All I Want For Christmas…

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Dear Santa,

I know I’m a bit old to be writing you this letter, but no one around here listens, so I’m hoping I’ll have more luck with you.

2014 has been fine. However, as I like to tell my daughter, there is always room for improvement. I don’t end up telling this to her, I end up telling this to the lovely oil painting I have of an exasperated woman, the one where she is resting her head in her hands in complete resignation (can so relate!) That fine artwork hangs in my living room right behind my daughter, above an electrical outlet.

The outlet is what lures my daughter there regularly, charging a phone or a computer or both. Fingers are quickly composing a witty text, eyeballs nervously checking social status on Instagram (I need more likes on that picture!!!) or maybe she’s perusing Facebook, just biding time until it is 9:00pm and she can tune into the season premier of PLL.

That’s Pretty Little Liars, Santa. Come on, get with it.

Look, I’m not going to ask you for the big stuff.

I’m not going to ask you for a larger house.

With an infinity pool.

Perhaps an ocean view.

That would be outrageously abusive of me.

But maybe, could you do something about the stovetop?

The thing is, it’s electric.

And yes, fancy shmancy electric, seriously high-end German electric, with an eco-friendly Ceran glass surface that claims to heat up faster than you can say omelet, with double and triple size elements that make the whole thing have more rings on it than the Olympic emblem.

But electric.

By the way, Santa, I don’t know how savvy you are in the kitchen, but, if the brochure tells you it heats up faster than you can say omelet, the brochure is lying to you. Or you aren’t reading the German properly. Something.

I could walk over to my neighbor’s house, make an omelet there, clean up, come back home, and then my skillet would be ready.

I’ve learned to roll with this electric stovetop situation ever since I moved to the Florida ‘burbs a kazillion years ago, but my children don’t get a break, I am constantly kvetching about this.  You know about kvetching, Santa, you must have some complaining to do as well, say, when the elves slack off or that darn chimney somehow becomes more narrow.

I fill their heads with stories about the perfectly simmered black beans I enjoyed growing up in Venezuela or the fantastic puttanesca pasta that I’d whip up in a flash in New York, or the spicy Moroccan chicken couscous I’d dazzle their dad with when we lived in Boston.

It’s not that I can’t make these dishes here. I can and I do. It’s the experience of making them over a gas stovetop that is so different, the ease and control of creating them under the embrace of a real fire that makes a difference. Maybe it’s that primal, caveman instinct of cooking with actual fire that makes me happy. Maybe it’s the hypnotic dance of the blue flame and the way it instantly heats up my skillet, even the heaviest cast iron one, making my heart flutter just so.

The year we lived in Mexico, my kids witnessed this jubilation first hand.

“Look, see! See how fast the water boils?” I’d scream, vindicated, drunk with joy.

“Crispy, crunchy hash browns in seconds! “ I’d revel.

I admit, I had gone a bit mad. But it was a happy mad, one in which everyone seemed to benefit and eat a lot.

The euphoria ended upon returning to our South Florida home where my German engineering quietly awaited to disappoint me.

The kids poke fun at me, Santa.

There seems to be two lethal attacks they inflict on their mother regularly:

1) Commenting on how lovely whatever sunset we are currently enjoying would look from a beach home (because they know I am an ocean girl through and through)

2) Reminding me of how grand it would be if we had a gas stovetop.

They know I’d pretty much give one of them up for either one of these two things.

I’d definitely give up the dog.

But hey, they say Christmas is a time for miracles.

And Hanukkah, which is the holiday I celebrate, is filled with stories of miracles.

So, I’m writing you this note (because I don’t have Hanukkah Harry’s address, and, let’s face it, you must have more pull.)

I’m asking:  amongst the tricycles and trucks and dolls banging around your bag, could you possibly spare a gas stovetop?

 

Moroccan Chicken with Couscous

Moroccan Chicken with Couscous

Ingredients

  • 2 tablespoons olive oil
  • 1 teaspoon ground ginger
  • ½ teaspoon ground turmeric
  • ½ teaspoon chili powder
  • ¼ teaspoon cinnamon
  • 2-3 tablespoons Harissa paste
  • 2 cups thinly sliced onion (about 3 small onions)
  • 2 garlic cloves, minced
  • 8 chicken legs
  • 3 carrots, cut into 1 ½ inch chunks
  • ½ cup baby potatoes, quartered
  • 1 16 oz. can whole tomatoes
  • 1 cup of cooked chickpeas
  • 1 lbs. zucchini, halved sliced in 1-inch chunks
  • 1 ½ cups chicken stock
  • ½ cup wine
  • salt and pepper, to taste
  • 1 tablespoon orange zest

Instructions

  1. In a Dutch oven, heat olive oil over medium-high heat and sauté onion slices with ginger, turmeric, cinnamon, chili powder and Harissa paste. Sauté until fragrant, 2-3 minutes.
  2. Add garlic and sauté another minute.
  3. Add remaining ingredients, except for orange zest, and bring to a boil.
  4. Once boiling, reduce heat to medium-low and gently simmer until chicken is cooked through, 30-45 minutes.
  5. Adjust seasoning and add orange zest.
  6. Serve in bowls over plain couscous.
  7. Serves 4
http://culinarycompulsion.com/2014/12/all-i-want-for-christmas/

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All I Want For Christmas…

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