When Huzoor moved to Europe too many years ago to think about, he left me with a lot of stuff he couldn’t/didn’t want to take along. One of those things was a Cuisinart spice/nut grinder. At the time I thought, pffft, I’ll never use this. But as it turns out, I used it a lot. Enough that I killed it. (Fig. 1 Dead Cuisineart)
Yesterday I was standing in my kitchen trying to think how I was going to grind up cilantro for the street tacos I planned to make for dinner. The door bell rang and Fig. 2 arrived. I was literally standing in the kitchen trying to decide how I was gonna accomplish this. The ol’ ball and chain came through just in time.
Husoor was feeling peckish. And for him that reads hangry to me. It’s something I like to avoid if I can and so when we arrived back in Naples and he wanted “a little something to eat” I knew we had to fly into action which, in Naples, involves standing in line.
He ordered pizza fritta the fried Neapolitan pizza that everyone is gaga over and he waited. And waited and waited and waited. I waited across the street. And I waited and waited and waited.
He finally emerged. I don’t know what the fuss was about. It was fry bread with watery fresh tomato and some cheese. Not all that much. Lotsa dough, fried, that’s for sure. Nothing else. No oregano, parmesan, basil. Nothin.’ I don’t know what the fuss is about and it’s certainly not worth the wait.
According to house rules one must declare one’s intention to cook, claim the night as one’s own. In some households one person or the other might appreciate having a spouse who wants to cook, likes to cook, shops for it and does it. In this household we have 2 cooks who . . . etc. The battle over who gets to cook what and when could end up in fisticuffs if certain laws, rules and ordinances weren’t set in place. We are, after all, in the domain of a keeper of rules and so rules must be set. Although in this instance, I believe I made the rule years ago when I had planned to make something and husoor (Urdu for the boss) blithely declared he was making something else.
It did not actually come to fisticuffs, I’m bigger than he is and I took boxing in summer camp for 2 years which is where I learned that running away is about as good as I’m going to get at the manly arts. But I digress.
He had declared for dinner and made chicken korma. And while I seem to think he did not follow his own recipe (rules were broken, let’s face it) in the making of it, it was fabulous. Since he was at work during the day and I was dithering around the house, I made raita so I got in some cooking without technically breaking rules since making raita isn’t technically cooking.
Chicken korma, rice, naan, raita (the star of the show)