in an effort to minimize both the amount of money I spend dining out as well as the heartache and stress induced by my spending vast amounts of time online, I've cultivated an obsession with cooking Ethiopian food. From the delicious
Yesiga Tibs at Nyala two weeks ago to tonight's meltdown (details forthcoming), I've salivated over the buttery taste of tomatoes and beef on spongy flatbread. (Only the jigsaw puzzle at work has distracted me more these past two days.)
My trip to San Diego this weekend really ignited the insanity. Bernd served me some homemade chicken korma, which to date is the only Indian food I've been able to choke down, let alone enjoy. After seeing the "
Darwin: EvolutionRevolution" exhibit at the San Diego Natural History Museum, I pondered the mechanism and possibility of my inheriting a genetic distaste for cumin. Similarly, isn't it marvelous how we evolved to love the smell of cooked food? Or at least, the idea of the theory is marvelous. (I'm less pleased by the hypothetical in which I have this conversation with my Creationist parents, but that's another story.)
Anyway, jealous of my friend's cupboardful of gram marsala and bay leaves and turmeric all lined up in uniform Ikea glass jars, I made my own trek to India Sweets & Spices in Culver City last night. (Cumin, ugh.) Using cardamom and nutmeg (or "jaiphal;" cultural!) as a nosegay, I made my escape home right in the nick of ... around nine-thirty pm. Good thing we had chips in the pantry and guacamole in the fridge.
Tonight, I had similarly long delays on the way home. From work in Marina Del Rey to "Sofax," teff flour for the injera can apparently be found for $12.50 in Little Ethiopia, and only there. My beacon was the wrinkled recipe in my messenger bag, injera in a half hour, and, if all went well, lentil soup and yogurt too.
Here are the principles of my fascination:
Berbere: Much like "curry powder," berbere is a term used to describe a mixture of spices used frequently in Ethiopian cooking. My recipe calls for cardamom, ginger, cloves, cinnamon, coriander, fenugreek, cayenne pepper, and paprika. The spices are roasted and the mix saved for up to 6 months in a tightly-sealed container.
Niter Kebbeh: This Ethiopian spiced butter is, as one of my recipes describes it, "ubiquitous" in Ethiopian cooking and—as it contains many of the above spices—is absolutely delicious. I'll gladly suffer calorically the indulgent fattiness of butter for the more nutritious (and gluten-free) teff flour.
Yemiser W'et: Lentils seem to make some of the most satisfying vegetarian main courses, and this recipe called for berbere, so I felt pretty comfortable with it.
Tsebhi Sga: The closest approximation to what I had at Nyala, I found this recipe online (sensing a theme here?) and meticulously transferred over all the spices between the four dishes, so that at some point I would have a master list of every item.
n.b. Still missed "cloves (whole)" and "allspice" and am firing myself as my own personal assistant.After much plastic-bag-labeling, allspice-cursing, and general lamenting over the amount of butter needed in the recipe vs. what can be found in my fridge, I tried to take a crack at the Ethiopian bread I had been craving so much. Come to find out, to make injera properly one must have a "starter" dough: optimal time in the most authoritative recipe I could find? Fifteen
days. I'm definitely hungrier than that. What better way to show my disappointment in my own recipe-researching skills than to indulge in some tears, table-pounding, and a 6-piece of Wendy's chicken nuggets?
Perhaps when God so intelligently designed us humans, he sculpted my own arrogance in regards to Ethiopian cuisine. "How hard can it be? Goopy stuff, spongy stuff, and some spices? And people with elementary-school educations can do it?" I guess I forgot the whole part about "rich cultural history" and "unlimited free time." Meanwhile, does anyone have any starter dough? I seem to be coming up short.
