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.
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?
Because I live in South Florida and on occasion will overhear “chévere” or “chamo” or “pana.”
Because I fill my children’s heads with stories about this wonderful place I grew up in, this place filled with sunshine and pristine beaches and majestic mountains. This place that nurtured me with amazing food and happy-go-lucky people.
Because my children won’t know this place, a place that has been replaced by rampant crime, inflation, and tyranny.
Because I miss Venezuela, I make arepas.
Arepas are round corncakes that can be grilled or fried and that are stuffed with anything savory, making them a sure win for picky families with specific tastes and needs. Rebel-without-a-cause teen just announced she’s a vegetarian? Arepas go great with any version of cheese, from fresh white mozzarella to shredded sharp cheddar. Other child craving a bit more protein? Dice up last night’s rib eye and toss it in, along with whatever condiment inspires you. You can all sit together and no one will complain/argue about what they are eating/forced to eat/refusing to eat, making me wonder if perhaps, I should suggest they serve these in the next United Nations General Assembly as a reminder that our differences can be enjoyed in the enveloping embrace of an arepa.
If global peace is feeling too ambitious for you, then keep the whole issue domestic: arepas serve as a useful excuse to clear out your fridge! Have half a pork tenderloin from Monday’s supper? Great in arepas! How about that roast beef you made for the in-laws that night they just wouldn’t leave? Arepas! Let’s not forget Thanksgiving leftovers…if your turkey was a big as mine, you must still have some balanced in the Tupperware on top of the Tupperware on top of the other Tupperware crammed with side dishes. Guess what? Turkey with a generous slab of mayo inside an arepa…amazing!
Sunday night is often roast chicken night at my house, which means, by Thursday, I’m ready to clear the fridge of what’s left of that meal in order to make room for newer items. Leftover chicken is perfect for Reina Pepiada, which is the Queen of all Venezuelan arepa dishes. Nestling this chicken and avocado salad inside a piping hot arepa fresh off the griddle brings me back to so many wonderful places/moments of my youth, whether it be a lazy weekend lunch out with my family or a quick pit stop at La Sifrina with my boyfriend, well past my curfew, once again. We’d devour these while slurping on fresh fruit shakes, and even though it was only a few hours before dawn, the day was alive with possibility, hope, and happiness.
Because these are things one should never forget/always strive for.
The Venezuelan arepa has its origins hundreds of years ago, cooked by the various indigenous tribes across the country (Arawak, Carib, Timoto-Cuica, Cumanagoto, Karina, among others.) What was initially made with fresh corn is today made using pre-cooked white corn flour, called “Harina Pan.” Arepas are eaten by Venezuelans in almost every meal and can be eaten just with butter or stuffed with all kinds of meats, cheeses and salads. In Venezuela there are places called “Areperas” that serve only arepas and fresh fruit juices and are open at all hours: this is our fast food!
For the arepas:
1 cups Harina Pan, white (pre-cooked maize, if you can’t find Harina Pan, you can use Goya)
1 ¼ teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons corn oil
2-3 cups warm water
For the Reina Pepiada:
1 cup shredded chicken (great with roasted chicken leftovers.) You can use white meat, dark meat, or combo.
¼ cup microscopically minced onion (seriously, you want the flavor, but you don’t really want to feel them)
¼ cup mayonnaise
¼ cup sour cream
1 Haas avocado, ripe
1 tablespoon fresh lime juice
3 tablespoons fresh cilantro, minced (optional)
salt and pepper to taste
For the arepas:
Combine the harina pan and salt in a large bowl and mix well. Add oil. Slowly drizzle in warm water and knead it into the cornmeal. There should be a soft but firm consistency. If it still feels too dry, add more water.
Form arepas: grab a handful.
Size varies according to preference (get your head out of the gutter, we’re talking arepas!) Some people prefer large arepas, I tend to like them smaller (that way I can have more of them!!!) so my round is about the size of a golf ball, maybe a wee bit larger.
Roll into a ball shape and then, moving the dough in a circular motion, slowly start flattening it out. Your arepa should be approximately half an inch thick.
Cook on a heated and greased griddle pan over medium heat for 6 minutes on each side, then pop them in a 350° F heated oven for 5 minutes.
Cut lengthwise about ¾ down.
Here’s another debate amongst Venezuelans: to scoop or not to scoop. Some folk like to scoop out the soft, warm, extra dough inside the arepa, and thus leave basically the shell that has been on the griddle. This makes for more stuffing space. Others enjoy a bit of that comfort texture to meddle with their stuffing. Totally up to you.
Makes 10 arepas
For the Reina Pepiada:
So, pretty much stick it all in a bowl and mix it up. The avocado needs to be mushified. No slicing or dicing. Just smash it up.
Now if you are a die-hard mayonnaise person, feel free to up the mayo to ½ cup and ditch the sour cream.
Cilantro adds a tad of brightness, a term they all throw around in the cooking shows, so, I’m throwing it around here. It’s a preference thing, again. No right or wrong. Want to be a rebel? Add parsley instead. That would be killer good, actually.
The weather dipped the other day in South Florida.
It did, real quick, but, it did.
In fact, if you are a late riser, if you’re not privy to dark, pre-dawn alarms piercing into peaceful slumber so you may assemble prosciutto and tapenade sandwiches for school lunches while simultaneously flipping gruyere and wild porcini omelets for breakfast (because culinary requests are very high in this household) you may have just missed it.
The chipper weather forecaster on the morning news was as ecstatic as when she was crowned Miss Florida years ago. She eagerly urged her viewers to “dress in layers,” which, even I, who am perpetually cold, thought was a bit much. She continued to inform us that the temperature was a chilly 66 degrees and would only climb up to a mild 85. That would explain the goose bumps on her tight-fighting atomic tangerine dress.
Chilly 66. Mild 85.
I’m not big on tattoos, but that is one I’d consider getting.
You know, as a reminder.
We may have a lot of crazy things going for us in South Florida, a lot of nut jobs seem to hatch from the glorious Sunshine State, but Chilly 66, Mild 85 is something I can deal with.
With breakfast for the children already plated, I opened the front door to grab the morning paper, and instead of being greeted by the familiar frizz-your-hair humidity, I got a crisp, cool caress that left me pleasantly chilly. To experience cold is so unusual in South Florida that it made me wonder if I was dreaming.
Or somehow transported to Ithaca.
I realize folks in Ithaca don’t get caressed by the weather. I’ve seen their winters on television. It’s the no-nonsense type of winter. The type that makes national news. The type that most definitely doesn’t breed chipper weather forecasters in candy-colored dresses. You’re more likely to get a weather person akin to a stern officer in the army: Gimme one hundred pushups and grab a shovel to dig yourself out of your house! Now, do it again!
We’re softies here in South Florida when it comes to cold weather. It’s still cute. Celebrated. Fun!
Watch and see.
We have about seven days when things get cold. People will pull out their Ugg boots and designer fleece. Die-hards may sport that winter coat as well. The friendly weather gal will tell us all about it: warn us about frost and frostbite, about wrapping our children thoroughly in scarves and mittens and hats. Keeping body heat starts with a warm head, she’ll say. She’s trained hard for this moment, for this week.
Oh and it is such fun! Who cares if by 11:00am, once that South Florida sunshine is beaming down on us, the thermostat is climbing to 70, then 80, then…you stop looking because you are so damn hot in all your brand new winter gear. You wonder why the svelte weather chick didn’t educate you on how feet regulate your body heat- yours are shvitzing up a storm in those sheepskin boots, the ones you refuse to take off no matter how many beads of sweat are falling down your back or how dizzy and dehydrated you may feel. You now remember (and understand) her sexy, strappy sandals.
It’s South Florida in winter! Glorious! Fun!
It also gives me an excuse to make heartier food: saucy, rich, meat-laden, pasta-slapped, oozing cheese type stuff one needs to survive a cold winter night. I’m thinking specifically of pasticcio, which is like lasagna, only, if you can believe it, better. It’s like some kooky person took a look at lasagna and thought, “yeah, I can improve upon this,” and then did! Crazy right? Impossible? No. They got it down on the pasticcio.
There are several versions of pasticcio, from Greek, to Italian, to Egyptian, but they all rely on four main ingredients: meat, pasta, cheese, and some sort of a béchamel sauce. I favor the Italian version, which my mother used to purchase from our local Italian market on those nights we were rushing around and she’d have no time to cook dinner herself. I grew up in Caracas, Venezuela, which witnessed a heavy influx of Italian immigrants in the 1940’s, resulting in, amongst other things, a bountiful access to homemade pastas, salume, and Nona-style pasticcio. The principle of layering meat, cheese and noodles is the same, only tucked away for added flavor are slices of ham, and then, just because, the entire thing is coated in a creamy béchamel. Oh, and sprinkled with more cheese. Why not? It’s cold outside, remember? On some survivalist level you need this.
And if you have any leftovers, you can always send them to some shivering, shoveling soul in Ithaca.
You know that look of disgust and horror your friend would give you? The glare that would shoot out of horrified eyes when you’ve done something unforgivably wrong, say, if you ever murdered an entire colony of baby seals or trampled through rose gardens carefully pruned by your great-grandmother Eunice, the one who lost everything in the war and since then has dedicated her life to creating the optimum blend of hybrid tea roses and floribundas?
That’s the look I get when I tell people I love to eat rabbit.
“Rabbit…as in bunny rabbit?” they clarify.
It’s the one time I am grateful so many of us are trapped in lifelong student loan debt. It was obviously worth every penny.
“Yes,” I state resolutely.
“Bugs Bunny?” They continue, aghast, instantly hating me more than that mean old Elmer Fudd.
“Well, not specifically Bugs Bunny. He’s quite old and, I imagine, tough to chew.” I counteract.
“But bunnies are so cute! That would be like eating your own pet! Your dog, or, your cat!” Said person explains in between gasps.
Friendships have been known to shift at this point. Ever so slightly, but, shift. We both judge each other quietly after such a conversation, certainly sharing a meal is never the same. I may be imagining things, but, pets are held a wee bit tighter around me, just in case.
I’m not sure why the cute-conundrum doesn’t apply to our accepted dinner choices. After all, cows are mighty cute. Especially those with big eyelashes and cowbells munching on grass with the Swiss Alps as their backdrop. I mean, talk about naming that gal Bessie and wanting to take her home! And chickens? Okay, sure, they are not winning many cute prizes when subjected to mass production and crammed into wire cages, but remember those fellas as babies? Little fury fuzz balls that waddle about and cheep cheep cheep? Awwww, come on! Where are the viral videos on those guys?!
I grew up in South America where giving someone a baby chick was like bringing over a bar of chocolate or a bouquet of flowers. It was a popular just-because-you’re-awesome type of gift. Sometimes the chicks were dyed bright colors, like, you could get a neon blue chick or a chartreuse chick, which every nine-year old thought was the super cool way to seal a BFF.
Of course, eventually, every nine-year old becomes bored with Fernanda the Fuchsia Chick and so Fernanda would be left to wander the back garden and grow up to be a regular chicken that may or may not have something to do with that amazing Ensalada de Pollo that would miraculously appear for lunch. There was always loads of mayonnaise in that salad, and we all know loads of mayonnaise makes everything better, even your former neon pets.
The great thing about having my own children is that I’ve had them since they were young (and brainless) and so, when it comes to all things culinary, they’ve pretty much eaten whatever I’ve eaten. At least, whatever I’ve managed to expose them to eating. Before they came around I sampled sheep balls and maggot-infested cheese and lived to tell the tales, so, when presented with such eccentricities, why shouldn’t they? The key, all cuteness aside, is to try everything. At least once.
It seems this philosophy spoke to them, which is why my kids, now teens, have a list of exotic (and sadly, expensive) foods as their favorites (foods that would most likely leave their peers running for the nearest Hot Pockets.) Sure, they won’t pass up on a good cheeseburger (she prefers with foie gras) and fries (he prefers with truffle oil) but give them a plate filled with octopus tentacles, a mountain of escargot, a serving of grilled Kudu or a bag of Chapulines (fried grasshopper) and they are happiest.
Which brings me back to the cute bunny issue and the question of eating your own pet.
Sure bunnies are cute, but, damn are they tasty! And anyway, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. That steak you just grilled could also be cute, if you thought about it carefully. If we gage our eating habits on the way things looked, we are closing the door to many delicious options. It’s like I tell my kids: be open-minded and try stuff, at least once. You just might be surprised. Bunnies, particularly roasted with fresh rosemary and heirloom potatoes will most definitely leave you pleasantly surprised, possibly coming back for seconds, perhaps instigating your friends to hold on to their pets a wee bit tighter next time they see you. Just in case.
(adapted from The New Basics Cookbook by Julee Rosso & Sheila Lukins)
2 cups heirloom baby potatoes, halved
24 large garlic cloves, not peeled
6 tablespoons olive oil
4 oz. bacon, chopped up
2 rabbits (2 lbs. each)
6 tablespoons fresh rosemary
2 teaspoons freshly ground pepper
2 teaspoons salt
6 sprigs of rosemary for garnish
Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.
Place the potatoes and garlic cloves in a shallow roasting pan. Sprinkle with 3 tablespoons of olive oil, ½ teaspoons salt and 1 teaspoon pepper. Toss to coat. Bake until golden, 15 minutes.
In a skillet over medium heat, sauté bacon with 3 tablespoons olive oil until slightly cooked (but not crunchy!) Remove bacon with a slotted spoon and reserve.
Sprinkle 1 ½ teaspoons of salt and 1 teaspoon freshly ground pepper on rabbit pieces and sauté them (in batches) until slightly brown, about 2 minutes on each side. If you need to add more oil you may!
Add rabbit to your potatoes, mix to combine, and bake for 30 minutes.
Add bacon bits on top and bake an additional 10 minutes.
Remove from oven and place decorative rosemary sprigs.
I love the Jewish holidays even if I may not be the ideal spokesperson for Judaism. Not really lighting the candles every Friday night or going to the synagogue as often as I should, and that’s when I belong to a real hip temple that offers funky programs like Jewish Meditation and Sushi & Sake In The Sukkah. They even stream their services live, so I can join them in my PJs, if I wanted to.
The thing is, when it comes to religion, or really anything, I tend to take the food route.
So, yes, I don’t know the prayers.
I’d fail miserably on any Bible trivia question.
Okay, let’s face it, I’d fail miserably on any Bible question.
I didn’t grow up with this stuff, even though my father was born and raised in Jerusalem, which is also known as, The Holy City.
But man, have I got it down on what you’re supposed to eat when.
For Rosh Hashana, a two-day holiday which began at sundown yesterday and celebrates the Jewish New Year (5775, for those of you scratching your head, like I was) there are a few essentials:
The first, the must-have, the easiest, is apples and honey, the main focus being the honey, for its sweetness and to bring forth a sweet New Year.
So you start with that.
Really eating anything sweet afterwards works. Chicken with fruit is a tasty main course. If you are of Eastern European descent, you’ll go for a large serving of tzimmes, a candied stew made from carrots and dried fruit. Another favorite is kugel, a baked casserole using undisclosed amounts of sugar, butter, sour cream and some sort of fruit: pineapples or raisins or cherries. Most people have memories of a grandma’s unbeatable version of one of these two dishes. The lucky few have a memory of both. If you want one with a killer secret ingredient, take a peek at mine.
Yes, it’s all high in calories, but God sort of ordained it, so you’re good to go. Which means you’ve gotta put a crumbly, crunchy topping on that kugel, maybe requiring a wee bit more butter.
Desserts on Rosh Hashana are popular, for obvious reasons. There’s the prerequisite honey cake, maybe throw in an apple cake too, since you are already slicing a bunch of apples for the dipping-in-honey bit. And, of course, rugelach, the crescent-shaped pastry filled with chocolate, raspberry, or apricot is a staple at any Jewish event (and they balance perfectly on the coffee saucer, you know.)
Since you’re not focusing on how tight your pants will become in the coming new year, I’ll take this opportunity to discuss the bread you will be eating as well. It’s the Jewish go-to standard: challah, that addictive braided loaf of goodness.
I eat this every Shabbat (candles or no candles), often slathered in butter. On Rosh Hashana, the same bread will make its appearance in a round shape and served, you got it, with honey.
Round is big on Rosh Hashana. Theories abound: that the round loaf represents the cyclical nature of the calendar year, that it is smooth and seamless like we hope the coming year will be, even, that it represents a long life span.
The cool thing about Judaism, whether channeled in a progressive synagogue like mine or in a more traditional setting, is that there is always more than one interpretation for everything. We Jews love a good discussion. Multiple viewpoints are encouraged, almost expected. Pair that with a warm, honey-dipped slice of fresh challah and I’d say that is the start of a very delicious new year.
In a large bowl, sprinkle the yeast over the water. Let stand for about 5 minutes to dissolve the yeast. Stir in the salt, sugar, oil, and eggs until blended. Gradually mix in flour. When the dough becomes too stiff to stir, turn it out onto a floured surface and knead for 8 to 10 minutes. Come on, get into it. This part is like going to therapy without having to cough up $200 afterwards.
Place the dough in a bowl, lightly oiled, put a dishtowel over it and forget about it for a bit (aka, until it is double in size.)
This part is also fun: Punch down the dough. You heard me. Take off that dishtowel and sock it dead center, as if you were Mohammed Ali himself.
Okay, this part gets a bit tricky. The braided round challah requires a spatial mind, or, I am a blundering idiot because I can’t figure out how to do it. Seriously, I’ve studied it closely, it entails rolling out long snakes of dough (like a traditional challah) but then forming them in tic-tac-toe type settings and going all crazy on it, whipping strands under and over and around that would leave even the most agile weaver confused.
So, I’m sticking to the spiral version. Seriously, it may be silly, but there is enough stuff to stress about so I am not going to throw visual perception into the mix. And many folks actually prefer this loaf for symbolic reasons:
Spiral = smooth = circular = Rosh Ha Shana. I can work with that equation.
So, here we go for the round shape:
Divide your dough in two pieces.
On a lightly floured surface, roll first piece into a very smooth 24-inch long “snake” of even thickness.
Here’s a tip: round challah can be filled with sweet treats, namely golden raisins, although some über cool moms (I won’t name any names) have been known to toss in mini chocolate chips instead. In any case, if you want to go this route (maybe do one loaf plain and another loaded up) then you are going to want to roll out each snake piece with a rolling pin so that it is flat, sprinkle your desired add-ins and roll that snake back up into a strand so these goodies are nestled inside the dough. At that point, you go on to shaping it in its spiral shape. Got it? Good.
Bring one end around to form a circle that is about 5 inches in diameter. Continue winding the rest of the snake on top of the circle so that it spirals inward and upward, finishing in the center. Tuck the end of the snake into the center.
Do next loaf. (Remember, you’ll have to roll it out first if you want to fill it with raisins/chocolate.)
Place on a baking sheet and allow it to rise another 30 minutes.
Preheat oven to 375 degrees F. Whisk together your wash ingredients and brush over the tops of the loaves. Sprinkle with seeds, if desired.
Bake for 30 minutes or until bread is a golden color and emits a hollow thump when patted on the bottom. "HUH?" you are thinking. Seriously, don’t panic. Just gently pick up your loaf, or turn it or whatever, and lightly tap it (like a criminal would lightly tap floorboards to determine where the hollow one holding the cash is.) When you hear that hollow thud sound, you’ll light up with happiness (like said criminal) because your fabulous challah will be done. Hey, don’t go breaking into anyone’s house or anything.