Best Food Writing 2015 (32 page)

Loving Spoonful
Loving Spoonful

B
Y
Z
AINAB
S
HAH

From
Saveur

          
Pakistani-born fiction writer Zainab Shah parses the cultural vagaries of a weekend with her parents in this essay, in which one dish—
nigari
stew—becomes a stand-in for all the connections that make a family a family, even in the worst of times.

Earlier this year I decided to get divorced. The whole process was tough, but the hardest part of the ordeal, it turned out, was breaking the news to my conventional Pakistani parents. As soon as I told them, they resolved to take a 14-hour flight from my hometown of Lahore, in Pakistan, to New York to set me straight. Luckily, my father wasn't granted a U.S. visa, so they settled for meeting me at an AirBnB apartment in Toronto instead. This was a relief; if they had come to New York, they could have stayed at my place indefinitely. My plan was to see them and assure them that I was an adult who knew what she was doing before hurrying back to Manhattan.

I took an early morning flight and arrived at the apartment at 7:00 A.M. As soon as I saw my mother, I surprised myself by clinging to her and crying uncontrollably. I hadn't seen her in two years, and when I did, my adult demeanor dissolved. She started to cry, too, and I felt like nothing would be okay, ever. She wailed and cursed herself for being a bad mother, for not raising me to respect tradition, my husband, and a woman's expected role. Finally, she stopped and asked me if I was hungry. I was. On the plane ride over, I had been craving
nihari
, a thick stew of meat and spices she used to make for me in Lahore every Sunday.

My mother was taken aback to hear that I longed for such a traditional meal. After all, she'd just written me off as “too modern.” She expected me to shun the food of my ancestors because I had rejected so many other traditions. But my desire for
nihari
transcended my cultural critique. When it comes to food, I don't discriminate.

Passed down to us common folk from the royal, Persian-influenced kitchens of Lucknow, in India,
nihari
is a laborious, time-consuming dish that is the ultimate proof of a cook's dedication. In requesting that she make it, I was testing my mother's dedication to me. I knew she would readily do it, though. She has always had time to cook for her loved ones. In fact, she claims that's why her family is still together.

“We should get to work if we want to eat it today,” she announced at 8:00 A.M. As if on cue, my father, who was waiting his turn to talk to me, decided to take a nap. After a trip to a nearby market, she asked me to lay out the spices we needed. I knew the procedure, having grown up watching her: I placed fennel seeds, black peppercorns, cumin seeds, cardamom pods, cloves, cinnamon sticks, coriander, and nutmeg in front of her. She used her eyes and hands to measure the amounts needed. I cringed slightly as she put the spices into a whole-bean grinder, concerned for my next cup of coffee.

She held the machine under my nose, but she didn't have to, I could have smelled it a mile away. It was spicy, sweet, and bitter all at once, a reminder of my childhood, most of which was spent perched on my mother's kitchen counter. She smiled as I sneezed, and then asked the question I had been dreading: “So, what's the problem?” As I searched for the right words, she continued, “All marriages are hard work.”

She lifted a heavy, cast-iron pot from the cabinet next to the stove as if to demonstrate her point. Her strength did not surprise me. She grabbed lamb shanks from the fridge, recalling how difficult her own marriage had been, and her sister's, and her cousin's. She talked about husbands who beat their wives, who cheated on them, and about marriages that lasted because of the loyalty of women. I began to wonder: Why did I have to request a dish that takes 7 hours from start to finish? Couldn't I have settled for a couple of scrambled eggs?

She heated some oil and placed the lamb shanks in it. The loud sizzling provided the appropriate soundtrack to her interrogation. I felt my face burn as I watched her add the ginger paste and spices. She cooked
the meat until it was half done. Then she added water, brought it to a boil, and informed me that the lengthy stewing process had begun.

For the next several hours, as the
nihari
cooked, I listened to horror stories of divorcées—women who were miserable after their marriages ended, who were fated to lives of loneliness, poverty, and mental illness. “What makes you so special?” she asked.

There was no convincing my mother that I had tried hard, that there was no hope for my marriage, and that I was being rational when I asserted that no marriage at all was better than a bad marriage. She wouldn't hear it, and at some point everything became my fault. It was my fault for not wearing enough makeup, for not being a good cook, for being too independent. I fell silent, resigned to the fact that I would never change her mind. Meanwhile, the smell in the apartment had altered dramatically, from raw and meaty to tantalizingly spicy.

That night, when we sat down to eat, the rich, mahogany-hued
nihari
had thickened with the gelatin that had slowly seeped out of the lamb bones. Some of the meat had dissolved into the fragrant gravy and the rest melted in my mouth. I closed my eyes and imagined the stew clinging comfortably to my insides, and felt a warm fullness in my belly. When I opened my eyes, my mother was looking at me. “I worry for you,” she said.

“I know,” I responded, my voice sounding tiny. She went on, “I may never understand your reasons, but I just want you to be happy.” As always, my mother didn't wait for a response. “How is it?” she asked, nodding toward the
nihari
. “It's great, Ama,” I told her. But she already knew this. “Happy?” she beamed proudly. And at that moment I was.

Pakistani Slow-Cooked Lamb Stew
(Dumbay ki Nihari)
Pakistani Slow-Cooked Lamb Stew
(Dumbay ki Nihari)

        
A rich, spicy stew topped with bright cilantro leaves, a squeeze of citrus, and thin-sliced hot chiles,
nihari
is the ultimate comfort food for home cook and Lahore native Zainab Shah, whose mother makes this dish for her and her family. The dish's name is derived from the Arabic word
nahaar
, or “day,” which makes sense considering the long, slow cooking required to coax the rich marrow out of the lamb bones.

Serves 4

For the Garam Masala

            
2 tbsp. poppy seeds

            
1 tbsp. coriander seeds

            
1 tsp. cumin seeds

            
1 tsp. fennel seeds

            
½ tsp. whole black peppercorns

            
¼ tsp. freshly grated nutmeg

            
5 whole cloves

            
3 green cardamom pods

            
1 black cardamom pod

            
1 star anise

            
1 stick cinnamon, halved

For the Nihari

            
1 cup canola oil

            
1 medium yellow onion, very thinly sliced

            
3 lamb shanks, halved crosswise

            
1 tablespoon cayenne

            
2 cloves garlic, mashed into a paste

            
1 (3-inch piece) ginger, peeled (1 inch mashed into a paste, 2 inches julienned, for serving)

            
Kosher salt, to taste

            
¼ cup flour

            
2 tablespoons ghee, melted

            
Chopped cilantro, lemon or lime wedges, minced Thai chiles, and naan bread, for serving (optional)

            
1. Make the garam masala: Purée poppy seeds and 1 tbsp. water in a spice grinder into a paste; transfer to a bowl. Grind remaining spices into a powder; stir into paste.

            
2. Make the nihari: Heat oil and onion in a 6-qt. saucepan over medium. Cook until onion is caramelized, about 25 minutes; using a slotted spoon, transfer onion to a bowl. Discard all but ¼ cup oil from the pan. Cook lamb, turning as needed, until browned, 8–10 minutes. Stir in reserved garam masala, the cayenne, garlic and ginger pastes, and salt; cook 1–2 minutes. Add 3 cups water; boil. Reduce heat to
medium-low; cook, covered, until lamb has fallen off the bone, 5½–6 hours. Using tongs, transfer lamb to a bowl; keep warm. Stir flour, ghee, and ¼ cup water in a bowl and add to pan; cook until thickened, about 15 minutes. Return lamb to pan. Serve with the reserved onion, julienned ginger, and, if you like, the cilantro, lemon or lime wedges, chiles, and naan.

I'm Just Trying to Keep Everyone Alive
I'm Just Trying to Keep Everyone Alive

B
Y
P
HYLLIS
G
RANT

From
Food52.com

          
Berkeley-based pastry chef Phyllis Grant illuminates the family dynamic in her popular blog
dashandbella.com
, dedicated to her two children and the day-to-day experience of cooking with them—even when it seems that the whole shebang is going to fall apart at the seams.

I ask my grandmother what kind of soup she wants. I need her to eat.
Butternut squash?
No response.
White bean?
Nose scrunch.
Split pea with a ham hock?
Her big smile brings me relief. She wants soup. She is still here. But the tone in the nun's voice is enough to push me up and over into tears:
We are not God, you know. But she is close
.

My friend Margi tells me that hospice knows. I don't want to believe her. But it is enough to send me to the phone. To call my parents. To tell them to fly home.

I am not hungry but I need to make a tart. I move into my kitchen for the day.

I take dough out of the freezer, brown and cool some butter, tell my son that if he doesn't take a bath he will have to move out before the first of the month.

I pick up a rolling pin and
wack wack wack
the dough until it is soft enough to handle. I roll. I try to let her go. I roll. I try to let her go.

My son dives underneath the bath water to see how long he can hold his breath. His silence brings me running to the rescue. He is absolutely still, floating face-down in the water. I scream. He pops up with a laugh.
What, mom? What? You worry too much
.

As I arrange the apple slices in concentric circles and paint them with vanilla bean-flecked brown butter, I hear my dad telling me about this tart he had in Paris, somewhere slightly northeast of the Église Saint-Germain-des-Prés. It wasn't gooey like a tarte tatin. It wasn't doughy and gelatinous like a pie.

My daughter climbs up on the dresser to tape a series of cupcake photos to her wall. The house-shaking crash—drawers and clothes and child flying—sends me running.

I'm just trying to keep everyone alive.

I go back to my safe kitchen and finish up the tart with egg wash and turbinado sugar. I slide it onto a hot pizza stone. Thin and crisp. That's what my dad always said he loved about that tart in Paris.

I smile. This might be the closest one yet.

My parents land late. They are stressed. Anticipating death.

They find apple tart on their kitchen counter. They eat it with wine and cheese, turning it into dinner.

There is nothing else we can do.

Brown Butter Apple Tart
Brown Butter Apple Tart

        
This is inspired by an apple tart that my father had in Paris many years ago. If possible, cook it on a pizza stone. This allows the crust to get quite crisp. The apples are so thinly sliced that they cook quickly. Make sure to leave on the skin because the border of the apple slices brown nicely in the oven.

            
Just know that in order to make lovely apple circles, you will need to sacrifice at least half of each apple. Just plan on using the scraps for a compote or snacking. You can even julienne it up right away, toss with lemon juice, and save for a salad. Or not all of the slices have to be circles. You could also play with making a pattern with all different shaped slices.

            
Serve with vanilla bean ice cream or crème fraîche. Alternatively, this tart makes a great dinner alongside cheese and a tangy green salad.

Serves 6

            
1 recipe of your favorite tart or pie dough (or puff pastry)

            
6 to 8 Granny Smith apples

            
3 tablespoons salted butter

            
½ vanilla bean, halved and scraped of its seeds

            
½ teaspoon vanilla extract

            
1 egg

            
3 tablespoons heavy cream

            
4 tablespoons turbinado sugar

            
3 tablespoons apricot jam, any large chunks of fruit finely chopped up

            
1. Take your dough out of the fridge 20 minutes before rolling it out (or 1 hour before if it's in the freezer).

            
2. Heat your oven to 450° F. Place your pizza stone or sheet pan in the oven to warm up. Melt the butter in a small saucepan. Swirl it around a few times. It will foam and spatter. After 3 to 4 minutes, it will start to smell nutty. Don't walk away. It's ready when the sizzling quiets down and you see little brown bits drop to the bottom of the pan. Cool. Whisk in vanilla bean seeds and extract.

            
3. Cut a piece of parchment paper that's about a 10-inch square. Roll out your dough into about a 12-inch round. It doesn't need to be perfect—you're going to fold over the edges. Roll dough onto your rolling pin. Unroll dough onto the piece of parchment.

            
4. Using a very sharp knife or a mandoline, with the apple stem facing north, very thinly slice about 5 circles off of two opposing sides of the apple. Stop once you hit the core. Repeat with the remaining apples. Save remaining apple and the outermost discs with lots of skin for applesauce or some other use.

            
5. Starting about 2 inches in from the border of the rolled out dough, make a circle with the apple discs, having them overlap. Continue with a second layer that overlaps the bigger circle. Do a third and smaller circle. And a fourth. Finish it off with a few discs in the middle in a flower pattern. Paint all exposed apple surface with the brown butter vanilla mixture. Fold the outer border of the dough in to enclose about half of the exterior edge of the outermost apple discs. Let it be funky!

            
6. Whisk together egg and heavy cream. Paint exposed border of dough with a thin layer of egg wash. Refrigerate any leftover egg wash and save for your next tart or pie (it will last a few days). Generously sprinkle the turbinado sugar all over the apples and the egg-washed dough.

            
7. Remove hot pizza stone or sheet pan from the oven. Quickly slide the tart (keeping it on the parchment) onto the hot surface. Bake until apples are golden brown and the crust is crisp, about 20 to 25 minutes.

            
8. Warm up the apricot jam. Using a pastry brush, paint surface of the cooked apples with warm jam. Serve immediately.