The Falafel Revolution

I invited Kerry and Allison over for dinner the other night, and it wound up gnawing at me for quite a while after. Kerry has always been a hard one to cook for – she is mildly allergic to wheat and dairy. Among other things this means no butter and no cream, no bread and no pasta. How she stays alive, much less manage to once be a varsity tennis rockstar, is beyond me. It is kind of like an Iron Chef challenge cooking for her. I comfort myself by reasoning that working with these obstructions makes me a better cook. Sometimes this is the case, sometimes not. This past Sunday she sprang another surprise on me – when, barely eight hours before dinner, she announced that she had also turned vegan recently.

It was a good thing I hadn’t planned the meal yet, but as I wandered the aisles of Whole Foods I despaired over and over again. Was honey vegan? Could I add it to the pesto I wanted to make? I had planned on an onion and apple tart until I realised that I couldn’t use pastry dough. At least I didn’t need to stop at the meat or seafood counters – the two areas I usually spend the most time in.

As I made the meal it struck me how much my level of comfort with unfamiliar ingredients translated into more work. With onions, for example, I know how to cut them quickly and easily. I can sense how long and at what heat I need to cook them for them to caramelize beautifully – and what to do to aid in the process (periodically adding teaspoons of brown sugar after at least ten minutes of cooking; it brings out the natural sweetness in the onions). I know that thyme goes well with onions. To me they are dependable, like trusted lieutenants, for I know exactly what I get from them and how to get it. When I work with them – I don’t think, I just do.

This is not quite so for other ingredients that I seldom work with. Lentils are an example – I have to keep checking on them to make sure I do not over-boil them. What kind of lentils are the best, or what should I use for soups or to eat loose? I am still trying to work out how much I should spice them – the lentil patties that I made this time lacked a kick – perhaps more cumin the next time?

That night I made an onion soup for Kerry, as well as lentil patties and Brussels sprouts marinated in balsamic vinegar, both grilled over high heat. For the meat-eaters and lovers, I made squid, lightly sautéed with pesto and tomatoes and lots of olive oil. Everything came with a side of polenta. I had made a fist of it, but after everyone left it hurt me how I could have done better with the food, and how everyone had been too nice to say so to my face. The basil I used for the pesto, for example, was not strong enough – on hindsight I ought to have salted it more or used less pinenuts. Just about the only thing that was enjoyable was the polenta, which was probably because there was a minimum to be done there.

The story of the night was, unsurprisingly, one that revolved around food – somewhat. I had been on a train coming back to DC recently, when I had sat next to a young lady who had had a sweatshirt on that said FAIRFIELD, in large block ivy-print letters. I can only suppose she went to school there. But as I sat down and glanced over at her, the way her sweatshirt folded about made me think that it said FALAFEL, and I burst into quite uncontrollable laughter. It was a good thing that the lady had a sense of humour, and I had just about enough charm to convince her that I wasn’t staring at her chest and laughing. When I finally calmed down I texted Margaret, and we agreed that we both had to now somehow procure sweatshirts that did say FALAFEL on them. This is now a work in progress.

The company was delightful and that saved the evening, but I got to thinking about all the foods I just had no experience in working with. Winter is beginning to turn into spring here, and I am looking forward to working with spring foods. Beets and figs are next up on my list, and with enough luck and a whole lot of practice, I may be able to call myself a halfway decent cook.