As I descended the stairs this morning, the gray sky and malleable birches dipping close to my house reminded me of the early snow last night. It felt like Christmas. Stumbling into the kitchen (pre-caffeine), I was greeted with the memory of my meal last night. Cumin with just a tinge of tumeric mixed in wafted noseward and made me smile. You'll never catch me spraying air freshener around my house. I like remembering my meals with all my senses. Food writing, reading, and learning isn't just about how something tastes. It's so much more.
So this post isn't going to be a recipe. It's simply a story about a dish I recreated from years ago.
I first tasted it about 18 years ago, while in the UK visiting my brother-in-law and his wife. They had a dog-eared copy of one of Madhur Jaffrey's Indian cookbooks. I could tell they made this recipe often because the pages it occupied sported a bright yellow finish (tumeric) and a little grease spots (cooking oil). I couldn't find my copy of the book (I need to clean out the cookbook shelf very soon), so I winged it. Here's what I did.
First, I started the rice. I sizzled some whole cumin seeds in oil and then added onions. When the onions were soft, I added frozen peas, then organic brown basmati rice, water and salt. Cover on, simmering, I forgot about it and allowed the flavors to slow dance.
For the fish, I started similarly with cumin seeds, mustard seeds, and fennel seeds sizzling and popping in oil. A little bit of my favorite garam marsala blend and cayenne pepper followed and then I poured in a big can of chopped tomatoes.
I seared some cod that I had rubbed with tumeric without cooking it all the way through. Then I threw the fish and the tomato mixture together into a baking dish to finish. I baked it for about 20 minutes at 350 and served it with a Reisling (not my wine pick, my husband likes sweetish wine, so I let him pick). By the time the fish was done, the rice was fluffy and perfect. Oh, I forgot to mention, when I cook basmati rice, I soak and rinse it several times like Indian cooks do. It increases the fluff factor.
It wasn't exactly as I remembered in the UK, but close enough. I wish I had used whole tomatoes. The ones I used were a bit too pureed and gave the dish too much of a ketchupy taste, in my opinion. My husband, however, dug it. The sauce was spicy without having that vindaloo hotness that makes me uncomfortable. The sweetness of the wine made it a perfect compliment to the interplay of sauce spices.
As we ate in the silence of our empty home, we listened to the wind whip the heavy first snow of the season all about the woods outside our home. We polished off the wine and remarked about our satiated, but not full bellies. It's easy, and not at all uncomfortable to fall asleep after a meal like that.
When I wandered down the stairs this morning, and I was greeted with the smells of last night's meal radiating from my oven, I was transported immediately back to that full, happy, peaceful feeling I had last night. I love the way smells can evoke feelings and memories so simply and elegantly. My grandfather's pipe tobacco comes to mind. Years ago, I once spontaneously burst into happy tears upon smelling his exact brand in a pipe shop. Immediately, I was transported to days of puttering through his heirloom tomato garden and learning about organic gardening before it was cool and trendy. I remembered the smell of the golf course green where he played and the feeling of damp grass under my body as I rolled down the small hill in his yard. All earthy, happy sensory memories...but these are stories for another time. Their purpose here is to illustrate the powers of our senses.
What food smells, textures, sights, and sounds transport you into your deepest, fondest memories? I would encourage you to go prepare those foods and let the memories roll.
Ann Zuccardy, Vermont Shortbread Company's Olfactory Guru and Probably a Dog in a Former Life
P.S. We did not eat shortbread for dessert. In fact, the meal experience was so perfect and sensual on its own, there was no need for dessert.
