I Heart Cilantro/ I Hate Cilantro

Got too much time on your hands? Hate cilantro? Then you, too, could join over 1000 others at www.ihatecilantro.com. You can even order a hoodie making your loathing of this herb clear to any doubters.

As for me, I’m with MJ when he purred, “I’m a lover, not a fighter.” It’s true that cilantro is an acquired taste, but then again, so are most of the best ingredients in life including wine, coffee, chili peppers and asparagus.

Few herbs inspire the love-hate camps that cilantro does. Detractors find the sharp, astringent, soapy taste too bitter, but fans are addicted to these exact qualities. Mexican and Thai dishes use the herb liberally, and Indian and Portuguese cuisine is not complete without it. I find that cilantro adds distinctive, unusual flair to all kinds of dishes in my kitchen, but if you don’t like the flavour, there are plenty of reasons to add it to your diet anyways- this herb is extremely nutritious and healing. Its medicinal qualities are wide-ranging, from promoting urinary tract health, boosting the immune system, fighting allergies, aiding digestion, reducing gas and nausea, soothing inflammation, balancing blood sugar, fighting salmonella, alleviating arthritis symptoms, detoxifying the liver, and killing viruses and bacterial infections. In addition, the fresh herb is a good source of thiamin and zinc, Vitamins A, B6, C, E, and K, riboflavin, niacin, folate, pantothenic acid, calcium, iron, magnesium, phosphorus, potassium, copper and manganese.

Cilantro is unique in its ability to help eliminate toxic metals like mercury and aluminum from the body. It is so efficient and swift at chelating metals that they can be found in the urine directly following ingestion! Many naturopathic doctors recommend chelation therapy even though it is time-consuming and introduces a chemical compound called ethylenediamine tetraacetic acid (EDTA) into the body to get rid of metals, because lead, arsenic, and mercury are highly poisonous and cause severe symptoms in metal-sensitive people. Cilantro is the only known natural chelation agent.

Coriandrum sativum is a hearty annual with vibrant green, fan shaped leaves. It resembles flat-leaf parsley, and is sometimes called Chinese parsley. Asian cookery uses the root as well as the seeds, called coriander, and the leaves, called cilantro. Keep in mind that the seeds and leaves are two different ingredients. Seeds can be powdered and added to dishes to help marry flavours together. They have a warm, nutty taste with a hint of lemon. Do not interchange these ingredients when following a recipe. Also, do not use the flavourless dried cilantro, though this may be useful to those who don’t like the taste. The dried herb retains some of the health benefits, but does not pack the medicinal punch of fresh leaves. Most recipes call for cilantro to be added at the end of cooking because heat removes much of the flavour- this may be desirable if you are adjusting your taste buds to the tangy wonder herb. It’s also a good idea to freeze the herb rather than letting it go rotten- a fresh bunch keeps for a few days in your fridge and a few months in your freezer, retaining much but not all of its flavour.

The best way to begin exploring this amazing plant is to head out for some Vietnamese, Thai and Mexican cuisine. Or impress your friends with a killer Mexican-style hors d’oeuvre that is easy and spectacular- melt a bit of butter and lemon juice with piles of chopped leaves and garlic, then grill shrimps in the mixture. Everyone will ask for the recipe!

Few dishes excite me as much as my recipe for Summer Soup. Its warm lemony chicken broth contrasts with a dollop of ice-cold but hot cilantro salsa, and makes a perfect appetizer or light meal. Sautee two chopped leeks in butter with a pinch of cinnamon. Add about eight cups of chicken broth, juice from two lemons, salt and pepper and a beaten egg. Use a hand-blender on the mixture, but leave a few chunky leeks, then toss in a few egg noodles. In the blender, mix a cup of chopped cilantro, a tomato, half a red onion, lemon juice, a red and green chili, 2 tbsps olive oil, cumin, chili powder, and salt and pepper to taste. Refrigerate until cold. Spoon into piping hot soup with a bit of yogurt or sour cream just before serving.

visit the writer, Lorette C. Luzajic, at www.thegirlcanwrite.net.

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The Mighty Reuben

There are some things better left for another to cook. Try as I may, Thai always tastes like either nothing, or rubber tires, when I attempt a recipe at home. My restaurateur friend has no issue with the subtleties of Thai broths and chili seasoning: John also makes a spectacular Reuben sandwich. This is something I really only like to order in New York City. I live in Toronto, so it’s not a sandwich that appears regularly on my menus. The odd time I’ve ordered it here at home, it’s either flavourless or sloppy with grease. The one Toronto spot that shone was The Tulip, at Queen and Coxwell. Overall, had John not served me up a masterpiece, I may never have had one again.

Like all great mysteries, the origin of the Reuben sandwich is hazy. Two conflicting legends are circulating, and both involve a Jewish guy named Reuben and a slab of rye bread. I like to go with the classic 1938 account of Arnold Reuben, who slapped together a sky-high sandwich for a New York actress who came into his deli. She said she was famished, and he made a sandwich she called unforgettable. Arnie said he would name it the Anna Selos Special, and she said it should be named The Reuben. The competing story has a 1956 Omaha, Nebraska sandwich recipe contest winner named Reuben as the diner designer. But it seems solid to me that this thing was born in New York. Where else could sauerkraut go gourmet?

John assured me it’s not difficult to master at home, with major benefits like no charge for half a dozen pickles on the side and stuffing as much of everything as you want into the bread. I was game- I make a mean grilled cheese, and as a German gal, thought a messy sauerkraut sandwich should be a breeze.

Umm, yeah.

Tuesday afternoon starts out with the search for some corned beef. I already know that ‘corned beef’ means brine-salted brisket. Apparently, the salt chunks used to be called ‘corns’- perhaps salt-corns as to peppercorns, but I’m not sure. I don’t really know what I’m doing at the market because I seldom purchase cured meats for home use. Mainly because I could eat an entire row of fat Genoa salamis in front of a How to Look Good Naked marathon with my girl Gok Wan.

I can only find one tin, imported from Brazil, and I wonder about the little key attached to the tin. I’ve never used a device of this kind, and the strangely triangular tin seems odd. I know it’s so that the corned beef will slide out easily, so I don’t worry. Until I get home. None of my brute strength can open the damn thing. I rip half of a fingernail off tinkering with the damn can. Then I ruin my most expensive kitchen knife and practically commit suicide by error as the blade slips a dozen times, butchering several fingers, severing a few arteries, and ruining my shirtsleeve. As a modern girl, I head online, only to find that many others have been driven mad by this can and have thrown it out the window. The simplest suggestion is to use a regular can opener, so I do, with great difficulty going around the weird corners, but I manage.

But what is this inside? Lord help us all, it’s dog food. My stomach retches as I spoon a heap of reeking meat. What if it’s not dog food, but DOG? What if it’s not dog meat, but human? I’ve read somewhere that most of us have actually eaten human flesh at least once. In times of extreme poverty, handy corpses have stretched that meat dollar by conveniently fattening up sausages and ground meat. While we are all quick to blame this type of stuff on urban legends with no basis in truth, the truth is that things are always MUCH WORSE than they appear, and that humans are capable of absolutely anything. So I can assume that there is a good chance that those girls who disappeared on a trip to the beaches of Cancun ended up in this tin of Brazilian brisket.

It matters not: I’m adventurous, and millions eat this every day, so it must be good. I scoop it out and bravely lay it on the rye, topping with sauerkraut and Thousand Island salad dressing and Swiss cheese. Authentic Jewish versions call for homemade Russian dressing, apparently, but the popular versions today use Thousand Island and so did my friend John. The grilling bread and cheese smells marvelous, except for the acrid, cat-food stench of the meat rising up from the pan as well. Oh, boy.

Two bites in and I can’t recall ever being so disgusted in my life. I watched my brother eat chocolate covered cockroaches that I bought him for Christmas, and didn’t feel the bile rising. Thanks to this festering funky flesh, I will always loathe rye bread and Thousand Island dressing. I have never had such a disastrous kitchen drama. Stuff has burned, stuff has been flavourless, stuff has been too spicy, stuff has been gross. But never before did I burp barf.

The remedy is simple: never, ever use can-corned. Use deli shaved. Or use tuna, which is what my friend John used, but didn’t tell me until it was too late. I may now be able to make a beautiful Reuben but I will never again be able to eat one. Goodbye, Reuby Tuesday.

Lorette C. Luzajic
thegirlcanwrite.net

Paprika, Hungary’s Spice of Life

Without paprika, there would be no goulash- or any other passionate cuisine in Hungary. What Hungarians ate before Christopher Columbus brought back the capsicum annum from Mexico is a distant memory. Hungary’s red gold is truly the spice of life, an integral part of their culture. At harvest season in Kalocsa, the “paprika capital”, the shiny little red pepper can be seen far and wide. Fields of plants shimmer in the sun, and strings of peppers hang from every porch and doorway.

Paprika is nearly a synonym for Hungary. This bright red, sweet spice with a light bite of heat and bitterness enlivens everything from sausages to mushrooms to potatoes. The use of paprika seems an innocent enough freedom, providing a colourful and affordable condiment. However, during the Turkish rule, cultivating this pepper was prohibited and the punishment for flouting regulations was death. Thankfully, many Hungarians took this risk and cemented growing and curing traditions that now yield the piquant, sweet flavour to many dishes around the world.

Hungary was hit hard again in the mid-1990s when unscrupulous growers began adding lead oxide, a poisonous pigment used in red paint, to intensify the colour of lower-grade crops. This led to stomach aches, paralysis and death, and caused a drought in spices when paprika was pulled out of the marketplace, creating lost revenues and economic fallout. The hearty, pragmatic Hungarians refused to eat without their beloved spice and bought coffee grinders to make their own from whole dried plants, instead of relying on merchants and producers to create the peppery powder.

The spice was banned again in 2004, this time when it was found to contain aflatoxin B 1, a carcinogenic microtoxin produced by mold. Growers and cultivators were horrified that their world-class crops, renowned as the best paprika in the world, were contaminated. Merchants of Hungaricum, this world-famous paprika, were incensed to discover that the bad batches contained peppers imported from Spain and Brazil and not their own products. Despite these seemingly constant setbacks, few cabbages or stews are ever made without the national spice, and most Hungarians consider paprika a food group.

Hungary sure is valiant about a good goulash or chicken paprikash, and its historical methods of production and curing give us the bittersweet and pungent delicacy, but Spain was the first to powder the pepper. Legend says Columbus gave samples of the capsicum to the monastery in Guadalupe, and cooking with the new world pepper spread rapidly through Spanish cuisine. It also became a classic ingredient in Serbia and Croatia and other Balkan lands. Each country has slightly different preferences in strain of the pepper, in drying times, in smoking (or not) procedures, and so on. It’s still popular in Central America and Mexico, though the palate must share this flavour with dozens of other hotter peppers. Americans love it, too, often using it as a cosmetic to liven up the colours on the plate. It’s a handy condiment to have in the pantry when fruits and fresh veggies are lacking, because paprika is laden with Vitamin C, and its transport via ships in the days of world exploration saved many smart sailors from scurvy.

Hungarians would say there’s no taste like home, and it’s easy to try your hand at some classic, hearty dishes. To make goulash, simply simmer a couple of chopped onions in butter with garlic and paprika (I like to use lots, in the Hungarian tradition that this is a food group!) Stir over low heat (high heat scorches paprika and makes it bitter). Add chunks of beef and a little bit of water, a few potatoes, and some salt, and let it simmer on low heat for an hour or so. Many recipes call for tomatoes, but many traditional Hungarian cooks veto this idea. The tomato can overshadow the sweet intensity of the paprika.

Chicken paprikash is just as easy and quite possibly the best chicken I ever made at home. Though leaner cooking calls for boneless, skinless breasts, cooking with the meat on the bone makes this so tender it’s worth a few extra calories. Sautee, on low heat, a few chopped onions in butter and garlic until tender. Add sour cream and as much paprika as you want, making a vivid red sauce. Pour this simple mixture over your chicken and cook in the oven for an hour. Salt, and sprinkle with another dash of the good stuff before serving.