bouillon chickpea soup: out of the (culinary) closet

It is with great secrecy that I pull the tiny foil cube out of its box.  I admit to being temporarily riddled by a wave of guilt, no doubt hordes of culinary experts would immediately disregard me as a cook not worthy of gastronomic attention if they knew I housed these in my closet, let alone used them.

The conspirators are my tiny bright yellow boxes of bouillon cubes.  I have all flavors attainable:  “cubito de pollo,” “cubito de carne” and “cubito de pescado,” with a haphazard scribble of a chicken, cow and fish to clarify.  I always buy the box in Spanish, no doubt it tastes exactly as salty and processed as its English counterpart, but I believe most things sound and feel better in Spanish: deja de jurungear (stop messing around), dando y dando, pajarito volando (scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours) la guayabera es vino tinto (the shirt is maroon).  Case in point.  So I stick to the lyrical and comforting bounce of “cubitos” instead of a formal, more somber bouillon cube and already I feel better.

When I was growing up in Venezuela our assortment of cubitos was proudly displayed amongst the bottles of imported dried rosemary, thyme and cardamom my mother would smuggle back from our annual trips to the States.  There was no shame to them back then.  Cubitos where just a part of every day meals our Colombian cook, Yolanda made, adding an extra boost of flavor and saltiness to each bite.

I remember watching her plop the tiny squares into vats of boiling soups, simmering shredded beef and pots of bubbling black beans as her final measure in bringing the dish to its appropriate end.  She was never one to mess with spices.  The cylindrical spice stand of imported goodies remained untouched, as much as my mother tried to encourage her to use them, explaining endlessly about the virtues of dried basil, curry powder, and allspice.  Yolanda pegged them as unfamiliar, from their tiny perfect glass bottles to their curly English labels she couldn’t understand, and left them alone, only occasionally wiping down the dust that settled on their tops.  She stuck to the basics:  salt, pepper, garlic and cubitos.

And sticking to this simple formula would produce, time after time after time, incredible meals.  It was an uncomplicated procedure really.  She’d grab the same bruised wooden spoon she used for everything (a large one carved out of Amazon wood with a burnt mark on the tip) and give the dish in question a quick stir or two, then proclaim:
“Ahora si esta”, (now it is done), as if the cubito was what sealed the deal.

Then she’d guide the huge spoon towards my inquisitive face, which seemed poised and ready for action during each meal-making session and allow me to sample the final product, which was always amazing.  The dish was most likely remarkable prior to the bullion’s arrival, but in my young mind, the little dark cubed paste was the magical ingredient that instantly transformed a meal into an experience.

Somewhere along the way my bouillon line got blurred and I began hiding mine and only slipping them into my cooking in the privacy of my kitchen when no one was looking.  I didn’t have a tiny swiveling stand with ten basic spices like my mother had had. I had two entire drawers filled with enough spice to run my own successful trade route and I used them brazenly.  But I still found the need to have my neon cubes nearby, for the soup that needed an extra kick, the meat dish that lacked a salty depth to it, or the paella that yearned for more than just shrimp shell broth. 

Cooking is as much about feeling as form and even though the venerable food institutions would immediately scoff at my random affairs with salty, neon culinary bliss, I confess to continue using them even after I’ve spent hours boiling chicken bones and necks to make a perfect homemade broth.  There’s just something about the occasional plop of neon that makes it all taste better.

My spoon isn’t as big as Yolanda’s but it is from the same weathered Amazon wood.  I stir my soup with it and pull out my yellow box for the final touch.  As if on cue, my ten-year old daughter races up to the stove.  “Now mom, now?” she asks, excitedly.  I haven’t taught her this, but she knows the dropping of the cubito will seal the deal.

I carefully unwrap the foil and let the cube descend to the bottom of the pot where in two seconds it has blended its saltiness with the soup.  Two big stirs follow and as the revised intoxicating aroma reaches me I inevitably find myself taking in a deep breathe and muttering,

“Ahora si esta.”