I promise that this blog isn’t going to turn into a chronicle of memories about dates I had from men around the world. Really, really it won’t. Really, really, I hope it won’t.

That said, when I was poking around online looking for information about Algeria, particularly Algerian food, when I saw some surnames that looked familiar to me. I read those names, tossed them around in my mind for awhile and unearthed a memory of, wait for it, a man from Algeria with whom I went on a couple of dates.

I remember that he told me that he spoke four languages, English, French, Arabic, and Berber.  I also remember that he was a bit aggressive for my tastes. Upon hearing that this guy was going to take a trip home to Algeria, I idly hoped that he would forget all about me and never call again. Imagine my discomfort when, indeed, he did call. From Algeria. Asking what I would like him to bring back for me. I was sitting on a bus when I had this conversation, wanting to be anywhere else and wanting to do anything else. I later saw him at the gym using a treadmill. He did not wipe down the machine when he left. I shook my head thinking, how could I have gone on more than one date with a man who doesn’t spray and wipe the treadmill after using it? Ugh.

None of this really has to do with Algerian food, except it might explain why outside of this project I would have never, ever sought out an Algerian food experience. Due to these, now insignificant, incidents, I had sort of blocked a whole country out of my mind. Can we say unreasonable? But sometimes, that is the way of things.

A bit of research taught Algerian cuisine shows traces of French influence. This totally makes sense, as Algeria was a French colony until 1962.  Most of the country are Muslims, which means that the cuisine is going to reflect any dietary restrictions that are associated with that faith. Algerians tend to have three meals a day and most meals end with coffee.

Couscous is something that I associate with North African food. I’ve read that couscous is Algeria’s national dish. It seems that it, then, is perfect for this Algerian food experience. Bourek also caught my attention, now that I am not afraid of filo dough. I think that the only contexts in which I have eaten filo has been as a baklava type dessert, or a spanakopita type savory dish. I consider the Albanian Vegetable Pie to fall into this category. The idea of combining filo and the meat was intriguing. That the birthday goal that I am focusing on right now is the goal to try 52 new-to-me salads, made me look specifically for an Algerian salad to try. Finally, I chose a dessert, basboussa.

It turns out that this meal turned out to be quite enjoyable. Of particular note is the flavor combination in the bourek. I forget sometimes that cinnamon can have savory applications and be quite good that way. I surprised myself by liking the semolina cake. Normally, with the exception of Chick-o-Sticks, I do not like anything that has dry shredded coconut on it. There is something about that texture that reminds me of chapped lips. Here, though, the coconut didn’t have that texture at all. Speaking of textures, today I actually achieved a couscous texture that isn’t disgusting. Unlike with the coconut, I don’t blame the couscous at all. Usually things go bad when I get my hands on the couscous.

Despite weird memories the Algerian food brought up, I’d call this one an success. I might even repeat these recipes, which isn’t something I do often.

If you had asked me, say, when I was in high school whether I would ever have a connection to Albania, I would have answered confidently that I wouldn’t. Ahh high school,  the age of misguided confidence.

It turned out that through some friends of a friend, that I would meet an Albanian guy with whom I went on a few dates. Now, it is a long time ago, and my memories of this brief time have mostly evaporated, but it is the first thing that I think about when I think about Albania. All that I remember is that this guy carried a noticeable amount of cash, he painted water towers for a living, he was a Catholic, and he got really upset with me when I made alternative plans when he never firmed up tentative ones with me. That, and  I liked the way that he said Albania.

Had I been as interested in food then as I am now, it is likely that I would have attempted to cook an Albanian meal for him, not understanding that I would have been aiming, in a way, to understand where he came from. Less experienced in the kitchen, I wouldn’t have done a great job. Awkwardness would have ensued, which is ultimately what happened anyway.

When I looked into Albanian food, I read that there is little food culture associated with Albania. Yet, I read that “Albanian cuisine reflects a mixture of influences from the Turkish, Balkan, and European cuisine.” There were particular dishes that came up a few times on all of the websites I consulted. I decided to make stuffed eggplant,  a vegetable pie, and chicken with walnut sauce.

My beau fully endorsed this food with a, “You can make any of that any time!”

I think that one of the things that I am learning from these cooking adventures is different ways to approach ingredients. Through this experiment, I cooked some things that I would have never before made, and slayed my irrational fear of working with filo dough. It is likely that I will make spinach pie in the future. Maybe I’ll make the eggplant again sometime, too. I probably won’t make the chicken, but will remember the sauce. I bet one could make something similar using pistachios.

Overall, I would call Albanian Adventures a success.

Last week was the kind of week that makes it difficult to maintain an otherwise sunny disposition.

There were other factors involved, but the main one involves my car.

My poor car; she’s been through so much.

On Monday, I started her up and got ready to go through the morning routine. I pulled onto the express way and before she had gone two miles, I saw the speedometer stop talking to me. I looked at the gas gauge and saw a lifeless needle. I was still traveling at about 65 miles per hour when the windshield wipers stopped. This is the part where I started to sweat a little, and pulled over to the nearest shoulder. My car started to lurch a bit, but I made it over there.

I called AAA, got my car towed, was thankful that the driver was nice and even drove Alex and me home. Then I waited to hear from the shop where I take my car. Long story short, I was without my trusty ride until Thursday afternoon.

This is where my guy stepped in. For three days he drove Alex to school and then dropped me off at work, adding more than a few miles and more than a few minutes to his morning. He picked us up too and got us home. I can’t tell you how much I appreciated that. I tried to tell him how much I appreciated that, but don’t know that I really communicated it successfully.

So, this weekend, I wanted to make him something special. I know that he likes raspberries and chocolate, so I decided to make Raspberry Cream-Filled Puffs with Dark Chocolate Sauce. Before you get all impressed, I didn’t make this up. It is a variation of Joy the Baker’s Strawberry Cream Puffs with Milk Chocolate Sauce. I just made a few little tweaks to her recipe, substituting freeze dried raspberries for the strawberries that she uses. I bought one bag of the raspberries; it didn’t yield quite as much berry as the recipe wanted. I also substituted dark chocolate for milk chocolate because that’s what my guy likes.

These were delicious, but not quite as sweet as he was to me last week.

Recently, I said to my guy that I think that it would be cool to go through list of countries and cook food from each of these countries, in alphabetical order. He did not look at me like I am from a different planet. I love that man.

Anyway, it seemed to me like this might be a way to indulge a few things that make me happy like cooking, trying new things, and doing a little research. This isn’t the kind of project I think will happen in a year, but a more long-term thing.

Part of the point of this exercise is to think about what comes to mind when I think of different places in the world. I’ve never, clearly, been to Afghanistan, nor have I wanted to go, nor have I had any particular interest in the place, but thinking about trying to cook some Afghan food made me realize that, yes, there are things that come up when I open my mental Afghanistan file.

Of course, the war in Afghanistan comes to mind. Taliban is probably the second word that just pops up in my mind. The Kite Runner is right up there. Then I think I’m done until I remember that there is a group called the  Afghan Whigs. There is the famous National Geographic photo of a young afghan girl taken in Pakistan. And finally, I think about an article I read somewhat recently about opium, again, from National Geographic.

There is something about this, that both of the pair of things that I read come from National Geographic that stands out here. I don’t know just what I feel about it.  Maybe it’s just that there’s something about National Geographic that feels intrusively voyeuristic to me. How is it, though, that we are to learn about the world that is outside of our own? Here, I have decided to try to learn something about the world through cooking food that originates or is inspired by places around the globe.

Of the first things I needed to learn was the proper way to refer to food from this region. How humbling it is to start a project confronted with the knowledge that I didn’t know the answer to the afghan v. afghani question. So, I looked it up. Then I learned that the answer is afghan.

As a part of Project Afghanistan, I decided to make Chicken Kabuli Pulao, Potato Slices with Chutney, and for dessert Cardamom Pistachio Fudge.

Naturally, when trying this food, I was reduced to comparing this to food with which I was already familiar.  I was reminded of a Pakistani biryani, I recently made when I made the main dish. The other thing that I noticed right away was that linguistically, the word pulao reminded me of the word pelau. I am familiar with pelau as a West Indian rice dish. I decided to investigate further, reaching for my handy The New Food Lover’s Companion after I found a pretty bare bones Wikipedia  article on the topic. However, the food companion didn’t lead me to a straight answer. Then I found this, and concluded that pilaf, pelau, pilau, pulau, etc. are all cousins.

This food was simultaneous like and  unlike other foods I’m familiar with. I was reminded of Indian food, but have eaten nothing that tastes exactly like this in an Indian restaurant except the chutney that went with the potatoes. That very much reminded me of the chutneys  I can’t get enough of when I go to eat Indian food. Then I think to myself that I should make some, then I never do. Projects make you grow, people!

Finally, there was the fudge. I am not sure that I executed this recipe properly. My fudge appeared to set up nicely, however, it was very messy when I tried to cut it into squares. This triggered a food memory as well. It made me think of the pecan candy that my Louisiana grandma  (well, both of them are Louisiana grandmas…) used to make. I think that it is the combination of the sugar and nuts that made me think of her pralines. That was an interesting experience, making food from an unfamiliar part of the world to ultimately finish it reminded of my own grandma.

Trying new things can be funny like that.

I look forward to seeing what Albania has to teach me.

I like to look at clouds, and take pictures of them. I am actually collecting some pictures of them hoping to make a larger project out of them. But until that day comes, I’ll have to settle for playing around with them in Photoshop.

It is not perfect, but I like it.

I saw many things like this lost fire extinguisher. There are so many sad stories tha could be associated with such a forsaken object, that I refused to let my mind linger on any of them.

It was so weird to be able to get this picture with no people in it that I couldn’t resist the shot.

These flowers looked so hopeful, so much the embodiment of spring that I had to take a picture of them.

This graffiti was so weird to me, that I had to take a picture. There’s something so odd about the combination of that headpiece, those chubby legs, and those shoes that I find unnerving, yet interesting.

This is the kind of place where I could imagine little beings setting up home. I know, I know, they’re called insects, but I was thinking of gnomes or fairies.

I like to take pictures of sausage. This is not a euphemism. This has to do with Goal 25.

This cracked me up. The word regard, or more accurately “regards” makes me laugh to myself these days. Once, someone who I had once been close to signed an email “Best Regards.” At the time, that was so hurtful to me. But things change, and it makes me laugh, and “Best Regards” is now what I have named him. (I have a name for mostly everybody.) So to see the word regard on a fence stopped me in my tracks. She was in the middle of putting up “play regardless” which tickles me as well.

Visually interesting. Viscerally disgusting.

And this Christmas bow. Which might, in fact, be a birthday bow, or a just-because bow seemed simultaneously festive and pathetic. It is not alone.

The end.

]]> http://sherlonya.net/blog/archives/1674/feed 0 http://sherlonya.net/blog/archives/1636 http://sherlonya.net/blog/archives/1636#comments Sun, 11 Mar 2012 15:50:54 +0000 admin http://sherlonya.net/blog/?p=1636  

It started off so normal, this popcorn thing: me, an air popper and some kernels.

I had seen a recipe for Kool-Aid flavored popcorn several years ago. We’re talking pre-motherhood here, and had been meaning to make it.

The thing is that most of the things that I mentally tagged back then are not things that I would tag now. Nevertheless, I asked Alex whether he wanted to make fruity popcorn and the stage was set.

It was set alright, for an experience.

Exhibit A: This would be my nonstick pot full of goop, aka sugar and corn syrup.

Exhibit B: This would be what happened when fruit punch Kool-Aid was added to the mix.

Exhibit C: The finished product.

This was disgusting, according to the mom-mouth.

However, to the boy-mouth, this was bliss. A carnival? He loves this and keeps stealing off to the kitchen to grab a handful here and and there. This alone makes me glad that I made it. It’s not just crunchy nastiness, it’s a memory.

I think that I read my first article about the macaron between 2 and 3 years ago.

It met all of the criteria for something I would want to make. They’re cute. They can be colorful and they’re sweet.

But life happens and I hadn’t done anything about the notion that I would make these one day.

More recently, I bought some blanched slivered almonds and powdered sugar, sure that I would make the macaron dream a reality. And I did.

I read a bunch of recipes online and even perused my delicious links, something that I sometimes use heavily and other times forget that I have available, then I decided on flavors.

My ambitious self thought that she would make chocolate, vanilla and lemon. In this fantasy, the fillings would be a variety of things: ganache, lemon curd and some sort of raspberry spread.

This did not happen. I tried my hand at chocolate first.

I failed, but think that this failure is largely because I managed to skip what I now believe is an important part of  instruction. This would be the part that says that you need to mix the dry ingredients into the egg mixture in smaller batches.

If at first you don’t succeed, right?

So, I tried again and had better results. It was a good experience and I look forward to experimenting with more flavors.