Carol Goodman Kaufman

a.k.a. Carolinda Goodman

Carol

The Scent of a Lemon

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This winter is really getting old. It’s been no higher than seventeen degrees for a couple days here, and there are still several feet of snow in the yard. Even the influx of garden catalogues isn’t enough to snap me out of my winter funk. What to do?

I have developed two main approaches to defeat the gray mood of this never-ending winter:

  1. To borrow a phrase from Lady Macbeth, “Hie thee hither” — to the sunroom. Basking in the fresh aroma of earth and chlorophyll infuses me with life-affirming hope.  And now, with my “Big Red” amaryllis, figs, and key limes all blooming and fruiting, I can actually believe that spring is around the corner.
  2. When life hands you lemons, put them on the table. There is nothing as cheerful as a bowl of sunny yellow lemons– unless it’s a bowl of lemons and oranges together. The height of the citrus season is one reason I can tolerate this months-long season of cold, gray, ice, and snow.

The scent of citrus is both energizing and romantic. Yes, romantic. Swaying palms in the moonlight, a  blossom pinned to my hair, slow-dancing on a patio with a tall, handsome man. Sigh.

And then, there’s the practical side of having a bowl of citrus fruit. After about a week, before the fruit begins to soften, remove the rind, extract the juice, and put it all into premeasured baggies and into the freezer for that inevitable situation in which you start a recipe and discover you have no fresh-squeezed juice or rind in the house. (That stuff in the plastic lemon? Oh, please.)

Life may indeed be a bowl of cherries, but for cheering there’s nothing like one of citrus.

The Traveling Vegetarian

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I recently got an assignment to write an article about dining out as a vegetarian. I was supposed to focus on “American” restaurants. The longer I thought about it, the murkier the definition became. What exactly is an American restaurant?

Does its kitchen use only ingredients indigenous to the United States? If so, then we are going to have a pretty narrow choice of foods.

Or, does the term include all produce, meat, and fish that is raised in the United States? That certainly expands our options.

How about the Americas — South, Central, and all of North?  That opens up our menu even wider.

Or, is an American restaurant one that encompasses the cuisine of the myriad immigrant groups that have come to our shores and made this place their home — places as diverse as Burundi, Brazil, and Belarus?

An interesting factoid: In my research, I found that virtually every so-called American restaurant that does list a vegetarian entrée on its menu chooses Italian. There may be  one more (very few restaurants list more than two veggie dishes), but the default seems to be pasta.

 

Remembrance of Foods Past

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Marcel Proust had his madeleines to spark recollections of his youth.  For me, opening a container of za’atar releases, along with its verdant aroma, memories of strolling through the narrow alleyways and open air plazas of the Old City of Jerusalem, where golden light caresses ancient stone. The Middle Eastern scent also stimulates my appetite for fresh-from-the-oven pita spread with za’atar and olive oil.

The za’atar that we know from its association with labneh and hummus on mezze plates is a condiment made from a mix of spices, herbs, and seeds, and the recipe varies from place to place.

But in fact, the name za’atar also applies to a family of related herbs that grow in the Middle East: oregano, savory, marjoram, thyme. I think it most closely resembles oregano, at least the bush that grows in my garden.

It’s really easy to mix your own za’atar if you can’t get it locally, or if you simply love the idea of making something from scratch.  Just mix the following ingredients together:

  • 1/4 cup sumac
  • 2 tablespoons thyme
  • 1 tablespoon roasted sesame seeds
  • 2 tablespoons marjoram
  • 2 tablespoons oregano
  • 1 teaspoon coarse salt

A Feast for the Eyes, the Stomach, and the Soul

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book coverThis past Saturday evening, we hosted the first of two groups of people that won a Middle Eastern feast at a charity auction. To prepare for this event, I scoured my collection of recipes gathered and adapted over the years. Wild rice stuffed grape leaves. Labneh with za’atar and olive oil. Soft, fluffy pita bread.

But I also used this homework phase to explore the contents of Jerusalem, the groundbreaking cookbook by Israeli Yotam Ottolenghi and Palestinian Sami Tamimi.

I liked the idea of two men who could be enemies but who instead cook together and feed others. Breaking bread instead of heads, as it were. But I also loved the look and feel of the cookbook. Resplendent with gorgeous color photos and filled with personal stories, the book is a masterpiece.

Menu planning presented a challenge. I needed to make this vegetarian, but wanted something that wasn’t hummus or falafel or baba ganoush. I wanted new, bold, innovative. I craved uncharted territory. And, to be honest, I wanted to make a splash.

And, boy did I ever get that. My worries that I would grow weary of Middle Eastern food were groundless. The flavors in Jerusalem’s pages were so varied that there was no way we could tire (except for the sheer exhaustion I felt by midnight Saturday, when I collapsed into my warm, cozy bed).

Jerusalem offered pureed beets with goat cheese and hazelnuts; watercress and chickpea soup with rose water and ras el hanout; roasted butternut squash with onions and tahihi; baby spinach salad with dates and almonds; burnt eggplant soup with mograbieh; roasted sweet potatoes with fresh figs; semolina, coconut and marmalade cake. And, for a dinner prepared for just the two of us: an absolutely divine chicken with caramelized onions and cardamom rice.

The recipes called for ingredients that brought to mind caravans of colorfully clad camels bearing goods across vast deserts. Orange blossom water, za’atar, turmeric, cumin, cinnamon. Pine nuts, hazelnuts, goat cheese, tahini, dates, figs. The aromas wafting from my kitchen made me feel as if I were strolling through the narrow, vaulted alleyways of the shuk.

But, enough day dreaming; I’m bound to let something boil over or burn. And anyway, it’s time to plan menu #2.

A Honey of a Date

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Unknown-2When son Avi and Shira returned from a trip to Israel, they brought me a gift of date syrup. I had never used it before, but knew that it was the original “honey” cited in the Bible. Very exotic, I thought, but I really had no clue what to do with it other than to drizzle it over toast.

However! My preparation for the Middle Eastern feast continues, and when I opened Ottolenghi and Tamimi’s Jerusalem cookbook yet again and found Pureed Beets with Yogurt and Za’atar, my heart skipped a beat. The list of ingredients called for date syrup. Yes! Finally a chance to use this sticky sweet condiment. Along with garlic, red chile pepper, scallions, goat cheese, and chopped hazelnuts, this was going to be one heck of a dish.

The only problem is that Joel detests beets. There’s no way to hide the vibrant colored veggie in other ingredients, as Jessica Seinfeld does for children. But, if I could make them interesting, might he actually take a taste? He did indeed, and even pronounced it, “Not bad.”

I thought it was amazing (although I think I would find a better cheese). The deep purple-red puree swirled with the creamy, alabaster Greek yogurt was both beautiful and luxurious on the tongue and palate. The crunchy nuts and scallions made for a wonderful interplay of flavors and textures.

Then, from their perch in back of the counter, I heard the beet greens calling my name. Not wanting to waste this singular opportunity to have the root veggie in the house, I figured I should make use of the whole vegetable. So, I went back to the classic volume The Joy of Cooking and found the most delectable recipe, calling for onion, horseradish, and mustard. Instead of sour cream, I spooned a bit of Greek yogurt over the top.

It was over-the-top delicious. Of course, since I probably will not get Joel to eat beets ever again,
I will have to make the recipe with some other leafy green that doesn’t have a dark red globe on the end of it.

Snow Job

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growing_orange_on_tree_187928It’s snowing again. Rather, still. Here in Central Mass we will be at, or pretty close to, the seven-foot mark by the time this latest in a series of winter storms ends. And, while trees and shrubs dripping with glistening white frosting are pretty enough to illustrate a book of fairy tales, the glossy, gleaming ice dams building up on my roof are big enough to sink an ocean liner.

Thank goodness for my little sunroom, where I keep houseplants and fruit trees, along with a tray of herbs and vegetables I am attempting to grow from seed. If only the sun would shine.

Today is watering day. Normally, I might just look at that chore as another in a long list of tedious items on my to-do list, but today it is a pleasure. Why? Because within seconds of the water hitting the soil, the aroma of the rain forest begins to waft up and cause body and soul to rejoice.

This hint of Mother Nature’s perfume lasts only a moment, but for as long as it does, I can forget the swirling snow, the howling wind, and the sub-zero wind-chill factor. I can enter my little fantasy world in which I pick my breakfast orange from my own tree,
and enjoy it with a cup of coffee and the morning paper in the open-to-the-sky courtyard of my hacienda.

At least until the phone rings.