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!