Rave-Worthy Party Dip in Ten Minutes? Yes, It's Hummus

In my view, hummus is one of those intensely flavorful, iconic cultural touchstones that has been bastardized beyond recognition. Just think of the little plastic containers you see in the grocery store of roasted pepper hummus, artichoke hummus and—I swear I'm not making this up—Thai coconut curry hummus.

Linda Dalal Sawaya, local Portland artist, writer and author of Alice's Kitchen: Traditional Lebanese Cooking, a collection of recipes handed down from her Lebanese mother and grandmother, describes her family's "Hommus" this way:

"Our family loves hommus bi tahini best when it is tangy, the way Mama and Sitto made it. We garnish it with a liitle olive oil. In Lebanon, pomegranate seeds, whole garbanzo beans, and a drizzle of olive oil might be the garnish. Chopped fresh mint and olive oil also make a lovely garnish."

Sublime made from scratch with quality ingredients.

With her recipe, she describes her mother—fans of the pesto scene in the recent documentary Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat with Samin Nosrat, take note—mashing garbanzo beans by hand the traditional way.

Back when I was in college, hummus was the barely edible, dry stuff you brought to parties in college because it was widely available and a cheap way to feed your friends. I'd give my own efforts an "okay" rating back then and, even at that, it was way better than most of the stuff sold at even the most effete grocery stores, which ranged from chemical-tasting to having that certain je-ne-sais-quoi cardboard flavor. Even here in Portland, there are still very few who make a decent version, outside of Middle-Eastern restaurants like Ya Hala or Hoda's, both of which also make their own pita bread.

Soak overnight, drain, cook. Easy!

Later, my yearnings for truly good homemade hummus were granted with a recipe that my parents brought back from their pre-retirement sojourn in Liberia (yes, in Africa) where they met several Lebanese couples who were teachers at the college my parents worked for. My mother, being a discerning sort and knowing a good thing when she tasted it, begged a couple of recipes from them that she shared on their return home.

Ever since, our lives and the success of many a gathering have been aided and abetted by her ingenuity. I hope you agree her efforts weren't in vain.

Hummus

This is best made from dried chickpeas (garbanzo beans) that have been soaked overnight, drained and then cooked in fresh water for an hour or so until tender. For the best flavor, I highly recommend Ayers Creek Farm's organic Tualatin Chick Peas, available at Rubinette Produce. The following recipe makes approximately three cups of hummus.

Taratoor sauce:
2 small garlic cloves
1/2 c. tahini paste (sesame butter)
1/4 c. lemon juice
1/2 tsp. salt

Hummus:
1 15-oz. can garbanzo beans or 2 c. cooked chickpeas
2 tsp. salt
3 garlic cloves
1/4 c. lemon juice
1/4 c. water

You can make this in one step by placing all the ingredients in the food processor and processing till it all turns to a smooth consistency. Garnish with a drizzle of olive oil and a sprinkling of paprika (or better yet, Spanish pimenton) or the traditional sumac.

The taratoor by itself makes a terrific sauce for pork or meats, or drizzle it over rice or vegetables, or as a dipping sauce with appetizers like stuffed grape leaves.

Cooking Myself Out of a Corner with Julie Sahni

I often get myself into situations where I need to cook myself out of a corner. For instance, this past week I wanted to make some hummus from a recipe my mother collected when she was in Liberia, on the West Coast of Africa (read the post and it'll all become clear). Grabbing a pound of dried chickpeas from Ayers Creek Farm that had been lounging in the cupboard, waiting for just such an occasion, I threw them in a pot of water to soak overnight.

The next day I poured off the soaking water, covered them afresh and set them on the stove to simmer for 90 minutes or so. When they were just toothy to the bite, I rinsed them again and measured out the two cups I needed for the hummus. Which left about four cups of cooked chickpeas staring at me from the strainer.

Chickpeas are the cornerstone of many dishes in India, and I'd been perusing my copy of Julie Sahni's Classic Indian Cooking since making a fantastic chicken tikka masala a few days ago. Using the last of my stash of ground meat from the whole lamb I bought from Jo-Le Farms—such deliciousness—and what I could dig out of the vegetable bin in the fridge, I was able to pull together a crazy good dinner in a little over an hour.

Oh, and when Dave walked in the door from work that evening? His expression and the phrase "Wow! What smells so good?" was all I needed to know that I had a hit on my hands.

Ground Lamb in Cashew Nut Sauce with Chickpeas
Adapted from Julie Sahni's Classic Indian Cooking

4 Tbsp. vegetable oil
2 c. onions, chopped fine
2 tsp. garlic, minced
1 Tbsp. ginger root, peeled and grated
1 tsp. ground cumin
2 tsp. ground coriander
1 tsp. turmeric
1/2 tsp. red pepper flakes
2 bay leaves
2 lbs. ground lamb
1 1/2 tsp. salt
2 1/2 c. roasted tomatoes or canned, crushed tomatoes
3 Tbsp. cashew nut butter or 4 Tbsp. ground roasted cashews
2 c. cooked chickpeas with 1/2 c. liquid (or water)
2 tsp. garam masala
Cilantro, chopped fine, for garnish

Heat the oil over medium-high heat in a Dutch oven or deep skillet. When it shimmers, add onions. Cook, stirring constantly, until they turn a caramel brown (about 20-25 min.). Add garlic and ginger and sauté for 2 min. Add cumin, coriander, turmeric, red pepper and bay leaves. Stir briefly, then add ground lamb and brown it, breaking it up with a spoon. When the meat has lost its pink color, add salt, tomatoes, nut butter and chickpeas with 1/2 c. liquid. Add another 1/2 c. of hot water and bring the mixture to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer, covered, for about 45 minutes until the sauce has thickened. Stir occasionally to keep it from sticking. Turn off the heat and stir in the garam masala. Add salt to taste, if needed. Garnish with chopped cilantro, if desired.

Farm Bulletin: Celebrating Lammas, the Harvest

In the abundance that is harvest season, with its piles of corn, peppers, late berries and peaches, it is difficult to imagine what we're not seeing. That is, the crops that withered in the field or failed due to the vicissitudes of weather, moisture or a bad batch of seed. Those are the realities of the farmer, as contributor Anthony Boutard of Ayers Creek Farm reminds us.

As the Blue Moon sets, the new day marks an old Anglican celebration, the Lammastide. On this day, the British celebrated mass at the start of the wheat harvest with loaf of bread made from the new crop. The word, in typical British fashion, is likely a corruption of "Loaf Mass," though ponderous sorts have tried to document less plausible derivations. Rooted in the rural parishes, Lammas faded from the liturgical calendar with the industrialization of the 19th century.

The chickpea plant (left) and chickpeas (top).

We can only wish that Vaughn Williams had composed a piece to celebrate the Lammas. Digging about, we found but one hymn that had a peculiar martial bent to it. Not even worth quoting. For those of us born under the sign of Aries, it is easy to conceive of the harvest a sensuous, fertile moment, not a forced march into the fields. Indeed, in the Northeastern states, the community corn harvest brought the town's families together and was called a "frolic" where rewards were tendered with a buss, not script.

Today, the word lammas is used more often by arborists, foresters and plant physiologists than the clergy. Lammas growth is the second spurt of growth following fruiting, typically around the beginning of August. This growth is tender and runs the risk of damage if it fails to harden off before the frost falls. Our kestrels and barn owls are raising what might be termed a lammas brood. A bit exasperating as both are noisy species; the kestrels all day and the owls take the night watch.

Barley.

This week, we harvested the chickpeas. Despite our best efforts, the harvest is about a third of what we expected. A real consequence of the dry spring and early summer. Chickpeas are a spring-planted dryland crop and a few May rains are essential for good yields. Our wheat was also on the shy side, but less so because most of its growth takes place during the winter rains. Barley, which also grows through the winter but is easily knocked down and damaged by the May rains, produced an excellent crop without that challenge. A diversity of crops means the disappointments are mingled with the successes. Keeps you humble even as the occasion may call for celebration.

Black currants.

For farmers, the hardest decision is to walk away from a crop. Thursday, Zenón and Anthony took a look at the currants and gooseberries with a thought to the autumn tasks. Zenón exposed a few branches with beautiful black currants dangling from them. Smiling, he said Abel advised him not to show Antonio the fruit, lest he get an idea that it should be harvested. Irresistable. In bold red letters on the day's picking list was 20 flats of black currants, much to the momentary horror of staff.

Actually, we will walk away from the fruit, it is not worth the time or distraction. Though it is never with pleasure, coming to such a decision is cause for relief. The time we might have spent messing with the currants will be better invested in managing the grapes and beans. Three years ago, as some of you may recall, we had to walk away from the grapes because of severe mildew. Rather than lament what is lost, we best revel in what providence has delivered, and this year it will be the grapes and barley, as well as corn, beans and blackberries.

Photos of chickpea pods, chickpea plant and barley from Wikipedia.

Harissa How-To

I've never been a big fan of ketchup, even as a kid. On French fries I prefer aioli, and condiments like chutney, sriracha and harissa ring my chimes way more than the sugary sweetness of Heinz. Contributor Jim Dixon of Real Good Food shares his recipe for making your own harissa, a version I guarantee is going to beat the pants off anything you'll find in a squeeze bottle.

Cauliflower, Chickpea and Harissa

Harissa, the North African condiment sometimes called Tunisian ketchup, provides a smoky-sweet chile flavor that's particularly good with vegetables. While some of the commercial brands can be very hot, you can adjust the chile heat to suit your palate if you make it yourself.

You'll need a couple of roasted red bell peppers, blackened skin and most of the seeds removed, a few cloves of garlic, a half cup or so of mild or hot chile powder (or dried chiles that you've soaked and drained; there are a lot of recipes online), about a quarter cup of extra virgin olive oil and a teaspoon or so each of ground coriander and caraway (you'll have to grind the caraway yourself, or at least crush the seeds in a mortar and pestle). Combine everything with a good pinch of salt in the food processor until it forms a smooth paste. This makes about a pint, but it stores in the refrigerator for a few weeks.

Chop a head of cauliflower (I include the leaves and core; just chop into smaller bits) and cook it in a heavy skillet with enough extra virgin olive oil to cover the bottom. Add some salt and cook over medium high heat until it's starting to brown, maybe 15 minutes. Add a chopped red onion, cook for another 5 minutes, then add a couple of cups of cooked chickpeas (aka garbanzos or ceci). Stir in a healthy dollop of your harissa, squeeze half a lemon over the whole thing and eat warm or at room temperature.

Farm Bulletin: Wheat Fruits

If you're like me and have been confused about wheat, corn and whether to soak beans or just cook them and get it over with, contributor Anthony Boutard of Ayers Creek Farm has the answer for you. So stick with this one, read it all the way through, and all will be revealed.

Not too many years ago, the term "wheat berry" slipped into the culinary lexicon, probably from the purveyors of sugary breakfast material. We know it is a lost cause, but as berry and wheat growers, it still sticks in our craw. Not only is there nary a trace of resemblance between a kernel of wheat and a berry, but it has also displaced two very good words to describe the food: wheat kernels and wheat grains. They are part of our language. We talk about a "grain of truth" or a "kernel of truth," never a "berry of truth." Ah, but as so often happens, there is grain of truth in the term, even though it obviously seeped out of some sort of crude marketing scheme now lost to memory. Both berries and wheat kernels are types of fruit.

A flint corn kernel split the same way as the wheat at top, with the embryo at the bottom. The lighter band of cells just under the skin is the aleurone layer.

The wheat kernel (top, with the relatively small embryo at the left) is a fruit characteristic of the grasses. Kernels of corn, millet, barley and wheat, and the seed you sow to grow a lawn, are all a fruit called a caryopsis. But, you aver, fruits are seeds surrounded by pulpy flesh, often sweet and delectable, and wheat looks just like a seed. Actually, a fruit is the ovary tissue that remains with the seed after it detaches from the mother plant, whether it is fleshy, pulpy or dry. The outer part of the wheat kernel, called the bran, or the pericarp among botanists, is actually the remains of the plant's ovary tissue that has dried, forming a hard protective coat. Inside the thin pericarp lies the seed itself. If you look very closely, the fruit of wheat has a characteristic shock of white bristles at the top of kernel.

If you soak a kernel of any grain for a day or so and, when it is soft, slice it lengthwise with a razor, you can easily see the various parts of the caryopsis with a hand lens or a microscope. I have found the macro setting on a digital camera with good resolution is a very useful microscope. As noted, the pericarp forms the outer skin. Inside, there a single layer of relatively large cells that looks almost as if someone drew a thin line just inside the pericarp. Called the aleurone, it is the outermost layer of the endosperm tissue. The kernel has a vault of food contained within the endosperm, and the aleurone layer provides the enzymes, the keys, needed to unlock the food. Inside of the aleurone is the starchy part of the endosperm. It is mostly starch with some protein and oils in the mix. This part of the endosperm contains the food necessary to grow a root in order to provide water and minerals to the growing plant, and a leaf to start the process of making sugars from the sun. Just add water, and life hastens again. Even when it is dormant, a seed is living and respiring, and this why seeds gradually loose their viability. Some after a year, some after a decade or more.

At the base of kernel lies the embryo, or germ as it is known to millers. This fatty bit of tissue is a fully assembled plant ready to grow roots and leaves. The first leaf is fully grown. Called the scutellum, and this leaf remains pressed against the endosperm, never to see the light of day. The scutellum is unique to the grasses, and its primary role is to absorb the nutrients released from the endosperm as rapidly as possible, and transfer them to the growing roots and leaves. Most of the fats in the kernel are in the scutellum. All plants except orchids produce endosperm cells. In most plants, the endosperm is absorbed by the embryo and stored in the seed leaves cotyledons. The two halves of the chickpeas are the seed leaves that absorbed the endosperm.

When cooking mature grains and pulses, such as wheat or beans, we always recommend soaking them overnight. Yes, this requires a modicum of planning and foresight. Some people resist and just cook them, or haul out the heavy metal in the form of a pressure cooker. True, if the grains or beans are fresh, you can soften them and render an edible food. But this impatience and lack of finesse means a less flavorful bean or grain in our experience.

Why is that, you might ask? Allowing the plant's own enzymes to work on the starches and proteins for a day or so, and starting the process of breaking down the starches and proteins naturally, makes for a more tender and sweeter grain or bean. Moreover, in many of the seeds, complex compounds are released into the surrounding soil during germination that are not always good to eat. The compounds may be protective in function, or serve as attractants to root fungi. You can smell and taste these compounds in the soaking water, and decide whether they will enrich your life. The only beans we cook in the soaking water are black turtles. One silly notion often floated out there is that soaking leaches out the minerals. This idea that nutrients pour out of a germinating seed willy nilly makes no sense at all, but is repeated endlessly. As noted, some of the compounds actively released by the seed are best poured down the sink.

The Greening of Dinner

Here's a list of things I didn't expect when I started this blog:

• That anyone, aside from a few friends, would ever read it.
• That it would start me on the path to a new career as a writer.
• That I would still be doing it more than four years and some 1800-plus posts later.
• That I would get on e-mail lists for nice things like media dinners but also on those promoting the latest books from new age/horror/makeover authors (wait, is that a new genre?).
• That boxes would appear on my front porch containing books, locally roasted coffee, snack chips and garbanzo beans.

Yes, garbanzo beans. Flash-frozen green garbanzo beans. Which I had never cooked with before. And now I had a case of them.

I'd seen green garbanzos once before in their husks (left) at the Forest Grove Farmers' Market. Fortunately someone had already done the work of de-husking these, making them much more attractive when it came to actually doing something with them. Asking around, I heard they made great hummus and could be used in stir fries, soups and stews.

So when I was stuck (again) for something to make for dinner last night and, ever the optimist, opened the door to the freezer to see if some fairy might have magically left a whole frozen lasagne buried under the bags of parmesan rinds, nuts and bread ends, I saw one of those big green bags staring at me. Since I'd been hankering for some curry, I grabbed it and some rice and tomatoes from the pantry and, within a half hour, had dinner on the table. Talk about side benefits!

Green Garbanzo and Tomato Curry

2 Tbsp. canola oil
1 yellow onion quartered and thinly sliced
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 red bell pepper, quartered and thinly sliced
1/2 tsp. turmeric
1/4 tsp. cumin
1/8 tsp. coriander
2 c. crushed tomatoes
2 c. green garbanzo beans
Splash fish sauce (optional)
Salt to taste

Heat oil in deep skillet. When it shimmers, add onion and garlic and sauté over medium heat till the onion is transparent. Add the red bell peppers and sauté till tender. Add spices and stir for 30 seconds, then add tomatoes and garbanzo beans. Salt to taste and, if desired, add a splash of fish sauce. Simmer for 15-20 minutes. Serve with rice and chutneys (we particularly like Patak brand, especially their Lime Relish).

China Doll

That's what I thought someone said when explaining that's the word for a split chickpea in India. I said something intelligent like, "China doll? Really?" And then, realizing my obvious limitations, they corrected my pronunciation.

Dal is a complicated subject, comprising as it does several types of beans that we Westerners call by the names split peas (green, yellow and pink), mung beans and lentils (green, red and brown), with infinite permutations on the spicing it might have. Suffice it to say I've only scratched the surface of this one. But since it's one of my favorite preparations of the legume, I keep at it.

And don't tell them, but I've had a bag of Anthony and Carol Boutard's Ayers Creek chickpeas floating around my pantry for many months now, and have only just now got around to using it. This is a recipe I adapted from a great book of simplified Indian recipes from the collection of Ismail Merchant (producer of "Room with a View") that's been a great introduction to that complicated cuisine.

And it pairs perfectly with…what else?…my friend Kathryn's Perfect Basmat Rice. Just the two of them makes a great vegetarian meal, and combined with a roast chicken would be dinner for company. Throw in some easy raita for spooning over the top and it'd be swoon-worthy!

Chick-Pea Dal (Kabuli Chana)
Adapted from Ismail Merchant's Indian Cuisine

3 c. dried chickpeas or 6 c. canned
2 Tbsp. olive oil
2 med. onions, chopped
4 large cloves garlic, crushed
3 ancho or poblano green chiles, seeded and chopped in 1" squares
1/2 tsp. turmeric
1 tsp. chili powder
1 Tbsp. tamarind paste
1 Tbsp. salt
1 c. chopped, canned Roma tomatoes or 2 large tomatoes, chopped
Water

If using dried chickpeas, soak in water overnight. Drain.

In large Dutch oven heat olive oil until it shimmers, add onion and garlic and sauté till slightly translucent, then add green chiles and sauté till tender. Stir in turmeric, chili powder and tamarind paste. Add salt, tomatoes and chickpeas. Add water till barely covered, bring to a boil, then reduce heat to simmer, adding water if it becomes too dry. Simmer till tender, 2-3 hrs. or more. This would also be a great recipe to use with a crock-pot.

Beans and Pasta

I guess it's because I'm lacking that particular floaty toy in my Irish-Scottish-Alsatian-Austrian-Native American gene pool, but I've never really been attracted to the Italian penchant for combining pasta with beans. But this very tempting-sounding recipe from contributor Jim Dixon of Real Good Food has piqued my curiousity to do some culinary exploring.

The red beans in this recipe are grown by Haricot Farms in Quincy, Washington (near Yakima), and are certified sustainable by the Food Alliance. They’re fresher than the average supermarket bean and have great flavor.

I cook them using my no-soak, slow-cook approach. And ever since seeing a quote from a grizzled Tuscan (they are known as mangiafagiole or bean eaters, after all) to the effect that “beans cooked in a metal pot aren’t worth eating,” I’ve used a garage sale ceramic bean pot. I fill it about a third full, add a good pinch of sea salt, a healthy glug of extra virgin olive oil, and fill it most of the way up with water. A few hours in a 250° oven and they’re usually tender, though sometimes I need to add a little more water.

Add the cooked beans to soup, use them for composed salads, or eat them plain, drizzled with more extra virgin olive oil. Try a bowl topped with a poached or fried egg for breakfast.

Garbanzos need soaking, or least they seem to hold together better during cooking if they’re rehydrated. I soak overnight, then simmer in salted water until tender (on top of the stove, in a metal pot....go figure). Don’t discard the stock; it’s delicious and can be used in soup or added to pasta-garbanzo dishes like this:

Rapini, ceci, e pasta

Cook a bunch of rapini (aka broccoli raab) in plenty of well-salted boiling water for about 5 minutes. Drain, let cool a little and chop coarsely.

Chop a few garlic cloves and cook briefly in extra virgin olive oil. Add the chopped rapini, about a cup and half of cooked garbanzos (ceci in Italian), and a half cup or so of the garbanzo cooking liquid.

Have a pot of water boiling so you can drop in a pound of good pasta at about the same time. An extruded shape, rather than a long noodle, works better for this, and I like to use 100% semolina Italian pasta.

Cook the rapini and ceci for about 10 minutes, or until the pasta is done. Use a slotted spoon to transfer the pasta to the pan with the rapini, add a quarter cup or so of pasta water, and cook together for a few minutes. Serve with grated Parmigiano Reggiano.