It takes a minimalist, uncomplicated approach that respects the integrity of ingredients without overpowering their original flavours with spices or multi-step creations, something that can easily be mistaken for lack of sophistication. It is achieving the balance between delicate flavor and simplicity. It was by incorporating Egyptian, via Levantine, western, fusion, you-name-it delicacies into my repertoire that I rediscovered the same local dishes I grew up eating and loving.Ĭooking Egyptian food, I realised, is not the same as eating it. It was exotic and many of its ingredients were hard to find, making my gastronomic pursuit all the more thrilling. My qulqas coming of age was gradual and followed a long culinary journey that really started in the territory of Asian cuisine. A few tablespoons of the paste are mixed in, instantly turning the colourless mix a dark moss green. Once the taro softens, however, the milky factor dissipates and the stew regains clarity. Within seconds, the starch is released: the broth loses its clarity to form a cloudy liquid. It is chopped into bite-sized cubes and simmered in broth until cooked al dente. The brown, rough, thick skin of the taro, often covered in dried mud, is peeled off the smooth pale flesh. Reader, I hated qulqas, but I relished the sweet scent of the fried garlic-coriander mix, even forgave the fragrance that lingered in every corner of the house. It was then ground into a smooth paste in a blender, ready for the qulqas. She would then stir-fry the three ingredients in vegetable oil and ghee until the garlic was cooked to gold perfection and the leaves that had filled the pot to the brim shrivelled to a dry, dark green, rough consistency, the heat stripping them of moisture and integrity. The green leaves were washed, dried then chopped together with garlic. As soon as the cold weather arrived, the thick coriander and Swiss chard bunches piled up in our kitchen. Yearly, with disappointment, I monitored her enthusiasm for qulqas season preparations. My gourmet uncle who lived overseas and had no access to either taro or khodra would request qulqas every time he visited, often returning home with one or two jars of the precious condiment. She would stock up and freeze enough khodra – the green herb paste that formed the base of the stew, imparting flavour to the otherwise bland starchy root vegetable – to last the entire season. I grew up disliking qulqas, the Egyptian taro dish my mother cooked religiously every winter.
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