... so far:
Sometimes I miss the simple pleasures of home: tangy, easy-to-find Greek yogurt, a crispy-around-the-edges salmon sandwich with wholegrain mustard, a bag of trail mix, a few gummy bears hidden in the freezer, a McDonald's Caramel Frappe. Then, I eat something charming and homely and run-of-the-mill like
milanesa de calabaza (a breaded, baked slab of butternut squash with a squiggle of marinara and a ribbon of cheese) or
empanadas de choclo, huevo y tomate (chubby, savory hand-pies stuffed with sweet corn, boiled egg, cheese and tomato). Sure, to a strictly trained American pallet those two dishes sound about as unappetizing as they get - just imagine pipping hot cow brains with an oil and vinegar sauce chocked full of garlic and herbs - now we're talking. But here, they are the likes of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or a plate of Kraft Mac 'n Cheese to Argentina.
The truth of the matter is, while not what I would consider spectacular, Argentine cuisine is: homely, loaded with carbs and a comical fusion between the Old World and Latin America. I have to say, I was actually hoping for more rice and beans. Of course, I have my favorite dishes, but that is for another post: Top 5 Favorite Dishes. Today, I would like to share some of the things I've learned; fears I have overcome and crispy little life lessons I've picked up in Argentina - thus far. My kitchen priveleges end in July, when I move to my next homestay, but I am sure I will be able to wring at least a
few recipes out of my future host mother.
So, take advantage of your microwave and pop a bag of buttery, stick to your ribs microwavable popcorn and, by God, enjoy it. I mean that: ENJOY IT. The name Orvil Redenbacher never sounded so good.
Top 5: Lessons learned in an Argentine Kitchen
Buenos Aires, Argentina
5. Polenta
The first week I was here I did what every smart, responsible, self-supporting student would do: I went to the local grocery store and spent an hour buying about US$8.00 worth of food. What did that get me? The only things I remember are a box of tepid off-the-shelf-in-a-paper-carton skim milk, a roll of bran cookies and a bag of instant polenta. The minute Susana (my host mother) saw me painstakingly reading the package directions she took the reins; it was a travesty that I didn't know how to cook polenta. What do you mean we didn't eat it all the time in the States? Most unsettling of all: I had never enjoyed a heaping bowl of it with big slabs of warm, melting cheese and marinara sauce. Thankfully, I am a quick study and was able to avoid any embarassing socio-cultural faux pas by making a quick-fix dinner of polenta a monthly staple in my Argentine diet.
But did I really need to come all the way to Argentina to love cornmeal? Isn't it just like grits - something I am familiar with. In theory, yes. But they don't eat grits here, just like they don't eat corn tortillas like they do in Central America. Thanks to the massive migration of Italian immigrants that took shape in the late 1800s and continued into the 1940s, Argentine cuisine has a distinctivly Italian flavor: take the tradition of fresh pastas, ñoquis caseros (potato gnocchi), meats/vegetables a la milanesa and you have all the staples of good, simple Italian food. In Argentina, cornmeal is meant for polenta, plain and simple; no if's, and's or but's about it. If the dozen of different brands in the supermarket didn't give you an idea of it's popularity then it's unavoidable presence on restaurant menu boards everywhere surely should.
4. Step on the gas.
I have always been deathly afraid of cooking on a gas range; I can't explain it. Despite my addiction to cooking shows, I was embarrassingly afraid of blowing up the kitchen here at 4474 Diaz Velez when I arrived. I remember seeing this photo in an email attachment and thinking, "maybe she renovated the kitchen since then." How mortifying would it be to incinerate your host residence? Luckily, I was able to avoid cooking, or having to light the stove on my own, for a few weeks with Susana's help and a sharp eye for a lit burner. Of course, I knew that I couldn't spend six months here without being able to manhandle the gas range and churn out - at the very least - my morning bowl of oatmeal.
All I have to say is: thank God for this box of matches.
I still haven't quite mastered using the lighter, one handed like Susana, but I've been able to whip out a number of dishes without so much as a scorched pan or broken yolk. A success? You bet. I remain skeptical, and a little intimidated, by the gas oven. In the end, I am not sure if I agree totally with the popular belief that a gas range is better than electric, but at least I can honestly consider myself range-dextrous.
Quinoa patties with ricotta and roasted red peppers.
Ensalada de choclo y atún
(Typical Argentine corn, rice and tuna salad).
3. A kitchen by any other name.
A kitchen is a kitchen, is a kitchen, is a kitchen. In my house (in Virginia) if you have anything important to say; if you have a big test to study for; if you don't have anything to do than you go to the kitchen. Luckily, that holds true here, too. The kitchen, if nowhere else in the house, is where we are a family - no matter what.
We all take turns studying at the kitchen table, or Skyping with our families. We snack on leftovers like cold empanadas or - if you are American - smear peanut butter on rice cakes late at night when we're too tired to cook.
The kitchen is where Susana and Mónica (her sister) stuff empanada dough with cream, ham and boiled eggs and laugh when I take photos.
It's where we share dishes from home on Sunday nights - that is... when one of us isn't too tired to cook. (
Look, Mom! I made Sloppy Joes Memorial Day weekend for my two Brazilian housemates).
It's where we celebrate birthdays, holidays and say goodbyes.
The kitchen, just like in any other house, is where where we all feel like we're home.
2. The incredible edible egg
Due largely to the second most important wave of immigrants to arrive in Argentina - the Spanish - we put eggs in just about everything down here: the aforementioned empanadas, traditional quiches, tarts and souffles (with just about every vegetable you can possibly imagine) as well as simple dishes like zapallitos revueltos (zuchinni and onions cooked with scrambled eggs) or bife de chorizo a caballo (a delicious, thick steak with two fried eggs served on top). Just like the Spanish, Argentines love eggs and put them in every salad, sandwich and side dish imaginable whether they are scrambled, boiled, poached or fried. The second most popular Spanish import: olives. I can't say I'm unhappy - I've grown to enjoy the briny bite of an ugly, plump green olive. Unlike in Spain, however, Argentine's prefer to call the classic combination of egg + vegetable a "tarta" instead of a "tortilla" - occassionally you will see the traditional (and very Peninsular) name tortilla de papa on hot bars in the city. The most important lesson I've learned about Argentine cooking is, and I mean this truly: when in doubt, put an egg on it.
The one catch to this protein prolific tradition: no eggs are served for breakfast. No scrambled eggs and cheese to go with your toast and jam. No boiled eggs with a little butter, salt and pepper served up off the stove. Just enjoy your coffee and buttery, sweet facturas (pastries) and medialunas and don't ask questions.
1. When you grow up...
Being my Mother's daughter, I wash every fruit and vegetable I bring home. I don't just wash them either, I soak them in salt and lemon juice to remove grit, grime and every pesticide within a five mile radius. It is a good thing that I do, though most supermarkets and produce stands leave everything out in the open with fumes, vapors and the general funk that circulates in a big city.
I figured that this was normal: the Brazilians wash their fruits and vegetables with vinegar and water to the same effect, but Susana has informed me otherwise. One day, a number of us young, unmarried women were "cooking" happily in the kitchen when Susana came in, sat down at the kitchen table to drink some
mate proceeded to observe us. After a good ten or fifteen minutes she announced that one day, when we grew up and found husbands things would change: we wouldn't hover and stir and piddle with pots of steam vegetables or sauces that were gently reducing. Pointing at my bowl of soaking fruits/vegetables she said, I wouldn't have time to wash my bananas. With three little "
creaturas" biting at your ankles, she said, I would probably hand the banana to one such chillen' and say, "cómetelo" / ie.
feed yourself this.
Me da piel del gallo / It gave me chills.
