Samosa, Sambusak

As featured in The Egypt Monocle

Thinking back, samosas may have been the first food to confuse me, a never-ending love affair that was tedious to understand. Never knowing what I should call them when chatting with people hailing from different places, never understanding just what were to go in them, I went on a mental hunt quite early on in life to find out just what a samosa was.

Stuffed with curried potatoes and peas then folded into tight triangles, these were the samosa I was first acquainted with. Popping them straight onto my tongue from the bubbling oil without a second thought would have me letting off the steam with my gaping mouth between grins and greasy stained fingers from the turmeric stirred into this magic mix. These were general fixtures in my Indian grandmother’s house served with a side of mint chutney and later, dominated Ramadan as a simple accompaniment to soup in my Egyptian mother’s home.

At many oriental iftar buffets and at homes of friends from the Levant, I’d spot these little lovelies, shiny skinned and crisp to the tooth, next to others — soft half moons and the doughy tetrahedrons, sported in many contrasting pastry crusts and fleshy fillings to suit the various cravings of those breaking their fast. If I had given in to my whims, I don’t think I would have eaten anything during Ramadan but fat stacks of these Indian-influenced vegetable samosas and Lebanese crescent-shaped sambusak, filled with ground beef and made lively with pine nuts. In fact, I enjoy these pastries, Asian and Middle Eastern alike, so much that I would probably eat them in secret and in defiance if the Middle East decided to adopt Somali group Al Shabaab’s fatwa banning samosas that, according to them, are too western and resemble the Christian Holy Trinity.

Believed to have originated in Central Asia before the 10th century, the Uzbeks still call it somsa, similar to its original name, samsa. The Iranians, as my friend in Malaysia introduced me, call them sambusa these days, but were once recorded in Persian history as “sanbosag”. Similar to the pasties that were eaten by tin miners in Cornwall for their easy handling, samosas were also thought to be injected into Indian culture by the Muslim traders and soldiers who carried them in saddlebags on long journeys after preparing them, many at a time, during their rest stops.

This is a simple recipe, given that you’re fine with the heat of frying. In essence, all you need to do is begin preparing early, make large quantities at a time and freeze them in between layers of baking paper to avoid them sticking to one another as they love to do. There are recipes for all kinds of dough and the filling may be used to stuff your own homemade dough. I chose the easy way out with these store-bought wrappers because I can use Ramadan as an excuse for a little laziness as most of us do.

Beef & Pine Nut Samosa
You’ll need:
30-35 samosa wrappers
500 grams of ground beef
1 large onion
2-3 cloves of garlic, depending on strength
¼ cup of beef stock
½ teaspoon of cinnamon
¼ teaspoon of cumin
¼ cup of pine nuts
Salt and freshly ground pepper
1 large egg + 1 teaspoon of flour, beaten to make a paste

Keep the samosa wrappers covered with a damp towel while preparing the beef to keep them soft. In a large pan on medium-high heat, add the onions and garlic until fragrant and translucent then the ground beef. Stir the beef into the onions and garlic until combined then cook, stirring every few minutes, until browned. Add the cinnamon, cumin, salt and pepper and mix then pour in the beef stock and stir in the pine nuts. Lower your heat and leave to cook until the stock has been absorbed. Turn off your heat and leave to cool.

At the bottom of each samosa pastry strip, brush the bottom of the side closest to you with egg wash then fold over the pastry from the opposite corner to create an open-sided triangle. Spoon some of the beef filling (1 full teaspoon to 1½ teaspoons) into the pocket you’ve created. Tuck the filling into the pocket and fold it over more than once until you reach the end of the wrapper. Before sealing, tuck in any protruding samosa paper then seal the edge by brushing with egg wash. Repeat with the rest of the wrappers. Freeze the ones you won’t fry for later at this stage. Deep fry in hot vegetable oil (not olive oil) for a minute then remove when golden and crispy. Do not crowd your oil with samosas to allow each one adequate space. Drain well from the oil before serving.

Finding Solace in Brownies

Featured in The Egypt Monocle

I was sitting on the floor of our apartment on the 21st floor. Sliding the balcony's glass door open, I let Malaysia's humidity touch our skin; my stepkids, me, barefoot. "Like this?" Youssef asked, sitting in his camouflaged t-shirt and mismatched shorts, as I took photo after photo to post for you to see, here. "I want to stir the brownies now, Sarah. It's my turn," Talia chirped at first, her voice quietly deepening, tensing up. "Only if Sarah lets me take a photo while you stir," Youssef teased. 

Placing the camera around his neck, watching him secure it in his hands, my stepson had grown from the three year old that I had first spent time with on a boat cruising down the Nile. 
   
And then it happened what it was that happened until we reach this time of year, his 10th birthday. But we are not there to see it, to see him. Not his dad, not his grandma, not me. This is our law, Egypt. This is the law that allows mothers to deny fathers their right to spend time with their children, to hear their voices, to watch them grow - become hot-headed teenagers with sex drives. 

What if the father, after succumbing to court, has finally received a court order to see his child? He sees them (if the mother brings them) in the presence of the mom and a designated official from the government. All that's missing is a glass wall. Of course, all of us on the father's side of the family are in no way entitled to know the children; exceptions may be made for grandmothers if their sons are away but stepmothers? Me? Never.

Little did I know that day on the Nile that I, who was not invited to his birthday before becoming his father's wife, would not be able to speak to him again on his birthday five years into being his stepmother. And so it stays, all of us in one city, all of us learning to adapt to a situation we have been forced into, all for own reasons. I hope you have a beautiful birthday, Youssef. You are on our minds today and I wish you were here to make (or eat) these brownies with us.       

Pistachio-Milk Chocolate Brownies 

(Adapted from Epicurious)

You'll need: 

100 grams of unsalted butter

230 grams of milk chocolate, chopped

1 1/2 teaspoon of vanilla extract

3/4 cup of brown sugar

2 large eggs

3/4 cup of all purpose flour

1/2 teaspoon of salt

A handful of pistachios, chopped

A dash of sea salt

Preheat oven to 170 degrees Celsius. Butter and flour a 20 cm pan (8x8"). Melt butter and chocolate in a saucepan over low heat, continuously stirring until smooth. Cool until lukewarm. In a separate bowl, mix together the brown sugar, eggs and vanilla then slowly pour in half of the chocolate until the mixture is glossy. Add the flour and ½ teaspoon of salt then half of the pistachios. Mix well, beating hard, to incorporate. Stir in the remaining half of chocolate and spread the batter in a pan and sprinkle with the rest of the pistachios and sea salt. Bake for approximately 25 minutes.

Fears, regrets and crust-less quiches

As featured in The Daily News Egypt I stretched, laying flat, fingers flopping around my side table in search of something to pull my hair up and away from my pillow-creased face. Happy to see some sun moving stealthily into the farthest corner, my corner of our room, I turned to find our bed empty — my husband already stirring his sweet coffee as he spoke on the phone. Popping myself off the mattress at a healthy 7:30 am, I prepared for a day filled in my mind with dog walks, deliberating ingredients and food writing. “Uncle Hassan passed away at dawn. I'm getting dressed.” Core trembling, I hushed my voice as I spoke to the man who shared my life, “I'll go with you.” Never having been to a funeral prayer or a burial, I prepared to battle the tears that came for a military man I had met six years ago; a man whose eyes beamed volumes of understanding despite his tired body, whose patriotic achievements, forgotten by the young, stood witness to his good intentions and bravery. Although Uncle Hassan and I had shared few words and many a sincere smile throughout the home-cooked meals, burgers and ratatouille we ate together, I had never really gotten to know him outside of the stories, long and short, recanted to my listening ears; but as I sat praying for his soul, as my heart in constant sniffles merged with the Quran recited at his final place of resting, I could not have felt him to be nearer. There are fears that arise in you during burials, those that subside and those that bury themselves deep in you, surfacing only as cracks in your face. Of all the things that preyed on my mind, going back to sleep in the Earth I walk on bothered me no longer. Entering the wake days later, I watched as women walked in wearing their most somber faces to extend their condolences. As they sat on edge, slowly unraveling to reveal a more comfortable state, they went back to living — bejeweled hands caressing glasses of tea over a friend's endearing stories of those who have passed, distracted minds looking into bitter cups of concentrated coffee as they contemplated a smoke, teenage girls playing a quick game of “Spot the Handbag”. I could only think that I should have known him better, that I had never asked him what dish he missed most from his mother's kitchen, which meal he loved his wife to prepare, what he ate when he was busy fighting a war. I was so intimidated by his war hero history that I didn't allow myself to break the barrier of age. That is what I regret the most; but away from regrets, will I too one day turn to find an empty bed with loss sleeping next to me? Will I be lucky enough to have my close ones embrace my home as theirs, make it feel alive if only for a while until I feel slightly right again? When I am old, will the young forget that I was once young like them and uncomfortably shy away from my veiny hands? If I am certain of one thing, in death there is always finger food but no appetite — aniseed biscotti passed around to maintain some semblance of energy, store-bought cakes and crunchy breadsticks to break the awkward silences and moments of heartache, mugs heavy with coffee making rings on tabletops and several cans of cola, all in the hands of people dressed in black. The only solid decision I've made is to earnestly get to know the people in my life that I hold back from, ones that I will grow through because nothing replaces people's real life accounts of eras gone by, foods long forgotten and heroes of our past. A long forgotten favorite recently learned is 'Egga, an Egyptian dish dating back to the Ancient Egyptians who often used duck eggs instead of our common chicken egg nowadays. Beaten egg, parsley and onions with an optional diced tomato or potato are poured into a baking dish and baked in a hot oven making this an ideal family dish. These days, it's commonly referred to as a crustless quiche, belonging to no specific country, versatile, neatly carried and easy on the stomach in times of hardship. Crust-less Broccoli-mushroom Quiche with Green Chili Salsa You'll need: 5 button mushrooms, sliced 1 medium onion, diced ½ a head of broccoli in florets, blanched and chopped 6 large eggs plus 6 egg yolks ½ cup of milk ¼ cup of cream ½ cup of grated cheddar cheese Salt and pepper to taste Vegetable oil for greasing For the salsa: 10 large green chili peppers 1 medium tomato, roughly diced 2 cloves of garlic 1 tablespoon of lemon juice 1 tablespoon of water ½ teaspoon of sugar ½ teaspoon of cumin powder Preheat your oven to 190 degrees Celsius. Brush a mini muffin pan with oil. Place a medium-sized pan on medium heat. Sautee the mushrooms and onions until soft. In a large bowl, whisk together the eggs, egg yolks, milk, cream, salt and pepper. Add the mushrooms, onions and broccoli and stir. Reserve some on the side for later. Transfer to a jug. In the muffin pan, place some cheddar cheese to line the bottoms. Pour the egg mixture until just below the rim then sprinkle on top the reserved vegetables and cheese. Bake for 15-20 minutes. They should puff up and turn a light shade of golden brown. Allow to cool for 5 minutes before turning them out of the pan. For the salsa, roughly chop the green chilis, deseeding if you want to eliminate extra heat. In a food processor, combine the chopped chilis and tomatoes with the garlic. Add the water, cumin and lemon juice. Blend until desired consistency; I prefer mine on the chunkier side.

Pan-fried aubergines with a ginger-mustard mayonnaise

As featured in The Daily News Egypt

I am so uninterested in shopping with friends that I cannot hide my indifference. A lone shopper, I saunter through the passages of ladies' fashion inattentive to the new styles emerging in place of past fads; I buy what sits comfortably on my hips, pieces I would take pleasure in feeling against the first layer of my skin. Immediately after, I rush out and do not return for months.

Seeking refuge in a nearby supermarket, open market or roadside stand, peace is found. Sweet red torpedo onions promising milky white juice, plump tart lemons in want of a squeeze, freckled strawberries packed to knit a tight pattern of royal red — I could spend hours here.

Regularly I am given a sharp look; a glare uncomprehending of the causes which would explain why I would spend more on food purchases, my motive for paying three extra pounds for a more yellow bunch of unspotted bananas.

Some women lust after shoes, I spend on pretty food. Justifying it I'll say, “This what I do, my job,” to soften the blow of buying good quality saffron, wiry and unaltered with added oils.

I deliver recipes and colorful food photos to people online and in print, to motivate them to cook at home; it's as simple as that. Photogenic foods are what make my blog work, they are what make my words weigh more than their real value; they are that promise of making something that brightens up the kitchens of both my home and yours.

Now that I've chosen this uneven path as a career choice, I struggle with the words “food blogger.” After moving to Kuala Lumpur and taking a break of a year (and a half) of unerringly doing nothing, I started writing about food and taking photos in my living room. Two years onward, I am made uncomfortable by the reluctant smiles sympathetically sent my way when asked what it is I do.

There must be a better title for “food blogger.”

Kathy Patalsky of “Healthy Happy Life,” an inspiring vegan and fellow “food blogger” (if we must call it that), has pushed me, along with many others, to start finding an alternative title for what we do. As recipe developers, part-time photographers, food writers and researchers, what can we be called?

“I'm an Internet Content Producer in the Culinary sector — specializing in vegan recipe development and food photography. I also produce freelance work in the print and mobile sectors,” declares Kathy. And I'm listening to her.

If I too manage to make something substantial out of my blog then why not? To some, it might seem a little unrealistic to call ourselves something other than what we initially started out as but throughout the last few years, bloggers of all kinds have moved on to becoming political analysts, journalists, television reporters, cooking show hosts and caterers. We just can't seem to find a better word for those who cook, write and photograph their work all at the same time. Food bloggers usually grow to become full-time writers, professional food photographers or hired recipe developers. When will all three merge away from the internet?

Hello, I'm Sarah and I'm an internet content producer in the culinary sector. I specialize in Middle Eastern food culture, recipe development and food photography. I also produce freelance work as a food columnist in the print sector.

Does that sound better? More like a cooking show? Let's continue.

Today, I want to share with you a recipe inspired by the way we Egyptians fry fish, sealed in a garlicky cumin crust, made crunchier with the cornstarch I learned to use in Malaysia and lifted with the heat of ginger and mustard, my flavors of India. Staying taut when you pick up a slice, it stays flat like an over-sized potato chip, able with its outer strength and soft center to hold dips, spreads and finely-chopped salads. This recipe simplifies what I'm about — an Egyptian-Indian tired of monotonous food, scouring the market to find a firm aubergine, widely eaten in Egypt and India, that will pose for a picture with grace and end with an adventure in your mouth and mind.

 Pan-fried aubergines in ginger-mustard mayonnaise

For the aubergine, you'll need:
2 medium aubergines, sliced lengthwise 6.5 mm thick
2 large eggs, beaten
½ cup of all-purpose flour
¼ tablespoons of cornstarch
1½ teaspoons of garlic powder
1 teaspoon of cumin powder
1 teaspoon of chili powder
1½ teaspoons of salt
¾ cup of olive oil

For the mayonnaise, you'll need:
½ cup of mayonnaise
½ teaspoon of yellow mustard
½ teaspoon of whole-grain mustard
½ teaspoon of minced garlic
1/8 teaspoon of ginger powder

Measure out the mayonnaise and place it in a small bowl. Add the garlic and ginger powder then the yellow and whole-grain mustard and stir until completely incorporated. If you're making this ahead of time, refrigerate. In a separate bowl, whisk together the flour, cornstarch, salt, garlic, cumin and chili powders. Set aside. Dip each aubergine slice into the beaten egg then dust with your flour mixture. Gently tap off any excess flour to avoid clumping and place each prepared slice on a clean baking sheet lined with parchment paper.

In a large pan, heat 2 tablespoons of olive oil at a time over medium-high heat. Dip a few aubergine slices at a time until golden brown on both sides. This should take around 2-3 minutes on each side. Continue to add two tablespoons of olive oil to the pan before adding each batch. Prepare the rest of the aubergine in the same fashion and place on a clean plate. Serve with the ginger-mustard mayonnaise.

A Sunny Lemon Curd

As featured in The Daily News Egypt

I stepped into a friend's cramped kitchen, cluttered with crusty teaspoons taking a mud bath in coffee-stained mugs, working to sustain the whims of a bachelor who would order out more often than not. Despite my friend's phony cries for help, there was not much I could do with a shiny fridge that housed a few soda cans and individual-sized bottled water alone.

Only a week after contemplating my friend's dilemma of having only a small electric cooker and a microwave to work with, I found myself in a similar situation, living for the most part in a single room that contains a small four-burner gas cooker with a pleasantly-sized temperamental oven, a sofa set, a television, a mini-fridge and a bathroom that worked twice as hard – also functioning as a wet kitchen.

Yes, this is temporary until the rest of our home pulls itself away from that construction site look it's sporting these days. Even so, the months living in this room have allowed me to advance in the kitchen and challenge myself, especially considering the lack of equipment.

Some people, in fact many friends, are not waiting for the rest of their homes to be finished and furnished and must make do with simple and often underrated appliances they have around; but fear not for there are many ways to make your small kitchenette work for you —— from creamy puddings and light-weight cakes to making jams and fashioning a well-balanced meal. All it needs is a little research, an attention to detail and a hungry heart.

Just as I was beginning to acknowledge that I was luckier than others to have a proper albeit small gas cooker available in our tight space, my luck ran out as I was about to start baking a dreamy dark chocolate cake studded with crunchy candied peanuts.

The dreaded day arrived when my beloved cooking gas canister ran out. The butane gas crisis disrupting other Egyptian families’ lives finally hit home. I had no source of fire and was left isolated with a cold white microwave.

Deciding not to panic, I called the nearest mini-market that exchanges these magical cooking cylinders. At first, the man on the phone promised he would send it that night. After a few minutes of prodding, he finally admitted that in reality, he could not tell me when he would be able to send me a refill because “as you know, there's a shortage in the country and other people paid for extra ones”.

It has been three days today. I know three things by now: I have received no gas canister; I am not alone in this problem; the price of a replacement canister has gone up to 40-50 EGP instead of the established 10 EGP.

Choosing to make do with what I've been handed although I've been generously offered to borrow an extra one, I wonder how many other families are trying to get by daily with no solution to their seemingly small disaster? Is it fair that many wealthier homes have an extra cylinder or three in case they run out of gas? I'm upset, Egypt. I'm upset because I don't have an answer and someone else has my share of gas.

The only solution I can think of is this: if you too use gas cylinders and you've got a handy microwave or a standby electric cooker, conserve your precious gas for now and kindly refrain from hoarding the cylinders because there are thousands of others out there that may need that extra one more than you.

A microwave has come a long way from reheating food. As of recently, microwaves have a variety of cooking modes, power strengths and grilling options. Funnily enough and although I've stared at the different buttons hundred of times, I've never actually thought to use any of them. It is a little silly of me to admit that I have just realized the capabilities of an invention that has helped me write this column today and that has given me a zesty lemon curd to spread on warm bread, stir into creamy yogurt, fill soft crepes and moist vanilla cakes, or eat straight from the jar.

Lemon Curd

You'll need:
3 eggs, room temperature
1¼ cup of granulated sugar
1 cup of fresh lemon juice (4 -5 large lemons), strained
The zest of 3 large lemons
½ cup of unsalted butter, melted

When you're squeezing the lemons for the lemon juice, make sure to strain it a few times to get a clear juice. This will give you a much smoother lemon curd. Whisk the sugar and eggs consistently in a large microwave-safe bowl until completely combined. Add the lemon juice, lemon zest and the melted butter and whisk again. On full power, cook at one minute intervals. After each minute, stir the mixture and return for another minute. This should take between 4 to 6 minutes. Each microwave differs depending on strength. To know when your lemon curd has finished cooking, dip a metal spoon into it. If your curd coats the back of the spoon, you're ready and shouldn't continue cooking. Remove your freshly prepared lemon curd from the microwave and pour into a clean jar. This will keep in the refrigerator for up to 2 weeks if the jar is tightly sealed.

Turons for Luz and Gojee

Below is my column featuring this recipe in The Daily News Egypt dated Saturday, October 1st, 2011.

“Already ma'am?” laughed Luz.      

I had outgrown yet another pair of shoes only recently purchased; and Luz, our Filipino housekeeper, calmly tidying my room, couldn't contain her chuckle. I, an 11 year old, was passing down spanking new shoes again to a lady gradually growing shorter than me despite the long years of life she had lived ahead of my birth. My feet just wouldn't stop growing.

“We can't keep up,” my mother laughed along while I internally panicked that I would soon be dubbed Bigfoot, unaware that my menacing feet would soon halt their unruly lengthening and allow the rest of my body to play catch-up.

Between the blossoming but often contradicting interest in boys and food and counting down to becoming a teenager, eleven was an age of befuddlement. Mundane routine kept me in check: donning my uniform and heading to school, scheming to gain in popularity, vaguely listening to the teacher, recess, doodling in class and returning home for lunch.

Lunch was a bizarre event. My sister and I were still adjusting to having our own apartment away from our familiarity with hotel rooms and room service. When served what my mother made for breakfast one morning in our new kitchen, my sister looked at her plate and exclaimed, raising her eyebrows as if to declare something of monumental importance, “I didn't order this.”

The displeased expression on my mother's face told us that there was to be no ordering in our house. We were to be raised as normal children and living at the hotel was a transitional phase because we all needed our own rooms and a kitchen. From now on, we were to visit the hotel but not reside there. Daddy worked there and that's about it. A strong determination in my mother's eyes confirmed that we were not to become spoiled nor bratty.

Every afternoon, seated at our dining table, I would pretend to be older than my years and babble with anyone who would listen. My sister, in between singing funny little songs, would spend a good fifteen minutes on each bite and Luz, now finished with our housework, would bring a banana and hot sauce to the table to eat with us before heading home. It didn't matter what we were eating; from molokheyya to stewed okra, we would be exposed to the wild taste buds of Luz, ones we hadn't yet developed or thought of even attaining one day. Fusion Filipino-Egyptian cooking was being constructed right in front of us but we were too young to think beyond “ Look at what she's mixing together. How weird.”

Did we know much about the Filipino diet? No, not beyond noodles and the sweet Filipino polvorons, a buttery powdered milk candy, that Luz would bring us as a pasalubong, or gift for overseas friends, on her return from her yearly vacation in the Philippines.

Pasalubong in Tagalog literally means “something meant for you when you welcome me back” so we would welcome her back by chomping on the sweets as she recanted stories of busy streets and karaoke-loving people, welcoming us into a culture far from our own.

Although at the time we weren't ready to experiment with our palates, Luz is today someone I think back to when I am in need of some inspiration in the kitchen.

As I was trawling for recipes, I came across a Filipino street snack that is as simple as it is scrumptious. Called a turon, this snack is essentially a banana wrapped in spring roll pastry, also known as lumpia in the Philippines. Each vendor puts their own spin on the mighty turon. Some will add jack-fruit while others might grate some cheddar cheese or coconut onto the banana before sealing the wrapper.

I chose to eliminate these flavor combinations and opted to bring some heat to these crispy rolls by utilizing the Indonesian long pepper I had lying around as well as freshly ground black pepper.

If Luz was coupling the creaminess of bananas with the red hot heat of Tabasco sauce and roll it around in Arabic flat bread then dip it into a bowl of Molokheyya, it was inevitable that I, too, would one day add some heat to the sweetness of a fruit I've never known to mix with much.

Honey-pepper Banana Roll

You'll need:

3 ripe bananas

2 tablespoons of brown sugar 

12 spring roll wrappers

Vegetable oil, for deep-frying

To dip:

1/2 tablespoon of honey, per roll

1/2 a teaspoon of ground Indonesian long pepper

1 teaspoon of ground black pepper per roll

Peel the bananas and split them down the middle. Cut lengthwise down every half. Place each banana slice on an individual large spring roll wrapper (21.5x21.5cm). Sprinkle the banana with some sugar. Fold the top of the wrapper over the banana then fold the right and left sides and roll until the wrapper is tight and closed. Moisten the top flap with water to seal. Heat your oil over medium heat. Deep fry until golden brown. Drizzle with honey and black pepper. Serve hot. 

This turned out to be really good stuff. The banana melts with the sugar and becomes custardy and soft. Really good stuff. Concerning other things, I am now a contributor on Gojee, a website I saw a while ago and loved instantly. I had no idea I would be part of such an amazing team and was happy to have discovered Gojee right from the start. When they rolled out the new list of contributors I was surprised to see such popular blog names contributing along with tiny little Buttered-Up here. If you're ever craving something, head over there and plug it in. You'll find many, many ideas.  

Roasted pepper dip for the pepper-averse

I have a penchant for bell peppers. Eagerly consuming them in all colors and shapes, I cannot begin to comprehend why someone could be averse to their sweet tanginess. After marrying one of those pepper-averse people we were just talking about, it became clear that I would have to do everything in my power to get him to switch to the other side, my side, the sexy peppery side. I have tried calling it "capsicum" the way my mom taught me to sway him. I have disguised it in a plethora of chopped bird's eye chili.  So far, I have succeeded on two counts: 

1. Adding it to prawn will lead to consumption.

2. Roasting and puréeing it will befuddle then befriend my husband's taste buds.  

Below is my column featuring this recipe in The Daily News Egypt dated Saturday, October 22nd, 2011.

I love the sweetness of the humble bell pepper, or as I called it growing up, capsicum. I search for it when tasting new dishes and try to incorporate it into lots of meals. Raised in a home of pepper-loving parents, they would invite the many colored peppers to many of our lunches – red ones peeping out of a corn salad and green ones generously spread on a pizza. We'd have shrimp baked with peppers and onions after school; at night, they would come out, freshly sliced, to bring up a grilled cheese sandwich. I've been programmed for years to love these things and needless to say, I'll fall for most recipes that use bell peppers, especially roasted, to accent a dish.

When I got married, I rushed excitedly to the grocery store, picking up ingredients I was already familiar with and came to a screeching halt in front of the peppers. Look ma! They have all kinds of colored peppers including purple peppers, black peppers and even baby colored peppers!

“This is going to be so much fun. I'm going to make chicken fajitas and it'll be great,” giddy me thought.

The giddiness didn't last long. A few polite lunches later, my husband decided to break the horrible news. He didn't like peppers – not on pizzas, not in salads, not stuffed. No way, no how.

And then I started roasting them, featuring them in tarts, pizza sauce and tangy eggplant salads, luring him into believing how magical these sweet fleshy fruits are. After two years of tirelessly experimenting to allow him to enjoy peppers, he found a midway love for them and has even promoted them at the table when we're hosting a dinner party.

There are a number of ingredients that may not sit well with the people you love. It is said that it takes 15 to 20 times of eating something to get used to the taste. Instead of deliberately avoiding these ingredients, gather the courage to serve these individual items in different ways, sometimes disguised and at other times as a side, until you find some acceptance from the disbeliever.

This recipe - served alone as a dip, used as a sandwich spread or an addition to a sauce – has worked to my benefit. It makes way for the sweetness of the peppers and adds punches of flavor to whatever you're working with. If you're not keen on serving it alone, stir it into some freshly cooked pasta or under a layer bubbling melted cheese sitting unsuspectingly on a slice of toast.

Successfully overcoming the minor problems peppers brought to our home, I've now moved onto battling with cardamom, that little pungent pod that imparts much flavor to a dish. Still in the phase of disguising it, I'll let you all know when it shines as the star of a dish in our home.

Roasted Pepper Dip

You'll need:

2 red bell peppers

2 yellow bell peppers

3 garlic cloves

1-2 bird's eye chili, sliced (optional)

2 tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil

2 teaspoons of white wine vinegar or apple cider vinegar

salt and freshly cracked black pepper

Roast your peppers according to The Wednesday Chef's instructions. I find that this method yields the best results. Once they're roasted, de-seeded, peeled and ready, place them in a food processor along with the garlic and chili.  Pulse until chunky then pour in the olive oil and vinegar. Continue to purée until smooth. Refrigerate. Keeps for 3-4 days.  

We used papadums this time but you can use anything - from crusty bread to crudités. 

Doughnut Muffins & the Art of Lining Up

Hello, hello. Something a little weird happened. I wrote my The Daily News Egypt column for this week focusing on the donut stores in Malaysia. After sending the column off to my editor, I discover that it was also National Donut Day in the States. Weird but irrelevant to us in other parts of the world. Is there an International Donut Day? 

Sugar Doughnut Muffins
(Recipe from Baking Bites)
Makes 24 mini-muffins/10 standard muffins
You’ll need
3/4 cup of sugar
1 large egg
1 1/2 cups of all-purpose flour
2 teaspoon of baking power
1/4 teaspoon of salt
1/4 teaspoon of ground nutmeg
1/4 cup of vegetable oil
3/4 cup of milk (low fat is fine)
1 teaspoon of vanilla extract
2 tablespoons of butter, melted
1/2 cup of sugar, for rolling


Preheat oven to 180 degrees Celsius. Lightly grease a muffin tin with vegetable oil. In a large bowl, beat together the sugar and egg until light in color. In a small bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, salt and nutmeg. Pour the dry mixture into the egg mixture and stir to combine. Pour in the vegetable oil, milk and vanilla extract and mix until combined. Divide batter evenly into 10 muffin cups or 24 mini-muffin cups, filling each about 3/4 full. Bake for 15-18 minutes for standard-sized muffins or 11-13 minutes for mini-muffins, until a tester inserted into the center comes out clean. While muffins are baking, melt the butter and pour remaining sugar into a small bowl. When muffins are done, lightly brush the top of each with some melted butter, remove from the pan and roll in sugar. Leave to cool before serving.

Sweet Potato Fries and Two Columns

I've got to start updating more often and I will. For now, last week's column and this week's column for The Daily News Egypt. 

Sweet Potato French Fries
Serves 2

Vegetable oil, for frying
2 large sweet potatoes
Salt and cracked black pepper, to taste

Pour oil to reach halfway up the sides of a heavy saucepan. Heat the oil to 165 degrees Celsius. While the oil is heating, peel the sweet potatoes and cut into uniform sticks. Place the potatoes in a bowl of ice water to release some starch and to keep them from browning. Dry the potato sticks - this will keep the oil from splattering. Fry the potatoes in batches so that the pan isn't crowded and the oil temperature remains stable. Cook for 3 minutes until they are soft but not browned.

Remove the potatoes with a long-handled metal strainer and drain on paper towels. Bring oil temperature up to 190 degrees Celsius. Return the half-fried potatoes to the oil in batches and cook a second time for 4 minutes until golden and crispy. Drain on fresh paper towels then place in a serving bowl. Season with salt and pepper. Serve immediately.

Cocoa Cinnamon Brownies. Inhale.

Dear Doctor who Operated on Me,
I am mad at you. I am sad at you. I am all things unpleasant at you. I, my master's right ring finger, am still sick. Even after you cut me open and gave me a scar on my side that doesn't match my beautiful painted face. You stuck screws in me. Long screws that make me feel like E.T. Well the E.T. in me says, screw you, sir. You and your pompous butt. You know, sir, when my master was growing up (before she got boring), she used to draw faces on me and my four other buddies. All of us, standing straight, standing upright, smiling morbidly. Now that she's technically grown up (not that I think so), she has ceased to draw faces on us. And I thank God. Can you imagine what I'd look like in our group photo? A smiley face with a head tilt. A smiley face with a hump. You, screwy sir, have turned me into the Hunchback of Notre Dame. I'm happy that my master found her Esmerelda, in the form of a man with sparkling green eyes, but that might not have happened had I been the Hunchback five years ago. Shame on you for limiting chances that she doesn't need anymore. Hmph! So Dr. Screw, I say, screw you. The Hunchback, I, Scar Finger, previously known as plain old right ring finger, am participating in making glorious brownies when I'm not working out to get my strength back. And I say, poop on you. You'll never taste our brownies. Merry Christmas. 
Screws flying your way,
Hunchbacker (Sort of like a backpacker, but permanent.) 

P.S. My master is a little strange today and cannot stop listening to Bloodhound Gang. She "hopes you die". But not really. Oh, and she's apologizing to her readers for the hiatus. Her laptop died for a month but came back to life for Jesus' birthday, her yogi sister was visiting and oh yeah... she was busy fixing me, Hunchback.


Cocoa Cinnamon Brownies  
(Originally Alice Medrich's, I couldn't resist messing about.
I've made the original before and it is just as amazing.)  
140 grams of unsalted butter
1 1/4 cups of sugar
3/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons of unsweetened cocoa powder
1/4 teaspoon salt (I used salted butter and eliminated this)
1.5 teaspoons of ground cinnamon 
1/2 teaspoon of vanilla extract
2 large eggs, cold (I used 3 small eggs, because that's what I had.)
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
2/3 cup of walnuts


Preheat your oven to 160 degrees Celsius. Line the bottom and sides of an 8x8-inch square baking pan with parchment paper or foil, leaving an overhang on two opposite sides. Combine the butter, sugar, cocoa and salt in a medium heatproof bowl and set the bowl in a wide skillet of barely simmering water. Stir from time to time until the butter is melted and the mixture is smooth and hot enough that you want to remove your finger fairly quickly after dipping it in to test. Remove the bowl from the skillet and set aside briefly until the mixture is only warm, not hot. I actually skipped this step and microwaved it all, stirred vigorously, then combined the cinnamon. I was stuck on time and it worked perfectly. I've tried the original method before, which produced almost the same result with a 10-15% smoother brownie at the end. I highly recommend the proper way if you have the time. 

Stir in the vanilla with a wooden spoon. Add the eggs one at a time, stirring vigorously (there we go again) after each one. When the batter looks thick, shiny, and well blended, add the flour and stir until you cannot see it any longer then beat for 40 strokes. Stir in the nuts. Spread evenly in your lined pan. 

Bake until a toothpick plunged into the center emerges slightly moist with batter, 20 to 25 minutes. Take them out. Let them cool for a while then pop them in the freezer, as they are, for a good 20 minutes. Take them out and slice. Nice. :) 

Happy New Year, you.