Quick Fix: Mushrooms on Toast

This is not a fancy recipe. It does not require much effort and takes little time to make. Comfort food that puts me right back in my mom's living room in the early 90s, that makes me want to dig my teeth into mediocre toast. This is breakfast, lunch or dinner. 

Scallion Cream Mushrooms on Toast

You'll need:

150 grams of button mushrooms, quartered

35 grams of scallions, sliced
100 ml of light cream
1/4 of a large lemon's zest
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
A pinch of chopped parsley
A good drizzle of olive oil
2 slices of toasted bread (Use good bread if you have some.)

Cook the mushrooms over high heat to retain their moisture. Don't stir much at first to give them color. Once their color begins to change, add the scallions and toss. Cook for around 30 seconds. Pour in the cream and turn down the heat. Immediately after pouring the cream, add your lemon zest and season with salt and pepper. Add some chopped parsley if you'd like. Give it all a quick stir and turn off your heat. Pile over toasted bread while hot.    

The Story of Chicken Liver

As featured in The Egypt Monocle

I like chicken liver. It is a recent attraction. For the first 20 or so years of my life, liver had not been deemed welcome in my vicinity. At the times I encountered it, I could only smell rust and decided early on that it was not the kind of smell I’d like to have in my mouth.

Growing up in the Arab world, liver was a dish that was bound to come up, at a dinner, as a mezze, at a family gathering, on many a street cart; it was too everywhere for my liking. “What does it taste like?” I’d ask over and over, too displeased by the way it looked to try it. My mom looked over as she neatly dipped her bread into the drippings visibly bored with my question, “the only way to know is to taste it, Sarah.”

My narrow mind was scornful. I didn't want someone to tell me it was good or to just put the grey meat into my body. I wanted to know, in a very matter of fact way, what it would feel like on my tongue. Would it stick to the roof of my mouth? Is it chewy? Why are we eating the chicken’s filter that clears its small plump body of evil toxins?

Later, I would start to notice things about the liver experts in my life. If the liver was grey and clumpy, they would pick at it and its watery jus. If it was brown and buttery, they’d take it in, wiping the plate down with a french fry, warm bread, anything that would sop up that extra grease. Especially interesting to me were those drippings that pooled at the bottom of the pan, hot and waiting to be soaked up by my appetite and my arteries. So I devised a way to understand the flavor and took the jump — a simple step to only dunk into the surrounding grease without having to eat the actual liver. Liking it, I realized that it was a little ludicrous to keep mopping up the fat and not the iron it could be supplying me with, the mild anemic that I was.

Taking a deep breath and saying a little prayer that I would not be compelled to spit it out in the middle of company, I carefully chose my first ever piece of chicken liver. Crumbly and creamy in texture, seared to give uniform color — brown and glossy, it had no trace of the distinct metallic smell I abhorred and didn’t have me grinding my teeth involuntarily to the taste of metal like I felt it would.

Of course, my luck didn’t stay and I have had some terrible livers since (one from my own kitchen), but my mind remains focused on the first one and in this way I can approach it over and over again with confidence, especially after having countless surreal chicken liver experiences in Lebanon.

This recipe is aromatic, warm and sweet. If you’re puzzled about the milk, it’s there to dull the edge of the liver flavor. This way, some, children included, might be more accepting of this slice out of a large array of offal. If you’re a liver lover, this step might not be necessary. In either case, make sure your pan is hot or you’ll end up with a plate of grey.

Garlic & Pomegranate Chicken Livers

You’ll need:
500 grams of chicken liver
1 cup of milk (optional)
1 tablespoon of ghee (you can also use olive oil)
Juice of ½ a large lime
2 dried chili peppers, sliced (eliminate the seeds if you can’t handle the heat)
3 large cloves of garlic, finely minced
½ teaspoon of smoked paprika
1 teaspoon of ground coriander
¼ teaspoon of allspice
1½ teaspoons of coarsely ground black pepper
1½  tablespoons of pomegranate molasses
2 tablespoons of water
Salt to taste

Soak the chicken liver in a cup of milk for up to an hour. Before cooking, drain from the milk. Place a large heavy-based pan on high heat. Make sure your pan gets very hot before cooking the chicken livers. Pour in the olive oil once your pan is hot and carefully add the chicken livers. Cook on high heat until seared on all sides. Remove from the pan and set aside. In the same pan on medium heat, add the garlic, ground coriander and dried chili into the leftover olive oil and liver drippings. Cook until the garlic is soft then add the paprika, allspice and coarsely ground black pepper. Season with salt then pour in the pomegranate molasses and water. Leave to cook on for a minute then pop in your seared chicken livers. Toss to coat the livers and cook off for another minute or two.

Rehashing Croquettes

As featured in The Egypt Monocle

I was one of the few children allowed into The Ranch without a second look, a bar with Western saloon-style swinging doors that slapped me on the way in a few times too many. My friends by then, nighttime, would have left the hotel for their own homes — the hotel that we played at on weekends, a place my father worked at the time as Food and Beverage Manager, a collective country club of sorts.

Recovering from the greeting smack of hard wood against my upper back, I would make my way to the highest ground in the place, the bar, to ask the bartender if he had seen my dad. Pointing in the direction of a corner table this time, I spotted him — his strong green eyes looking over at me from across the room for a moment before turning back to the conversation with an important guest he cared not much for.

Walking over, I was oblivious to the drinking surrounding me but snuck quick glances at tables lining my path to feed my appetite after a long day of swimming in the Abu Dhabi sun. Plopping myself on a chair next to my dad, I smiled as my father introduced me to his guest then focused on why I was really there — to eat. I ordered a t-bone steak with a side of turned root vegetables that would guarantee a deep sleep on the car ride back home then diverted my attention to the Filipino band performing international songs to an audience that barely saw them.

Singing John Denver’s Country Roads, a song I gathered was cool for older intoxicated people from the response it received, the band rattled on together with the aggressive growls of my rumbling stomach. A plate arrived quickly but it was not mine; instead it was to share, along with the mixed nuts and crudités, untouched by the adults entangled in their drinks and discussions. Left unnoticed after our initial hellos, I tuned out of the grown up debates that I couldn’t keep up with and bit into a crisp, fried cylinder, picking it over the raw vegetables drying out in the smoky room.

Scorching smooth centers and crunch from the twice-breaded crust, I had one after the other until there were none. Little space was left for my main but I trudged through the steak, happy to ignore my vegetables if my father was too busy to remind me.

Croquettes, a word coming from the French croquer — “to crunch” with a potato purée filling, a trend that died out  before I was born in the early 80s, were still making me happy in the confused 90s and remain the naughty section of perking up leftover mashed potatoes. This week, they featured in my kitchen with the twang of mustard, a hit of fresh parsley and some soft mozzarella bocconcini. Outdated or not, the croquette is versatile. Mix in flaked fresh salmon, using the potatoes to bind the fish or stick to a vegetarian option with spinach, some Parmesan cheese or even some sharp rocket. You can use Japanese panko for a crackling crust in place of finer bread crumbs more common in Egyptian kitchens that appear more uniform, almost as one when fried. This recipe below, with its oozing center is open to change.

Mustard-Parsley Potato Croquettes

You’ll need
800 grams of potatoes, washed, skin intact
20 grams of butter
1 egg yolk, beaten
4 grams of ground mustard powder
15 grams of parsley, roughly chopped
Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste
1 ball of mozzarella, approximately 66 grams
2 eggs, beaten
130 grams of finely ground bread crumbs

Wash the skins of your potatoes well then dry. Arrange the potatoes on a baking sheet after pricking each one a few times. Make sure not to crowd them. Bake for 1 to 1½ hours in an oven heated to 200 degrees Celsius until tender. Remove from the oven then slice each potato in half leaving it to cool.

Using a spoon, extract the potato flesh into a medium-sized bowl, season with salt and pepper then mash, eliminating any lumps, until smooth. Add the butter then fold in the chopped parsley and ground mustard. Mix in the yolk of one egg until all is combined then begin to shape the croquettes.

Mould a little at a time, depending on how large you want them, into a cylinder. Make an indentation along the length of the croquette with the opposite end of a teaspoon and add a few thin slices of mozzarella. Pinch the indentation you created to seal the mozzarella into the potato. Adjust the shape by rolling once very lightly, back and forth. Dip each cylinder into the breadcrumbs then the beaten egg then back to the breadcrumbs. Repeat until you’ve finished the potato mixture.

Place your croquettes in a freezer-friendly box lined with baking paper. Between each layer and the next, add a size-appropriate sheet of baking paper to avoid the croquettes from sticking once frozen. Freeze for an hour or until ready to fry. Fry in hot oil (around 7 cm) in batches until the croquettes are crisp and golden. Drain on paper towels. Serve hot. 

Pan-fried aubergines with a ginger-mustard mayonnaise

As featured in The Daily News Egypt

I am so uninterested in shopping with friends that I cannot hide my indifference. A lone shopper, I saunter through the passages of ladies' fashion inattentive to the new styles emerging in place of past fads; I buy what sits comfortably on my hips, pieces I would take pleasure in feeling against the first layer of my skin. Immediately after, I rush out and do not return for months.

Seeking refuge in a nearby supermarket, open market or roadside stand, peace is found. Sweet red torpedo onions promising milky white juice, plump tart lemons in want of a squeeze, freckled strawberries packed to knit a tight pattern of royal red — I could spend hours here.

Regularly I am given a sharp look; a glare uncomprehending of the causes which would explain why I would spend more on food purchases, my motive for paying three extra pounds for a more yellow bunch of unspotted bananas.

Some women lust after shoes, I spend on pretty food. Justifying it I'll say, “This what I do, my job,” to soften the blow of buying good quality saffron, wiry and unaltered with added oils.

I deliver recipes and colorful food photos to people online and in print, to motivate them to cook at home; it's as simple as that. Photogenic foods are what make my blog work, they are what make my words weigh more than their real value; they are that promise of making something that brightens up the kitchens of both my home and yours.

Now that I've chosen this uneven path as a career choice, I struggle with the words “food blogger.” After moving to Kuala Lumpur and taking a break of a year (and a half) of unerringly doing nothing, I started writing about food and taking photos in my living room. Two years onward, I am made uncomfortable by the reluctant smiles sympathetically sent my way when asked what it is I do.

There must be a better title for “food blogger.”

Kathy Patalsky of “Healthy Happy Life,” an inspiring vegan and fellow “food blogger” (if we must call it that), has pushed me, along with many others, to start finding an alternative title for what we do. As recipe developers, part-time photographers, food writers and researchers, what can we be called?

“I'm an Internet Content Producer in the Culinary sector — specializing in vegan recipe development and food photography. I also produce freelance work in the print and mobile sectors,” declares Kathy. And I'm listening to her.

If I too manage to make something substantial out of my blog then why not? To some, it might seem a little unrealistic to call ourselves something other than what we initially started out as but throughout the last few years, bloggers of all kinds have moved on to becoming political analysts, journalists, television reporters, cooking show hosts and caterers. We just can't seem to find a better word for those who cook, write and photograph their work all at the same time. Food bloggers usually grow to become full-time writers, professional food photographers or hired recipe developers. When will all three merge away from the internet?

Hello, I'm Sarah and I'm an internet content producer in the culinary sector. I specialize in Middle Eastern food culture, recipe development and food photography. I also produce freelance work as a food columnist in the print sector.

Does that sound better? More like a cooking show? Let's continue.

Today, I want to share with you a recipe inspired by the way we Egyptians fry fish, sealed in a garlicky cumin crust, made crunchier with the cornstarch I learned to use in Malaysia and lifted with the heat of ginger and mustard, my flavors of India. Staying taut when you pick up a slice, it stays flat like an over-sized potato chip, able with its outer strength and soft center to hold dips, spreads and finely-chopped salads. This recipe simplifies what I'm about — an Egyptian-Indian tired of monotonous food, scouring the market to find a firm aubergine, widely eaten in Egypt and India, that will pose for a picture with grace and end with an adventure in your mouth and mind.

 Pan-fried aubergines in ginger-mustard mayonnaise

For the aubergine, you'll need:
2 medium aubergines, sliced lengthwise 6.5 mm thick
2 large eggs, beaten
½ cup of all-purpose flour
¼ tablespoons of cornstarch
1½ teaspoons of garlic powder
1 teaspoon of cumin powder
1 teaspoon of chili powder
1½ teaspoons of salt
¾ cup of olive oil

For the mayonnaise, you'll need:
½ cup of mayonnaise
½ teaspoon of yellow mustard
½ teaspoon of whole-grain mustard
½ teaspoon of minced garlic
1/8 teaspoon of ginger powder

Measure out the mayonnaise and place it in a small bowl. Add the garlic and ginger powder then the yellow and whole-grain mustard and stir until completely incorporated. If you're making this ahead of time, refrigerate. In a separate bowl, whisk together the flour, cornstarch, salt, garlic, cumin and chili powders. Set aside. Dip each aubergine slice into the beaten egg then dust with your flour mixture. Gently tap off any excess flour to avoid clumping and place each prepared slice on a clean baking sheet lined with parchment paper.

In a large pan, heat 2 tablespoons of olive oil at a time over medium-high heat. Dip a few aubergine slices at a time until golden brown on both sides. This should take around 2-3 minutes on each side. Continue to add two tablespoons of olive oil to the pan before adding each batch. Prepare the rest of the aubergine in the same fashion and place on a clean plate. Serve with the ginger-mustard mayonnaise.

The Easy Way Out

Around a year ago, I visited a Croatian restaurant with some friends (one of which was Croatian). It felt nice to go with someone who had knowledge of the food and after faring well with some interesting (for lack of a better word) Chinese dishes, I was ready once again to try something new. Soon enough, I realized that Croatian food was a toned down version of Middle Eastern food and I suddenly felt a little more comfortable in my seat. But seriously, let's get to the point. What really stood out was called Strukli, a cottage cheese like dumpling thing coated with bread crumbs and pan fried to golden ooziness. So on a gloomy day like today, I decided that I was far too lazy to make the cheese from scratch (after Googling the Strukli recipe) and chose to make mozzarella sticks instead. And no, I'm not lazy enough to get them store-bought! Ha! But I know you're too lazy to get up and make this so don't judge me for picking the easy way out.    

Mozzarella Sticks

You'll need:

1 pack low moisture mozzarella

1 egg, beaten

1 cup and a half of bread crumbs

1/2 a teaspoon of dried oregano

1/2 a teaspoon of dried parsley

1/2 teaspoon of dried basil

1/2 teaspoon garlic powder

Salt and pepper to taste

Oil for frying

** You can add or remove any of the herbs. You could also mix half a cup of Parmesan with 1 cup of bread crumbs instead of a full cup and a half of bread crumbs.

Cut your mozzarella block into "sticks". Dip each stick into the bread crumbs until fully coated and then dip it into the beaten egg and then into the bread crumbs again. Place your doubled breaded mozzarella sticks on a plate and cover in cling film. Freeze for an hour or two or until they get firm and the bread crumb doesn't... crumble. Heat your oil and fry for up to a minute, turning once. Drain your sticks on a paper towel lined plate. Serve.

Marinara Dipping Sauce:

1 can of whole peeled tomatoes

1/2 onion, minced

1 clove of garlic, minced

1 tablespoon of mixed herbs (Your pick. I picked dried basil, oregano and thyme.)

1 tablespoon of fresh parsley, minced

2 tablespoons of olive oil

Salt and pepper to taste

Heat the olive oil and saute your onion until translucent.  Add your garlic, tomatoes and everything else and cook for 25-35 minutes on low heat.