Max’s Kitchen: Live and Active Cultures

Thanksgiving Day, a function which originated in New England two or three centuries ago when those people recognized that they really had something to be thankful for — annually, not oftener — if they had succeeded in exterminating their neighbors, the Indians, during the previous twelve months instead of getting exterminated by their neighbors, the Indians. Thanksgiving Day became a habit, for the reason that in the course of time, as the years drifted on, it was perceived that the exterminating had ceased to be mutual and was all on the white man’s side, consequently on the Lord’s side; hence it was proper to thank the Lord for it and extend the usual annual compliments.
–Mark Twain

Hey all, happy thanksgiving!!! I hope your days are filled with successful kitchen stories and warm family moments as opposed to dysfunctional disasters.
Myself? I’m currently thankful that I have people to spend this holiday with, 3000 miles away from it’s origins; that I am buying groceries for the feast in Morocco, with dirhams as opposed to dollars; that wherever I find myself, I somehow convince people trust me enough to fill their bellies (Today, big enough to have their own area codes).
Just this morning, I was spontaneously enlisted to take care of the most important dishes, turkey and stuffing (No offense to vegetarians like myself, blame Norman Rockwell if you have a problem with it). I’m not freaking out though, even though I have no access to an oven, no whole turkeys available, no time to dry-brine, and no groceries as yet. Yep, no panic attacks here. Although for some reason my hair is starting to fall out in clumps, I’m definitely not feeling the stress of it. The mark of a good cook is to be able to make due in any environment, creating dazzling dishes with just a hot plate and butter knife. Mark Bittman, eat your heart out, because this minimalist will rise to the challenge.
I think I’ll hook up a Harcha (moroccan cornbread) stuffing with apples, walnuts, cinnamon, cheese, and sage/thyme, and buy some chickens to steam with herbs, oranges, chili…and maybe a surprise ingredient thrown in. I’ll let you know how it goes, on the condition that you share some of our thanksgiving stories here.

P.S. Tomorrow is Eid-al-adha/Eid-el-Kabir, the most important Muslim Holiday. It celebrates Abraham’s sacrifice to God (Currently doing lots of research/fieldwork on it, so expect a mini-article soon). Because of this, Muslims everywhere both buy and sacrifice animals in house (preferably sheep, but goats are also used for the po’). So to all Muslims out there, happy Eid eve!
Also, this blog has been accepted to the foodie blogroll forum! Check it out on www.foodieblogroll.com . There you can find much better bloggers than me, so take a look and show your support!

Hey all, sorry i’ve been offline for a while. I’m currently excursioning all throughout Morocco on an anthropology adventure, collecting stories, recipes and other such kitchen narratives. Hopefully it will culminate into something called “Homecooked Memoirs: Consuming Culture through Moroccan Kitchen Narratives.” Exciting as this may be, it’s taking up more than the majority of my time so posts will be sporadic at best for the next two weeks. Then it’s back to the States!
When I come home, I’m completely overhauling this site, updating 2x a week and including pictures and perhaps video.
Thanks for reading even during this chaotic time in my life; I can’t wait to share everything I’ve encountered here, especially how much I learned about food.

It was the kind that you could feel in your bones– the sickness. Rising from my soul, it spread through my body like quickfire, imparting more than a mild unpleasantness through the whole of my being. It felt like a rabid bat took my stomach his vampire coffin; even more, like a ferran heated to cook 1000 loaves of bread (damn that fool and his flying ship!), like alladin’s third wish was to confine Jafar to my intestines. It was the third night in a row that I was awoken at 3 am; today my stomach was my alarm. I barely remember the long 20 meter marathon to my personal oasis, my haaj to the cleansing land; all I knew was that my tender American belly needed release. I couldn’t count how often faded into near-hallucinogenic trance states in the confines of that three-walled bathroom, nor could I even diagnose quite how many hours were spent in that humble hammam palace. I saw the villainous heroes of 1001 nights pass before my eyes, I heard the sands of the Sahara, felt the high atlas wind and tasted the scents of spice. Like Ramadan, this experience gave way to spirituality.
“Forgive me father for I have sinned, it has been 20 years since my last confession.” In my private privy, I checked off the crimes of my life, confessing every last sin since arriving to Africa, in the hope that it would save me from the stabbing sensations in my sides. I told of ill intentions toward individuals, and acts deemed hshuma by native culture. I went back further, admitting to acts of theft, violence and the worst of all, ethnocentrism. Pouring my soul, I ratted myself out, much like an underling snitching on his mafia don for the prize of a cushy witness protection position. All through my revelation, I was spontaneously and unpleasantly interrupted by my insides trying to get out. I imagined a priest, imam, rabbi and Buddha listening to my philosophical musings, grunts and groans as I emptied for what must have been the 9th time the contents of my insides. Once upon a more enlightened time, I would have been diagnosed with a demon, djinn, or devil. They wouldn’t have been far off. As I was about to find out, a tiny monster-of-sorts had taken up residence in my intestines (and didn’t even bother to pay the required security deposit!) I was a forgiving landlord, but this parasite was treating my home-body like a college dorm. It wasn’t like I was a stranger to sickness here: three times before I had been stricken (while traveling no less) with ailments that usually involved raising my center of gravity. But who would have guessed that water, the sustainer of life, here more precious than even cleanliness, would be my downfall?
I contemplated paying rent, living in this small room for the rest of the semester; I would have to move in a desk to write on, but at that time I was confident that illness abroad could compose an epic ethnography: What strategies do people use to cope with illness? I recall my family, force feeding me as I withered to skin and bone, each time sponsoring the benfits of the next noxious treatment. I was given everything from oil soup to zatar, none of it stayed very long inside of me. What I could stomach was fed to me in abundance, two or three khobzette (small loaves of moroccan bread) each meal, and I was a picky child who whose parents quarantined him to the table until he had finished his food. Each time I expelled my medicinal meal, the explanation was the same, and I was soon advised to “drink tea, the sugar is good for you.” If only.
Pain snapped me back to the moment, and after cycling through the five stages of grief multiple times, my countenance calmed, and I was left with a strange peace that couldn’t be shaken even by the temper tantrums of my intestinal tsadik. I mentally put my friend in timeout, and pondered my epiphany. There is something folks don’t have to worry about in the states, a sanitized country, barren of life, but secure in health because even our soil is pasteurized. We are like industrial pigs, risking death if we venture from our lonely lysol-ed lives into the world that created us. We have been bred passive, unfit and ignorant, and as long as we stay within our four suffocating walls, we are happy with it. Elsewhere though, the rugged rest of the world exposes themselves to unmoderated cycles of life. Often, people live with sickness their entire lives. They don’t have relapses of illness, or even good days and bad days; it’s extreme to the degree of a stopwatch. One minute healthy followed by ½ hour of pain, 3 hours of health, then 1 of misery. What does this do to morale? Somehow, this state doesn’t interfere with happiness. The “blighted” exist content, and I feel sympathy towards them, only now realizing how much I take my health for granted, and how much I misunderstand the concept in the first place. I should pity myself, as a being comfortable with consistency, I cannot live without knowing what even the next 10 minutes will bring? Which side of status am I really on, if I can’t embrace the unknown.
Moroccans have a saying, “inshaallah.” This, literally translated to “as god wills” or “godwilling” is applied to everything from being home for lunch (”I’ll be back at 2.” “Inshaallah.”) to having a happy marriage (”You two will live happily together.” “Inshaallah.”) to getting change at the hanout (”I’m just going to get five 20s real quick.” “Inshaallah.”). There’s something liberating about thinking of the future in this way. Everything, from the most serious to the most mundane becomes uncertain, but instead of fearing what is to come, people instead leave it up to god. Moroccans actively dispel discomfort because they leave reality only up to the present. Everything else is folklore. Maybe that’s why Moroccans cling to meals so ardently (sorry to spring this at the last minute, but the thought isn’t fully developed yet). Because god handles the future, it is up to the individual to fully experience the present and indulge in awareness. Maybe only through food can a sense of comfort be maintained, I thought. Then I threw up once more, in harmony with the morning call to prayer. Inshaallah, I will soon evict my tenacious tenant.

A smell map of the medina:

Out and about in the morning, you are greeted with the wafting scents of
-the ferran, or communal bread oven, rotting vegetables, dirty dog, sheep bones, wet sidewalk, roof drippings, fog
damp leather, harcha, hot griddle, cats, tobacco, msemen, last night’s garbage, bleach and detergent, drying flowers, fresh fish, old oil, olives, deisel, rotted fish, carboard, croissants, nag champa incense, mint tea, goat, woven baskets, rubber

Like a fine wine, the medina’s complexity unfolds in silken layers and power chords. After decanting, the most incredible transformation takes place at night. Close your eyes and let your nostrils lead you through
-Cinnamon, drying laundry, putrid vegetables, roasted nuts and propane, kefta, cumin, brown butter, hot oil, fried fish, cow feet, raw meat, roasted chestnuts, hashish, fresh dates, not-so-fresh fish, nougat, kettle-cooked popcorn, sugarcane juice, burned plastic, persimmon and pomegranate, sweat, escargot soup, marjoram, hot khobz, coconut, fluorescent lights, chickpeas and fava beans, motorcycle exhaust, mint, sage, parsley, chebekia, charcoal from the canoun, baghir, caremelized onions, boiled cow and sheep’s heads, used clothes

If only we had time to visit the labyrinth of sidestreets and alcoves…

The medina never fails to surprise. Walking among the stalls laden with everything from persimmon (now in season, along with pomegranates, cherimoyas and of course, citrus), to walnuts (now abundant), to kettle-cooked popcorn, it seems that food jumps out from every shadow. I can’t go a block without seeing something utterly and completely foreign, and I love it. Just yesterday, I came across a vendor–a mountainous, wind-chiseled beast of a man–peddling the most delicate little fruits I had ever seen. Akin to pygmy lychee nuts in appearance, they were stringed like jewelery on sturdy blades of grass, forming bracelets and necklaces smelling of something between a strawberry and pineapple. Being in an adventurous mood, I bought a anklet-sized bunch (for the equivalent of 30 cents!), and immediately began working my way down the line, my munching much like the 70’s game “worm”.

Immediately, I was greeted by an explosion of flavor, as the soft shell gave way and to reveal the fruit inside. It was juicy, with pulp similar in both color and texture to a ripe mango. But the taste was unlike anything I had ever imagined. The outer husk, edible, reminded me of raspberry seeds, and echoed forth a texture that gave a satisfying crunch to complement the juicy inside. The bright orange pulp was pleasingly floral, with hints of peach and passionfruit. I thought this is what tropical fruit would taste like if it grew in meadows and forests (if only! Then i could have them every day at home, foraging frick park and pirating them by the bushel). And they were perfectly bite sized; not even the hershey’s company (or ferran adria) could engineer a better foodstuff. I asked the merchant the obvious question, and he responded with a name I soon forgot; however, the taste of this experience will linger on my tongue for a good long while. Here, street food is my king, bard and muse, and it is a rare gift to find a country that can offer such unparalleled culinary adventures.

Despite this and other stories I’ve collected, often, when thrust in this chaos of fruit and nuts, bread and dairy, it’s so easy to shrink from the unfamiliar. And unfortunately, I’ve found myself doing just that. After 2 1/2 months in this country, I am embarrassed to say, I haven’t, as of last week, yet tried Harcha. Neither have you? Well, then, let me introduce this incredible edible.

It is early morning, and the streets are deserted. On my way to class, I pass stray dogs picking at scraps of the evening, filling their bellies with leftovers from the previous night’s glut. The air is chilly, and I marvel that I can finally see my breath in the air. I am alone in the medina. But wait, from tiny crevices peppered through the sidewalk, I can hear voices, raucous laughter, the radio. I try to ignore it, late already, but as soon as the sounds of one party fades, another takes it’s place, like the bleeding of streetlights. Finally, my curiousity gets the better of me, and I peek into what from the street looks like an abandoned alleyway. Immediately, I am greeted with the warmth of bodies, the smell of grains baking, and a smoking griddle. A sober pub, opened at sunrise, is the first thing that jumps to mind. I immediately backtrack to the other oases of early-risers, and I am greeted by the same sight.

Everywhere, in undiscovered crevices and squeezes in the medina, I find spontaneous country clubs of men (brings up the issue of gender and public/private space, but that’s another issue…or another post). These are the morning taverns of morocco, and they have but one thing on their menus: Harcha (and, of course, mint tea). Now, I’ll admit that I’ve seen Harcha before, huge pancakes of semolina baked daily on the griddle, but until that morning, I hadn’t been tempted to try them.

This morning, though was different. Perhaps the fault of the cold air or the changing weather, I laid down 2 DH and asked for a wedge. Though moroccans take it as a breakfast staple with dabbles of butter, oil, cheese or jam, I decided to go the purist route. I bit in, and the taste like sweet couscous flooded my mouth, but with a texture more like cornbread than anything else. The slight char on the outside was just delightful, but like perfect toast, the interior was soft and fluffy. I became a believer, and since last week, I’ve eaten a wedge every morning, the perfect beginning to a long day. Just recently, I found a similar snack, made with bulgar (tabloullie) instead of semolina. I’m not sure which I prefer, the sweet original or nutty alternative, suffice it to say I’m not going back to plain khobz. Who knows, eventually I may not just bang elbows with the locals, but be confused for one of them.

you’ll find recipes below.

Plain Harcha

Now, this recipe is exceedingly easy. The only hard part is turning the cakes over halfway. In morocco, they cook pancakes that measure 1/2 meter, but to make flipping easier, I suggest one starts small (perhaps cakes that are fist-sized). Have fun, and start with a small batch, lest you eat more than you bargain for (and I assure you, whatever you make will be eaten. Forget leftovers, this is a food that never sees day 2).

1 cup of fine semolina flour (found at any grocery store nowadays)
1/2 cup coarse semolina flour (Or use wheat bran, cereal, or all fine flour)
1/4-1/2 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon honey
up to 1/4 cup of butter (or flavorful oil), if desired (more traditional, better texture, but fattier)
~Water (For a richer harcha, you could use milk/yoghurt to replace some or all of the water. Again, more traditional, but water saves calories)

In a large bowl, stir together the ingredients. If you are using butter, work it in (keep pinching it and mixing with flour), with your fingertips until mixture resembles coarse meal/is more or less uniform. Add water, and mix slowly, until the mixture resembles wet sand. You should be able to work and knead without the dough falling apart. compress it into a ball to check consistency. Now you can go 1 of two ways.

1) Pat mixture into a small saucepan (round sided for easy turning), oiled and placed over medium heat, pressing down until compact. Aim for a uniform, about 1/2 inch thickness. Now, cook 5-7 minutes (until bottom is browned to your desire…check it a spatula), and either flip and repeat the process or place under the broiler until top is browned and crispy, rotating every 30-45 seconds. Alternatively, you can use a hollowed out can of tuna or similar sized round and pack it full of dough. Cook the same way (this method is pretty cook because it makes flipping exceedingly easy), Serve and enjoy. This method allows for wedges of the harcha to be cut from the big round.

2 (the prettier option): Either shape the dough into balls and flatten them until 1/2 inch thick or roll dough out with a rolling pin, until about 1/2 inch thick. Using cookie cutters or a knife, cut dough into desired shaped/pieces. Cook on a griddle, grill or in a saucepan over medium heat, about 3-4 minutes per side until browned. Flip and repeat. Serve and enjoy. This method allows for fun, single serving harcha.

(Alternatively, for each of these methods, if you want a firmer, crispier interior [6 toast instead of 4 toast], cook harcha over low heat and increase cooking time by 3-4 minutes per side)

Alternatively, you could substitute bulgar (fine ground, mixed with 1/2 cup rough ground, whole wheat flour, ground cereal or wheat bran), for the semolina, and cook the same way, without honey or butter. Just as good, and fewer calories to boot!

Too often, I find myself in the medina around dinner time (american), crazily stalking the avenue like a rabid hyena, in search of food. It seems that no matter how much conditioning I put myself through, my stomach begins complaining soon after it gets dark. I cannot seem to get over it; I eat a king’s meal at four, yet I have a pauper’s appetite come 6:30. My home breaks the padlock on the fridge at 10:30 PM, and no sooner, so I often resort to street food. Not that it’s all bad; some of my best meals have taken place meandering from one vendor to the next, sampling a little pomegranate, then some roasted chestnuts, fresh cheese (jben) and popcorn. In fact, I can’t recall anything but sweet and savory memories out on Mo 5 (the medina mainstreet). Come to think of it, the crowning achievement of Moroccan cuisine may be none other than a street specialty–escargots soup. It may just be the crowning achievement of on-the-go food.

Now at the mention of snails, most people in the states (save for those with french blood), turn tail immediately…but hear me out. Imagine an earthy, herby broth redolent of a truffle forest, with undertones of cumin and seawater, with a complexity reminiscent of a good brandy. Add to that a novel protein with a texture and flavor similar to broiled mushrooms, and you have a harmony of heavenly chords in this simple dish…it has to be tasted to be believed. Best eaten on foot, hunched over a small bowl with the weapon of choice-a toothpick-for getting every last morsel of flavor.

You’ll find the “recipe” below.

Traditionally, this soup is seasoned primarily with marjoram. The snails, however, provide most of the flavor. Feel free to substitute mushrooms (use exotic chanterelles, oyster, shiitake, lobster, porcini or trumpet) for vegetarians (and the squeamish), or try other shellfish (though I wouldn’t recommend it). Remember, when using shellfish, be sure to wash them thoroughly and discard any that don’t close with a tap on the head. They are done as soon as they begin to open, please, for your sake, don’t overcook them.

A NOTE ON SNAILS:
You can buy cooked snails or use garden snails, but you must purify them by leaving them in a container with a mix of flour and water or mixed greens for at least 5 days before cooking. This recipe is for raw snails. If cooked, just bring the other ingredients to a boil and add snails at the end.

2-3 dozen small snails (or small mushrooms/half that if using other shellfish)
1/2 tablespoon cumin
Scant 2 liters (or about 4 quarts) of water or vegetable stock
1/4-1/2 cup minced marjoram (feel free to substitute other herbs)
~Salt
~LOTS of freshly ground black pepper
~More marjoram or other herbs to garnish

-Bring the stock and herbs to a boil. Add snails and cook 40-45 minutes. Season and serve.