Life From Scratch

by Sasha Martin

  There’s an old saying: “The first day we meet, we are friends. The next day we meet, we are brothers.” I choose recipes to reflect this Afghan hospitality: burani bonjon, a braised eggplant dip; sabse borani, a spinach yogurt dip; firnee, a sweet saffron and rosewater custard; and kabeli palau, a seasoned rice dish with raisins, carrots, and chicken. Because the food is traditionally scooped up with bread, I’ll also make a batch of noni Afghani, this country’s version of naan. I find a recipe to adapt for the cumin seed–topped flat bread from The Best International Recipe by Christopher Kimball, a book I buy that very afternoon. For after dinner, I decide on a few dried apricots.

  I call Mom to tell her my plan.

  “Are you going to make German Tree Cake?”

  “Well, I’m starting with Afghanistan,” I say, repeating myself. “I’m trying to expand my horizons.” I add, silently, this is about the future, not the past.

  “What’s wrong with your heritage?” Mom reminds me that leathery coins of dried apricot are loved beyond Afghanistan. “Grandpa ate one a day for years,” she says, “And apricot jam is the best part of the German Tree Cake.”

  For supplies, Ava and I head out for Laxmi Spices, a market tucked away at the forgotten end of a strip mall. Inside a haze of cumin, coriander, and cinnamon drifts like incense, clinging to my skin as I meander through the dim aisles. A mosaic of curling Bollywood movie posters blocks the only window. I’ve lived in Tulsa for three years, but never set foot in this shop.

  From behind a newspaper, the owner eyes me curiously. He’s brown and wrinkled, like an autumn leaf. “Can I help you find something?” His accent is thick and lush.

  I glance at the scrap of paper in my hand where I’d scrawled “rose water” in red ink. I’m not entirely sure it exists outside of the perfume aisle. I’d certainly never seen it at my regular grocery store, and none of my classes at the CIA used it. Rose water sounds so exotic, like something the women in the Arabian Nights would dab on their racing pulses before slipping into bed on their wedding nights.

  “No, thank you,” I say, shaking my head slowly. It’s been so long since I cooked—really cooked. I want to smell every package, peer into the frosted cases, and dream of the faraway places these foods come from. I want to linger a while.

  Next to me a wide, long shelf bursts at the seams with heavy sacks of rice and lentils. Basmati. Cracked red rice. I trace my fingers along the woven bags. Most of them weigh 25 to 50 pounds. It would take me ten years to eat all that rice, I think, not to mention the quarter-pound bags of cracked mustard seed and cumin seed one shelf over.

  In the next aisle, I find dozens of carbon steel woks—some as small as a teakettle, others nearly three feet across. All have two small handles for maneuvering. When I kneel on the dusty floor to examine them more closely, I see a faded price sticker: $20 for the medium one, about 18 inches across.

  It would cost $60 at Williams-Sonoma.

  “You want one?” the man asks. Without waiting for me to answer, he carries it to the front of the store.

  “Is it a wok?” I ask, trailing behind him.

  He makes a slow, circular motion with his arm: “Stirring pot.”

  “What do you cook in it?”

  “Everything,” he says. “You imagine. Stirring pot does.”

  Perfect, I think, smiling at his broken English. His white mustache dances as he explains that I must give the stirring pot attention; I must oil it to keep it from rusting. I must bake it in the oven between uses. I must keep it dry. I nod impatiently, thinking only of how enticingly different the rugged black metal looks from my shiny, stainless-steel, 11-piece pot set gathering dust at home.

  Twenty minutes later, I turn down the last aisle, arms bulging with a pile of eggplant and a half dozen spices like whole cardamom pods that smell like the first sweet flower of spring, as well as whole coriander, cumin, and saffron. Even though saffron is one of the most sought after spices in the world, it still feels scandalous to spend seven dollars for a tiny box of squiggly red crocus stamens.

  “And where do you keep the rose water?” I finally ask. I think of how my great aunt used rose water in her linen drawers and quickly add, “To eat.”

  The old man cracks his first smile and nods. “Yes, to eat. We have all sizes,” he adds and reaches toward a one-liter bottle below the counter. I quickly shake my head and take the smaller four-ounce bottle. I give it a little shake, and Ava watches as the water laps lyrically inside. She giggles, and then reaches toward our new stirring pot.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” I whisper. “I have a feeling this pot is going to change everything.”

  When I burst through the door with an armful of eggplant, it is Keith’s turn to groan.

  “What is that?” he says, staring at the shiny black orbs.

  “Keith, meet eggplant; eggplant, meet Keith,” I say lightly. “It’s dinner in Afghanistan. And it’s going to be your dinner tonight.”

  He takes a deep breath, frowning.

  “For Ava’s sake,” I whisper to him. He shifts on his feet.

  When I’d initially suggested the project, Keith had been on board—he even helped me look into its feasibility. Despite his picky tendencies, he’d agreed to taste every recipe, no matter what was on the menu. He said the adventure sounded fun—that it’d probably be good for him. Considering his medical history we agreed to emphasize heart-healthy foods along with a dose of celebration foods. But today, face-to-face with the eggplant, he doesn’t look convinced.

  I sneak into the bathroom and call Vanessa.

  “Would you like to come over to eat an authentic Afghan feast?” I ask, trying not to sound desperate. I explain the project and add, “I need a little … peer pressure to get Keith on board.”

  She agrees.

  For the next five hours, I stumble through the recipes while Keith entertains Ava. Every time they poke their heads into the kitchen, I’m deeper in the trenches.

  First they find me kneading the bread. There’s yogurt in the dough, making it yielding and soft. After much clatter and fuss, I wrestle the mixture into a smooth ball and tuck the bowl in a sunny spot on the couch to rise.

  The next time they peek in, I’m blistering eggplant slices in hot oil, dancing around the splatters. I reduce the heat and braise the strips in their own juices along with turmeric, garlic, cayenne, and chopped tomatoes. By now, the kitchen counter is riddled with spills, open containers, and discarded vegetation.

  For the yogurt sauce, I mix in caramelized onions, chopped spinach, garlic, and mint. The flavors are sharp, even for a garlic lover. I slip the bowl into the refrigerator, hoping it will mingle and mellow by dinnertime. Meanwhile, the sweet custard bubbles on the stove, nearly forgotten, the rose water and spice making the house smell like a field of saffron roses.

  Finally, I pull out my new pot and prepare the kabeli palau. Keith and Ava watch while I toast the chicken, saffron, and garam masala in ghee. The spice blend gives off a surprising sweet note from the cinnamon and cardamom – a stark contrast to their stout companions, cumin, coriander, clove, and black pepper. Then I layer on the pureed onion, garlic, tomato paste, and rice. Only once the pot is full do I realize it didn’t come with a lid. A lid serves to trap the steam, create pressure, and evenly plump up the thirsty rice. I bang through my cupboards. None of my lids fit. Keith, who watches my feverish cooking display with stupor, suggests a round pizza pan.

  It doesn’t create a seal, so I opt to go without. I add some extra stock to make up for the dry oven and then pop the whole thing in.

  When the doorbell rings, I’m cooking the bread while nursing Ava in a sling. Stray saffron threads and cumin seeds fleck her fine hair. I have 25 seconds to tidy the kitchen, just enough time to slide an entire pile of dishes into the sink. When Keith brings Vanessa and her boyfriend Gus back to the kitchen, they peer at me through the haze. Vanessa asks if she can help.

  “That’s OK!” I say with a strained smile, slapping another piece
of homemade naan onto the skillet. The cumin seeds crackle and fill the air with a white cloud of earthy fragrance.

  When we finally sit down, I feel as though I’ve run a marathon. Gus looks over the spread. The stirring pot sits in the middle of the table, brimming with rice and chicken laced with saffron and garam masala, topped with fried carrots and golden raisins: a new feast, a new memory in the making.

  “Where is the silverware?”

  “There is none,” Keith explains. “Sasha says they don’t use any in Afghanistan.”

  Vanessa leans forward, points to Gus, and whispers, “He hates touching food with his hands.”

  Keith squints at the eggplant dish, now unrecognizable in its red and ocher cloak. “I don’t really like to, either,” he muses.

  “That’s the eggplant,” I offer, hoping the homey scent of garlic will entice them.

  No one moves an inch.

  Afghan music tiptoes softly about the room. Steam rises from our plates. Like the first one to drop their towel before skinny-dipping, I slide my hand into the pot, take a few fingers of warm food, and hope everyone else will follow suit.

  The flavor explodes in my mouth, unlike anything I’ve ever eaten. It’s smoky from frying, rich from the oil, and heady from the spice. The cayenne pepper makes my eyes water. “Wow. This is good,” I say.

  Then I try the yogurt dip. The flavors have mellowed, and now they sing. Finally I reach into the giant pot of rice, still steaming. The cinnamon note from the garam masala works beautifully in the savory dish.

  The tension gives way to giggles. Everyone—even Keith—gingerly digs their fingers into the communal pot—the stirring pot. I wait, searching their faces.

  One by one, they smile. Yes, this is good, they say.

  Soon our hands find their rhythm. With no silverware to clink, the room fills with the silent concentration of busy eating. Eating with our fingers does not come naturally, so we eat slower and talk more. Thirty minutes goes by, then an hour and two.

  “When you blog about this, are you going to write about the war?” Vanessa asks.

  I look long and hard at the beautiful display in front of us. For the most part, this is food I’d never heard of a week before. This is a real feast.

  “No, I’m not,” I respond. “There are enough people talking about the bad things in that part of the world. It’s time for some good. The food is enough.” I surprise myself with the forcefulness of my answer.

  That night, as I stand in front of the sink washing a stack of dirty dishes notably lacking any knives, I make a vow to be a voice for the good, the happy, and the downright silly. Food, I realize, is family, not just survival. It’s peace.

  This, I decide, will be my goal for the next four years—to create a place of calm inside and outside of my heart. Before I go to bed, I move the remaining spices from the market into the spice jars. They don’t fill them all, but it’s a start.

  Kabeli Palau

  The national dish of Afghanistan is a highly spiced basmati rice dish made with lamb, chicken, or beef, piled onto a large platter that everyone dips into with bits of noni Afghani (naan). The festive atmosphere this creates makes kabeli palau an important celebration dish, ubiquitous at weddings and festivals. The rice is colored—commonly with a touch of caramelized sugar, though many use browned onion and saffron with similar effect, as presented in Terri Willis’s Afghanistan, Enchantment of the World. The Afghan season theirs with char masala—here I’ve substituted more readily available garam masala. And although some like a few chopped tomatoes, I opted for the concentrated smack of tomato paste. A skyward platter brimming with spiced rice, tender chicken, and cardamom-laced carrots and golden raisins will feed a crowd in more ways than one.

  1 pound basmati rice, rinsed

  1 large onion, peeled and chopped

  ⅓ cup ghee

  2 heaping tablespoons tomato paste

  A couple large cloves of garlic

  2½ pounds bone-in chicken (legs, thighs), extra fat trimmed

  1 tablespoon salt

  1 tablespoon garam masala

  1 good pinch saffron

  ¾ cup water

  Finishing touches:

  ½ pound carrots (about 4 large), peeled and cut into matchsticks (2 cups chopped)

  1 teaspoon oil

  1 teaspoon sugar

  ½ cup golden raisins

  A good pinch cardamom

  ¼ cup slivered almonds

  Rinse the rice in cold water until clear. Soak for an hour, more if you have it. Meanwhile, in a large, heavy-bottom pot with tightly fitting lid (something like an oval Le Creuset), brown the onion in ghee. Use a slotted spoon to remove the onion. Puree it with tomato paste and garlic. A food processor will do nicely, but a blender will work, too (just add the water to make the job easier). Set aside.

  Brown the chicken pieces in the same pot over medium-high heat. Patience is a virtue here: The browner the chicken, the better the flavor. This can take 5 to 8 minutes per side. Move the chicken to one side of the pot and add in the onion mixture, salt, garam masala, saffron. Let it toast a moment in the hot ghee, and, if it hasn’t already gone in, add the water. Stir the chicken back into the mixture, lower heat, cover, and let bubble very gently.

  Preheat the oven to 350°F. Meanwhile, prepare the garnish. In a large skillet over medium heat, cook the carrots in oil with the sugar until glossy (but not cooked through). Add cardamom and raisins. Cook another minute until plumped. Set aside.

  Bring a pot of salted water (at least 6 cups) to boil. Drain the rice and dump it into the boiling water. Boil 4 to 5 minutes—no more—until half cooked. Drain.

  Remove the chicken from the pot. Add the rice to the pot, stirring to coat with spiced broth. Put the chicken on top of the rice along with the carrot mixture. Cover and bake 30 to 35 minutes.

  Finishing touches: Setting the chicken and carrot mixture aside, mound half the rice onto a large platter. Add the chicken, then bury with remaining rice. If a crust has formed on the bottom of the pot, be sure to scrape it up as well—some consider this the best part. Scatter the carrot mixture over the top, along with the almonds.

  Serve immediately with a thick, doughy flatbread such as naan, preferably without silverware.

  Enough for 6 to 8

  CHAPTER 23

  World on a Plate

  THE FIRST FEW COUNTRIES GO BY like a Where’s Waldo of world cuisine. I spend hours looking for authentic, viable recipes, subsumed by the curiosities I uncover—the more unfamiliar, the better. At home I lie on the carpet next to Ava, flipping through cookbooks. At the library I scan the reference section with her on my hip, only leaving after we find a cookbook for me and a picture book for her. I research the foods of dozens of countries in one sitting—sometimes resorting to the help of a Peace Corps site, an expat blog, or a YouTube video for help. But there’s a silence around many, as if they don’t exist.

  The hunt is maddening and satisfying. It fills the cracks and crevices of motherhood, at once smoothing my nerves and stretching them to their limit.

  Even at eight months, Ava is my little helper. When I show her my selections, she pats the cookbooks with her hand. She watches the cooking videos, hiccuping and cooing. I cannot bring myself to select just one or two recipes, so I choose a half dozen for each country. Each Saturday I race to prepare the food before she wakes up, using the blender in the laundry room to protect her from the commotion. I cobble together the posts after she goes to bed for the night. With each country, I select increasingly exotic dishes, relishing excitement but especially the shock on Keith’s face when I present him with each meal.

  He heaves a great sigh, his lower lip blowing out into a pout when I offer up Albanian lamb roasted in a quagmire of yogurt and rice, called tava elbasani. He’s never had lamb before, and he hates plain yogurt. The meat emerges from the oven with a brown crust, each bite tenderized by the lengthy yogurt bath turned golden custard. Albanians are known for simple spicing, and
one bite—filled with the citric warmth of paprika—says it all. But the revelation is lost on Keith. He cannot get past the homely presentation.

  Dessert fares no better. Rose water–flavored Turkish delight—a sugar- and starch-based confection now enjoyed worldwide, but especially in the former Ottoman Empire—should be blushing, translucent, like the glow of a window covered in frost. A dusting of powdered sugar only enhances the illusion. But mine clumps together, a miserable failure none of us can bring ourselves to enjoy. Keith pokes his with a knife, brow crinkled.

  For Algeria, I go beyond adaptation to create my own recipe inspired by Clifford A. Wright’s A Mediterranean Feast. I take traditional ingredients Wright recommends—chickpeas, potatoes, onion, and wide sheets of pasta in a spiced tomato sauce—but assemble them in an Italian-style lasagna to catch Keith off guard. For kick I add the requisite cocktail of spices: cayenne, cumin, coriander, and harissa, a scorching North African spice blend made with chili peppers, garlic, and oil. I spoon the warm mixture between lasagna sheets with ricotta, Gruyère, and mozzarella. Even before it goes in the oven, the cheese begins to melt.

  When I pop the browned “lasagna” on the table, Keith smiles. But when a chickpea rolls from his slice, he raises his eyebrow. Still, I urge him on. We sink our teeth into the spice, our tongues catching fire even as the ricotta cools us. Only then does it occur to me that the combination of layered pasta with potato is an echo of my family’s own Genovese spaghetti with hunks of boiled potatoes.

  Four bites in, Keith asks for seconds, and then begs me to make the lasagna again. But that would be too easy. Instead, I remake the less familiar Turkish delight to redeem myself, relieved that Algeria enjoys the tricky confection as much as Albania. I stir vigorously and get the lumps smooth. When Keith eats two pieces, his brow smooth, I consider it a triumph.