The [true] story of The Apron and The Magical Hand...

People do crazy things to become famous, never forgotten or to be remembered forever.  For me, I found the answer unintentionally almost 5 years ago, on a Fall afternoon, much like today.  I remember that it was early on a Saturday evening after my daughter and I had finished running errands.  It was a fun day overall.  We always found things to laugh at, or new activities to discover.  We still do.

The sun was still shining through the patio doors and I was almost done cooking dinner. My beautiful little girl came in the kitchen just as she always did.  I have figured out that she is driven there, in spurts, partly because of the anticipation of being hungry and then because of the marvelous aromas that lure her there.  That day I realized that she is also driven by...curiosity.

To a five or six year old who grows up in an era of convenience, super-market conglomerates and a generous assortment of chain restaurants in the heart of her suburb, cooking one's own meals must hold some type of "magic" potential.  She seemed to be wondering how the food that her Mama throws in the pot comes out of it magically delicious.  This was my chance!  A chance to form yet another bond with this lovely little giggling fairy of mine with the rosy cheeks, and the long brown curls.

In an instant, the giggles and the smiles just stopped and a sad look overcame my little girl. I asked her what was wrong, what made her change so quickly.  "Mama, what if I never learn to cook like you and Nanny?", she said with her big blue eyes afraid to disappoint.

I'm a mother, who treasures her child but also never wants to set her up for failure or disappointment.  In that moment, I had to look in my heart and think carefully at the answer that I gave her.  I looked back at whether I had ever shared her concern.  The answer was, no.

In my heart I always felt that there was a passion, a love and maybe yes, magic, that all the women in my family commanded in their presence as they cooked.  The kitchen was their realm.  I had seen Mamita and my Mom cook endless meals.  There was a time that I thought everyone cooked as they did but as I got older I realized that was not necessarily the case.

The experience that confirmed this for me happened when I was 12 years old, on one of our trips to Puerto Rico.  Although I had not yet learned how to cook (yes, I was a late bloomer in that sense), I watched my great-grandmothers, Marcola & Mera (short for Esmeralda).  It was on that trip that I realized where the technique, the intensity, the creativity and the dedication that Mamita and my mom had always showed, came from these women, the elders. It was also at that moment when I realized, without a doubt, that I would one day show that same love and prowess in the kitchen.  I didn't know when, but I was sure that I would. 

That memory gave me the ability to turn to my child and give her an honest answer, from my heart.  I needed to deliver the same message to her in a way that she could understand it at 6 years old.  I knelt down in front of her, took her hand and looked into her worried eyes.

"Do you see these lines, baby?"  I asked, pointing to one of the lines on her palm.
"What lines?  No." she answered, looking more through her palm than at it.
"These lines in your palm, that go in different directions."  At that, she smiled.
"Well one of these lines is your family line"  And she responded with a look of confusion, of course.
"What I mean is that the magic that Mama has when I cook came from Nanny.  The magic that Nanny has, came from Mamita.  And the magic that Mamita had, came from Abuela Marcola, and so on, and so on.  You come from a line of strong women, passionate women.  You won't understand that yet because life has to sometimes put us through tests in order for us to remember that it's there.  Every person has been given gifts, but sometimes life helps us to rediscover them.  Like I said, you won't understand that part yet.  What I want you to know is that you come from a line of women who were dedicated to the kitchen, in their heart.  And each of those women passed that happiness that comes from cooking to their daughters.  Nanny and I are giving it to you.  One day, it will wake up inside of you and you will be just as good, if not better."

"You promise, Mama?"
"I believe this with all of my heart", I said looking into those blue diamonds glistening at me, and holding her warm little hand to my heart.

That was a long time ago.  Yet, last week, the memory came vividly flooding back to me.  I was right.  

My daughter is eleven and is growing up in a suburb of Upstate, NY.  She comes from a Puerto Rican mother and a Dominican father.  She has not yet had the opportunity to step foot on either of our islands.  And yet still, that is one very proud little Latina.  Part of this comes from having parents and family who is proud of our heritage, yes.  However, in order for that heritage to flourish inside of her and to mean something to her, it must be nourished.  I found with my daughter that the best way to do this is in the kitchen.

She is a great student and has learned so much.  I marvel in watching her as she develops her own cooking techniques, even as a newbie, a little girl.  It makes me feel that perhaps we don't just pass on DNA to our children but also memories and experiences.  Sometimes I've watched her do things that I haven't yet taught her.  Or perhaps, it may be that she watches her grandmother and I even closer than what we realize. 

Last week I came home exhausted from a long day at the office, and saw it as an opportunity to continue her cooking lessons.  My daughter insisted that she wanted me there, but that night she wanted no direction.  She wanted to make that meal on her own, from start to finish.  Proud, and not at all skeptical, I conceded.

The meal was looking fabulous and the neighbors must have been well aware that we were cooking because it smelled amazing in our kitchen.  I was helping clean up before we sat down to eat, and caught myself glancing at her with one of my famous side-way squints.  

"Hey, what's up with you wearing Mama's apron, little lady?"  I teased her.  It was odd because she has her own apron that she loves.
She put down what she was doing and turned to me.  There was a moment's pause before she looked at me and smiling said, "I'm wearing your apron because tonight I cooked just like you do, and did everything just like you do.  Tonight, I deserve to wear your apron."

You can imagine the love and the pride that swelled in my heart in that moment.  I wanted to scoop her up and give her kisses just as I've always done since she was a baby.  I held back. Instead, I nodded and gave her a big smile, because she was right.

For that night we were as equals.  My baby was wearing my apron.  Behind her, I looked at the picture of my grandmother that always keeps me company in the kitchen.  I knew she'd be smiling just like that if she were there too.  And, I remembered that my daughter's gift, is literally in the palm of her hands...


The first (top) picture is my apron, coveted by the most beautiful little girl in my world.

The second is a Polaroid picture of my grandmother, Mamita, and I on the morning of my 6th birthday.

Banjan!

So today is a special day for our Muslim brothers and sisters.  A very Happy Eid to you all!

As some of you know, I'm definitely a fusion of several cooking styles.  What you may not know is that I grew up close to an Afghani family and learned a great deal about their customs, culture and cuisine.  What I absolutely loved most about their style of cooking and eating is similar to my own.

This family was from Kandahar, in southern Afghanistan.  So the names of the dishes and ingredients I use are referred to in their language, Pashto.  Naturally their cooking encompasses their local vegetation, such as cucumbers, tomatoes, onions, cauliflower and eggplant.  There's so much more.

Cooking was an opportunity for the women in the family to come together and socialize.  They are very clean and sanitary in their techniques and only used the freshest ingredients.  Like Latin-Caribbean cuisine, their food is very flavorful and aromatic, but not spicy-hot.

The particular level of heat that an individual prefers is left up to preference.  In Kandahar, one of the sides or condiments, is always Murchak.  A small and very hot green pepper, which I believe is also used in Mexican cuisine.  Murchak  was also their nickname for my daughter because even at 2 years old, she caught your attention like a hot pepper when she wanted to be heard.

Most meals are also accompanied by a deliciously thick, homemade, yogurt called Mastieh, which is used as a condiment as well.  This is usually made the night before, by boiling whole milk, letting it sit in a pot and lastly letting it chill.

Another impressive aspect of Afghani culture was the way in which food was served, and eaten.  Once prepared, the food was served on a Starjan (star.han), which is basically a table cloth that was spread on the floor.  The family gathers around the starjan on which the main dishes are served.  We used to then serve ourselves in individual plates and eat from there.  Although, my understanding is that traditionally everyone ate out of one large serving plate.    I've seen Islamic African cultures do this the same way.

And here is the best part...  You get to eat the deliciousness with your hands!  Your right hand to be precise (there is symbolism behind why it is the right hand).  If you're not used to it, it may sound strange.  The truth is that it's a wonderful experience once you get the hang of it.  Part of what makes it easier is that you use flat bread, Dudi, to pick up the food and soak in any sauces.  Something about eating with my hands made the experience more like a ritual, than just having an ordinary meal.  And, I found it fun too!

After dinner, the family sits together to have Chai, a delicious tea.  During the afternoon and evening it's usually green tea leaves with [ground] cardamom and sugar.  Some shortbread cookies go magnificently with this tea.

In the morning you typically have Chai Shiddieh (shiddieh is Pashto for milk), which is a black tea, also infused with [ground] cardamom and steamed milk.  It's so delicious with breakfast, or with Dudi!  Still to this day, all of the teas I make are from the actual leaves and spices.  I find it soothing to grind my own cardamom, for instance. 

Among my favorite dishes, which I still make and is always a hit with my dinner guests, is Banjan.  It's delicious,  it's bursting with flavor, and so healthy too.  It's also my favorite meal to cook for when my vegetarian friends come over.  Banjan is an eggplant cooked with sauteed onions, in a tomato-based sauce.  It really is so simple to make!

                                                                            Banjan  

 The long thin eggplants are preferred for this dish, because they are sweeter, but you can use any.  

Cut the top and the bottom off each eggplant.  With a vegetable peeler, alternate cutting lines along the long side of each eggplant.  You should end up with stripes, one purple, and one white.  
Looks pretty, right? Or, as you say in Pashto, Shaistah, which means beautiful or lovely.

Now cut the eggplant in medallions. 
I love to slant the cut to give it that julienned angle.  Looks even prettier.

I like to sprinkle the eggplant with a little bit of lemon juice.  
The acid from the lemon slows that oxidation process and stops the eggplant from turning a brownish color.  I do the same with apples, potatoes and bananas, for example.

Drizzle the eggplant itself generously with olive oil, then add salt and pepper to taste.  
The salt is important because it naturally releases the moisture from fruits and vegetables and will enhance your sauce.

Heat a skillet to a medium flame, drizzle with olive oil.

Add in a purple onion, chopped or sliced to your preference.   This is where you can also add garlic.
I love garlic.  Passionately.  And although my friends did not add garlic to their Banjan, I don't miss the opportunity.  If I have sofrito, sometimes I even add that if I want to give the dish a PR flair.  If you're in a rush, you can also get away with generously sprinkling garlic powder.  Heck, this is your dish, I'm just giving you ideas, Reader.  Sprinkle away with any spices that make your mouth happy!

Sometimes if I feel a little Italian that day, I even add mushrooms to that mix!

Once the onions and other veggies become translucent, I add in the eggplant.  Let that simmer and get some color on both sides. 


Add in your pureed tomato sauce and let that simmer together on low heat. 

I like to add some wine to the mixture to add flavor to the sauce.  Islamic cooking does not use wine, so you can use water and salt accordingly to your taste.  The sauce should not be watery, but not to thick either.


Throw some flat bread in the oven.  
I love to make flatbread home made!  In Afghanistan it's called Dudi, in India Naan and in the West Indies Roti.  I just love it!  You can also make the store-bought kind, throw a couple of drops of moisture on it and throw in the oven till it's lightly golden.  


Once your Banjan is ready, you can scoop it and the delicious sauce with your Dudi!

Happy Eid!  

Until next time, Da Khudai, pah ahman....