Most of the time, my kitchen calamities end with me dumping the
debacle. But not so with my latest victim, a pot of chicken vegetable
soup brutalized by an accidental assault of chili paste.

I could taste the soup in my mind before I started cooking. I wanted
something zippier and more substantial than the usual matzo-ball-type
golden chicken stock. I pictured a deep ruddy broth steeped with chili
and spices and brimming with chunks of chicken, colorful vegetables
and velvety beans. Loosely based on the flavors of North Africa, it
would contain turmeric, ginger and cinnamon for depth, paprika for
color, and a dose of harissa, the chili paste of the region, for body
and heat.

But as I stood over the pot, I did what you’re never, ever supposed
to do. After stirring in a judicious amount of harissa, I blithely
decided to finish the crumpled tube. Those last drops turned out to be
a fat dollop of hot chili.

I tried to scoop it out, to no avail. Hours of work, ruined: the
spices I bloomed in the hot oil, the carefully sautéed onions, those
diced vegetables, the zucchini and the butternut squash I had
laboriously peeled, and all that costly organic chicken. It was all
now drowning in a hostile stew.

I added water to dilute the sting, but that didn’t work. So I just
started stirring in whatever I could find to absorb the fi leftover
rice and chopped potatoes, cherry tomatoes, more onions, grated apple,
another can of chickpeas. At last the soup was good enough, and I had
a whole lot of it.

But I still craved my ideal vision of a soup, the one with the spice-
scented, glistening red broth crammed with chickpeas, vegetables and
nuggets of chicken. I got hungry every time I thought about it, and
the Frankenstein soup in the freezer just wouldn’t do.

So it was back to the stove to try, try again. This time, I decided
to forgo the harissa. Not only was I wary of the stuff, I had used the
last bit.

Instead, I substituted tomato paste to mimic the texture of harissa,
along with a pinch of cayenne to supply the kick. I carefully toasted
the spices and tomato paste to bring out their flavors, stirring them
until the paste turned dark around the edges and a sweet-spicy aroma
perfumed the kitchen. At the market, I had picked up turnips instead
of zucchini, which bloated during the slow simmer of the last soup.
And I replaced butternut squash with sweet potato, because it’s easier
to peel.

Rarely able to leave well enough alone, I sat on my hands to keep
them from adding a little bit more of this and that. I knew the soup
would reduce into something intense and nuanced.

And it did. About 25 minutes later, my dream soup was bubbling away.
The chicken was juicy, the vegetables were tender, and the rich broth
had an intoxicating fragrance. There was just enough chili to
administer a mild jolt but not a poisonous shock. My failure was
delectably redeemed.


By :-
Ruskin Powell
MY PAL PC
DIRECTORY OF POPULAR E-BOOKS , SOFTWARES , AND INFORMATION SITES.
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