In the food editorial world—and arguably along with the rest of it, nerds or not—we are obsessed with time. My first job in this business was testing recipes, accounting for the time I spent on each recipe by declaring every minute “active” or “passive,” “prep” or “cook.” There were rules, too, that defined the quality or utility of a recipe based on how long it took to cook, which included time waiting for water to boil or chilling something in the refrigerator. It was out of this general fascination that I created my first book, Twenty-Dollar, Twenty-Minute Meals, in fact.
I realized early on that time is an ingredient in cooking, just like any other physical one pulled from a grocery sack. I had no idea of its true cost – or value—when I started my career in food.
I do now, in so many ways.
In the decade I’ve spent writing and cooking professionally, the language surrounding what makes a good or worthwhile recipe has evolved from time at the forefront to include authenticity, provenance, heritage. Things must be fast and simple, but they must have meaning and purpose, too.
My favorite tool in the kitchen may be the physical representation of the intersection of these two ideas, a space in which time and authenticity are diametrically opposed: the mortar and pestle. I found mine in a Spanish flea market that sprawled in the main square of a small country town one Saturday. It is marble, for which Daniel, my friend and co-author of my next book, convinced me to buy a wooden pestle. I lugged it home in my suitcase after our second research trip for the book and thought I would use it occasionally, exclusively related to evoking heady memories of the Spanish countryside.
I was wrong. I use it all the time. Just because it does a better, more soulful job with certain tasks that a machine would render homogenous.
A mortar and pestle necessarily takes time to use—not just time, but serious effort. It creates nuanced flavors and textures, it transforms ingredients by pounding and mashing them together, all to the discerning eye of the cook who tastes and touches it along its way.
I prefer the mortar and pestle for garlic, of course, but for any manner of herb or nut sauces or spice rubs. As I relish in the moment when I find another use for it, I am reminded of Daniel telling me that he always recognized the sound of dinner nearing readiness by the clack clack of a mortar and pestle hard at work. I sometimes blush when I think my kids might think the same thing in the future, like I’ve appropriated someone else’s food memory to pass to my family.
Not so. I am spending my time to create food for my family, effort paid by my own hands to manifest the values of my choosing. The mortar and pestle represents that in its way, a sort of hard-earned authenticity that melts and softens through the forceful translation on the part of the cook. I find that the time spent cooking becomes irrelevant when using a mortar and pestle, pounded away into timeless dishes.
The mortar and pestle represents the shift I’ve embodied about time, too. I’m no longer fascinated by what the doctors guess to be my timeline (it is impossible to predict one, anyway). There isn’t a finish line to rush towards. It’s about the texture and flavor of things, the depth of experience. It’s not that I’m always pushing for more – it’s that I am paying closer attention to the process, learning the nuance of when to stop, to relax. Taking my finger off the button that will give me the clean, perfect way to an end in favor of messy hands, the “clack clack” in my kitchen, and widening smiles at the dinner table.
. . .
As a side note, I looked over the contents of this blog since re-launching and I feel like it could otherwise be named “Sauce or Dessert?,” as I seem to be oscillating between the two. (I swear I make other food, too!) This is because our family is obsessed with grilling this summer, and we keep it super simple: a rotation of grilled fish or chicken, lamb or beef burgers with any variety of grilled veggies cut up for little fingers and tossed in a grill basket (like the grilled kale, below) as a side. Sauces like this—and like the Basil-Walnut Vinaigrette from weeks ago—are where the variety comes in.
A Favorite Smashed Herb Sauce
Makes 1 cup
This sauce is some bastardized mix of a chermoula and any number of the “picada” Daniel used as a foundation in his dishes. The trick to mashing garlic is to add heavy pinches of Kosher salt to the bowl of the mortar with the finely chopped garlic—the grains of salt help to amplify the breaking down and mashing of the pestle. When adding the herbs, work in small additions and make sure to smash each one as finely as you want the end product to be; they won’t continue to break down much after you add more. We use this sauce on grilled chicken, fish, beef, lamb… you name it! A recent favorite was taking this to a campfire cookout and serving it on charred chunks of cauliflower straight from the fire. I find myself making it almost weekly right now, once our jar in the refrigerator is scraped clean.
2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh garlic (about 10-15 medium cloves)
Kosher salt
1 cup mixed, chopped herbs (not necessarily all, but at least two of: mint, parsley, cilantro)
2 teaspoons paprika
1 teaspoon cumin seed (toasted in a dry skillet first, preferred)
1 teaspoon coriander seed (toasted with the cumin, preferred)
10 peppercorns
3/4 cup olive oil
2 tablespoons cider vinegar or lemon juice
1 / Place garlic in the bowl of the mortar with 2 teaspoons salt. Smash and grind garlic into a fine paste using pestle. (This takes a while, stick with it.)
2 / Add herbs in batches, about a tablespoon at a time, smashing thoroughly between additions. (It will eventually take the form of something resembling what cud must look like. This is the point.) After all herbs are combined, add paprika, cumin, coriander and peppercorns along with a dash of the olive oil to help keep everything together; smash and grind to incorporate spices.
3 / Stir in oil and vinegar. Taste for salt and pepper; adjust seasoning if necessary. Let sit at room temperature at least 30 minutes before using to blend flavors.
This post was originally published in August 2018, right here on this blog. It’s a favorite, so I thought I would post it again! Thank you for being here and continuing to read while I work on new projects. To hear about them, sign up for my monthly newsletter here. I’ll be honored to keep you posted!