Foreign Road Trip

Last spring we went to Frankfurt for a conference.  Because no one likes to fly 9 hours to spend 2 days standing on your feet just to turn around and head back, we decided to take some time afterward to travel around the Western German and Eastern French countrysides with a brief detour in Luxembourg.  It is absolutely beautiful there and it is certainly not a destination I would have selected if not for the conference.  

To do our touring we rented what we hoped would be a station wagon.  Jim is 6’5” which makes VW Golfs, the rental car of choice in the EU, difficult for us.  Well... the joke was on us; instead of the standard Peugot or VW they gave us a Spanish minivan, because if nothing else says ‘American overseas’ besides white tube socks and golf shirts, it’s a minivan.  It’s like wearing a giant “kick me, I’m American” sign.  Don’t get me wrong, it was a finely designed minivan (which I opened up on the autobahn as much as you can with a minivan) but with just 2 people in it you do look like an asshole, or rather, two assholes, while everyone else is quietly idling away in their eco-friendly Mercedeses.

A lot has been said about German food and most of it is not kind.  It’s the same tired joke as those about British dental hygiene.  I truly enjoyed most everything I had there.  It does not hurt that their culinary culture tends to be pig-centric. The Germans love the pig morning, noon and night.  Especially in the morning. All the hotels we stayed in had expansive buffets featuring an impressive array of cured pig products, with some eggs, cheeses and white asparagus to lighten the menu.  Needless to say, I came back noticeably heavier than I went over and it took months to reverse my week long porcine bender. 

For our road trip, our lunch of choice was the ubiquitous salami sandwich.  They could be found in coffee shops, gas stations and cafes.  The salami sandwich they serve is austere (surprise!):  it is salami and bread, sometimes salami, bread and butter and, rarer, salami, cheese and bread.  That’s it. These seemed to me to make a sensible and durable road snack:  zero refrigeration needs, filling, inexpensive, tasty.  I found eating dry salami sandwiches in a Spanish minivan while watching the postcard worthy German countryside roll by incredibly charming.

I find myself longing for those salami sandwiches, but I can’t offer a recipe for just salami and bread.  And I doubt a dry salami sandwich would taste as good in Atlanta even if I headed for our garage and eaten in our own German station wagon.  Last week I had a large head of kale seriously considering wilting, so before it could fall over I whipped it in to a pesto.  The pesto can go with anything really, pasta, crackers or just served as a dip but it goes great with salami and cheese in sandwich form.

Kale Pesto - Makes 1 cup

1 large bunch kale

4-5 cloves garlic

2 ounces parmesan

1.5 tbs. oregano chopped

6 tablespoons olive oil

Salt and pepper

Blanch the garlic and the kale in a pot of boiling water for 3 minutes.  Run under cool water and drain.  Roughly chop kale.  Place kale, garlic, cheese, oregano, 4 tbs. of oil, s&p in food processor and process, add the additional oil as needed.  

Salami Sandwich with Kale Pesto - Serves 1

1 small ciabatta roll (or 1/4 baguette)

5 slices hard salami

2 slices provolone

3 tbs. kale pesto

Note:  You can make these for a road trip and serve them at room temperature but it’s even better if you can toast the bread in the oven face down for a few minutes, then add the meat and cheese to one side and return to the broiler and bake until the cheese is bubbly.

Jim in the Kitchen

When I first moved in with Jim he had about 50 pots and pans.  If you include the lids I promise I am not exaggerating.  His angle was that he could cook an entire Thanksgiving dinner without ever washing a single pan as he went.  Can you imagine that horror show?  I can’t.  On a regular day Jim uses a spectacular number of dishes when he cooks, so it’s best to limit his options.

Now, the oddity here is that Jim is the master of ‘Bucket Food’.  This means he likes to make an entire meal that can be served from a single pot (or bucket if you’re expecting a crowd). But in spite of that simple dining concept somehow those 49 other pots, pans and lids have some other involvement in the meal.  And you absolutely cannot clean up behind the man.  He won’t stand for it.  “I’m still using that.  Did you clean that up? Why?   Why?  Baby, can you get out of the kitchen?”

So, what is bucket food?  It is not a derogatory term, it is shrimp etouffe, chili, stew, gumbo, jambalaya.  A lot of the recipes for Jim’s bucket food comes from something we refer to as “the meat skirt.”  This involves comments like “Have you looked in the meat skirt?”  “Did meat skirt make this?”  Meat skirt is a Paul Prudhomme cookbook from 1984.   If you have a copy of this cookbook, and everything in it is very good and fool-proof, you already know the author is wearing what appears to be a skirt made of sausage and chicken with crab accessories.  I pulled the book out to accurately document Paul’s accouterments for this blog entry and Jim walked by and excitedly asked “Oooooh are you making something from the meat skirt?”  So, I highly recommend the meat skirt; it elicits what can only be described as squeals of joy from my spouse.

I have managed to whittle down the pot collection, for which I receive a lot of teasing, because once every three years or so we “need” two mandolines. If we are missing some key cooking tool I am, of course, told that I forced him to give “insert cooking tool name here” away, as if I chucked his record collection, which I have not.

Jim has perfected what he refers to as “my world famous breakfast potatoes.”  I’m not sure where else they are famous but they are extremely popular in this house.  This recipe was born from an annual man camping trip. That’s 30 dudes in tents, drinking, fishing, drinking, doing manly manual labor, drinking, some of them shooting guns and cooking bucket food and an array of meats.  Jim came back determined to perfect his take on this staple of the trip’s annual menu.  His are really good, lots of caramelization.  But the problem we had was he couldn’t cook enough of them to satisfy our appetites for them.  Pan over crowding is the death of a crispy hash brown.  So, this year for Christmas the kids decided to get him a special new breakfast potato pan.  I believe it was a similar sentiment to when they got me an ice cream maker for my birthday.  Helping him restock his pilfered arsenal we got him a 14” diameter cast iron pan.  It is a behemoth, it takes two hands to lift and it’s so large we cannot store it in a regular kitchen cabinet.  But it gives Jim great joy and now he can make enough potatoes to satisfy us all.

Jim’s World Famous Breakfast Potatoes - Serves 4

4 tbs. unsalted butter

2 tbs. olive oil

4 medium Yukon Gold potatoes

1 yellow onion

Salt and pepper

A few dashes of cayenne

Slice the onions and potatoes thinly (about 1/8”), on a mandoline, if you have one.  Heat 1/2 of the butter and the oil in a cast iron skillet.  Saute the onions over a medium heat for about 10 minutes until they start to brown.  Add in the potatoes, salt, pepper, and cayenne and stir occasionally.  You are trying to get them copper brown and even a little burny, so you don‘t have to stir them often, about every 5 minutes.  About 1/2 way through you will need to add the additional butter.  Continue until the potatoes are al dente but with a good char, about 20-30 minutes longer.

Note: The key to this dish isn’t so much a special secret ingredient but time, patience, temperature and a very large pan.  I also very much enjoy mine with sriracha and a poached egg on top.

Snake Baby

There is an unwritten rule, drinks are not served at baby showers; unless you happen to be my group of friends.   No offense to the genre of party that is a shower, but it is called a shower and not a party.  Showers are duty, not recreation, hence the lack of social lubricant. Not that I’m bitter about it but potato salad, finger sandwiches, iced tea and silly games do not a party make. When my friends started divvying up the dishes for an upcoming shower we were all co-hosting I was awarded the “signature cocktail.”  What the hell?  Not even just a few bottles of Vinho Verde; these ladies were going for a signature cocktail?  Bold move.  No arguments here, just confusion.

I’m not drink crafty.  I have about a dozen cocktails I can call up on command.  Many of them are as exotic and complicated as “gin and tonic” or “martini.”  Now that I had been assigned a dish, where to start?  Well, the oracle of all things entertaining, MarthaStewart.com, had nothing that referenced “baby shower booze.”  I could even hear her admonishing me in the back of my head.  I pulled my ace in the hole and emailed a colleague from college who writes a very popular drink column, but she was busy with the publication of her first book.  I could have dared to have consulted the trusted resources of my aunt or step-mom but I could hear the responses:  “Why, I’ve never heard of such a thing” or  “Isn’t that different?.”  I was alone in the world for this one.  Obviously, I could have punted with a bellini or a mimosa but, not to sound jaded; those have been done to death.  Luckily, a Chinese Lunar New Year theme emerged.  Now, there was a structure to work within.

One day Jim and I were at the fancy liquor store.  By fancy, I mean it has things like shorties of St. Germain.  The average liquor store in the inner city of Atlanta does not give real estate to such frivolity.  A few dusty bottles of Campari and a White Star end cap is as poofy as it gets around these parts.  While cruising the wall of esoteric liquors I found a bottle of ginger flavored cognac.  Surely that fit bill.  After the initial taste test the bottle sat around untouched for weeks.  I was intimidated and rising to the challenge by ignoring it. 

Jim and I spent Christmas in New Orleans.  One day we were headed from a walk in Audubon Park (which included a James Carville jogging sighting!) to a show in Treme.  As kismet would have it, we had some time to kill so we stopped in to The Hotel Modern for a drink.  I saw the ginger liqueur on the bottle display.  The bartendress was holding court:  she was a little bawdy, very outspoken and she had a captive audience listening to her tales, one of which, included James Carville.  I explained my predicament to the her and she very generously and patiently helped me with my drink for the baby shower.  

I didn’t catch her name but she deserves credit.  I had to adjust the proportions for a large format but this is essentially what she gave me.  If you are making just one, the proportions of sugar and soda are increased; no clue why.  The baby shower punch bowl was certainly more exotic.  

Snake Baby Punch - Makes many

1 Bottle Domaine Canton Ginger liqueur

3/4 cup simple syrup

2 cups lime juice

1.25 cups soda water

Cilantro springs - for garnish

Combine the ginger liqueur, simple syrup and lime juice, just prior to serving top with soda water and garnish with cilantro and lime slices.

Note:  I have not tried this but I suspect infusing the cilantro into the simple syrup would elevate the drink.

A Perfect Day

Most colleges have that guy, you know, the guy living the Matthew McConauhey cliche, having graduated or dropped out years before but still hanging out at the college.  At my school that man was named Matt the Hippie.   You can guess what he looked like from the moniker alone.  I suppose he needed the 'the hippie' by-line to distinguish himself from all the other Matts. Or maybe, and more likely, it was applied because unlike all the other college campuses in the early 90s Bennington, thankfully, did not have a large roving pack of nouveau hippies. By my junior year only the senior class had actually attended school with him and he was older than them.  However, Matt continued each fall to make friends with the incoming freshman and transfers.  He even had a girlfriend at the school. 

However, differing from the cliche, Matt was not predatory.  Everyone knew Matt and everyone liked him.  He made his rounds with all the cliques on campus. He had a toe in every door.  Even the elitist L.A. clique tolerated him.  

One summer I was living in an apartment North Bennington with my boyfriend and two of our friends.  North Bennington isn’t a busy town normally and certainly much less so when school is not in session.  And that summer was New Orleans hot, hot for any town and scorching for a state with maybe three AC units.

I worked from 6AM - 11AM which left me free to spend the rest of my day pecking out angst ridden diatribes on my Underwood while everyone else worked normal hours.  One afternoon while I was cooling off by hanging out of the window looking out at not bustling Main Street Matt the Hippie came bounding up the stairs and in to our apartment (the front door did not lock, in fact, I don't think there was even a lock).  He was, no doubt, looking for Luke, or Jean Paul, or Andy but more than likely, not me.  He was smiling as usual.  Realizing I was the only one there he declared his purpose.  “Hey, I just found this crazy blackberry bush.’ And he produced a quart of blackberries, ‘Do you want to go to the Tastee Freez and put these berries on our ice cream?’  I had never had more than pleasant but meaningless chats with Matt before and us hanging out together seemed unnatural and bizarre but he had a great idea and I had nothing better to do.  So we hopped in his (surprise) VW bus and headed to the Tastee Freez.  The Tastee Freez is (or was) basically a shack that is only open during the summer; it serves frozen custard that they curl up to ridiculous and delightful heights.  Matt and I sat there on a picnic bench across from each other with the blackberries in between us.  We threw them  on our giant mounds of ice cream as quickly as we ate them.  I remember feeling slightly envious, I would have liked to have found that blackberry bush and picked those berries.  We had a surprisingly lively conversation and after our ice cream feast Matt suggested we drive go-carts.  I had no idea Bennington even had a go-cart track.  We went for two go arounds at the track and laughed the entire time.  It was a perfect day.  Matt and I were not going to grab a beer after this adventure nor were we going to be fast friends or even attempt to have such another outing again, it was an anomaly, but it was a perfect one.

When I got home I told my roommates ‘The oddest thing happened today.’  Matt left Bennington after that summer.  I guess he realized he had reached his expiration date.  And while I never had a real friendship with Matt I cannot look at a blackberry and not remember that day.  

The weather here has been kooky and the plants seem to be about a month behind, so Jim and I were surprised to find that what we thought was an invasive thorny rose bush we have been trying to kill was actually a blackberry bush.  I had to convince Jim to quit his methods of murder since it is a food provider.  And so I have been slowly foraging and collecting over the past week. 

Blackberry Thai-Basil Muffins (Makes 16 muffins)

2 2/3rd cups AP flour

2 1/2 tsp. baking powder

1 cup sugar

1/4 tsp. salt

1 egg

1 cup milk

1/2 tsp. vanilla

4 tbs. unsalted butter, melted

1 tsp. lemon zest

2 cups blackberries

1/2 cup Thai basil cut in to a chiffonade 

Preheat the oven to 400.  Combine the dry ingredients together, storing with a fork.  Combine the wet ingredients together.  Add the dry into the wet, folding in with a spatula.  I add the dry ingredients in in 3 batches.  Once incorporated add in the basil and berries, give a quick stir to incorporate them.  Line a muffin pan with muffin liners (or grease the muffin pan).  Using a 1/4 cup scoop, scoop the batter in to the muffin pan.  Place the muffin pan on a baking sheet and bake for 15 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in to the muffins comes out clean.  Let cool.

Sparks Effect

I became a vegetarian at the age of 13. I simply did not like meat. I was bored by it. It seemed to involve way too much chewing. Looking back, my exposure to meat was rather limited. I didn't eat much chicken, nor was I compelled to. Pork only came in the form of bacon, sausage and being Baltimore, scrapple.  Meat was usually served in slab form: steak, veal chop, rack of lamb.  Or cube form: frozen chicken tetrazzini, frozen chili con carne, frozen chicken chow mein. My Dad clearly had some weird meat prejudices, we didn't eat hamburgers or tacos or fried chicken.  I didn't have a pork chop until I was 37 and I still have never had meatloaf.  Based on all those slabs of meat and the insipid taste of frozen pot pie sized chicken cubes I decided to give it up.

The decision was not an epiphany, it was a slow observation.  I never understood why people were raving about the meat when I felt obliged to sit there and count my chews.  The final straw came on one of our annual trips to NYC.  My Dad made a reservation at Sparks Steakhouse, presumably, at the time, the ultimate steak experience. I thought to myself  'If I don't like this steak then I know I just don't like meat'.  I choked down my $50 piece of meat and was relieved when a giant bowl of strawberries arrived as my dessert.

Years later, like 25, my Dad and I were at a party chatting with someone. This person asked why I had become a vegetarian at such a young age. I recounted the Sparks steakhouse story. My Dad looked at me "Seriously? Christ, Morg, I wasn't wild about my steak there either. I had no idea you based it on that."  I was immediately reminded of that poor woman in the De Maupassant story about the necklace.

When I jumped off the vegetarian wagon, and Jim likes to say I jumped off 'face-first', I jumped directly, into his foie gras appetizer.  I had always missed pate, my favorite meat.  That was so delicious I started to wonder what else I had been missing.  I realize I am doing the opposite of cool, while everyone else is going vegan, I'm going omnivorous.  Eating meat certainly made my second trip to Spain a hell of a lot more enjoyable.   I still err on the side of vegetarian for the most part, breakfast and lunch are almost always vegetarian.  But I enjoy a steak, a pork chop and a little jamon here and there, not to mention an almost laughable growing affinity for chicken.  

After the foie gras my next meat conquest was rack of lamb.  We were staying with a friend of Jim's outside of San Francisco.  We had spent the day wine tasting in Sonoma and came back to his adorable house with gorgeous garden.  It was just a perfect day. He made a wonderful dinner featuring herbs and tomatoes from his garden a rack of lamb and some great wines we had picked up that day.  I thought it would be rude not to eat the meat.  But I had to watch how everyone ate it because, well, it had been 25 years and cutting in to a piece of meat is not as easy as getting back on a bike and riding it. Oddly, lamb was one of the things that turned me off of meat, the flavor did not sit well on my pre-adolescent palette.  But one bite of that lamb Larry made us and I was hooked.  I went home and promptly started de-vegtarianizing myself with rack after rack of lamb.  Then I moved on to roasting about 40 chickens.  

Anyhow, it's been awfully salad-centric on this blog lately, so it's time for a meat recipe.  This is a recipe I have adapted from epicurious.com and it is easy, foolproof and delicious, I promise.  Serve it at your next dinner party and everyone will think you are the bees-knees.  It always makes Jim happy.

Herb Crusted Rack of Lamb - Serves 2-4

1 rack of lamb, frenched

4 cloves of garlic, minced

6 tablespoons parsley, chopped

4 tablespoons rosemary, chopped

2 tablespoons thyme

olive oil

salt and pepper

Remove the lamb from the fridge 5-10 minutes before you cook it.  Season it well with salt and pepper.  Preheat the oven to 350.  Combine the garlic and herbs with 2-3 tablespoons of olive oil until it just comes together.  Heat a cast iron pan and coat with olive oil.  Sear the meat on all sides about 2 minutes per side.  I set a timer for 10 minutes and rotate every 2.  place the rack on a baking sheet cover all sides in the herb spread.  Bake for 15 minutes.  Remove, cover the lamb loosely with foil and return to the oven for 10 more minutes.  Remove from the oven and let the meat rest for 10 minutes more.  Slice and serve.

Notes:  I find one rack of lamb serves 4 people with 2 side dishes.  We have been accused of being light eaters though.  If using a meat thermometer the internal temperature wants to be 130 degrees.

South Carolina Staple

After my Granny's funeral I spent a week in Charleston trying to help my Aunt sort through the complete mess of paperwork that happens when someone passes away.  After numerous trips to the bank, the pharmacy and road trips up and down the roads that used to be the South Carolina highway system to distribute things to relatives living and dead it was time to go home. Right before I got on the plane to return to Houston we went to an all you can eat buffet. My family was not going to let me leave hungry, or even less than bloated.  And Grandpop just loved a buffet.  

There were numerous surreal moments that week, but this one was perhaps the most mimicking of a sitcom.  As we sat there, senior lady after senior lady filed by our table to offer her condolences or to say ‘hi’ to Grandpop.  I didn’t know any of them, nor had any of them attended the funeral.  I don't even think my Aunt  knew most of them and my Aunt knows everyone.  Grandpop left the table for another go-round at the buffet and my Aunt leaned in and said in a hushed tone ‘Now, Morgan, I don’t want you to be upset.  But the reasons these old ladies keep circling is because not only is there a lack of senior men their age  but...’ pause, look from side to side, more hushed, ‘Grandpop can still drive.’ Pause.  ’Which makes him a real catch.‘  While I was slightly stunned I tried not to act so. And it made sense. I was aware of the senior male to female ratio/deficit, and after this last round of eye surgery, yes, he could drive again.  ‘Do they read the obituaries?‘  My grandparents had read the obits everyday for years making their comments on the departed, and, depending on the level of recognition, Granny had a stock pile of cards in her dresser squirreled away for such an event. Charleston used to be a much, much smaller town.  ‘How do they know?‘  ‘Probably they read them.  They don’t mean any harm.‘    Seriously?  Yes, seriously.  And with that comment, a look over my shoulder witnessed another older lady tossing off a wave from across the room.  

Grandpop apparently knew the game.  He didn’t waste much time, he got out his best casserole recipe and hit the church picnic/get-together/bingo circuit in search of a companion.  By the next time I visited he had all sorts of people retuning his casserole dishes with his name affixed with a piece of tape to the bottom.  Grandpop’s signature dish was mac-n-cheese.  He had received so many compliments on it he was starting to brag about it.  ‘Might be the best in Charleston County.’  I kept after him about the secret.  ‘What makes it so good?’ He would not not give it up he’d act as if his hearing had failed and he had not heard my question.  He would do this by lifting his head, look straight at the ceiling, while resting one hand firmly on something, like a countertop or stair railing, clamp his teeth together and let out a hum like sound.  His vision might have been sporadic but his hearing was fine.

Well, one day, before some family gathering or another I innocently found his secret macaroni recipe.  It was in the trash.  It was labeled ‘Piggly Wiggly frozen macaroni and cheese’, two wrappers worth.  Apparently he doctored it with some additional cheddar and milk.  Well, who blames him?  He wasn’t wrong, it was good and he was smart to shroud the secret.  

Turns out there are plenty of Coker family cooking secrets.  At my cousin Amy’s 30th birthday my cousin Sonny brought the baked beans.  His comment about them when asked for the secret to perfect baked beans?  “Why? I mean, why would you make your own when Bush’s has perfected them?’  He had a point, one I follow to this day.  Although following Grandpop’s lead, I doctor those beans with a little garlic and maple syrup, thus making them my secret Bush’s baked beans.

Well I have my own Coker family cooking secret.  I don’t make shrimp and grits the South Carolina way, nope, somehow I have come to Spanish-ize our shrimp and grits.  I know, I know, it’s not traditional and for all my pontificating about Maryland crab cakes I sound like a big, fat phony.  But it’s the truth and it is a regular visitor to our dinner table.  One Jim really enjoys. Hopefully it would not have caused Grandpop too much dismay, but I suspect it may have.  He did prefer his grits with, as he said ‘grease’. He loved shrimp too.  But it’s OK to cheat. Sometimes.

Spanish Shrimp & Grits - Serves 4

Polenta

1 cup coarse corn meal

2 cups milk (or cream)

2 + 1 cups water

1 teaspoon kosher salt

2 tablespoons unsalted butter

1/2 cup parmesan (optional)

Smoked Paprika Shrimp

1 pound shrimp, peeled and deveined

3 teaspoons dried oregano

1.5 teaspoons smoked paprika

1 pinch cayenne

1 teaspoon dried roasted garlic (I realize this is an esoteric spice, you can substitute 1/4 teaspoon garlic powder or for a stronger flavor 2 crushed cloves of garlic) 

1/2 cup diced fire roasted tomatoes

1 tablespoon white wine 

1 ounce jamon serrano chopped in to 1" bits 

2 green onions, sliced - green and white parts

2 tablespoons chopped parsley

1 tablespoon olive oil

salt

Preheat the oven to 350.

For the polenta, combine the milk, water and salt and bring to a boil. Whisk in the cornmeal and let simmer for 30-40 minutes, whisking often. Keep the extra cup or so of water warm on a burner and add as needed to loosed the polenta while cooking.

Heat a cast iron skillet on the stove over a medium heat, add the jamon and cook until crispy, about 4 minutes. Remove from pan and set aside.

Toss the shrimp in a bowl with 1 tablespoon of olive oil and the oregano, paprika, cayenne, garlic and salt. Place the shrimp in the seasoned cast iron skillet and cook in the oven for 4 minutes. Remove. Turn the oven up to 450. Turn the shrimp over in the pan, add in the tomatoes and the wine. Return the pan to the oven for 5 more minutes.

About 5 minutes prior to serving, whisk the butter into the polenta. If cheese is desired, whisk that in as well.

Spoon the polenta in to bowls, spoon the shrimp mixture on top and sprinkle with the jamon, parsley and green onions.

Getting the Shaft

College cafeterias can be a challenge, almost a sporting event, hunting for something to eat in a sea of gross.  It might even take several trips through the steam table line just to find something not worthy of being spit out.   At the first college I attended I literally made the freshman mistake of eating the green beans, the thought of them still make me gag.  Think boiled crayons.  Retch.  While I recall the food at Bennington wasn’t bad, er, let me rephrase that, it was a hell of a lot less worse the cafeteria that produced the aforementioned green beans.  The reality is college was a culinary brain eraser; I can’t really remember anything I ate there over the course of two years save for a couple.  

The first was Friday.  Friday was great.  It is is probably why I remember the college food at Bennington as ‘OK’.  Friday made up for the sins of the previous week.  Lunch on Fridays was always burger, french fry, macaroni and cheese, chocolate chip cookie day.  I thought it odd to put all the good foods on one menu, why not spread them out over the week?  And why sneak the good foods in on Friday when everyone was headed to New York or Boston anyhow?  Either way I would front load or back load, but load nonetheless to make up for existing on salad and soup the other 6 days.  Now I also remember Fridays because oddly, Bennington had one of the better veggie burgers I have ever encountered, only Houston’s makes a better one.   They were so good I usually had two.

The other meal I remember was the cafeteria’s Greek menu, which popped up at least twice a month.  It featured the usual stereotypes: moussaka, spanakopita, pastitsio, etc.  Now I never ate any of this, I learned my lesson after one serving of the spanakopita.  And I suspect these oozy casseroles would have been erased from my memory as well except somehow in college I managed to amass a coterie of Greeks. My best friend and my boyfriend were Greek, their parents directly from, yes, Greece.  This display did not inspire either of them to national pride.  Andrew would laugh and offer some mocking commentary and Myrto would seethe with anger.  While Andrew was willing to accept that the school could and most certainly would butcher these dishes, Myrto could not. 

Now, if college had decided to attempt my national dish of steamed crabs, corn and cucumber salad, I’d be horrified too.  In fact I become equally righteously indignant when restaurants outside of the state of Maryland (falsely) advertise ‘Maryland crab cakes’. But it happens.  And it happened that the college cafeteria was hell bent to personally offend Myrto with their Greek repertoire.  

In addition to the slanderous dinner menu, lentil soup was constantly in one of the two double boilers.  After a trip around the steam table where the ‘regular’ lunch or dinner proved inedible, Myrto would begrudgingly head to the lentil soup pot.  Being Greek, the lentil soup was:  Not. O. K. She’d deliver it to our table.  Put it down in front of her.  Sigh.  Stir it.  Begin to cuss at it.  Under her breath.  In Greek.  And truly crafty cussing; creative stuff.  Stuff that should make any Greek trucker feel inferior.  Still irritated, she’d get up from the table and return with 7-10 lemon wedges from the iced tea station and proceed to squeeze them into her soup, cursing in Greek; perhaps grabbing anything else she could to doctor it.   Then she would call on God, Grandma and the island of Paros (where her family is from) to deliver her from this bowl of soup.  With disgust in her eye she’d begin to eat it, cursing the whole way through.  This show happened several times a week.  This was quite simply lunch or dinner.  To give you a better idea of the irony, go grab a J.Crew catalog, reach in there and rip out a page, any page:  that’s what Myrto looks like.  She’ll help any old lady across the street with a genuine smile but, Dear God, do not give her an inferior bowl of soup that mocks her heritage.

So I submit this.  I’m fairly certain I do it well because many (seriously, a lot) people request this dish from me, and it’s ridiculously cheap, easy, filling and tasty.  I’ll let Myrto look it over and give me her thoughts, hopefully not in Greek and under her breath.

Lentil Soup - Serves 4 - Adapted from Memories of a Lost Egypt

1.5 cups lentils

4 cups vegetable stock 

1 medium - large yellow onion, peeled and cut in half across the equator

12 cloves

1 bay leaf

3 teaspoons cumin

1/4 teaspoon crushed red pepper

1/2 stick of cinnamon

1/4 teaspoon sea or kosher salt

3 cups spinach loosely chopped

1 cup water

1 lemon

Greek yogurt

Parsley, chopped

Take the cloves and stab them in the flesh of the onion.  Place the onion with cloves, lentils, vegetable stock, bay leaf, cumin, cinnamon and salt in a large pot.  Bring to a boil, let simmer for 10 minutes, then remove the cinnamon stick.  Continue to simmer for 25 more minutes.  The lentils want to be firm but not hard.  Add more water if needed.  Sprinkle with parsley.  Serve with lemon wedges and a dollop of Greek yogurt.