Summers are the times when cooking is hard and more than just a chore.No matter how well cooled the rest of the house is, the kitchen emanates heat. The hearth of the house. The least used the better during those times.
But then don’t we think hot food is more scrumptious. Not always. Take cue for the middle eastern cuisine. Flavourful, colourful crudités served along with pita, fabulous dips, kebabs and fresh soft cheeses. The best is that you can make these ahead, store in the fridge and use it as a spread too.
If the humble humus is boring, the Muhammara is your best bet. Smokey, sweet, nutty and chunky. Very easy to rustle up. All ingredients are cold, and just need a whizz in your reliable food processor.
4-5 bell peppers
1-2 red chillies
2-3 cloves garlic
1 cup walnuts
1 cup stale bread
2-3 tbsp pomegranate molasses
4-5 tbsp olive oil
Juice of half lemon
Salt to taste
1. Char grill the bell peppers. To do this, place the peppers, one at a time on a low flame. Turn over as soon as they start charring on the surface. As the skin in thin, prolonged charring will leave no bell pepper skin. Once charred, allow to cool. Clean the charred skin and deseed
2. Take all the ingredients and blend in a food processor. The mixture will be smooth and slightly chunky.
3. To serve, add more olive oil. Great with bread, crackers and crudities
Netflix – the Mindhunter
Movie – Whiplash – https://www.imdb.com/title/tt2582802/
Blog – http://www.apt2bbakingco.com A great blog through brooklyn
Book – The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/7815.The_Year_of_Magical_Thinking
Poem – (I tried to find this book but I couldn’t)
Little sleep’s head sprouting hair in the moonlight
I have heard you tell
the sun, don’t go down, I have stood by
as you told the flower, don’t grow old,
don’t die. Little Maud,
I would blow the flame out of your silver cup,
I would suck the rot from your fingernail,
I would brush your sprouting hair of the dying light,
I would scrape the rust off your ivory bones,
I would help death escape through the little ribs of your body,
I would alchemize the ashes of your cradle back into wood,
I would let nothing of you go, ever,
feel the clothes fall asleep in their hands,
and hens scratch their spell across hatchet blades,
and rats walk away from the culture of the plague,
and iron twists weapons toward truth north,
and grease refuse to slide in the machinery of progress,
and men feel as free on earth as fleas on the bodies of men,
and the widow still whispers to the presence no longer beside her
in the dark.
And yet perhaps this is the reason you cry,
this the nightmare you wake screaming from:
in the pre-trembling of a house that falls.
– Galway Kinnel