A Quintessentially American Experience

Getting some Indian fry bread on the rez.

Adventures in Paella Making

A little while ago my friend Claire and I put our collective skills together and made a paella. Both of us have tried to watch and absorb paella-making lessons from Spanish friends, and we wanted to test our skills with a good solo effort. There were a few dicey moments but in the end I must say we came out with a pretty bitchin' paella, so if you're into trying to make one, take a peek at what we did:

First, dice up a tomato and a red and green bell pepper. Toss them in a sauté pan with a bit of rabbit (if you don't find yourself with a rabbit niftily in your fridge, go ahead and substitute chicken. We're flexible like that.) Sauté in a bit of olive oil on medium heat until the peppers start to get tender.

Meanwhile, let's make the broth for the paella. Find some fresh sardines and lop off the heads, tails and guts. Don't be squeamish. Paradoxically, these are the parts we actually want. The little filets...well, as far as this paella is concerned you can feed them to your cat.

Put all the heads, tails, fins and all that into a big pot of water. Also add in shrimp shells and heads from the shrimp we're about to put in the paella. If you are a.) squeamish  b.) fresh out of whole sardines or c.) not Spanish, you can go ahead and use a general fish broth for this part. I've even seen people use boxes of chicken broth. A good quality broth will make your paella better, but compromise is golden.

While all this is going on, you should soak some mussels. Nobody likes sand in their mussels. Then strain your fish broth so it's just the liquid. The fish and seafood parts have served their purpose and the broth should be thick and delicious smelling.

Return to your pan of peppers and meat. Make sure there's still a good amount of oil in the bottom, and if not add a bit more. We're in Spain here, olive oil is practically a religion. 

Add in two handfuls of rice per person. As you can see, I measured it out in a very fancy measuring cup first. Sauté the rice for a minute in the oil, then add in a little salt and saffron (or, as they usually use here, paella coloring). Now add the hot seafood broth. Mmmmmm. The liquid should pretty much but not quite cover everything. There are different thoughts on this: some people like soupy, brothy paella and other people like drier paella, with a more fried-rice liquid ratio. I am firmly, firmly, I say, in the dry paella camp. I know someone will hear me say this and try to change my mind, but I will remain strong. But if you like the soupy stuff then add a little more liquid.

Put the heat on medium high so the liquid starts to simmer. This is the sweet spot. Don't stir the rice while it's cooking - the brown crusty bits on the bottom are a delicacy and the best part of the paella.

Scatter some shrimp around the top. You will have already peeled them and thrown the shells in your pot to make your seafood broth, remember? Also, get your mussels nice and steamed. Mussels like lemon as well, so why not toss a bit in there for fun?

When all the liquid has absorbed (add a little more broth if the liquid is absorbed but the rice is still crunchy), you are finished! 

Lay the mussels over top and add some cool slices of lemon. And then pour a cold glass of an adult beverage of your choice. And then it is time. EAT.

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Spanish cooking classes: Tortilla

My time in Spain is down to just a few weeks, so I'm trying to absorb as much as I can before I go. This means that I've been asking practically every Spanish person I know to teach me how to cook something. I can't say I'm a huge fan of Spanish food, which can sometimes be a bit bland to my taste, but there are a few things I'll miss back in the U.S.  One of them is a good homemade Spanish tortilla.

If you've never been to Spain you're probably thinking that tortillas are the corn or flour deliciousness that you wrap your taco in. But this tortilla is sort of like a big flat potato omelet, and it's a perennial favorite here in Spain.

Here's how my friend Pilar taught me how to make it:

First, assemble and peel a couple potatoes. Five is enough for a nice skillet-sized tortilla. Chop them up into little flat squares, nice and thin. 

Then - and this is controversial - sauté about a quarter of an onion in olive oil. There is hearty debate about whether onions belong in tortilla or not, with each party believing fervently that their dish is the best. So if you are in the no-onion camp, skip this step. I won't judge. 

Now, this next step is going to take some real fortitude, so take a deep breath and gird your loins.  Next you dump the potatoes into your handy-dandy deep fryer. If you don't have one (please tell me you don't have one), fry them up in a skillet with a couple healthy glugs of olive oil. While you're doing it, think to yourself: "Mediterranean diet, my a$$"

For the record, I have never in my life been in an American home with a deep fryer on the counter (although I'm not from the South), but pretty much every single Spanish home I've ever been in has one proudly installed in the kitchen. When I express astonishment at this fact, my Spanish friends are bug-eyed that Americans don't all have deep fryers in their back pockets. "But I don't understand" they wonder, perhaps a touch untactfully, "how do you all get so fat?"

But anyway, on we march. When you've thoroughly cooked your potatoes until they're tender (I wonder if boiling them would also be an option to cut down on the oil?), drain them and put them in a bowl. Add your onions if you've got 'em.

Crack in your eggs: about one egg for each potato. Then mix it up! It should be goopy but not overly liquidy. Place it on a hot skillet that's filled with about half an inch of hot olive oil (yeah I said half an inch). Turn it after about 90 seconds or when it starts to solidify in the middle. Flip it using a plate and turning the skillet upside down. Let it sizzle on the other side, and then lower the heat to let it finish cooking a few more minutes.

And voila! You have made Spanish tortilla! Eat it cold, hot, room temperature, with mayonnaise or without, on a sandwich or with a fork. Bon appetit.

 

 

 

 

How to make a real-deal Spanish paella

Start with snacks. This might take awhile. Jamón and cheese are perfect.

Then, assemble a team of helpers. Provide beer.

First, assemble your ingredients: spices, rice, fish broth, clams, rabbit, chorizo, peppers and tomatoes. Garlic is good also but never, under any circumstances must you put an onion in paella. If you have added an onion, cross yourself and hope God forgives you for your transgressions. Spanish grandmothers sure won't. 

Then, set up an outdoor cooking area if at all possible. Paella making is a community event, and you'll need the space. And cooking outside makes people happy. Spaniards are all about happiness. 

Now you're ready to begin. Soak your clams well. Nobody likes gritty clams. Go ahead and put a lot of good Spanish olive oil in your heated paella pan and add the rabbit. If you use Italian olive oil or otherwise sully your paella with an inferior non-Spanish product, repeat the crossing and praying maneuver as directed in the instructions regarding onions.

When the rabbit is browning well and smells like heaven, toss in the chorizo and peppers. Have another beer. Now add tomatoes and salt. Inhale deeply, it smells good. Add in rice. Two handfuls per person. If you have small hands, better make it three. Nobody hates leftover paella. Add in fish broth. You can boil fish heads and shrimp shells to make some yourself, or you can cheat and buy the pre-made kind. I won't judge you. But someone out there definitely is, so watch out.

Also take this opportunity to throw in your super secret spice mix passed down from your great-grandfather. Add in raw shrimp. In Spain they generally like them with the heads and eye stalks still attached, but this is my friend's paella and he went easy because he knows how squeamish Americans are. Sprinkle your clams in. Have another beer. Wait twenty minutes.

Now, it's done. For Pete's sake, EAT. And then EAT MORE. And have another beer.

American food is not a myth

Getting a slice in NYC, September 2011

I'm having one of those weeks where it seems to have suddenly occurred to a lot of people around me that I'm American. Coworkers, friends, and my students have been full of questions this week. Which is great. I don't mind answering them, even when they're asking me for the hundredth time why Americans are so fat. 

But this, this one question, is somehow driving me crazy this week, and I swear if I hear one more person say that American food is limited to hamburgers, hot dogs and junk food or that America doesn't really have it's own food culture I might scream. 

So, listen up, Americans and otherwise: we have tons of foods that are uniquely ours. Sure, we are a nation of immigrants and lots of things (but by no means all) have roots in another food culture, but we have changed many things beyond recognition (I submit to you that seven-layer dip is American, not Mexican) and we have plenty of things all our own.

Off the top of my head:

casseroles

cinnamon rolls

biscuits and gravy

fried chicken (they fry it other places too but our buttermilk-soaked way is called "American style")

pancakes and waffles as breakfast food (elsewhere they're usually dessert, if they're around at all)

barbecue sauce and flavors

clam chowder

chicken and tuna salad

club sandwiches

banana splits

peanut butter and jelly

s'mores

coleslaw

crab cakes

jalapeño poppers

buffalo wings and hot sauce

grilled foods from a backyard barbecue (okay, maybe we co-own this with the Australians)

corn on the cob with butter and salt

buttered and flavored popcorns (white cheddar anyone?)

banana/pumpkin/zucchini bread

pumpkin pie

grilled cheese with American cheese (don't act like you didn't eat this as a kid, no matter how much the thought of American cheese grosses you out now. Also, if the thought of American cheese doesn't gross you out as an adult, you should do some soul-searching.)

macaroni and cheese

cranberry anything

anything with a chocolate and peanut butter combination

baked beans

caesar salads

eggs benedict

Now, I'm not saying we own this stuff exclusively or that other people don't eat it. But it's all definitely part of our American cuisine. And yes, such a thing does exist.

Whew, glad to have that off my chest.

I feel cleansed.

   

Home cooked meals

The appetizers

If you went over to your Spanish friend's house for lunch, like The Mister and I did this weekend, here's what the menu may be like (it was for us):

Appetizers:

Jamón

Cured cheese

Sausage slices

Olives

Potato salad with hard-boiled eggs, pickled asparagus and tuna.

First course (called the primero plato):

Spanish lentils made by your friend's mom (mothers always make them best), with bread to soak up the liquid.

Second course (segundo plato):

A whole fish, (fins, head and all - remember what I said about eating the whole animal?) sliced in half, drizzled with olive oil and broiled.

Dessert (postre):

Your choice of fresh strawberries, bananas or oranges, topped with a touch of whipped cream.

Beverages:

Spanish wine (of course)

Then, you try not to waddle out the door.

Perritos calientes

*Important note: I apologize for the rather sub-par photography in this post. These photos were taken directly following the Epic Flamenco Flop of '11 and I don't think my senses were functioning properly quite yet.*

Went out for tapas the other night and this is what the waiter surprised us with:

They are what they look like: hot dogs.  Oh so culturally relevant.

At least the sangria was Spanish.

From the orange grove to my basket

The countryside outside of Málaga, just inside the province of Cádiz, is filled with bulls and orange groves. I know that sounds like an odd combination, but I'm telling the truth - drive through there and it's all grazing bulls, orange groves, then more grazing bulls and more orange groves. Since we were there last week, our friends Pilar and Juan took us to her grandfather's patch of land to pick oranges.

We learned the proper way to pick them - there's a little secret. It's called girar y tirar, which in Spanish means "twist and pull," because if you pull without twisting the peel will break. 

When we had picked a whole crate we realized the surprise was on us because Pilar gave us all the oranges to take home, all three thousand kilos or so, and now we are supplied through the winter.  They are perfectly tart and sweet and juicy. I know, because I tried them. In the orchard. While I was supposed to be picking. I have trouble staying on task when food is involved in the chores.

  

Also, as if The Mister weren't cool enough -- he sings, he plays guitar, he's got a dimple in his right cheek that could stop traffic -- he can also juggle. Some people get all the cards.