Gluten Free Mini Yogurt Muffins

I like to say that baking is chemistry, and gluten-free baking is a science.

The secret to baking gluten-free goodies that are very close to the real thing lies in producing the “stretch factor” without gluten and using the right mix of gluten-free flours.

Creating the Illusion of Gluten
Gluten is the protein found in wheat, barley, rye and spelt that creates the “stretch factor” in batters and dough. Adding xanthan gum, guar gum, or psyllium husk to the mix helps create the same stretchy properties, and results in a chewy rather than crumbly baked good.

The Right Mix
In general, a mix of gluten-free flours will always be better than a single gluten-free flour. This is because no gluten-free flour can closely mirror glutinous all-purpose flour.

The gluten-free flours I use most frequently are sorghum, millet, brown rice, and tapioca. To add richness, I also sometimes add almond or hazelnut meal into the mix. A lot of my recipes have been developed through trial-and-error, but there are also many resources online for gluten-free baking.

I buy my own flours separately and combine them in different ratios depending on the recipe, but there are also some great gluten-free flour mixes out there: My favorite brand for all of my gluten-free flours is Bob’s Red Mill and Namaste is a close second. You can find gluten-free flours at most mainstream grocery stores these days, although it is usually cheaper to order them online.

Gluten-free baking is a bit more complex than glutinous baking, but I promise the results are so much better than store-bought gluten-free baked goods.

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How Herring Brought My Father and Me Together—Once I Overcame My Gag Reflex

For 30 years, I turned up my nose at my dad’s favorite fish. Then I tried it, and finally understood its briny appeal.

By Shira Klapper 

I can’t remember the day I became aware of herring. It would be like remembering the moment I knew there were such things as trees or hands. Nor can I pinpoint the first time I took note of my father’s Saturday morning herring routine. But I do know that by the age of consciousness, I could expect Saturday mornings to unfold this way: My father would get dressed, go downstairs, open the refrigerator door, take out a shallow plastic container, and carefully open the lid to remove three or four pieces of pink, shimmering, oily herring, which would slide and wriggle onto his plate as if they’d just been plucked from chilly waters off Scandinavia. And just as consistent as my father’s routine was the way my mother, my siblings, and I would react: with a combination of horror, disgust, and mimed gestures of gagging.

In fact, so great was our disgust with the smelly, slithering fish, that for a while, we made my father eat the herring outside. In the New York winter. In the snow.

While herring never touched my lips for the first 30 years of my life, I knew things about herring, just like a child who grows up in the schmatte business knows a thing or two about exports and imports. For example, I knew that not all herring is created equal. In fact, herring is so varied that a man’s choice in herring is nothing less than a window to his soul, a way of showing the world whether he is a kind, philosophical man, or a bore who never once stopped to smell the flowers. In the class hierarchy of herring, I was taught that matjes, my family’s choice, was for the classy, discerning, sophisticated people; pickled was for people who, though good and upright, did not have the finest taste; and schmaltz—God forbid, schmaltz—was for the shtetl folks, the peasant people who temperamentally are simply not able to discriminate.

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Yerushalmi Kugel

The sweet and peppery flavor of Jerusalem Kugel

 By Adeena Sussman 

I can remember passing through the Hasidic neighborhood of Me'a She'arim in Jerusalem as a teenager and first seeing the mahogany-brown wedges of Yerushalmi (Jerusalem) Kugel.

Curious, I bought a slice of the still-warm Sabbath delicacy, and was hooked. Unlike any noodle pudding I had tasted before, this one featured a sophisticated interplay of sweetness and peppery bite, with a subtle toasty flavor thrown in for good measure.

The taste is surprisingly easy to recreate at home; all you need is a sure hand and the confidence to make a quick caramel of oil and sugar. Just when you think you've got your sugar dark enough, cook it a minute longer--you'll see and taste the difference in the results. If you burn the caramel, start over--the second time's often the charm.

Although many American adaptations call for baking the kugel in a regular casserole dish, I prefer to bake mine in a soup pot or Dutch oven with less surface area, which creates a higher, denser end result.

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Kufta Kebab

Grilled lamb skewers with deep roots in the Middle East.

By Adeena Sussman 

Like so many foods on Israeli menus, kebab has its roots in the Arab kitchen. According to the Oxford Companion to Food, the name "shish kebab" is derived from an Arabic term for any type of fried meat. Only during Turkish dominance of the region did the term come to consistently refer to small chunks of meat (usually lamb) marinated, then skewered with vegetables and grilled.

The kebab that Israelis are familiar with is actually a variation of Kufta kebab, which comes from the Syrian term kooftah, or pounded meat. This favorite appears in early cookbooks from the region. Every country, from India to Afghanistan, has its own variation.

These lamb kebabs are easy to throw together, and they make a crowd-pleasing dish for a summer barbecue. Make sandwiches for your guests, or create a stuff-your-own-pita bar with fresh-baked pitas, chopped tomatoes, cucumbers, lettuce, spicy harissa or schug (hot pepper sauce), and a drizzle of tahini.

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Talk of the Table: The Spicy Tale of India’s Jewish Cuisine

Palak paneer, chana masala and the egregiously treif-sounding butter chicken may not scream “Jewish” and were highly unlikely to grace your grandmother’s holiday table. But Jews have a rich history in India and an even richer cuisine to match.

For centuries, India has been home to Jews, primarily from three distinct groups: the Cochin Jews, the Bene Israel and the Baghdadi Jews. The Jews of Cochin, a port city on India’s southwestern coast, in the state of Kerala, have lived in India for at least a millennium. According to their tradition, they settled there after the destruction of the second temple and have been “augmented by waves of immigration from Yemen, from Turkey, from Egypt, from Syria, and even from Italy,” says Nathan Katz, professor of religious studies at Florida International University. They were an educated, prosperous bunch—some were involved in international trade, which often revolved around spices. “Kerala was always where spices were grown, so they had the freshest, most wonderful, pungent spicing in their food,” says Katz. Coconut and coconut oil were abundant and made their way into the Jewish dishes. A snack called bonda, a fritter coated with chickpea flour and then fried, comes in both savory and sweet varieties; in Cochin, a version made with coconut and raisins took the place of potato latkes during Hanukkah.

The Baghdadi Jews settled in Bombay and Calcutta when British rule began in the 19th century, coming from Iraq but also from Syria and elsewhere in the Middle East. Lured by economic opportunities—and by alarming anti-Semitism in some of their home countries—some found tremendous wealth as industrialists, real estate developers and manufacturers, an affluence reflected in their food. “Baghdadis had the greatest cuisine,” says Katz, describing it as “a wonderful combination of Middle Eastern food using local spices and ingredients. They love pulaus and biryanis—rice dishes that are very elaborate.” Aloo makalla—a potato dish that Gil Marks, author of Encyclopedia of Jewish Food, describes as “the most famous Jewish dish in India”—is the product of a combination of Arabic and Indian cooking practices common among Baghdadi Jews. Long-simmered in hot oil, whole potatoes form a hard exterior but stay soft inside, leading the flesh of the potato to “jump” out when cut into—the root of the dish’s nickname, “Jumping Potatoes.” A classic Friday night dish, the potatoes are often served with fenugreek chutney, murgi (spicy chicken), bhaji (curried potatoes and vegetables) and other vegetable and rice dishes. The generous use of sesame and nuts in Baghdadi cuisine also reflects Middle Eastern lineage, notes Shalva Weil, senior researcher at Hebrew University and editor of the book India’s Jewish Heritage.

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7 Rules for Perfect Hummus

When was the last time you opened a tub of hummus and swooned? When was the last time a restaurant put a plate of hummus in front of you, and you said, “Oh my God.” ?

Most of the hummus recipes you come across on web sites, in print, on YouTube—they’re just wrong. Most of the hummus you buy in stores, or get served at restaurants—it’s just okay.

As hummus gets more and more popular, its manufacturers are aiming more and more for the middle. They are substituting variety for quality. You can get mediocre hummus in ten flavors (Avocado! Chipotle!), but try finding just one batch of perfect.

And perfect hummus does exist. Lina’s in the Old City of Jerusalem. Naji’s in Abu Ghosh. Light, almost fluffy, full of fresh flavor, creamy, warm. It’s not Middle East peanut butter.

I eat hummus every day. I make it about once a week. I’ve used recipes, I’ve created my own, I’ve tweaked like Steve Jobs (z”l) on a bender. Below you’ll find my basic recipe, which I’ve adapted from Erez Komaravsky’s, the Israeli chef and cooking teacher. (A story on Erez appears in this month’s Saveur, along with the recipe).

Whether you use it or find your own let these rules be your guide.

1. Do not used canned garbanzo beans. Ever. Take the canned beans in your cupboard and give them to a food bank.

2. Fresh ingredients are always better. Always. Fresh ground cumin seeds, fresh squeezed lemon juice, fresh garlic. Never used bottled lemon juice, though a touch of citric acid can help. Erez uses a mortar and pestle to grind his cumin. You’ll taste the difference.

3. Use good quality olive oil. Lots of it. In the hummus, as well as on top.

4. Don’t forget the pepper. I use Aleppo pepper, but hot paprika or ground chili works too.

5. Use water. This is key. Reserve the water you boiled the beans in. As you blend your hummus, add the water to achieve a creamy consistency. Use a bit more than you think is correct, because after it sits you’ll see the water is absorbed. If you’ve refrigerated your hummus, you can refresh it by whisking in some warm water.

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Bronx Borscht

From the old world to the new, nothing 'beets' this classic soup

Usually, the sight of a root vegetable other than potatoes sends my kids running and screaming from the kitchen. But the beet claims a special place in our house whenever I make borscht.

Beets were a cheap commodity in Eastern Europe, so they caught on like wildfire in poor communities, both Jewish and Polish. Borscht (or borsch) is the generic name for a soup of Ukrainian origin that appears in hot and cold variations, but always with beets. Cold borscht is a true summertime soup, and I offer a thick, hearty version more like a Jewish take on gazpacho. Whatever kind of borscht you make, don't leave out the dill--a staple of Polish and Eastern Europe cooking.

A Generational Dish

My borscht obsession started with my first taste of my mother's soup, which her immigrant mother cooked and chilled every summer for her family of seven in a South Bronx tenement. Grandma Lena made a special Passover Borscht with russel (brine in Yiddish and Russian). She'd put the beets in wooden barrels with vinegar and water and let them sit for three to four weeks. Every few days, she'd skim off the fermented crust that would form at the top. My mother recalls this version being especially popular with some of their more (ahem) intemperate neighbors. But Grandma wasn't trying to get anyone drunk--she was just trying to get borscht to keep longer. Fermented borscht could keep for weeks or even months without refrigeration.

My grandmother made borscht in a pressure cooker, the old jiggle-top kind. If a food particle clogged the vent, or if she got distracted and forgot to turn down the heat (not an infrequent occurrence in a large household) the regulator blew off, taking the contents of the pot with it. The pink splotches on the ceiling are one of my mother's most vivid memories of her childhood kitchen.

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