You see, my grandfather was Syrian, and my family was lovingly immersed in that heritage. There is something about Mediterranean/ Middle-Eastern cuisine that appeals to my sense of "orthodoxy," that this is how things used to be. I'm talking against the conventional thought that there are only so many meals in a day, and specifically that we've been taught to starve ourselves between them. I guess there's some merit in that if your aim is to lose weight, but I've always joked that weight-gain is my problem.
Think about the concept of an appetizer. It got its name because it's supposed to build your appetite; but here in America, it's common to eat it as part of a meal, with maybe a couple of minutes given to digest in between. And, given the fact that most chain restaurants only serve appetizers that are either extra-greasy or extra-starchy, they seem to fill you up more than entice your hunger.
When I think of appetizers, I think of mezza. That's what giddo called it, at least. That was when we all went into the kitchen and saw the whole table covered with little bowls of this and that. No room for table settings: just a stack of plates and forks as we reached over each other to spoon homus and m'hommorah (or baba ghanouj or lebneh) into our pita triangles; collect green olives, black olives, or purple olives; grab a handful of pistachios or almonds; peel off a few slices of adid, pull up a few strings of giddo's Syrian cheese, or make some cheese-and-sausage-and-cracker combinations; have some pickles or pepperonicini; and of course, divvy up some of the antipasto. Some of these were staple items, others came and went, but this display might've come an hour before the main meal, which would have numerous dishes in and of itself.
Most of the items in that list used either salt or vinegar to tempt our palate. Albeit, the top favorites were oil-based (the dips for our pita), but that's a separate tale. These appetizers were actually appetizing.
Koshering Salt
Imagine my surprise when I'd read that "kosher salt" was a misnomer, that it's not necessarily kosher (by definition of the word) nor is the term exclusive to it. I was really surprised for a different reason, because, honestly, I just thought kosher salt meant it lacked iodine, for whatever reason. Rather than think of its composition as unique, it's more appropriate to think of it as a grade of salt, much like one would consider grades of gravel, actually.
For starters, it's not kosher in that this salt was blessed or otherwise inspected by a rabbi. It originated as "koshering" salt, because it was used to kosher (v.) meat. Kosher (adj.) meat has its blood removed, a process accomplished using this specific grade of salt. It is coarser than table salt, which is touted as being fine and hence quick-to-dissolve. Coarse salt, on the other hand, would settle on meat and draw out liquid rather than melt into it.
The reason that koshering salt is not necessarily kosher itself is due to additives which may or may not be present in the final product. Iodine is often added because it is a nutrient, while other compounds may be added for their ability to deal with moisture (anti-caking agents). One can assume that the koshering salt that a rabbi would use does in fact adhere to their laws, but from a marketing aspect, something labeled "kosher salt" only refers to the dimensional size of its grains, which itself is the effect of a particular evaporation process.
Enter again my false understanding. I thought coarse salt was "sea salt." Sea salt actually is what it claims to be, while table salt and other forms are commonly mined, kind of powerwashed and treated to remove foreign minerals. Often, sea salt holds onto other minerals, which may account for the different colors sold, but this is solely dependent on the processing measures taken by the manufacturers. Sea salt is not a grade; it is a variety. It may give your dish a distinct flavor, but that is the extent of how you should choose to use it.
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| Northern Utah |
The biggest issue when it comes to salt grades is volume. A fine grade like table salt will yield a greater amount in an equal measurement by volume of a coarser grade, like comparing sifted flour with unsifted. To be more precise, you could measure salt requirements by weight (or mass), like a proper roux recipe. One site suggests that 1 teaspoon of table salt is equivalent to 1.5-to-2 teaspoons of kosher salt, the ambiguity stemming from individual brands. I suggest, unless you're baking, eyeball it.
Baking recipes will probably only call for table salt anyhow, because it incorporates quickly. Coarser varieties will look more presentable; if they're not being used for dehydrating or curing, they should be reserved for plating techniques, especially those processed as salt flakes.
Gourd-eous Seeds
Following our last post, a recipe came to mind as Jes was scooping out the innards of our acorn squash. My grandfather used to make—and eat, and share—salted pumpkin seeds. So, naturally, I looked at these and thought they were probably the exact same thing. In fact, I'm quite sure he'd also made, or at least bought, similarly prepared watermelon seeds, and squash are closer to pumpkins than that.
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| October 19, 2015 - Salted Seeds, Step I |
It starts with a phone call. After all, my mother knows her history better than I do. If it's my grandpa's recipe, she can give me the step-by-step; and for both of the recipes found in this post, she's to thank—and, you know, by extension giddo himself.
The first step is cleaning. Taken just out of our acorn squash, or any gourd for that matter, the stringy pulp has got to go. This was nothing short of tedious, because I had no clue what I was doing and ended up handling each and every seed to make sure no orange flesh remained attached. The above picture shows them soaking in water while I asked my mom how to prepare them. The darker end of each seed is where the casing is thinner and was beginning to turn transparent.
Once satisfactorily cleaned, they're laid out on a paper towel to dry for 3 days, optimally, I guess. Each day, I tossed and spread them again, and they slowly went from gelatinous in the way they held onto each other to happy to roll and slide over one another. That's when they're ready.
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| October 22, 2015 - Salted Seeds, Step II |
You want them dry because you're going to get them wet. Basically, you're going to treat them with brine, but first we like to toast them. So we called down the cast-iron for this one. No oil needed, just spread them out and put them on a gentle heat. An occasional stir will show their color changes, but when you can smell them is when they're done. This, you have to eyeball, because if they start popping and cracking, you've gone too far. Of course, they're not ruined, they're just not up to code.
I'll say it here because we tried this recipe again with store-bought, shelled pumpkin seeds: don't overcrowd the pan. Our acorn squash didn't yield that many seeds to begin with, but our second trial took three batches. It's a carefree method, so I certainly didn't mind repeating it. Just a quick rinse of the pan between batches resets the stage. Rinse, because the next step produces some build-up.
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| October 22, 2015 - Salted Seeds, Step III |
When the seeds are toasted just right, it's time to douse their flames with salt water. But first, we must return to Cooking 101. Any hot pan receiving water will not react kindly, and since our cast-iron has oil set into it, this reaction is more dangerous. To limit the backlash, you can either lower the heat (considerably earlier if using cast-iron, because of carry-over heat), or add the water slowly, in really small increments until there's noticeably less sizzling.
With that covered, I will now inform you that the water is only a medium by which you're introducing salt. The amount of water is not what matters; it'll only determine how long you're cooking it after adding it. For this recipe, we used less than 1 cup of water with 2 Tablespoons of table salt. The amount of salt does matter, as we learned when cooking our three batches of shelled seeds. Those turned out excessively salty, remedied only by equally excessive manhandling once thoroughly dried.
Adding the salt water a little at a time until the bottom of the pan was covered and stirring occasionally, these cooked for probably 10 minutes until the water evaporated away. Note the return of the transparent points.
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| October 22, 2015 - Salted Seeds, Step IV |
Once the salt becomes visible, you're almost done. Tilting the pan will draw out whatever liquid is left, and when it's all—or mostly—gone, the seeds are spread out on paper towels to dry, at least 1 day. I'm quite sure Jes couldn't wait and "tested" some before they even made it from the pan, but seeing as she fed me one, I must be equally guilty. #FruitOfKnowledgeComplex
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| October 24, 2015 - Salted Seeds, Step V |
I know some family members who cracked giddo's pumpkin seeds open like sunflower seeds and discarded the shell, but I'd always eaten them whole; at least I savored them one at a time. These being from an acorn squash were smaller and more tender than their cousin's, so it probably makes even more sense to eat these whole. Sunflower seeds, though, I just can't get into. Those are tough shells that should be husked before flavoring is added, in my opinion.
Fruit of the Vine
Now, I've mentioned before that pickled cauliflower was a personal delicacy back in the day. I liked it most because it was homemade. This was nothing like giardiniera, that colorful condiment which, though I like it on occasion, is less crisp and often sweeter. No, this was loaded up with garlic which to my intrigue turned blue, and the scent of it made my mouth water. Nowadays, I can just think of vinegar, and I become Pavlov's dog.
"Vinegar" literally means soured wine, and traditionally, then, it comes from grapes. These days, there are so many varieties of vinegar as simply being the product of a fermented fruit (such as apple-cider vinegar), while others may just infuse the flavors of a fruit into, say, red-wine vinegar (such as raspberry vinegar). Colorless, white vinegar is a product of fermented distilled alcohol, likely sourced from malt or corn, and you may know it best for its uses outside the kitchen.
Actually, the following recipe marks the first time I've used white vinegar to cook with, in my own kitchen; and I have no qualms about that, I'm just stating fact. It's grandpa's pickling brine, and though it's made for cucumbers and he used it for cauliflower, it works for tomatoes as well.
"Pickled tomatoes?" Many people I know have never heard such a thing, but our family grew up on this stuff. They're green tomatoes, if that makes it easier to stomach. It probably really does, because there is a lot of difference between a ripe tomato and a dense, tasteless one. Tasteless is what you want, because then it'll absorb flavors.
The only reason I asked my mom about this recipe was because two of our friends who were homegrowing tomatoes ended up with quite a stock of unripening ones. So, I instantly thought of pickling them, and when Jes and I were gifted a bagful because the owners were going on vacation, I felt up to the task.
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| October 22, 2015 - Pickled Tomatoes |
The very first step, and the most important in any pickling/ preserving process, is sterilization. That fact sheet on making sauerkraut talks about it, and this recipe mentioned it, but between my mom and Jes, I was able to do it. You start with a jar. Ours was borrowed from another purpose and measured 2 quarts. Thankfully, we had a pot wide enough to hold the jar lengthwise, though depth proved not as much an issue as I thought. Jes made sure I put the jar in first, then added water around it, and heated them together. Without her input, blood and tears would certainly have been added to my sweat.
The water is boiled, and once rolling, you cook your jar for at least 10 minutes, making sure to rotate it so that all of the glass gets its fair share of boiling water. I used tongs to pull this off, and of course sterilized them in the bath, too. Don't forget the jar's lid, which should just be dancing around the side somewhere.
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| October 22, 2015 - Pickled Tomatoes |
When it's time to remove, you'll need a wire-rack and oven mitts or towels, along with those useful tongs to help you dry your jar and lid. You can smudge up the outside to your heart's content; as long as the inside remains untouched, you shouldn't fear contamination.
Meanwhile, it's time to prepare the brine. Boil 3 cups of water, letting it roll for a while, because that's what ensures the most bacteria have been killed off. Alternatively, and to the same end, boil 4 cups and measure the 3 afterward, so that you know you have enough water. I didn't. I thought of it after, and found no problems. Let it settle and cool slightly, stir in at least 3 Tablespoons of koshering salt, then add 1 cup of white vinegar.
While that's further cooling, we cut up our washed vegetables, whatever they may be. I'd never thought to mix them, though I don't see the issue because the recipe remains the same, but we only meant to make the tomatoes, and as it turned out there were just enough of them to fit this jar. Ours were oblong, malnourished, deformed plum tomatoes, so most of them only got sliced once down the middle.
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| October 22, 2015 - Pickled Tomatoes |
They're plopped into the jar, the first of them bouncing happily into their new home, and as they neared the top, a little judgment told me when to stop slicing. Then, the spices go in. Razor-thin garlic, 6-7 cloves' worth screams "childhood" for me. OK, they don't need to be painfully thin. In fact, I don't remember them being all that thin when grandpa made cauliflower. But, more surface area means more flavor...or at least faster-infusing flavor. Top this off with 1-2 Tablespoons of pickling spice (ours is from the local Corrado's) and then pour the brine over all of it. We had no excess, and we weren't lacking.
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| October 22, 2015 - Pickled Tomatoes |
Finally, seal the jar tightly. Originally, we just screwed the lid on and let it be. The next day, I found reason to put plastic wrap under the lid. Because, these are left out for 3 days—time enough to ferment—and are shaken daily (turned upside down to reveal possible leakage) to keep the spices nicely mixed. After that time is up, and you'll notice the color-change (added translucence for cauliflower), they're ready for refrigeration, and they will certainly taste best cold.
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| October 26, 2015 - Pickled Tomatoes |
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