Unboxing fluffy vanilla bean pancakes

As featured in The Daily News Egypt

There's a calming medicament in our home for the common cold; it paints in tinges of pink the cheeks of the runny-nosed, enlivens the spirits of the feverishly faint, and layers the room with the luxurious scent of true vanilla: pancakes.

Taking short minutes to measure and mix, the batter comes together with ease, making it undemanding of me— the temporarily ill as well. In between the dappled sunlight and fierce winds of this Cairene winter, pancakes keep me warm.

There are as many kinds of pancakes out there as there are people who make them, but in essence the term “pancake” stems from an age-old world history of quick bread, cooked on a heated pan, eaten at any time seen fit and with a rich array of spreads, toppings and fillings. Tagenias, the earliest form of pancakes recorded in 5th century BC texts, were mentioned by comic poets, Cratinus and Magnes. Made from wheat flour, honey, olive oil and curdled milk, these pancakes were prepared on frying pans and served hot for breakfast. Today, tagenias, or pancakes, have been adapted by cultures worldwide to suit the unique taste buds of their region.

Visiting Paris as a child did not strike the chord in me that seemed to reverberate with emotion in many adults. I only cared to visit small sidewalk cafés in hopes that I would skim the foam away from my mother’s frothy café au lait and onto my dessert spoon making it mine; I only cared to watch slender ladies and gangly men evenly spreading out their secret batter to cover even the utmost edges of their griddle, making crêpes as thin as the finest and most translucent of chiffon.

As I grew older, my love for quick hotcakes, thick and thin, grew and extended to my affection for waffles, equally tempting with deep holding pots for warm syrup; but special is a pancake that retains its original pancake flavor, unmoved by the slosh of syrup, the heavy hand of clingy jam.

Saddened by the countless soggy pancakes I've had in my life that insist on behaving in sponge-like fashion, soaking up the wetness to make way for moisture, it was evident that there was need for better measurements and higher expectations; a way to prove that pancakes were indeed capable of imparting both sweet and savory notes.

These fluffy rounds of simplicity that I’m sharing with you, made up of butter, flour, eggs and milk, develop a thin crust, a shield if you may, from the tragedy that is spongy pancakes. Lightly resting atop the salt-edged pancake, your topping keeps its personality and substance, merging only in your mouth. Watching with excitement as my batter’s bubbles rise and pop, luxuriating in the satisfying smell of black vanilla woven through, there is no better remedy for the self-pity that comes when being sick.

Fluffy Vanilla Bean Pancakes

You'll need:3 cups and 2 tablespoons of cake flour
½ heaped teaspoon of salt
3 tablespoons of baking powder
2 tablespoons of sugar
2½ cups of low-fat milk
3 medium eggs
Paste of 1 whole vanilla bean
2 teaspoons of vanilla extract
60 grams of butter
Additional butter for your topping
The toppings of your choice

In a large bowl, mix all your dry ingredients together. No need to sift. In a separate bowl, mix the milk, eggs and vanilla and whisk lightly to combine. Add the wet ingredients to the dry ingredients, stirring gently until combined. The batter will look and feel lumpy; this is the way it should be. Melt your 60 grams of butter and add it to the batter, gently mixing just until it comes together. Turn your heat on to medium and grease your large pan with butter or oil spray. Place on the heat and pour the batter in ¼ cup amounts. Cook on one side until set and colored. The batter will bubble on top; the bubbles will then begin to pop. Flip over carefully and cook for a minute before removing and stacking them, one on top of the other. When serving, add a bit of butter on your pancake stack then liberally add your chosen liquid topping before eating.

Note: You can choose to eliminate the vanilla bean and replace it with one additional teaspoon of vanilla extract.

Breaded fish tikka for the picky eater

As featured in The Daily News Egypt

I've been on a bad food binge. Throughout years of conscientious Asian-influenced eating in Kuala Lumpur, I missed the grease that many Egyptian dishes brought to the many mouths I've shared meals with. “Bring it on, Cairo!” I squealed as my big feet clumsily trampled onto the Egyptian soil that they so sorely missed, warm with coatings of blessed sunlight.

I had dreamed of a rice-stuffed peppered pigeon slipping through my fingers as I grip it with my teeth; thick flakes of green pistachios dotting old-fashioned stretchy mastic ice cream clinging to my dessert spoon. Four years of cravings abroad had resurfaced to thoughtlessly wreak havoc in my stomach. After a short three months, I've learned my lesson well.

What I am yet to comprehend is how we are not giving ourselves the chance to miss this nagging urge for some extra fat, how we are replacing our native dietary habits with fat-laden imported ideas. The only conclusion I can provide lies somewhere in the realm of distressed emotions that heavily influence our eating habits, today more than ever. With an overwhelming job or an overpowering family, Egyptians are sticking to comfort food like Velcro, letting out an aching screech when pulled away.

Maybe we continue to treat ourselves as repressed children who cannot become anything but picky eaters because that is the only escape, the sole personality trait we've got left to call our own.

Unmarried adults obligated to live in their parents' homes despite their age turn to eating out more often, openly chomping on snacks that their parents once said and still say they should not consume. Younger newlyweds, with various new pressures placed upon them, shun their homely eating habits to incorporate many hefty recipes that rely heavily on the packaged food industry, filling their lives with a heightened risk of illness and future heartache. And many of our children, especially children of the educated, are the biggest victims of their parents' lost values – frozen breaded chicken and French fries have become their ultimate companions at meal time.

Meeting many Egyptian honeymooners in Malaysia, you would think that those couples were filled with an adventurous spirit but adventure in Egyptians appears in many activities, seldom in their eating. Traveling far from home, many of us stay and sup in reminders of our beloved country, steering clear of anything remotely Eastern that is not “ours”.

After a while, I could predict more often than not that the majority of Egyptian honeymooners would end up at a place like Planet Hollywood. I've even known honeymooners to eat a double whammy of Pizza Hut and Kentucky Fried Chicken for the length of their stay while tangy sauces, succulent seafood and soft and sweet Chinese bread buns were around the corner.

Why are we making way for flab? Why are we allowing it to become an extension of our emotions? Why can't we break free? I understand that it is not an easy habit to break but a seemingly minute change can make all the difference — all I ask is to stop or even limit your buying of frozen breaded chicken, frozen burgers, frozen kofta and frozen crepes. All it takes is one night of the week to prepare these and freeze them yourselves.

Let go of your old hang-ups. If you're still living in your parents' house, learn to cook already. You might teach them a thing or two. If you're not, search for your adult palate and give new flavors a chance to pop in your mouth. For the time being, marinate fish fillets in a revised way, ethnicize them with the ancient aromas of India, cover with breadcrumbs and pan-fry in sizzling butter. It's not a hard thing to do.

Besides, let's do what we're good at — let's batter those delicate flavors of life until we can learn to openly (and politely) express our honest feelings, tame our invisible flames of wrath and eat like grown ups should.

Breaded Fish Tikka

You'll need:
2 fillets of white fish
125 grams of yogurt
1 tablespoon of lemon juice (½ a large lemon)
1 teaspoon of chili powder
1 scant teaspoon of ground turmeric
½ teaspoon of ground ginger
½ teaspoon of ground cinnamon
¼ teaspoon of allspice
¼ teaspoon of ground coriander
5-7 drops of hot sauce, optional
A pinch of black pepper
coarse salt, to taste
2 tablespoons of vegetable oil
4 tablespoons of butter

Empty the yogurt into a bowl. Add the chili powder, turmeric, ginger, cinnamon, allspice, ground coriander, pepper, salt and lemon juice. Stir until completely incorporated – no lumps or uneven tones.

Arrange your fish on a tray and pat dry with a paper towel. Place the fillets carefully, laying flat and side by side, in a large food storage bag. Pour the previously prepared marinade into the bag. Stick one hand in and lightly rub the marinade into the fish on both sides. When you're done, seal the bag and place it on a plate to avoid breaking the fillet. Chill it in the refrigerator until ready to cook. I prefer to leave it to soak in the flavors for a few hours.

When you're ready to cook, pour the breadcrumbs onto a plate. Cut the storage bag open with a pair of scissors and remove one fish fillet at a time dipping it first on one side into the breadcrumbs and then slowly turning it over to coat the other side and set aside on a clean plate. Repeat with the rest.

Heat the oil and the butter in a frying pan on medium heat. Once the butter begins to foam, lay your fish down and let it fry for 4-5 minutes on each side. Be careful when you're flipping over the fish. Salt and serve immediately. This can also be baked.

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.

A Sunny Lemon Curd

As featured in The Daily News Egypt

I stepped into a friend's cramped kitchen, cluttered with crusty teaspoons taking a mud bath in coffee-stained mugs, working to sustain the whims of a bachelor who would order out more often than not. Despite my friend's phony cries for help, there was not much I could do with a shiny fridge that housed a few soda cans and individual-sized bottled water alone.

Only a week after contemplating my friend's dilemma of having only a small electric cooker and a microwave to work with, I found myself in a similar situation, living for the most part in a single room that contains a small four-burner gas cooker with a pleasantly-sized temperamental oven, a sofa set, a television, a mini-fridge and a bathroom that worked twice as hard – also functioning as a wet kitchen.

Yes, this is temporary until the rest of our home pulls itself away from that construction site look it's sporting these days. Even so, the months living in this room have allowed me to advance in the kitchen and challenge myself, especially considering the lack of equipment.

Some people, in fact many friends, are not waiting for the rest of their homes to be finished and furnished and must make do with simple and often underrated appliances they have around; but fear not for there are many ways to make your small kitchenette work for you —— from creamy puddings and light-weight cakes to making jams and fashioning a well-balanced meal. All it needs is a little research, an attention to detail and a hungry heart.

Just as I was beginning to acknowledge that I was luckier than others to have a proper albeit small gas cooker available in our tight space, my luck ran out as I was about to start baking a dreamy dark chocolate cake studded with crunchy candied peanuts.

The dreaded day arrived when my beloved cooking gas canister ran out. The butane gas crisis disrupting other Egyptian families’ lives finally hit home. I had no source of fire and was left isolated with a cold white microwave.

Deciding not to panic, I called the nearest mini-market that exchanges these magical cooking cylinders. At first, the man on the phone promised he would send it that night. After a few minutes of prodding, he finally admitted that in reality, he could not tell me when he would be able to send me a refill because “as you know, there's a shortage in the country and other people paid for extra ones”.

It has been three days today. I know three things by now: I have received no gas canister; I am not alone in this problem; the price of a replacement canister has gone up to 40-50 EGP instead of the established 10 EGP.

Choosing to make do with what I've been handed although I've been generously offered to borrow an extra one, I wonder how many other families are trying to get by daily with no solution to their seemingly small disaster? Is it fair that many wealthier homes have an extra cylinder or three in case they run out of gas? I'm upset, Egypt. I'm upset because I don't have an answer and someone else has my share of gas.

The only solution I can think of is this: if you too use gas cylinders and you've got a handy microwave or a standby electric cooker, conserve your precious gas for now and kindly refrain from hoarding the cylinders because there are thousands of others out there that may need that extra one more than you.

A microwave has come a long way from reheating food. As of recently, microwaves have a variety of cooking modes, power strengths and grilling options. Funnily enough and although I've stared at the different buttons hundred of times, I've never actually thought to use any of them. It is a little silly of me to admit that I have just realized the capabilities of an invention that has helped me write this column today and that has given me a zesty lemon curd to spread on warm bread, stir into creamy yogurt, fill soft crepes and moist vanilla cakes, or eat straight from the jar.

Lemon Curd

You'll need:
3 eggs, room temperature
1¼ cup of granulated sugar
1 cup of fresh lemon juice (4 -5 large lemons), strained
The zest of 3 large lemons
½ cup of unsalted butter, melted

When you're squeezing the lemons for the lemon juice, make sure to strain it a few times to get a clear juice. This will give you a much smoother lemon curd. Whisk the sugar and eggs consistently in a large microwave-safe bowl until completely combined. Add the lemon juice, lemon zest and the melted butter and whisk again. On full power, cook at one minute intervals. After each minute, stir the mixture and return for another minute. This should take between 4 to 6 minutes. Each microwave differs depending on strength. To know when your lemon curd has finished cooking, dip a metal spoon into it. If your curd coats the back of the spoon, you're ready and shouldn't continue cooking. Remove your freshly prepared lemon curd from the microwave and pour into a clean jar. This will keep in the refrigerator for up to 2 weeks if the jar is tightly sealed.