Reflection: Bokados from a Year in Madrid

I've been absent a while, dear readers, I know, and you must excuse me for it. These past few months have been a wild whirlwind of activity - going from conferences to radio interviews to cooking classes - that I haven't really had a moment to write it all down. Now, however, safely ensconced back in Connecticut for the foreseeable future, I've had a while to think about all that I did while in Madrid - much of which didn't necessarily make it to the pages of this blog, but that which I'd like to share with you all. So, if you'll indulge me, I'd like to take some time and space here to reflect on all the different projects I was lucky enough to work on and experiences I was lucky enough to have while in my dear Madrid. So here goes:

I started this blog - happy one year anniversary! - and updated it with recipes and adventures from across Spain, including stuffed peppers symbolic of Avila, the secret history of one of Spain's most famous cakes, and a babka inspired by Klimt.

The Basilica of San Francisco el Grande at sunset.

I moved into one of Madrid's coolest neighborhoods, La Latina and discovered the joys of this quirky, cool barrio. Highlights include the weekly market of the Rastro, the specialty Syrian and Moroccan spice shops around the corner, and vibrant sunsets.

Sunset on Calle Maldonadas, of el barrio La Latina.

At the beginning of my grant, I met a woman named Clara Maria Gonzalez de Amezúa - who I call the grand-dame of Spanish cuisine. She opened the famous cookery shop and cooking school Alambique, located right near the Teatro Real (Royal Theater) of the metro stop Opera. I had an amazing lunch at her incredible house outside of Madrid (profiled here in Elle Decor) and then was lucky enough to take a cooking class at her school, learning the delights and intricacies of Turkish cuisine.

A delicious discovery from the Turkish cooking class: Turkish apricots sautéed in lots of butter and finished with chopped walnuts.

I worked in some great archives, including the Biblioteca Nacional and the Biblioteca Tomas Navarro Tomas of the Centro de Ciencias Humanas y Sociales of the CSIC, finding fascinating sources on the history of Sephardic and Spanish Jewish food in medieval Spain - from Inquisitorial trials to 19th century cookbooks to the Edict of Expulsion itself.

I visited Morocco twice - once for my cousin's wedding and the other to lead a trip of college students across the north of the country, sampling couscous and tagines along the way. 

An image of the last page of the Alhambra Decree, or Edict of Expulsion of the Jews from Spain, courtesy of Google images.

An Almoravide structure called a Qubiya, located in Marrakesh.

At Yves St. Lauren's famous blue house in Marrakesh.

I became highly involved in the Madrid Reform Jewish Community (check them out in this JTA article written by one of our very own members...see if you can spot me in one of the photos!), attending weekly Shabbats and events while also teaching a history-based cooking course for them. The class I taught explored Jewish identity through its diasporic kitchens. We made everything from Ashkenazi kugel to Sephardic keftes (leek fritters) to Yemeni doukeh (charoset). Get in touch with me on this page if you'd like me to come teach at your synagogue!

Teaching the course for the Madrid Reform Community in my very own Boka Dulse apron.

Getting ready for my presentation at the 2017 Oxford Symposium on Food & Cookery.

I wrote and presented two academic papers at two prestigious conferences: one at the European Institute for Food History and Culture in the fabulous medieval city of Tours, France and the other at the Oxford Symposium on Food & Cookery - check it out in this Tweet here. I met one of my culinary heroes, Claudia Roden, at the Oxford conference too (how crazy is that!?). If you're interested, I'll be happy to share those papers with you (there will definitely be some forthcoming blogposts about them too, never fear!)

I taught a class for The Gefilteria, an organization dedicated to "reimagining old world Jewish foods," on Sephardic culinary history. The class took place as a part of Brandeis University's GENESIS precollege program, and I had an amazing time teaching a group of engaged and engaging high school students about how Sephardic food came to be Sephardic food.

A fun action shot from my cooking class on Shavuot culinary traditions.

I was featured on RadioSefarad's English Corner and Recetas con Historia programs, invited to talk about the history of Sephardic Jewish food in Spain. The links to those recordings will be out sometime in September - will keep you all posted! And until then, you'll have to wait to see what I talked about... (hehe).

I traveled to many of Spain's fabulous and vibrant cities, falling even more deeply in love with this country than ever before. For more information on where I went in each of those places, you can go to this page of the blog. For now, though, I'll leave you some of my favorite shots of the places I went.

A shot of the famous Metropolis building on Calle Alcala.

The Church of Santa Maria de Pilar in Zaragoza.

The Cathedral of Burgos.

The Matadero.

While I learned a great deal for my research, I also discovered so many of the delights and nuances of Spanish people, country, and culture. I am so grateful for the many opportunities I've received this year to not only do what I love, but also to share it with others - this past year proves the power of sweet words in opening those iron gates. Not to mention grow a great deal myself. And now, back home, I have many more exciting things to look forward to and to share with you all -- so keep an eye out in the next couple of weeks for some fun updates of my forthcoming projects. Until then, remember to keep those words sweet ;)

A beautiful sunlit view from the Torres de Quart in Valencia.

Abrasos,

Sara

Converso Cake

Over the past few weeks, I’ve traveled a great deal through towns and cities that are all a part of the Camino de Santiago (reflections on those places coming soon). For those readers that don’t know, the Camino de Santiago de Compostela (literally the “walk of St. James’ of Compostela”)  is a pilgrimage route, the most well-known of which runs through the French Pyrenes through the north of Spain to the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela on the northwestern point of Galicia (see this map for an idea). This pilgrimage is not only famous among the religious, as the ruins of Santiago (aka St. James) were supposedly found in this Galician capital, but also for tons of tourists as well, who to northern Spain to traverse the famous path, hoping on their way to find inner-peace or just enjoy the novelty of the trip. In fact, this pilgrimage has become one of the most well-known of the many fabulous Spanish traditions – up there with the running of the bulls in Pamplona, Buñol’s Tomatina, and Sevilla’s Semana Santa.

Interestingly enough, the city of Santiago de Compostela also boasts a famous, similarly-named dessert called the Tarta de Santiago (“St. James’ cake). Popularized through its omnipresence in the bakeries along the Camino de Santiago, this delectable cake is also found all over Spain as a simple but oh-so-delicious merienda with afternoon coffee or breakfast. Made of a mix of ground almonds, a cloud of meringue, sugar, and citrus zest, this cake has become emblematic of the Camino – and yet it also lays claim to a secret Jewish past that very few who eat it know.

During the 12th and 13th centuries, a wave of Almohads conquered their way from Morocco across the Gibraltar through the caliphate of Al-Andalus. (Al-Andalus, ruled by the caliph Abd al-Rahman III, later became known as Andalusia). The Almohads were very different from their intellectual, liberal Umayyad predecessors: with their more austere interpretation of Islam, they also brought a much less friendly attitude towards Andalusi Jews, who had integrated profoundly in the sociopolitical and cultural milieu of the Umayyad society. Though, technically, the Sephardic Jews of the time were still consider dhimmi, or protected people in Islamic law (mostly they paid a poll tax and couldn’t build their synagogues higher than any mosque), the Almohads bred a much more violent relationship with the Jews, so different than the flourishing convivencia of the Umayyads. This resulted in waves of pogroms and mass conversions of Jews in the south of Spain, from which droves of Jews fled to the northern Christian territories of Spain, at that moment much more tolerant of the Sephardic community. The Sephardic refugees even including such Sephardi notables as Abraham ibn Ezra, an important poet at the time, who wrote the following about his flight from Andalusia:

The Exile dwelt there blamelessly in safety
Without interruption for a thousand seventy years.
But the day came when her people were banished and she became like a widow
Without Torah study or biblical recitation, the Mishnah sealed shut
…That is why I weep and beat my hands, lament forever on my lips.
(trans. Ross Brann, Mark R. Cohen)

Fleeing to the north of Spain, the Sephardim not only brought their intellectual and economic acumen to their new northern Christian courts, but also their recipes and traditional dishes.

And not just any food: according to Claudia Roden, one of my favorite food historians, the Sephardim fleeing Almohad persecution brought their sweets with them. One in particular, a Passover cake made of ground almonds, eggs, sugar, and citrus, made its way all the way to northern Galicia. Sounds familiar right? As Devra Ferst writes: “The widely available tarta de Santiago de Compostela, an almond cake that is made with orange-and-lemon zest and named for a cathedral to which pilgrims travel, was originally a Passover dish from Andalusia in the South” (Ferst, from here).

Even though they were forced to relocate across the country, the cake remained a favorite of Andalusian Sephardim. After waves of forced conversions, it transcended its role as a dessert for Passover – as it has no leavening, it fits the halakhic stipulations for the observance of the holiday – later becoming a staple of judeoconversos. It seems that though they changed religion, these Jewish converts to Christianity didn’t see anything wrong with continuing to make the delicious cake, and evidently their tastes didn’t also change with their religion. Who would have thought that a cake named for a Christian saint and his pilgrimage really was a Passover dessert?

An even more fascinating addendum to this history is that the tarta de Santiago was chosen to represent Spain in the 2006 Café Europa initiative of the European Union. Seems like an ironic, though in this historian’s eyes, an oh-so-fitting selection. But whether you’re fleeing Almohad persecution or making a Christian pilgrimage, everyone, regardless of religious affiliation, can agree this cake is definitely delicious.

Tarta de Santiago

This recipe is adapted from Claudia Roden’s brilliant cookbook The Book of Spanish Food. While this cake can come together in moments with the use of an electric mixer, I opted (read: was forced) to go the medieval route and hand-whip the egg whites into meringue. If you’re up for the arm workout, I recommend it. As Roden explains, and in my experience, this cake sometimes comes with a  pastry base or served, as in Navarre, with a thin layer of jam on top. Personally, I like to keep it simple with a generous amount of orange zest in the batter and quick final dusting of confectioner’s sugar (without the customary cross of St. James though). However, if you feel like experimenting, the cake takes phenomenally well to other types of citrus (did someone say lime?!) or other flavorings, like cinnamon or vanilla. Let your imagination run free!

½ pound (1 ¾ cups) blanched whole almonds
6 large eggs, separated
1 ¼ cups sugar
Grated zest of 1 orange
Grated zest of 1 lemon
A few drops of almond or vanilla extract
½ teaspoon cinnamon (optional)

Preheat the oven to 350°F/160°C. Finely grind the almonds into a flour-like texture in a food processor.

With an electric mixer (or by hand), beat the egg yolks with the sugar into a smooth pale yellow cream. Beat in the zest and extract and any other flavorings you want to add. Add the ground almonds and mix well. (The batter will be a little stiff but don’t worry).

With clean beaters (or a clean whisk), beat the egg whites in a large bowl until stiff peaks form. Fold the egg whites into the egg and almond mixture – this will take a while because the egg and almond mixture is so thick, but keep at it until the egg whites are thoroughly incorporated.

Grease an 11-inch springform pan with butter and dust it with flour. Pour the batter into the pan and bake for 40 minutes, or until it feels firm to the touch (Note: this depends on your oven – mine took almost an hour to become fully firm and even then it was just on the edge of underdone. If the top starts to brown too much, just slip a piece of aluminum foil on top, without sealing the pan, of it to protect it). Let the cake cool completely before turning out.

Once cool, dust with a cloud of confectioners’ sugar and, if you’d like, for a traditional effect, cut out a cross of St. James before (see here) and then dust with the sugar. Or, for a Navarre-inspired version, forego the sugar and spread a thin layer of apricot jam on top of the cake. Enjoy!

Burgos' Rotten Pots

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.

One of the city's Islamic gates.

The Gothic Monasterio de las Huelgas.

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.

A Tale of Two Documents

Note: I wrote this piece the day after Donald Trump was elected president and posted it on my Facebook profile. Due to the overwhelming response, and because I still feel as strongly now about what I wrote two weeks ago, I'm posting it here for posterity. That being said, I have made some minor edits to this piece to make it more appropriate to a non-Facebook format. I hope you enjoy it, or at the very least, engage with it - please don't hesitate to let me know what you think. And, on a brighter note, I've got more recipes coming soon. xo, S.

On Wednesday November 9th, 2016, the day that Donald Trump became the next president of the United States, I was in Ávila. I was there to see a copy of the Edict of Expulsion of the Sephardic Jews from Spain in 1492, also known as the Alhambra Decree. For those who know me and know the work I do as a Fulbright scholar, this date and, more precisely, this document, are extremely significant: they are, materially, why I study what I study and do the work I do. 

But even more than that, seeing this copy of the Edict – a parchment transcription of the text expelling the Jews, addressed to the municipality of Ávila and signed by the Catholic monarchs - illustrated for me in painfully ordinary detail what Hannah Arendt called the banality of evil. It was and is just a letter – one with a royal signature and seal, but still, in a way simply a glorified note. And yet it initiated one of the most traumatic dispersions within the greater Jewish diaspora –  one that, to this day, people recall with anguish as they invoke Ladino refrains and pass on the antique keys that unlocked their Spanish homes – and that had a tremendous impact on the medieval world (and therefore, our modern one). There were grooved creases running through the center of the page where it had been badly folded and fading words where the ink wore off through the years; the document could so easily be ripped or torn by the lightest touch. It was almost laughable how hate and oppression could take on such an unassuming, now fragile form.

And yet, there was an appropriate, painful irony to seeing this edict particularly on the day that the most bigoted, racist, sexist (the "ist" list goes on) candidate - one who I never imagined would be elected - was voted into the office of president of the United States. On the one hand, the very thing that this document enacted – the mass expulsion of a group of people predicated solely on their ethnic definition – is exactly what Donald Trump has proposed multiple times in his campaign, regarding countless groups of people, in nearly the same language (even despite the Edict of Expulsion being written in medieval Castilian). The Catholic monarchs expelled the Jews because of their “corrupting influence” on new Christian converts, their “concerted” effort to rob Old Christians of economic opportunity, and because of what the Catholic monarchs perceived as their maliciously closed off community. The language sounds all too familiar, just instead of Jews, Trump has referred to Latinos, African-Americans, women, and so on. It became starkly clear to me that even though the edict is 524 years old this March 31st, and was only officially revoked in 1968, its main sentiments of fear and scapegoating carry on; especially as embodied by those people in our country who seek to demonize, oppress, and expel others. In a twist of cruel irony, it uses nearly the same rhetoric in 1492 as the Trump campaign did in 2016, enacted into existence by the absolute power of monarchy. It seems to me that that is exactly the type of power Trump would like to have as president.

That brings me to what’s on the other hand, because 288 years ago, another document was signed into existence: the US Constitution. It is a document that affirms the rights of all people, no matter their race, religion creed, gender, age, sexual orientation, or political belief, to live and participate in the democratic process. It is a yellowed parchment testament to the value and validity of each individual’s lived experience. While the original document, I’m sure, is just as fragile as that of Ávila’s Alhambra Decree, it expresses exactly the opposite sentiments of the Edict of Expulsion. Even in its most basic language it’s completely different: those famous first three words of “we the people” stand in stark contrast to the introduction of the Edict’s “King Ferdinand and Queen Isabel, by the grace of God.” And that image, that represents exactly the opposite of the Alhambra decree, is that of the United States in which I firmly believe. It is the picture of a vibrant, diverse country of dynamic, intelligent people seeking, growing, innovating, and engaging profoundly with questions and the problems with which they are presented. It is a country of acceptance of difference, no matter how difficult or uncomfortable that coexistence may be. A country that does not push out people simply because of some arbitrary categorization or the belief in their inferiority. It is a country of love, not hate. Essentially, and intentionally, everything medieval Spain was not.

In the last 150 days of this election cycle, and even before that, I have looked around my communities - on Facebook and real life, in the United States and abroad - and all I have and continue to see are whip-smart, complex, active, passionate people who want and work to make the communities and lives around them better. People of the 21st century with a modern, and yes, even millennial, sensibility that I believe emphasizes the “we” over “me.” And knowing that they – you all – are out there gives me such profound hope I can't adequately express it. At the end of the day, I see people loving each other, embracing difference – choosing the “we the people” of our Constitution over the “I, the King” and “I, the Queen” of the Edict of Expulsion (and, let’s be real, the Trump campaign).

We in the United States are lucky enough to have a document that openly, explicitly advocates for equality and the valuation of each individual perspective. I’ll be honest, I’m pretty devastated Donald Trump is our new president. And it’s hard to accept this decision without deep sadness and anger on my part. But I have a deep faith in the way our political system peacefully transitions from one presidency to the next, no matter how disparate their political ideologies may be or how uncomfortable that transition is. A value enshrined by our governing Constitution. So, rather than letting this electoral decision define my next four years or, even worse, allowing it to create hate or anger in my heart – the type of hate that leads to documents like the Edict of Expulsion – I’m making the active choice to accept the election of a political ideology that is very different from my own. At the same time, I choose to advocate every single day of the next four years and beyond for the vision of the United States that I believe our Constitution sets out – one that enables the coexistence of different ideologies and experiences for the greater good of all – to not let us fall into the trap of hatred of the other that permitted the existence of the Edict of Expulsion. I choose to hope, and I hope reading this might help you choose it too.

A cookie by any other name...

The cold has come to Madrid. Late autumn, or more precisely, winter has settled in here in La Ciudad Real. And I have to be honest, I’m not loving it (warm weather is much more my shtick). At the same time, being from the Northeast of the United States, where there are always four full seasons, I feel very deeply connected to the changing of the seasons and the different celebrations, phases of life, and –of course!– foods that those transitions bring. With that in mind, I have a post for you all today about Sukkot, one of the holidays in the Jewish calendar that marks the end of a season and the transition into another. Particularly, I want to tell you about a food that represents the multiple meanings of this holiday: biscochikos.

Biscochikos are small, twisted cookie rings. Much like Italian biscotti, they are often twice-baked, resulting in a crumbly, pleasantly crunchy cookie. The history of this cookie goes back to medieval Iberia, their country of origin and where they first were incorporated into the Sephardic culinary repertoire. In medieval Andalusia, the Sephardim combined the Islamic zeal and preparation techniques for desserts, or repostería, as is said in Spanish, with their own unique tastes and religious observances to create the biscochiko. Gil Marks explains in the Encyclopedia of Jewish Food, that “early Sephardim rarely baked with butter” as it was a food associated with the Christian Spanish community “and cookies instead contained oil” combined with other pareve (kosher) ingredients such as flour, sugar, and eggs, “creating a dough that’s easy to shape and a tender cookie.” The use of oil in the cookie dough is a distinctly Sephardic element of the dessert, as it resulted in a cookie that could be eaten with any meal, milk or meat, without transgressing on the laws of kashrut. Most Sephardic desserts, even to this day, are characterized by the use of oil in place of butter as the recipe’s main fat. After the expulsion in 1492, the Sephardim took their biscochikos with them to their various new homes, where they began to add new ingredients native to those adopted communities to flavor and decorate the otherwise pretty plain ring cookies. For instance, Sephardic communities in Greece perfume their biscochikos with cinnamon and coat them in sesame seeds while Turkish Sephardic communities add walnuts and orange blossom water. Depending on where you are in the world, these cookies can be called biscochikos de huevo or guevo, biscotios, vizcochikos, roskitas, or kaak. In that way, the physically represent the journey of Sephardic cooking and communities in diaspora.

Despite the multiple names for this same cookie, they are a staple in Sephardic diasporic communities for both festive and every day meals, as common on the Shabbat desayuno table as on Rosh Hashanah dessert plates. Sukkot, the Jewish holiday celebrating the final major autumn harvest and the 40-year passage of the Israelites through the desert, is no exception. As Gil Marks shows, they can even factor into the decoration of the traditional sukkah, as “on sukkot, some families hang biscochos from the branches of the sukkah.” Sukkot comes two weeks after Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, and is celebrated for a week, in which Jews all over the world erect sukkot (tents) and live in them for the duration of the holiday. It’s a holiday celebrating bounty – corresponding with the year’s last burst of agricultural abundance – and the consolidation of Jewish identity – as the period of wandering in the desert is reenacted by the dwelling in the sukkah.

Interestingly, food is central to the “proper” celebration of Sukkot. Even in the building of the sukkah, rabbinic commentators argued in the Mishnah about the proper size of a sukkah, finally settling on a structure that “measure[s] at least 7 x 7 handbreadths to contain the head, major part of the body, and the table of the occupant: 6 x 6 handbreadths for himself, and 1 x 1 for the table.” Pretty notable that the main structure that symbolizes the holiday is required to make room for a table on which the sukkah’s occupants can eat. This is because, as the rabbis continue to explain, to fulfill the requirement to dwell in the sukkah, its occupant must eat at least two meals a day. In the logic of the rabbis, it’s not considered really dwelling in the sukkah unless you’re eating in it. Living and eating are considered so intimately linked in Jewish tradition that the proper celebration of a holiday depends on it. Cool, right?

And even cooler, these cookies also appear in a seemingly opposite, non-Jewish celebration here in Spain: Las Fiestas de San Isidro, or the Festival of San Isidore. Las Fiestas de San Isidro take place here in Madrid every May and are perhaps the most specifically madrileño of all holidays in the city. It’s a week of festivities that celebrates the Madrilenian Saint Isidro who lived in the tenth century and had to flee the city during the Almohad rule of the city – around the same time that biscochikos came into existence. Plus, one of the most important celebratory foods of this holiday is the rosquilla, a ring-shaped, oil-and-egg-based cookie that comes with a variety of toppings: tontas (nothing but an egg wash that are widely acknowledged to come from the Middle Ages), listas (with a coating of sugar), de Santa Clara o francesas (topped with a type of merengue), or the popular de Tía Javiera o de Fuenlabrada (that come in twists). Sounds familiar, no? Even the definition in the Diccionario de la Real Academía Española seems like a version of a quick recipe for a biscochiko: “a dessert in the form of a small ring, made of a dough of flour with eggs, sugar, and another ingredient [dulce en forma de rosca pequeña, hecho de masa de harina con huevos, azúcar y algún otro ingrediente] (my translation).” 

From Dulce Frivolidades

And if you’re still not convinced, check out this recipe from Directo al Paladar, or this one from Dulces Frivolidades. The recipe for rosquillas tontas and biscochikos are pretty darn similar. Coincidence? I like to think not. But whatever way you make them, and by whatever name you call them, they’re exactly the treat to celebrate life’s bounty, whether for Sukkot or San Isidro’s Feast. I hope you enjoy them!

Biscochikos de huevo with plum-pear compote

To evoke the agricultural bounty of Sukkot, when it is customary to eat dishes that center on vegetables and fruits, I decided to pair these biscochikos with a fruit compote of plums and pears accentuated with a bit of orange zest and juice. The slightly acidic compote makes a great accompaniment for the subtlety sweet cookies. What’s more, both recipes make an abundance of sweet treats, which makes them ideal to serve to guests in a sukkah. Feel free to customize both the biscochikos and compote to your tastes – whether that’s more or less orange zest, the addition of spices like clove or anise, or a pre-oven sprinkling of almonds or any other nut or seed… And if you want a little bit of everything, this recipe makes enough to customize each cookie as you see fit!

Biscochikos (makes about 48 cookie rings):

4 cups all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon double-acting baking powder
1/2 teaspoon sea salt
4 large eggs
1 cup sugar
1 cup vegetable oil
1-1/2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1 egg beaten, mixed with 1 teaspoon of water
½ cup white sesame seeds
½ finely chopped walnuts

Preheat your oven to 350°F/180°C. Position a rack in the idle of the oven. Lightly grease a 9” x 13” baking sheet or cover it with a sheet of aluminum foil.

In a medium bowl, sift together the flour, salt, and baking powder. In another lightly beat the eggs, then add the sugar, oil, cinnamon, and/or any other flavoring you’d like to add (anise, orange zest, and vanilla are all great options). Add the dry ingredients to the wet mixture and mix until a soft dough forms (once all the flour is mixed in, you’re there).

Lightly dust your work surface with flour. Dump dough out onto the counter. Divide it into 4 equal pieces. Take one of the four pieces and divide it in half. Take that eighth of the dough and divide it into 3 even balls of dough.

To form basic cookie rings, take one of those 3 dough balls and roll it into a log approximately 10 to 12 inches in length, depending on how thin you want the rings to be. Cut the log in half on a diagonal. Take one of the rolled halves and bring the ends together. Squeeze them to form a closed ring. Place on the prepared baking sheet.

To form twists, follow the same technique as with the basic ring, except before bringing the ends of the log together, roll out one the halves into a log approximately twice the length of the log for a regular ring. Take one end of the dough and bring it next to the other. Pick up the folded end of the dough and begin gently winding the halves around each other (my advice: do this slowly and coat the log in a little extra flour because the dough is very fragile). Once the twist is made, bring the ends together as you would for a normal ring and squeeze them to close the twisted ring. Place on the baking sheet.

Once you have your completed rings on the baking sheet (I was able to fit 16 on mine, which meant 3 separate rounds of baking, but of course you can do multiple pans at a time), brush the rings with the egg and water mixture. From here, let your imagination go wild: leave them as is, top with walnuts or sesame seeds, or dust them with raw sugar. Bake the rings for 20 minutes or until golden brown. Leave on a rack to cool completely.

If you like your cookies crispier, turn off the oven and place all the baked cookies in it until it cools completely. This will act almost as a second baking, which will leave the cookies with a texture closer to a biscotti and much browner appearance.

Compote (makes about 4 cups of compote):

8 plums
4 medium pears, preferably Bartlett or a more tart variety
juice of an orange
zest of half an orange
1/8 to a ¼ cup of sugar, depending on taste
1/3 cup water
pinch of salt

Cut the plums into 8 slices and chunk the pears in ½-inch pieces. Place cut fruit in a medium saucepan with the orange juice, zest, sugar, water, and salt. Mix to combine. Bring mixture to a boil then turn it down to a simmer. Let the mixture cook, covered, for about 20-30 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the fruit begins to break down and the cooking liquid reduces and thickens. Don’t overcook the mixture: the fruit should still hold its shape. Serve with biscochikos and enjoy!

Bienvenidos

Bienvenidos a Boka Dulse! | Welcome to Boka Dulse!

This is a blog that’s all about the exploration and celebration of food history and culture. In Ladino (and in Spanish, though it’s spelled slightly differently – as boca dulce) boka dulse literally means “sweet mouth.” This phrase comes from a well-known saying in Ladino, the language of the (mostly Ottoman) Sephardic Jews (read about who they are here) that goes boka dulse avre puertas de fierro, which in English translates to “sweet words open iron gates.” Traditionally, Sephardic mothers and grandmothers (who were most often the main keepers of Sephardic culture) would say this refrain, or refrán, to encourage and commend good behavior (as well as condemn bad behavior too). According to the Diccionario Akal del Refranero Sefardí, a dictionary dedicated to the preservation and explanation of Sephardic proverbs and sayings, “one says” the refrain “to suggest that more is often achieved with kind words than with forceful ones [se dice para significar que muchas veces se conigue más con buenas palabras que pretendiendo imponerse por las bravas]” (pg. 51, my translation). My interpretation: be kind and you’ll go farther.

Borekas, stuffed pastry turnovers, finished with sesame seeds and packed to go.

Now you may ask: what does a saying in a medieval language have to do with this foodblog? My answer: why, everything. Besides this proverb summing up perfectly my philosophy of life, it also captures exactly my philosophy around food too: that a great deal of good can be achieved if it happens over a great plate of food. (Desserts don't hurt either.) 

The name Boka Dulse also implies the Sephardic roots of this blog. Though I am of Ashkenazi (Eastern-European) Jewish heritage, the majority of my academic research at Tufts University focused on the culinary heritage and cultural identity of the Sephardic Jews. The Sephardic Jewish community was expelled from Spain in 1492 and dispersed into a far-reaching diaspora; in many ways, the dishes of the Sephardim (as they are also known) in the places they settled reveal a great deal about their experience in that location. Through those dishes, you can see how the Sephardic community simultaneously shaped and was influenced by their new surroundings – as well as whether or not its relationship with the Sephardim’s new host community was a happy one. On this blog, you'll find many Sephardic recipes and histories (as I'm most knowledgeable about Sephardic culture), but you'll also find dishes and stories from various cultures and communities across the globe.

A shared plate of homemade couscous in the Moroccan Rif Mountains.

My research clued me in to the ways that food does so much more than nourish our bodies - it helps cultivate our identity and self-perception, especially in relation to the diverse communities to which we belong and with which we interact. Our food tells the story of who we are and how we exist in the world, so I wanted to create an online space to tell (and of course taste!) those stories. That's another level of the name’s significance: I’m not simply providing you with the histories of the people and the communities that make these dishes, but I also want to give you the opportunity to make and taste them in your own kitchen, with your own boka. So, in every post you’ll find a story and a recipe, one that I’ve tested and tailored to be more compatible with the modern kitchen. By preparing and eating these dishes, you'll be able to interact and enjoy these traditions on a tangible level - in hearing the exciting sizzle of a hot pan, in feeling the comforting, aromatic steam billowing from a stewpot, as well as in seeing the delighted looks of dinner guests when a just-finished dish is placed on the table.

Homemade cinnamon-sugar challah ready in time for Shabbat, the Jewish day of rest.

I created this blog to be a celebration: of family, of community, of people coming together to share a plate of really delicious food. I want it to be a hopeful space, one that inspires you with the personal stories and narratives that every dish and ingredient represents as much as the flavors and ingredients they contain.

My mother's beautiful Thanksgiving table.

And that’s where the dulse—the sweetness—comes in. Because I believe that we share so much more than nutrients when we make and eat food together; rather, we give of ourselves. Every time we partake in communal meals, we bring together all the different stories and histories – in short, the identities – that our food represents. In that way, a meal is more than an excuse to eat: it’s an edible, enjoyable microcosm of peaceful coexistence.

That’s why this blog is called Boka Dulse: it is my way of showing that through sharing sweet words and even sweeter (read: generally delicious – no discrimination against the savory here) food, we can more easily transcend whatever iron gates – literal and figurative – that work to separate us. I hope that they are words and tastes that find their way into your kitchen too, dear reader.

And now – vini gizaremos: let’s cook!

The spread of dishes that represented the chapters of my senior thesis: borekas, almodrote, huevos haminados, keftes de prasa, adafina, and dulse de mansana.