Carol Goodman Kaufman

eggplant

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.

Channeling Julie and Julia

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In preparation for cooking a Middle Eastern feast promised to the two highest bidders at a recent charity auction, I have been trying out recipes. What should I serve? How many courses? We will have five vegetarians between the two groups, so my options are somewhat limited, although all of the veggies will eat fish.

To help me decide on the menus, I am working my way through my own store of recipes and two particular cookbooks: restaurateurs Yotam Ottolenghi and Sami Tamimi’s Jerusalem, and Hadassah College Cooks, the latter published by the school’s renowned former culinary program.

One of my main concerns in all the whirl of cooking and baking is how long hubby Joel will put up with having to try new recipes on an almost daily basis. He does love to eat, and the recipes are all superb, but I fear that he will cry out at some point, “Enough! Just give me a scrambled egg!”

As I was pondering this potential roadblock yesterday afternoon, a bolt of electricity suddenly shook me. The spirit of Julie Powell had take residence in my soul — she, who famously spent a year cooking her way through Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking.

I tried to remember how Powell’s husband reacted to being force-fed French cuisine night after night like some human goose being prepped for its fois gras. My recollection was that he was fine with the eating, but not so fine with his wife’s obsession.

So far we have gobbled up wild rice stuffed grape leaves, homemade pita, a burnt eggplant soup with mograbieh, spiced chickpea with fresh vegetable salad, Moroccan vegetable stew over couscous, and roasted butternut squash and red onions with tahini and za’atar. Joel has not uttered one word of complaint, despite the mountain of pots and pans the preparation has entailed.

As for me, just reading this over makes me crave dry toast for supper.