And now, back by popular demand, Bum Cuisine, Instalment Deux.
What to do when life gives you yams? Make yam fries.
-Anonymous
A few mornings ago I woke up feeling like shit. Recent visitors had left me not only with some honey and coasters and other things from Syria, but with a nasty cold, and I was camped down in the immunological trenches. I went to the refrigerator feeling hungry. When I saw what was inside, hunger gave way to hunger laced with dismay, which is worse than plain old hunger. All I saw inside were milk, carrots, a few eggs, and a boomerang-shaped yam. I proceeded to the window to contemplate the morning and my options. The day seemed welcoming enough, and the slush and snow left by the recent storm seemed to have evanesced off the steps enough to enable a safe descent. I thought about going down to the store on the road for bread and maybe some oranges. But then I caught sight of a pair of gypsy ragpickers out on a trawl through my hillside neighborhood. I withdrew behind my apartment's purdah to observe them through a crack. They were two women, neither of whom could have been older than 30. But grime and grease and the rags they wore had grizzled them to an indeterminate age that might best be described as 'adult.' One of them carried a baby strapped against her back with a shawl, as African women do. They did not appear to have found much of value on their trawl so far, and I did not want to go out and signal an invitation to beg with my clean clothes and blond hair. No, I could not possibly go down the hill while the ragpickers were working it. Returning to the refrigerator, I decided to convert obstacle to inspiration using the alchemy that has only one name: Bum Cuisine. I would make a yam omelette with a side of yam fries, a la gypsie.
I think the recipe here goes without saying, but I'll set it down anyway, pro forma.
Ingredients:
1 yam
Frying oil
2 eggs
Some of the ultrapasteurized Turkish milk that keeps for a year at room temperature (unopened)
Salt
Preparation time:
20 minutes
Instructions:
1. Wash the yam, then peel
2. Cut the yam in two, then section into strips, as you would for french fries
3. Heat 1 cup of vegetable oil (my brand features a sunflower, but the label translates as 'moon-flower') nearly to smoking
4. As the oil heats, peel and dice a few cloves of garlic
5. Shovel the yam strips into the frying medium, using a spatula to keep the pieces from sticking to one another
6. Two minutes into the frying sequence, remove a few of the fries to be, transferring them to a pan for integration into the omelette to be
7. As the yams continue to fry, sautee the yam strips and the garlic
8. Once the garlic has browned, remove the sautee substrate
9. Whisk two eggs together with a dash of milk in a bowl
10. Add the sautee substrate, pour into pan, and cook over low heat
11. Once the yam fries are adequately brown, remove from oil and salt
12. With a little luck (or practice), the fries and the omelette should be ready at around the same time
Enjoy!
Note: Once the yam fries are done, you can fry the yam peels for a tasty (and above all cheap) afternoon snack!
Friday, February 22, 2008
The Nyika Plateau
Back in June, when I was loitering in Ndola (Zambia), I got myself invited to a braii being put on by some of Arthur's friends. If I am not mistaken, the owner of the house was also named Markus, albeit 'Marcus.' It was after this carnivorous occasion that my friends and I were shepherded to the local precinct by machinegun-toting officers for being foolish enough to prowl the streets as defenseless wzungu after 11 at night, and then witnessed a bit of violence as the police allowed the victim of a screwdriver attack to avenge himself on his assailant--which you may recall reading about in this space at the time. I recall writing about the mood of that night at some length: Sheets of smoke wreathing the air, a pack of lean dogs lying in wait for us at the crossroads, an otherworldly gibbous moon like a orange skull leering at us through the smog.
There was something else of interest that happened that night that I did not write about at the time, and which only began to register much later. At some point during the braii I followed Arthur into the kitchen. I talked to him and Katie (whom he was making embarrassingly clumsy efforts to hit on), then to Arthur's wife, then to a little Indian fellow in a tracksuit called Dynamite, who liked to race cars. All the while people were piling into the kitchen for dibs on the appetizers being turned out by the women. The crowd eventually wedged me between the stove and the kitchen table, where I fell into conversation with a colored guy (this means 'mixed-race' in southern Africa) whose name may or may not have been Marvin. I don't remember what Marvin did, he was probably involved with mines or transport in keeping with most of the men in attendance. I do remember telling him about my novel set down in an African copper mine (Down in a Deep Dark Hole, we'll call it) and being nonplussed by his reaction. That does not sound like a good kind of novel, he said. A mine, eksay? That is no place for a novel.
So where was a good place for a novel then? Marvin's eyes glazed over with reverence as he told me: The Nyika Pleateau. The Nyika is a stunning region in neighboring Malawi with vegetation like you might find on a Scottish heath and elevations approaching 9,000 feet. This is what you should write, Marvin began, tippling for inspiration: The novel begins with your character looking out from atop the Nyika. He surveys the plains below as he might survey his life. Down there among the people and heat, he sees the scene of his failure, of the successive losses that make up his life. He is all alone on top of the plateau (the Nyika is almost unpopulated, and they say that the villages at the foot of it live in terror of it). He is stuck, he cannot descend. His life now is empty and cold, and he is doomed forever to contemplate what was by looking out over the plain furling out below...
Time and inexact recollection have forced me to embellish what Marvin said, but that was the gist of it. At the time I was eager to dismiss his vision, but that same intercession of time has made it seem compelling. It is a nice frame, don't you think? A few months after my conversation with Marvin I read a powerful book by Laurens van der Post about the Nyika and came away with the impression that it was replete (as of the time of writing in the 1950's at least) with the kind of magic that whites go poking about for in Africa. It is at the top of my list when I make my return.
There was something else of interest that happened that night that I did not write about at the time, and which only began to register much later. At some point during the braii I followed Arthur into the kitchen. I talked to him and Katie (whom he was making embarrassingly clumsy efforts to hit on), then to Arthur's wife, then to a little Indian fellow in a tracksuit called Dynamite, who liked to race cars. All the while people were piling into the kitchen for dibs on the appetizers being turned out by the women. The crowd eventually wedged me between the stove and the kitchen table, where I fell into conversation with a colored guy (this means 'mixed-race' in southern Africa) whose name may or may not have been Marvin. I don't remember what Marvin did, he was probably involved with mines or transport in keeping with most of the men in attendance. I do remember telling him about my novel set down in an African copper mine (Down in a Deep Dark Hole, we'll call it) and being nonplussed by his reaction. That does not sound like a good kind of novel, he said. A mine, eksay? That is no place for a novel.
So where was a good place for a novel then? Marvin's eyes glazed over with reverence as he told me: The Nyika Pleateau. The Nyika is a stunning region in neighboring Malawi with vegetation like you might find on a Scottish heath and elevations approaching 9,000 feet. This is what you should write, Marvin began, tippling for inspiration: The novel begins with your character looking out from atop the Nyika. He surveys the plains below as he might survey his life. Down there among the people and heat, he sees the scene of his failure, of the successive losses that make up his life. He is all alone on top of the plateau (the Nyika is almost unpopulated, and they say that the villages at the foot of it live in terror of it). He is stuck, he cannot descend. His life now is empty and cold, and he is doomed forever to contemplate what was by looking out over the plain furling out below...
Time and inexact recollection have forced me to embellish what Marvin said, but that was the gist of it. At the time I was eager to dismiss his vision, but that same intercession of time has made it seem compelling. It is a nice frame, don't you think? A few months after my conversation with Marvin I read a powerful book by Laurens van der Post about the Nyika and came away with the impression that it was replete (as of the time of writing in the 1950's at least) with the kind of magic that whites go poking about for in Africa. It is at the top of my list when I make my return.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Bum Cuisine
I have thought recently about making my own modest addition to the literature of the cookery. "A Bum's Cuisine," I would call it: "Impecuneous Inspirations." Actually it's not that I'm all that poor--I just need to economize on sustenance to offset losses incurred elsewhere. I also get very bound to my apartment on occasion, and will refuse to go out to buy the staples that would go a long way toward making my next meal more tolerable. But the reading public need not be indulged with such piddling justifications: I would exploit the hell out of my perceived poverty as a sales gimmick, and the book would move off the shelves like rationed bread.
The important thing for the purposes of the project is that I have been cooking as if I were poor. Let me thrill you with a sample entry as an amuse-gueule:
Crapfish delite
On some afternoons, I can be found haunting the Bosporus shore, fishing rod in hand. My line has multiple hooks for multiple fish. A good cast will result in five or six wriggling silvery forms pulled from the water. I wrest these from their hooks, dump them in a jug of water, and continue fishing. The fish are exceedingly small, about the size of a thumb. Perhaps they are anchovies. I have no idea. At any rate they stream through the Bosphorus in their millions, and are almost entirely without taste. Crapfish. It usually takes an afternoon to fill the jug with enough fish for a meal, about a pound's worth. Once this is accomplished, I trudge up my hill and begin work on the evening meal.
First you must gut the fish and remove their heads. Because they are so small, it requires an expert touch to avoid pulling the fish apart and wasting precious protein. The guts and heads can be given to the neighborhood cats, who, like you, lack the means to purchase a better meal. Next heat vegetable oil to sizzling in a pan. Feel free to reuse the oil you used to prepare the morning's mineral fries. The oil is ready when it is just beginning to smoke. Now dump the gutted fish into the oil and add a spoonful of salt. Fry for five minutes, or until the fish have turned into a uniform gray mass. Adding mayonnaise and parsley flakes, mix the fried fish into a mash. Use the mash to form patties, then bread them. The patties can then be fried a pleasant shade of golden brown in the same oil, and then either eaten whole or tucked into mustard-slathered buns.
Note that if you do not have an entire afternoon to devote to fishing, it is always possible to purchase an entire kilogram of such fish from one of the local Balikcilar for about 85 cents. Because of its high protein and fat content, this dish can be regarded as an end-of-week treat, and will be a more than welcome departure from the lentil soup variations you have been slurping up all week.
Bon appetit!
I have actually made the above dish, and several others along the same lines. The next creation that I plan to feature is: When you're down to almost nothing: Yogurt Noodle Soup.
The important thing for the purposes of the project is that I have been cooking as if I were poor. Let me thrill you with a sample entry as an amuse-gueule:
Crapfish delite
On some afternoons, I can be found haunting the Bosporus shore, fishing rod in hand. My line has multiple hooks for multiple fish. A good cast will result in five or six wriggling silvery forms pulled from the water. I wrest these from their hooks, dump them in a jug of water, and continue fishing. The fish are exceedingly small, about the size of a thumb. Perhaps they are anchovies. I have no idea. At any rate they stream through the Bosphorus in their millions, and are almost entirely without taste. Crapfish. It usually takes an afternoon to fill the jug with enough fish for a meal, about a pound's worth. Once this is accomplished, I trudge up my hill and begin work on the evening meal.
First you must gut the fish and remove their heads. Because they are so small, it requires an expert touch to avoid pulling the fish apart and wasting precious protein. The guts and heads can be given to the neighborhood cats, who, like you, lack the means to purchase a better meal. Next heat vegetable oil to sizzling in a pan. Feel free to reuse the oil you used to prepare the morning's mineral fries. The oil is ready when it is just beginning to smoke. Now dump the gutted fish into the oil and add a spoonful of salt. Fry for five minutes, or until the fish have turned into a uniform gray mass. Adding mayonnaise and parsley flakes, mix the fried fish into a mash. Use the mash to form patties, then bread them. The patties can then be fried a pleasant shade of golden brown in the same oil, and then either eaten whole or tucked into mustard-slathered buns.
Note that if you do not have an entire afternoon to devote to fishing, it is always possible to purchase an entire kilogram of such fish from one of the local Balikcilar for about 85 cents. Because of its high protein and fat content, this dish can be regarded as an end-of-week treat, and will be a more than welcome departure from the lentil soup variations you have been slurping up all week.
Bon appetit!
I have actually made the above dish, and several others along the same lines. The next creation that I plan to feature is: When you're down to almost nothing: Yogurt Noodle Soup.
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