Arroz Con Pollo

On Saturday night, I went to a sushi-making party at a friend's house. It was one of those international evenings, where almost everyone is from a different country and you can hear at least four languages that you don't understand (five, counting English, which I also stop understanding after the third shot of sake...). Two of the girls were Chinese and they were telling us that Cantonese has nine different intonations - that's right, NINE. So potentially, one word can have nine different meanings. They gave a couple of examples, and really, I'm not sure I should ever learn Cantonese because, especially after a few drinks, we would have big problems of the YOU IDIOT!-oh...-I mean,-please-pass-the-pepper variety.

I had a similar reaction when I initially began researching recipes for arroz con pollo, which a friend asked me to make (how did you guys like that transition? Smooth, huh!). Arroz con pollo is practically the national dish in many Latin American countries, and when I saw the variations with which it is made, my eyes rolled back into my head and I felt like chucking the whole undertaking there and then because, how can I compete with the cooks in Latin America, creators of all things dulce de leche, ceviche, asado, empanadas, tamales and a million other delicacies with such mouth-watering names as "Churrasco," "Mariscada," and "Pamplona de pollo"?

After a tolerably brief (and mostly successful) wrestle with panic, however, your intrepid heroine then took a long, deep breath and defrosted the chicken. Because, as everyone knows, after you defrost the chicken, there is just no going back.

I decided to go back to the basics and use just the ingredients that most people have in their pantry. Because delicious doesn't always have to mean a trip to the market, right? Keep in mind that there are countless variations. I saw a three page debate about the use of bell peppers alone, and don't even get me started on the saffron mafia (they are very, very scary). Some people use chorizo, which they fry right before the onions are added, and some people throw in a handful of cooked peas at the end. Whatever you do, it's easy to add your own choice of spices and veggies based on what you have on hand or on how fancy you want to make the dish. At its base, however, arroz con pollo is a hearty, colorful, satisfying one-pot dish that earned me a really loud "MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM...." from my family, and that is really the only thing that matters. I used this recipe from Simply Recipes as my base.

Arroz con pollo
For the chicken:
4 chicken thighs (or 2 thighs and 2 breasts, or whatever pieces of chicken you happen to have at the moment that would serve 4 people)
Paprika
2 tbsp olive oil
Flour for dredging
For the rice:
1 cup of rice (I usually use jasmine or basmati rice, but short grain is more traditional)
2 cups of chicken stock* OR 1 cup chicken stock and 1 cup saffron water**
1 cup diced tomatoes (canned or fresh; liquid drained if canned)
1 tbsp tomato paste
1/2 yellow onion, diced
1 clove garlic, minced
1 tsp oregano
1 tsp dried thyme
1/2 tsp cumin
salt & pepper to taste

Heat 1 1/2 tbsp olive oil in a large skillet that has a cover on medium heat. In a bowl, combine flour, paprika, salt and pepper. Dredge the chicken in the mixture, shaking off the excess flour. Brown the chicken for a couple of minutes on either side until nicely golden, sprinkling some more paprika on top. Remove chicken from the pan and set aside.



Add the rice to the pan to brown. Stir it first to coat in olive oil and then leave for about a minute. Then stir again, not too often, to continue until the rice is also a golden color, about 2 more minutes. Be careful not to burn the rice (like I did). Add the chopped onions, garlic and chopped bell peppers, if using. Sprinkle a little salt on it and sautee, stirring often, until the onions are soft, about 4/5 minutes (add the additional 1/2 tbsp of olive oil if you feel that it's going to burn).



Place the chicken skin side up on top of the rice. In a bowl, mix the chicken stock (and saffron water, if using) with the chopped tomatoes and tomato paste. Pour over the chicken and rice. Sprinkle with a little more salt and pepper, oregano, thyme, cumin and any other spice you want to use (hello, chili powder and smoked paprika!). Bring to a simmer, reduce heat to low, cover tightly and simmer for 20-25 minutes (depending on the instructions on the rice package) until the chicken and the rice are done. At this point, you can sprinkle in the peas if you want. Fluff the rice with a fork and enjoy. I'd tell you to wait until it cools, but it looked and smelled so good that we totally didn't, so why should you?



*Please follow the directions on the box for the rice when you do the proportions of liquid to rice -- mine was 1:2, but I've seen 1:1.5 sometimes, so you have to be careful.

**If you want to use saffron in the dish (I didn't), dissolve 1/4 tsp saffron in 1 cup of boiling water.

Continued after the jump...

A wind's in the heart of me, a fire's in my heels

A wind's in the heart of me, a fire's in my heels,
I am tired of brick and stone and rumbling wagon-wheels;
I hunger for the sea's edge, the limit of the land,
Where the wild old Atlantic is shouting on the sand.

Oh, I'll be going, leaving the noises of the street,
To where a lifting foresail-foot is yanking at the sheet;
To a windy, tossing anchorage where yawls and ketches ride,
Oh, I'll be going, going, until I meet the tide.

Excerpt from A Wanderer's Song by John Masefield

Anyone who's ever had the wander-lust knows the irresistible pull of an open stretch of road, the seductive bend of the mountain, the lure of infinite possibilities. It's not about where you go, it's about how you get there and where you stop along the way. People whose souls aren't filled with it can never, ever understand. When I was a little girl walking with my parents, I would always ask them to go "just until after the road curves." My mom would laugh and say, "What do you think is there, a circus?" But it isn't about that at all, is it? It's about the act of going, of doing, of giving in to that excitement that tells you - well, maybe there is! It's the satisfaction of knowing that you've climbed to the top and the view is that much sweeter.

Which is why when faced with a prospect of a three-day weekend, beautiful weather and nothing to do, I felt the "old familiar glamour" (and if anyone knows where that's from, would you marry me?) and I knew that I had to just go. Unfortunately, with all his perfections, A.'s wander-lust gene got lost somewhere along the way and there followed a conversation that will be familiar in its form (if not in content) to many a married person:

Me [with a "Sound of Music" stretch of the arms and a twirl]: Oh, the weather is beautiful! Let's take the car and just drive somewhere!

A: Why?

Me [mental sound of screeching tires]: Um, what do you mean, 'why?' Weather = good, time = free, etc...

A: Still don't get it.

Me [Sigh]: Well, all right. I suppose you don't have to go with me; I would never force you to do something you don't want to do. [Brightly] I'll just take the car myself and drive along the coast to, oh, I don't know, Santa Barbara, maybe? Not such a long drive, but so pretty. I'll stay for the day, maybe do some wine tasting, meet some of the wine-makers...

A [Meditative silence]: .................. Can we rent a convertible?

Me: YES!

And so, a compromise was born.

We drove leisurely down the shimmering coast, the water dotted with surfers like the top of a bread pudding with raisins, past the giant RVs and the noisy seagulls, past the parents watching with lazy satisfaction as their kids build sand-castles, past the beach houses sparkling like little brightly-colored jewels in the sun. We drove until there was nothing left but us and the road and a stretch of sprawling countryside, and only then did we feel at peace.

Predictably (for a three-day weekend), the wineries were crowded and there were limos and tour-vans parked in every parking lot. We were lucky enough to find a quiet table in the sun and enjoyed our wine with a side of people-watching.










The wine was good and the company was better. Next to us, a family opened a giant cooler and, in the blink of an eye, had the picnic table covered with a checkered table-cloth and spread with the most enviable variety of meats and cheeses and fruit, which put the two little plastic containers I packed at home completely to shame. A. looked over and said: "Next time, I'm packing the food!" :)

We even splurged on the "Reserve" tasting at Sunstone and got to go into a cave filled with rows and rows of wine bottles, dark and dusty and waiting to be tapped.










And as we were driving back in the dusk and A.'s hands held the steering wheel in a firm grip and I was dozing off to the strains of Miles Davis, the words of an old, half-forgotten poem I had read years and years ago came back to me; and I knew that the next time someone asks me "why," I will just shrug and tell them: "a wind's in the heart of me, a fire's in my heels."

Continued after the jump...

Gâteau de Mamy à la Poire

As you can tell, I've been a little, tiny, teensy bit obsessed with pears lately. Something about their light, delicate sweetness makes the bolder, brighter fruit seem slightly garish and somehow overdressed in comparison. There is a time for loud and bright - summer, for example, and the middle of winter to chase away the blahs - but now, when everything around me is just waking up and growing and changing in preparation for spring, I crave the subtlety and the reserved nature of the pear. And they have such beautiful names, also - Bartlett, D'Anjou, Harrow Sweet, Luscious, Rosemarie and Summer Beauty - that it's hard to pass them by at the market without buying at least a few. Especially when they reminded me of this delectable recipe from Chocolate and Zucchini that I came across a while ago. How could I resist?!

This is one of those cakes that is as humble as its ingredients (a classic flour/eggs/butter/sugar combination), but the taste is lovely and delicate. It doesn't demand attention, but gives all of your senses a simple and lingering pleasure. You could dress it up with confectioner's sugar or with vanilla ice cream, but you could also just serve it by itself with steaming cups of freshly brewed tea.

Gâteau de Mamy à la Poire (reprinted with many thanks and great respect)
1 stick plus 1 Tbsp unsalted butter
4 large pears or 6 small ones
3/4 cup sugar
2 eggs
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
2 tablespoons ground almonds
1 1/2 tsp baking powder

Preheat the oven to 350°F. Melt the butter in a small bowl and set aside to cool. Butter a non-stick 9-inch cake pan.

Wash, peel and cut up the pears. Lay the pieces of fruit at the bottom of the pan.

In a medium mixing-bowl, whisk the sugar with the eggs until the mixture whitens slightly. Add in the flour, almond powder and baking powder, and whisk well. Pour in the butter, and blend again. Pour the batter evenly over the fruit, and put into the oven to bake for 40 to 50 minutes.

Let the cake settle on a cooling rack for a few minutes. Invert it on a plate (the fruit side will be on top). If any bit of fruit has stuck to the bottom of the pan, simply scrape them and place them back where they belong on the cake. Use a second plate to invert the cake again (the fruit side will then be at the bottom). Let cool and serve slightly warm or at room temperature.

Continued after the jump...

Love is (or, the best laid plans o' mice and men...)

Love is: When you decide to circumvent the crowds and the hype on V-Day and cook dinner together at home... When you comb through recipe after recipe for two weeks to find something elegant yet idiot-proof so that neither of you can mess it up, no matter how distracted you get... When you finally decide on a recipe, make a grandiose plan for the evening, brave the crush and stand in line for an hour at Trader Joe's to buy all the ingredients... When you come home and realize that the flu that kicked your ass last week is still kicking your ass this week and that you should really be in bed... When you look at your husband with apologetic eyes and he doesn't even bat an eyelid and fluffs up your pillow...

When you glance up half an hour later, feeling crappy and moody and depressed and mad at yourself, to see said husband bearing a tray of hand-made sandwiches and itty-bitty Diet Cokes (which he bought especially for you because he knew that you would find them wee and adorable)... When you snuggle up together in bed eating sandwiches and drinking Diet Coke, watching a silly crime show and pointing out all the holes in the criminal's logic (and then saying, "relax, relax, it's just a show")... When, much later, you lay in bed listening to his heart-beat, feeling the warmth and his breath tickling your cheek lightly...

Then, as the familiar sounds of the night and the creaking of your old house slowly lull you to sleep, you can't help but wonder what in the hell you did to deserve such happiness.

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone.

Continued after the jump...

These are a few of my favorite things...

The other day, I was supposed to be hard at work but -- now confess, how many of you start your days the same way? :P -- but I was taking 15 minutes to slack off and browse one of the community websites/chat-sites that I visit once in a while. I came upon a post by one of the women there who complained that her teenage son is drastically overweight and won't eat: fruit, vegetables, cheese (seriously? the kid doesn't know what he's missing), yogurt, and basically anything else remotely healthy or in any way good for you. All he wants to eat are chips and other junk food, Chinese food (from which he diligently takes out the vegetables, apparently), hamburgers, fries (it's a vegetable! dzing!), and well, you get the idea. He won't eat his mom's cooking and just ends up ordering Chinese food.

Now, it's really hard for me to work up a lot of righteous indignation (given the amount of butter in the tart recipe from yesterday), but I just have to know -- is this normal? Or is it a matter of a combination of starting good habits early and feeding them healthy food by brute force until they learn to comply? When I was growing up, my mom would always say: "Oh, you don't like what I made? Why don't you work for a full day and then stand in the kitchen for an hour to make dinner while your ungrateful children refuse to eat it?!" She was, and still is, a big proponent of the Jewish guilt thing, and I don't blame her (secret: it works). By the way, what's the difference between a Jewish mother and a pit-bull? A pit-bull eventually lets go! Da-da-dum, thank you, I'll be here all week. (Don't kill me, mom)

A lot of people blame the sad state of affairs on our solitary culture, on consumerism, on video games, on commercials that glorify junk food, on schools that fail to serve healthy food in cafeterias, on anything, in short, but themselves (by the way, it came out later in comments that the lady's husband loves junk food and hides it from her around the house - hmm........). Although our house is still free of those screaming/crying/ pooping/laughing little things that you trip over when you get home from work, I know -- I know! -- that nothing having to do with kids is ever easy or simple. But please tell me (someone? anyone?) that you've succeeded with your own little brood. I'm hoping that giving ourselves good habits will go a long way to passing them to our kids... That, and a good big dose of Jewish guilt. One of my very close friends is Italian and we are hoping that the time-tested lethal combination of Jewish and Catholic guilt will seal the deal.

The 10pm Munchies Snack
1 crunchy apple
1 juicy orange
1 tsp fresh lemon juice
1 cup low-fat vanilla or plain yogurt
A handful of plump, golden raisins
pinch of cinnamon, pinch of nutmeg

Skin the orange and cut it into bite sized pieces (I know it sounds mean mean and violent to skin and chop things, but that's life for you. The orange is going to a better place...). Remove the core from the apple and also cut it into bite sized pieces. Mix together with the teaspoon of lemon juice in a nice bowl. Put a good glug of yogurt on top, dot with raisins and sprinkle with a pinch of cinnamon and nutmeg. Voila!

Even my meat-and-potatoes husband likes it (in the interests of full disclosure and protecting his masculine image, yes, yes, he loves a good steak and all that jazz; but when he's too lazy to make a snack himself [most days], this is what he will eat if I put it in front of him. And he'll even enjoy it!).

Continued after the jump...

Small Tarts Have Big Hearts: Bartlett Tartlettes

I didn't acquire my first cook-book until shortly after I started law school. I have my mother to thank for that - despite having a varied and tasty repertoire, she always cooks from her own imagination (um, thanks for not passing that very useful talent along, mom... but I love you anyway). In college, the dorms either didn't have kitchens at all (we all have very fond memories of making pasta on a little heating pad in our rooms) or had the sort of kitchens the ovens of which burned even chocolate chip cookies. So you can say that I didn't begin my love affair with cooking until I was living in my own apartment and well embroiled in the intricacies of torts and the rule against perpetuities (*shudder*). Coincidentally (or not), I met my husband -- then boyfriend -- at around the same time, so perhaps the two (cooking and having someone to cook for) went hand in hand.

But back to my first cookbook. I remember picking it up, gently and hesitantly, in the bargain books section of Barnes and Noble. The title was simply "Baking," by Carole Clements. The book attracted me by being large, full of detailed instructions and color photographs, and by having recipes that used a basic, familiar list of ingredients (my rule back then was, if I can't pronounce it, I'm not going to cook it... ahh, how times have changed). The very first recipe I tried to make was the Peach Tart with Almond Cream. My friend and I got together one Saturday morning, put on our aprons and got ready to bake... only to discover that we didn't have: peaches, almonds, enough butter, a food processor (to grind the almonds), a rolling pin or a tart pan. Our first adventure in baking was getting off to a rocky and unpromising start. Needless to say, that particular tart didn't turn out so well. But, as they say, it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

By a natural progression, when my recipe book became too stuffed with pieces of paper and tiny hand-written notes and butter crumbs, I started this blog. And yet, that first cook-book, like a first boyfriend, has kept a spot in my heart and on my bookshelf. Which is why, when I heard of the Small Tarts Have Big Hearts event hosted by two lovely ladies (and with a name like that, we here at Confessions of a Tart just had to participate!), I decided to finally do justice to that poor peach tart. However, fate has had the last laugh. I was walking past the anemic peaches in the fruit aisle when the faint delicate perfume of Bartlett pears enveloped me. It was decided -- the peach tart will have to wait until summer, and the Bartlett Tartlette was born!

Bartlett Tartlette
(adapted from "Baking" by Carole Clements)
For the crust:
1 1/4 cups flour
3/4 tsp salt
7 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, cut into 1/2 in. pieces
1 egg yolk
2 1/2 - 3 tbsp ice water
For the frangipane:
2-3 Bartlett pears
2/3 cup blanched almonds
2 tbsp flour
7 tbsp unsalted butter, at room temperature
1/2 cup plus 2 tbsp sugar
1 egg
1 egg yolk
1/2 tsp vanilla extract
For the pear syrup (optional):
pear skins
water
1/2 cup sugar

1. For the crust, sift flour and salt into a bowl. Cut the butter into it with a pastry cutter (I bought one of these recently and it changed my life, seriously) until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs and chunks of butter are no bigger than a pea. With a fork, stir in the egg yolk and just enough water to blend the dough. Gather into a ball, wrap in wax paper and refrigerate for at least 20 minutes.


2. Meanwhile, cut in half, skin and core the pears. If making the pear syrup, put the pear skins and cores in a small pot, pour water in until the whole thing is just covered, add 1/2 cup of sugar, bring to a boil and stir, and then reduce heat, cover and simmer for about 25-30 min to reduce to a thicker consistency. Strain and toss the pear skins/cores (or eat the skins, like I did - waste not, want not, right?). Put the pear halves in iced water so they don't brown.

3. While the syrup is doing whatever mysterious little thing it does, take out the dough and on a lightly floured surface, roll it out to whatever size tart pan (or tartlet pans) you are using. Butter the tart pan(s) and transfer the dough to it. Trim the edges, prick the bottom and refrigerate.

3. In a food processor, grind the almonds finely with the flour. Cream the butter and 1/2 cup of the sugar until light and fluffy. Gradually, beat in the egg and yolk. Stir in the almonds and vanilla.


4. Preheat the oven to 400F. Spread the frangipane in the pastry shell. Slice the pears thinly and arrange on top of the tart, fanning out the slices of each pear.

5. Bake until the pastry begins to brown, 10-15 minutes. Lower the heat to 350F and continue baking until frangipane sets, about 15-20 minutes more. Ten minutes before the end of cooking time, sprinkle with the remaining 2 tablespoons of sugar (total for either one big tart or all of your small tartlets). If you made the pear syrup, pour some over the tart(s) once you take them out of the oven.

Continued after the jump...

Chicken Milanese

As I was driving home from work today, I was struck with the realization that I did not, emphatically did not want to cook dinner. I was exhausted, I was uninspired and cooking dinner seemed more like a chore, an unfair obligation, than a delight for the senses that food usually promises to be.

Did we women have it easier 50 years ago? Is this whole modern feminism/independence thing we have going just a bunch of hogwash? Should we go back to the time when it was the man's job to make money and all a woman was expected to do was look pretty, teach the kids how to say "Daddy" and fry up a couple of cutlets once in a while? Today, a woman has to do everything - she has to work, she has to look like a model, she has to cook and clean and take care of the little ones, and the guys still think it's emasculating to wash the dishes (well, not my guy, but some do). The question isn't as simple as it sounds -- if you put it like that, what have we gained, a 40 (and in some cases 60, 70, 80) hour workweek, in addition to all our other responsibilities?

Of course, the tough answer is, is that we have gained a choice. And that, my friends, while it is intangible and indefinable and not always pleasant, is nothing to sneeze at. Many girls I know still want to marry for money and many girls I know don't want families at all; and now, they each can pursue their own unique path to happiness, whether it includes being a domestic goddess, a corporate powerhouse or a little bit of both. The knowledge that the road less traveled doesn't have a "boys only" sign barring it makes it all worth it for me. Even on evenings when I despise having to be the chef in the family.

Abigail Adams wrote to her husband in 1776: "Men of sense in all ages abhor those customs which treat us only as the (servants) of your sex; regard us then as being placed by Providence under your protection, and in imitation of the Supreme Being make use of that power only for our happiness...we have it in our power, not only to free ourselves, but to subdue our masters, and without violence, throw both your natural and legal authority at our feet." Sheesh. Thank goodness those times are gone!!! Therefore, I do not speak lightly of our choices. How much sweeter life is when you know that the work you have done is your own, and that when you make dinner for your family, you do it out of love and not because it is the only thing you are allowed to do.

Chicken Milanese

2 chicken breasts
1 cup bread crumbs
1/4 cup parmesan cheese
1 egg, lightly beaten
1 tsp dried oregano
1 tsp dried basil
salt and pepper to taste


Warm some olive oil on the skillet over medium heat. Put the breadcrumbs in one bowl and lightly beat the egg in another bowl. Mix the oregano, basil and Parmesan cheese with the breadcrumbs.

Lightly tenderize the chicken to about 1/2 inch thickness; season it well with salt and pepper. When the oil is hot but not smoking, dip each chicken breast into the egg first and then into the breadcrumbs mixture, and then put them side by side in the pan. The breadcrumbs I used were homemade (I left bread to dry on the counter for a day and then whizzed it in my food processor until fine crumbs formed). Cook the chicken about 4 minutes per side or until there is no pink in the middle when you cut a piece off to take your first juicy bite.

And when it's late at night and you are tired from a full day of work, and your husband watches TV upstairs while you cook, just remember Abigail Adams and repeat to yourself: I am doing this out of love... But do me a favor and make sure he does the dishes!

Continued after the jump...

Lady Irene the Flavorful of the Scone

If you haven't done so already, join the ranks of aristocracy by getting your very own Peculiar Aristocratic Title. It can inspire one to do many noble deeds, from spreading largesse among the populace to cleaning your room. I, however, was inspired to go on a quest. If I were a Knight (and if women could have been Knights), I would put on my suit of armor, grab my trusty sword and jump atop my loyal steed. Judging from the weight of those suits of armor in the museums, however, neither I nor my loyal steed would have that much fun and the whole thing would last about five minutes before we stopped off at a local tea-shop for a hot cup of tea, some muffins and a chat with the nice ladies who run the shop. Which leads me to my modern quest of the day -- the quest for a perfect scone.

It must neither be too hard and crumbly, nor too soft and moist. Just hard enough to hold together while you spread a good bit of cream and jam onto it, but just soft enough to break when you gently spread its hot goodness open with your hands alone. I've tried recipes with egg (didn't like them), without eggs, with buttermilk, with fruit or without, but I still can't find that perfect combination that would be my go-to recipe. I welcome everyone to wander along the culinary forests and meadows with me and post your favorite scone recipe. Help the weary traveler on her loyal steed.

Continued after the jump...

A Tart With A Heart

Even us tarts have a little soft spot for Valentine's Day. Mind you, I resent the "establishment" sort of things like roses, chocolates and Hallmark cards. There are so many more wonderful ways to celebrate love, aren't there? It's like my college English professor always said (albeit in quite a different context): "Show, not tell."

Ever since I heard some poor man telling the story over the watercooler of his Valentine's Day rush to buy $10/stem roses, crammed into a tiny flower shop along with hundreds of other desperate men in an after-work effort to fulfill his Valentine's Day quota (and really, for that much money, I'd rather have a pair of shoes... call me practical), I've revolted against the established V-Day festivities.

I don't want overpriced flowers, I don't want chocolates, I don't want the madness of trying to reserve a restaurant on February 14th (er... in the spirit of truth, I have to add that A. deals with the reservations, really, but that's not the point). Not that there's inherently anything wrong in any of that. I just didn't enjoy the stress of it when we went through all those things, and I am a firm believer that in life, you should do the things you enjoy. Therefore, we've developed a sort of pattern over the years: A. and I make dinner at home, just the two of us, loudly pop a bottle of champagne and celebrate how lucky he was to find me we were to find each other. It makes both of us truly happy, and that's the most important thing.
Some traditions, however, are hard to break out of - nothing speaks V-Day like red and hearts. And when my stuffed pepper came out of the oven looking like a big red heart, I just knew it foretold the beginning of one good week. So, here's to V-Day, here's to the traditions, here's to us jaded 21st century people having a nice, relaxing week full of love and doing things you enjoy!

Stuffed Peppers
6 red peppers, hulled and seeded
1 lb lean ground beef
2 Italian sausages, casings removed (or another 1/2 lb ground beef)
1 cup rice, cooked
1/2 yellow onion, minced
1 large clove garlic, minced
1 can chopped tomatoes
1 cup tomato sauce
salt/pepper/dried Italian spices
sour cream and dill for garnish
First, put 1/2 cup dry rice and 1 cup water and some salt on high heat. Wait until it boils, then turn down the heat and simmer for 15-20 minutes.

While the rice is cooking, deal with the peppers. Once the peppers are washed, hulled and seeded, cut a bit off the bottom of each pepper so that it can stand in the baking dish you've prepared. Ideally, the baking dish should hold all six peppers, but mine held only 4 so the other 2 had to rough it all alone in two ramekins. This should only take you a couple of minutes unless, like mine, your peppers decide to break out during the hulling process (um, a bit late in the day to stage a rebellion guys, no?).

Chop the onions and garlic and sauté under medium heat in 1/2 tablespoon of butter or olive oil until very soft (6-7 minutes). Set aside. In the same pan, brown the beef (and sausage if using) on moderate heat until almost all the pink is gone, about 10 minutes. Make sure to salt and pepper it well, and also add any spices you want to use at this time (Italian spices, thyme, a dash of Tabasco sauce, etc). At this point, I like to pour off the fat from the pan, but that's just me.

Add the onions/garlic to combine. Then add the cooked rice also to combine. Add the tomato sauce and the can of tomatoes so that the mixture is good and moist. Add more tomato sauce if it's too dry. It's okay, it'll all be inside the peppers, so the wetter the better (he he he). Taste it to make sure it's good.

Preheat the oven to 350F. Stand the peppers side by side in a baking dish. They should sit together pretty snugly (I could make all sorts of group double entendres here, but I won't). Spoon the mixture into the peppers and put them into the oven for 45 minutes - 1 hr. At 45 min, the peppers will be firm and taught and at 1 hr, they will be very soft and tender (oh boy, I'm going to get in trouble, but this is a Valentine's week post).

Russians garnish with a big dollop of cool sour cream and some freshly chopped dill. Mmmm....

Continued after the jump...

Jerusalem of Gold

You could say that I have a small, slight weakness for kitchen gadgets and appliances. Tart pans and cookie presses have been known to float in and out of my fevered dreams on occasion and things like this make me salivate. The thought of a KitchenAid mixer makes my knees all weak and wobbly (when A. and I are old and grey and bored with each other, am I going to ask him to dress up as -- not a fireman or a cop -- but a KitchenAid Stand Mixer [Cobalt Blue]? I don't know, I just don't know). What is this leading up to? Well: today, I failed to simply drive by Bed Bath & Beyond, and as a result, I am the new proud owner of this little beauty:

Hello, little guy! Welcome to my kitchen!

In order to justify this new affaire, I am going to make something grand, something very ambitious (and perhaps a little bit crazy). I am going to make my own pita bread and falafel.

I lived in Israel for a glorious, sun-filled three months after college. Words fail to describe how lovely and unique a country it is. The moment you step onto its soil, you know that you are there, somewhere indescribably special and different from any other place in the world. A place that, despite its warts and cracks and injustices (and let's face it, there are some everywhere, and on the world scale of injustices, Israel has less than 90% of the countries out there), still manages to maintain a sense of history and community and an energy and a joy of life that is rarely seen anywhere anymore. I lived in the dormitories at the Haifa university. It was on top of a hill and my room, though the size of a small closet and not air conditioned, had a 180 degree view of the impossibly blue, sparkling expanse of sea and sky that could, and frequently did, make my heart soar. Most of my neighbors in the dorms, besides other foreign students, were Arab, Druzi and Russian-Jewish kids, because they were poor and dorm housing is a luxury that is only given based on religion/nationality-blind financial need. As you can imagine, there were many noisy dinners where we cooked mostly bad food (hey, we were 21) and met mostly amazing people and had mostly screaming arguments about politics and women's rights (no one argues like a Jew and an Arab together) that ended in coffee and sweets. Those three months will always stand out in my mind bathed in the golden light of the Haifa afternoons.

Oftentimes, my roommate Erin and I took a taxi down to the shukh to wander among its many cramped stalls smelling the sweet, strange smells and watching the women expertly turn the fruit over in their hands (what distinguishes one perfect apple from another anyway?). There would, inevitably, be a falafel stand with an Arab man and his son turning over the golden-fried falafel and cutting paper thin slices of shewarma into home-baked pitas. They would smile at us and whistle and wink at Erin who, golden haired and blue eyed, seemed to them much more beautiful and exotic than me, with my pedestrian black hair and almond-shaped dark eyes. Sometimes the whistling would annoy us, but sometimes, we just winked back and bought the pitas and falafel, and I tell you, there is nothing better than that in the mid-day heat. The pillowy, soft pitas have nothing to do with the flat dry stuff we are offered at the supermarket here, and the falafel... golden and crunchy on the outside, soft and spicy and fragrant inside, tempered with a lot of hummus and tahini sauce (that's how I liked it) and fresh tomatoes and cucumbers... Yeah, I would go back in a second just to do it all over again, and then to sit in the evening in a cafe on the beach drinking beer while the waves lapped the shore gently two feet away from our flip flops, listening to wafts of loud music and louder converstaion drifting to the water from the boardwalk.

I can't recreate the magic, I know that. It's all time and atmosphere and friends and -- well, that Arab guy has probably been making falafel and pitas half his life, and it's a first for me. But maybe somewhere in my Jewish ancestry, there is a falafel maker, the instincts of whom will guide me (very unlikely, but hey, call me an optimist).

Pita bread recipe

1 envelope dry yeast
2 teaspoons salt
1 tablespoon sugar
4 cups white all-purpose flour
1 1/2 cups warm water
1 tablespoon olive oil

Combine the yeast and sugar in a small bowl, add 1/2 cup warm water and let it stand for 10 min. Dissolve the salt in the remaining 1 cup warm water. Put the flour in a large mixing bowl, making a well in the middle and put the dissolved yeast and salt water into it. With your hands, blend it into a dough (adding a little more water if too dry). Knead the dough in the bowl with your fists for 10-15 minutes until smooth. Pour oil over the dough and knead until oil is absorbed.

Cover the dough in the bowl with a towel and set in a draft free area to rise to double (aobut 1.5 hrs), then punch it down and knead again for a few minutes. Preheat the oven to 350F. Separate dough into egg-sized pieces, shape them into balls and roll out over a lightly floured surface to 1/4 inch thickness.

Set 2 or 3 pitas on a lightly oiled cookie sheet and bake 2-3 min each side. Pitas should be white and soft. Wrap in clean towel until they are cool, then store in airtight containers. When ready to use, can fry them a minute or so on each side in oil to brown and serve immediately.

Falafel

3 cups cooked chickpeas, drained
1/2 bunch flat leafed parsley, finely chopped
1/2 bunch coriander/cilantro, finely chopped
4-5 green onions, finely chopped
1 teaspoonful salt
1 teaspoonful cayenne pepper
3-4 cloves of garlic, peeled
1 teaspoonful baking powder
4-6 tablespoons flour
vegetable oil for frying

Dump all the ingredients except the baking powder and flour into a food processor. process until blended, but still somewhat chunky. Sprinkle in the baking powder and 4 tablespoons of flour then pulse. Check to see if the mixture holds together but isn't too sticky--if it's still sticky, add more flour. Transfer to an airtight container, and refrigerate for 2 hrs. Form the mixture into small semi-compact balls. Heat about 2-3 inches of oil to 375 degrees in a pot, fry a ball to test. Add a little flour if the ball falls apart. Fry 4-6 balls at once for a couple of minutes on each side, or until golden brown.

Continued after the jump...