A Partner in the Kitchen & a Smoked Herring Salad

My kitchen was an empty place - one that was mine alone and while I enjoyed it for a long while, it was becoming lonely. M then stepped in with his booming voice and his adventurous palate, bringing back the excitement. I began to realize that maybe I needed to watch someone start from the beginning again - to test out flavors that worked or didn't, to read about ingredients with an eagerness that had fallen into a semi-slumber inside of me.  Maybe what I needed now was a partner in the kitchen; one who would challenge me, push me to try techniques I was being lazy about. So here's M's first recipe on Buttered-Up - a recipe that I genuinely love and can eat over and over and over again, especially when he's sitting right beside me with his mouth full; when we're grinning at each other and at all of those flavors popping in our mouths.

Smoked Herring Salad
You'll need:
250 grams of smoked herring fillet
1 large red onion, thinly sliced
3 scallions, thinly sliced
1/2-1 teaspoon of chili powder, depending on your tolerance
Zest of one lime
75 grams of fresh coriander, chopped
Juice of 1 lime
1/4 cup of olive oil
1/2 teaspoon of black pepper
salt to taste

Slice the smoked herring fillets into bite-sized pieces. In a bowl, mix together the red onions, scallions, lime zest, lime, chili powder, olive oil, black, pepper & salt. Add the sliced smoked herring and fresh coriander then toss together gently. Serve by first plating the fish mixture then pouring on the remainder of the dressing.  

Chef's Table: A Night for Everyone

Apologies for the photos. Low light. It should still give you a general feel.

Alfonse and Fares: two of whom many will fail to remember but a most pleasant experience did they provide at this month’s Chef’s Table, the third installment of the pop-up event now held every month at Cellardoor Bistro in the narrow streets of Maadi. Tending to our shallow desires and our relatively generous wallets, these men, our waiters for the night, worked tirelessly to be remarkably courteous, bringing the different courses, one after the other on time, after a few leisurely sips of an ordered drink.   

Our table was a reunion of sorts and a meeting of new kindred spirits: old high school friends, work colleagues and newspaper editors. Every dish presented to the table brought about conversations:  childhood memories of mom’s cooking, scouting out Egyptian food on business trips in places as far as Hong Kong and stories of Puerto Rican sofrito, a base seasoning sauce, dominating the bulk of Puerto Rico’s dishes and giving them an aromatic punch.

Pumpkin soup was ladled carefully into their small containers and arrived hot with notes of orange and a sweet musky lift from the nutty brown butter and toasted pumpernickel croutons. All that was needed, a fireplace. Immediately after came a salad, a faraway relative of the classic Waldorf with pleasing autumn colors and complementary elements - beautiful beetroot and a considerate helping of walnuts, bobbles of blanched and peeled cherry tomatoes, consistent slices of almost transparent rounds of radish, batons of tart green apples, piquant rocket leaves and blue cheese; a flashier version of an everyday salad that new attendees would feel at ease with. A cumin focaccia crostini was served alongside this crowd-pleaser and although full of flavor, it retained some moisture and did not deliver on the crunch.    

A trio of tacos came next, propped up against a dainty stand with individually hand drawn designs. Interestingly, most went first for the vegetarian moussaka taco. Layered lentils and cubed aubergine were served at room temperature and were governed by the crumbled feta; a little dry as was the sea bass ceviche taco, they both could have benefitted from a little less restraint and a heavier hand as per the respective regions of those dishes.

As a separate ceviche away from the tortilla, it was delicate and sweet. After completing the first two, the brave tried to comfort those whose fear of consuming an animal’s tongue was troubling them. The beef tongue taco stood ominously, piled high but was seasoned well, tender and layered with flavors of a familiar taco. The hero on the plate making it all meld was the guacamole, chunky but creamy and especially fresh.  

Fourth was the the “White, Pink and Gold” with several components: an Old Bay belly of salmon with a roasted pepper ratatouille that far surpassed the salmon served at the first Chef’s Table; a simple sea bass, soft and barely opaque, perched atop a small mound of fava beans adding much needed texture; and tempura crayfish tails with a brilliant bright green dill oil and a mild red pepper aioli. I would have preferred a lighter batter but would still snack on a plate of these again.  

Next arrived one of my favorites of the night - what Chefs Ayman Samir, Wesam Masoud and Moustafa El Refaey named “Banzai!”, a quick shot composed of both fresh and pickled ginger, balanced with citrus and a swirl of greek yogurt, this clever palate cleanser takes me back to my short years in Kuala Lumpur and the fusions in food that I experienced there.

The main was unexpected - an oxtail faggot with crushed peas that represented classic British fare, slow roasted leg of goat with a berry demi-glace flaunting its French and Moroccan accents, a potato terrine and a caramelized carrot purée dotted with pickled pearl onions - but despite the few glitches on my plate, a bit of unrendered fat and underseasoned potatoes, I admired the insistence of the chefs to introduce their audience to the nose to tail eating concept, starting with the beef tongue enjoyed earlier and ending with these bold flavors to nudge the timid palates at the bistro that night.   

Dessert was a chilled soup of sour cherry and amaretto, vanilla ice cream with a pinch of fleur de sel and chocolate covered dehydrated beef bacon that had people holding it up to the light, perplexed by a concept new to Cairo. Ending on a light note, the chefs wrapped up the night with complex flavors.

Favoring a quick chat with the chefs post-dégustation, I realize that Chef Ayman  Samir has not slept the night before, Chef Wesam Masoud is down with a flu but has managed to pull through and Chef Moustafa El Refaey with the inner excitement of the arrival of his recent newborn is hiding away from the diners’ eyes, working to finish off his night on a high note and go home. This is achievement: three men working with their teams to provide Cairo with a contemporary outlook on food while maintaining a sense of comfort. Ayman Samir cinched the night after all was done, “This was meant to be a night for everyone.”      

Browned Orzo Pudding

“Chili sauce? But where’s the ketchup?” I huffed and puffed at my bag of artery-blocking fries, limp after their trip to me on the back of a motorbike. Only having started to eat ketchup recently, I could not understand why my new home at the time, Kuala Lumpur, was not delivering on my need to fit into the ketchup-dunking French fry-eating globalized world of 2008. Surely I could not yet be expected to accustom my tongue to rojak (a mixture of fruit and a zingy shrimp paste dressing) when I was still so fresh off the Boeing.

When I ordered what I like to call the Cholesterol Special, I expected a thick double cheeseburger and fries with a side of the all-important pseudoplastic ketchup. No sweet chili sauces lay seductively in my fantasies and no downsized buns; but reality put them both in my path along with fried chicken that had none of the classic MSG-laden peppery KFC flavor. Instead, they were pushing something called “Tom Yum Crunch” for a limited time only that seemed to last for a lifetime and which was similar on your tongue to Chipsy’s unpleasant chili-lime flavor, industrial and heavy.

Now, let’s dismiss the fact that I was indulging in disgustingly corporate fast food in the largest of sizes, and in its place focus on the customization of fast food chains. Why couldn’t I find what I was looking for at a chain that was supposed to offer me the same product worldwide?

In my annoyance as a customer, I forgot about my background in advertising and that these corporations were willing to shake off some of their roots to embrace new cuisines thus achieving “market penetration” via bizarre offerings like the McArabia in the Middle East and the McSatay in Indonesia. It wasn’t their fault. I was just in the wrong “me” society — one that demands of companies to tailor their products to the culture to survive and dominate. I felt completely left out.

As featured in The Egypt Monocle

Amidst rethinking my relationship with ketchup and my taking it for granted at my neighborhood McDonald’s, I decided that I would teach myself to eat better, leap into the food culture that was presented to me and to eventually customize our own Egyptian recipes to tame, reinterpret or enhance the flavors for my Southeast Asian dinner guests.

This lasted a while and out of it came a remodeled koshari pasta dish without the added heaviness of the rice, a fillet of sole en papillote with dukkah, a brûléed lemon mehalabia and poached pears in spiced karkadeh among other things; but then it stopped and I became corporate, uniform, bland.

I took the easy way out: pesto pastas and brownie variations; recipes that you could easily find elsewhere; food that despite enjoying never became “me”. Like those fast food corporations, I did as I chose until I gained approval and found demand for ease, convenience and comfort.

So I’m slacking no longer, at least for as long as it lasts. I’m shaking up those old recipes I’m bored of and I’ll try not to be much of the staunch traditionalist that I’ve gradually become. I’ve already managed to embrace all the sweet chili sauces that have been thrown my way and will watch out for international interpretations of local favorites. Zooba in Zamalek has been doing it for a bit now and it’s about time we begin to experiment with what we’ve got, using the influx of new ingredients on the Egyptian market.

Browned Orzo Pudding

(Makes 4 small or 2 medium sized servings)
You’ll need:
½ cup of orzo
1 tablespoon of ghee
1½ cup of milk
¼ cup of sugar
3 large grains of mastic, crushed
½ a teaspoon of ground cloves
Zest of ¼ of an orange
1 heaped teaspoon of cornstarch + 3 tablespoons of cold water

In a medium-sized pot, melt the ghee on medium heat. When hot, add the orzo and fry in the ghee, stirring constantly until golden brown. Add the milk and bring to a gentle boil then turn your heat down, add the mastic, clove and orange zest then leave to simmer for around 7 minutes. Add the sugar and stir to incorporate. In a small bowl, add the cornstarch to the cold water and stir to dissolve. Pour your cornstarch mixture into the pot and again, stir to combine. Leave to cook for another 3 minutes or until the orzo is cooked through and al dente. The pudding should start to hold on the spoon. Pour into individual bowls and serve warm or refrigerate for at least an hour then serve cold.

Kahk for a guest post

Yasmeen over at Wandering Spice had asked me to guest post for her while she was busy getting married. For this post, she asked me to focus on Middle Eastern dishes or ones that were wedding-related. I chose both and used a simple enough recipe for Kahk, an Egyptian biscuit/cookie that's dusted in powdered sugar and is a symbol of celebration in our big, beautiful country. For the recipe, please visit Yasmeen's blog. 

On voting and sausages

As featured in The Daily News Egypt

There is no greater way to describe how I feel after voting other than that I feel like an idiot.

Did I know any of these people I voted for? No. Had I even heard of them before? No. Could I find any decent reading material about what these people are trying to bring closer to me? No. All I knew was as follows:

All the aunties and uncles were telling me to vote for specific people. It didn’t matter who they were, what they were doing or how they made their money — “Just go and vote! Trust me, we don’t want the people who’ll put the veil on us!” Fear and agitation filled many living rooms I’d visit.

My mom’s housekeeper of 20 years instead voted for the people that have helped her area for several years by providing them with sugar, rice and everyday necessities. My mother-in-law’s housekeeper voted for the people who had the longest history and were “organized enough to do something with this country.” Different reasons, same vote.

All that was asked of me by other people was to remember symbols. That’s how you’d find them on the list. Some of the most educated people in this country had resorted to picking out “trusted” symbols, spreading the message from one social circle to the next; and depending on which social circles you belonged to, the symbol you were to vote for would reach you by word of mouth.

This was the absurd subliminal message being sent my way: if you vote for those who use kitchen appliances as symbols they’re more likely to force you to cover up but if you vote for those with hardware tools, they’ll probably try to fix the economy.

Entering the polling station, a man leering over me grinned upon seeing my first tick and immediately pointed out where my next tick would be. He assumed that from the way I look, I would naturally be voting this way. How disappointing that we have all become stereotypes to one another.

Despite feeling like an imbecile, I walked out happy to embrace the sights and smells of a winter morning in my beloved Cairo, a morning so sunny and bright with a spirited breeze trying to weave itself through my tightly-bunned hair. The man calling out on a megaphone that four satchels of garlic are for LE 10 behind two younger boys carrying warm baladi bread, an elderly lady peddling socks in front of a store stacked with jars of golden honey, the Ministry of Agriculture’s outlets lined up for unaware consumers to buy the unaware farmers’ produce — all reminding me of how delicately balanced this country is, holding on to hope and ever-creating chaotic beauty in such coarseness. How will we ever organize this country and if we do, will we lose our charm?

In times of confusion, it’s comforting to turn to food, especially a dish so with one on the street. Asked over and over by the adults that act like adults in our family to refrain from midnight runs to get street food, I chose to pick up fresh Egyptian sogo’, or sausage, this time and conjure up a recipe as close to the fiery sogo’ sold at places that should place a warning sign on the door.

If you too are being nagged about devouring mystery meat in the street, invite your friends over for a pseudo-street-food party. If you’re lucky, someone will bring in the real stuff and rave about your recipe while your gorge on their street-bought oil-drenched deliciousness.

Fiery Egyptian Sausage

You'll need:
500 grams of Egyptian sausage
½ a tablespoon of ghee
1 clove of garlic, minced
1 medium red onion, finely diced
2 teaspoons of tomato paste
2 cups of water
1 squirt of lemon juice
1 large yellow pepper, finely diced
1 teaspoon of cumin powder
½ teaspoon of cinnamon powder
½ teaspoon of chili powder
1-2 medium red chili peppers, thinly sliced
1 handful of parsley, chopped

Begin by separating the sausage links. In a large pan, heat the ghee on high heat and sear the sausage for 3 minutes until browned. Remove and set aside. Lower to medium heat and using the same pan, add the onions, yellow pepper, chilli peppers and stir to release flavor. Add the cinnamon, cumin and chilli powder to the mixture and allow to cook for a minute. Spoon in the tomato paste and cook off for 30 seconds to break the acidity. Add the water and bring your sauce to a rapid boil. Add the sausage back into the sauce, reduce the heat, add the lemon juice and allow to simmer gently until the sauce is reduced by half. This should take about 20 minutes. Garnish with parsley. Serve hot with warm baladi bread to scoop up the sauce.

Half-browned rice - a family tradition

Special to The Daily News Egypt
When my mother is in the kitchen, she likes to talk about my grandmother; I don't think she realizes that it has become a pattern. As she stirs, today a creamy mushroom soup, tomorrow some strawberry jam thickening on the stove, she remembers her own mother's hands, how they tailored dainty dresses and kneaded soft and supple biscuit dough.

My mother-in-law skims her freshly chopped molokheyya soup as it simmers, the same method used to skim greasy fat rising to the top of a bubbling chicken stock. She does it out of tradition, a custom that was never intentionally passed on by her mother but viewed through the eyes of growing children who would one day instinctively emulate what they once saw long ago. She retells stories of her mother, a refined woman from the city traveling through the countryside in the 1930s with her doctor-husband and eight children in the making, and of how she would awake early and trundle out to cook the day's meals thus eliminating the smell of cooking in the house if she were to receive visitors later in the afternoon or how she would exercise her fingers on the piano or listen to the radio as she sewed on her treasured sewing machine every morning.

My newly married sister has picked up on preparing food beforehand and freezing it for a later date in the same fashion that my mother continues to do today. I have a feeling that she will always have homemade burgers on hand and will offer them up readily to the hungry stomachs that visit.

A close friend insists that the only way, her mother's and grandmother's way, to make goulash, a savory beef and phyllo pie, is without a trace of tomatoes and a healthy dose of beaten egg and milk; another friend explains that it can only be made with stock to give it a crunchy base like that of the one she grew up with and a rich tomato sauce to complement the ground beef filling. This is the way of tradition and preserving identity.

We are constantly shaping the way our traditions look for future generations. I wonder if our children and grandchildren will know half of what we today are learning from the generations that grew up in an Egypt that they wanted to remember. Will we too pass on these same traditions or are we forgetting our heritage? Why is it that when I talk about Egyptian food, many Egyptians insist on notifying me that there is no such thing as Egyptian food?

What of Upper Egypt's sun bread known as “shamsi bread” that is left to rise in the sun and is baked today in a method that dates back to the ancient Egyptians? What of Egyptian desert truffles known as “terfas” rumored to be created by a magical lightning bolt and also highly appreciated in ancient Egypt? How many Egyptians begin to preserve their leftover fruit in jars of jam or pickle their vegetables for the winter?

No longer do many of us know our own history away from the wars and military achievements.

While countries everywhere embrace the little that they have been blessed with, the relationships they have formed or the cultures they have cultivated, we continue to run to the French and Lebanese for inspiration, the Gulf for religion or live forever trying to find ourselves like the Americans on television.

Even today, many of us are looking toward Malaysia in hope that maybe we could become “like them.” Malaysia has now officially banned protests and political marches, its Muslims cannot enjoy a glass of wine in public without being monitored or arrested by plain-clothed police and the differentiation between the three Main Malaysian races — Malay, Chinese and Indian — is clear to anyone willing to question bravely. When did we become tired of our own fertile ground?

Today, take a look around you and learn from an Egyptian that knows more about a facet of Egypt than you. Disregard the political parties you don't agree with for a moment, turn a blind eye to the unknown future and take note of a tradition from our past. This recipe belongs to my grandmother who used to feed me chicken soup and boiled chicken for the first years of my life believing that it was the way to true health. Introduced to me by my mother, it has become part of my home as well and has found a place in my husband's heart.

Egyptian Half-Browned Rice
You'll need:
1 cup of short-grain rice
1 ¾ cups of water
1 ½ tablespoons of ghee
Salt to taste

Begin by rinsing the rice in a sieve. After draining, separate the rice into two equal halves. Place a pot on medium heat. Add the ghee and wait for it to melt and ripple. Add half of the rice to the ghee and mix together with a heatproof spoon. At first, the rice will stick together and seem like it won't come undone. Continue to mix. Gradually, the rice grains will start to break apart to form the loose grains they were at first. Keep stirring the rice for 2 minutes. It will begin to turn a light gold color. Continue to stir until it reaches a deep golden shade. Once you have reached the desired color, add the second half of the rice. Mix to combine both and add 2 cups of water. Bring the water to a quick boil and reduce the heat to a low flame. Cover the pot and leave to cook undisturbed for 15 minutes. Uncover the pot, taste to test the grain of rice. If it remains resistant, cook for another 3-5 minutes. Serve hot.

A letter to Karkadeh, my sweet hibiscus tea.

Dear Karkadeh,

Did you know that they call you Bunga Raya in Malaysia and that you're their national flower? I think it's a different kind of hibiscus flower though. Still, it sounds a little obscene to me but then again, karkadeh might sound just as indecent to them. Your street name, as you know, is Roselle while your birth name is Hibiscus Sabdariffa. Sorry to break it to you this way. Regardless, I'm glad that the Egyptian you decided to travel all the way from Egypt this year to spend the holy month of Ramadan with us. I know we're a lot quieter than what you're used to - what with the entertainment-driven Cairene Ramadan tents where you get to spend night after night in the hands of beautiful and not so beautiful ladies equally preening and ready to be as unholy in a holy month as possible. If you're being naughty and I suspect that you will be (be naughty for me - since I'll be fasting and won't be as naughty), you'll spill some of your self to stain them forever with your sweet purple dye. I know that you've been subjected to humiliation before in Malaysia when you were asked to be diluted - they didn't mean it, they're just not used to how sweet you can be and sometimes that intimidates them. I'm sorry that I offered you to them - they did not appreciate you for the shining star that you are. This year, I promise to use you in more than one way. I shall not only drink you for you are worthy of more attention than what you are given. And best of all, you will not have to share our home with Amar-el-din, that orange-spray-tan-like apricot juicy tart. I'm sorry I said tart. I'll be trying to curb my tongue from now on. Anyway, I'm glad you're visiting. I'm excited to be spending a lot of time with you. Until you meet my lips again, good night. 

Warm fuzzy feelings your way,

Sarah 

P.S. I painted that swirly designed stool in the last photo. 

Egyptian Karkadeh (Sweet Hibiscus Tea):

You'll need: 

2 scant cups of dry hibiscus flowers 

10 cups of water

3/4 to 1 cup of sugar (depending on your preferred sweetness)

Rinse the dry hibiscus flowers lightly and place in a large pot over high heat. Pour the water, stir, and allow to boil for 5-7 minutes. Lower the heat, add the sugar and stir until it has dissolved. Allow it to simmer for 40-45 minutes, stirring every now and then. Give it time to cool when you're done then strain it three times to get it as clear as possible. Place in your bottle or jug of choice and refrigerate. 

Serve with or without ice. Drink. Get a sugar rush.

Tom Yum Goong - The Egyptian Way

Here's my new column for The Daily News Egypt.

My husband relocated to Malaysia a few months before I did. While I was busy boxing up what little we had made of our first makeshift home and saying my weepy goodbyes to Cairo, he was getting acquainted with Kuala Lumpur, what was to be our new home and what is often highlighted as a honeymoon destination.

By the time I arrived, Husband had developed an affinity to the scandalously hot Thai soup, Tom Yum Goong, or as he liked to call it, “Yum Yum soup.” Being a lifelong soup lover, I became excited at the prospect of finding this magical soup around every corner of Kuala Lumpur.

What I couldn't understand was why he, who generally looked down on soup, had suddenly become enthralled with that particular combination of flavors lying in a pool of steaming orange water. That was until I had it myself, in its true form, the way it is prepared for beggars and kings alike, with its fiery goodness defying the humid heat of Kuala Lumpur.

Combining the elements of Thai cooking this spicy, sour, and salty but sweet soup, pungent with fresh aromatics and savory depth, came alive with the final lashings of limejuice. Considering the abundance of Tom Yum Goong I consumed, I rapidly started understanding the delicate balance of flavors. It became instinctive; you would know the minute an ingredient was lacking. Was it the chili powder? Did they use fresh shrimp stock? Are those canned mushrooms?

One sip, my nose runs. Second sip, my eyes water. Third sip, this is child's play, I think. I'm half Indian and I'll continue to hydrate myself with the spiciest of liquids consumed in Asia. Who knows? Establishments serving the soup might be overtaken by neighboring fast food chains sooner than we think.

It took me three years in Malaysia to gather up the courage to make it. I prepared all of the ingredients carefully and operated as though I was being tested. If I failed, the disappointment would be great. Little did I realize that it was in fact quite a simple dish in need of a little attention and a mouth that constantly tastes to find the answer to the equation.

This week, I found myself trapped by a storm at home with fresh prawn, a craving for Tom Yum Goong, and a lack of fresh Thai herbs. After finding a great recipe, taking the tom yum jump and succeeding at recreating it at home a month ago, I decided to try the method out using flavors that were more particularly Egyptian. If it goes horribly wrong I thought and I can’t get the salty, sweet, sour, spicy combination right then I’ll call it something else, won’t tell anyone and eat it anyway.

It worked! Yes I’m as surprised as you are. It all boils down to the fundamentals of a cuisine and in this instance, Thai. I don’t have magic in my fingers and my skills are not gasp-worthy. Not at all. The sweetness came from the aromatics, the peppers and the prawn, the spiciness from the fresh ground chili, the sourness from the tomato paste and lime juice and the saltiness from the salt and accompanying spices. In essence, you’re just tossing it all into a pot and watching the magic unfold from a simple simmer. Use as much chili as you can handle. Live a little.

Beginners' Egyptian Tom Yum Goong

1 kg of medium-sized prawn, deveined
1 medium green pepper, diced
1 medium red pepper, diced
2 medium onions, finely sliced.
½ a cup of chopped celery
2½ teaspoons of ground cumin
1 teaspoon of ground coriander
salt/pepper to taste
2 heaped tablespoons of tomato paste
2.5 cups of shrimp stock or water
3 bird's eye chili, sliced (Feel free to increase the amount of chili.)
½ teaspoon of chili powder (I used 1 teaspoon)
Juice of 1 large lime
A handful of chopped parsley, to garnish

You can make this on the stove for a quicker meal but I prefer the richness that it develops in the oven if I have the time. Place the peppers, onions, celery, and sliced chili into a deep oven-proof dish. Add the ground cumin, coriander and chili powder then season with salt and pepper. Mix together until the spices coat everything evenly.

In a separate bowl, Add the tomato paste to 2 cups of freshly boiled shrimp stock or water and stir until the paste dissolves. Pour the prepared liquid onto your vegetable mixture and cover. Place in a preheated oven of 200 degrees Celsius for 30 minutes. Lower the heat to 180 degrees Celsius, remove the lid and allow to simmer in the enclosed heat for another 20 minutes.

Remove from the oven, add the lime juice then the prawn. Make sure it is immersed in the soup. Return to the oven and continue to simmer for another 20 minutes. Garnish with chopped parsley. Serve in a bowl with a side of rice or crusty bread.

Tirmis on My Terms

Dear Tirmis,
I hope you don't mind if I call you Tirmis. You see, I can't seem to take you seriously when they call you "Lupini Bean". In fact, I didn't know that Lupini was your other name until after I got married which was over 3 years ago. (Thanks for not coming to the wedding, by the way.) Let's go back in time. Remember when we were kids? I would call out to you from my bedroom window, "Tiiirrrmiiiisss!" but to my disappointment, you didn't always come running home. You hung out downtown by the Nile instead. I don't get why you would never come over. Don't you know that mommy cooks everything she finds in her house with equal love and care? Why didn't you jump into the shopping cart at the grocery store? Why didn't you hide in the cupboard until she found you and got so bored of seeing you that she made you? Couldn't you see my love for you? Couldn't you feel my yearning, my longing, my need to run up to the hand-drawn tirmis cart on the street and let Tirmis Man give me a paper cone full of yellow you? According to Mommy, Tirmis Man who sold you wasn't very clean and neither was his cart so in turn, you weren't either. I couldn't meet you on the street like other kids either. No siree, not me. Especially after my cousin's husband entertained us with a story about how the people who prepare you by the Nile supposedly pee on you to get rid of your bitterness and add that extra saltiness we collectively crave as Egyptians. I couldn't have you at home because you refused to come over AND I couldn't buy you from the supposedly unclean Tirmis Man. The only times I got to have you were when we went out to a proper establishment where they would dump you, tirmis, on the table in hopes that maybe we'd buy more drinks to get more termis. [You should thank me because by now, I've said your name so many times that everyone foreign to Egypt knows your Egyptian name.] So Tirmis... Essmat, my friend, is leaving back to Cairo where you're casually hanging by Tahrir Square and she had some of you left in her kitchen in Malaysia because you managed to jump into her shopping cart here so she gave you to me and now you are under my mercy, all 500 grams of you. Serves you right for avoiding me for 26 years. Enjoy being soaked and boiled - our torturous version of waterboarding. After all, we've got to get rid of your bitter edge. 
      
Cackling and Callousness,
Termis-Deprived


Egyptian Termis (Lupini Beans)
You'll need:
250 grams of lupini beans
The juice of 1 lime
1 teaspoon of ground cumin
salt to taste

[After being soaked for a day.]

Lupini beans are very bitter. They must be boiled and soaked in several changes of water for several days. They're eaten by biting the seed to press the flesh into the mouth and then discarding the skin. Soak the lupini beans for 24 hours and drain the next day. Fill a pot with water and add the beans. Bring to a boil then leave to simmer until the bean is soft but firm. Drain again and add to salter water. Continue to change the salted water until the bitterness subsides. To serve, add the beans to a serving dish, add the lime juice and the cumin and mix through. 

Vermicelli and a Tuesday Letter

Dear Anonymous,

You made me laugh this morning by leaving this comment (which I will approve and won't shy away from) on my previous post about microwave cake: "this cake is horrible. not only does it taste like a chicken poop, but it burnt my boyfriends tongue... now we're going to the hospital...THANKS! NOT RECOMMENDED 0/100" 

Now, Anonymous, really? No constructive criticism? No punctuation and rude too? Tsk, tsk. I see why you're so afraid of this world. I wonder though, will you ever learn to leave your name when you leave a nasty comment? Or are you talking to strangers behind your mommy's back and prefer she not know? Nevertheless, I will continue to write this letter to you because your commenting skills need some work and someone has to address them.


First off, I didn't know my cake tasted of chicken poop. In fact, I've never had chicken poop in my life. [Hmm. I wonder if Andrew Zimmern has tasted chicken poop.] But no, you're not saying it tasted like chicken poop alone but "a chicken poop". I take it you were out one day, found a chicken and popped a single serving of its pebble poop into your mouth. Sort of like a Pringle or even better, a chocolate ball of some sort, Maltesers maybe? I hope that single serving of yours served you well. I'm guessing chicken poop is an acquired taste. Maybe if you indulge a little more, you'll get accustomed to it and life won't be so bad.  

Now about your boyfriend's tongue. You should be happy that he now has a burnt tongue. After all, do you really want to go there with the chicken poop flavor still lingering and all? Do you? I'm also a little befuddled. Could it be true that your boyfriend was never informed that cutlery, when immersed into something hot, becomes hot itself? You know, like your soup spoon if left for too long because heat travels? Could he not tell when he came close to the spoon that it would be hot? It just came out of the microwave. It just came out of the microwave. It just came out of the microwave. Do I need to say it again? 

Thanks for rating me 0/100 too. I didn't know that a microwave cake could actually have so many facets to it that it needed to be scored out of a 100. I also want to thank you for giving me content to blog about today; I really don't know what I would be babbling on about if it weren't for you. So again, dear Anonymous, learn to leave your name for you have nothing to be ashamed of and if something went wrong with the recipe, you could have asked and we could have worked through it together if you were having trouble but regardless of all that, I genuinely hope you're eating something better than chicken poop right now (save it for fertilizer please) and that your boyfriend will learn that cutlery gets hot. Cheers!  

Love and lots of microwave cakes, 

She who knows no chicken poop 

Now that I've gotten that out of the way, here's a recipe for Egyptian Vermicelli. Back home, you can buy vermicelli, pre-broken up, as our collective demand for it is in that form. Despite finding it a hassle to sit and snap vermicelli abroad, there are times when I find myself craving the simple flavors of "Sha'reyya" (Egypt's name for Vermicelli). At other times, you just need to be transported back to a carefree moment in your childhood where people cooked you yummy food before telling you to go study.

This recipe doesn't require much. In terms of ingredients, it's as simple as it gets. The star of the show is really the ghee. You could substitute with vegetable oil but it's no match. The main thing you have to remember is to take your time browning the vermicelli. Don't rush through it. You'll end up with quite an uneven color and you'll risk scorching it. Following the absorption method, you'll be saving yourself the hassle of draining it and it'll retain that beautiful smell.

Egyptian Vermicelli (Sha'reyya)

500 grams of vermicelli

1 full tablespoon of ghee

2 cups water

salt to taste

Break up your vermicelli into small equal bits and fry in ghee until it reaches a golden brown color. Add the water and salt and bring to a boil. When the water is almost absorbed, lower your heat and continue to cook until done (al dente).

Serve. This is usually served as a side dish. I'm a big fan of eating it with nothing else but that doesn't fly in most Egyptian households.