Wednesday, February 1, 2017

shakshouka



Here's the link that they annotated on their video.



And the whole time I'm going, "this would be better with cheese." 

"And bacon bits." 

"And olive slices."

"And sourdough bread." 

"And with singed chile peppers, both red ones and hot ones" 

"And cumin at least, and curry at most." 

"And cilantro or some other aromatic herb like basil." 

"And with eggs poached separately." 

This could be on an English muffin, or toasted sourdough bread or with pita. It's similar to a pizza. 

I thought at first that I heard the guy say, "We gonna make moussaka today." But I heard that wrong. Moussaka is different, and guess what it has, it's the same thing except with a lot of cheese and meat and layered like lasagna

We chef typs sneer at unipurpose kitchen gadgets like garlic presses and tomato dicers because we rely heavily on our chef knives and our mad knife skills and because we're basically snobs. 

Breakfast at ski condos is similar to this. Sometimes we'd use a tin of Campbell's cream of mushroom soup and mix it with chopped vegetables, cheese, and a dozen eggs and then bake it until puffed up a bit and  set. Everyone ate the same thing then the whole troop out the door all at once to the slopes. 

8 comments:

john said...

I learned how to separate the yolk from the white from Martin Landau.

That was back before plastic water bottles were so ubiquitous.

ricpic said...

Chip, I hope you're not put out if I put this poem here. There's no right place to put it. I had a bad dream and when I woke up this poem was in my head, practically line for line. Has nothing to do with the dream. Go figure how the mind works. Anyway, here's the poem:



Jane Fonda At Seventy Nine

Jane Fonda is seventy nine.
That's right, Jane Fonda is seventy nine.
Jane Fonda is royalty. She's a Fonda.
Jane Fonda is a seventy nine year old fucking bag of bones.

Jane Fonda is in a play.
That's right, she could be resting on her laurels or whatever seventy nine year old royalty does.
She's in a play.

Forget you hate Jane Fonda.
Try to forget Vietnam.
I'm not asking you to be Jane Fonda.
Put yourself in her shoes.
You're royalty.
You're a fucking seventy nine year old bag of bones.

Jane Fonda is at rehearsal.
She's on stage.
There's a break in the rehearsal.
Jane Fonda is talking.
She's not having a conversation.
Who does royalty have a conversation with?
Jane Fonda is having an audience with an assistant.
A monologue.
Jane Fonda is standing straight.
Straight and fragile.
What is she saying?
You lean in....

"I want to dance."
"I want to dance."
"I want to dance."

"I want to dance."

"I want to dance."

AprilApple said...

I'm not Fonda Jane.

ndspinelli said...

Mr. Wizard approved.

Evi L. Bloggerlady said...

I make eggs like that all the time. Usually if there are some left over tomatoes in the summer and I do not want them to go bad. I always keep some sumac around (it is a great spice, sorry for culturally appropriating Syrian cooking!).

You can add pretty much anything to it and it is still great. But the basic is egg, olive oil, tomato, onions, smoked paprika, and sumac.

Chip Ahoy said...

How can I get me sumdat sumac? Actually, I had some. It means red and the powder, smashed seeds of a shrub, has a tart and lemony taste for salads and for meats and grains, according to wikipedia, the font of collectively agreed upon wisdom of the modern day flexible consensus, and that means sumac is added to everything. I should buy some.

This whole time I thought it was a tree.



rcocean said...

Damn the guy really likes his pepper doesn't he?


MamaM said...

Though not particularly fonda Jane, I am fonda poetry that pops into the head in the dark of night.

Or shows up on posts devoted to eggs. Or pepper.