Guest Post: Matters of the Belly

I enjoy connecting with other Egyptian food bloggers, maybe it's because there aren't many of us; maybe because I can't seem to find enough Egyptian ladies interested in the kitchen the way I am.  I recently found another kindred spirit and thought I'd share. Noha Serageldin is new on the scene. Starting in August, she's already got a bunch of posts for you to consume and her pleasant, friendly voice comes through -  genuine, honest with a constant urge to learn. Support her on her journey and connect with her directly on her blog Matters of the Belly, on Facebook, on Instagram, on Twitter & on Pinterest. Here's Noha below. Make sure to try out her recipe. 

I have a borderline obsessive love for eggplants. So much so, that I seriously contemplated calling my blog ‘The Anxious Aubergine’ before settling for ‘Matters of the Belly’. I kid you not. There is something quite magical, I find, about how its spongy and seemingly inedible interior in the raw state transforms into this incredibly creamy, sweet and earthy flesh once cooked correctly. As I mentioned before on my blog, I was one of those weird kids who always loved  vegetables... growing up, just the mention of Moussaka or Fattah for lunch always got me excited. 

Not much has changed since then… if anything, my love for vegetables has continued to grow as I have… and now, I am always on the lookout for new ways to enjoy them. Especially eggplants. Technically, the eggplant is a fruit from the berry family. I know, shocking right? However, I refuse to call anything a fruit if it cannot be part of a fruit salad (you heard me, tomatoes), so I shall proceed to refer to it as a vegetable. Go ahead, tell the veggie police… I like to live on the edge.

This recipe is inspired by a classic Turkish dish called ‘Imam Bayildi’, which translates to ‘the Priest fainted’. Legend has it that a Turkish Imam fainted when his new wife prepared him this dish; some say it was because of how delicious it was, others claim that what caused him to faint was the fact that the dish used up all the olive oil in his dowry. You see, traditionally, the eggplants are meant to be fried, and anyone who has ever cooked with eggplant before knows that it is a SPONGE for oil, and sucks up obscene amounts if you allow it. As tempting as that sounds, I choose not to fry them, for the sake of my expanding waistline. Also, the original recipe is vegetarian, whereas in my version I add minced beef to the stuffing, which is how we have always made it in our household.

As it always is with family recipes, this one has evolved and changed each time I make it, resulting in a version I can proudly call my own, yet still reminds me of the Imam Bayildis of my childhood. Our family cook of over 30 years, whose name is Iman, liked to joke that this dish was named after her, and called it Iman Bayildi. I still call it that, and it never fails to give me a warm, fuzzy tingle in my heart each time I do.

Iman Bayildi (stuffed Eggplant)

Prep time: 20 min          

Cook time: 25-30

Servings: 2-3

Ingredients:

2 medium/4 small eggplants

250g minced beef

3 tbsp olive oil plus extra for drizzling

1 medium onion, finely chopped 

3 cloves garlic, minced

2/3 tsp cinnamon

¼ tsp nutmeg

¼ tsp cardamom

½ tsp sumak

3 tbsp pomegranate molasses

¼ cup raisins or sultanas

Salt & pepper to taste

250ml tomato puree (I use store bought passata, but any tomato sauce will do)

2 tbsp pine nuts

½ tsp ghee (optional)

Fresh basil or mint leaves for serving

Instructions:

Preheat the oven to 180 degrees C.

Wash & dry the eggplants, then slice each lengthwise in half. Using a vegetable peeler, peel the skin, leaving a 2cm border along the edge (as shown in photo). If you are using smaller eggplants, you may leave the skin on if you like, but mine were on the larger side so the skin could be too tough and bitter. 

Using a spoon, scoop out about a third of the flesh of each eggplant half, then set aside. Chop up the scooped up flesh into small pieces (to be used in the filling).

In a large non-stick pan over medium heat, add the olive oil and onions. Cook until softened, about 5min. Add garlic, cook until fragrant, about 1min. Add the minced beef and cook until colour changes. 

Add the chopped up eggplant flesh and the spices, cook until the beef begins to brown. Add the pomegranate molasses & raisins, season to taste and remove from the heat.

Using a spoon, stuff the eggplant halves with the mixture. In a baking tray, pour in the tomato puree/sauce, and arrange the stuffed eggplants on top. Drizzle liberally with olive oil and bake in the oven for 25-30 minutes, until the eggplant is soft and slightly golden. 

If the stuffing is browning too fast, you may cover the dish loosely with some foil.

Meanwhile, in a small non-stick pan over low heat, melt the ghee if using and add the pine nuts. Cook, stirring continuously until golden. You may do the same without the ghee (dry toasting) if you wish, but the ghee just gives it the most amazing flavour. 

When the eggplant is ready, remove from the oven and sprinkle with the toasted pine nuts and basil/mint leaves. Serve immediately.

Garlic Confit

At the soft opening of Chef's Market, we were given a giveaway bag - embossed wooden spoons, a copy of the menu and closest to my heart, a little jar of garlic confit paste. I used it all - in grilled cheese sandwiches, the simmering molokheyya on my stove, vinaigrette, pasta, winter soups and hummus dip. It was my companion, tender and fragrant, adding that extra bit of oomph when time was not on my side.

A little saddened at its end, I washed the jar and put it away hoping that one morning, I'll get up and remember to make that garlic confit, golden, nutty and sweet, like its predecessor. 

Today was the day. I didn't make it into a paste this time preferring to keep the plump cloves intact, submerged in the oil that flaunted its new caramelized notes, tucked away safely in the same jar. My garlic confit jar. 

A thank you to the chefs at Chef's Market. Good stuff. 

Garlic Confit
You'll need:
1.5 cups of peeled garlic
2 cups of vegetable oil
3 black peppercorns
4 white peppercorns

Place the garlic and peppercorns in a pot.
Pour the oil over your garlic and pepper mix.
Cook over low heat for 40 to 45 minutes or until your garlic is soft and you have reached your desired color.
Store chilled, submerged in the remaining oil. 

Samosa, Sambusak

As featured in The Egypt Monocle

Thinking back, samosas may have been the first food to confuse me, a never-ending love affair that was tedious to understand. Never knowing what I should call them when chatting with people hailing from different places, never understanding just what were to go in them, I went on a mental hunt quite early on in life to find out just what a samosa was.

Stuffed with curried potatoes and peas then folded into tight triangles, these were the samosa I was first acquainted with. Popping them straight onto my tongue from the bubbling oil without a second thought would have me letting off the steam with my gaping mouth between grins and greasy stained fingers from the turmeric stirred into this magic mix. These were general fixtures in my Indian grandmother’s house served with a side of mint chutney and later, dominated Ramadan as a simple accompaniment to soup in my Egyptian mother’s home.

At many oriental iftar buffets and at homes of friends from the Levant, I’d spot these little lovelies, shiny skinned and crisp to the tooth, next to others — soft half moons and the doughy tetrahedrons, sported in many contrasting pastry crusts and fleshy fillings to suit the various cravings of those breaking their fast. If I had given in to my whims, I don’t think I would have eaten anything during Ramadan but fat stacks of these Indian-influenced vegetable samosas and Lebanese crescent-shaped sambusak, filled with ground beef and made lively with pine nuts. In fact, I enjoy these pastries, Asian and Middle Eastern alike, so much that I would probably eat them in secret and in defiance if the Middle East decided to adopt Somali group Al Shabaab’s fatwa banning samosas that, according to them, are too western and resemble the Christian Holy Trinity.

Believed to have originated in Central Asia before the 10th century, the Uzbeks still call it somsa, similar to its original name, samsa. The Iranians, as my friend in Malaysia introduced me, call them sambusa these days, but were once recorded in Persian history as “sanbosag”. Similar to the pasties that were eaten by tin miners in Cornwall for their easy handling, samosas were also thought to be injected into Indian culture by the Muslim traders and soldiers who carried them in saddlebags on long journeys after preparing them, many at a time, during their rest stops.

This is a simple recipe, given that you’re fine with the heat of frying. In essence, all you need to do is begin preparing early, make large quantities at a time and freeze them in between layers of baking paper to avoid them sticking to one another as they love to do. There are recipes for all kinds of dough and the filling may be used to stuff your own homemade dough. I chose the easy way out with these store-bought wrappers because I can use Ramadan as an excuse for a little laziness as most of us do.

Beef & Pine Nut Samosa
You’ll need:
30-35 samosa wrappers
500 grams of ground beef
1 large onion
2-3 cloves of garlic, depending on strength
¼ cup of beef stock
½ teaspoon of cinnamon
¼ teaspoon of cumin
¼ cup of pine nuts
Salt and freshly ground pepper
1 large egg + 1 teaspoon of flour, beaten to make a paste

Keep the samosa wrappers covered with a damp towel while preparing the beef to keep them soft. In a large pan on medium-high heat, add the onions and garlic until fragrant and translucent then the ground beef. Stir the beef into the onions and garlic until combined then cook, stirring every few minutes, until browned. Add the cinnamon, cumin, salt and pepper and mix then pour in the beef stock and stir in the pine nuts. Lower your heat and leave to cook until the stock has been absorbed. Turn off your heat and leave to cool.

At the bottom of each samosa pastry strip, brush the bottom of the side closest to you with egg wash then fold over the pastry from the opposite corner to create an open-sided triangle. Spoon some of the beef filling (1 full teaspoon to 1½ teaspoons) into the pocket you’ve created. Tuck the filling into the pocket and fold it over more than once until you reach the end of the wrapper. Before sealing, tuck in any protruding samosa paper then seal the edge by brushing with egg wash. Repeat with the rest of the wrappers. Freeze the ones you won’t fry for later at this stage. Deep fry in hot vegetable oil (not olive oil) for a minute then remove when golden and crispy. Do not crowd your oil with samosas to allow each one adequate space. Drain well from the oil before serving.

Finding Ramadan

As featured in The Egypt Monocle
My first Ramadan in Cairo after years away has rolled in and with it a slew of television shows crammed with farcical advertising that I don’t watch, extravagantly sweet desserts that I haven’t eaten and a generous spirit of camaraderie that has me puzzled as to where it annually disappears after the boisterous celebration of Eid.

Restaurants have asked their social media accounts to bombard those unfortunate enough to be following them with incessant updates on iftar and sohour menu rotation schedules along with everything in between: sugar, shisha and Ramadan tent reservations. In a month that is revered for the calm it brings, many instead go into overdrive, exhausting their bodies with food and fruity clouds of smoke.

Remembering the first Ramadan in Kuala Lumpur, I realize now that it was quite dismal. We missed our bustling city, our nosy people and the feeling of our energy plummeting after a heavy family meal. Being invited out for iftar or what they call “berbuka puasa” — literally “to open the fast” in Bahasa Melayu, an anxious wave undulated through me hinting that I was on foreign ground, that the Egyptian Ramadan traditions that had long been implanted in me were shaken.

This unfamiliarity eased as the years passed and we gradually fell into a not-so-Egyptian, not-so-Malaysian routine that suited our recent married-couple habits. We’d begin with a soup poured steaming into a mug then would sit in the humidity, looking out at Kuala Lumpur from our balcony on the 21st floor. A proper iftar was to follow two hours later, after the karkade and the tea with milk; and in this way, my body would not drag and would not crave a hazelnut-studded round of basboosa waiting in my dreams to be consumed in its entirety. My stomach had adapted and my traditions had been reset.

Coming back to experience the same Ramadan buzz, the hard sell that Cairo shoves at the fasting, I feel out of place. I now yearn for a smoking hot chicken tikka colored bright red for my eyes to eat too, a South Indian sambar for my taste buds to dance and to finish, a delicate roti gula, a sugary bread, similar in appearance and flavor to our local feteer.

In time, I will get reaccustomed to my original home. I will find my appetite for konafa and tiptoe to the fridge for secret spoonfuls of leftover rice but for now, I will accept iftar invitations with a smile and an inner desire to stay home until my mind wraps itself around the traditions that it has lost touch with. I will make rice that you might not be used to but it will, to me, signal the smells of a recently lost home. It’s good to be back Cairo, but in my home this Ramadan, I need to reinvent your flavors, taking ingredients in an Egyptian kitchen and giving them a little Indian twist to answer to my Asian cravings.

Tomato Almond Basmati
You’ll need:
1 cup of basmati rice, uncooked
2 tablespoons of ghee
4 cloves of garlic, minced
1 small onion, finely diced
½ cup of almonds, peeled and halved
Juice of half a lime
¼ cup + 2 tablespoons of tomato paste
1½ cup of water
1 teaspoon of sugar
½ teaspoon chilli powder
½ teaspoon of ground cumin
1 bird’s eye chilli, finely sliced
1 cinnamon stick, around 10 cm in length
Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste

Rinse the basmati rice in cold water until the water runs clear then drain. In a separate pan, toast the almonds until golden and set aside.

In a medium heavy-bottomed pot, melt the ghee on medium heat. Add the cumin, cinnamon and chili powder and stir to combine. Add the garlic and onions and cook until fragrant. They should not get any color on them. Add the tomato paste and stir the contents of the pot together then add the rice, water, lemon juice, sugar, salt and pepper. Bring to a rapid boil and leave to boil for a minute. Lower the heat and cover. Do not disturb the rice or lift the lid for around 12 minutes. Turn the heat off and leave to stand covered for another 5-10 minutes. Fluff with a fork before serving and top with toasted almonds.

Figs & Fear

As featured in The Egypt Monocle

I stepped into the kitchen, freshly cleaned for us, the new tenants from Egypt. Grey corian countertops, white cabinets and an aging fridge welcomed me into the square room that I would now force myself to enter routinely. Dishes would eventually pile up and we would, sooner than later, need to stop eating out like tourists every night.There were no mommies to send the newly married couple food to hoard in our freezer. 

There was no Cairo where I lived in the office and everything was delivered. This was the reality of things. For my first week in Malaysia, there was only a fancy supermarket across the street and shelves to fill to inhabit this space I’d learn to call home.

This is how I started cooking — out of obligation and the need to learn a new skill that I didn’t expect would keep me entertained.At first, I dumped ingredients familiar to me into the shopping cart, reaching out for things I’d see in my mother’s kitchen. I started stocking spices in bulk and bought herbs in quantities so absurd, they’d go to waste. It would take a while before I learned to properly use these integral elements I had lying around, but after weeks of cutting chicken like a caveman, overcooking beef and under-baking cake, I got the hang of it, albeit with a little help from the internet, some classes and a few aggressive songs blaring on my kitchen speakers.

Today, you could say that I was lucky to be allowed that faraway space to create, to absorb from my foreign surroundings and remove myself from the way things were done back home; but I wouldn’t agree. I would tell you that it was not Malaysia that drove me to find my devotion for cooking but instead, a longing to dislodge a disability of mine, a fear caught at the base of my throat, that of never being able to feed myself properly in my own home.

I have been approached by many wanting to cultivate their kitchen skills — through emails, at dinner parties, in passing. Each used it as an opportunity to find out what it was that made me “kitchen-confident” but in truth, there are no secrets, only a few additional observations that helped me.

Read: The more I got into those books and online articles, the faster I understood technique.

Practice: The faster you’re able to quarter a whole chicken, the quicker you’ll be able to progress to levels that require lesser amounts of fear.

When looking at a food item, think of different uses for it. A bottle of milk is not designed to be an afterthought in your morning coffee but a silky béchamel, a trembling crème caramel and with a little added acidity, paneer, a non-melting Indian cheese.

Realize that many dishes are simple to make despite their intimidating appearances while others that look casually thrown together are not so easy to achieve.

This recipe may interest your guests in Ramadan, one that is bold in flavor, basic in concept and does not require much skill, just some focus. You can use it as a jam for your midnight snack, stir its chunkiness into yogurt, or serve it with a creamy scoop of vanilla ice cream after iftar. Purée it and you’ll have a rich syrup that would comfortably pair with fried qatayef, a dollop of thick cream and a sugary drizzle of a karkade and fig blend to top it all off.

Spiced Karkade & Fig Compote

You’ll need
4 cups of prepared karkade, sweetened
8 cloves, whole
3 whole bay leaves
⅛ teaspoon of ground cinnamon
A pinch of ground black pepper
6 grams of ginger, minced
360 grams of dried figs
The juice of 1 lime
70 grams of almonds
1½ teaspoon of white sesame

1 teaspoon of nigella seeds

In a medium-sized pot, pour in the karkade along with the cloves, cinnamon, black pepper, ginger and bay leaves. Bring to a rapid boil then lower the heat and leave to simmer for 20 minutes. In the meantime, quarter the dried figs and roughly chop the almonds. Set the figs aside. In a separate pan, toast the almonds lightly. Remove from the pan then add the sesame and nigella seeds to the same pan and toast until the white sesame seeds begin to change color.After your 20 minutes have passed, remove the bay leaves and cloves then add the lime juice. Add the figs to the karkade then the almonds, sesame and nigella seeds. Stir then simmer on low heat for 40 to 45 minutes. Once your compote becomes sticky and begins to pull away at the sides, remove from the heat and leave to cool before serving. To store, spoon into a jar and seal tightly.

A Way to Eat

If I were to map out my life through the memories of my stomach, I would pair my fondest moments with one particular element — my hands needing a good wash from the powdery leftover wheat bran of baladi bread, a staining turmeric-rich sauce or the fatty gloss of deep-fried chicken skin.

It is true that I might not appreciate the drippings of a wet burger slithering down my forearm, especially in public, but there is an increased feeling of well being, of being human, of connecting with where I came from by eating with no cutlery.

Growing up in an Egyptian-Indian household, I learned early on that there were dishes — curries, pizzas and tacos — that we could eat with our hands while other meals subjected me to the rigid rules of table settings, which fork goes with what coupled with stern looks from my mother.

I noticed that we would dip our fingers into plates far more often when we’d visit India. While in Egypt, we rarely used our hands as we grew older, to ghammes, to dip our bread into a sauce of some kind; although Om Khaled, our housekeeper, insisted that in her home, she had to make a side dish for her husband to dip his bread into if what she was making included no sauce. His meal would never be complete without it; such was tradition.

Several years ago, my mother observed at a family lunch that using a torn piece of bread, I scooped up my bamia, an Egyptian tomato-based okra stew, with my thumb, pointer and middle finger alone, in the same fashion as my father, whom I have not seen for many years. This habit starting generations before me, as a part of North Indian etiquette, was transferred to me without much of a thought on my part. And as I partake in eating with my hands, pigeon and fuul, among Egyptian friends, I realize that the way I ghammes is not so Egyptian after all.

Guests in Kuala Lumpur were always more laid-back than in Cairo, taking off their shoes as they enter your house, eating with no pretensions, gauging the temperature, the heat of the chili and the initial textures of my food with their hands. It was comfortable to have people over for dinner; none of the excessive pleasantries and politeness we enforce upon ourselves when invited into another Egyptian home.

What is apparent is that more nationalities than not eat with their hands, from a simple metal bowl or a banana leaf, in a thali or from a carefully constructed sushi platter. I am not advocating a complete switch but would like to see things eaten the way they should be, at least somewhat. It would also be nice to teach our children that eating with your hands is not something to look down upon and that there’s no better way to eat a paper dosa, a fermented rice and lentil crispy crêpe, than feeling the crunch with your fingers first.

As featured in The Egypt Monocle

Basic Breadsticks

You’ll need
1½ cups of all-purpose flour, sifted
½ teaspoon of salt
½ teaspoon of instant yeast
1½ tablespoon of honey
1 tablespoon of olive oil
½ cup of room temperature water
1 egg + 1 tablespoon of cold water, whisked together
Sea salt
Freshly ground pepper
Nigella seeds
Caraway seeds

Combine together the flour, salt, honey, yeast, olive oil and water and mix to form a ball. Dust some flour onto your counter and move the dough onto it. Knead the dough until everything is mixed together and you get a dough that is medium in firmness.

Transfer to a greased bowl and leave to rest for an hour and a half or until it doubles in size. Preheat oven to 175 degrees Celsius and line a baking sheet with baking paper before working for a second time with the dough.

When done rising, punch down the dough and transfer it back to the counter. Knead for 8 to 10 minutes until it gets pliable and stretchy. Divide it into equal pieces. Make sure to cover the pieces you’re not working with. One at a time, roll each piece out into a rectangle and brush it with egg wash. Sprinkle on adequate sea salt, pepper and both nigella and caraway seeds. Cut the dough with a pizza cutter into equal strips and twist each one. Place them on the baking sheet with equal widths between each. Bake for approximately 15 minutes. Allow to cool completely before serving.

Rave Reviews & a 3-Bean Salad

As featured in The Egypt Monocle

It is a rare occasion to find me visiting a Cairo restaurant based on a local review; but how much of this is my fault, this fear that I should not trust what is seemingly penned down without an afterthought? Do I skip over errors in technique descriptors and succumb to a world of uninteresting words that gives me nothing but cues that the reviewer cannot move past terms like “mouth-watering,” “amazing” and, I say this with a sigh, “perfect”?

Today, many Egyptians who have not stepped foot in a kitchen have decidedly taken on the online job of restaurant critic, with a virtuoso opinion that is customarily courteous and inclusive of the word “yummy,” that disregards the gray and congealed sauce that has been served atop a dry and under-seasoned steak.

It is known that the internet has opened doors to many who would in the 1980s have had no place to sound their voices. Food blogs and restaurant review aggregators have come to Egypt. We are now able to click through a multitude of links that invite us to eat at neighborhood restaurants through our screens and other people’s palates but most of the verbiage dedicated to restaurants ends up similar in style: dazzled amateurs happy with their cozy new positions, preferring not to write anything if they didn’t like the food.

It takes thick skin to tell the truth and most reviews have been ultimately forgiving about the food and service. On some days, the glorification and praise know no bounds and we are left to wonder how many of those favorable reviews are concealing a simple monthly fee.

There are ways to fix this doomed scenario we’re living in. It just takes some effort in between eating and kowtowing to the popular.

If you’re planning on becoming a published restaurant critic, begin to draw on your experiences as both an eater and a cook. If you have never cooked, get yourself into the kitchen and begin following tested recipes from reputable sources, both traditional and others with international flavors that may be fresh and unusual when paired. Learn what the world considers good.

Work on your writing skills; poorly constructed reviews will often be taken less seriously. Prove yourself through detailed pieces over a lengthy period of time. Visit the restaurant at least three times before liberally handing out your review, cover as many menu items as possible and check for consistency. If you’re going to be reviewing, no free meals should be accepted.

Do not hide behind your reviews claiming that you are only an amateur. If you’re regularly providing the market with reviews, you’ll need to get better. Recognize how hard the process can be: eating, having a critical opinion, maintaining anonymity at the restaurant, taking notes, revisiting and writing as honestly and intricately as possible to convey the atmosphere of said place.

Finally and for the love of our country, find a better word for “delicious.”

Three Bean Salad
You’ll need
70 grams edamame, shelled and cooked
90 grams black eyed peas, cooked
70 grams chickpeas, cooked
2 tablespoons of scallions, chopped
1 small onion, diced
1 clove of garlic, minced
1 medium red pepper, diced
1 tablespoon of sugar
2 tablespoons of apple cider vinegar
1½ tablespoon of vegetable oil
Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste

In a pot, boil some salted water and add the edamame in small handfuls. Cook for 4-5 minutes and drain in a colander. Set aside to cool. Once cool, remove from their shells and place in your salad bowl.

Prepare another pot of salted water. Place the black eyed peas in the water then bring it to the boil. Allow to boil for 3 minutes then lower the heat. Simmer for another 30 minutes then drain. When the black eyed peas have cooled, place them with the shelled edamame in the salad bowl.

If you’re using canned chickpeas, drain and rinse before using. If you’re using fresh, allow to soak overnight before cooking the next day. To cook, place them in a pot of cold water and bring to the boil. Reduce the heat immediately and simmer until tender and plump. Drain and cool. When they’ve lost some heat, add them to your salad bowl. Toss the beans together.

In a small bowl, mix together the sugar, vinegar, oil, salt, pepper, onions, scallions and garlic and pour over your salad. Mix and chill before serving.

Orzo Chicken Salad & Letters to Friends

As featured in the Foodbuzz Top 9 (May 8th, 2012)

In early January 2011, Heba El Kayal, Lifestyle Editor of what recently was The Daily News Egypt, reached out to me, spinning my head with her subdued charm. Setting a date on email to Skype, I wondered what it was that she would ask me and why she had chosen me to interview, an unemployed Egyptian food blogger living in Kuala Lumpur.  All I had ever done was milk out every bit of silliness I had in me for my blog, that coupled with a recipe to go along with said dose of triviality.

Meeting her for the first time through a screen allowed me a glimpse of cold Cairo on a winter morning. Having had to suffer through many a female more concerned with proving through her dress sense that she had what it required to pull off her job, Heba caught me off-guard. A connection was formed at once. 

Bundled up on her bed in a robe and glasses, she greeted me as an old friend as I was quickly taken through the history of The Daily News Egypt. She was interviewing me because she was always on the look out for new talent. She was interviewing me because she thought I deserve some recognition. I did not see myself as talent; just effort and a little luck. 

Today, I have been the weekly food columnist for a year and a good quarter. The Daily News Egypt interview about my blog resulted in an opportunity to write regularly, to sharpen my skills, and most rewarding of all, to find sisterhood in a passerby. 

Heba, I cannot express my appreciation enough - for the days you pushed me to get out of my funk and fly, for the days you embraced my weaknesses and often, sadness. Thank you for being my editor, my keeper, my friend.  

Orzo Chicken Salad
You'll need:
1/2 cup of orzo
1.5 cups of chicken stock
1.5 cups of water
150 grams of grilled chicken, shredded
1 large red bell pepper, diced (I used 1 small red & 1 small yellow)
7 large kalamata olives, seeded and chopped
1 clove of garlic, minced
1 big handful of chives, snipped
3 tablespoons of olive oil 
Juice of 1 lime
1 teaspoon of whole grain mustard
1/4 teaspoon of chili powder
Salt and pepper to taste

Bring the water and chicken stock to a boil. Add the orzo to the pot and stir for a moment to ensure that it doesn't stick to the bottom. Cook uncovered until the orzo is al dente. While the pasta is cooking, combine the chicken, bell peppers and olives in a large bowl. Mix half of the chives into the salad. When the orzo is ready, strain and toss through the other ingredients. In a small bowl, mix together the olive oil, lime juice, mustard, chili powder, garlic, salt and pepper to make a light dressing and pour over the orzo salad mixing gently as you go along to ensure it coats the salad ingredients. Garnish with the second half of snipped chives and serve chilled.  

Salmon and zucchini in the rush of the city

As featured in The Daily News Egypt

For years, my phone would not ring. It would rest beside me, disturbing nothing, a simple prop in the room. To Cairo, Kuala Lumpur was at the farthest corner of our Earth and needed no attention paid except for the dreamy package deal honeymoon of a once in a lifetime experience, “Malaysia, truly Asia.” The fact that I had moved there meant nothing to those Cairenes surrounding me other than that I had chosen to trade my tiring job for a fantasy four years away.

During my first few months back in Cairo, I spotted a new pattern that scattered the retelling of my day into tidbits of “before I spoke to” and “after I spoke to”; my phone learned to catch its breath briefly before making way for another long call. Finally finding time to sit with a saucy plate of moussaka, a Cairene would interrupt as with every meal, because there is never enough time to drop by in the flesh.

I have managed to maintain discussing matters with friends on the phone for months, never catching a glimpse of their shapes, their changed body language, the newly-formed rings around their fatigue-filled eyes; that is until Cairo forced me up and out of my shell, gently nudging me with business opportunities as a reminder to connect with other like-minded ones.

This week, I was invited to a small get-together of online acquaintances and in between bites of deep-colored beetroot, felt for the first time like an outsider, unable to grasp the number of new changes that have taken place in my Cairo, that have shifted in between the openings of new restaurants I had never been to. I couldn't recognize the new friendships that had already been formed, alliances I didn't know were there. I was officially thrust into Egypt's “food business” and was gradually gaining recognition, but will food take away my peace of mind? Will it also become the job that consumes me, that ravages my nerves?

Cairo has an ability to suck you into the giant machine it has become, turning you into one of its wheels, spinning to find a way to flaunt your individuality. Despite my loyalty to the city, I cannot help but compare it to the calm that surrounded me for so long, which I can now only remember as the light-handed tinkering of chopsticks and quiet families sinking into their white bowls of rice, not the buzz of Cairo, of boisterous conversation that encircles a table lined with forgotten crispy pigeon and cunningly arranged fruit desserts.

Our palates are changing and our restaurant scene is at last growing positively, Cairo; this pleases me and allows me to agree with destiny that I could not have chosen a better time to come back and get involved. So for now, I shall follow through with my current deadline but shall find some calm in my kitchen, away from the restaurants, away from the job that food has become and make salmon.

An exceedingly popular fish in upper crust Cairo, this trembling pink meat has steadily gained in popularity throughout history. It pleases the palates of those that enjoy their food untouched by heat while equally exciting the mouths of those that require their food to meet a scorching flame and a temperature to guarantee thorough cooking. It needs no fuss and this is why I chose it for a much needed quiet night with my companion for life, my husband.

Pan-seared salmon with sumac-tossed zucchini and chilli tomatoes
You'll need:2 salmon fillets
1 tablespoon of Worcestershire sauce
2 slices of lemon
25 grams of butter
The zest of half a lemon
Salt and pepper to season

For the chilli tomatoes:1 large tomato
1 tablespoon of olive oil
¼ teaspoon of chilli powder
¼ teaspoon of cumin
Salt and pepper to taste

For the summac-tossed zucchini:4 small zucchini, halved lengthwise
¼ teaspoon of ground black pepper
1½ teaspoons of summac
1½ tablespoon of olive oil
Salt to taste

With each salmon fillet, score the skin about one half inch deep. Score down the entire length of the fillet. In each score, sprinkle a little salt. In a small bowl, mix together the lemon zest, Worcestershire sauce, lemon zest and pepper. Place the salmon on a plate and glaze it with the mixture on both sides; top each fillet with lemon slices and leave to rest in the fridge for 20 minutes.

Place a pan over medium heat and melt the butter until it gets frothy. Allow the pan to get hot before adding the salmon fillets skin-side down. Don't fiddle with it and don't turn it over for approximately 7-8 minutes. The skin will crisp up and the flesh will have cooked through except for the top. Turn the fish over carefully and baste it with the pan juices as it continues to cook for 1 minute. Turn the heat off but leave the salmon in the pan to remain warm as you plate.

For the tomato: Cut the tomato into thick even slices. Sprinkle the tomato slices with spices and seasonings on both sides. In a large pan, heat 1 tablespoon of olive oil on medium heat. Once the oil is hot, arrange the tomatoes in the pan and leave them for a minute and a half before flipping them over to the other side. Cook for another minute or two until the tomatoes are tender to the touch and have started to color. Take them off the heat and reserve for plating.

For the zucchini: Coat the halved zucchini in olive oil then dust with sumac and black pepper. Finish off with salt and place in a hot pan on medium-high heat. Cook for 3-5 minutes and toss frequently. Remove from the heat when fork-tender. Reserve for plating.

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.

A roasted tomato macaroni for the unpresent

As featured in The Daily News Egypt

I know a boy with a golden smile that outshines his speckled eyes and curly locks woven with tones of clear honey and pale lager. A deliberately early riser, he gets high on dancing in front of the television and playing air guitar while the rest of our home sleeps. There are days I hear him, bumbling about, making happy sounds against his cereal bowl with the edge of a spoon; these noisy melodies help rainy mornings pass comfortably, as I snuggle deeper into my white duvet, imploring my adult self to find her hunger for new experiences and go forth unabashedly into the day.

Returning to the memory of the day I first met him, I remember thinking determinedly, “I want to be part of this.”

At the time, it did not occur to me that being a stepmother involved so much more than bearing the weight of an ugly stereotype; but oftentimes I do not rationalize things and so I leapt in, oozing with outward confidence, hoping to be that stepmotherly change I wanted to see in the world. With that, my plate had become surprisingly full.

Swept away by my stepson's passion, our clean-lined kitchen became a place bubbling with ideas as we opened ourselves up to new flavors. Always looking for more seductive ways to feed our newly assembled family, we all wanted to be do our part: my husband with his proficient grilling skills, my stepdaughter with her remarkable kneading abilities, my stepson with his delicate touch and discernible palate, and me — always trying to fit in.

Moving them farther and farther away from their bad eating habits, my stepchildren began to sincerely give in to their now ripened lust for good food. Do they still eat with the abandonment they learned in our home or have they reverted back to their plain-pasta-eating, bottled-salad-dressing selves? I do not know.

It has now been one year, one month and one day since we have last seen or spoken to the children. For reasons that stem from a bitter divorce, the children are paying the price of a dissolved marriage, the same way I once had to do with my parents.

Shutting our kitchen down for a few months except for the odd dish here and there to remind us that we still live in a functioning home albeit of two, it became difficult to find the inspiration to conjure up new dishes again. Equally harrowing was the meticulous making of previously cherished family meals. I have not had buttery mashed potatoes, pureed to a smooth velvet, since the first week of January 2011, or what I like to call “the incident.”

Will I only see the boy with the golden smile when his hair has darkened, older like his father's buzz cut, tinged with nuances of roasted stout and milk chocolate? Will I twirl through our living room again with my bright-eyed stepdaughter after a mutual chili-high from generous lappings of Tom Yum Goong? Should I forget about them and what I have taught them because I am their mere stepmother?

I cannot answer these questions. I can only say that it doesn't matter which house they're at, they'll always eat pasta with a tomato-based sauce and today for the first time I'm making a proper one without them. My growing girl would enjoy it with a thicker sauce while my boy with a sensitive stomach would prefer it light and fresh.

This recipe balances out both with a little bit of new: thick and chunky tomato flesh slowly roasted, a snappy sting of fresh chives and the elimination of heavy, concentrated tomato paste finished off with thin slices of unmelted Italian Pecorino cheese. I only hope that one day I'll be able to share this with them as I have with you. Until then, I'll hold on to a wish that someone with a moral code can take a look at our laws because I'd like to live in an Egypt where fathers can see their children and where I don't have to worry about what they're spraying on my food.

Roasted Tomato Elbow Macaroni

You’ll need:
4 large tomatoes
½ a sweet red onion, finely diced
2 cloves of garlic, finely minced
¼ cup of breadcrumbs
2 tablespoons of olive oil
1½ tablespoons of unsalted butter
400 grams of dry pasta
1 teaspoon of granulated sugar
A handful of chives, snipped with scissors
1/3 cup of Pecorino, shaved
Salt and black pepper to taste

Cook the macaroni in a pot of boiling salted water for approximately 8 minutes or until al dente. Reserve ¼ cup of the pasta liquid. Drain the macaroni. Place the tomatoes whole in a large baking dish and pop into the oven heated at 180 degrees Celsius. Roast for an hour or until the skin breaks and the tomato flesh becomes tender. If the tomatoes begin to brown, turn down the heat to 160 degrees Celsius. When the tomatoes are done, remove from the oven and set aside until they cool slightly. Remove the vines and crush with your hands into a bowl. In a large pan, toast the breadcrumbs then reserve in a small bowl. Heat 2 tablespoons of oil and 1½ tablespoons of butter over medium heat. Add the onions and garlic and stir until soft. Pour in the crushed tomatoes and sugar. Cook for 5 minutes before stirring in the pasta liquid. Bring your sauce to a boil. Reduce heat and cook for 7-8 minutes. Season with salt and black pepper. Add pasta and cook for another minute while tossing to coat the pasta in sauce. Remove from the heat and sprinkle with shaved Pecorino, breadcrumbs and snipped chives.