Season for Winter Squash and Bengali "Stinky" Fish

Shrimp with Butternut Squash Seasoned with Dried Shrimp Paste. Photo by Mir Masud-Elias. Copyright 2014.

They are everywhere this time of the year -- the winter squash.  When you come from a tropical background like mine where the number of squashes used for cooking can be counted on a couple of fingers, this flagrant diversity is rather overwhelming as an ingredient. But, after listening to all the myriad health benefits of the mighty squash on where else, the radio (of the publicly funded variety), I decided this was going to be the year that I crack the winter squash family one squash at a time. Not to get too ahead of myself and knowing full well my tendencies for misplaced and mistimed enthusiasms, I started out with the easiest and most versatile of all American squashes - the butternut squash.

The Afghan Kadoo or Pumpkin Borani, for which the American butternut squash is perfect, has always been a favorite dish of mine and one that would fit well into the story of Alu Bukhara Junction. Certainly the origin of the Persian word "borani" -- typically signifying a cold salad of cooked vegetables with yogurt eaten in Turkey, Iran and Afghanistan -- would fill many pages. The dish itself is wonderfully simple yet profoundly satisfying whether or not served with meat. Here's a recipe from none other than Mr. Bittman at whose culinary (virtual) lap, I took my first baby steps towards cooking seriously - Afghan-Style Pumpkin with Yogurt Sauce.

But, for nostalgic reasons I suppose and because after 8 years in this city, I've finally discovered a relatively well-stocked Bangladeshi grocery store in my own neighborhood no less, I decided to try a Bengali recipe instead with butternut squash-- Chingri Mishtikumro or Shrimp with Sweet Pumpkin. The dish uses the same primary ingredient - winter squash - as Kadoo Borani, but the non-vegetarian ingredient is shrimp instead of lamb. Of course, the Bengali version does away with yogurt altogether (Bengalis treat yogurt more often as a sweet rather than a savory accompaniment, a significant cultural difference from Afghans, Pakistanis and Iranians). Instead of a yogurt and meat seasoning, dried shrimp paste gives this dish its je ne sais quoi. As far as I know, Kadoo Borani and Chingri Mishtikumro are not related in any way except in my own food memories, but since this blog is a personal exploration, you will have to indulge me at least this once. What both dishes share are that they're profoundly simple, dare we say humble, yet deeply satisfying.

A word on Bangladeshi dried fish or Shutki Maach (literally "stinky fish"). Preserved fish is prevalent in many cultures. The Bangladeshi version encompasses a wide range of fishes and the process involves gutting and cleaning the fish and hanging it out to dry in the sun where it gains its distinctive odoriferous character through a natural fermentation process. The best Shutki comes from specialty sellers in Chittagong, Bangladesh. My mom, who spent part of her childhood in Chittagong unknowingly bequeathed her love of Shutki to us.  I say "unknowingly" because I despised this food as a child, as any sensible child would, but something clicked and fell into place in my 20s when the slow realization of the joys of Shutki dawned on me. The mild winter weather of coastal Bangladesh is also conducive to preparing Shutki. So, paired with butternut squash, this is a perfect seasonal dish for the winter. If nothing else, the heat I'll propose in the recipe for those who can handle it, will certainly warm up your insides!

As for taste, it's one of those sublimely delicious foods that one should approach like a roller coaster ride (at least if you suffer from motion sickness as I do). This dish is not for the faint of heart in the kitchen due to the smell (which would very much have to be "acquired" shall we say). My opinionated self thinks that if you're lucky enough to have a robust stovetop vent and like eating fish, you have no excuse not to explore this transcendent food.  Adding the dried fish paste to some liquid as I do in this recipe, instead of frying it in oil will also help minimize the smell for those who are not blessed with the magic of a strong kitchen exhaust fan or stovetop vent.

For this dish, I used what I would call an introductory version or "gateway" Shutki (trust me, once you discover its many delights, Shutki can become a food addiction) -- Shutki made from drying small shrimp and made into and sold as an oil-based paste along with some crushed dried red chilies, garlic, salt and honey or sugar. This is similar to the shrimp paste used in many Southeast Asian cooking, e.g., Belachan in Malaysia, and can be found at your local Southeast Asian or Bangladeshi grocery store. For ruminations on shrimp paste, read this (there's a specially interesting anecdotal encounter between Persian and Thai cuisines). Shrimp paste may just be the invisible culinary glue that links South Asia to Southeast Asia via Bangladesh!

If you are a tad bit hesitant about Shutki, I will quote an actor I once heard who said "leap and the net will appear";-) As long as you approach the dish properly armed and prepared, you certainly won't regret it as an adventurous foodie.


Shrimp with Butternut Squash Seasoned with Dried Shrimp Paste


Serves 4

• 2 tablespoons of regular cooking oil
• 2 tablespoons of mustard oil
• 6 cloves of crushed garlic
• 1 medium-sized yellow onion (thinly sliced)
• 1 butternut squash (cut, cored, peeled and diced into cubes)
• 1-1/2 teaspoons turmeric powder
• Cayenne powder to taste (I used a couple of teaspoons)
• Whole green chilis with the top stem removed to taste (I used 6)
• 2 tablespoons of dried shrimp paste or Belachan
• Approximately 1/2 lb. of shrimp (shelled and deveined)
• Shrimp stock (optional) or hot water
• Salt to taste
• Fresh coriander leaves and lime wedges for garnish

1.  Turn on any kitchen vent or exhaust fan that you have at the fullest setting.  If you don't, throw open the windows, close the doors to the kitchen, hope for the best and light some powerful incense afterwards.

2.  Fry onions in oil until slightly golden. 

3.  Saute crushed garlic for a couple of minutes.

4.  Add turmeric and cayenne and fry for just a minute or so.

5.  Add the butternut squash, a little salt to taste and some hot water or shrimp stock (optional) to just cover the squash.

6.  Bring to a boil and simmer until the squash is tender (about 15 minutes or so).

7.  Add the shrimp paste (which likely already contains salt) and the whole green chilis.

8.  Add shrimp and cook for 3 minutes or so until they just become opaque (when it comes to food, there are few things that are worse than overcooked shrimp!).

9.  Taste and adjust seasonings, including salt, as needed.

10.  Serve warm with sprigs of fresh coriander leaves and lime wedges. This dish will certainly taste better if made in advance.

Note: The heat in this dish comes from the cayenne and the prepared dried shrimp paste so use these as sparingly or as generously as you dare. The whole green chilies, while imparting a nice stewed chili taste to the dish, don't raise the heat level.

The Universal Simplicity of Rice Pudding

Caramelized Rice Pudding with Rhubarb Compote. Photo by Mir Masud-Elias. Copyright 2014.

I know it's been a while. Life gets in the way of stories and sometimes, of cooking. So, apologies...

Instead of food history (which is murky at worst and revisionist at best when it comes to something like rice pudding), I'll start this post with the story of a simple encounter. Today, I took the car into work (which I only do occasionally). The parking lot where I park prefers to accept cash when the parking charge is a small amount. As I was about to hand over the parking fee to the female parking lot attendant (who I had not previously met), I realized that I was one dollar short. I quickly reached into my coin purse and handed her four quarters to make up for the missing dollar bill. She refused to take the coins and adjusted the fee down by a dollar. Completely surprised and somewhat perplexed, I said, "But, but, I *can* pay you know." She said, "I don't want to take the last dollar in your wallet in case you need it." Cynics will say that it was the parking lot management company that was literally shortchanged by this nicety on the part of the attendant. Be that as it may, I was touched to be on the receiving end of such a wonderfully humane, and I would argue, universal gesture -- a small generosity in the face of a small adversity, which depending upon the recipient's circumstances, could prove to be very meaningful. In my case, her gesture served as one of those beautiful surprises that life reveals to you when you least expect it.

What does this have to do with rice pudding? Aside from being my most favorite dessert, rice pudding is one of history's most well travelled food. I can safely say that rice pudding is made in some form or another wherever rice (or, for that matter, other grains) and sugar (or other sweeteners) are available. Thus, like the highly-nuanced, yet universal gesture of kindness that I experienced today, the rice pudding in its various iterations -- Firni, Kheer, Shola-e-Zard, Sheer Berenj, Rice Pudding -- to name a few, is a universal denomination of comfort food that turns up as a simple but popular dessert in the West, and during celebrations and religious observances worldwide (whether as an offering to the gods for Hindus or, allegedly among Afghan Shias, during the observance of Imam Hussein's martyrdom on the 10th day of Muharram, the first month in the Islamic calendar). It is also alleged (because how will we ever know for certain) that some form of this dish was originally the food of angels, first made in heaven when the Prophet Muhammad ascended to the 7th level of Heaven to meet Allah and that he was served this dish. So there. Top that for universal;-)

Above all, in keeping with the semi-universal gesture of hospitality that is the hallmark (or stereotype) of the part of the world I'm from, it's an easy dish to put together to greet the unexpected visitor with the ingredients almost always in stock.

As for the history of rice pudding, without conducting extensive research, I dare not speculate for the reasons mentioned above, but if you want to find out the range of places where this dish shows up, take a look here.

My own version, as is the whole notion of a food memoir/blog is inspired by Julie Weiss a/k/a The Wednesday Chef. I used to read Julie's blog as escapist literature while sitting at my desk late night after night at my soul (and body) crushing job in my prior life in large law-firm practice. When I chanced upon her version of "Mary Louise's Rice Pudding", which if you read through her original recipe you'll know has an impressive pedigree, my sleep-deprived, perpetually hungry and exhausted self felt enveloped in the warmth radiating from the screen - Julie's lulling words and the promises offered by the recipe itself. When I made the dish for the first time, Julie's tone-perfect recipe was flawless. She hadn't skipped a beat. If you follow her step by step, you cannot go wrong, as I did not, and you may even come up with some of your own flourishes, as I did. Here is Julie's recipe with my modifications in square brackets.

And, please pay it forward. Always.

Mehrin's Version of Julie Weiss' Rice Pudding

Serves 4 to 6

• 3/4 cup long-grain rice [I use Basmati]
• [2] bay leaves
• Approx. 6 cups whole milk [the best you can get, I used raw milk from the farmer's market]
• 1 cup sugar
• [1 large cinnamon or canela stick]
• [A few pods of green cardamom slightly crushed to reveal the seeds]
• Large pinch of salt

1. Place rice in a small saucepan with bay leaf and 2 cups water, bring to a boil over high heat, then drain immediately. Transfer rice and bay leaf to a [large], heavy saucepan [or Dutch oven]. [This parboils the rice.] [If you're using a regular pot/saucepan, one trick I learnt from cheese making to prevent the milk from scorching the bottom is to melt one ice cube in the pan over low heat so that the bottom is coated with a thin layer of cool water. You have to do this *before* adding anything else to the pan.]

2. Add 4 cups milk, [the cinnamon stick, cardamom pods] and salt. Place over very low heat and cook, stirring occasionally taking care not to scrape the bottom, until milk has been absorbed by rice, about [1-1/2] hour. Add 1 or 2 more cups milk, [1/2 cup sugar] and continue cooking over low heat 15 to 20 minutes longer. Rice should be tender and mixture should be very creamy [like risotto]. 

3. Combine remaining sugar with 2 tablespoons water in a 1-quart saucepan. Place over medium-high heat, and stir gently until sugar dissolves. Continue cooking until mixture turns a medium amber color. [Gently, in a long, slow trickle, add the caramel sauce to the warm rice pudding mixture and fold in gently to mix thoroughly. If the milk/rice mixture is cooler than the caramel sauce, the caramel will harden, which is not the goal in my version of the dish. My goal is to give the entire pudding a slightly burnt caramel flavor to approximate the Kheer or Molasses/Palm Sugar Rice Pudding of my childhood.]

4. Remove from heat, and allow to cool to room temperature. [Remove the bay leaf, cinnamon stick and cardamom pods.] 

5. No more than 30 minutes before serving, add a little milk to rice if it has become too thick and transfer pudding to a shallow serving bowl. [You can even refrigerate and serve chilled.]

[6. You can make rhubarb, strawberry or other fruit compote, which is basically fruit stewed in a little sugar and water, and use the strained fruit to garnish. Tart fruits add a light, acidic balance to the sweet creaminess of the rice pudding. Or, you can garnish with chopped, unsalted pistachios and/or slivered almonds.]

A "Deconstructed" Chickpea Polau for a Vegetarian Eid ul-Adha/Qurbani Eid

Chickpea Polau. Photo by Mir Masud-Elias. Copyright 2014.

"There is not an animal (that lives) on the earth, nor a being that flies on its wings, but (forms part of) communities like you." Quran, 6:38.

Growing up in a Muslim, South Asian culture where keeping pets (aside from domestic livestock animals) was not very common in the late '70s, it’s not surprising that outside of the zoo, my earliest memories of my first encounter with an animal were the pair of milk-white and jet-black goats that showed up in the courtyard of our house a few days before Eid ul-Adha or Qurbani Eid* one year. I remember feeding them leaves from a branch, which they seemed to enjoy, and running my hands down their rough, furry backs. Mostly, I remember their tranquil, liquid eyes. With the improbable and absurd imagination of a child defying logic, I let myself believe that the pair of goats were brought home for us to keep, and that other arrangements were going to be made for the ritual sacrifice that year. On the appointed day, by the time I went downstairs to the courtyard in my crisp new clothes, the goats were gone and the blood had been cleaned up. A slight lingering smell of death laced the air. That’s the first time I remember smelling blood. 

From my blog posts to date, you know that I eat meat. So, is the reminiscence above simply some indulgent nostalgia or casual hypocrisy on my part? I don't have the answer to this question other than asking you to accept that the memory of the "vanished" goats comes to my mind whenever I think of this Eid, which I've personally missed observing (in the strict ritual sense) by and large for the last 21 years of my adult life.** You see, I had never had the chance and have never allowed myself the chance to become "friendly" with the meat I eat. Certainly, I've never taken the life of any animal that has ever graced my table. Through the powers of imaginative dissimulation, I've kept the meat I eat (specially, during festive occasions that bring together family and friends) scrupulously separate in my mind from the animals I love. Yes, I know -- the mind is a terrible thing to waste on such mundane deceptions. Yet, we are all guilty as charged. However, ethics in general, and food and animal ethics in particular, is hardly a zero-sum game.

I know I'm not alone in experiencing the complicated feelings and emotions that some of us have towards "distanced meat-eating" (i.e., when you eat the flesh of an animal with whom you have zero connection whatsoever). Feelings and emotions that are exacerbated by this particular Eid where our connection to the required ritual slaughter is becoming ever more tenuous. As a Muslim residing in a predominantly non-Muslim country, you can now arrange for your ritual slaughter at the click of a button trusting someone you've never met to ensure that the proper animal is given the mercifully quick and "clean" death that is ritually prescribed.*** 

So, I chose a one-dish vegetarian recipe for this post, which I dedicate to those of you who are with me and even to those who are perturbed by these words and, in particular, to all vegetarians (including, observant Muslim vegetarians). But, mostly, I dedicate this post to the countless animals who provide the enormous bounty of sustenance to us -- to creatures who don't even need this gift to sustain ourselves.

The "deconstructed" part of the title of this post comes from the fractured feelings I have about this particular Eid; about the way I reimagined this dish (a polau or pilaf is cooked together, not separated and brought together in the end as I've done); and the fact that I borrowed from numerous traditions - Afghan, Central Asian, Pakistani, and (arguably, stripped to its barest essentials) Turkish, to come up with my version of this dish. The traditional Afghan Kabuli Polau would likely have minced lamb, which I skipped for reasons that should be obvious if you've read this far. 

Any festival among Muslims, including Qurbani Eid, regardless of its origins and religious import is mostly intended to be celebrated as an occasion to take a day out of your life to spend in the company of family, friends and neighbors and to remember the less fortunate among us. With this in mind, Eid Mubarak (a very happy Eid) to you all!

One final note: Don't be intimidated by the list of ingredients you see below. When you decide to eschew meat, you can't skip on the "fat" and flavors. In cooking, as in life, we're not meant to have it all, so pick our poison, we must. The spice list in this recipe still pales in comparison to the chickpea pilafs served in Ottoman courts, which were said to have small, solid balls of gold hidden among the rice and chickpeas for the unsuspecting but lucky (except for the dental damage suffered) guests;-)

Servings: ~2-4 people (yes, this is for a small Eid dinner for two.)

Prep Time: ~20 minutes (not including overnight presoaking of dried chickpeas)

Cooking Time: ~2 hours

Ingredients: 

• 1 cup dried chickpeas (boil for a few minutes and skim off any grey scum, then soak overnight or for 8 hours in a cool place)
• 2 cups high-quality basmati rice (rinsed)
• 1 yellow onion (thinly sliced)
• 1 inch piece of ginger (chopped fine or crushed to a paste) 
• 5 cloves of garlic (crushed to a paste) 
• 3 black whole cardamoms  
• 1 whole bayleaf
• 1 small whole cinnamon stick
• 1 tablespoon dried or fresh mint (chopped fine)
• 1 teaspoon ground coriander seeds 
• 1 teaspoon ground cumin seeds
• 1 teaspoon cayenne powder 
• 2 teaspoons whole caraway seeds
• 3 whole star anises
• 4 whole cloves
• Half a large carrot or 1 small carrot (slivered) 
• A handful of slivered almonds
• A handful of golden raisins
• 1 small bunch fresh coriander (stems and leaves)
• Orange blossom water (to taste)
• Pinch saffron
• 1 cup milk
• ~1 cup regular cooking oil
• 8 dollops/pats of butter or ghee/clarified butter 
• Little water or vegetarian stock for cooking chickpeas
• Generous amount of water for parboiling rice 
• Salt

Preparation:

Cooking Chickpeas and Making Caramelized Onion Garnish

1. Pour enough of the oil to cover the bottom of a heavy-bottomed saucepan.
2. Fry/caramelize onions (until golden brown taking care not to let it burn to a crisp) in oil over medium to low heat and set aside on a paper towel.
3. Use the same oil to saute the following until fragrant: ginger, garlic, cardamom and bay leaf.
4. Then add the cinnamon, cayenne, ground cumin, ground coriander, anise and cloves, and saute for a couple of minutes or until fragrant.
5. Add chickpeas and a little water or stock to cover.
6. Add coriander stems and the mint.
7. Check and add salt (to taste but generously as the cooking liquid will not be used)
8. Simmer for 20-30 minutes or until tender but slightly al dente.

Cooking Rice

1. Boil a generous amount of water with a good amount of salt in a separate heavy-bottomed, deep saucepan.
2. Add rice.
3. Bring back to a boil, and then boil for exactly 5 minutes.
4. Drain the rice into a colander.
5. Place 3 pats butter/ghee at the bottom of pan.
6. Layer rice with chickpeas (decanted from cooking liquid) and caraway seeds.
7. Add 3 pats of ghee on top.
8. Dissolve saffron threads in warm milk and pour over the rice and chickpea mixture.
9. Steam for 20 minutes with a tightly closed lid.

Making Remaining Garnish

1. Use the remaining ghee to fry the carrots, then almonds and then raisins, each separately. Set each item after frying on a paper towel (you can combine the three items at this stage).
2. When the chickpea rice is done, add fresh coriander leaves, the fried almonds, raisins and carrots, the caramelized onions and orange blossom water before serving.

Serve With:

A simple chopped salad of tomatoes, cucumber, red onions or scallions with a twist of lemon and seasoned with salt and pepper, and a yogurt sauce (raita) prepared with a little garlic, minced cucumber, mint (fresh or dried) and salt.

______________
* This is one of two major religious holidays celebrated by Muslims worldwide. This Eid (Festival) honors the willingness of Ibrahim (Abraham) to sacrifice his young first-born son Ismail (Ishmael) as an act of submission to Allah’s command, before Allah then intervened to provide Ibrahim with a ram to sacrifice instead.
** For the sake of full disclosure, my mother, in performing her ritual obligations during this Eid, designates the required portion of the animal(s) being sacrificed for all members of the immediate family, including me, as has been her custom since we were born.
*** In a classical Islamic sense, the ritual slaughter of livestock animals requires the quick and merciful death of a healthy and wholesome animal with minimal pain and suffering.

The Story of Haleem

Keshkek. Photo by Mir Masud-Elias. Copyright 2013.

When I think of dishes that most typify the kinds of culinary interstices that I'm interested in exploring in this blog, the world traveler of dishes -- Haleem - comes to mind.

The part of me that suffers from "OCD Goldilocks syndrome" (a compulsion to have every component in a pattern be the right size and in proportionate balance with all other components and presented at exactly the right time, not sooner or later, all as determined by me of course), would have liked to have posted about this dish during Ramzan/Ramadan, the month in the Islamic calendar during which day-long fasts are observed. Each day's fast is traditionally broken at sunset and followed by the Iftar meal with a variety of foods that come to be associated with Ramzan, such that certain of these foods are not available for sale or cooked at other times of the year. For Bangladeshis, Haleem is just such an Iftar dish. (Incidentally, Haleem likely originated as a breakfast dish and continues to be served as such in Pakistan, Iran and Turkey.) Despite my compulsive fascination with my own version of "order", this dish -- a shape-shifting constant in the Islamic world -- properly belongs at the earlier mileposts on this culinary journey. Plus, Autumn is coming and cosy stews will make it easier to bid farewell to the long summer days;-)

Shoaib Daniyal, who has conveniently done some research on the history of Haleem, writes in The Sunday Guardian (India) that there is a reference to a meat and wheat porridge called Harissa in the 10th-century Kitab al-Tabikh (The Book of Recipes) -- a collection of recipes from the kitchens of the grand poo bahs of Baghdad -- penned by the Arab scribe Abu Muhammad al-Muzaffar ibn Sayyar.

Today's Haleem is a slow-cooked stew that always includes lentils, meat, wheat and barley and, with regional variations in spicings, is eaten across South Asia, Central Asia and the Middle East. According to Wikipedia, Keshkek is a popular version of Haleem in Anatolia (Turkey), Iran, the Caucasus region and northern Iraq. In the Arab world and in Armenia, Haleem becomes Harissa. Although hard to imagine for a palate like mine that associates meat with savory dishes, a sweet version of Haleem (which is close to the 10th century version according to Daniyal) with sugar, cinnamon and ghee (clarified butter) is eaten in certain places, such as Iran and in Hyderabad, India. Often the stew is pulverized into a paste as is done in the Pakistani version, or the ingredients are cooked until extremely tender but otherwise left whole as in Bangladesh, a version I know and love.*

I tasted the Turkish version of Haleem, Keshkek, for the first (and only) time for breakfast in Amasya, Turkey. It was love at first taste. Not being from either Turkey, Iran or Pakistan, having Haleem for breakfast was an unexpected treat for me and was almost as intriguing as having Haleem at a non-Ramzan time of year in Bangladesh! The heady feeling of having broken some kind of personal culinary rule (like having dessert before the entree), at least for me, brings all kinds of pleasures. So much so that I'm working on convincing my mom to cook an Iftar meal for the two of us the next time we meet (likely outside of Ramzan) to make up for all the Iftars that we've not had a chance to eat together.

I was excited to try my hand at making Keshkek when I returned home! Although I have a few cookbooks of traditional Turkish cuisine, sadly, none of them contained a recipe for Keshkek. When I looked online, the original Keshkek recipe of lamb, wheat berries (or pearl barley), salt, pepper, butter and cinnamon seemed a little underwhelming and not reminiscent of the one I had in Amasya. So, I "reverse engineered" the dish based on my memories of the Amasya Keshkek colored (of course) by my own preferences, while honoring the Turkish spice palate.

If you think these are a lot of words expended on the ultimately humble Haleem, here's what's at stake when Armenians get wind of the Turks claiming Keshkek on their UNESCO Intangible Cultural Heritage List -- a food fight!

Needless to say, this is not a gluten free food, but I'll be trying out a version with rolled oats and rice instead of barley in the near future. Cooked early in the morning (or the evening before), Keshkek would be the perfect dish for a lazy Sunday brunch.

Servings: ~6-8 people

Prep Time: ~20 minutes

Cooking Time: ~3 hours (yeah, no kidding!)

Ingredients: 

• Red lentils - 1 cup (boiled separately in hot water with the grey scum skimmed off and then drained)
• Organic Chickpeas - 1-1/2 cups (I used pre-cooked, canned chickpeas to save on prep. time)
• Organic Chicken (or vegetarian) low-sodium broth - 4 cups
• Pearled or Hulled Barley - 1/2 cup
• Lamb stew meat - 1 lb. (cut into small to medium uneven pieces)
• Garlic - 3 cloves (peeled and crushed)
• Yellow onions - 2 small ones (chopped fine)
• Tomato paste - 2 tablespoons
• Fresh Tomato - 1 whole one (chopped unevenly) 
• Paprika - 2 teaspoons
• Cayenne Pepper - 2 teaspoons (optional)
• Cumin - 2 teaspoons
• Olive oil (with an optional mixture of butter or ghee) - 1/2 cup (or more, if needed)
• Black pepper - 3 teaspoons
• Salt - to taste
• Hot water - as needed
• Dried Mint - 2 tablespoons (available online or at your local Middle Eastern and some South Asian grocery stores)
• Zest of 1 lemon
• Juice of 1/2 lemon
• Fresh mint and (if you'd like a spicy kick) Urfa (Turkish) isot pepper for garnish (the dried, red, round, whole chilies at your local South Asian grocery store may be a good substitute if you grind them up)

Preparation:

1. Heat oil in a heavy-bottomed saucepan or Dutch oven.
2. Add meat and saute until lightly brown. Take the meat out with a slotted spoon and set aside.
3. Saute onions until translucent, then add garlic and saute for a couple of minutes.
4. Add lentils and broth to cover and bring to a boil.
5. Add barley, lamb, tomato paste, tomato, cayenne (if using), the rest of the broth (topping up with hot water to cover as needed). Bring to boil and simmer for 2 hours, checking and adding hot water a little at a time, as needed, and stirring occasionally so that the mixture doesn't stick to the bottom of the pan.
6. After 2 to 2-1/2 hours, check to see if the meat has become tender, and the barley and lentils have softened, and the mixture has started to come to a liquid, porridge-like consistency. If yes, add the pre-cooked chickpeas, salt, cumin, paprika and cook for an additional 20-30 minutes.
7. Taste and adjust the seasonings as needed. Add black pepper. Turn off heat.
8. Add lemon zest, dried mint and lemon juice.
9. Garnish with mint and isot or ground red pepper.

Serve With:

By itself! This is one of of those beautiful one dish meals.

*As an aside, I'm told that some people in Pakistan believe that Khichra (a spiced, slow-cooked rice dish with meat and lentils) is related to Haleem, but it's more likely that Khichra was the Muslim version of Khichri, a South Asian vegetarian dish of lentils and rice, to which meat was added as an ingredient. But, the story of Khichri/Khichuri and its world travels is for another post.

My Chicken Korma

Chicken Korma with Plain Basmati Rice. Photo by Mir Masud-Elias. Copyright 2014.

I love reading, watching and/or learning about how people ate in times before us and eat in places I've not had a chance to visit yet. While this may simply be idle food voyeurism on my part, the food rituals (in its broadest sense to include eating ballpark franks at a baseball game and microwave dinners in front of the TV) of people provide me with an insight (however, incomplete) into their lives. I think of it as snapping a photo of someone when they're not quite yet ready for the shot. You catch them unawares, which is when, perhaps, they are most themselves. Of course, I'm not suggesting that people don't construct and control their stories as active agents through an expression of their food rituals. Far from it! Just that while you may dress and primp for that photo shoot, there is still a moment, however fleeting, when the light cooperates with the photographer's finger on the shutter button to steal a glimpse of you without your conscious awareness. My maternal grandmother who hated being photographed told me in her later years that the camera steals a part of your soul. She was on to something, I think.

What does all this have to do with a recipe for chicken korma? Well, like most people, I sometimes imagine what it would be like to eat a simple yet luxurious dish fit for a queen. Chicken korma, which is a Mughlai* dish from the northern part of the Indian subcontinent and is enjoyed in a variety of forms throughout Bangladesh, Pakistan and India, is exactly such a dish.

Originally, a slow-cooked braised meat dish -- kavurma ("cooked meat" in Turkish) -- the Mughlai version that inspires this recipe -- korma ("braise" in Urdu) -- is a sweet and sour, spiced, braised and wonderfully aromatic meat dish cooked in yogurt. Although this dish is usually prepared with chicken or lamb, a creative vegetarian version would be quite delightful I imagine.

This recipe is inspired by memories of my mother's version (handed down by her own mother) of a chicken korma that comes out a shade of luminously creamy white and sparkles with bursts of taste. The delicacy of touch that my paternal grandmother's version had - pared down to its essential ingredients - is also an inspiration for this recipe. Finally, for technical aspects of executing this recipe, I referred to one of my cooking "bibles" -- the wonderfully comprehensive Ranna, Khaddo, Pushti (Cooking, Food, Nutrition) by the late great Bengali nutritionist, cookbook author and cooking show host - Ms. Siddika Kabir. I stand on the shoulders of great women, my friends.

My version is quite simple with the golden touch of Iranian saffron, but eating it makes me feel like the queen that I am not;-o)

Servings: ~4-6 people

Prep Time: ~20 minutes

Cooking Time: ~60-70 minutes

Ingredients:

• Chicken - 12 pieces of bone-in thighs and legs (skinned and trimmed of any excess fat)
• Olive Oil - 1/2 cup
• Onions (Yellow) - 2 medium sized ones (finely chopped)
• Green Cardamom - 10 whole pods (gently pressed to open the pod)
• Canela (soft Mexican cinnamon) or Cinnamon - 1 large stick or 2 small ones (left in long pieces
• Garlic - 6 cloves (peeled and crushed)
• Ginger - 2/3rd inch piece (peeled and finely chopped)
• Coriander - 3 tablespoons (whole seeds crushed in a repurposed coffee grinder)
• Cayenne Pepper - 1 teaspoon
• Nutmeg - 1-1/2 teaspoons (ground)
• Mace - 1-1/2 teaspoons (ground)
• Saffron (Spanish is okay; Iranian is best) - 1/2 teaspoon
• Plain high-quality nonfat (unsweetened) yogurt - 1 cup (whisked or stirred with a fork to make it smooth and free of lumps)
• Kewra Water (Essence of Screwpine/Pandanus Flower) - 2 tablespoons (available at your local South Asian grocery store or online; this is not an optional ingredient)
• Fresh green chilies (of the Thai bird chili variety available at your local South Asian or Southeast Asian grocery store) - 15-20 (whole with only the stem removed to give the dish a distinctive aroma; it will not make the dish unbearably spicy as the seeds remain inside and one can easily avoid eating the whole peppers)
• Golden Raisins - 1/2 cup
• Fresh lemon - a squeeze or two (if needed)
• Hot water - 2 tablespoons (if needed)
• Salt - to taste
• Ghee or Clarified Butter (I'll only swear by the Bengali kind available at your local Bengali or well-stocked South Asian grocery store) - 1 dollop (optional)
• Slivered almonds - 1/2 cup (optional)

Preparation:

1. Whisk the yogurt and set aside so that it comes up to room temperature.
2. Skin and trim the chicken pieces. Pat them dry and set aside.
3. Heat oil in a heavy-bottomed saucepan or Dutch oven at medium heat.
4. Add the cardamom, canela/cinnamon and onion to the heated oil and saute until the onions become translucent and take on a golden sheen. ~5-7 minutes.
5. Salt the chicken pieces to taste and add to the pan. Saute for ~ 15-20 minutes stirring occasionally, covering the pan and adjusting the heat, as needed, until the chicken releases its juices.
6. Add garlic, ginger, coriander, cayenne, nutmeg and mace. Saute for ~10 minutes stirring occasionally, covering the pan and adjusting the heat, as needed, until most of the liquid released by the onions and the chicken has been absorbed. If the chicken pieces start sticking to the bottom of the pan, cautiously sprinkle a little hot water, but be careful not to add too much liquid.
7. Add the saffron to the yogurt and add to the pan slowly (a little at a time) over low heat to reduce the chances of the yogurt curdling.
8. Cover the pan and simmer on low heat for ~30-40 minutes until the chicken is tender and the oil separates (the dish will take on a sheen). Check and adjust the salt in the last 5 minutes of cooking.
9. In the last couple of minutes of cooking, add the green chilies, and ghee (if using).
10. Turn off the heat and squeeze in a little lemon juice (if needed to adjust the level of sourness). Stir in the kewra water, raisins and slivered almonds (if using).

Serve With: Plain boiled basmati rice and a simple salad of sweet onions, tomatoes, cucumbers and mint tossed in olive oil, lemon, black pepper and salt.


*According to a handy Wikipedia summary, Mughlai cuisine developed in the imperial kitchens of the Muslim Mughal empire, a Chagatai-Turkic dynasty from Central Asia, which ruled the Indian subcontinent from the early 16th century until their slow demise throughout the 18th and 19th centuries.

In the Beginning...

New Beginnings with Old Memories. Photo by Mir Masud-Elias. Copyright 2012.

"Remembrance of things past is not necessarily the remembrance of things as they were."

"...[Increase] me in knowledge."

In the name of lost things that are found again, I begin here because you have to start somewhere.

I started to cook seriously after turning thirty. This was so surprising to my family that it took my mother (a creative and innovative cook) many years to accept this fact. My paternal grandmother (an expert cook with the most delicate of touches) never really did accept this fact before she passed away. (There's a story here of her passing and my cooking, but that's for another day.) I didn't have to cook to feed a family as they both did, and my older sister (the most precise and relaxed of cooks who remembers all my favorite dishes) does, and it was not an interest that evolved from childhood. So, what prompted my interest in cooking?

Like many immigrants, I started out in fits and starts to try to capture some taste of "home" -- a place that existed mostly in my mind and that bore little resemblance to the place I left when I was 17 years old to come here. In recent years, cooking together with my husband (a superb cook with the power to replicate most dishes by taste) acted as a way to unlock each other's memories of times past, and thus, to get to know each other more intimately. Cooking also served as a creative and social outlet during the period in my early to mid-thirties when work was all-consuming. Finally, like my mother, cooking served (and, to some extent, continues to serve) as an unattenuated expression of myself to others.

In my choice of recipes, instead of being comprehensive, I'm afraid that you'll have to put up with some whimsicality. I started out by cooking what I liked to eat or would like to eat. However, my urge to cook what I like to eat isn't necessarily prompted by pure gastronomic pleasure (not that there is anything wrong with that!). I'm curious to cook and learn to cook dishes that tell me stories that I once knew and have forgotten or stories that I never knew and find intriguing.

Most importantly, I'm drawn to dishes that originated in one place and changed form along the way to ending up in another place. I know what you're thinking! It's a metaphor for those of us who (while extremely lucky to have multiple, actual places to call home) feel homeless in the world. One of the advantages to my feeling of uprootedness is that I see common threads in many diverse cuisines in the Islamic world, namely, North Indian (from Bangladesh and Pakistan), Turkish, Persian, Arab, and yes, even Spanish. It is in these interstices (whether real or imagined) that I find the food stories and histories that resonate most with me and that I'm here to share with you.

This food blog/memoir is an exploration of these interstices, one dish at a time, and notes on the journey along the way. This blog is also a tribute to my parents who never discouraged my unflagging curiosity, to my two siblings and one nephew who are the brightest lights in my world, to my grandmothers for their cooking genes, and to the many animals, plants and other creatures of the planet that sustain and enrich our lives and our cuisines. Most importantly, I dedicate this blog to my husband and my mother who've both inspired me to be a better person and a better cook.

(My husband has also agreed to keep my blog typo-free;-))

Thank you for reading. I would love to hear from you, especially if you make one or more of these dishes, have any questions or have stories to share. Finally, all my recipes, unless indicated otherwise, are gluten free.

Eat well. Be well.

Notes:

1. All the text and images in this blog are my own (unless, indicated otherwise, by quotation marks, etc.). Please be courteous and don't use without proper attribution.

2. All meat that I cook and that are featured in this blog is organic, free-range and pastured-raised, whenever possible. It is a core part of my personal philosophy that the animals who give up their lives for my sake live as good a life as possible prior to suffering as good a death as possible.