North America + The Caribbean - Jerked Pumpkin Soup (Jamaica)

This blog has an authenticity problem.

Specifically, I have trouble posting anything that hasn't been vetted by a reputable (read: has a last name to match the cuisine or some other arbitrary criteria I make up on the spot) source.  This vastly limits what I can post, because I am not really one for following recipes, and too much improvisation moved the food too far from my predetermined authenticity zone.

However, I've decided to get over it and allow some leeway when it comes to Things That Go on the Blog.  I'm not going to make kimchi and try to pass it off as Scandinavian, and the whole point still is to actually learn about regional foods, but working in generalities, as is my usual wont, is good enough.  Low expectations, ladies and gents!

SO.

This recipe is inspired by a delicious soup I had during a family brunch over the holidays.  While in Columbus visiting the in-laws, we ate at a delightful little place called Skillet, which is all about that local, seasonal, sustainable food movement that the hippies and The Husband are always talking about.  My main dish was a root vegetable hash, which was good but not terribly memorable (mostly because I am a Brussels sprout purist and think that tarting them up with herbs and spices makes a sow's ear out of a purse, in a weird but profoundly apt mangling of a phrase).  The soup, however, which I ordered mostly because I wasn't paying and therefore needed to eat as much as possible, was smooth and creamy and spicy—the perfect mix for a crisp November day in the Midwest.  (Is Columbus even considered the Midwest?  Ohio is a confusing geographic anomaly.)

I couldn't find a recipe for an actual jerked pumpkin soup, so this is what I came up with after reading several descriptions of jerk spice and then promptly forgetting half of it.  Also, it's not an actual pumpkin soup, because the pumpkin on our counter had hardened off so much that I couldn't get a knife through it; rather than risking carpal dismemberment trying to saw through my Cucurbita spp., I just used a Kabocha squash whose skins had not yet worked its way up the Mohs scale.

Roast your squash/pumpkin however you like; I sliced it in half, scooped out the seeds, placed it cut-side down in a baking sheet with a little bit of water, covered with foil, and baked at 400ºF for about 45 minutes.  (Definitely check occasionally, though, because I was pretty close to overdoing it.)  When soft, remove from the pan and let cool.  Once it's manageable, scrape out the flesh into a bowl and put aside.  You could puree it in a food processor to smooth it out, but skipping this step means one fewer thing to wash, so I left the squash rustic and lumpy.  (Also, this soup is pureed after cooking, so the lumps aren't even an issue to begin with.)

While your squash is resting, make up the jerk spice paste.  In a pestle and mortar (or food processor, if you are futuristic and good with technology), mix up two pinches of allspice, one pinch each of cloves and cinnamon, and several good scrapes of fresh nutmeg (or a tiny pinch, if using ground).  Add in two or three minced cloves of garlic, a couple of turns of the black pepper grinder, and some heat of your choice to your degree of tolerance—I used a big pinch of Aleppo pepper, along with a pinch or so of chipotle pepper, but you can also use finely diced fresh chiles of whatever sort you like.  Most recipes also called for some amount of onion/scallion; I had meant to use a shallot, but the one I swore we had seemed to have disappeared, so I left it out.  Grind everything together to crush and coat the garlic, then add a squeeze of orange and mash up some more.  You should have a wet, but still cohesive, paste by the end, so go easy on the citrus.

Chop up half an onion and an additional clove or two of garlic.  Heat up some oil in a large pot, then add the spice paste and cook for about a minute.  Mix in the onion and cook until just soft, then add the garlic and cook until fragrant.  Dump in the lot of squash and mix thoroughly, then add about 1/2 c. veg broth and 1/2 c. coconut milk.  Mix well, smoothing out the lumps of squash as you go.  Bring to the boil, then turn down the heat and let simmer, covered, for about 20 minutes.  If the soup seems too thick, add more broth and/or coconut milk.

While the soup's a-simmerin', toasted up some pepitas.  I prefer heating them up on the stove, because you can keep the seeds moving so they don't burn (and all the tossing makes me feel like some superstar chef), but the oven works, too.  Or you could just buy them pre-toasted, if you are a big spender like that.  After they've popped, but before they are brown, remove from the heat and hit them with a tiny sprinkle of salt.

When the soup flavors have fully melded, break out your immersion blender (or do small batches in a food processor/blender) and puree until smooth and all the onions are dissolved.  Taste and adjust seasonings (specifically the allspice and chiles, but also salt, depending on the sodium content of your broth) as needed.

Ladle into bowls and top with the toasted pepitas and a sprinkling of cocoa nibs.  Manchego-cheese crostinis (slices of toasted baguette topped with shredded Manchego, then broiled until the cheese is brown and bubbly) make a nice, if thoroughly unauthentic, touch.

An additional swirl of coconut milk adds a level of unctuousness, or creme fraiche might be nice (though that would un-veganify it).  The jerkiness intensifies over time, which is coincidentally what also happens to people (though I suppose "cantankerousness" is a better term, especially if my goal in life is to grow up to be a curmudgeon.  And by "grow up," I mean "already am").

East Asia - Kitsune Udon (Japan)

This post is dedicated to my dear friends at Sake Puppets, who, in between pretending what are clearly not moths are Mothra and hassling cats and giving me night terrors, have requested that I post something involving ingredients that exist in Japan, because apparently they live in a city of umpteen-million people and like seven grocery stores.  Or something.  So, of course, I went with the dish with the cutest name: kitsune udon.

Red (Source)

Kitsune means "fox" in Japanese, and foxes are a big part of Japanese folklore.  They are crafty and smart and magic and sometimes have multiple tails, which means they are the craftiest and smartest and magic-est foxes of all.  Foxes sometimes take the shape of pretty ladies, and also sometimes possess ladies, which is creepy, but they are so adorable, all is forgiven.  Kitsune udon gets its name from the tofu, called aburaage, which is both the color of fox fur and is a favorite food of kitsune.  It's also often cut into triangles, like wee little fox ears!  God, don't you just want to eat all this up?  (Yes, you do.  Because it is both tasty and squee.)

Fennec. (Source)

In its purest form, kitsune udon is just tofu, noodles, and broth, with a sprinkling of sliced green onions.  If you want a traditional kitsune udon, the kind offered to shape-shifting fox gods, then just ignore all the frippery I added to mine.  I like to think that the kitsune are OK with my desire to be more nutritionally balanced with my meals.  Also, traditional kitsune udon calls for aburaage, which is thinly-sliced deep-friend tofu, also called tofu pouches (atsuage is the same thing, only more robust in slice).  It's relatively easy to find in Asian groceries, but I wasn't about to hike it out to the suburbs to buy some, so I just used regular, extra-firm tofu that I fried up in a little oil.  Again, not exactly authentic, and it probably wouldn't appease any vengeful vulpines, but it did make my life a lot easier.

Bat-eared. (Source)

To start, you will need dashi broth.  Dashi is a common Japanese soup stock made by boiling together kombu (dried kelp) and bonito flakes (shavings from katsuobushi, a fermented tuna).  You can make a vegetarian version by omitting the fish scrapings.  I made mine by soaking a 6-inch piece of kombu with 6 c. of water, a few dried shiitake mushrooms, and a couple of slices of ginger together overnight.

Arctic. (Source)

If you are using aburaage/atsuage, you'll want to rinse the tofu with boiling water to remove any excess oil and allow to drain.  If you're making a rough approximation yourself, pan-fry slices of tofu in a little oil until golden brown.  Then, in a saucepan, mix together 1 c. dashi broth, 1 T. sugar, 1 T. mirin, and 2 t. soy sauce.  Bring to a boil, add the tofu, and simmer until the liquid is reduced by one-half.  While your tofu is a-simmerin', cook your udon noodles: boil some water, add the noodles, then add a cup of cold water when the water returns to a boil (this helps the noodle cook evenly).  Repeat until the noodles are done, then portion out into deep bowls.

Grey. (Source)

[If you're going the sort-of-authentic route, skip this part.]  In a saute pan, heat some oil and fry up a couple cloves of minced garlic until fragrant.  Add roughly chopped broccolini and cook until the stems are tender.  Toss in a handful of snow peas and stir.  Add some sliced bok choy and cook until everything is done to your liking, then add a dash (or two or three) of teriyaki sauce and let that cook down.  Remove from the heat and save until everything else is ready.

Mulder. (Source)

For your noodle broth, mix together 4 c. dashi, 2 T. soy sauce, 1 T. mirin, 1/2 t. salt, and 1 t. sugar.  Heat until warmed through, but do not let it boil.  When hot, ladle some over the noodles, then top with the tofu (and vegetables, if you are sacrilegious).  Add chopped green onions and shichimi togarashi (Japanese seven-spice powder) to taste.

Udon.

Enjoy while making a silent prayer to Inari, one of the main kami (spirits) of Shintoism who is a friend to all the foxes, for either fertility, rice, or worldly success, depending on what sort of thing you're into.

Oh, and Ang?  This is Mothra:

Even Godzilla's all, "Whoa, dude—I'm just hanging out by the greenhouse, hatching an egg.  IT'S COOL."

British Isles – Yorkshire Gingerbread (England)

Fall in the desert is a tricky proposition.  We don't really have any leaves to change color, and it can (and does) stay in the triple digits well into October.  The past couple of years, it seemed as though summer just blended into winter, and while winter in the desert is fantastically lovely, those of us raised in climes with actual seasonality end up feeling a little cheated with our paltry excuse for an autumn.  However, miracle of miracles, I am sitting here, in mid-September, with the windows open, and it's really quite pleasant.  However however, because I've become my grandmother, I check weather.com everyday (actually, I haven't really become my grandmother, because she has only a vague understanding of the existence of the Internet, and clearly has no idea what weather.com even is or how one would go about checking it, but I think you get the point) and I have seen that the triple-digit temperatures are creeping back, and soon.  So, to celebrate this briefest-of-brief respites from the intolerable heat, as well as our triumphant return home, and to welcome, if a little prematurely, what passes for autumn, I made gingerbread.

Specifically, I made Yorkshire gingerbread, and I nicked the recipe from an episode of Two Fat Ladies, who I adore, even if they would not adore me and my vegetarian leanings (also, one of them is dead, and so her adoration is a little out of my league, now).  I'm pretty sure that this is one of maybe a half-dozen recipes that I would even venture to make, my shady vegetarianism notwithstanding, because most of the things they make are terrifying.  Need a good Christmas dish?  Why not make the mousse of the egg, which is basically just hardboiled eggs and gelatin?  Or just whip up a batch of lettuce, onions, and peas, because boiling is really the best way to capture the nuances of romaine lettuce.  If you're feeling particularly fancy, stuff prunes with chickens' livers and cook them in hot sauce and butter.  (Or something.)

ANYWAY. 

The original recipe calls for black treacle, which is either similar to or the same thing as molasses, depending on who you ask.  Not knowing who to trust, I went out a bought what seemed to be an acceptable substitute:

This, as The Husband kindly told me, is proof that I'm not [redacted]ing around.

Ok, so first, preheat your oven to 325ºF.  Line with parchment paper and grease up an 8x8 or thereabouts baking tin.

Now, a quick word re:baking.  Some people (the Two Fat Ladies included) are of the opinion that baking is an exact science, and that anything other than precise measurements and faultless attention to detail will spell doom and destruction for your baked goods.  I am of the opinion that this opinion is a load of old collywobbles.  I am willing to concede that you may end up with a different product if you don't follow the instructions to a T, but I long ago abandoned any pretense to exactitude and I haven't yet ended up crying into any failed cupcakes.  The recipe I share here isn't exactly what the Two Fat Ladies suggested, and all measurements are approximate, but I was pleased with the results AND I finished a lot quicker than I would have if I did things like own a scale and weigh out ingredients and fret.

Alright, so in a large bowl, cream together 1/3 c. softened butter (I used vanilla butter, but any unsalted butter should do) and 1/3 c. dark brown sugar.  Beat in two eggs, then add 1 generous c. blackstrap molasses and mix well.  Slowly (to avoid making a mess) mix in 1 1/3 c. flour, 2 T. ground ginger (or more, if you want a supergingerbread), 1 T. ground allspice (which I didn't have, so used roughly a teaspoon each of cloves, cinnamon, and nutmeg), a couple of pinches of salt, and 1 t. baking powder.  When it's all properly mixed and luscious looking, pour into your prepared tin and bake for 25 minutes, or until the top springs back when pressed.  [Note:  the original recipe said 50–60 minutes, but I have never trusted my devious oven, so I check things pretty regularly and lo and behold, it was springy well before the halfway mark.  If your oven is of the more trustworthy sort, 25 minutes may not be enough.  The lesson here:  anthropomorphize your appliances and imagine traitorous dealings.]  Let cool completely in the tin, then remove and cut into squares.  They get better with time, so long as you keep them in an airtight container, and apparently are at their best between 48 and 96 hours post-baking.

This is what you should end up with.

Moist and cakey, with a good crumb; I was a little skeptical of the whole "let them sit for awhile and NO YOU CAN'T EAT THEM YET," but I do think their time in the (faux)tupperware was good for them.  Gave them a chance to sit and think about what they'd become.

What they've become, incidentally, is delicious.

Oh, and if you happen to have some fresh cream that you just happened to add the tiniest bit of vanilla sugar to and then whipped to put on top, you can almost forget that 103º days are forecast in less than a week.

Almost.

A Tiny Hiatus

Just a little FYI that the scuttlebutt around here might be a bit quieter than usual for a couple of weeks.  I am housesitting, with all the attendant issues regarding cooking in a strange kitchen, as well as pulling 12-plus-hour days sitting somewhere that is not here, so I'm not quite sure if I'll find the time or ability to do much exciting cooking for a little while.

In the meantime, though—what region(s) should I focus on next?  It's only been a couple of days, but I'm already getting a hankering for some complicated cookery!  And plotting the cooking is a good substitute for actual cooking in a pinch.

Western Europe - Gazpacho (Spain)

I can't remember the last time the high temperature for the day involved fewer than three digits.  Of course, this isn't a surprise.  What is a surprise, though, is that this summer doesn't seem nearly as bad as my previous Phx summer, during which I spent much of my time begging for the sweet release of death, or maybe just a cold spell.

I haven't been able to figure out why I'm tolerating this go-around better.  Has this summer been less horrible?  Or, God forbid, am I getting used to this?  I mean, it is still all quite terrible, and I have been dreaming of fall ever since July, but I do feel like I've been less angry at the weather this year.  Maybe I'm just mellowing out in my old age?  The mind boggles.

The other possibility is that I've learned how to better co-exist with the blistering heat, in that I no longer do things like try to bake bread in an oven that expends more heat than it uses to actually cook things.  We've changed our dining habits to better include foods that don't require constant hovering over the stove or that can be made in non-stove appliances (like toaster ovens).

The best way to win the food battle against the sun, however, is to just eschew cooking at all.  Enter gazpacho!  No heating elements are required, and it's fantastically simple and easy.  This recipe was given to me by a friend from Spain, and it's actually her mother's recipe, so you know it's legit.

First, you're going to need tomatoes.  A lot of tomatoes.  At least two pounds.  Lucky for those of you who live in areas with normal growing seasons, you should be flush with tomatoes now.  I used Roma tomatoes, because they are good and meaty, but any tomato, so long as it is fresh and ripe, will do.  You can even mix tomatoes, if you are into that sort of thing.  Quarter and de-seed your tomatoes (you can also peel them, if you're dedicated).  De-seed and roughly chop both a green and a red bell pepper, along with a cucumber (I used a Striped Armenian cucumber, which didn't require de-seeding, but if you're using a standard hothouse cuke with large seeds, you might want to de-seed this as well) and about 1/4 an onion.  Peel some garlic, as much as you'd like (I was told that proper gazpacho should be right garlicky, so I used almost an entire head).

Blend all the chopped veggies together in a food processor to your preferred chunkiness (depending on the size of your food processor [or the amount of vegetables you're starting with], you may need to do this in batches).  I like my gazpacho hearty, so I only run the food pro until everything is just diced, but if you want a smooth soup, let it go for longer and use a food mill to strain out the seeds and skins (you can also add a little water to each batch if you want to thin it out a bit).  Mix in vinegar (I used apple cider vinegar) and salt to taste; note that the vinegar flavor will become more pronounced after it has chilled, so stop just before you get to your preferred tang, and don't be surprised if you need a lot of salt—it can take it.  Pop it into the fridge for 15–30 minutes to chill and allow the flavors to meld together (you can certainly leave it for longer, if you want a really cold soup).

You can drizzle a bit of olive oil over the top, or add ribbons of fresh basil (as I did).  Served with a grilled cheese sandwich, it makes for a refreshing lunch or dinner on a triple-digit summer's day/eve.  Take that, desert heat!

Southern Europe - Pasta (Italy)

This post feels like cheating.  After all, it's really only half a recipe, because who eats plain noodles?  (Answer:  Me.)  But, assuming that they are not strange like me, people usually enjoy their pasta with something else, and I am not offering that something else here today.

Why?  Mostly, because since I've started making my own pasta, I have a new appreciation for a good noodle.  I can actually taste the pasta now, and you can't beat homemade for a toothsome bite.  Plus, it's incredibly easy to change up pasta, so one recipe becomes many.  I also think that pasta has a reputation for being difficult, when it's really pretty simple (especially if you have a pasta roller), and so demystifying the process seems like a good idea.  (I have guest blogged before about making pasta using just a rolling pin.  It is rough [terrible], but doable.)

At its core, pasta is just two ingredients:  flour and eggs.  In terms of flour, I prefer one with a high gluten content (sorry Cakesoups) because I think it produces the best texture, but you can really use whatever flour you have on hand. I usually go with semolina flour, though I have some Tipo 00 (the traditional Italian pasta flour) in the freezer that I should really think about trying, but I've been successful with standard all-purpose flour, too.  You should be a bit pickier about the eggs, because that's where a lot of the flavor (and much of the color) comes from.  If you can get your eggs straight from the farm (where you can even meet the chicken who laid them!), so much the better; happy chickens who get to scratch and peck and do important chicken-business things outside will produce much brighter yolks, and much tastier eggs, than their battery-caged counterparts.
 

happy eggs.

Ok, so technically you can make pasta entirely on the countertop (or whatever your work surface), but I tend to use a wide, shallow bowl for the first steps so as to limit the amount of mess I make (see guest blog link above).  Start with 1 1/4 c. flour of your choice; I like to add a pinch or two of salt and a few good scrapes of fresh nutmeg.  Mix that all together, then make a deep well in the center of the flour.  Crack in two (room temperature!) eggs, and, using your fingers, beat the eggs briefly in a circular motion until combined.  Continuing in a circle, slowly begin to move outward, incorporating the flour a bit at a time.  Once it's all turned in a a shaggy mess, you can add in the remaining flour more roughly.  Dump everything out onto your work surface, then mix everything together until you have a lump of dough.  If you're having trouble, you can add a drop or two of water to help everything stick.

Once you have a cohesive mound, you can start kneading.  The ease with which to dough responds to your caress is related to the flour: more gluteny flour (like semolina) can be pretty hard to knead, but try to resist the urge to add more water (semolina absorbs water slowly, so too much water to start will result in a soggy dough at the rolling stage).  You'll want to knead for about 10 minutes, or until the dough is elastic and ever-so-slightly tacky (but not sticky)—it should be something like a denser bread dough.  When kneaded to your liking, cover the dough in plastic wrap (or put into a ziploc bag) and let it rest for 30 minutes.

After the dough has had a quick nap, it's time to roll (literally).  I am one of those fortunate souls who has a Kitchenaid mixer with pasta roller attachment, but you can get hand-powered rollers (or you can be masochistic and do it will a rolling pin, which I don't really recommend).  You'll want to follow the instructions for whatever rolling mechanism you have, but here is some general advice:

1.  Roll the dough out on the widest setting a few times.  This helps provide an additional level of kneading to the dough, which makes it smoother and easier to work with.

2.  Make sure the dough is well-floured when you start.  This will keep it from sticking in the machine and/or tearing.

3.  Conversely, don't be too downtrodden if Sage Advice #1 is difficult.  I like my pasta dough to be pretty dry (as I find it makes for a delightfully al dente noodle), but this means having the run the dough through the roller several times.  It starts like this...

 

but can, with persistence and a few choice swears, be persuaded to become this

which can then be rolled out progressively thinner.

4.   Start off with a small hunk of the dough.  Otherwise, you'll end up with an extra-long sheet of pasta.

5.  If you want a toothsome noodle, DO NOT roll the pasta out to the thinnest setting.  Also, don't use the thinnest setting if you plan on making ravioli, because it might not be sturdy enough to contain the filling.  My roller goes to 8, and I usually stop at 6 for regular noodles, 4 or 5 for ravioli.

6.  Don't let your cat swat at the pasta as it dangles from the roller.  It's just a bad idea.

I'm full of bad ideas!

Once the pasta is rolled, you have several choices.  The pasta can be left in sheet form for lasagna, or you can cut it into squares for ravioli.  If you have a cutter attachment (mine came with fettuccine and angel hair), you can swap that out for the roller and have perfectly-sliced noodles (I recommend both rolling and slicing each piece of dough before moving on to rolling the next one, as cut noodles take up less space).  You can also do large noodles, like tagliatelle; just flour the sheets of dough, fold them up, and use a knife (or pizza cutter) to slice the noodles to your preferred dimensions.

Rustic tagliatelle

Be sure to keep everything well-floured (so that they do not stick to each other), then toss the noodles a bit with your fingers to separate them.  As for cooking, fresh noodles only need a minute or two (seriously!) in boiling water; fresh lasagna noodles need no precooking, and raviolis are done when they float to the top of the water (a couple of minutes at most).  This recipe usually makes enough pasta for four people, though you can also save any leftover in the refrigerator (wrapped tightly in plastic wrap) and roll it out the next day (though I wouldn't go much longer than one night in the fridge, or else the dough will get too dry).

You can also experiment with different colors and flavors; a tablespoon of blanched and finely-chopped spinach or roasted beet (added with the egg) will result in beautiful green or red pasta; if you have access to cuttlefish ink, you can make traditional pasta al nero di sepia (though it's less vegetarian-friendly, but super Venetian).  If you'd rather play around with flavor, spices and/or fresh herbs can liven up a noodle, but be sure to use a light sauce (or else you'll overpower the taste of the pasta).

CARBS: A GIRL'S BEST FRIEND.

Central + South America - Gallo Pinto (Costa Rica)

Costa Rica is known for many things: eco-tourism, active volcanoes, coffee, cloud forests, fruit, hummingbirds, not having an army, etc.  One thing isn't really known for, however, is food (though eating fresh fruit every morning for breakfast is pretty fantastic).  I guess they just spent too much time creating a stable democracy to worry about snack time?  And this isn't just me making up facts to suit my narrative; when asked to make a Costa Rican dish, my sister-in-law, who is from Costa Rica and therefore my authority on Costa Rica, explained that Costa Rica doesn't really have a food.  The food is just sort of is, I guess.  However, on our trip to Costa Rica, I came away with two new food-related loves:  jugo de naranja y zanahoria (orange–carrot juice) and gallo pinto.  (Incidentally, I also came back from Costa Rica with my first lesson in fresh pineapple preparation, as I may have purchased one from the store and realized too late that I didn't actually know how to operate a whole pineapple, and my sister-in-law's mother was kind enough to show me how it's done.)

Gallo pinto (which means "spotted rooster" in Spanish), is pretty standard breakfast fare, though I usually make it for dinner (and then eat the leftovers for breakfast the next day).  It's little more than black beans and rice, though it is better if you reconstitute dried beans (because the cooking liquid is where much of the color of the rice comes from), so you'll need at least some amount of forethought for the bean soaking (unless you have a pressure cooker, like we do, which we got because we are very bad at planning).  This recipe is based on the one my sister-in-law gave me, but it's endlessly adaptable.

Start off with 1/2 c. (or a few handfuls—be daring!) of dried black beans.  If you are on top of things, you can soak them overnight; otherwise, pressure cook (or simmer) until they are done (you don't want them mushy—they should retain their shape).  I usually add a dried chipotle pepper to cook with the beans, because I like the hint of smokiness it imparts, but it's not necessary.  Make sure you reserve the cooking liquid, because it's full of tasty goodness.  You'll also need to cook up some rice, about 1/2 c. (I like a 1:1 bean–rice ratio, with a slight advantage to the beans).  White rice will absorb the most color, but I use whatever is on hand, which is usually a long-grain brown rice.

Next, finely dice half an onion, half a red bell pepper, and a small handful of cilantro.  I like to do a rough chop of the onion and pepper, then add the cilantro and finely chop it all together, to help blend the flavors a bit.  Costa Rican food, traditionally, isn't very spicy, but you could certainly add a hot pepper of your choice here, or a clove of garlic, though not too much, because you want the flavor of the beans to shine through.

Once the rice is done, heat up a small amount of oil (grapeseed or a mild olive) in a large saute pan on medium heat.  When the oil is hot, add the rice and stir frequently until the rice is shiny.  Add half of the onion/pepper/cilantro mixture and give it a good fryup until the vegetables are softened.  A splash or two (or three) of the bean cooking liquid goes next, which should be allowed to cook off, leaving concentrated flavor and color to the rice.  Mix in the beans and remainder of the vegetables, stirring to incorporate everything and heat the beans through.  Season to taste; it can take a fair bit of salt (as beans often can).  Salsa lizano, which to my understanding is the Costa Rican equivalent of butter mixed with crack in the sense that it goes well with everything, is a traditional addition.  I, sadly, did not have any, but old Worcestershire sauce is an acceptable substitute (if you are one of those vegetarians who are OK with the odd anchovy, and the vegetarian version works too if you're not).

¡Qué delicioso!

Gallo pinto is normally served with eggs, fruit, and a big cup of coffee.  I don't drink coffee, but an open-faced gallo pinto/huevo frito/aguacate sandwich is still pretty fantastic.  Not being what you'd call a morning person, I usually have gallo pinto for dinner, along with a couple of tortillas (and more avocados, if I am so lucky). 

Volcan Arenal, which is definitely active, since we saw it erupt.

And if you happen to be sitting under an active volcano during breakfast, so much the better.

Just so we're clear, I kept on hiking after this sign.  At least until the gate guarded by angry horses.

Um, maybe.

The Middle East - Falafel (Multinational)

I ate my first falafel in college.  I know, it's a big shock that small-town Western New York wasn't rocking the crunch patties and flavor sauce back in the day, but it's true.  I was a sophomore, at an accepted student event (where you could frequently find me, considering that I was both an indentured servant to the Admissions Office and a fan of free food).  At the buffet, there were these little crispy things that a friend swore were delicious, so I tried one.  Sweet merciful kittens, it was terrible.  Dry and flavorless, I was concerned that I had somehow screwed up and was eating it incorrectly, because I couldn't fathom why my friend would steer me to try something this bad.

Fast forward several years.  By this point, I had gone vegetarian, and The Husband (then The Boyfriend) insisted that I try falafel again.  He offered to make me some, and we acquired a falafel mix.  While these weren't nearly as dry as I remembered, they still weren't good.  The Husband insisted that a well-made falafel was good, and that I would probably enjoy one, given how much I enjoy hummus and tzatziki.  I assumed he was lying, though I did agree to try falafel a few more times, even though I was consistently disappointed.  What can I say:  I'm an eternal optimist.  (Ha.)

Fast forward another couple of years.  We had moved to the desert and were leaving the farmers' market, when we noticed a stall selling Middle Eastern food.  We decided to get pita wraps for dinner, but to my horror, the only vegetarian option was falafel.  However, the falafels didn't look like the ones I was used to; they weren't deep-fried to the point of carbonization, but instead just lightly browned.  Plus, I was really hungry.  So I knuckled down and bought one.  It was a revelation.  I'm pretty sure we had each finished ours before we made it the four blocks home (and if you know The Husband and the speed at which he eats, that's saying something).

Having discovered that falafel need not be dry and boring, I decided that I should probably learn how to make them.  My method is a bit of an amalgam of various recipes, supplemented with my natural predilection for making things up as I go along.  I am a firm believer in using fava beans, as I think they provide a more complex flavor than the straight-chickpea route.  I also add bulgur, which according to my (very brief internet) research means they are Israeli, even though the addition the favas sort of negates that.  Consider this falafel as a food without a country.

While everything comes together relatively quickly once all the ingredients are present and accounted for, you will need to plan at least 24 hours ahead (to allow the beans time to soak).  You can also make the falafel mix in advance, but don't cook the patties until just before you plan to eat, as they tend to dry out.

To make your falafel, put a half-cup each of dried fava beans and dried chickpeas into separate medium bowls.  Fill the bowls with enough water to cover the beans by an inch or so, then leave to soak overnight.  The beans should roughly double in size.

Next is the most tedious part of falafeling:  shelling the favas.  Fava beans are shell beans.  When found in the wild (or at the store), they need to be removed from the pod (much like peas); unlike peas, the individual beans must also be shelled.  The same holds true for dried favas.

To the left:  unshelled.  On the right:  totally nude.

Some of the favas may have split during the soak, but for those that haven't, shelling is easy:  using a small, sharp knife, make a shallow cut along the end of the bean opposite the little black line (originally the point where the bean was attached to its pod), then peel off the shell.  If the beans are well soaked, the skin should come off without much fuss.  You can also purchase already-shelled dry fava beans, but they are more expensive and a bit tougher to find and where's the fun in that?

Once the favas are peeled, drain the chickpeas, give both sets of beans a good rinse, and add them to the bowl of your food processor.  Roughly chop half an onion and toss that in, along with a few cloves of garlic.  A pinch or two of cumin and some chili powder (I like Aleppo) won't go amiss, nor will a handful of raw coarse bulgur.  Tear up a handful each of parsley and cilantro, and add to the bowl.  Salt and pepper generously, then whiz the whole lovely mess until it's good and mixed.  Aim for a medium grind; if you find everything is a little dry, you can add a drizzle of olive oil or a tiny bit of water, but not too much — you don't want it to be too wet or turn into a puree — the liquid from the soaking should be enough.  The resulting batter should be sticky enough that you can easily form a patty, but dry enough to maintain its shape.

Once the mix is ready, heat a tablespoon or two of grapeseed (or similar) oil in a large pan over medium heat; I like one with sloping sides, to help with the flipping.  When the oil is hot, add the falafel patties one at the time, making sure not to crowd the pan.  Let them cook until brown on the bottom, maybe five minutes, then flip.  Cook until the other side is also browned and crispy, and serve.  This recipe should make a dozen or so small falafel patties.

Two competing schools of falafel construction:  the manageable (mine, below), and the chaos-in-a-pita (The Husband's)

We usually make our falafel pitas with homemade hummus, tzatziki, and cucumber-feta-tomato salad; last time, I added some broccoli slaw for a bit of crunch.  Any number of toppings could work:  baba ghanoush, tahini, harissa (for some kick), Greek dressing, a squeeze of lemon, spinach, plain yogurt, pickles, relishes...  You could also crumble the falafel into a salad, or make larger patties and grill them like a burger.

THE POSSIBILITIES ARE  ENDLESS.

British Isles - Bubble and Squeak (England)

Bubble and squeak was always going to end up here, it being one of my favorite dishes and also an excellent non-scone recipe for the UK/Ireland section.  However, I did not expect it to appear so soon.  The original plan was to have most, if not all, regions in possession of at least one recipe before I moved to double representation, but as I have been learning, very little of this blog adventure has been going according to plan.  The Husband was recently in need of simple, tasty food, and we had half a head of cabbage about to go bad.  So here we are.

Bubble and squeak is, at its core, a recipe for the using up of leftovers, specifically those from a traditional English roast dinner.  Similar dishes abound throughout Europe, but the two that matter for the purposes of this post are colcannon, from Ireland, and — I kid you not — rumbledethumps, from Scotland.  (RUMBLEDETHUMPS!  Is that not just the most delightful thing ever?  And now you know why I adore Scotland so.)  There are a few minor differences (colcannon substitutes kale for cabbage, and rumbledethumps(!) involves cheese), but all three dishes are basically just potatoes, a leafy green, and copious amounts of sweet, sweet butter.   For the etymology nerds out there, bubble and squeak takes its name from the sound that the food makes while cooking.   Colcannon is derived from cole, meaning cabbage; rumbledethumps comes from rumbled, for food that has been mashed or scrambled, and thumps may refer to the fact that, originally, this dish was made by bashing the daylights out of the potatoes and cabbage with a large pestle. 

I first discovered bubble and squeak in a cookbook I bought ages ago, which was purchased mostly for the introductory sections (discussions various grains, oils, beans, etc., with lots of pretty pictures).  I can't remember a single other recipe from said cookbook, and it was given away during the Great Purge of 2009, but because it introduced me to bubble and squeak, I will always think fondly upon it.  Godspeed, forgotten cookbook, wherever you are.

My recipe is slightly different from some of the more traditional ones I've uncovered, but its heart is in the right place.  It's a very simple recipe, with few ingredients; if you find yourself with leftover mashed potatoes and greens (or any vegetable, really), this should come together in a flash.  This means you can also prepare the potatoes and/or the vegetables ahead of time, or even cook the entire dish the day before; it reheats wonderfully.  Also, as a side note, one of my all-time favorite cooking shows, Two Fat Ladies, insists that you must use lard or drippings in this dish, as they are the only fats that can heat up enough.  This is a load of old rubbish.  While I'm sure that bacon fat is wonderful stuff, butter does just fine.

Get yourself a couple of medium-sized potatoes; I prefer russets, but any starchy potato will do nicely.  Since I think the skin is the best part of a potato, I give them a good scrub and then chop them into one-inch chunks.  (Peeling the potatoes is fine, as is leaving them whole — I just find that chopping them up speeds up the cooking process.)  Plop them in a large pot with some well-salted water and boil under tender.

While the potatoes are boiling, thinly slice two leeks and a half a cabbage.  Melt a good dollop of butter in an oven-safe pan (I use my trusty 10 1/4" cast iron skillet) over medium heat, and saute the leeks until translucent (a finely-diced clove or two of garlic wouldn't go amiss here, either).  Add the cabbage, cover, and cook until tender.

Once the potatoes are done, drain, add a slosh of milk (or cream, if you are devilish) and a good knob of butter, then mash.  Lumps are perfectly fine, but just make sure it's easily mixable.  Salt and pepper to taste.

When the cabbage is ready, add a few handfuls of spinach and cook until just wilting, which will take but a minute or two.  Add the greens into the potatoes, return the skillet to the heat, and add another dollop of butter to melt.  Mix the greens and potatoes together until everything is relatively well incorporated, then pour it all back into the skillet.  Even out the potato mixture, much like you would cake batter in a pan, and let cook until the sides and bottom have browned.  (This is when the bubbling and squeaking will occur; if you find that your dinner is not singing to you on the stove, it's a good sign that the heat may not be high enough.)  You can add a few additional dabs of butter along the top of the potatoes, as well as some more salt and pepper, if you'd like.

While the bubble and squeak is a-bubblin' and squeakin' away, turn on your broiler to heat up.  Once the potatoes are nicely brown and crisp, pop the skillet under the broiler for a few minutes, until the top is also brown and crisp.  Let sit for a few minutes to cool, then serve.

Half a pan of bubsqueak, because we are impatient when butter is involved.

The Husband and I have been known to enjoy the odd bubble and squeak as part of a brunch spread (where it once accompanied potato-leek soup, because we enjoy repetition), but it is also an excellent meal in and of itself, particularly suited to cold, grey days (of either the weather or temperament variety) where warmth and heartiness (and butter) are much appreciated.

North Africa - Preserved Lemons (Morocco)

I will be honest:  I'm not sure how I feel about this installment.  Maybe it's because preserved lemons aren't something that you enjoy out-of-hand — they're a condiment, and thus really only come into their own when combined with something more substantial.  It's like a recipe for ketchup (which, admittedly, I've also already discussed), and as such, using this as one of the recipes almost feels like cheating; it's not really a dish, which is what the title of this series suggests I am promising.  Also, I'm posting about it before I can even confirm that the preserved lemons are a success, and that seems a little risky.  These things take at least three weeks to ferment; what if, at the end of the process, it turns out that I made some horrible mistake and the lemons become sentient and attempt a hostile coup?  That's clearly something I should warn you all about, lest you make the same mistakes; I can always update as time goes on, but by then, it might be too late.  And I certainly don't want this humble blog to be Patient Zero, infecting you with binary zombie lemon disease, resulting in some terrible dystopian futureworld.

However, I finally decided to do a little write-up, because 80 dishes is a lot and I shouldn't be too picky and should fill up the recipes slots with whatever is available, and besides, the possibility of my creating a new life form seems negligible (though I am not good at statistics, so don't ask to see my data on this matter).  Also, preserved lemons are an integral part of North African cooking, something I will almost certainly need for other dishes, and I like the idea of attempting to make all parts of the food I discuss be as from-scratch as possible (one of the many benefits of my privileged life of leisure as the trophy wife of a...grad student?).  Also also, preserved lemons seem pricey, and regular lemons are dirt cheap during the Arizona citrus season (which is coming to a close), and this seems like a nice, relatively inexpensive way to keep a little bit of the phx winter with me as the blazing summer months approach.

OK, so, to begin, gather ye lemons while ye may, along with a cinnamon stick, a bay leaf, a few whole cloves, kosher salt, and a suitable jar.  As you can see, I am using an old sauerkraut jar, because we (I) are essentially packrats who do not part with anything that could potentially be used as part of a grand storage scheme.

If any of the Frank's people are reading, I am open to endorsement deals.

You should always be sure to sterilize your jar before use, because even though the vast quantities of salt should be enough to keep any critters at bay, you don't want to risk contamination with any food that you'll be leaving to sit out for weeks.  I filled the jar with boiling water, covered the jar lid (sitting next to the jar in the plastic dish) with additional boiling water, and let them both sit while I prepared the lemons; this admittedly seems like a half-assed sterilization method, but it's worked for me so far.  (You can also use a dishwasher, or submerge everything in boiling water, or use a low heat setting on your oven [though I would be careful of this last option if the jar lids are not fully metallic]).  Once the jar seems acceptably germ-free, drain and dry, and then add the spices.

On to the lemons.  First, slice off the ends of the lemon.

Cutco people!  I will totally shill for you if you send me a new knife block

Next, you want to slice the lemons into wedges, but leave the base intact. 

Like this.

The lemon should be cut into six wedges, then gently pulled apart to facilitate salting.  For six or seven lemons, you'll want about 1/2 cup salt (sea or kosher seem to be the preferred varieties; I used kosher salt that may very well have made the trip out when we moved cross-country).

Pre-salting.  Tip:  Do NOT salt the lemons if you have a paper cut.  Ouch.

Rub the salt into the wedges, covering as much of the flesh as possible.  Once sufficiently salted, add the lemons to your jar, pushing and squeezing them to extract the juice and pack as many in as possible.  Juice any extra lemons and use the juice (or bottled lemon juice) to cover the jarred lemons.  Any leftover salt can also be added now.  Use the rind from one of the juiced lemons to help push down the lemons (they should all be completely submerged), then screw on the lid.

Ready for the pantry, or perhaps the citrus rebellion.

And there you have it.  Pop these bad boys into a cool, dark place and let the salts and acids do their thing.  The lemons should be ready to go in three to four weeks; in the meantime, you'll want to give the jar a good shake every day or so to help re-dissolve any salts that precipitate out.

Expect to see these little balls of sunshine-in-a-jar in a near(ish) future post, at which point I will let you know how they've turned out.  That, or my fears will be realized and I will be welcoming our new citrus overlords; just in case, I would like to point out now that, as a trusted blog personality, I can be helpful in rounding up others to toil in their underground sugar caves.

British Isles - Scones (Scotland)

You didn't think I was kidding when I said I would just post scone recipes, did you?

Actually, I was.  (Hopefully.)  But that doesn't mean that a scone or two can't wend its way through this little experiment, right?

I realize that I have already written extensively and ramblingly about scones at my other blog, but they are a fairly important part of my baking repertoire, so I think it is acceptable to talk about them again.

Generally speaking, I am not much for baking.  I am fairly incompetent when it comes to fruit-based desserts (your pies, crumbles, crisps, etc.), and I dislike baking cookies (I don't like the batch concept — I only enjoy baking if everything can fit into the oven at once, a preference that becomes a necessity in the desert summer when the temperature inside the oven is roughly equivalent to that outside my building and opening the oven door becomes physically dangerous).  My baking style favors breads (both of the quick and not-so varieties).  Fortunately for my cookie-enjoying self, The Husband picks up my baking slack, being both a tough cookie and the baker of tasty ones.

So, scones are essentially my only contribution to the bake-o-sphere that is our apartment, especially given that it is getting a bit too warm to crank the oven up to bread-baking proportions (sigh).

The first batch of scones, a chocolate chip-blueberry blend, was made using my standard scone recipe:  the cream scone recipe mentioned in my earlier sconepost.  They were tasty, go read that other post and make some, etc. etc.

The second batch was a riff on an oatmeal scone recipe I found in The Best International Recipe, one of those best recipe books from Cook's Illustrated where they make a dozen of everything, with tiny tiny tweaks to each recipe, until they've wasted enough food/found the perfect version (depending on your worldview).  I am always on the lookout for new and exciting scones, but oatmeal scones have a special place in my heart (and cookbook), being the first type of scone I ever baked myself (thanks, Joy of Cooking).  I fancied these up a bit with chocolate butter and cocoa nibs, which offset each other nicely and also made me feel quite posh and fancy, which lasted until the cat threw up (probably) and I was jolted from my reverie and had to go scrub the carpet.

Cocoa Nib Chocolately Oatmeal Scones

Preheat your oven to 450º F.  In a large bowl, mix 1 1/2 cups oatmeal (your standard rolled oatmeal will do nicely), 1 1/2 cups flour (I used 1 cup spelt flour to 1/2 cup all-purpose), 1/3 cup sugar, 2 teaspoons baking powder, and 1/2 teaspoon salt.  Add cocoa nibs to your liking, perhaps 1/3 cup?  Dice 10 tablespoons of butter, then mix it into the dry/nib ingredients with your hands, smushing and rubbing the butter until the mix resembles crumbs.  (It is really quite important that you use your hands, here, because it's the best way to ensure that all the butter gets fully integrated into everything.  However, don't muss about at this all day, because the butter shouldn't be so kneaded that it melts.)

In a separate bowl, beat together until well mixed 1/4 cup milk, 1/4 cup heavy cream, and one large egg.  Add this to the flour-oatmeal-butter-nib concoction, then mix it all together, starting with a fork and eventually using your hands.  It should be fairly moist, but still a bit shaggy 'round the edges.  Scoop everything out onto a well-floured board, then pat into a circle roughly one inch tall.  Cut into wedges, pop into the over for about 12 to 14 minutes, then remove to a cooling rack.  Attempt to resist the temptation to tuck in until they have completely cooled, otherwise they will still be rather soft and will probably fall apart (though you could certainly sneak a small taste, if no one is looking — you have to make sure they are acceptable, of course).

fancypants oatmeal (for me) on the left, commoner cream (for the husband) on the right

(By the way, the first scone I ever ate was a scone called Sconehenge, which I purchased at the snack bar at Stonehenge when I visited it in 2002.  It was huge and expensive and rather disappointing.  Stonehenge was cool, though.  Unrelated, I have also visited Foamhenge, which is somewhere in Virginia.  They didn't have any scones there, but hornets had made nests in pretty much every one of the foam blocks.)

EVERYBODY GETS BEES!!!!!!

Some explanations are in order.

Around the World in 80 Dishes is my little quest to travel the globe without leaving my apartment.  It was originally started at my other blog, Life in the Des(s)ert, which is significantly broader (read: more rambling) in scope.  To help provide some focus for this little side project, AW80D was moved to its own space, and Life the the Des(s)ert will continue to be where all my other food/craft/life thoughts will go.

Quick Summary: There are 16 regions, each of which will produce five dishes, each of which, in theory, will be representative of a particular country's cuisine.  The plan is to not repeat a country, but that is liable to change if the country has distinctive regions that deserve highlighting or I manage to come up with a good reason to double post.  The regions are pretty arbitrarily determined:  I essentially broke the world down into manageable chunks, trying to keep regions united based on my preconceived notions of geography, culture, and cuisine.  I could be totally wrong on some of these; only time will tell.  I tried to select regions large enough (both area- and culinary-tradition-wise) that I'd have a good-sized range to work with, but I also did things like select the British Isles as a region, which I included because I am a huge Anglo-/Scotsophile, and have no problem with all five dishes being varieties of scone or whisky tastings.

Also, in an attempt to make this as much of a family affair as possible (without any hateration or holleration in this dancerie), The Husband has been placed in charge of selecting good music to accompany the preparation and/or consumption of each dish.  Let us hope he remembers that we agreed to this ages ago.

Enjoy!