skin. Having attempted it, I wonder why or how. Mashed, liberally dosed with garlic, lemon and olive oil, the favas were still too tough and dense, even for a fiber fan like me. Plus, in their shells, they take forever to cook.

Solo fava-shelling is not a task for the right-minded. But I’d already soaked the beans overnight and had to deal with a pot of them. So there they were and there I was, feeling not unlike Psyche, the Greek girl of myth forced to sort a cellar’s worth of seeds and grain if she expects to see her lover Cupid again.

Shelling favas is a bit like a yoga practice -- you might like to rush through it and get home and back to your life, but slipping the skins off favas keeps you in the moment and frankly, you ain’t going anywhere. I made a pot of tea and set about the task.

I imagined being a nun and making this a lesson in humility and mindfulness and finding the holy in all things, approaching menial work as prayer. That lost its luster after a while. I thought how we as a species used to put a lot more time and effort into putting food on the table, growing our own crops, chasing down animals for dinner and whatnot. Meanwhile, the thumb of my right hand, the hand at which I’m better at peeling, had begun to swell.

A hater of waste and time, I contemplated tossing any uncooperative favas and started to resent the little brown buggers for playing so hard to get. I begin to think like George W. Bush -- you’re either with me or against me. I threw a few favas in the food processor and gave them a whirl. It sped up the process a bit but the beans could not be tortured into submission and I’d come very far from the saintly attitude I’d started with.

There was no Latifa, no Fatima, no one to help make the work go faster or make it fun. Kitchen community has been in my mind since Morocco and also since I’ve been thinking of kitchen community since participating in a food bloggers panel this past weekend. I know many of our local farmers and producers, chefs and food artisans, but no so many other local food bloggers, and there’s a healthy crop of us. While we’re all writing about food, we approach it with our own unique passions:

www.mangoandlime.net

www.tinkeringwithdinner.blogspot.com

www.redlandrambles.com

www.miamidish.net

www.occasionalomnivore.com

We’d made a good panel and would be good in the kitchen together, too. Had they been here, we would sit and gossip or ululate, eat, drink and the work would be done before you know it -- a fava shelling party. But I had not planned ahead, had invited no one and in a drenching rain, no one would have made it, anyway. There was only my dog, made cranky by the bad weather and anyway, lacking an opposible thumb.

The takeaway -- there’s power in numbers, whether it’s building community or peeling dried favas, and though shedding your skin -- becoming vulnerable -- is risky, it’s part of how we grow.

Community Peel and Eat Fava Bean Dip

Oh, and as if peeling favas weren’t enough of a pain in the ass, for some people, favas are toxic. Please God may it not be you.

1 pound dried favas, soaked in water overnight, rinsed and drained

1 carrot

1 onion

1 jalapeno

2 cloves garlic

1 bunch flat-leaf parsley

1 bunch cilantro

2 lemons

2 teaspoons olive oil plus more for drizzling

sea salt and ground pepper to taste

Invite many friends over to help you peel the buggers.

Place beans, carrot, onion, jalapeno and garlic cloves in large pot with about an inch of cold water to cover. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat to low and simmer, uncovered, for about an hour, until beans are tender.

Drain.

Process everything in a food processor, mouli or blender. Alternately, mash by hand like a fiend.

Add chopped parsley and cilantro, lemon juice and olive oil. Season with sea salt and pepper.

Chill covered at least two hours before serving.

Nice on flatbread or as a dredge for crudite including carrots, celery and radishes.

Keeps for three days in the fridge.

Serves 6 to 8, enough for a modest fava shelling party.

Market Economy

What brings together the mayor of Miami, Miami’s greatest chef, Homestead farmers, Haitian refugees, tatted hipsters, Overtown residents and guys in suits? Jewel-like heirloom tomatoes. And fresh, locally grown collards, carrots, eggplants, green beans, loquats and more. It all happens at Roots in the City, Miami’s newest farmers market and magical convergence of cultures.

Well, you know how skeptical I am about magic. I’d like to have faith in the universe’s benevolence and all that, but usually I find we’ve got to help it along. Roots in the City has had some serious magical muscle behind it, including Daniella Levine and the folks at Miami-Dade’s Human Services Coaltion, our community shared agriculture maven Margie Pikarsky, Michael’s Genuine chef Michael Schwartz, whom I have long worshipped and Michel Nischan, new to my pantheon but ensconed there evermore. Chef and author of Sustainably Delicious, Michel is also founder of Wholesome Wave, a nonprofit working to make fresh food accesible to everyone. Wholesome Wave has sponsored over a hundred farmers markets in 12 states, the latest being right here.

Roots in the City not only brings fresh produce to an underserved part of Miami, it offers double value on food stamps. A dollar’s worth of food stamps gets you two dollars’ worth of veggies, and lifetime Overtown resident Sarah Wallace was going for it. In the past, getting fresh produce had been too much struggle -- too much money and too much travel, because Overtown, like many of America’s food deserts, has convenience stores and liquor stores, but nowhere selling anything fresh.

When Roots in the City opened, Sarah didn’t have to take a bus or three across town, just leave her apartment and cross the street. She was the first person at the market when it opened, buying up bags of vegetables, hugging Michel, sampling some of Michael Schwartz’s braised collards and politely listening as the mayor gave her an earful about how important Roots in the City is. Like she doesn’t know. Still, she posed next to him for a photo op, her arms full of fresh collard greens, carrots and tomatoes.

This is the Miami I’ve always hoped for, one in which we all come together, whoever we are. Because we all gotta eat. And we all deserve to eat well. So it's in everyone's best interest to make the magic happen.

Roots in the City Farmers Market Scramble

Feel free to switch out the veggies for whatever’s fresh at your local farmers market. Lacto-ovo lovers may likewise swap eggs for tofu and cheese for nutritional yeast, but honeys, tofu, unlike eggs, adds little fat and no cholesterol, and nutritional yeast tastes cheesily fabulous without the fat and gives you a hit of mighty vitamin B-12, besides. Open yourself up to possibility. I’m just saying.

1 tablespoon olive oil

1 small onion or 3 scallions, chopped

1 jalapeno, chopped

1 red pepper, chopped

1 small zucchini or yellow squash, chopped

OR 1 cup greens, fresh spinach, chopped or blanched collards, sliced into ribbons

1 teaspoon cumin powder

1 teaspoon turmeric

1 tablespoon nutritional yeast

1 tomato, chopped

12 ounces firm tofu, drained and squeezed to get rid of extra water

1 bunch fresh cilantro, chopped fine

sea salt and fresh pepper to taste

Heat oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Add chopped onion, jalapeno, red pepper and zucchini, if using. Continue to saute, stirring, until vegetables soften, about 7 to 10 minutes.

Stir in cumin, turmeric, nutritional yeast, chopped tomato and optional chopped greens. Stir together until fragrant and golden, about 3 minutes.

Crumble tofu into skillet. You may mash with a wooden spoon or have a wonderfully tactile experience smooshing it with your fingers. Scramble together in merry fashion, breaking up any odd tofu clumps. Cook until combined and heated through, another minute or 2. Add chopped cilantro, season with sea salt and pepper to taste and tip onto two plates.

Serves 2 generously, 3 people if you’re adding rice and beans or cornbread or something additional. Recipes doubles, even triples but is best eaten hot, fresh and at once.

Mon Petit Chou

photoshop magic courtesy of Philip Brooker

The weekend a friend stopped breastfeeding, she and her husband celebrated by taking a cruise. They relaxed, they laughed, and, because she could, they had a few drinks. All should have been well. But her breasts didn’t get the memo about the no breasteeding order and kept producing milk, as they will, thus becoming enormous and sore. This is known in the breastfeeding biz as engorgement.

The recommended cure is to breastfeed. However, my friend was, for the weekend, sans baby, sans breast pump. She is a tough girl. But the body has a humbling way of showing us who’s really in charge. Sometime around midnight, she stumbled down to the infirmary and said, hey, any chance you guys have a spare breast pump around?

No.

She became aware of their disapproving gazes right around the time she became aware of the daiquiri fumes coming off her in waves. She refrained from asking if there were any infants aboard who might be feeling like a snack. She did ask the clinic staff if they might have any suggestions for breast engorgement.

A nurse suggested she nip around to the kitchen to see if there were any cabbage leaves to be had.

To eat?

No, to wear. A cabbage bra, as it were.

This was a new one for my friend. And though she’s intrepid enough to stare down the cruise chef and ask he hand over his brassica, it just seemed too old-wives’-tale wacky, She said thanks very much, sorry to trouble you, have a nice evening. She soldiered on and perhaps had another daiquiri or three. Because really, how is slapping cole slaw on your breasts going to relieve pain and swelling?

We had a good laugh about it -- and a little wine. Then I Googled cabbage and breastfeeding and discovered it’s a remedy going back at least 200 years and probably further. Who knew? You, probably, but not my friend and not me.

Ever looking for ways to give vegetables good p.r., I found the idea of a cabbage remedy enchanting. The science behind it says cabbage contains sulpher and magnesium, both of which antiobiotic and antiinflammatory properties. Cabbage is also considered a potent inhibitor of breast cancer in women, helping the body metabolize estrogen.

But cabbage leaves and breasts do not go together the way figs leaves and genitalia seem to. And the idea of something vegetal there, well, how comforting could it be? Well, speaking as a curious person rather than a nursing mom in need, it’s rather nicer than you’d think. And if you’re engorged, I bet it’s terrific.

Engorgement isn’t the only reason to admire the cabbage. You can do more than wear it, you can eat it. And what else can offer you so much nutrition for so little money and so few calories? Sky-high in vitamins K and C, rich in fiber and folate, it also has calcium for sturdy bones, antioxidants to keep cancer far away, it even contains protein. It’s easy to grow, endures extreme temps and can go in recipes as simple as slaw and as decadently comforting as pizzocheri.

An Italian dish traditionally made with broad buckwheat noodles, you can use any kind of sturdy whole grain pasta. I made it with whole wheat farfalle and offer both vegan and traditional versions. Either way, it’s cheap and easy to make, rewarding to soul and stomach and maybe breasts.

Pizzocheri

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 large onion

6 cloves garlic

1 handful fresh sage leaves

1 small head Savoy cabbage, trimmed and thinly sliced

1 medium potato, thinly sliced

8 ounces broad buckwheat or whole grain noodles

sea salt and fresh ground pepper to taste

1 cup fontina or other mild semisoft cheese, grated (traditional option)

2 tablespoons nutritional yeast plus an additional drizzle of olive oil (vegan option)

In a large skillet, heat oil over medium-high heat. Add onion, reduce heat to low, cover and let onion carmalize and cook for 20 minutes. Raise heat back to medium, add garlic, sage and shredded cabbage. Cook, stirring for about 10 minutes, until cabbage turns pale and tender and garlic is soft and fragrant.

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Add sliced potato and pasta and cook 8 to 10 minutes or until both are just tender. Drain and rinse.

Toss cabbage with the potatoes and pasta. Add a generous amount of sea salt and fresh ground pepper.

If you’re vegan, stir in the nutritional yeast and perhaps another drizzle of olive oil.

Nonvegans can add shredded cheese at this point.

Pizzocheri can be enjoyed just fine out of the pot, but traditionally it’s poured into a lightly oiled casserole and baked for about 10 minutes, or until top is golden-brown and cheese has melted.

Serves 4.

When Irish Eyes are Crossed

In honor of St. Patrick’s Day, I made Irish soda bread. Sort of.

When I went from vegetarian from vegan some years back, what I missed and thought of wistfully were the big overstuffed omelets I used to make on Sundays and my Irish soda bread, which I made all the time. I'd adapted my recipe from Myrtle Allen, maven of County Cork's famed Ballymaloe House, who seemed both amused and exasperated by this untraditional American girl trying to translate an Irish tradition. I had to mess with the recipe quite a bit to get it to taste as earthy here as it is there, but when I had it, man, I had it. Oaty, grainy, it's honest and nourishing and was the one thing I knew I could do well. It was also full of yogurt and butter. So when I went vegan, I said good-bye.

Then recently it occured to me I could try baking a vegan version, because I have just made my peace with vegan margarine. I use it but rarely, and only in baking. Not all baked goods can be fudged by swapping butter for apple sauce and coconut oil. Coconut oil soda bread? Yetch. And yet here I am using almond milk and vegan marg, so perhaps in a few months, I’ll present you with a soda bread recipe by way of the tropics. My classic soda bread appears back in June of last year -- on Bloomsday, June 16 -- but here’s a lightly sweet one with fruit. I added chopped dried figs, yet another heterodox twist. If you want to stay more faithful to the true, use raisins.

If you think I'm heretical here, wait till you see what I do with greens and white beans, which skew not towards Italy but Morocco. Unconventional but majorly yummy. Coming up next -- unless I do the cabbage and boobs post first. So much to do.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day, y’all.

Vegan Irish Soda Bread

1-1/4 cups spelt flour

1/2 cup oatmeal

1/4 cup wheat germ

4 tablespoons vegan margarine like Earth Balance, softened

1 teaspoon baking soda

1 tablespoon cinnamon

6 dried figs, chopped (or 1/2 cup raisins)

3 tablespoons sugar

1-1/4 cup almond milk

Preheat oven to 425.

In a large bowl, combine spelt flour, oatmeal, wheat germ and baking soda. Work in vegan margarine until mixture forms crumbs. Mix in cinnamon and sugar and almond milk. When you have a nice, thick batter, stir in chopped figs or raisins.

Pour into a lightly oiled pie or loaf pan.

Bake for 30 minutes. Allow to cool before slicing, or bread may be crumbly. Even crumbly, it’s good.

Wringing Wet

Our new washing machine overloaded and dumped water all over the utility room floor. This necessitated a major bail and mop. Then our antique dishwasher decided to call it a day and did the same thing, so within a couple of days, there I was again, cursing and mopping up buckets of water.

I’d just stopped feeling like the sorcerer’s apprentice when my husband and I attended an outdoor party at which the heavens opened up. They opened wide, with torrential, driving rain that turned the place to mud and drenched everyone to the skin because the squall gusts caused the party tent to buckle and blow away.

Clearly, God/Life/the universe was throwing an awful lot of water at me. The question is, why?

A friend, altered by drink, theorized that while we think we’re big and important, we’re really just water bearers. We exist to do water’s bidding. We spend our days taking it in, moving it to other places, releasing it. Water, not man, is Earth’s real intelligent life source. It would explain a lot about our current political system.

My feeling, though, is that this water was a personal message. Prior to the deluge, I had not been feeling in the flow. In fact, I felt like a dried legume rattling around in a jar, not like an inspired let alone inspiring creator. I kept getting myself into a tight little knot, writing and rewriting the same paragraph without making it any better. I was not doing myself much good, either.

I do not know why these dry spells happen but I hate when they do. I feel so fallow and purposeless and not how I perceive myself at all. I beat myself up in frustration -- not that it helps.

I am not especially comfortable talking about faith, since I have so little of it, and yet I’m fascinated by those who believe. Faith is intrinic to who they are and trying to get them to parse or discuss it is like trying to get someone to imagine being without a limb -- academic and arcane.

It must be nice. I come at faith like the Little Match Girl, ever on the outside, nose pressed to the glass. Instead of faith, I have perseverence. It’s not nearly as fun. I’d rather have faith, but maybe doggedness is just as good. It’s all part of what Chang-rae Lee calls “that pumping, thriving nature of life,” which, like water, keeps seeping in.

While working on his powerful new novel The Surrendered, Lee said, “I felt completely lost. There were many points in which I felt overwhelmed and overmatched. I learned I have a reserve of faith i didn’t know I had. I’m not a religious person, a going-to-church- type person, but I must say I drew upon some kind of idea, a sense I can do this, if I keep trying and quell these thoughts of desperation, if I can keep going, maybe it’ll work out. I was surprised by how I endured those moments.”

It was all I could do to muzzle the desire to say, “Oh, honey, you, too?” But I was interviewing him, so instead we talked about literature. And silicon boobs, golf, food and wine. But that’s another story.

These past few days, I’ve felt like something has budged, shifted, given way. I’ve been singing as I set about my work, a sign the gloom is lifting. It is one of the great unsung pleasures -- the release when a headache or heartache vanish, when a fever or funk break. It is the rediscovery of the simplest sensory delights like the delicious feeling of sun on your skin or sipping silky broth or really seeing the person you live with. It is being here now, being grateful for where you are without overthinking or trying to hold it too tightly (this part’s the killer for me).

I am -- at the moment, anyway -- more focused, more engaged, more grateful, more tolerant. I’ve been feeling a generosity of spirit, not faith but -- oh, let’s say it -- love -- bubbling up in me like a spring.

It’s raining now. And I’m enjoying it. And accepting it. And opening myself up to it and all that. But I’ve mopped up enough, wasted enough water, paid off enough repairmen, no more appliances need malfunction. It’s okay, universe -- I get it already.

Acquacotta

It sounds fancy and Italian, it means a soup of vegetables cooked in water. Left to my own devices, I’d add white beans or quinoa or enhance it with wine or vegetable broth. I am, however, honoring it for what it is. Acquacotta is peasanty, unpretentious and comforting, greater than the sum of its parts. It’s sort of like stone soup without the rocks -- a nice illustration of faith and a cheap and green meal, too.

1 tablespoon olive oil

1 onion, chopped

4 cloves garlic, minced

1/2 habanero or 1 jalapeno, chopped

4 carrots, chopped

3 ribs celery, chopped

8 ounces mushrooms, sliced

8 ounces green beans, chopped into bite-sized pieces

1 bunch chard or other greens, chopped

1 15-ounce can diced tomatoes

5 cups water

1 bay leaf

1 big bunch of basil, chopped

1 small handful fresh thyme leaves

sea salt and fresh ground pepper to taste

For serving:

6 slices whole-grain bread, toasted

extra olive oil for drizzling

Options for lacto-ovo-types:

poached eggs

grated Parmesan

Heat olive oil over medium-high heat. Add minced garlic, chopped onions, carrots, celery and habanero or jalapeno. Saute stirring occaionally until vegetables soften and turn fragrant, about 5 minutes.

Add chopped greens, mushrooms, green beans and diced tomatoes. Continue cooking another 5 minutes.

Stir in water, bay, basil and thyme and cover pot. Reduce heat to medium-low and let the soup simmer for half an hour.

To serve: Place one slice of toasted bread at the bottom of each bowl. Ladle soup over toast, add an extra drizzle of olive oil for gilding and enjoy.

Egg and cheese eaters can add one poached egg per bowl and a generous grating of Parmesan.

Serves 6.

Mardi Gras Memory

One summer many years ago, my father had some work around New Orleans and not much money, so he brought my mother and me along and turned it into a holiday. We stayed in what must have been the French Quarter, in a smallish room with wood-slatted shuttered windows opening out onto a narrow balcony.

The street smelled of dust and August heat -- a heat that stunned, turning me alternately soporific and whiny. We walked to a bakery where my father took me and said I could have anything I wanted. Heat-wilted, all I wanted was a lemonade.

We went to Brennan’s -- my parents’ big splurge. My mother fell in love with oysters rockefeller. I fell asleep at the table. I was six and the concept of fine dining was lost on me. We came back to find a maid had come for turndown service, leaving chocolates on the pillows, which were squishily soft by the time I ate them.

The next day, my parents decided to ditch me. In what seemed the worst kind of betrayal, they casually announced they were going out that evening. They took off for a good time, leaving me in the care of a woman I’m sure had an enormous heart. She had an enormous everything, spilling out of the armchair, filling the room, sending me to retreat to my rollaway cot by the window. She had thick glasses with greasy fingerprint smudges on the lenses and a plastic Barbie-colored hearing aid. I’d never seen one before and it frightened me. The two of us smiled at each other or bared our teeth the way our sparring Paleolithic forebears were said to do, to show we were evenly matched and needn’t try to dominate each other. We attempted neither play nor conversation.

I went to sleep before my bedtime, wishing this woman away. By morning, my wish had come to pass -- she was gone and my parents were back from Bourbon Street. What’s there, I asked.

My mother, who’d patiently explained sex to me the year before, now smiled showing all her teeth, the way she did when she wanted to convince me of something, the same way the babysitter and I’d smiled at each other. Men like to watch naked ladies dance, she said. My mother had never lied before but I couldn’t see the truth or wisdom in this. Until later that night.

We walked by a bar and honest to God, there was music blaring and up on a stage, a hoochie mama wearing an inch or two of something green and sparkly, danced, pranced, strutted. Her boobs bounced.

I don’t think my parents rushed me past the door -- they were progressive and cool and all that. But I was only six. I was too embarrassed to stare -- blushingly embarrassed for the girl, mortified for myself. New Orleans seemed a place of betrayal and depravity and I was finished with it.

Fast-forward a few decades and my husband, a Tulane alum, took me back to New Orleans for homecoming. It was May, it was muddy -- the city a sea of mud. I promptly ruined a new pair of shoes I’d gotten just to beguile my husband’s fraternity brothers whom I’d never met and withstand the scrutiny of their wives.

The shoes didn’t matter. My husband’s old college friends took me in, as did their wives, as New Orleans naturally does. They would have done regardless of footwear. They could have thrown me a parade and I wouldn’t have felt more welcome than I did by this. Yes, New Orleans is all about laissez les bon temps rouller, letting the good times roll, but it’s also about laissez faire, letting things be. New Orleans happily take you as you are, however that is (see April 27 ’09 post).

The things most people love about the city -- the bars, beignets, Bourbon Street -- they’re all there, but it is to me other delights -- the lacy wrought iron balconies on the Victorian homes and the strangers who toast me from them, the mule-drawn caleches. Mules endure New Orleans' heat and humidity better than horses and don’t object to me petting and cooing over them, either.

I am amazed by the Jazz and Heritage Festival, accommodating 40,000 people with five stages spread out on a race track. Somehow, there is room for everyone, the sound from the Elvis Costello stage doesn’t carry over into the Gospel Tent, and for every band you’ve come to hear, there’s another one you stumble upon and fall in love with. You can't get fast food burgers in the food court, but there's oyster po' boys, crowder peas and okra and dirty rice, with bottles of Tabasco at every kiosk.

We go back at least once a year now and I ruin a pair of heels every time. Sometimes the mud does it, sometimes it’s from walking the French Quarter’s cobblestone streets. The sensible thing would be to wear sensible shoes, but New Orleans is tolerant of your pleasures. If you want to wreck your shoes, go ahead. It indulges everything, including your own brand of madness.

As a child, I was a harsh judge of New Orleans. New Orleans never judged me. I, so intolerant of my own weird quirks, am utterly disarmed by this place that says, hey, you’re fine, we love you like you are. This wisdom comes from age and is not a lesson I could fathom as a little girl.

New Orleans has had to learn its own hard lesson. After the wreckage by Hurricane Katrina, it set about doing what it did not want to do -- resurrecting itself, but settling into the task with a grim determination. It is still recovering, but Mardi Gras beads keep the city shiny. So does hope. The Saints' Superbowl victory wasn’t just about football, it was about the joy of winning by being who you are. Happy Mardi Gras.

Down and Dirty Rice

Traditionally what makes dirty rice dirty is the addition of fowl gizzards. Um, no thanks. Chopped eggplant, a Louisiana crop, takes the place of organ meat in this super-satisfying veggie version Not spicy in itself, but you can make it that way. That’s what Tabasco is for.

1-1/2 cup rice (white or brown)

5 cups water or vegetable broth, divided use

1 bay leaf

1 tablespoon olive oil

6 cloves garlic, chopped

1 large onion, chopped

1 medium eggplant, chopped

2 ribs celery, chopped

1 green pepper, chopped

1 tomato, chopped (or 1 15-ounce can diced tomatoes)

2 teaspoons paprika

1 handful fresh thyme leaves (or 1 teaspoon dried)

sea salt and fresh ground pepper to taste

juice of 1 lemon

1 bunch fresh parsley, chopped

optional -- 1 cup edamame

Pour 3 cups of water or broth into a large pot. Place over high heat and bring liquid to boil. Add rice and bay leaf and give a quick stir. Cover and reduce heat to low and simmer for 30 minutes (brown rice may need an additional 10 minutes) or until rice is tender and all liquid is absorbed. Remove bay leaf and set aside.

May be done a day or two ahead and stored well-covered in refrigerator. Bring to room temperature before proceeding.

Heat oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add chopped garlic, onion and eggplant. Saute, stirring for 5 minutes, or until vegetables soften. Add chopped celery, green pepper, tomato, paprika and thyme. Continue cooking another 5 to 8 minutes, stirring occasionally. Stir in rice and remaining 2 cups of water or broth.

Reduce heat to medium and cook another 10 minutes until mixture is moist but all liquid is absorbed.

Stir in salt, pepper, lemon juice and chopped parsley, and for a pop of protein and bright green color, fold in optional edamame.

Serves 6 to 8. Keeps several days in the fridge, flavor improves over time.