On Life As A Picky Foodie

In food, like in writing, everyone has a distinct voice. I find it especially delightful when they make up the recipe as they go along like my mother does.

The reason you didn’t hear from me for a little while is that the baby and I were visiting my family.  It’s wonderful to have four generations together – a very special and unique time.

Safta (Hebrew for grandma) and Vida played “boomba boomba” (a game invented on the spot), they visited the African exhibit (my mother’s collection of masks in the entrance to her apartment), and sang Twinkle Twinkle in English and Spanish.

At eight months old, my daughter is taking it all in with delight and a new sound akin to waaw – she doesn’t care that every sentence contains three languages, if not four.  For my part, I don’t think there’s a sight sweeter than my daughter playing with her grandmother and cuddling with her great-grandmother.

The other day, I was reading with the baby on the floor when my mother started making her sopa de frijoles.  Though I now have a daughter of my own and so am officially an adult, the smell that filled the apartment, reminded me of my childhood where onions sautéing always meant dinner.

My mother has a unique way of speaking, and so too is her cooking: this is not white linen napkin, seven-course dining.  Instead, the food is simple, colourful and fresh.  In fact I’m pretty sure that my love of all things veg comes directly from the food I ate growing up.

Have you ever heard my mother tell a story?  She recounts events as if you missed the first part.  Like the time she told me about “the man let me into the door even though he said they were closed because I said to him where else will I get the ice cream!” – Which man?  Who was closed?  Ice cream?  On the plate, this translates to whimsical, comforting food that tastes like an afternoon spent surrounded by loving family members.  They may drive you insane at times but nevertheless these are the people you love most in the world.

I couldn’t get enough of the soup. Best served in a mug, it was light yet hearty and warming.  Rather than being a meal in and of itself as is often the case with legume-based dishes, it was a perfect accompaniment to bread and cheese and salad.

My mother has kindly permitted me to share her recipe here, and I happily do so in her unique voice. 

Safta’s Sopa De Frijoles
(serves 6)

Red beans (“I bought 500 grams, but used not all of it.”)
Baking soda (“less than an envelope”*)
Onion, chopped up (does the movement with her hand)
Olive oil
Cousbara** (“a little little bit”)
(more ingredients to follow)

“First you soak the beans for a looong time, more than overnight, with baking soda – I put less than an envelope.  Then you wash them really well, you throw away the water.”
“You put the onion in the pot and fry it a little bit, then I added the beans, and the cousbara – just a little little bit.  And the water.  I covered the beans by a lot because I wanted it to be not so thick.” 
“Then you cook it for a while until the beans are soft on a low flame (the beans cooked for about six hours). Add a little salt*** some smoked chile (Spanish smoked paprika) and some comino (cumin).” 

Note: I later asked how much “chile” and cumin she had used, to which my mother replied “not too much.”  When I pressed her for more precise information, she told me she hadn’t measured the exact amount, but could say “maybe a teaspoon, maybe more, or maybe less.” 
“And then you mash them with the pasador.” (an immersion blender)

*an envelope is about a teaspoon
**otherwise known as coriander – in this case, fresh leaves
*** I watched with shock and horror as my mother poured salt straight from the kg bag of Sel de Guerande.  Don’t get me wrong, she doesn’t use a lot of it, never has, which is probably why there isn’t a dish for it.  

Dear friends; 

In an attempt to slowly ease my way back into my pre-pregnancy shape, I have been walking at sunset.  As you know, I believe that by setting achievable goals changes can actually happen, and so I am committed to walking 30 minutes every day.  Half an hour isn’t much – a stroll to the nearest health food store and back will take care of that.  The great thing is that I rarely stop there:  some days I’ll do some stretches, others some weights, or I’ll take a longer walk.  But no matter what, I get in the 30 minutes – and anything more is gravy.

I try to set out around 4 p.m. when the sun is still warm and bright, but it sets fast and by 5, it has usually dipped down under the ocean as if it’s in a hurry to be somewhere else.  Our trip to California will soon be coming to an end and I am more aware that these moments of sunshine are to be savoured (and not just for the Vitamin D).   We are scheduled to fly back to the British winter in ten days.

Usually, there are joggers, a few photographers, some surfers, seagulls and a hand full of tourists on the beach.  My aunt was visiting for a few days (thank you, Tia!) and we were chatting as we went wandered by the ocean.

A cluster of people caught my eye: it was a small group – maybe six people in total.  All of them sat in beach chairs, they were hunched and greyed and dressed in office attire.  Two of them were playing music while the rest of them listened in silence.  They were too far away for us to hear the music clearly, but what caught my eye were their instruments.  Unlike the usual guitar-playing beach hippie, one man was playing a bouzouki, the other an accordion.

My aunt and I stopped briefly to look at the group.

Suddenly one of the women watching the musicians, a woman so old she couldn’t stand on her own, rose with the help of the younger man sitting next to her.  Around her neck, reaching almost to the sand, was a thick, dark green scarf that she might possibly have waved around had she thought about it.  But clearly she was thinking of nothing – instead she allowed herself to be transported by the music. 

The expression on her face was one of pure bliss, ecstasy even.  Her body barely moved and yet she was dancing: leaning on the man who held her hand firmly, she moved her foot and then the other in what looked like a traditional step.  Her eyes were closed and she swayed, her lips turned into a secretive smile.  She came from another era, like Jean Reno in Les Visiteurs.  But she didn’t care about the world around her, she’d been taken away by the music, back to a time when her body could move in the way she was imagining.   

The whole group looked wonderfully strange and out of place on the yuppie-littered Santa Monica beach.

My aunt and I continued our walk.  Around us, the men with the six packs jogged past, the tourists tentatively stuck their toes into the water and shrieked, the young families packed up their gear. I wondered where the music had transported the woman, to what event, what place in the world.   

There is no big message this week, just the desire to share a magical moment that I was lucky enough to witness and as America crashes into Thanksgiving overdrive, I keep thinking of what I am grateful for. 

Moments like those.

To continue on the slow theme, I leave you with this recipe: 

Slow-Cooked Soup

Combine in the slow-cooker
-  3 leeks, chopped 
-  1 large marrow of choice, cubed
-  1/2 t dried thyme
-  2 bay leaves
-  a pinch of salt (you'll add more later)
-  1 cup water 

Cook for 4-5 hours, until the marrow is soft.

Then, blend with 500 grams canned butterbeans (rinse well to remove salt)

Garnish with freshly ground pepper and serve with warm and crusty bread (gluten free of course!)