A slow-roasted duck pasta for the sensible

As featured in The Daily News Egypt

I pressed a thin veil of tissue against my wounded knuckle, watching it absorb the red seeping out. “Stupid grater,” I mumbled as my husband laughed, reasoning with me that it was in reality a simple gadget, incapable of stupidity and that I was what my squash coach once called me — butter fingers.

Despite my limited skill and short-lived efforts at squash and grating, I was determined to prove that I was anything but the clumsy Ms. Butterfingers my close ones made me out to be. Yes, I occasionally trip over raised sidewalk tiles and I'll admit that my unsuspecting knee has had troublesome encounters with protruding table corners, but surely those repeated incidents could not justify calling me such ludicrous names.

Unlike my waned interest in thumping a ball to have it come back at me, I learned to grate correctly and to keep my knuckles away; but most importantly, I threw out my bizarre purchase of a grater that was comprised of an oval-shaped plastic refrigerator box, with interchangeable metal grater covers, that would not stand upright and might with the right lighting excite eager horror movie goers to enter my world of slashed knuckles. In its place, a pleasant box grater arrived with a comfortable white handle and tubed rubber at the base to limit sliding. Soon it was evident that it was sensibility that I might have been lacking and not skill.

New mothers will buy baby food makers, hoping to join the next line of supermoms who make their own gourmet baby food; but could they not use a regular food processor or blender in its place? I am not one to judge for many of us have fallen victim to these gadgets that are piled onto the clutter already accumulating in our kitchens.

You'll find people excited about their new buys: specialized banana slicers that come in sunshine yellow, blue rubber tubes dedicated to easy garlic-peeling, uni-tasking asparagus peelers and even skinny ovens pushed as pizza makers. Do we need any of this?

After a good year of buying products I felt would make my life easier, I bravely faced up to my messy drawers packed with impulse buys and admitted to only needing some strong tools, an organized mind and a focused eye on time.

Getting rid of my miserable garlic press that had only been used once, I understood why Anthony Bourdain, chef and author, called it an “abomination” and connected with his suspicion of the viscid juice that resulted to present us garlic-press owners with something he insists “ain't garlic”.

It would benefit us all to instantly cease the silly spending and concentrate on technique — how to use a knife properly, what knives to buy and how to sharpen them. If we insist on churning out better pizzas at home, it's best to use unglazed quarry tile as a stone to extract moisture and crisp your crust. The kitchen has nothing to do with talent and equipment; there's only practice and an honest desire to gain in skill.

This recipe asks for no fancy gadgets. It commands nothing but time and a sharp knife. Rewarding you with the warmth of steaming pasta, the peppery flavor of rocket and the richness of duck meat, it requires nothing more than a casual night at home as you contemplate the inevitable spring cleaning soon to come.

Pasta with slow-roasted duck and wilted rocket

For the duck, you'll need:

3 duck legs, shredded
Extra salt
½ cup of melted ghee
Salt and pepper to taste

For the pasta:
200 grams of pasta, cooked al dente
2 handfuls of rocket
1-2 tablespoons of duck fat (from the duck legs)
1 tablespoon of butter
4 clove of garlic, finely minced
Salt and pepper to taste

½ cup of walnuts, roughly chopped

Dry the raw duck with a hairdryer. Prick the duck skin with a needle at an angle to avoid piercing the flesh. This allows the duck fat to seep out and crisps the skin. Salt the duck all over using more salt than usual and let it rest for an hour. In a small baking dish small enough to hold them snugly, pour the ghee then place the duck legs skin side up. Pop in the oven and turn the temperature to 140 degrees Celsius. Cook the duck gently for 2 hours. After 1½ hours, the duck should be submerged in melted fat and the skin should begin to crisp. When this happens, turn up your heat to 190 degrees Celsius and leave to crisp until a golden brown. This should take 15 minutes. Remove from the oven and let it rest for 10 minutes before eating whole or shredding for pasta.

In a large pan, melt the duck fat and butter then add the garlic. Cook on medium heat for a minute until garlic is fragrant then add the walnuts and stir. Add the rocket and cook for 2-3 minutes until wilted. Add the shredded duck, season with pepper liberally and salt minimally. Cook for 2 more minutes then add the cooked pasta and toss. Let the flavors meld for 2-3 minutes and serve up individually.

Branching out with a makeshift dal makhni

As featured in The Daily News Egypt

I never thought I would miss Malaysia but I find myself regressing, filling myself with nostalgic desires, hoping to smell the salty stench of tandoori chicken as I lower my window to Cairo's smog. For close to four years, I stalked the streets of Kuala Lumpur, comparing the dated and the new of its streets to my Cairo; wondering which was the better city and if I was the right person to judge.

I preferred how scorchingly sunny Egypt was to Malaysia's glimpses of light that I would so graciously receive between thunderstorms but equally inclined was I to thoroughly enjoy and perhaps favor the street markets, packed with hawker food stalls handing out the free smell of salted chicken gizzard satay, glazed with a sweet peanut sauce and completed with a fat dollop of fried chili paste. I miss the food in Malaysia. The rain cannot dampen the memories of intensely pleasurable eating.

With all the things that make me feel at home in Cairo — friends, a common language and koshari — the fully stocked supermarket aisles leave me feeling empty.

Why can I not find vanilla extract? I don't think anyone will be using it as an alcoholic drink anytime soon for them to be banning it from shelves. Why do I have to go to a store selling gourmet products to find fennel or bright and unbruised baby squash? Why is it so difficult to get Indian spices? I had become so desperate as to hunt through online forums for an Indian expat who would somehow hand over the address of a magician who makes Indian products appear when needed.

My decision was made. I would not be visiting a supermarket for my regular food shopping trips but rather for larger purchases that do not necessarily include food items: detergent, tissue paper, floor cleaners. Instead, my husband and I chose to venture out into this huge city we belong to.

Our finds were tremendous; dutch-processed cocoa, a dark reddish brown, was instantly snatched in the heart of Faisal Street, crunchy sesame-encrusted peanuts dipped in honey were brought home from Mohandiseen and rolls of thick cling film that doesn't tear at the slightest tug discovered at my current market of choice, Suleiman Gohar Street, right behind Tahrir Street in Dokki. This market is where I'll be every week, with no pre-written list to confine my buys.

On any given day, I'll find butchers wiping their bloodied hands on their aprons as they grin at me, bakers packaging hot bread that has me finding the nearest place to make a sandwich, women draped in black selling freshly shelled peas and newly cored aubergines for a hot pot of dolma. All of this makes me want to take in more.

A stroll down and minutes later, I'm met with an antique dealer looking as weathered as the table he rests his hip on and onward, a fun-spirited farmer wiping a date on his greige galabeyya, wooing me to break its flesh with my fingers before biting into its earthy sweetness. How can I not come back? Why would I return to regularly buying my food from a cold, sterile and mostly crowded megastore? Enough. I need some spirit in my food.

So now that I've found a place that has given me some peace of mind, a glimmer of hope that I might truly find the most beautiful of ingredients in the raw right here in Egypt, I've decided to tackle recipes that I once made with ease in Malaysia due to the availability of what I needed. While I could not find whole black lentils in Cairo for this nourishing Indian lentil stew, dal makhni, I did pick up packs of split black lentils which worked well and shortened the cooking time. Branch out into the beautiful city of Cairo and you most likely will find. The little farmers and small grocery store owners on the street might need you considerably more than you think.

Makeshift Dal Makhni

Split this into three phases for easy preparation.

Phase 1 will need:
Water for boiling
150 grams of split urad dal (black lentils)
Salt to taste

Phase 2:
3½ tablespoons of ghee
2 cloves of garlic, finely minced
½ a teaspoon of turmeric
2 green chilis, finely sliced
1 medium sized onion, finely diced
1¼ cup of fresh tomato puree
1½ coarsely teaspoons ground fennel seeds
1½ teaspoons of chili powder
½ teaspoon of ginger powder
1 scant teaspoon of ground cumin
1 teaspoon of ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon of curry powder
½ cup of water

Phase 3:
100 grams of butter (1 stick)
50 ml of cream
½ a teaspoon of chili powder
Salt and pepper to taste

Boil the lentils in hot water until tender. Begin testing for tenderness after 15 minutes. When done, drain and set aside. In a large pot, heat the ghee on medium heat until melted then add the turmeric, onion and chili and stir to combine. Add the garlic, cumin, cinnamon, ginger, chili powder and fennel seeds and stir once more. Allow the onions to soften and the spices to release their oils before adding in the curry powder then the tomato puree. Add the water and the pre-cooked dal and stir until it comes together. Bring it to a boil then add the chili powder, butter and cream. Simmer on low heat for no less than 30 minutes. I left it for an hour. Adjust seasonings and serve.

Fears, regrets and crust-less quiches

As featured in The Daily News Egypt I stretched, laying flat, fingers flopping around my side table in search of something to pull my hair up and away from my pillow-creased face. Happy to see some sun moving stealthily into the farthest corner, my corner of our room, I turned to find our bed empty — my husband already stirring his sweet coffee as he spoke on the phone. Popping myself off the mattress at a healthy 7:30 am, I prepared for a day filled in my mind with dog walks, deliberating ingredients and food writing. “Uncle Hassan passed away at dawn. I'm getting dressed.” Core trembling, I hushed my voice as I spoke to the man who shared my life, “I'll go with you.” Never having been to a funeral prayer or a burial, I prepared to battle the tears that came for a military man I had met six years ago; a man whose eyes beamed volumes of understanding despite his tired body, whose patriotic achievements, forgotten by the young, stood witness to his good intentions and bravery. Although Uncle Hassan and I had shared few words and many a sincere smile throughout the home-cooked meals, burgers and ratatouille we ate together, I had never really gotten to know him outside of the stories, long and short, recanted to my listening ears; but as I sat praying for his soul, as my heart in constant sniffles merged with the Quran recited at his final place of resting, I could not have felt him to be nearer. There are fears that arise in you during burials, those that subside and those that bury themselves deep in you, surfacing only as cracks in your face. Of all the things that preyed on my mind, going back to sleep in the Earth I walk on bothered me no longer. Entering the wake days later, I watched as women walked in wearing their most somber faces to extend their condolences. As they sat on edge, slowly unraveling to reveal a more comfortable state, they went back to living — bejeweled hands caressing glasses of tea over a friend's endearing stories of those who have passed, distracted minds looking into bitter cups of concentrated coffee as they contemplated a smoke, teenage girls playing a quick game of “Spot the Handbag”. I could only think that I should have known him better, that I had never asked him what dish he missed most from his mother's kitchen, which meal he loved his wife to prepare, what he ate when he was busy fighting a war. I was so intimidated by his war hero history that I didn't allow myself to break the barrier of age. That is what I regret the most; but away from regrets, will I too one day turn to find an empty bed with loss sleeping next to me? Will I be lucky enough to have my close ones embrace my home as theirs, make it feel alive if only for a while until I feel slightly right again? When I am old, will the young forget that I was once young like them and uncomfortably shy away from my veiny hands? If I am certain of one thing, in death there is always finger food but no appetite — aniseed biscotti passed around to maintain some semblance of energy, store-bought cakes and crunchy breadsticks to break the awkward silences and moments of heartache, mugs heavy with coffee making rings on tabletops and several cans of cola, all in the hands of people dressed in black. The only solid decision I've made is to earnestly get to know the people in my life that I hold back from, ones that I will grow through because nothing replaces people's real life accounts of eras gone by, foods long forgotten and heroes of our past. A long forgotten favorite recently learned is 'Egga, an Egyptian dish dating back to the Ancient Egyptians who often used duck eggs instead of our common chicken egg nowadays. Beaten egg, parsley and onions with an optional diced tomato or potato are poured into a baking dish and baked in a hot oven making this an ideal family dish. These days, it's commonly referred to as a crustless quiche, belonging to no specific country, versatile, neatly carried and easy on the stomach in times of hardship. Crust-less Broccoli-mushroom Quiche with Green Chili Salsa You'll need: 5 button mushrooms, sliced 1 medium onion, diced ½ a head of broccoli in florets, blanched and chopped 6 large eggs plus 6 egg yolks ½ cup of milk ¼ cup of cream ½ cup of grated cheddar cheese Salt and pepper to taste Vegetable oil for greasing For the salsa: 10 large green chili peppers 1 medium tomato, roughly diced 2 cloves of garlic 1 tablespoon of lemon juice 1 tablespoon of water ½ teaspoon of sugar ½ teaspoon of cumin powder Preheat your oven to 190 degrees Celsius. Brush a mini muffin pan with oil. Place a medium-sized pan on medium heat. Sautee the mushrooms and onions until soft. In a large bowl, whisk together the eggs, egg yolks, milk, cream, salt and pepper. Add the mushrooms, onions and broccoli and stir. Reserve some on the side for later. Transfer to a jug. In the muffin pan, place some cheddar cheese to line the bottoms. Pour the egg mixture until just below the rim then sprinkle on top the reserved vegetables and cheese. Bake for 15-20 minutes. They should puff up and turn a light shade of golden brown. Allow to cool for 5 minutes before turning them out of the pan. For the salsa, roughly chop the green chilis, deseeding if you want to eliminate extra heat. In a food processor, combine the chopped chilis and tomatoes with the garlic. Add the water, cumin and lemon juice. Blend until desired consistency; I prefer mine on the chunkier side.

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.