Seems like everyone I know has been to Jamaica – usually, for a wedding, their honeymoon, or spring break. Or a scary combination of all three. (I shudder to think). While many visitors stick to strolling the soft sands and wading in the clear waters, some seek out other adventures, like ecological river tours, climbing sheer waterfalls, and exploring local museums. While all this sounds fantastic, my stove top Adventure is clear. You see, back when I made the Caribbean Green Seasoning for Guyana, I totally wimped out on the amount of habeneros required. I used 1/4 of a whole habenero, when the recipe called for 6 habeneros. Six. That means I used 1/24th of the recommended heat. Laughable. Thankfully, my friendly readers from Jamaica told me I could redeem myself this week. So, with that in mind, I did some research. Turns out Jamaicans sure do love spicy food. The people are mostly of African descent, but also European, Chinese, and Indian. They eat everything from curries, to puddings, and from stir fried, to deep fried. Still, no …
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THE SCENE Many things about Italian cooking involve family. Sharing. Loud conversations while laughing over nothing. But this is not always the case. For example, I waited an entire week to tell Keith …. a.k.a. Mr Picky … a.k.a. the man with the most hypochondria ever… about the eggs. The raw eggs. In the tiramisu. It was mama’s lil’ family secret all week long. Hear me out – my logic was sound. First of all, I’d made the thing three times. Each time, it became exponentially more fabulous. My friends at the Girl Scouts practically swooned over the second version – I think the word used was “Luscious” – with a capital L. The third version made our friends Alan and Michelle weep. Well, maybe not weep. But eyes did roll. And thirds were administered to already full bellies. Right before bedtime. The night before a 6 am fishing trip. Considering the tirimisu contained enough espresso and rum to jump start an entire marching band, this was a miracle of miracles. Anyway – back to Keith and the …
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This week I can shut my eyes and dream my way to Italy. All I need is to dust my hands with flour, slap around some pasta dough, and fill the house with the scent of steamed artichoke. In an instant, I’m there. Just knowing that I’m making recipes that my family has made for hundreds of years (in some form or another), brings a smile to my face – it’s like a mini vacation from the unknown so common in this adventure. Then, as I watch Ava help me cook and enjoy the food, my heart triples in size because I know – the recipes will live on. What sounds good to you? Homemade Pasta Dough [Recipe] This dough is soft, like a baby’s bottom – made with nothing more than flour, eggs, and a splash of water. The secret is to let it rest before trying to roll it out. That and slapping it around a lot. Seriously. Alfred’s Pork Ravioli [Recipe] Alfred lived to 103. He kept himself young by making these pork ravioli …
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Mom proudly calls the Italian side of our family peasants. The old-fashioned word makes me laugh, but she insists that’s exactly what they were. They weren’t nobility. They weren’t merchants. They were peasants. Farmers, if you will. More specifically, they worked the mushroom fields in Cicagna, Italy – a bumpkin-sized town near Genoa. From what I understand, our family left behind a mountainside villa and acres of mushrooms for a passport to Ellis Island. In their absence, my great-grandparents allowed a family to stay at the villa for free, as long as they worked the fields and shipped mushrooms to them, in United States, every so often. After thirty years without a visit and some political mumbo jumbo, the villa automatically transferred to the renters. Lost. And so, too – decades before I was born – my dream of living in an Italian mountainside villa was lost. Still, mom made sure I was thoroughly steeped in our Italian heritage – going so far as to give me my grandmother, Dorothea’s, maiden name – Foppiano. And what a pretty name …
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THE SCENE Ava wanted nothing to do with the hummus. She shook her head. She closed her eyes. She even yelled “No!!!!” – in case I didn’t get the message. I took a deep breath and calmly said “Ok.” Little did she know, I had a plan. The very next day I whipped out the food processor. “Want to help mama?” I asked, smiling big. “Okay!” she cheered, with big eyes, anticipating a fantastic treat. “Please drop the chickpeas into the food processor,” I said nonchalantly. “Yes” she said, sneaking one before she did so. “Should we add some parsley?” I asked. “Uhuh,” she nodded, her little hand grabbing a fistful and dropping it in. “More?” she asked “Ok! And what about oil?” “Okay!” And on it went. She loved it. In a final flourish, I let her push the button. “BzzzRRRRRRRRRRRaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah” she exclaimed, laughing as the mixture pureed in a smooth dip. I tasted it, adjusted the seasonings, and let her blitz it again. Proudly, I offered her a spoonful. Ava shook her head no. Then, …
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When the storm clouds blot out the sun, do you say: “Hurrah – I love the way rain feels on my face.” When your cup is empty, do you say: “How great to have a cup!” When all you have are a few lemons, do you ask: “Who would like to share a splash of lemonade?” Our week at the Israeli Global Table is a celebration of the delicious treats that can be made out of a surprising few ingredients. Treats fellow food optimists will love. (A Food Optimist is often found to say: Sure I can make something out of that – no problem!) Are you a Food Optimist? What sounds good to you? Lemon-Garlic Hummus [recipe] A highly flavorful hummus, seasoned with fresh lemon juice, garlic, and lots of parsley. As a bonus, this quick recipe comes together in 5 minutes. Shakshouka [recipe] An Israeli breakfast. Eggs poached on top of a tomato pepper sauce. Garnished with plenty of parsley and served with crusty bread. Citrus Salad [recipe] Nothing says Israel like a simple orange and grapefruit …
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Listen up, hipsters. While you can find snow in the mountains of Israel, you’re a lot more likely to find a splash of sunshine and a heavy dose of beautiful Mediterranean summer. In short, Israel has the perfect climate for a smile – especially while floating effortlessly along the dead sea, even if your right foot looks like it is about to fall off. No judgement here, but you might want to get that thing checked out, Mr. Anonymous Newspaper-reading Man. As good as the weather is, things get a little more sour when it comes to the food. Literally. Cover up your paper cuts, friends, because this beautiful country is renowned for her citrus production. Lemons, limes, oranges, and grapefruits all zing their way into the most wonderful juices [recipe], salads [recipe], and treats on the Israeli table. For something a little more tame, try hitting up an Israeli street stand. The most popular street food includes falafel, hummus, and pita. Imagine pulling up your chair to chow down on a pita stuffed with falafel, hummus [recipe], cucumber, tomatoes, and french …
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THE SCENE There she was, sitting on the rickety bus bench, fiddling with her cellphone. As I drove by I looked at her. She was old – ancient, really. Her head, lost under the brim of her giant camo hat, barely came up over the bench she was sitting on. Not quite four feet tall, her tiny frame was lost in a sea of plastic bags – filled with enough food to last her the week. I’ve watched her for the last few years, the way a busy person observes the changing foliage – in regretful passing. I’ve seen the effort it takes her to do her shopping – 6 bags of groceries, 2 cases of soda… crossing four lanes of traffic at rush hour (never at the cross walk; it’s too much of a detour), steadily carrying one bag at a time. She’d carefully place each bag down on the bench, then shuffle back to the other side of the street to get another. As usual, I was headed somewhere when I saw her – to …
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See that moisture in Ava’s hair? Yeah. It’s not dew. The thermometer read 114F yesterday. This is the kind of heat that sticks to your hair – even with the air conditioner on full blast. Considering the conditions (forecast of 116 today!), I desperately wanted to avoid the stove this week. I looked at cookbook after Irish cookbook. Yet, try as I might, there was no way to avoid turning on the stove for our Irish Global Table. We’re talking about a country that eats stews. Roasts. Mashed potatoes. Breads. These warming, hearty meals are the most celebrated Irish dishes. There was no way a salad was going to cut it. We’re going to have to time travel to winter, just for the week. What sounds good to you? Boxty Pancakes [recipe] A day begun with Boxty pancakes is a good day. Despite the name, I’d call this more of an Irish crêpe – loaded with hearty potatoes and tangy buttermilk. Great with butter and chives, just like a baked potato. Brown n’ Oats Soda Bread [recipe] A …
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Collnaharragill Upper, Kerry. Photo by Ian Macnab Ah, Ireland. You caught me off guard. You see, this week I knew to expect the trinity… Potatoes. Guinness. Meat. But, as an Italian-Hungarian-American, the last thing I expected to discover was that my childhood diet often beared a striking resemblance to that of an Irishman. We ate potatoes mashed with carrots and turnips. We ate homemade soda bread [recipe], slathered with soft butter. We even ate roast lamb with mint jelly. Strange. Strange. Strange. I must be part Irish. There is no other possible conclusion. Then again, I have a feeling lots of Americans eat Irish food, especially on the East Coast. Right, Mom….? Truth is, I’d be happy if Ireland was my homeland. She is so pretty. So green and fair. Clearly her nickname, the Emerald Isle, was well earned. Yes. Her beauty is fresh; whenever I think of her I want to frolic and laugh and dance over the vibrant hills. What can I say – she brings out the child in me. A word about potatoes Know for her love of …
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THE SCENE Mom smeared the cream cheese onto the shiny black date and offered it to me. I looked up at her, the way only a stubborn seven year-old can, and shook my head slowly. “Try it, you’ll like it,” she urged, popping one in her mouth herself. It looks like a roach, I thought. I watched her chew. “When is dinner?” “Not for a few more hours,” she replied. I wouldn’t budge. There was no way I was going to eat the cream cheese date. My stomach growled. I chewed my nails. I drank some water. Ten long minutes later, I caved. It was sweet. Too sweet. Leathery on the outside, creamy in the center. Roachy, roachy, roachy. I shuddered, barely swallowing what I had in my mouth before putting the rest back down on the plate. “No thank you.” I whispered and never ate another date again. Not, that is, until this week, during our Iraqi Global Table. The glorious, long-standing history of Pistachio Date balls were too fantastic to pass up. When I …
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As far as I’m concerned, the best – and quite possibly the only way to time travel is to cook. Reading gets us only partway there – we dream ourselves into other times, other lands. But they remain just that – dreams. Visiting ruins gets us a little closer. But, at the end of the day, ruins are simply ruins – fragments of the splendor that what once was. But, when it comes to cooking food from ancient times? Instant time travel. In my mouth. When I cook I am potentially eating exactly what someone long ago ate. I can shut my eyes and focus in on the beautiful flavors of that time and place. I might as well be there. Want to join me? Let’s do it. Introducing date balls. One of the world’s earliest treats. Fit enough for a king. The most amazing thing about Date Balls is exactly how long they’ve been around. You’ll find them in Iraq today, but you also would have found them in ancient Babylon, when they were called Mersu. …
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