Afangoria

Sometimes it's not only fun to fail, but inevitable. Due to the proliferation of South end "ethnic markets" (please, a better name!), I've started making dishes I've never eaten before from ingredients I've never heard of. Such is the nature of the market crawl, where I pick up a bag of a strange powder, dried leaf, or arthropod and vow to cook with it. The results of such adventures vary wildly.

Perhaps I rely too strongly on the panacea of internet recipes. I assume that anything eaten by man will be clearly cited and classified on the web. There waits a citation-laden Wikipedia entry, or some botanical page with the Latin names and various cultivars. Not always so.

My latest adventure arose at the West African Market on Rainier Avenue, just North of Graham Street. The store is run by a convivial and helpful Guinean man. Along with the latest Nigerian soap operas, bootleg Afro-pop CD's, and various exotic beauty products, he's got an impressive array of dried, canned, and frozen goods straight from the motherland.

Exploring his wares is an exhaustive process. I've got the basic gist of playing around with palm oil, melon seeds, and smoked shrimp. I haven't messed with millet yet. Dusty bags of potash, hunks of cassava meal moulds, and whole dried Guinea fowl leave me clueless. But that doesn't always stop me.

Last week I picked up a quantity of knowns and unknowns. Among the latter was dried ukazi leaves, stuffed into a ziplock sandwich bag like shredded crepe paper. I found two different taxonomies for these leaves: Gnetum africana and Gongronema Latifolium. In other words, I'm not exactly sure what I'm eating. No different than processed foods, I suppose.

The next night, I scanned recipes for ukazi / afang soup, a Nigerian treat from the Niger Delta region. Most were vague, some were nearly unreadable. I read several recipes and looked for the common denominators. Usually this technique works pretty well, but it's harder when working with unknown ingredients.

Based on recommendations from several recipes, I jettisoned my own common sense and flew blindly. I have a few regrets in this regard:

1) the oxtails. I usually time them carefully in the pressure cooker and they turn out perfect. On this occasion, however, my negligence cost me. For about 30 minutes, they vacillated recklessly between a slow simmer and a violently rolling boil. When the soup was "done", the oxtails were not. Gnawing away at them reminded me of a dog with a pernicious rubber toy. It took hours to pick the strings of meaty tissue from between my teeth.

2) Salt. Starting with chicken bullion and incorporating various meats and fish, I really didn't need the extra dash or two of kosher salt. The lesson here: taste before you salt.

3) the ukazi itself: Since I had never had it before, I had no standard by which to compare it. It seemed to offer no flavor of its own, but had a curious texture, a chewy tear like eating seaweed. Had I cooked it long enough? Was this really ukazi, or bagged lawn clippings?

In the end, the soup was ok, but not good enough for me to post a recipe quite yet. If you're feeling adventurous, buy a bag of your own, hop on the internet, and get cooking. And don't forget the oxtails!

Callaloo, Calalou, Callalo

I've only cooked one tropical food plant I knew to be poisonous. This fact requires no special commendations. Some of the world's most popular foods (take cassava, for instance) can kill when raw or mal-prepared. How ironic that the taro leaf, prickly with oxalate crystals, transforms into callaloo, a slippery soup renowned throughout the Caribbean.

The taro plant, or Colocasia Esculenta, twines through thousands of years food history. Muddled in murky origins (cultivated in India as long as 7000 years ago), it now holds an esteemed place in cuisines throughout the world.

It's corm (underground plant stem) is an essential starch for millions of people. In Polynesia, taro becomes poi. West Africans (who call taro “cocoyam”) pound the corms to make fufu, a gooey paste eaten with soups and stews. Ubiquitous in Seattle's International District, Taro can be found in back-alley noodle shops and dim sum restaurants. When I was young, my parents would insist upon braised taro and pork belly at House of Hong. Another neighborhood staple, bubble tea shops abound offering purple taro smoothies.

The leaves play a decidedly quieter role in some diets. It's quite a shame, as they are gorgeous. Often likened to elephant ears, they reside in the same family as philodendrons, calla lilies, and birds of paradise. Not to mention our Northwestern trail buddy, the skunk cabbage.

Some culinary aversion may be due to the high levels of calcium oxalate crystals. The leaves irritate skin when handled and drive the mouth and throat mad if ingested raw. Also found in rhubarb and a variety of houseplants (like the kind that generate high vet bills), calcium oxalate can cause kidney stones, anaphylactic shock, and liver damage.

Which are good reasons to prepare it properly. An overnight soak or thorough cooking will destroy the crystals. Then you can get to work on making callaloo, the Caribbean concoction in question.

Callaloo varies from island to island, probably from house to house. Although taro leaf is the favored green, it's not essential. The soup can be made with amaranth leaves or various xanthasomas. It often contains crab meat, okra, coconut milk, and chili peppers. A host of other meats, vegetables, and seasonings may find their way into the pot.
The texture of callaloo is truly unique, if not an acquired taste. It's often blended, either with a mixer, blender, food processor or a "Lele stick", a small forked branch. The okra, taro leaves, and coconut milk create a souffle-like texture that's half the fun of eating it.

Here's a sample recipe for callaloo. Feel free to alter it based on dietary preferences and availability of ingredients. I've heard that spinach or Swiss chard will work just as well.

Ingredients:

1.5 lbs. taro leaves and stems
1/3 lb. okra, sliced
1 medium sized Chinese eggplant, chopped
2 Tbsp olive oil
1 green plantain, finely chopped
1 medium onion, chopped
3 cloves garlic, chopped
3-4 oz crab meat
1/4 tsp thyme
a dash ground cloves
1/2 tsp ground allspice
cayenne pepper to taste
salt and pepper to taste
2 Tbsp white vinegar
1/2 cup coconut milk

Method:

1. Wash, drain, and chop the taro leaves and stems coarsely.
2. Place in a large saucepan or stockpot with okra, eggplant, and 2 cups water.
3. Cover and cook until tender, stirring occasionally. Set aside
4. In another large stockpot, sauté the onions, garlic, and plantain in the oil.
5. Cover and cook on medium-low heat until tender, stirring occasionally.
6. Add the remaining ingredients and cook for a few minutes longer.
7. Add the cooked vegetables, mix, and heat for one minute.
8. Using ladle or large measuring cup, transfer soup in batches to blender.
9. Blend until a thick puree, adding a bit of water or stock if necessary.
10. Pour into first pot. Continue until all the soup is blended.
11. Serve by itself or on rice.