Muhammara always tastes better the day after you make it, so feel free to make it the night before a party and to let the flavors sit, or to make a double batch so that you can enjoy the leftovers the day after!
Pomegranate syrup is available at Middle Eastern grocers and online.
For the ground hot chile pepper, you can grind hot red pepper flakes or the seeds of whole dried chiles in a spice grinder. Start with the minimum amount and adjust heat to taste.
3 large red bell peppers
¾ cup walnuts
2 garlic cloves, minced
2 slices white sandwich bread, toasted and ground into crumbs in a food processor
1–2 teaspoons pomegranate syrup (see note)
½–¾ teaspoon ground hot chile pepper (see note)
1–2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
½ teaspoon ground cumin
¼–½ teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons olive oil, plus additional for drizzling
Pita bread, for serving
1 Roast the red peppers: If you have a gas range, put the peppers directly on the burners with the flames on high, and rotate them until tender and blackened on all sides. If you have an electric range, place the peppers on a broiling tray covered with foil and broil, turning occasionally, until skin is blackened and blistered on all sides. Place peppers in a bowl, cover tightly with plastic wrap, and let sit for 5 minutes. Remove stems and seeds and peel off blackened skin.
2 Toast the walnuts in a dry, heavy pan over medium heat, stirring frequently, for 1–2 minutes or until fragrant. Remove from pan and pound with a mortar and pestle, or process in a food processor, until they are ground.
3 Put the red peppers into the bowl of a food processor and pulse a few times, then add the walnuts, garlic, bread crumbs, pomegranate syrup, chile pepper, lemon juice, cumin, and salt. Process until combined and then, with the processor on, slowly add the olive oil until you have a smooth paste. Adjust the salt to taste.
4 Serve at room temperature with olive oil drizzled on top, and with squares of pita bread for dipping. Sahteen! — to your health!
Esmeralda Santiago
CANTOMEDIA
SELECTED WOEKS
Conquistadora (2011)
The Turkish Lover (2004)
Almost a Woman (1999)
América's Dream (1996)
When I Was Puerto Rican (1993)
Inspiration I'm of the “perspiration, not inspiration” school, believing that if I fill a blank page with enough words, some of them will be useful. Whenever I feel stuck, or uninspired, I scribble random thoughts, complaints, secrets, lists, word doodles, snippets of dialogue, and descriptions of people, places, or things. These scattered seeds upon the page sprout into phrases and sentences like fragile stems that grow to sturdy branches. A leaf appears, and yes, every once in a while, a flower blooms. Even though this is my process, I'm often surprised that writing is hard work and that I must resist the habit of expectations. I certainly shouldn't expect to be inspired every time I prepare to work. Inspiration is a gift as random and surprising as flashes over running water.
Readers Should Know I've been writing a novel for five years, and a couple of chapters short of finishing my first draft I had a stroke that robbed me of the ability to concentrate for longer than a few minutes at a time, the ability to read and understand complex sentences in either English or Spanish, the ability to create. Even though my book was outlined, I couldn't get the information that I knew was there from my damaged brain onto a page for about a year. It was a painful, desolate time, especially because there was no obvious physical damage. To everyone else I was fine, but inside I felt confused half the time, and guilty that I'd abandoned my characters. It took me a year to work back to where I was, and I'm happy that my characters' voices were stilled but not silenced. The novel is titled Conquistadora, and like my main character, I have learned to conquer a new world by sheer force of will and stubbornness.
Readers Frequently Ask My e-mail is a constant delight, because readers send so many touching and emotional messages in response to my work. The most frequent question is about the meaning of the title of my first memoir, When I Was Puerto Rican. Readers also want to know where my parents and sisters and brothers now live and what they're doing. After the release of my third memoir, The Turkish Lover, readers wanted to know whether I'd stayed in touch with Ulvi. I've included the answers, and others, in a FAQs page on my website (EsmeraldaSantiago.com).
I try to respond to every reader who gets in touch, although sometimes it takes me weeks to do so, depending on my travel and work schedule. Recently, I've “attended” book clubs via phone and video conferences. Now I wish I could taste some of the treats that some of the members bring to the sessions!
Influences on My Writing
Spanish/English Dictionary: I came to the United States from Puerto Rico at thirteen and had to learn English quickly in order to help my mother cope with American culture. Unwilling to lose my Spanish, I kept it alive by reading, even as English has become my literary language. After all these years, it still feels as if I'm thinking in Spanish and writing in English, still interpreting between cultures.
Abelardo Díaz Alfaro's Terrazo, a short story collection published the year before I was born in Puerto Rico. I connected to its stories about rural Puerto Ricans following the invasion of the island by the U.S. Navy that ended the Spanish American War. The stories are filled with sadness, humor, and outrage at the conditions of the rural poor, called jíbaros. The style is old-fashioned and sometimes overwrought, but I find beauty in Díaz Alfaro's use of the almost extinct jíbaro dialect.
Edith Hamilton's Mythology became my favorite book the first time I read it, and inspires me still. It was one of the first books I read in English cover to cover. There was enough drama and adventure for a lifetime within those pages, and all the convoluted relationships convinced me that there were families crazier than mine.
PUERTO RICAN PERNIL
Makes 8–10 servings
I'm not much of a cook, but there's a lot of food in my books and essays. My first memoir, When I Was Puerto Rican, begins with me holding a guava in my hand. It represents everything that has been lost and gained with my family's move from Puerto Rico to the United States. In my other books, people connect to each other through food and learn about each other at meals. In América's Dream, for example, América Gonzalez discovers just how different her eating habits are from those of her New York employees. In my three memoirs, in numerous essays, and in my upcoming novel, Conquistadora, food and cooking are as crucial as the events. Whether or not someone can cook (or can but won't) says much about him or her. What the people in my books eat or don't eat is also important, as well as when and how much, and, of course, where.
For many of us from other countries (or from different regions of the same country), food and its preparation is, at a certain level, ritualistic, a way to remember, celebrate and hold on to our home cultures. I live in the United States and can't travel to Puerto Rico as often as I'd like, but I can slice and fry plantains until they're crispy, dip the warm and fragrant slices into warm olive oil with fresh crushed garlic, salt and pepper, and feel closer to Puerto Rico.
My mother, four of my five sisters, and my five brothers now live in the United States with their spouses and children. Whenever we get together, for celebrations and holiday meals, Mami or one of my sisters will make pernil — pork shoulder that is prepared, rubbed, and marinated overnight before it's roasted for hours, depending on its size. For Puerto Ricans living away from the island, and increasingly those in Puerto Rico, the pernil is the surrogate for the traditional lechón — a whole pig roasted on a spit served for Christmas and special occasions.
Before we prepare the pernil, we must make two of the staples of Puerto Rican cuisine: sofrito and adobo. My earliest olfactory memory is of sofrito sautéed in olive oil until the garlic, onion, green pepper, and recao (also known as culantro) mixed and melded i
nto the scent of my mother's love. The proportions of the ingredients for sofrito are as individual as the cook's palate, so I can recognize the smell of Mami's sofrito from my sister's or from mine. The basic ingredients are chopped and then mixed together, but cooks add different components to their sofrito, like tomatoes or fresh oregano. For mine, I add red pepper for color and a bit of sweetness. Traditionally, sofrito requires culantro, which can be found in Caribbean or Asian markets. In this recipe I replace it with cilantro, since it's easier to find, and has a similar but milder flavor.
Sofrito is usually sautéed until the ingredients are fragrant. (To make Puerto Rican beans, cook the sofrito in oil until it smells good, add tomato sauce, salt, pepper, a pinch of oregano, and a bit of cumin.) Sofrito is used to season arroz con pollo, fricassees, soups, and stews. As with the following recipe for pernil, sofrito is also used as a marinade for meats.
Pernil is most often served with pigeon peas. It is also served with fried plantains, with boiled and marinated yucca (my favorite), or with marinated green bananas.
Note: Adobo is the second essential ingredient in Puerto Rican cooking. It's always prepared just before used. Like sofrito, cooks individualize their adobo to their palate. In mine, I add cumin.
If you don't have a mortar and pestle to make the adobo, you can use a spice grinder. The idea is that the garlic and other ingredients form a paste. I like pounding it with my mortar and pestle to take out my frustrations as I crush the ingredients.
FOR THE ADOBO
9 garlic cloves, peeled
1 teaspoon peppercorns (or more to taste)
2 tablespoons coarse salt
1 teaspoon dried oregano
½ teaspoon ground paprika
½ teaspoon ground cumin
FOR THE PORK
1 bone-in, skin-on pork shoulder (7½–8½ pounds)
1½ tablespoons olive oil
1½ tablespoons white vinegar
¼–½ cup sofrito (see recipe below)
1 Prepare sofrito (recipe below) and set aside. To make the adobo: Using a mortar and pestle (see note), pound all ingredients into a paste. Once you've made your sofrito and adobo, you're ready to massage them into the meat.
2 Wash and dry pork. Score all around with a sharp paring knife, making slits deep into the meat. Set aside.
3 Mix the adobo with the olive oil and vinegar, then rub the adobo over the pork roast, making sure that the paste goes deep into the slits.
4 Rub the sofrito over the meat, again, pushing it into the slits. Place the roast in a deep baking pan, fatty skin side up. Cover pan tightly with aluminum foil, and allow to marinate overnight.
5 Remove the pork from the refrigerator 30 minutes before cooking. Discard aluminum foil. Drain any liquid that may have formed overnight and pour over the meat.
6 Preheat oven to 400°F. Cook the pork uncovered, for 1 hour. Reduce oven temperature to 300°F and cook for about another 4 hours, without turning the meat over, until internal temperature reaches 185°F and the meat shreds with a fork. To achieve the much desired crispy, fatty skin, increase the oven temperature to 400°F for the last 20 minutes of cooking.
7 Allow the pernil to rest for at least 20 minutes before serving. Slice with the grain. Serve a bit of the crunchy skin with each portion.
SOFRITO
My mother prepared her sofrito fresh for each meal, but the recipe below will make approximately two cups and any extra can be frozen. Defrost before using.
1 large onion, peeled and quartered
1 large green pepper, seeded and quartered
½ medium red pepper, seeded
6–8 garlic cloves (or more to taste)
1 bunch cilantro, washed, the hard stems discarded
Whirl all ingredients in a food processor until finely chopped.
ASOPAO FOR THE SOUL
Makes 6–8 servings
Comfort food brings you home, engages your senses, nourishes your body and recalls memories. For me, asopao not only brings me home to Puerto Rico, it brings me closer to my mother, who makes the best, most creative asopaos.
Asopao is the Puerto Rican version of chicken soup, but it can be made with shrimp, pork, beef, or gandules (pigeon peas). My uncle once brought Mami a couple of spiny lobsters, and to make sure that she, my uncle, and her eleven children could all have a taste, she made lobster asopao. Today, lobster asopao is not unusual in Puerto Rican restaurants, but they use North American lobster which is meatier and sweeter.
The recipe below for chicken asopao is quite basic. My mother adds pigeon peas, cubed potatoes, and/or sliced carrots. Asopao is served with a dash or two of homemade pique (hot sauce) and with a side of crispy fried plantains or slices of garlic bread.
The distinctive golden orange of the asopao is achieved by cooking the sofrito in achiote oil. Known in English as annatto, achiote is another of the staples in the Puerto Rican kitchen. Annatto seeds are gently warmed in oil until they release their color, then the seeds are strained and discarded. The bright orange achiote oil adds color, and a subtle peppery, nutty flavor to soups, rice dishes, and grilled meats and fish.
Note: The chicken must marinate for at least 30 minutes, and preferably overnight.
My mother chops the chicken into at least 8 pieces so that everyone can get a presa (a piece of the chicken). I usually buy thighs and drumsticks because I like the flavor, but I'm giving you her recipe here.
We rinse chicken (and other meat) in lemon juice because of lemon's antibacterial properties and to remove the scent of the meat. The lemon juice also imparts a subtle flavor. It is not necessary though, if the chicken is thoroughly washed.
Short-grain rice is traditionally used in this dish. If you can't find short-grain rice, you can substitute medium- or long-grain rice.
FOR THE ADOBO
4 cloves garlic
1 teaspoon black peppercorns
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon dried oregano
½ teaspoon paprika
FOR THE CHICKEN
1 3–4 pound chicken, cut up (see note)
Lemon juice, for rinsing (see note)
1 tablespoon white vinegar
4 tablespoons sofrito, divided (see recipe)
FOR THE SOUP
3 tablespoons achiote oil (see recipe)
½ cup white wine
½ cup tomato sauce
1 cup short-grain rice (see note)
7 cups water
1 tablespoon capers
1 tablespoon Spanish olives, chopped
2 bay leaves
½ teaspoon dried oregano
½ teaspoon salt, plus additional for seasoning
Ground black pepper to taste
Chopped cilantro, for sprinkling
1 To make the adobo: Pound all the ingredients in a mortar and pestle, or process in a spice grinder, until the adobo forms a paste. Set aside.
2 Rinse chicken pieces in water, then generously sprinkle lemon juice on each piece, and pat dry.
3 Place adobo in a small bowl. Add vinegar and 1 tablespoon of the sofrito and blend well. Rub the mixture over the chicken pieces. Let marinate in the refrigerator for at least 30 minutes, preferably overnight.
4 To make the soup: In a stockpot, heat the achiote oil over medium heat. Add remaining 3 tablespoons sofrito. Cook for 2 minutes.
5 Add chicken. Cook, stirring frequently to ensure that all the pieces of chicken are seasoned. Continue cooking a few minutes more until the chicken is opaque.
6 Add the white wine and tomato sauce and stir well, then add the rice, water, capers, olives, bay leaves, oregano, and salt. Return the mixture to a boil, then lower heat and simmer, covered, 20–25 minutes or until chicken is well cooked. Remove bay leaves. Add additional salt and pepper to taste. Spoon into bowls and sprinkle with cilantro before serving.
ACHIOTE OIL
Makes 1 cup
Note: The best sources for annatto seeds are Caribbean and Latin American markets, or online grocery
stores.
1 cup olive oil
2 tablespoons dry achiote (annatto) seeds
1 In a medium pan, heat the oil and achiote seeds over medium heat, stirring frequently until the seeds are just beginning to dance and sizzle on the bottom of the pan. (Do not overcook or the seeds will turn black and the oil green and taste bitter.) Remove from the burner, then allow the mixture to cool for 5 minutes. The oil should have a bright, orange color.
2 Pour the achiote oil through a metal strainer into a glass jar. Discard the annatto seeds. Cover jar tightly. The achiote oil can be kept at room temperature for 5 days, longer in the refrigerator.
MY MOTHER'S SWEET COCONUT RICE
Makes 12 servings
Note: Short-grain rice has fat, almost round grains that stick together well when cooked, but you can also use long-grain rice.
I prefer the coconut rice at room temperature.
Some people like to pour the warm rice into ramekins and serve them as individual dishes with a dollop of unsweetened whipped cream. I serve mine plain, with a cup of coffee.
FOR THE SPICE INFUSION
1 1½-inch piece fresh gingerroot, unpeeled and sliced in half
4 2-inch sticks cinnamon
15 whole cloves
4 cups water
FOR THE PUDDING
1 cup short-grain white rice (see note)
3 cups unsweetened coconut milk
1 cup sugar
½ cup seedless raisins
1 cup unsweetened coconut flakes
Ground cinnamon, for topping
1 To make the spice infusion: Combine the ginger, cinnamon sticks, cloves, and water in a large saucepan and bring to a boil. Lower heat, and simmer uncovered for 30 minutes. Remove solids with a slotted spoon.
2 To make the pudding: Place rice in a large bowl, cover with water to about one inch above the rice, and let soak for at least 30 minutes. Drain and add to the saucepan with the spice infusion. Bring to a gentle boil, then immediately reduce heat and simmer, covered, for 10 minutes. Add the coconut milk and sugar. Raise heat to medium until mixture starts to bubble, then reduce heat to low and simmer, covered, for 10 more minutes, stirring frequently.
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