Working the Bone: Lamb Tagine

My very good writer-friend Melon and I have been co-pitching a story for about a year now to some of our favorite mens magazines (Playboy, Esquire, GQ, FHM, Maxim). He's got great connections and superb editing skills (imagine what he could do with my blog?), and I've got -- well, if you've read this, you know what I've got.

The article that no one seems to want is called "Working the Bone" double entendre fully intended. It's about the primal deliciousness of eating food from the bone; having the uber-sensual experience of picking bones up in your hands and slurping every last bit of fat, meat and marrow from them. Why Ms. Manners and Julia have okayed (nay, emphatically recommended!) working the bone, and why any chef worth his Maldon's will tell you that's the tastiest and most pleasurable part of the meal.

[Full disclosure: A big part of the appeal here is that they also want me to do a photoshoot. All pitches must be accompanied by photos (I used my fully-clothed girl-next-door online dating ones). Mine received a triple-thumbs up from the editors, but sadly they found the story to be a snore. And so I debate...but before you put on Solomon's cloaks, find me a woman who doesn't fantasize about gathering her grandchildren round her sensible shoes one day, picking "The Poky Little Puppy" from a pile of books and having her most precocious granddaughter enquire, "Grandma, we're tired of those stories. We want to hear about your life. Tell us again about the Playboy photoshoot...puh-leeeease!"

Followed by a modest chuckle, "Oh dear, I couldn't possibly. Remember last time? Your parents went through the roof..." As she smoothes out her afgan and watches their innocent faces fill with yearning, her eyes meet the punim of the youngest of her brood, the one who doesn't even know to ask the question, and she relents. "My zeiseh maedeles, if you insist..."]

When I worked for Martha Stewart, I had the supreme pleasure of assisting some of the worlds top chefs. It was like being on the high school JV football team and getting coaching from a different Joe Namath-level expert every week. One of my very favorites was Mr. Marcus Samuelsson, in no small part because he insisted on taking lunch in the commissary with the rest of the staff, and complimented the simple lunch that the cook had prepared loud enough for everyone to hear.

Marcus came to the show to do a sort of old-school Ethiopian cooking meets New York chic segment. He was accompanied by his friend Werkeye, an off the boat Ethiopian cook and restaurant owner.

Classic Ethiopian dining has a twist that some love and others find distasteful. At the table there are no utensils. Instead, diners are presented with piles of spongy bread (injera), which is used to pick up whatever braisey-stew concoction sits before them.

But as I learned that day, real traditional Ethiopian dining goes one step beyond. After prepping the meal, Marcus wanted my opinion on the stew. So he dipped his spongy bread deep into Workeye's pot and called me over. He asked me if I liked the African cooking and while I answered, he lifted his hand and pushed the food straight into my mouth, closing my lips with his fingers.

As I chewed and smiled, he told me that that in the true tradition of Ethiopian cooking, one must feed each other with their hands, and share their love...of food. Workie came over, laughing and he fed her as well. While taping the segment, he even fed Martha. This man's love of food, cooking and feeding was so irrepressible he actually needed to touch a persons mouth as he shared his creations.

Or maybe he was just a big flirt. Either way, I was better fed that day than I had been in many.

While teaching my students, I try to share basic cooking techniques, but I'll be damned if I can take my personal preferences out of the equation. I'll wax on about the hazards of margarine and artificial sweeteners, and the simple perfection of a dinner omelette (looking for a 20 minute meal, anyone?).

So this week, I couldn't help myself when one of my students, Leah, an exceptionally beautiful, tall, and super sharp young blonde, started icking and eeking about eating with your hands. We prepared a lamb tagine which is authentically enjoyed with bits of pita for grabbing the melting lamb from the bones. To make the tagine, we used lamb neck, a rich, fatty but incredibly bony cut that contributes to the development of a rich, gelatinous sauce but requires much working of the bone.

This freaked the Lovely Leah to no end. I listened quietly as she prattled on, in attempt to convert other students to her less barbaric ways. When I heard her cited Ethiopian dining as the ultimate "gross", I had to put an end to the madness.

I climbed atop the mountain of dishes heaped in the sink and shouted down upon her, "My dear Leah, a mere 25 years ago you were sucking your mothers breast; flesh to flesh, nutritious love pouring from her. And now, you're afraid to suck (extremely high-end kosher) meat from a bone? My child, come with me and we will eat this city together. We will dine without utentils, and I will show you the meaning of well fed."

At which point Rafael, the only single man in the classroom softly inquired, "Uh...can I come too? I mean, I'm a little freaked out by bones myself." Sweet Rafael didn't have the foresight to drop the piece of lamb neck bone presently in his paw.

So please, I beg, when dining with your lover or friend or spouse or grandmother tonight, feed them directly, whether it's ice cream from a silver spoon or the bread that you've used to sop up that last delicious spoonful sauce from your plate; pop it into your partners mouth and watch them feel your love.


Moroccan Lamb Tagine
Total time: 2 ½ - 3 hours
Serves 6

I recommend using the lamb next with the bones, as it makes a tasty sauce. However, it also makes for primal eating, so be sure to have a bone plate at the table. If you’re doing white tablecloth dining and would prefer to eat boneless, divide the amount of meat by two (only use 3 pounds of meat), and you’ll serve just as many.

1 tablespoon paprika
1 tablespoon turmeric
2 teaspoons salt, plus more to taste if needed
1 ½ teaspoons ground ginger
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
¼ teaspoon cinnamon
¼ teaspoon cumin
¼ teaspoon black pepper
1 large pinch saffron, pulverized in your fingers
6 pounds bone-in lamb neck, cut into 3-inch chunks
1 to 2 tablespoons olive oil (if needed)
3 medium onions, grated
4 cloves garlic, pulverized
1 cup chopped parsley
3/4 cup chopped cilantro
2 cups water
3 small preserved lemons, cut into thin wedges, seeds discarded
2 cups cracked green olives, rinsed well
1/3 cup sliced almonds, toasted
Harissa (recipe follows)
Good quality Pita Bread, for serving

1. In a small bowl, combine all spices (from paprika to saffron). In the base of a large tagine, or dutch oven set over medium heat, add lamb and toss with spices. If lamb is fatty, continue to cook until spices smell fragrant, about 5 minutes. If lamb is lean, add oil to start the cooking process.

2. Add onions, garlic, parsley and cilantro to the pot, and stir to combine. Add water, covering lamb by ½ to 2/3, and bring to a gentle simmer. Cover, (if using a dutch oven, partially cover) and simmer gently until lamb is tender, about two hours.

3. When lamb has finished cooking, there should be a good amount of liquid in the bottom of the tagine (all the better for soaking your pita, my pretties). If there is too much, or if it is too watery, boil off the excess water. If the pot is getting dry during cooking, add water in ½ cup increments to maintain the cooking liquid and sauce.

4. Top tagine with lemons and olives, replace lid, and cook until warmed through (no more than 5 minutes). Remove from heat and sprinkle with almonds. Serve with harissa and bread.


Harissa
20 minutes
Makes about 1/2 cup

To create this condiment, it’s best to use whole spices, toasted in a small skillet for 1 minute (or until fragrant) and freshly grind in a spice grinder. The very basis of this sauce is peppers, oil and garlic – feel free to experiment with other spices to make it to your taste. Stir into soups, couscous, tagine, or offer with a platter of hummous and babaghanouj!

¼ cup ground Aleppo pepper (if not available, use hot Hungarian paprika and increase the cayenne to 1 tablespoon)
1 teaspoon ground coriander
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1 teaspoon ground fennel seed
1/2 teaspoon ground cayenne pepper
2 teaspoons salt
2 tablespoons red wine vinegar
1/3 to ½ cup olive oil

In a small bowl, combine all dry ingredients. Add vinegar and stir to make a paste. Add the olive oil, and stir to thin the paste. Add enough oil to float spice mixture to “seal”. Harissa can be stored, covered, in the refrigerator, for up to 2 weeks.

P.S. I love you.

For the last few weeks, I’ve been debating when and how to tell JChef that I’m in love. At least a half dozen friends have been in on the deliberation, with opinions as varied and strong as a Middle East Peace Conference.

I polled my most recently happily-married couple to find that they held out for 9 months. 9 months! But they were only seeing each other once a week, as happens in long distance (Brooklyn to Queens, no car) relationships. They moved in 3 months later, engaged 3 months after that. Eek! I’m in love, but not ready for the chips to fall that fast.

In our post-feminist spread-leg culture, saying ‘I love you’ has become the most intimate thing, far more intimate than sleeping with a partner. Women dating in their mid-thirties will sleep with a guy within the first few weeks of getting to know him (but not me, mom, not me). Yet the ‘I love you’ won’t come for months.

Single female friends seem obsessed with the fact that the man must do it first (note to self: consider the demographic). For this group, there’s the fear of “scaring a man away” with strong words. Girlfriends, listen up: better to scare him off earlier than later, no? When a man’s not ready, a man’s not ready, and no amount of denying your feelings is going to get him ready, just like eating a box of Snackwells isn’t going to help you lose weight.

So in preparing for the big day, I’ve been practicing using the word love in sentences, while in the presence of JChef:

“Yes, I tried the Agrumato oil you gave me, I love it.”
“What do you think of this rioja? I think I’m kind of in love.”
“Your restaurant is opening for lunch? I love that idea.”

And my heart has throbbed hard every time he’s played with the word:

“Allison, you know…” Pause. Pause. Pause. “I love…our conversations.”
“God, I love your pillows. What are these, goose down?”
“You are my favorite thing right now. I love my time with you.”

So we’re getting closer. The big day can’t be far away now. My greek chorus of girls shouts at me via text message and voicemail, “Houston, do we have L?” Ever so impatiently waiting for that pot to boil.

And then it came, with a twist. Just after our snowstorm but conveniently before Valentine’s Day, J came over to tell me that he’d like to stop seeing me. Things are getting too serious, it’s not what he wants. Though I may be the best partner he'll never have, he just wants to concentrate on his restaurant right now. Or his jujitsu. Or his knitting.

On the way out the door, looking at my wet face and seeing a world of pain in those typically bright eyes, he stopped. He gave me a strong goodbye hug, looked hard at me, smiled and told me that he loved me. Not my smile, not my brisket, not my perfect hard-and-softness, but me. Just me.

As for me, no, I never got to say it. The words couldn’t find their way up my wind pipe, as it was too clogged with the emotions that were being choked back down. After all that practicing, I suppose that instead of saying it, I’ll simply have to show it. I’ll just have to let him go.



Hot Chocolate
Allison Fishman, The Wooden Spoon
1 serving

I needed a warm up bad, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to screw around with that Swiss Miss nonsense.

2 heaping tablespoons sugar
1 heaping tablespoon cocoa powder (Hershey’s is what I had, but if you’ve got premium, use it)
1 pinch salt
1 cup whole milk
Dash vanilla, pinch cayenne or Aleppo or ancho chili powder, a handful of good quality chocolate morsels for extra richness, shot whiskey or rum, whipped cream, marshmallows, (optional, but oh so good).

In a small saucepan, combine sugar, cocoa, salt and 1/4 cup milk. Bring to a simmer over medium-low heat and stir (fork, whisk), until sugar is dissolved. Add the rest of the milk and bring to a gentle simmer. Pour into a mug and enjoy.

NOTE: If you’re adding the optionals, add the vanilla, chili powders or chocolate morsels while cooking, but the rum, whipped cream and marshmallows after.

To Grandmother's House, Banana Bread We Go!

January 12, 2006 was my grandmother's 91st birthday. As we know, I'm not the world's best gift giver, but I just had to do something for my grandmother. For her 90th, I got her Time/Life's Century in Photos, but she never received it. (After many conversations with Amazon, I'm still not sure what happened.) But she's my grandma, and it would her bother her more if I spent the money on a second gift, so we let it go. Grandmas are good like that.

She's an avid card player -- I've seen her take my brother and his sharky friends down mercilessly. My mother is convinced that all this card playing explains her lack of age-related memory challenges. In fact, it's the reason my mom has a started an aggressive regimen of sudoku, the way some retirees get into fiber.

But the gift, the gift, the gift. Mom said food, as grandma enjoys experiences, and doesn't need anymore stuff. I went a-searching on Godiva.com, Stonewall Kitchen, Dean & Deluca, Zabars...even Russ and Daughters. It just felt weird to spend $59.99 to send my grandmother an assortment of jams. Or bagels. Not right.

You see, when I was little, I spent 2 weeks every summer in upstate New York with grandma while my parents did whatever they wanted to do without me around. Grandma's house was slightly larger than the gingerbread version, but with more charm. Laundry was air-dried, the house was fan-cooled. We made too many jello molds; I learned the traitorous nature of a tuna sandwich dressed with Miracle Whip; and perhaps most importantly, I became familiar with a species of pickle not seen downstate -- the bread and butter.

On the plus side, Grandma and I would take her Ford to the farmstand to fresh corn. There was a lot of bacon, with that distinct morning smell, and there was Ham. She had a popcorn machine that we got her for Christmas one year, and every night we'd make our selves a snack. We got long sticks of pepperoni, and I was allowed to use the knife to cut it.

Grandma's neighbor built me a swing from a wood slat he cut in his garage so that I could swing from the clothesline pole while grandma hung my grass-stained clothes. Lots of friends came to visit her; they always told me how big I was getting. My cheeks ached from all the smiling and "nice to meet you"-ing. My grandma still, at age 90, has more friends than anyone I know. We'd regularly visit my great Aunt at the nursing home (she lived to 103), where I'd always find a packet of M&M's in her top drawer (planted by grandma, I believe).

I lost lots of teeth at grandma's house, primarily because I rigged a little string--doorknob thing and kept slamming that door until they came out. (When suburban kids get in the country, sans mall, they become very creative.) Losing teeth was a novelty in Grandma's house, and as such, remunerated more favorably than at home.

There were men who would sit outside their houses and clean their guns (one shot himself one summer, I mean, duh...), and I played with friends in a "crick". I picked bouquets of Queen Anne's lace (weed) for my grandma, and captured frogs and fireflies, which consistently died by morning. That's okay, there were always more.

So grandma's 91st birthday came and went, and I moped. I finally sent my mom an email, something to the effect that I wish she wasn't so far away, as I'd prefer to just cook her a proper meal. To which my mother responded, "Send her one." Perhaps all this sudoku was working afterall.

I decided on the simplest, most delicious, classic, un-fussy, un-showoffy item I could ship with some confidence: Banana Bread. I bought the bananas and let them sit for 2 or 3 weeks, until they were beautifully black, and called my grandmother in the meantime to let her know a gift was en route. (Yes, I sent a card; it's not like I'm a total cretin.)

I made the bread old school -- I think this was the first recipe I learned as a kid and made with any consistency in college. When I taught nursery school, this was a lesson for the kids; it's incredibly tactile (and resilient).

So I sent it and grandma was thrilled. Best birthday gift ever -- she even called my mom to tell her so. But my favorite part of this story: Guess what my cousin gave grandma for the 91st? A homemade Cranberry Nut bread. Ain't genetics a hoot?


Grandma's Banana Bread
by Allison Fishman, The Wooden Spoon

3 seriously ripe, almost totally black bananas
1 cup sugar
1/4 cup butter, melted and cooled
1 1/2 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt

1. Preheat oven to 350F. In a large bowl, combine bananas, sugar, butter.

2. In a smaller bowl, combine flour, soda and salt. Whisk to combine dry ingredients.

3. Move back to the big bowl, and roll up your sleeves. Mush the heck out of the banana mixture. Sprinkle the flour mixture on top of the banana mixture and stir with those sticky hands until just-combined, don't over mix.

4. Pour batter into a 9 x 5 loaf pan coated with nonstick spray (8 x 4 will work as well, and will crest more). Bake until top bounces back when gently pressed, 50 minutes to 1 hour. Put loaf pan on a cooling rack until it's cool enough to touch; invert and let bread finish cooling outside of the pan.

5. When cool, wrap in plastic wrap and aluminum foil (especially necessary if you buy cheap-o plastic wrap like me). Take to your nearest UPS store or Post Office; send to grandma.

I'm Punting: Salsa and Guac for the Superbowl

I'm sorry guys, I gotta punt today. It's Superbowl Friday (erev, erev Superbowl) and I'm spent. But lucky you, I just penned (tapped?) a piece for thestreet.com on Superbowl Snacking complete with two fab recipes for Guacamole and Salsa (scroll down, they're there). And here's the vid clip.

I'm happy to announce that I, alongside one of the yummiest '86 Mets, Lenny (Nails) Dykstra, am writing somewhat regularly for thestreet.com. And for those who haven't seen the punim, I'm doing webcasts as well. I'll suppose I'm taking my 15-minutes digitally.

Come back next week for a (bring the kleenex) story and a recipe on my Grandma Lucy's Banana Bread.

[Editor's Note (I wear many hats): For those of you who enjoyed the Brooklyn Vegetable Man piece, let me tell you something. Vesuvio was so pissed at me for "outing him" that he wouldn't talk to me until today. Our conversations had to go through JChef which, now that I'm thinking about it, could explain the alleged social malfunction. Half a dozen yellow tea roses later, I'm back in his romaine. I tell you, these tough guys, they wilt.]