Basic Training

When I was a child, one of the worst offenses I, or my siblings could commit, was wasting food. I didn’t see what the big deal was, at the time. Why should I have to eat something that I had had enough of, or didn’t want in the first place?  I was always being reminded that there were children in other countries who didn’t have enough food to eat. I was convinced that the television networks were in cahoots with my parents. I’d be shuffling green peas around on my plate, strategically spreading them out so it would appear that there were far less than there really were on my plate. Just as I seemed to be making some headway in making my plate look semi empty, a commercial would come on, showing impoverished children with distended bellies and emaciated frames.

This was all my parents needed to corroborate their stories of world hunger. They always seemed to be able to pin point a country where hunger was prevalent. Since they knew so much about this problem, I wondered why they didn’t just send the peas and other loathsome foods I so dreaded, directly to these kids. Naturally, I pondered this to myself. Something told me they wouldn’t appreciate my diplomatic solution.

My parents grew up in the rural south and both came from rather large families. Survival was on their minds at all times. They lived in agricultural communities and were intimately acquainted with making every meal stretch to feed the many mouths in their households. This was something that I knew of in theory, but hadn’t experienced in practice. I didn’t quite grasp the importance of the lesson I was learning, even as I plotted to clear my plate through osmosis. Waste not, want not. Thankfully, not every lesson was as painful as the consumption of peas. Being my mother’s right hand in the kitchen had its benefits.  

On a regular basis, I watched my mother the alchemist, turn leftovers into shiny new aromatic works of art. Stale bread was whipped into stuffing or bread pudding. Overly ripe bananas were reincarnated as banana bread. Sunday’s roasted chicken would experience rebirth as chicken salad by mid-week. She was never at a loss for recreating a meal, and making you feel like you’d never had it before. What was old could be made new again by her nimble fingers.

Between watching my mother and experimenting on my own, I learned the invaluable science of food alchemy. Every ingredient in your kitchen has multiple uses. If I have citrus fruit on hand, I’ll zest it before eating or juicing it. I love making my own bread crumbs, simply because I can. If I find myself with an excess of bread, I’m always sure to make a batch. Around the holidays, I’ll buy a loaf of white bread specifically for making seasoned bread crumbs or stuffing cubes and croutons. Of course, all these things are readily available in the market, but there is something more intimate about my cooking when I do these things myself. My mother was thinking of nothing more than making sure we were well fed, but she taught me that you could communicate with food. All of the tedious tasks that can be eliminated with store bought items become meaningful when you know that people you care about will be eating something you prepared from your heart.

Sometimes I’ll cook with my mother. I can see her watching me. She’ll ask why I’m making extra work for myself. No point in telling her that she drummed this neurosis into my very young and pliant mind, singlehandedly. She will disagree; it’s what she does. I smile, because I know better. Learning how to make a meal from bare essentials is a source of pride for me. It’s a survival skill. I didn’t grow up in the same times or conditions as my mother, but she’s passed along her instincts to me. I am a girly girl, with modern day conveniences. I have an excessive love of shoes and all accessories, but I know that if I chip a nail or find my cupboard nearly bare, I won’t starve.

I am my mother’s child.

Greek Phyllo-sophy

There are few things that I find as relaxing as a good market.  I don’t mean your run of the mill market, like the A&P or Pathmark. I like ethnic markets that carry authentic ingredients from all over the world. When I’m in an exploratory mood, and want to cook something from another culture, one of my favorite markets to visit is the Essex Market, on the Lower East side of Manhattan.

120 Essex Street houses an eclectic roster of culinary delights, amd

can be described as 'a taste of home', no matter where ‘home’ is for you.. There are lots of small stalls under one roof, carrying everything from seafood, meat, poultry and produce, to artisan cheeses and hand-made chocolates.

The charm of a place like this is, getting to know about the different grocery items first hand. Because many of the stalls are run by immigrants, you can sometimes encounter a language barrier. However, more often than not, there is someone on staff who can tell you how a particular item is traditionally used in their native land. Shopping there is a crash course in international culinary education.

During one of my more recent excursions to Essex Market, I stumbled onto a happy surprise, called Boubouki; a bakery dedicated to making fresh Greek food daily.  This bakery is an intimate affair. It is take out only. The stall contains a small counter space on which the food is displayed. In addition, there is a sink and small refrigerator against one wall. Another small work counter and an oven with a beautiful chrome finish, occupies the rear wall. It is bare bones, beautiful and rustic.

While there, I had the opportunity to speak with proprietor, Rona Economou.

Rona’s passion for cooking shows in the smallest of details; from the way she handles a fresh-from-the-oven piece of spanakopita, to wrapping her baked goods to go. She proves everyday that, to make great food, you only need the basic elements of water and fire, fresh ingredients and divine inspiration.

Boubouki’s menu is rather small. It features spanakopita (spinach pie), cheese pie and baklava, in addition to upcoming seasonal inspirations, shrouded in yet more phyllo dough. I was drawn to the intimacy of a place with such old world charm. Customers are engaged and regarded as old friends. I found myself intrigued by the history and beginnings of this place. Rona was obliged to sate my curiosity.

When I asked what Boubouki means, Rona informed me that it means “flower bud” in Greek. Appropriate, I thought, for a newly sprouting business that has the strength to take root, given a little love from its community.

Rona is one of two children born, in the Bronx, to Greek emigrant parents. While Rona and her sister were still babies, their parents moved the family to Astoria, Queens (incidentally, the most culturally diverse of all five boroughs).Like many that seem to come by cooking naturally, her love and skill for cooking came from watching her mother and grandmother cook. There is this flinty spark in her eye that all home-bred cooks recognize within themselves: kismet. You know, before you understand that you know, that you are meant to use your natural gift to communicate with people and touch their lives. When she speaks of her culinary predecessors, she beams with pride.

“My grandmother is an amazing cook who made her phyllo by
hand.  She lived in a small village in Greece until she came to the
U.S. as an adult- she farmed, raised animals etc. and knows how to
tend to a chicken from raising it, to slaughtering it, to plucking its
feathers and roasting it.  My mom also is a great cook.  No one beats
her Greek soups.  But she's lived here for so long that her cooking
has evolved- it's not 100% Greek.  I think that has influenced me as
well.”

If you have ever cooked with fresh phyllo dough, you understand that it is a labor of love.

While it is not the most difficult of procedures, whatever it lacks in complication, it makes up for in tedium. There is such delicacy involved, handling dough that is thin enough for you to read your morning paper through. Oh, the repetition. Laying out a single layer, brushing it with melted butter, or olive oil, and repeating…until you are old and grey, or the recipe tells you to stop; whichever comes first. In between oiling the layers, you have to keep the dough that hasn’t been used yet, from drying out by covering with a damp cloth/towel. Then of course, there are the varieties of fillings, depending on what dish you are making. I’m a girl that will try anything once, just to be able to say I did it. It has been five or so years now, since I’ve made homemade spanakopita or baklava.

I’m glad I learned how to make them, but the experience makes me rejoice that places like Boubouki exist! I’m not so sure I’ll be taking those two recipes out for a gallop anytime soon, if ever. I do however, have a new addition to my list of places to go whenever I get a craving for either. Once you’ve tasted the spinach pie at Boubouki’s, you appreciate the love that’s gone into the process. Make no mistakes kids; only love can produce something that tastes like this. Spinach pie was the only way to ensure that I ate all of my spinach when I was a kid. I was soooo not buying into that Popeye crap!

If you are as curious as I, about Rona's beginnings in her career, you might be surprised to know that, Rona  was once a litigator. Naturally, I wondered what made her stray from the beaten path, into the culinary field.

“I never thought I would cook professionally.  But I was laid off
and realized I had been given a chance to start doing something that
I loved.  I'm very grateful that I went on the path that I did,
though.”

There is something to be said for a dream deferred, or an unexpected dream, for that matter.

What I always want to know from authentic cooks, professional or not, is what their most valuable tool is in the kitchen. I’ve found that you can learn a lot about a cook and their process by the answer they provide. When I presented this question to Rona, she told me, with no hesitation,

 “Most valuable tool- for sure, is my chef’s knife”

Some call the knife the original food processor. Much like her kitchen set up, her answer was short, sweet and to the point, with no unnecessary additives.

Undoubtedly, whenever we eat anything prepared by anyone other than ourselves, there is a conversation taking place, whether we take the time to acknowledge it or not. Cooks have a language all their own. Every ingredient adds a layer to that discourse.  We all want to convey something to the person that consumes our hearts and souls presented on a plate. Rona’s take on her communication with her customers is rather simple.

“What I hope people feel when they eat my food is that they're
being nourished.  That's the most important thing to me.  I try to
make dishes that are balanced and natural and light- I don't want one
flavor to overtake a dish.  My goal is to bring a few ingredients
together and make something that reveals its flavors after a few
bites.”

I enjoyed the food at Boubouki a great deal. I hope to see this flower bud into its full and ripe potential. 

The Tell Tale Sazon

Growing up on the Lower East Side of Manhattan afforded me great cultural exposure. Chinatown and Little Italy were nearby. I lived in a neighborhood that was largely African American, Asian and Latino. Just a stone’s throw away, was the famed Bargain District, peppered with Jewish merchants and low rise tenements.

When I was a little girl, the building that I lived in had seventeen floors, with ten apartments per floor. My biological grandparents lived in the south, but I was blessed with extra grandparents close to home. I had kindly older people in my life that were close enough to be considered family. This had advantages and disadvantages. The disadvantage, as I saw it back then, was that I had better not get caught stepping out of line. My parents had eyes everywhere. I was always amazed at how they seemed to know what I was doing, when they were nowhere to be seen. Parenthood was steeped in mysticism that I’d never understand. The advantage was that spending time with this surplus of grandmas and grandpas exposed me to their wisdom and knowledge. I grew up in a time where adults were still community oriented and youngsters minded their elders. People looked out for each others children and that concept was respected. 

One of my next-door neighbors was an elderly Puerto Rican woman named Vicky, whom I considered my honorary abuela. Sometimes when my mother had to work late, or had an appointment, I would go to Vicky’s after school. She always had Stella Doro pastry and Savarin or Bustelo coffee in her cabinet. Whenever I see either of those brands anywhere, a smile crosses my lips. While wonderful aromas wafted from the kitchen, I’d sit on her zip locked couch, my eyes glued to a Spanish soap opera on the Telemundo network. I tried to move as little as possible, so the plastic covering the couch wouldn’t crinkle in surround sound. I didn’t want to miss a single word or bitch slap in the story line. So what, that I didn’t know what they were saying? The bitch slap is universal, and transcends all language barriers.

When I wasn’t engrossed in a self-taught Spanish course via television, I’d go in the kitchen and watch Vicky cook. She’d work magic, with four burners going at once. My mother could throw down in the kitchen, but it never smelled like this. My mother’s southern cooking was one thing, but this was another affair entirely. There was always the fragrance of garlic, peppers, onions and tomatoes dancing vapors through the apartment. There were also scents of herbs and spices that I didn’t recognize by name, but were as familiar as home, because when I was at abuela’s, I was home. Vicky had a little wooden bowl that sat on a ledge above the sink. Inside it was something that looked like a miniature baseball bat. When I asked her what it was, she explained to me that the bowl was a mortar and the little bat was a pestle. She showed me how she used it to grind up her spices and mash her garlic to a pungent pulp.

I watched her make many dishes, but arroz con pollo, and red beans were my favorites. I figured anyone could duplicate this recipe. Well, maybe anyone armed with the right ingredients could, but I was still trying to piece together the puzzle.

At home, I was always around my mother in the kitchen. She would let me help her cook, giving me one task or another. She used garlic, peppers and onions too, but it didn’t smell like Vicky’s food. Whenever I was craving Spanish food, I’d make it my business to chop up the vegetables that I thought Vicky used for seasoning. No matter what I did, the end result was never the same. I was looking to get this Latin flare to my food, but no dice.

I was an adult before I learned how to make some of the basic staples in Latin food.

I’m the type of person that will go to a restaurant, order something and then analyze a dish to death until I’ve picked apart the ingredients. Then I’ll go home and make it, just because I can. It bothers me when I can’t figure out the ingredients. I feel like I’ve somehow failed as a cook. I’d been going to Spanish restaurants all my life and hadn’t nailed it yet. It was like The Tell Tale Sazon. It was keeping me up at night.

One day, I was watching a cooking show on PBS called Daisy Cooks, hosted by Latina chef extraordinaire, Daisy Martinez. This particular day, she made sofrito, which is the Holy Grail of Latin cooking. I learned how important herbs like cilantro and culantro are to the most basic dishes. I am not in the habit of measuring when I cook. The only time I adhere to strict measurements is when I’m baking. You really don’t want to eyeball baking soda or baking powder…not pretty, I can tell you. I blame this bad habit on my mother. I learned all my cooking basics from her. Whenever she made any of her best dishes, she’d just add ‘some of this, and some of that’, and it was always fabulous. I never saw this woman use a measuring spoon or a measuring cup, but her food always tasted the same. I can pretty much eyeball most ingredients and taste as I go along. I force myself to measure ingredients now, because I enjoy creating recipes. Once I get the perfect recipe, I write it down. I watched Daisy make sofrito once. I ran out to the market, got everything on the ingredients list. I came home and made a batch. Well, I had to test it out on something, so I decided on red beans and rice.

As my beans cooked, all the familiar smells from my childhood excursions in Vicky’s kitchen, wafted from that pot. It was a cloudy day. I can remember the clouds parting. As the skies cleared, a holy light shone down directly on my pot of beans. When I lifted the lid from the pot, the beans glowed. Okay…maybe not ALL of it happened that way. The East River might not have parted, but it wasn’t for lack of will on my part. Do you see though, what I’m saying about the importance of sofrito? It is a must have in your kitchen. I couldn’t believe how much of a difference sofrito made in a simple pot of beans. They actually tasted the way I remembered them as a kid. I had been using packaged sazon all along, but the sofrito was what had been missing. After that, I started learning how to make other staples like recaito, adobo and mojo. Once I learned to make these seasonings with fresh ingredients, I could immediately taste the difference in the food I cooked. No store bought sofrito for me honey. Blasphemy!

I am no guru of Latin food, but I’d make Vicky proud, as a student. I’ve made my own seasoned salt before, so getting the right measurements for a dry adobo wasn’t too difficult. I’ve also played around with different recipes for mojo until I found one that worked for me. Though it nearly killed me to break out the measuring utensils, I’ve measured out both recipes, so the uninitiated can try it at home. Both seasonings are great on meat, poultry and fish. The mojo makes an exceptional marinade on pork chops/loins and beef steaks. I’d like to think Vicky would give me a pat on the head, with a “good job mija” and a Stella Doro cookie for both of these recipes.

Dry Adobo

4 Tbsp salt

4 Tbsp garlic powder

4 Tbsp onion powder

2 Tbsp black pepper

2 Tbsp ground cumin

2 Tbsp dried oregano

1 Tbsp dried citrus zest

Combine ingredients thoroughly and store in a tightly sealed container. Keep in a cool, dry place for up to 3 months. Yields approximately 1 ¾ cups of seasoning.

*You can add 1 Tbsp of one or all of the following to personalize your recipe:

Dried cilantro, coriander, turmeric, and/or paprika.

Mojo

3 lemons, juiced

3 limes, juiced

2 large oranges, juiced

1 ½ heads of garlic, pressed or minced

2 Tbsp salt

1 Tbsp black pepper

1 Tbsp dried oregano

1 Tbsp ground cumin

¼ cup plus 2 Tbsp olive oil

To avoid the ingredients separating, mix in a blender or use a hand held immersion blender. This will emulsify the juice and oil. If you don’t have either, use a whisk. Be sure to give a stir just before using. Any leftover marinade can be refrigerated for up to a week. Yields approximately 2 cups of marinade.

*Taste as you go. 1 ½ heads of garlic may sound excessive. You can always alter the amount to suit your palate. For my taste, this amount of garlic is the perfect balance for the high level of acidity in this marinade.

You can also add the zest from the citrus fruit used in the recipe, for extra flavor.