tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51818741821440162912024-03-05T03:26:59.576-08:00the unknown animalmaysiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08528055501631136844noreply@blogger.comBlogger17125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5181874182144016291.post-2112919810796961352011-06-02T07:24:00.000-07:002011-06-02T07:44:38.281-07:00Forage/Love<div>Our garden is full of arugula, beans, peas, fennel, nasturtiums, and on and on! But while I pluck weeds from alongside our rows I find myself always looking for a wild thing. </div><div><br /></div><div>Purslane, a little known, humble succulent, grows all over Michigan. It is tender, chewy, tart, and perfect in summer salads and soups. Purslane especially loves corn fields and wide open spaces, but, if I'm lucky, one or two purslane plants will creep up next to my arugula. If not, I'll be forced to find an obliging cornfield. </div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieD1eyumV48WhueFInLri-0ROJeckNinALpG7GcYsOT7ApEFOrkPHTpg45f5fBA4qCP5Y0DuOpvlBrtOHuybIItuzR8mFstdgh5v0ACiqOrFowx3gGG4Amy71bIYGP1j80e4TfAVhv32k/s1600/purslane.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieD1eyumV48WhueFInLri-0ROJeckNinALpG7GcYsOT7ApEFOrkPHTpg45f5fBA4qCP5Y0DuOpvlBrtOHuybIItuzR8mFstdgh5v0ACiqOrFowx3gGG4Amy71bIYGP1j80e4TfAVhv32k/s400/purslane.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5613629326950861634" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></span></div>maysiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08528055501631136844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5181874182144016291.post-40900724482390041342011-05-26T10:27:00.000-07:002011-05-26T10:37:41.767-07:00The Doctor<div>I am, slowly but surely, translating a culinary anthropology of Tunisian food uses in the 1930's. The book was commissioned by the Ministere de Culture et la Patrimonie, and Dr. Ernest Gustave Gobert spent years interviewing friends in the city, rural villages, and nomadic communities to compile an anthology of Tunisian food uses and rites. Gobert was a french Doctor who was passionate about nutrition and food. He lived in Tunisia for more than fifty years, writing, doctoring, and taking photographs:</div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW-pJC7zcLZnuBdm4vBE-y2JzQwLR06w4oVKfy3i32ZjYiHLRRxhFb7p5bm8-cSZtiqpt9dw4quZH2l9AHLy1tF4zMnEBSFaWEnY-N_0oNO6UOPlbY4q9lpb7O8YntyV2EbMPcQIeT6Mg/s1600/djerba_potter.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 325px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW-pJC7zcLZnuBdm4vBE-y2JzQwLR06w4oVKfy3i32ZjYiHLRRxhFb7p5bm8-cSZtiqpt9dw4quZH2l9AHLy1tF4zMnEBSFaWEnY-N_0oNO6UOPlbY4q9lpb7O8YntyV2EbMPcQIeT6Mg/s400/djerba_potter.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5611079539672124834" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A potter in Djerba</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVIWAd10kTlH0OmV1s4mVcaTy8Y-oTmo4FFPMp1lyKFWuVH-Shy3yvgN3oDW9lxo-ZsGEJCmz8idR4q0W1rI_JLrCD9TsmymcbfOiN151U4_V93_kaDFuV2DC41i4shqdgKPNmZTJoUqA/s1600/2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 376px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVIWAd10kTlH0OmV1s4mVcaTy8Y-oTmo4FFPMp1lyKFWuVH-Shy3yvgN3oDW9lxo-ZsGEJCmz8idR4q0W1rI_JLrCD9TsmymcbfOiN151U4_V93_kaDFuV2DC41i4shqdgKPNmZTJoUqA/s400/2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5611079531770895234" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Habib Bourgiba, the first president of Tunisia</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfhqY4EWG6hI7OxI_be2-ECJGkzeADMmIoRotqHpbZOX3s9evF1gc92F6xlLskg96iJVEG5nBhWZCChZJYUW9aQfNOR4w_FmRogHa7qnQB_oCAZlYzLgKxwqsUgFzwRNPXK4AHH24xQ_I/s1600/EG++3-8.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfhqY4EWG6hI7OxI_be2-ECJGkzeADMmIoRotqHpbZOX3s9evF1gc92F6xlLskg96iJVEG5nBhWZCChZJYUW9aQfNOR4w_FmRogHa7qnQB_oCAZlYzLgKxwqsUgFzwRNPXK4AHH24xQ_I/s400/EG++3-8.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5611079525773523346" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Making couscous</span></div><div><br /></div>maysiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08528055501631136844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5181874182144016291.post-52949375703304883012011-03-01T19:44:00.000-08:002011-03-02T14:38:49.763-08:00Clean like the february snow.<div>When everything starts to melt, and the street corners get a bit dirty, I crave tart, slightly grimy, sheepy cheeses. This is Labna, a skimmed sheep's yogurt cheese that has migrated from the Arabian Penninsula to North Africa.</div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCdjj4gD-MOriTiPoIBn5pCdwiA7UxvHGziv5D5IJP5vnlnjCJBusT9XFsIYHaIYaIYoEw8Vt0zheuioypM7533yHvL1GPiHxKyoheS53qHfaySrPo40qcyn6nFOxVD9EEvrd2j8jOtn0/s1600/cheese1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCdjj4gD-MOriTiPoIBn5pCdwiA7UxvHGziv5D5IJP5vnlnjCJBusT9XFsIYHaIYaIYoEw8Vt0zheuioypM7533yHvL1GPiHxKyoheS53qHfaySrPo40qcyn6nFOxVD9EEvrd2j8jOtn0/s400/cheese1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5579483205880130226" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Line a sieve with cheesecloth.</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp4LwAUAOko-nSDXpP1Q6kVoKUv8W6VdGTl_8pjGmi3ETgplGZtJaizOHhUvee84kNbexOXdcKMLoefmtxiUAq11Muf8z0KZGYFj8L5PRquuMFWx9rALnj61y4frm41VLBS0rS5oCkkb4/s1600/cheese+2.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp4LwAUAOko-nSDXpP1Q6kVoKUv8W6VdGTl_8pjGmi3ETgplGZtJaizOHhUvee84kNbexOXdcKMLoefmtxiUAq11Muf8z0KZGYFj8L5PRquuMFWx9rALnj61y4frm41VLBS0rS5oCkkb4/s400/cheese+2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5579483201638514834" /></a></div><div><div style="text-align: center;">Pour in full fat sheep's milk yogurt.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsSa59A_CcMP4BJGLKAni5lzz02OQQJ7txJDOL3j_lpAwOipMcte7OmShGvYOsYlmpiMpTWDzPyQavYjwMEOUOjjTVu8Oh5SR_37aJ291eLJd1Je0Js-my6b3Kr8ZbmexvAz2trZoPqCA/s1600/cheese+3.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsSa59A_CcMP4BJGLKAni5lzz02OQQJ7txJDOL3j_lpAwOipMcte7OmShGvYOsYlmpiMpTWDzPyQavYjwMEOUOjjTVu8Oh5SR_37aJ291eLJd1Je0Js-my6b3Kr8ZbmexvAz2trZoPqCA/s400/cheese+3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5579483200238978194" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Twist the cheesecloth into a firm ball and tie with string </div><div style="text-align: center;">(I could find only this classy red ribbon).</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT1dwXV3-Bkt_VRNTqru-V7EfTok1uPPF4XARxpAI8Ku10-guWVO93pFKSsTOfF6ymUr4ovwRtX8ve0hP396tQ354DnTJ-xWCT2SaaxtjJtD90Ubjcedl7_oY4zztSCxSSz3JyJtDNlaM/s1600/cheese+4.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT1dwXV3-Bkt_VRNTqru-V7EfTok1uPPF4XARxpAI8Ku10-guWVO93pFKSsTOfF6ymUr4ovwRtX8ve0hP396tQ354DnTJ-xWCT2SaaxtjJtD90Ubjcedl7_oY4zztSCxSSz3JyJtDNlaM/s400/cheese+4.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5579483198231514194" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Suspend the yogurt in a receptacle a few inches from the bottom</div><div style="text-align: center;">(I could find only this flower vase, so fancy!).</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5xZxIugaPMEXGPQkvTQqOXnB-yNov9_WdEa6AK3w530V2fM2QwwTFsS9YJM6mGFB7ItZea5QVPnXUCPnS6KF-YGpYvOvZRom_9w9Dk2pFWNQC4u0QYY8PLsY_HFa5SBlwJMm87dMz6ik/s1600/cheese+5.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5xZxIugaPMEXGPQkvTQqOXnB-yNov9_WdEa6AK3w530V2fM2QwwTFsS9YJM6mGFB7ItZea5QVPnXUCPnS6KF-YGpYvOvZRom_9w9Dk2pFWNQC4u0QYY8PLsY_HFa5SBlwJMm87dMz6ik/s400/cheese+5.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5579483192821100994" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Let the labna drain until it reaches the desired consistancy. Overnight will give you a labna that is soft and great for pairing with honey, three days will give you a firmer farm style labna that can be brined in whey and salt and eaten with olives, preserved lemon, tuna!</div></div>maysiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08528055501631136844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5181874182144016291.post-88057092438716568752011-03-01T19:42:00.000-08:002011-03-01T21:32:01.978-08:00pardon me, have you seen these colors?When last this rind was seen, we had juiced the fruits and the fate of the peel was uncertain. The rind was still full of flavor, some juice, and delicious pulpy bits. We decided to make citrus syrups for cocktails and spritzers. One pound sugar, one pound water, and 83 g. citrus rind became three beautiful syrups. Next up, marmalade! Or is it candied peel?! Who that say to waste this rind? No way. No how.<div><br /><div><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis9tji05Cb7bcYdgF1-1nG39Ot6mdmo2NTWSGXikTCyg9qtO-7NEmD4xqRQeEeMf9CaDu8_2lfQ4hKoG5Tec483MLTtpPSXTkANPcgKDVS_gDTbg8hC-EXmkQTdwEobsxMNQM14KBV6Z0/s320/syrups+1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5579323367023462050" /><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXkyjI9cfvq-2i612-ryNXPdghzHnKZlXKhRNgD44VK5Q1px0kYOtP-fXsy1gLR71S3y60TbYAbKlEq9TfG88DrMJ4N1i0Ow95_CDxpDWFq5Nvs9ELxRLqYdspSy8pQJ3VYAWBUQVoduU/s320/syrup+2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5579323365707722850" /><br /><div><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8OztLhRTq6HQUj6b3xZ0yQRleM4dLGR10S9bBUkQSsCIXVm1T38DdQ545bwI3cXTwkKX2JyeQ3upnUnZK4Dw0U11f4Arr2unT-VvnD6rqPS8ZsZGuACaRYnNapayfNAPCO0AjoOX4Wbc/s320/syrup+4.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5579323375413108178" /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsqC6cql42DUXathJpMEN1xfc3LFiqvFtuUwgUqjQ0UdXmQXl7fIcwrT4sm8ht3i3A-ZC1ghgpxoy4UxCf-u8lHgaXiQYUy8KPToD9D4BWImyGzBm8psHQSubbH5UIBzd5ghyphenhyphen7XLZ3nlU/s1600/syrup+6.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsqC6cql42DUXathJpMEN1xfc3LFiqvFtuUwgUqjQ0UdXmQXl7fIcwrT4sm8ht3i3A-ZC1ghgpxoy4UxCf-u8lHgaXiQYUy8KPToD9D4BWImyGzBm8psHQSubbH5UIBzd5ghyphenhyphen7XLZ3nlU/s320/syrup+6.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5579323382487497874" /></a><br /><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div></div></div>maysiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08528055501631136844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5181874182144016291.post-3417709053480622592011-03-01T19:33:00.000-08:002011-03-01T21:06:46.232-08:00Citrus Laboratory<div style="text-align: center;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig5e_H3E6MPNFGm3TrUnjVTkYpknGZ5UyFQZbfSTQfWs0KcoM-h2X89cqqixwsDbbRj6w_MukAWrRqx8ZHMEu0irs0CgTdmM40f-9uSqFnQYZghOz3VDEdvbEB1AejwT0xG6hfBJo5sHQ/s400/183627_10150427370665354_609900353_17502198_7470007_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5579342617675965474" /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig5e_H3E6MPNFGm3TrUnjVTkYpknGZ5UyFQZbfSTQfWs0KcoM-h2X89cqqixwsDbbRj6w_MukAWrRqx8ZHMEu0irs0CgTdmM40f-9uSqFnQYZghOz3VDEdvbEB1AejwT0xG6hfBJo5sHQ/s1600/183627_10150427370665354_609900353_17502198_7470007_n.jpg"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; "></span></a><div>Wintertime is Citrus Time. It's also Science Time. It all started with the citrus: ruby grapefruit, blood orange, meyer lemon.</div><div><br /></div><div><div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib9cHD9beg5E_ge1absZtEGA5MgLng5x0vSgQBQzWRG_14s7eAjPMn89z12MDo6p96pSF8O1FCYWPgh7o1HPjwCMcAH83dxTPXNtNhQ4lQBMnenk_dTnjXs6-EflurGoV7s1RzGcTyABQ/s400/juice+2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5579342615167500114" /></div><div>We juiced the fruits with the back of a spoon, and measured in a liquid measure, which is just accurate enough for our purposes.</div><div><div><br /></div><div>We recorded the weight of each fruit whole, the fluid ounces and weight of juice gained.</div><div><br /></div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7JZFNLqjboDZZJ2hUv4j_qPNe2n1akI5kcUkbZq7Rtj90SFJQksRZ7eFoQS_FmRG2Iq-grGTPCE5FE0nv0GOCSI29TFfUNXudDWg_tZxYGxOMj8MUsWVZbwg7dNaun2lj6ckltiKOGj8/s200/juice+5.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5579338909910498882" /><div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrGFWm4KgBLhlcnotfDF87FfggwAiBLhxWd-042ncELQdxOpBq3yy-uBZ7-wHv98auxn9kBIbNhgW2mP4k5PoiPpDxwxPGi49H1n4nxY_tBByZyu57yyOFJ4VH54_e29l9aqcz0lOBjCQ/s200/juice+3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5579335129173594658" /></div><div>(Grapefruit wins the weight of fruit/weight of juice ratio; blood orange wins in color; meyer lemon in ease of spoon juicing and delicate florals.) We also recorded the weight of waste. </div><div><br /></div><div>In this case, 'waste' is the lovely rinds with healthy bits of pulp and color and flavor. </div><div><br /></div><div>Oh no, these are not meant for the compost bin, that we promise you.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrQq_tGYprP4PQZe_eEtIjgY8PCGVqX_hSO3531oxYlualIxpye5OOC2bnJwtcr2-Hd_C2x-zQB7Bp0Ql4_Wk-5mgS5nBBvdWR7zjYgAWOXyMv-spheAb90AEReVEnUAmhsyL9fh4C4uw/s400/juice+6.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5579330691911549426" /></div></div>maysiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08528055501631136844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5181874182144016291.post-44745695535339727692011-03-01T19:30:00.000-08:002011-03-01T21:10:40.840-08:00Cheese. Glory.<img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZDkasZUW-D-qdt8VGnLGJ-qF6BwVShY2dZ_XsQ6mv5LnmWSeH3hQoW3FOVaov7_AV_XJg1a3Kql1FZ8LZvOWoSHjx3YbiY0gbR9NRDN16uxaOwD9jVTYiaZC-hVQBNtP1ljCPQva-PsM/s320/lincoln+log+1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5579320150167034082" /> <div>Lincoln Log from Zingerman's Creamery.</div><div><br /><div>Dusted with fine semolina, pan fried, eaten with whole grain toast and dates (!).<br /><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVPmA2uRpP5sFpI1qhZ03cEtKZ7-ikdcUNKHry8U0NbZ9ww1XzXgcn2tVzFxIqVRaBp5YjZXoKLX7DThdGgyivKskjOQ_Dg5VDhRG1NQhMFvMQz62shdxGbGXk1aiDTcisGVwPTSYUULI/s1600/lincoln+log+2.jpg"></a><br /><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVPmA2uRpP5sFpI1qhZ03cEtKZ7-ikdcUNKHry8U0NbZ9ww1XzXgcn2tVzFxIqVRaBp5YjZXoKLX7DThdGgyivKskjOQ_Dg5VDhRG1NQhMFvMQz62shdxGbGXk1aiDTcisGVwPTSYUULI/s320/lincoln+log+2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5579320150718414786" /></div></div></div>maysiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08528055501631136844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5181874182144016291.post-77434281496511201022011-02-24T05:18:00.001-08:002011-02-24T05:20:49.400-08:00dreamboat.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBSghwXGXPDV7_LFYtXjo-nWBdX_W2UYNOz5bGjjIfl_BL5BiCy0AOWHy_clDROcu2IgifG3G_CX8twnlPtfoy0NY4mJJKgMbH2jPjsMGBBBtsdn2xcoSHX2OxaFbKaBIQ24KzwbWH77w/s1600/11307couscous.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 292px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBSghwXGXPDV7_LFYtXjo-nWBdX_W2UYNOz5bGjjIfl_BL5BiCy0AOWHy_clDROcu2IgifG3G_CX8twnlPtfoy0NY4mJJKgMbH2jPjsMGBBBtsdn2xcoSHX2OxaFbKaBIQ24KzwbWH77w/s400/11307couscous.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577245233087925458" /></a>Hand hammered copper couscoussier. Need we say more?maysiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08528055501631136844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5181874182144016291.post-4477041894637315982011-02-22T20:00:00.000-08:002011-03-02T14:45:01.329-08:00I like this Sheep's face.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5jYSvXPcP5TsnvPXsght9DHUkPa6EcENl12pH4i_ssA3BVSGwXGDlZ0lNfqnDPIVu6MfMltAZBTrBSWwBLBeanU7G6gR0vw5bLD8sxnch0p40hwPcM6Q4kyjhV95fd7aMSDOMDNS4xYE/s1600/summer.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 205px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5jYSvXPcP5TsnvPXsght9DHUkPa6EcENl12pH4i_ssA3BVSGwXGDlZ0lNfqnDPIVu6MfMltAZBTrBSWwBLBeanU7G6gR0vw5bLD8sxnch0p40hwPcM6Q4kyjhV95fd7aMSDOMDNS4xYE/s320/summer.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576939390620765954" /></a><br /><div>This is the Tunis Sheep, an american heritage breed, and this story has it all: historical figures, fame, death, near destruction, redemption, good wool, great milkers...</div><div><br /></div><div>The Tunis Sheep is a descendant of the Tunisian Fat Tailed Sheep, a breed that exists mainly in Tunisia, but crosses the border into Libya and probably Algeria (see earlier posts on Liya!). But the birth of the Tunis Sheep for us begins with the birth of our country.<br /><div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 295px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOR2FfrUHKrHSjdbHaTeY9wj24Gvv8zyZB4Cwj9EVNpxltBWdd1-wGjbB81eEyAx7ool463sq4Is61Azuo20yxp4EfIXi0GGI36oPPU6pZHQtPpa8t580HEX9hpMknHZ28bUnEMc02V-s/s400/george_washington_stand.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576890101322367986" /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">George Washington, looking very pastoral as the battle rages on.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In the mid-late 18th century, shortly after the Declaration of Independence was signed, George Washington received a small flock of sheep as a gift from the Bey of Tunis. They were placed with Judge Richard Peters of PA, who gave lambs away and made rams available to spread the breed. The Tunis Sheep soon topped the list of Most Popular Breeds in the states.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">By the Civil War, the south was flooded with Tunis Sheep. Then it flooded with worn, and hungry soldiers who ate everything in sight. By the end of the war the Tunis Sheep population was almost entirely decimated.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7xbNwE_F-H_QOiPojsLj5v5cuHOVRqwKOOasLXMF4y6oWooxXFXT2c_BxOaAxBIAcBBoaMr1VbsIHNFFbL9luK-CZQtRAtuWRus3OVuOeBCSvrl4Sv474OOyxQOdf1WNQVpcdzJzoOY0/s1600/Biot640PhotoB.jpg"></a></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7xbNwE_F-H_QOiPojsLj5v5cuHOVRqwKOOasLXMF4y6oWooxXFXT2c_BxOaAxBIAcBBoaMr1VbsIHNFFbL9luK-CZQtRAtuWRus3OVuOeBCSvrl4Sv474OOyxQOdf1WNQVpcdzJzoOY0/s1600/Biot640PhotoB.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7xbNwE_F-H_QOiPojsLj5v5cuHOVRqwKOOasLXMF4y6oWooxXFXT2c_BxOaAxBIAcBBoaMr1VbsIHNFFbL9luK-CZQtRAtuWRus3OVuOeBCSvrl4Sv474OOyxQOdf1WNQVpcdzJzoOY0/s320/Biot640PhotoB.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576894121389937394" /></a><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 294px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCt1CCGdbwLieSiTHJwel_MXivtk2CQ8e86qtSP8HWmWeBeMcHJpNwnPmbraLS60OxQt0Iv03zmWqtlqozEPOsKoqc0hZaG7I0wx0Cpd9ZsO8npsVereVk7J9vQRl6Fv3VEzjTVIxta7A/s320/DinnerParty.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576894114544988514" /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Hungry Civil War folk in fields, and hungry Civil War folk in front of a tent.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7xbNwE_F-H_QOiPojsLj5v5cuHOVRqwKOOasLXMF4y6oWooxXFXT2c_BxOaAxBIAcBBoaMr1VbsIHNFFbL9luK-CZQtRAtuWRus3OVuOeBCSvrl4Sv474OOyxQOdf1WNQVpcdzJzoOY0/s1600/Biot640PhotoB.jpg"></a>The remaining hundred odd pure Tunis Sheep were moved to the Great Lakes after the war and have been successfully bred in Michigan for the past century and a half. Of the four breeders currently producing Tunis Sheep in Michigan, four of them live within 80 miles of Ann Arbor.</div><div><br /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 322px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNvAQTnRvijETzER5LmJqzLv_DbQ5QKYPfdKRHy8TjMAjt1Qs7ohre0H_hB7qWv7v91RfeiL1aKCsThFyM8kcwVhsnFMqd-EUYE4-BsYhDYyyijFRrJ3QK1hFEEqxNvJ2HmoWjRema0yI/s400/1852+Mitchell+30+michigan.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576892996347469858" />These sheep are well loved for their gentle natures, great milk, wonderful wool, and delicately flavored, tender meat. As descendants of a desert breed they love pasture living and are very hardy. I can't wait to build a small herd full of these faces! Just look!<img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 276px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnIRAzKVqYLMVJ77jO3vXCIFHDRm9JDwCDRwDn5MiyQ0O8NzTREY8SLLdQA9CA9qG9YThICFcEQB2A7xmdzIsYFSPXpZ5upJErb_q6eaI4Syqti0UNd-EFC2aEed_9dD7ZeOpYLHrmYek/s400/Tunis+Sheep+family.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576891136715419874" /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">For more info on the Tunis Sheep check out the American Heritage Breeds Conservancy website: http://albc-usa.org/cpl/tunis.html</span></div></div></div></div>maysiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08528055501631136844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5181874182144016291.post-9466130266833400612011-02-22T13:57:00.000-08:002011-02-22T14:02:35.602-08:00Cocktails; loaves and fishes.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibtc72QAs9oYrKIgh7yicjFlBN603xNaitekj_c3YAwO6Rq2hlY0Ae2oY6IH9TrY2QrKai_aTDPSy1oMIWbr7wy6wWZ5K3m_efa_COJjdUPTUvgltb0QSWk7_LXeTE4-0xolZdjuPoB04/s1600/IMG_0655.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibtc72QAs9oYrKIgh7yicjFlBN603xNaitekj_c3YAwO6Rq2hlY0Ae2oY6IH9TrY2QrKai_aTDPSy1oMIWbr7wy6wWZ5K3m_efa_COJjdUPTUvgltb0QSWk7_LXeTE4-0xolZdjuPoB04/s400/IMG_0655.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576636789635316466" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">The Dromidaire</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfckRWpWU1OFcMsS9V6C998_pTDiFuH4QNUrUuVFPtmrSjezk0oOHveG5WSiMOEV5o6ercORxq1zo_gueXbN2ZXQZ8bIqQWYvdGZMJc6X8YPk7mYD6TPJP2E4E2JHhbbGzJxVIBJK67Oo/s1600/IMG_0650.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfckRWpWU1OFcMsS9V6C998_pTDiFuH4QNUrUuVFPtmrSjezk0oOHveG5WSiMOEV5o6ercORxq1zo_gueXbN2ZXQZ8bIqQWYvdGZMJc6X8YPk7mYD6TPJP2E4E2JHhbbGzJxVIBJK67Oo/s400/IMG_0650.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576636783458664306" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Bou Said Gin Fizz</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtF0vax9sHyQXRLWQ7UuYWudZ_aP9OkMZM3S7L9UvX6_QiL403hLR-9zsPwz3Xg6JSqiyJ5H1O1FfWHy3-n57fcXx3a6tSbBoUT_VXmhz3yaGHiNVkXk4dNk29HGUdNmOirJmNLs-m3ns/s1600/IMG_0649.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtF0vax9sHyQXRLWQ7UuYWudZ_aP9OkMZM3S7L9UvX6_QiL403hLR-9zsPwz3Xg6JSqiyJ5H1O1FfWHy3-n57fcXx3a6tSbBoUT_VXmhz3yaGHiNVkXk4dNk29HGUdNmOirJmNLs-m3ns/s400/IMG_0649.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576636776748948850" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Preserved Lemon Drop</div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgydFxctC6np0NipVc9CZxjOLwGmgwlXxOqQQsYnjSgHFyDjlQ2NJQpYPbeU2o2UdHVlDrk4yRVV7nLcNae8rpShdDMSOW9lTfKYDyiEcCCY4OzcCU3SYS66hng4swbCjO8kDjN7q1LsXE/s1600/IMG_0651.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgydFxctC6np0NipVc9CZxjOLwGmgwlXxOqQQsYnjSgHFyDjlQ2NJQpYPbeU2o2UdHVlDrk4yRVV7nLcNae8rpShdDMSOW9lTfKYDyiEcCCY4OzcCU3SYS66hng4swbCjO8kDjN7q1LsXE/s400/IMG_0651.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576636775697790530" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">One Happy Fish (Daurade)</div></div>maysiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08528055501631136844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5181874182144016291.post-22508412551013363702010-03-01T22:21:00.000-08:002011-02-22T19:11:36.873-08:00Late Night Multilinguisitics<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPL_kPnajoOTTUflZ5Nle50BWCxRcnE0m0Q2d-L5yTUDe9Y9-pXcHWKhVwfNVDA1h3asHOLRJXcH_U5sm1NUKEqVELL-NQryBrRXcIDqc4quv_oxesX-6zxejfvYBuDTPNAM_ObH-QCe8/s1600/Dr.-Gobert.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 263px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPL_kPnajoOTTUflZ5Nle50BWCxRcnE0m0Q2d-L5yTUDe9Y9-pXcHWKhVwfNVDA1h3asHOLRJXcH_U5sm1NUKEqVELL-NQryBrRXcIDqc4quv_oxesX-6zxejfvYBuDTPNAM_ObH-QCe8/s400/Dr.-Gobert.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576717242001134114" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The Good Doctor</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>Reading: Usages et Rites Alimentaires des Tunisiens (Food Uses and Rites of Tunisiens) by Erneste-Gustave Gobert.<br /><br />Words that I understand perfectly well in the reading are elusive in translation. Words like <span style="font-style: italic;">palais</span> are slippery when I try to pinch them between linguistic fingers.<br /><br />When translating I am, in a sense, talking out of Gobert's lips (if I am doing it right, and I hope I can do it right). I hope I do not delete any of his crustiness. I hope that I do not censor any of the institutional cultural chauvinism that was rampant in 1930s colonies. In translating a wonderful passage (read: rant) on the lack of food writing in existing ethnographies, I had the joy of translating these sentences:<br /><br />"In Bertholon and Chantre (<span style="font-style: italic;">Anthropological Research in the Oriental Berbery, </span>Lyon, 1913) out of 267 pages consecrated to Berber ethnography only 6 pages are reserved for food, of which 2 are on the eating of dogs and 2 are on the eating of earth! Nothing on perfumes."<br /><br />What a marvelous crispness. What a sparkling outrage.<br /><br />The only words that are concrete, the only words that pass like stones from one language to the other, are the foods themselves. Most of these I get in three languages.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">A'icha </span>is <span style="font-style: italic;">bouillie</span>, is porridge. A stone for a stone for a stone. <span style="font-style: italic;">Farine, sucre, poivrons, tomates, thon, </span>are flour, sugar, peppers, tomatoes, tuna. <span style="font-style: italic;">Prunes</span> are plums, <span style="font-style: italic;">raisins </span>are grapes. Bricks, these words. Reliable.<br /><br />But then there is poetry, despite my occasional frustration, in the the sly prismatic meaning in most words.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Palais, n. </span>palace, court of justice.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Palais, n. </span>a discerning taste, palate.maysiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08528055501631136844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5181874182144016291.post-37457285460530385192010-02-06T08:09:00.000-08:002011-02-22T19:15:24.683-08:00Oeuf: Volume I.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgej7NxE5YTinoxUpytj7cnemY7rQVjrm7O9P6Cc7AXNSpKF9rXWAWUq4_bn82JbnAvitE7D0K5GiOv5CHZjQCUnXNYZzQesfEE8FAkRVs8iTryk0yj2X-YRWN5Jd1uvHXDViNXSYFf-oA/s1600/the+egg.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgej7NxE5YTinoxUpytj7cnemY7rQVjrm7O9P6Cc7AXNSpKF9rXWAWUq4_bn82JbnAvitE7D0K5GiOv5CHZjQCUnXNYZzQesfEE8FAkRVs8iTryk0yj2X-YRWN5Jd1uvHXDViNXSYFf-oA/s400/the+egg.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576718233442769234" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Fancy egg. Glory egg.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>On the road to Mezel Bouzelfa (where oranges hang plump and heavy from the trees. Also where I mis-stomped on a mandarin cutting and abruptly ended its life.):<br /><br />We stopped in Grombalia at a nondescript roadside place for lunch. Oh, that egg. It arrived halfway through our meal, after so much bread and salade tunisienne. The table was crowded with white beans and tomato, chickpea stew with spinach and rendered liya, a plate of mosli (halfway between braised lamb and lamb confit) apiece. The eggs were set down, one for each of us, on saucers.<br /><br />"No, I couldn't." I thought. Then, "maybe just one bite." And after that bite the rest of the meal ceased to be for me.<br /><br />Your yolk, creamy and golden. Your white firm, but soft.<br /><br />Listen folks, on top of this egg a perfect tomato sauce glistened!<br /><br />Olive oil separated ever so slightly from a deeply red tomato puree (harissa, coriander, garlic, velvet). The mosli was polite, but so small in the face of that egg.maysiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08528055501631136844noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5181874182144016291.post-4566163673956934882010-02-01T12:45:00.000-08:002011-03-01T21:07:38.512-08:00In Praise of Violence (of a kind)<div style="text-align: left;">Entrées Froides et Chaudes at Azara, Tunis</div><div><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">One steaming plate of mussels.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /><img style="text-align: left;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6MRmUBCsy26SslOBvh6RMl5-OieYx0NwZ3_aKy8p3b1AnxCbWVvAAlQQ-udqM_M62cdyUVdOEIL1-z4m3wSSXDHjw9ZiXuhRXMMtd7htl03l7-d8ocOkAbPIcgg5dhP6dLyW0_NQhUHs/s400/DSC00273-1024x768.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576718739313547810" /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Two artichokes: mountainous, glistening.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3LDwGG67nI6wOL11M32-ojCQVRNrMC5AJ-jtURMbnyUDjxUzNhsK_wjzVsET44e0ouGPOXKygFZd6sklL7eo2ClWlDT3Wqq_pmZycCXwey9VBtGQ7lXYgyVp2brlhF03FTFcf6Nnbgqg/s400/DSC00271-1024x768.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576718571228538946" /></div></div><div><div>The artichoke is all danger, deception, treachery. It is all hidden spikes and spines, possesor of menacing, fibrous bits. So, I have come to believe that you cannot truly appreciate an artichoke's structure or essence until you've butchered one and relished the butchering.</div><div><br />Until you've torn leaf from leaf; until you've slid those tiles between your teeth and scraped all that delicate flesh from their tips; until you've pierced the heart of an artichoke with your knife, the soft-skinned petals scattered around you, and eaten one voluptuous mouthful after another, well, you may've consumed an artichoke, but you've never <span style="font-style: italic;">understood</span> one. (And the mussels: soft and sweet, with just a hint of rubber to the bite.) We stacked a plate high with empty mussel shells on one side, naked artichoke leaves on the other.<br /><br />MFK Fisher once wrote on the most perfect day of gluttony. She, her mother, and her father were wandering the south of France and stopped into a small cafe. They ordered beluga caviar and foie gras gently seared, and copious amounts of wine. They sat in the café until nightfall. Between them they consumed seven baguettes, an entire tin of caviar, three bottles of wine, the livers of two dead, but well-celebrated ducks.</div><div><br />At the end of my artichoke glut I felt the same words of gratitude welling up in my heart that MFK did waddling back to the inn, her hand tightly on her mother's arm to keep her from tippling into the ditch.</div><div><br /></div><div>What glory!</div><div><br /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1HCbcfqfbpugzIRMkUblJXGjOqXFpqcbLSeWud7pFJOM4ki6E7qKeemDbH69pZdxIBkGq4Li2SlZ_WpQw753JVS6RrbyAnfiTOLAcvmsaNz_GpYHQSuTqpwJnxyEh36uYDo1yprW6IsU/s400/DSC00274-1024x768.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576720692284974978" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div></div></div>maysiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08528055501631136844noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5181874182144016291.post-77191552358927890992010-01-31T02:25:00.000-08:002011-02-22T19:30:12.693-08:00Liya (All Sorts)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii4oPZvwqvlNVjPAWPZzmpJ_iISBYUCVOfB9tsZ0lpvzKuUca-ZUxKJHykIZlETSl4DIyhnmSGLYzN1b5p3d6WnZHOqAGI16AtlISp-O7O4cCmg8DLunLfZR8NRek9pjP-3lq8DtdsxS8/s1600/Liya-flock.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 264px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii4oPZvwqvlNVjPAWPZzmpJ_iISBYUCVOfB9tsZ0lpvzKuUca-ZUxKJHykIZlETSl4DIyhnmSGLYzN1b5p3d6WnZHOqAGI16AtlISp-O7O4cCmg8DLunLfZR8NRek9pjP-3lq8DtdsxS8/s400/Liya-flock.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576722145846343442" /></a><br />In which words aren't enough.<br /><br />We ate lunch at a small place in the Souk. We had come on an Ujja search (oh, just some lovely egg dish) but were too late, so we waited for platters of fried fish and spiced turkey breast. I noticed liya on the menu, and had read the word already in the Ommok Sannafa, and asked Soufian to tell me, please, what is liya?<br /><br />Soufian paused. You find it at the bottom of the sheep. Rump? I asked. No, no, no. He said. It's only for flavor, it isn't really meat. Okay, I said. Alright, he said, rounding his shoulders, you know how you get to the bottom of a sheep and there's something there that isn't the rump? A tail. I said, trying to help. No. He passed his hand over his face. Not a tail... but like a tail, sort of.<br /><br />We all paused. Our fish and turkeys arrived. Soufian took a bite and geared up again. He opened his mouth to speak and giggled nervously.<br /><br />Okay, Sarah, you know how there are different kinds of sheep? Some have nothing at the bottom on the other side of the tail, and some have something? He giggled again.<br /><br />Ah. Genetalia? We used the clinical term. Yes! He laughed in relief. We cut it into small bits and use it for flavor. Very tender.<br /><br />A few days later, driving through mountains lined with olive groves and vineyards, we spotted a flock of sheep in a field beside the road. Soufian stopped the car. You see? He asked. Do you see the liya? Amos and I peered hard at the sheep. I'm not sure, I said. We got out and marched into the field, greeted the toothless shepard. Soufian pointed at the sheep's backside. Do you see it now? We weren't sure. The shephard wrangled a small sheep and grabbed her rump. He lifted. And suddenly, liya we saw.<br /><br />Desert sheep, it turns out, have a strange, square flap of fat over their rumps. Their tails mark the top of the liya, which hangs like a pillow over their legs so that you can't see it until it is lifted. The liya almost looks prehensile, like a flat, wide, trunk. It is entirely fat and keeps sheep alive during the days without water or food. A camel hump of sorts. And suddenly it all made sense. You know? How there are two kinds of sheep, some with nothing on the other side of the tail, and some with something?maysiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08528055501631136844noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5181874182144016291.post-8549900824667723262010-01-31T01:56:00.000-08:002010-01-31T10:28:51.390-08:00One Man's MeatReading: Ommok Sannafa<br /><br />In the lovely introduction to this book we read:<br /><br />"It behooves us first to preserve from national forgetting this part of our national heritage, the fruit of long experience transmitted from generation to generation through the centuries. The culinary art of a nation forms a part of the history of its inhabitants, and our cuisine, at the same level as traditional art, music, or folk dance, affirms our national personality."<br /><br />Speeches like this puff up the soul, eh, eh?<br /><br />So let us preserve from forgetting Quadid Ghanmi (Confit de Mouton, or Lamb Confit,), joy of the Berber, perhaps first on my list of things to cook when I return.<br /><br />Lamb<br />Liya*<br />Fine Salt<br />Fat Salt (which means large grained, but the phrase fat salt is so beautiful I think.)<br />Olive oil<br />Harissa<br />Dried Garlic<br />Dried Mint (menthe sechée, also a lovely phrase. Try it out loud or something.)<br /><br />Cut two large branches of dried mint, pull the leaves, rub them between your hands and then pulverise the leaves with a mortar and pestle. Pass them through a fine seive. Top and tail the garlic and crush them in a mortar and pestle with large pinches of fat salt. Mix mint and salted garlic well.<br /><br />With two very sharp knives cut the meat in long strips, without the fat, and annoint them generously with half of the fine salt and the ground condiments. Take care that the spices penetrate all of the small crevasses of the meat to give the Quadid the best possible taste, and also to ensure preservation. Place the meat in a large basin and sprinkle well with cool water. Leave it to macerate for at least 24 hours, without forgetting to moisten from time to time.<br /><br />Two days later remove the meat from the basin and massage generously with harissa and the rest of the fine salt and ground condiments. Leave them in the sun, tied with cord in one long line, for many days. Once the outside has dried sufficiently, but the inside is still tender and moist, cut the meat in pieces and leave to the side.<br /><br />Cut the liya* in small pieces. Heat oil over a fire in an enormous pot, and add pieces of liya. Once the liya has melted pass the oil and fats through a sieve and place again over the fire. Plunge the bits of meat into boiling oil for about twenty minutes. Take from the fire. Pour everything into a clay pot and cover.<br /><br />Quadid, well prepared, can last for many months.<br /><br />*to know more about liya look for a post on liya. Right now it must remain a mystery to you, as it was a mystery to me. For a long, uncomfortable while.<br /><br />Also, I reserved the right to translate literally when I loved the phrases to much to do otherwise, and to translate the essence of the phrase when it seemed right to me. There is some (occasionally violent) romance in literally translated language, particularly when it comes to food, and I can never bring myself to entirely give that up.maysiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08528055501631136844noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5181874182144016291.post-47499241675909300802010-01-28T01:14:00.000-08:002011-02-22T19:36:24.990-08:00Sidi Bou Saïd<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhilkNu5wOsyh04f_-WJWuROUWbHVTHsi9XrMALsXCBpyOg40d21GJOStnXMdQQvD6YdH_dLaCGuDfzfXpCV38B0CPnp9bXFpXjWFLzW1Gl_YJHEtmb_TV6Cn4cWjrD-WaUWD9N03OpqgA/s1600/DSC00110-1024x768.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhilkNu5wOsyh04f_-WJWuROUWbHVTHsi9XrMALsXCBpyOg40d21GJOStnXMdQQvD6YdH_dLaCGuDfzfXpCV38B0CPnp9bXFpXjWFLzW1Gl_YJHEtmb_TV6Cn4cWjrD-WaUWD9N03OpqgA/s400/DSC00110-1024x768.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576723652543044738" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Sidi Bou Said</span></div>In which we consume fried glory.<br /><br />Soufian: vaguely 35. A round-faced bonhomme with an intimidating, stubborn precision when asking questions and a flirtatious greed when urging us to eat brik after sandwiches and fricassée. When I suggested sharing fricasée he put his hand on mine in dissappointed protest.<br /><br />"Mais! Ils sont petit! A chacun son mien." (But! They're so small! To each his own.) and bought three.<br /><br />Amos: sweater and boots.<br /><br />Me: sticky fingers.<br /><br />Soufian left us at the ancient port-turned-weekend-town Sidi Bou Saïd for biegnets, café, and ambience. In that order.<br /><br />It was exactly what a seaport should be, if possible. Blue and white buildings climbed steep streets lined with orange trees. One orange, too ripe to hold on any longer, rolled down the cobblestone streets toward the sea. Tourists announced their presence by turning their heads in amazement to watch that lone, fat orange.<br /><br />At the top of the hill and around a few corners: imagine a four-foot square cave hacked out of the cliffside. A counter has been built at the entrance. Inside are two men, one for frying, the other for sugaring and money. The sugarer/cashier picks beignets up, one at a time, with a long stick, tosses them in sugar and slides them into white paper pockets. We bought two (approximately a three-year-old's head in diameter?) and descended into silence. They were perfect.<br /><br />Only magic can take:<br /><br />flour<br />salt<br />water<br />yeast<br />oil<br />sugar<br /><br />and make those things into this perfect cloud of tender salty sweet. It was crisp on the outside, pillowy, almost elusive, once your teeth cracked the golden skin. A man hurled himself past us, five beignets pinched between his thumb and forefinger. We neither of us said anything, but were both envious.<br /><br />The rest of the afternoon was lounging on white benches over the mediterranean, sipping mint tea with pine nuts, cafe au lait, fresh squeezed orange juice. The musty sweetness of hookah drifted up from the tables below. Hours passed with nothing much happening but the sun moving a few inches, and us turning different parts of our faces into its warmth.<br /><br />The taxi door closed to take us back to Tunis as the sun set behind us. And somewhere behind us the five-beigneted man and the lone fat orange had found each other. I don't know it. I didn't see it happen. But I'd like to please take it on faith.maysiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08528055501631136844noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5181874182144016291.post-33703694633415621222010-01-27T09:27:00.000-08:002011-03-01T21:08:03.146-08:00Inconnu<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Reading: Agar by Albert Memmi.<br /><br />In the first chapter of his novel Agar, Memmi describes his hero's family watching Marie, his young French wife, eat her first meal in Tunis. To compensate for his wife's fatigue and general lack of appetite, our Hero fills his plate to overflowing.<br />"Mais ce n'était pas ce qu'ils espérent; ils voulaient voir manger l'animal inconnu." But it wasn't what they'd hoped; They wanted to see the uknown animal eat.<br /><br />It can be difficult to eat where there is no context. Amos and I, with no knowledge of Tunisian food, sat in a restaurant on our own and stared at a plate of M'loukia. So dark green it was almost black, the gelatinous consistancy of so many sauces I'd eaten back in Cameroon. (I would like to take this moment to thank the dry season in the Sahel. After months of nothing but the green mucilage that is Baobab leaf sauce, I can put any green, wriggling thing in my mouth). It sat on the plate, a few mountains of lamb in its center, and we were a bit unmoored.<br /><br />Should we have ordered couscous on the side? Did we eat it with spoons, or dip bread? We were culinarily naked; contextless. We spooned, and we dipped. M'loukia has a deep, rich, earthy (almost soil-like) flavor. The taste of bitter spinach, or exactly like eating a bowl full of henna.<br />And then came the Brik, crispy, full of egg, tuna, and parsley, sprinkled with fresh squeezed lemon; the méchouia, a delicious mess of grilled green peppers, chilis, tomato, cumin. Then came the couscous, richly tomato, a hunk of coiled, perfectly tender, unidentifiable fish resting on top in a crown.<div><br /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5fMdgBiQYmzj4AwpzMVtjtnSRijNH06_XkyvxMFXHiuwuVQsZXFeiwiybgcUSlt1ty8ouyvOWCREVW4cKJuLf9pRstGbSyeywLq1upNbkOtrKIszskulY83POKPf5iUcMKsYntRqjQo8/s400/DSC00174-300x225.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576724093235612210" /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Brik</span></div></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoj4S1lRVjXljWnASrNpU1evEVR7m3HgeLKqc8d_NcYk4JfbAkk5ghnxqn-3Lw4NBXQhrlX6Rgwv8Uu_LlYWZTCm_BVoyofz-1f5bbDCDe1dB4UPtYVFD3I8yOHdKAxuXRUdxEOAesPKY/s400/DSC00176-1024x768.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576724097608537954" /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Couscous au Poisson</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:16px;">We are blank slates here. We are unknown animals eating unknown animals. But, unlike the family in Agar, we are getting exactly what we hoped for.</span></span></div><br />(It turns out M'loukia is actually eaten with spoons, or bread. A testament, folks, to nerve and fortitude.)</div>maysiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08528055501631136844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5181874182144016291.post-4907080261727654422010-01-22T06:26:00.000-08:002010-01-27T10:02:10.812-08:00La Goulette<span style="font-family:georgia;">Dinner at Café Vert<br /><br />The sea was just over the rooftops. We strolled into the kitchen and poked, prodded, and weighed the piles of Loup--Sea Bass, but translated in the menu as Grilled Wolf. We chose a gentleman, we did (silver, comely).<br /></span>maysiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08528055501631136844noreply@blogger.com0