racks to cool.
MY HEART IS FUL
Call it matzo, call it flatbread; it has applications well beyond Passover. My answer to the Arab-Israeli conflict is to use the matzo as an edible scoop for ful.
Someone needs to come up with a better name. But ful, or fava beans, the national dish of Egypt, dates back centuries, and you don’t want to mess with anyone’s beloved tradition. Even when it has an off-putting name that is sometimes, lamentably, spelled f-o-u-l.
Spell it any way you like, ful is not upmarket. It’s “everyman’s breakfast, the shopkeeper’s lunch, and the poor man’s dinner,” as the Arabic saying goes, and a bowl of ful is a welcome sight at any time of the day.
This is not to say it is pretty. Alas, it is a bowl of brown, although sometimes you can add a few quick-cooking red lentils for color. But the beans are slow cooked until they yield, turning them kind and velvety in the mouth. Ful is toasty, nutty, primal, reminding us yet again that gentle heat and time work in concert to transform the humblest food into something to stir the soul.
Sometimes the beans are mashed until fluffy, then pretty much left alone, to enjoy as a dip or as one of the cooked vegetable salads of the Middle East. Sometimes ful is cooked with tomatoes, lemon, garlic, and cumin, the wonderful warming spice of Egypt, in which case it is called ful mudammas.
You can top ful with any number of garnishes, from tahini to chopped tomatoes and onions, or just with a drizzle of gutsy, green olive oil and a sprinkle of salt, but it is not to be tarted up. You’d be missing the point. This is the people’s food. Egypt’s national dish is not lamb, but a legume. A pot of ful feeds many and supplies a lot of protein and fiber for just a few piastres.
If there is anything unsatisfying about favas, it is this — the beans have a tough outer carapace that needs to be peeled before eating. To make matters worse, some people have an extreme allergic reaction to fava skins, called favism, not to be confused with fauvism, the French avant-garde art movement of a century ago. Very few people have been allergic to Matisse.
Available in Middle Eastern markets and many natural food stores, dried favas come in small, medium, and large, but the Egyptians wisely use only the small, tender ones for making ful. I have gone with a larger, lima-size fava, thinking fewer beans per pound would save me peeling time. I was sorely misguided. The bigger the bean, the tougher the skin and the greater the peeling effort. Small favas, which the Egyptians call ful hammam, or bath beans, are not only quicker to cook but easier to peel.
Whatever size favas you use, your best bet is to parboil the beans, peel them, then finish cooking until the beans are tender. I am sorry to tell you this can take as long as twelve hours. The final cooking, however, takes only minutes.
Ful is also sold in cans, if you want to spare yourself some time and labor, but you’ll be cheating yourself out of the full fulexperience. Peeling a pound of favas is a worthy endeavor, especially if you enlist others to help you.
In fact, peeling favas together in the same room is the ideal way to solve the Arab-Israeli conflict, marital conflict, any conflict. It keeps everyone’s hands busy but leaves you free to converse, argue, understand, and ultimately feed each other. You may get frustrated with the process, but if you want to eat, you have to peel. Should diplomatic channels fail, the worst thing you can do is pelt each other with cooked beans.
I would much rather send generals into the kitchen to peel favas than send them into battle with guns, bombs, and brave, selfless troops. My new slogan — make ful, not war.
Peeling, when it comes to favas, is all about reaching the point of tenderness. Peeling, in all cases, is a revelation of self. And then we can sit down and eat together.
Ful Mudammas
Traditionally, each simple bowl of beans is topped with a goodly drizzle of
MY HEART IS FUL
Call it matzo, call it flatbread; it has applications well beyond Passover. My answer to the Arab-Israeli conflict is to use the matzo as an edible scoop for ful.
Someone needs to come up with a better name. But ful, or fava beans, the national dish of Egypt, dates back centuries, and you don’t want to mess with anyone’s beloved tradition. Even when it has an off-putting name that is sometimes, lamentably, spelled f-o-u-l.
Spell it any way you like, ful is not upmarket. It’s “everyman’s breakfast, the shopkeeper’s lunch, and the poor man’s dinner,” as the Arabic saying goes, and a bowl of ful is a welcome sight at any time of the day.
This is not to say it is pretty. Alas, it is a bowl of brown, although sometimes you can add a few quick-cooking red lentils for color. But the beans are slow cooked until they yield, turning them kind and velvety in the mouth. Ful is toasty, nutty, primal, reminding us yet again that gentle heat and time work in concert to transform the humblest food into something to stir the soul.
Sometimes the beans are mashed until fluffy, then pretty much left alone, to enjoy as a dip or as one of the cooked vegetable salads of the Middle East. Sometimes ful is cooked with tomatoes, lemon, garlic, and cumin, the wonderful warming spice of Egypt, in which case it is called ful mudammas.
You can top ful with any number of garnishes, from tahini to chopped tomatoes and onions, or just with a drizzle of gutsy, green olive oil and a sprinkle of salt, but it is not to be tarted up. You’d be missing the point. This is the people’s food. Egypt’s national dish is not lamb, but a legume. A pot of ful feeds many and supplies a lot of protein and fiber for just a few piastres.
If there is anything unsatisfying about favas, it is this — the beans have a tough outer carapace that needs to be peeled before eating. To make matters worse, some people have an extreme allergic reaction to fava skins, called favism, not to be confused with fauvism, the French avant-garde art movement of a century ago. Very few people have been allergic to Matisse.
Available in Middle Eastern markets and many natural food stores, dried favas come in small, medium, and large, but the Egyptians wisely use only the small, tender ones for making ful. I have gone with a larger, lima-size fava, thinking fewer beans per pound would save me peeling time. I was sorely misguided. The bigger the bean, the tougher the skin and the greater the peeling effort. Small favas, which the Egyptians call ful hammam, or bath beans, are not only quicker to cook but easier to peel.
Whatever size favas you use, your best bet is to parboil the beans, peel them, then finish cooking until the beans are tender. I am sorry to tell you this can take as long as twelve hours. The final cooking, however, takes only minutes.
Ful is also sold in cans, if you want to spare yourself some time and labor, but you’ll be cheating yourself out of the full fulexperience. Peeling a pound of favas is a worthy endeavor, especially if you enlist others to help you.
In fact, peeling favas together in the same room is the ideal way to solve the Arab-Israeli conflict, marital conflict, any conflict. It keeps everyone’s hands busy but leaves you free to converse, argue, understand, and ultimately feed each other. You may get frustrated with the process, but if you want to eat, you have to peel. Should diplomatic channels fail, the worst thing you can do is pelt each other with cooked beans.
I would much rather send generals into the kitchen to peel favas than send them into battle with guns, bombs, and brave, selfless troops. My new slogan — make ful, not war.
Peeling, when it comes to favas, is all about reaching the point of tenderness. Peeling, in all cases, is a revelation of self. And then we can sit down and eat together.
Ful Mudammas
Traditionally, each simple bowl of beans is topped with a goodly drizzle of
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