Burgos' Rotten Pots

February 20, 2017 Sara Gardner

Hello dear readers! I know it’s been quite a while since I last posted (almost three months now… yikes), for which I sincerely apologize, but I’ve been traveling to some amazing places and learning lots of cool new information that I’ll be sharing with you all over the next few weeks.

*The Cathedral of Burgos in all its Gothic glory.*

Of the trips I’ve taken in the last few weeks, I want to tell you today about one in particular: my trip to Burgos. This ancient city is the capital of the Burgos province, as well as one of the most important cities in the long history of the region of Castilla y León (here’s a map to give you an idea of where it’s located) and Spain in general. (Soon you can read more about it in the Travel section above!) As with many other Spanish cities, Burgos has seen its fair share of Muslim and Christian rulers; British, French, and Roman conquerors and soldiers that have trodden its hills; not to mention the ancient hominids that walked its grassy plains. But to me, Burgos stands out from other Spanish cities in the way it wears its millenia-long history: no matter where you go in this city, you can see the layers of its past. In that way, Burgos offers so much to the average visitor. It’s basically a microcosm for Spain’s entire history in one place.

I went to Burgos for the Fulbright program’s mid-year seminar. When we all arrived, we were greeted with a lovely welcome gift of red beans that are produced in the region and, of course, morcilla burgalesa (for the meat eaters among us). For just a moment, I’m going to explain the interest and importance of these two foods, as they have a great deal to do with the dish I have for you today. I’ll talk about the beans, which are specifically alubias rojas de ibeas, in a little bit, but let’s focus on the morcilla right now. For those readers who do not know, morcilla is a cured sausage made with pork meat and the blood of the pig – two products that come out of the traditional Castilian matanza (basically a big family party in which an entire pig is slaughtered and various products are made from its every part), and the both of which are suuuuuper treif (non-kosher) and often included in the classic dishes of the region. The Burgos version includes rice in its filling.

Alright, you ask, what does this have to do with Burgos? Well, quite a lot actually. Back in the Middle Ages, the city of Burgos was home to one of the most influential Jewish populations on the entire Iberian Peninsula. Even though the city was founded at the end of 9th century as a frontier town of the reconquering Christian rulers of the north, and was a preferred seat for Castilian crown family (including the infamous Isabel la Católica of Castile, who expelled the Sephardic Jews from Spain), there was always a sizable and influential Jewish community in Burgos. I was lucky enough to get the chance to explore the remnants of Burgos’ old Jewish quarter (which I will explain in greater detail in my next post), which produced industrious merchants, talented artisans, and, notably, advisors to the Catholic Castilian monarchs (including Isabel la Católica). In short, many important historical Jewish figures who contributed a great deal to the medieval history of the Iberian Peninsula.

Thus, I decided to make a recipe to honor the vibrant Jewish history of Burgos. The dish is a Sephardic take on the Burgos classic of olla podrida. The dish’s name literally means “rotten pot,” though according to the Diccionario Real de la Academia Española, olla podrida is a dish that, “aside from the usual meat, bacon, and beans, contains poultry, cured meats, and other succulent items.” Essentially, the typical olla podrida of Burgos is a long-simmered stew of non-kosher meats and beans, the key ingredients being the beautiful red beans and morcilla I mentioned earlier. During the time of the Inquisition, this stew became one of the ways that the recently converted judeoconversos (Jewish converts to Christianity) of Burgos could prove their commitment to the new Christian faith – through eating lots of non-kosher meat, of course.

While it’s delicious, I thought I’d forego the morcilla for a more kosher-friendly alternative to honor the Sephardic past of Burgos and the dish: swiss chard. Swiss chard and beans (certain types of beans are called judías, the word for Jews in Spanish – I’ll write more about this soon), incidentally, were thought to be two of the most characteristically “Jewish” ingredients in medieval Spain. Simmered slowly for hours with garlic, onion, bay leaf, and a hefty pinch of salt, these delicious red beans – which surely were a favorite of the Burgos Jewish community – become silky smooth and release a richly colored broth. Definitely a delicious tribute to the equally vibrant Jewish community of Burgos.

Olla Podrida a la Sefardita

This is a great make-ahead weeknight meal, best served with a vinegary salad and lots of crusty bread to soak up the delicious bean broth. Though it may seem strange to not soak the beans overnight, there’s really no need; after several hours simmering on the stove you’ll have a flavorful dish without the extra work. Just please don’t use pre-cooked beans; it won’t taste nearly as good. Serves 4-6.

1 ½ cups dried red beans (either alubias rojas or kidney beans would be fine)
3 tablespoons olive oil
1 medium red onion, chopped
3 cloves of garlic, whole and peeled
2 bay leaves
1 teaspoon za’atar or dried oregano
½ teaspoon whole cumin seeds, gently crushed
4 cups chopped swiss chard, stems included
Salt and pepper to taste

Rinse the beans, removing any stones. Set aside in a colander to drain.

Heat the olive oil over medium high heat in a 6-quart sauce pan or pot. Once it shimmers, add the red onion and sauté until they are softened, about 3 minutes. Then, add the three whole garlic cloves and cook for 3 more minutes. Next, add the bay leaves, za’atar or oregano, and cumin seeds and cook them for another few minutes so they toast and release their scent, about 2-3 minutes. Add the rinsed beans with a teaspoon of salt and ½ teaspoon freshly cracked pepper and sauté them, stirring to coat the beans in the aromatics, about 2 minutes more.

Add enough cold water to twice-cover the volume of the beans. Simmer, covered, for 2-3 hours, occasionally checking the done-ness of the beans. They are fully cooked through when they are tender but still hold their shape. 15 minutes before they are done, maintaining the heat of the stove at the same level, add the chopped swiss chard with an extra pinch of salt. The chard will release a touch more liquid, which will cook down as it wilts. Once the swiss chard is fully wilted, serve the dish hot with plenty of crusty bread or make ahead and reheat. It will keep in the fridge for up to two weeks and the freezer for about a month.

Reynados Fit for a Reina

December 8, 2016 Sara Gardner

As I mentioned in my previous post, a few weeks ago, I visited the town of Ávila with a group from the Reform Jewish community of Madrid. We were invited by the Spanish government to take a tour of the old judería, or Jewish quarter, of the city, and to Ávila’s original copy of The Alhambra Decree, which expelled the Jews from Spain in 1492. So, up we drove an hour and a half to the northeast of Madrid to discover what we could of Ávila’s Jewish community.

Seeing the Edict of Expulsion was – to say the least – extremely moving. Ávila is one of the few Spanish municipalities that still possesses its copy of the original document, withstanding the tests of time that have taken the other copies out of existence, such as fires, light fingers, and simple neglect. Indeed, the fact that Ávila still has its copy underscores the unique relationship the city has always had with its Jewish community, both past and present. It is this relationship that is embodied in the well-known figures of Saint Teresa and Saint John of the Cross (San Juan de la Cruz), both of whom came from converso (Jews converted to Christianity) families, not to mention the famously infamous Tomas de Torquemada, the Grand Inquisitor of the Spanish Inquisition. It is a relationship that is also reflected, interestingly enough, in the very urban structure of the city.

Of Ávila’s many delightful features, the most obvious, and frankly impressive, one is the wall that encloses the entire antiguo casco, or old quarter, of the city. According to the site dedicated to the wall (http://muralladeavila.com/es/) it was founded in the 11th century to protect the territory from invading Moors. Ávila is the only Spanish city that boasts its entire original wall, which, along with the entire old quarter of the city and the Romanesque churches that were built just outside its walls, can be found on the list of UNESCO World Heritage sites.

In medieval Spain, Christian rulers tended to delineate a Jewish quarter outside of the walls of the main city. As Fernando Aznar explains, though this intentional separation was a way of controlling the Jewish community, it was also mostly a practical move for taxation purposes: every Jewish household was required to pay a head tax to the ruler and church in exchange for free practice of a minority faith. Traditionally, these juderías would become focal points of commerce outside of the city wall. Yet, unlike so many other cities, in Ávila, the judería was located inside the city wall: “they were installed in the center of the city for maximum efficacy for their business. Their neighborhood par excellence before the obligated separation (when the ghetto was established in 1412) was located between the Juradero, in San Vicente, the Central Market, and the Little Market. [se instalaron en el centro de la ciudad para mayor eficacia de sus negocios. Su barrio por excelencia, con anterioridad al obligado apartamiento, era entre el Juradero, en San Vicente, el Mercado Grande y el Mercado Chico.]” (from http://www.avilaturismo.com/es/que-hacer/avila-judia). This excerpt shows that it wasn’t until later that the Jewish community was forced to live in a reduced area outside the city walls – in fact, it wasn’t until the 15th century, with the growing resentment toward the Jewish community that that century brought, that the Jews had to live outside the city wall.

The Sephardic community has a long-standing presence in Ávila: although the first real documented mention of the Jewish community appears in 1144, many historians speculate that the Jewish presence in the city goes back even further. During this early medieval period, the city “was considered a no-man’s land, a border between the Muslim and Christian kingdoms [fue considerada tierra de nadie, frontera entre los reinos cristianos y musulmanes]”; in other words, Ávila was an interstitial space in the ever-shifting religious map of Spain, one in which Christian and Muslim influence vied for superiority, a territory in which the Jewish community was always treated reasonably well. And the location of the Jewish community within the city wall physically underscores their symbolic position in the society of Ávila.

It is just this symbolism that inspired this week’s dish: Pimintones Reynados. Though in origin they come from the Sephardic communities in diaspora, I thought they reflected the theme of this week’s post well, especially since the peppers themselves create a “wall” around the filling they encase. Coincidentally, in Ávila I lunched on a dish of stuffed peppers, which though they very similar in appearance to these pimintones, they were totally different in taste – an appropriate metaphor, in my opinion, for the differences between the medieval Christian and Jewish communities. Try them and let me know what you think!

Pimintones Reynados
Adapted partially from Olive Trees and Honey: A Treasury of Vegetarian Recipes from Jewish Communities Around the World by Gil Marks

This recipe is pretty easy - just make the filling, briefly boil the peppers, stuff them and into the oven they go! You can find recipes for stuffed peppers in almost every culture, including Spanish, Turkish, Mexican, and more, but these can be defined as specifically Sephardic as a result of the generous amount of parsley and healthy squeeze of lemon juice in the filling that gives these peppers their unique, slightly tart taste.

4 medium red bell peppers
5 tablespoons olive oil
1 large onion, halved and sliced crosswise
2 large cloves garlic
1 ½ cups basmati or long-grain rice
3 cups of water
2-3 medium tomatoes, or enough to be about 1 ½ cups chopped
¼ cup chopped fresh parsley
1 teaspoon sugar
1 teaspoon lemon zest
1 teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1/3 cup raisins
1/3 slivered or chopped almonds, toasted
Juice of half a lemon
Fresh lemon wedges to season to taste
Chopped parsley for garnish

Preheat the oven to 350°F/180°C.

Heat 3 tablespoons of olive oil in a 4-qt saucepan. Add the onions and sauté for 2-3 minutes until softened. Add garlic and cook 5-6 minutes more, until onions are slightly caramelized and the garlic is fragrant. Add chopped tomatoes and cook for another 3-4 minutes until the tomatoes release their juice and it concentrates. Stir in parsley and cook 2 minutes more.

Next, add rice, sugar, lemon zest, salt and pepper. Stir and let the grains cook for a minute before adding the water. Bring mixture to a boil and then turn down to a simmer and cover. Let cook for about 15 minutes, or until all the water is absorbed into the rice.

Meanwhile, cut the tops off the peppers and de-rib them. Put a large salted pot of water to boil. Once the water boils, submerge the peppers for 3 minutes. Strain and set aside in a ovenproof baking dish.

Once all the water is absorbed, fluff the rice with a fork. Stir in raisins, almonds, and lemon juice. Generously stuff the peppers with the rice mixture and replace tops. Drizzle the peppers with remaining 2 tablespoons olive oil. Place in oven and bake for 20 minutes, until rice mixture is heated through. Then, switch to the broiler function of the oven and broil the peppers for 10 minutes, or until their skin starts to blister and char and the filling browns slightly.

Serve sprinkled with extra parsley and lemon wedges for garnish.

New Year, New Post

October 4, 2016 Sara Gardner

*The Rosh Hashanah candles illuminating the meal.*

First off, before I dive into this post, I’d like to beg forgiveness for the internet silence on this blog the last couple of months. Things have been especially crazy in my preparation for and actual move to Madrid, so I’ve a lot of trouble sitting down to write a substantive post. But, as it is a new year, I promise from now on I’m going to be updating much more regularly from here on out.

*Honey orange chicken looking fine, fresh out of the oven.*

Now that that’s out of the way: onto the blog! On Sunday night, Jews all over the world celebrated the first night of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. For those of you who have never heard of this holiday, its name literally means “head of the year.” This year we’re celebrating 5777. As the Jewish calendar is a lunar one, the date of the holiday changes every year, but it generally falls sometime in late September/early October. It’s one of my favorite Jewish holidays, partly because I love starting off a new year in the fall along with the school year – it just feels like it makes more sense. I also love Rosh Hashanah, as I will explain further in this post, because of its emphasis on sweetness. This can be evidenced in every aspect of the holiday from the customary wish of l’shana tova umetukah (to a happy and sweet new year) – or in the Ladino-speaking Sephardic tradition, anyada buena, dulse, i alegre (good, sweet, and happy new year) – to the emphasis on sweet foods as the traditional way to invite a good new year.

It is just this emphasis on the food’s multiple meanings that I want to talk about today. Most especially because across the Jewish subgroups, there’s a huge range of symbolic foods that are used to invite happiness and abundance in the new year. For instance, as Gil Marks writes in his Encyclopedia of Jewish Food, one such “an ancient custom [that reflects the diversity of traditions even within the Jewish community] is to eat a new fruit… on the second night of Rosh Hashanah… seasonal produce frequently finds its way into Rosh Hashanah fare, such as spinach and leeks among Sephardim, pumpkins among Italians, and apples and plums among Ashkenazim” (506). This diversity is all the more abundant when it comes to the different sweet foods that different Jewish communities eat, even when using the same sweetener that is most well-known as a symbol of Rosh Hashanah: honey. Marks explains that while “Ashkenazim traditionally serve a honey cake called lekach… Sephardim make honey-soaked cakes, such as tishpishti [and] Hungarian Rosh Hashanah desserts generally continue the apple theme—hosts offer apple cakes, pie, or compote” (507). In the Jewish tradition, there are many ways to symbolically eat your way into a sweet and prosperous year.

You may ask: why dedicate a whole blogpost to the variety of symbolic dishes? Seems pretty logical, right? Well, yes. But the important takeaway is this: there’s a huge range of ways to evoke sweetness for the new year and each one is as special and important to the people who celebrate the holiday with it as the next. To me, the concept that even within the same global Jewish community, the fact that different subgroups and individuals can express auspicious sweetness with an entirely different food yet have it mean evoke a shared meaning is inspiring and connective. We all wish for sweetness in a new year of life – whether Ashkenazi or Sephardi Jew, Jew or non-Jew - each person in his or her own way with his or her own special dish. It speaks to the power and profound meaning of food generally. But even more, it’s a great lesson to start the new year off with, especially if it’s one shared with an abundance of family and friends, with a little extra honey on the side for good measure. L’shana tova umetukah to you and yours, may 5777 bring you and your loved ones only the sweetest of things.

Honey Orange Chicken

This recipe comes from Joan Nathan’s fabulous cookbook The Jewish Holiday Kitchen, first version published in 1979. The dish covers all the Rosh Hashanah bases: laced with honey and orange juice for sweetness, spiced with fresh ginger for and served atop an abundance of rice, it is a sweet and satisfying way to ring in the new year. We make it every year in my house, though this year I was lucky enough to be able to make it for a Rosh Hashanah dinner with my friends in Madrid. I also made a round challah, which I will write about more in next week’s post, served the dish alongside a vinegar-y salad topped with yet more apples, and finished the whole thing with a plum cake. My mother, who has been making this dish for Rosh Hashanah for decades, and I both recommend that you make the chicken the day before so the flavors meld. Trust me, it’s always better the second day. It takes about 2 hours total and serves 6-8.

2 eggs
2 teaspoons water
1 cup breadcrumbs
1 teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon pepper
2 3-pound fryers (I use 6 pounds of mixed chicken pieces: thighs, drumsticks, and wings with skin on are particularly important for the flavor of the dish)
½ cup vegetable or olive oil
1 cup hot water (should be hot enough to dissolve the honey, but it doesn’t need to be boiling)
¼ cup honey
1 cup orange juice (store bought is fine)
2 tablespoons grated fresh ginger

Beat the eggs with the 2 teaspoons of water. In another bowl, mix the breadcrumbs with the salt and pepper.

Dip the chicken in the egg mixture to coat and then the breadcrumbs, making sure to distribute the crumbs in an even coating all over the piece of chicken.

Heat the oil in a heavy skillet (very important: DO NOT put the chicken in a skillet that’s not hot enough; it will just absorb grease and won’t taste as good) and brown the chicken on all sides.

Preheat the oven to 325°F/165°C. Place the chicken in an oven-proof casserole with a lid or a roasting pan that you can cover with aluminum foil.

In another bowl, combine the orange juice, honey, and hot water. Pour the mixture over the chicken and sprinkle the grated ginger on top.

Cover the chicken and simmer it in the oven for 45 minutes (sometimes I even let it go for an hour), basting occasionally.

If serving the next day: Store the dish, covered, in the refrigerator. Reheat it at 350°F/175°C for about 15-20 minutes, until warmed through.

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