Today is Epiphany, the day the Three Kings reach the manger, or pesebre, to present their gifts to Jesus.

I’m not sure to what extent Epiphany is celebrated in the United States* beyond special readings for Catholic masses near the date, but it’s always had significance for my family in that it marks the end of the Christmas holiday. Backing up a bit, I’ll explain how we begin Christmas. It’s a tradition of my family’s to celebrate the coming of Christmas each year by saying a series of prayers, a Novena, in Spanish over the nine days that precede the holiday. Part of this tradition is to gather together each evening around the pesebre (at my parents’ it is literally a miniature town meant to represent all of Bethlehem constructed on a hill of Spanish moss and elaborately decorated), pray and sing traditional villancicos accompanied by a band of toy percussion instruments. Tom and I have carried on this practice because we enjoy the songs, have fun making “music,” and love the old-Spanish poetry of the prayers themselves. I found our pesebre at Steeple People, our neighborhood thrift store, a couple of years ago, and this year for Christmas I gave my older sister Marcela a pesebre of her own that I came across at a local estate sale.

Given all of that, decorations–including the pesebre–must be up by December 16 in time for the beginning of La Novena. And, Christmas decorations aren’t taken down until after Epiphany. Growing up, I was always horrified by cast-off trees already at the side of the road for garbage collection on December 26, just one day after Christmas. As as adult though, I have found it challenging to keep the tree through January 6, what with it dropping needles everywhere and becoming something of a fire hazard. Fortunately this year that hasn’t been a problem!

Before the decorations come down, though, the Three Kings, who’ve been traveling across the living room to reach the manger since mid-December, arrive to greet the Holy Family.

Happy Epiphany and feliz día de los reyes magos to all!

*Internationally, Epiphany is often the day families exchange gifts, rather than on Christmas itself.

Besides being delicious, cooking a variety of cuisines is educational – you learn the quirks of the cuisine itself, and tricks and techniques from one cuisine can enhance the understanding of others. Take the fritter: practically every culture has its little fried ball of something, its croquette, pakora, hush puppy, etc. The methods for producing each are unique to the cultures – and individual cooks – that produce them. But cultures tend to be chauvinistic, assuming their way is the only way to fry. It’s a shame, because you can learn a lot about beignets from frying buñuelos.

Take two cultures not exactly known for their capacity to cooperate: Israel and Egypt. Israelis might fry up a mean latke – maybe one made of turnips, even – for the eight nights of Hanukkah, but believe that an Egyptian – especially if he happens to be a nationalist or an Islamist – would not be caught frying up those quintessentially Jewish treats that time of year. Instead, he’d probably head to the shop around the corner for some ta’amiya (think of falafel, but Egyptian), fried spheres of fava beans with herbs and spices, sandwiched in country bread with salad and tahini sauce.

I’ve always been disappointed with my homemade ta’amiya;  among other problems I can’t get the binder right. Bringing the frying oil to a high enough temperature helps (if it’s too low the fritters will disintegrate), but there needs to be something more. I’ve tried eggs, but it makes the ta’amiya too heavy. But my recent experience with turnip latkes got me thinking: they are bound with egg, true, but the egg is beaten with flour to form a batter that binds the shredded vegetables together. A batter would be perfect for holding ta’amiya together: a loose slurry of water and chickpea flour helped bind the ground favas and also made for a crisper crust. My best homemade ta’amiya yet, and I never would have arrived here if not for experimenting with other fritters.

Just to mix things up a bit more, we ate the patties topped with tzatziki sauce. Greeks, Israelis and Arabs, all working together toward a common goal – the ultimate fritter? Now there’s a vision for peace in the world.

Ta’amiya of Justice and Understanding

• 1# dried favas, soaked overnight and shelled to 2# 1¼oz
• .445 oz dill (~½ cup)
• .480 oz mint (~½ cup)
• 2.5 oz chickpea (gram) flour
• ¼ tsp baking soda
• 8 oz water
• 5 scallions (1.6 oz), thinly sliced on a bias
• 6 small carrots (4 oz), julienned fine (use a mandoline)
• 6 cloves garlic (1.155 oz), minced or crushed in a garlic press
• 1.5 tsp cumin (.1 oz)
• ¾ tsp coriander (.05 oz)
• 1/8 tsp cayenne (.01 oz)
• ¼ tsp black pepper (.025 oz)
• 1 Tbsp salt (.7 oz)
• Oil for frying

Working in small batches, process the  fava beans and the herbs together to a paste (I did three batches in my 6 cup food processor). In a large bowl, whisk together chickpea flour, baking soda and water. Mix in scallions, carrots, garlic, spices and salt. Knead in the fava bean mixture until well-distributed and homogenous.

Heat oil to 375ºF. Pinch off golf-ball sized clumps of the fava bean mixture, quickly roll the mixture into a sphere (technically they should be oblate, but I thought the spheres were attractive), and place it carefully in the oil. Repeat until the pot is full but not crowded. Fry until patties are a deep brown (the oil will have recovered to 375ºF at this point) then drain on paper towels and sprinkle with salt. Continue frying in batches until the fava bean mixture is gone, periodically sampling the ta’amiya right out of the fryer to make sure they’re still good.

Serve with pita bread, greens, tomatoes if they are in seasons and tzatziki, tahini sauce, hummus, or any other sauce you feel culturally appropriate.

Over the weekend I reorganized our spices, a project that involved transferring our dried herbs and spices into new jars. An unexpected perk of the process was the opportunity to take in the aromas of each. The wafts of cardamom seeds stayed with me through the day on Monday, and by evening I could no longer stand it; I announced that I would like to go to The American Swedish Institute for a visit to the Kaffestuga for cardamom rolls.

Tom, the in-house baker, immediately asked, “What do we need? Let’s make them!” I pulled The Swedish Table by Helene Henderson off the shelf and opened to the index where I found “cardamom rolls” under the letter C. To make your own Kaffebröd med Kardemumma you’ll need sugar, water, yeast, milk, cream, butter, flour, salt, freshly ground cardamom, cinnamon, eggs, almonds and pearl sugar. Pearl sugar and almonds, the last items on the list, were not on hand, which is why the rolls look a bit bare.

Tom went to work while I read in the living room and had the rolls ready just before bed, warming the kitchen and filling the apartment with the smells of cinnamon and cardamom. Warmed just before breakfast, the rolls made a wonderful start to a January morgon.

Food can be used to affect travel, but food also has a big affect on traveling. Perhaps you’ve had the experience – the best glass of white wine you ever had at a picnic in Cinque Terre, that amazing ceviche on the beach in Mexico, the ta’amiya sandwich you spent three hours hunting down through the tangled streets of Cairo. Food can make some of the most memorable experiences of a trip – how many “best-you-ever-tasteds” have occurred away from home?

But was that white wine really very good? Or were you lulled by the sun, the beautiful countryside, the freedom from work and daily responsibilities, your lover by your side? Anybody who has rapturously sprung for a case of such wine to ship home might be quite disappointed to see how that country white holds up against everyday life. Some things are just for the moment. That may be, I’m afraid, the case for terrine for me.

My first terrine ever – unless you count meatloaf – was in Paris. Martha and I were only there for a couple of days and I was determined that at least one of our otherwise frugally-provided meals would be at a fancy-ish, bistro-ish place. With the help of a Lonely Planet guide we found a maison suitable for tourists such as ourselves. And there on the carte, among the first courses, was a terrine of foies blondes. My French was (and still is) severely limited – in fact I believe we communicated with our waitress in Spanish – but I knew enough to realize foie is a good thing.

I was surprised by what came to the table: a rectangle of grayish-tan meats, bound into a mosaic with jelly. It was cool to the touch. Also brought to the table was a large earthenware crock full of zesty cornichons served with rustic wooden tongs and a venerable old well of mustard – the charming details that makes you feel good about spending 40 euro on a meal. Biting into this mystery-meat melange I was again surprised, but pleasantly: the flavor was clean, meaty, and smooth, with the mustard and pickles adding a zesty punch. I greedily finished my plate, hoping Martha wouldn’t be interested in sharing.

Since then, I’ve been in love with the idea of terrine and  have tried to recreate that magical meatloaf in my kitchen – largely without success. My quest kicked off when I obtained a suitable reference, Time-Life’s Terrines, Pâtés & Galantines. This book has been the source of inspiration for a number of attempted terrines, but most of them have been disappointing, especially when compared against that Parisian ideal. There are a lot of challenges: getting the texture right is difficult: you want to mix chunks of meat, coarsely ground meat, and smooth purees into a homogenous loaf that slices clean. And then there’s the flavor. It wouldn’t be much of a terrine without liver, but thus far I seem to have a knack for overdoing the liver: my terrines come out with mineral flavors and are overly rich. Nor does the appearance help: the culinary aesthetics of the early-eighties cookbook that I am using as a source differ markedly from what we would consider attractive today, but I’d be happy if I could even pull them off. Instead, I often end up with grey loaves wrapped in wan strands of undercooked bacon, exuding a strange gray crud; the kind of thing I have to convince Martha to eat.

If that all sounds discouraging, I have also learned a lot from these many failures. Working the meat mixture thoroughly seems to improve the cohesion of the loaf, as does omitting things like whole nuts whose sharp edges tend to break it up. The taste for adding liquor so present in Terrines, Pâtés and Galantines is something best moderated if not omitted all together. Wrapping meat mixtures in fatback or covering them in rendered lard is kind of gross; bacon is acceptable, but it helps if it gets a little crisp. Go easy on the liver. Always fry a portion of the mixture to taste for seasoning before committing the loaf to the oven. A terrine is a lot of meat for two people to eat in reasonable amount of time.

So terrines continue as a work in progress, each one teaching me something about the next, until, I suppose, I am making that Parisian terrine of a few years ago.

Venison Terrine

This is my most recent terrine, which I made in the midst of a snowstorm that had us stranded inside, using only ingredients we had on hand.

Meats:

• 1 ¾# ground venison (a mix of ground and whole venison, cut into cubes or strips, would be preferable, but we only had ground)
• 4 oz fatback
• 14 ¾ oz lamb liver (this is way too much liver, but I was trying to use it up. Lesson learned.)

Aromatics:

• 1 onion (93 g)
• 2 cloves of garlic (8.6 g)

Seasonings:

• 20 g salt
• 2 g pepper
• .7 g juniper berries (about seven)
• 1 bay leaf

Adjuncts, Binders, &c.

• 2 eggs, lightly beaten
• 20 g bread crumbs
• 125 g milk (1½ Tbsp)
• 9 g whiskey (2 tsp)

Sautee the livers in a few tablespoons of butter until they darken. Place in bowl of a food processor. Sautee onions and garlic, adding more butter if necessary. Add to processor with liver. Process liver and aromatics with milk until smooth. Work the pureed mixture through a sieve into a large bowl.

Cut fatback into 1″ chunks and freezer 30 minutes. Chop in food processor until coarsely ground. Add to bowl with liver puree.

Grind the seasonings, except the salt, in a spice grinder until no large chunks of bay leaf remain. Add spices and salt to bowl with liver puree.

Add venison, eggs, bread crumbs and whiskey to bowl. Work vigorously until thoroughly combined (you could also beat it in a stand mixer). Fry a small portion of the mixture in a skillet to taste for and adjust seasoning.

Butter a terrine or loaf pan and line with buttered parchment. Add meat mixture to the terrine, smoothing the surface. Cover with foil. Bake at 300ºF until loaf reaches an internal temperature of 140ºF. Remove from oven and cool, draining juices from pan.

Wrap the terrine – still in the mold – in plastic wrap and place in the refrigerator. Place something flat over the top and weight it. The terrine is ready to eat the next day, though some argue for aging it a few days before slicing and eating.

Serve with mustard, pickles, and crusty bread or crackers.

Everybody knows latkes are made out of potatoes. Heck, the Wikipedia page even redirects to “potato pancakes” – and if Wikipedia says it, it’s most certainly true. But consider this: Jews have been celebrating Hanukkah since the Maccabees successfully took back and rededicated the temple in the second century BCE, yet potatoes did not become available to them until well after Columbus’s voyage at the end of the 15th century CE, 1,700 years later. That’s a lot of latke-free Hanukkahs!

That would be a problem, if tradition specifically called for eating latkes, but that particular practice emerged relatively recently among the Jews of Europe. All that’s really needed is fried food – the oil it is fried in calls to mind the miracle of the days supply of ritual olive oil burning for eight days that Hanukkah commemorates. The fritters themselves have varied throughout the years according to local practice and availability.

Enter the turnip: this venerable old-world brassica would certainly have been available to Jews in the second century BCE, and it fries up to a mean little fritter. If you’ve got a couple of turnips kicking around the bottom of the crisper drawer you don’t even need to wait till Hanukkah (which is like a year away at this point) to enjoy these.

By the way, a religion with eight days dedicated to eating deep-fried foods? That’s something I could believe in – other than the whole giving up pork thing, of course.

Turnip Latkes

• 2 medium turnips
• 1 tsp salt, or to taste
• 2 eggs, lightly beaten
• 2 tbsp flour
• Black pepper, from the mill, to taste
• Olive oil for frying

Peel the turnips and coarsely shred them. I use a food processor.

Toss the turnip shreds with the salt in a medium bowl and let sit for a half hour, allowing the salt to draw out some of the moisture. After thirty minutes have elapsed, squeeze the turnip shreds (in your hands or in a kitchen towel) to extract as much moisture as possible. Turnips hold a lot of water, so squeeze hard.

Mix the turnips with the eggs, flour and black pepper. Heat olive oil in a skillet over medium-high heat (you’ll have to use your judgment on how much – it should be no more than what would come halfway up the sides of the latkes but I used substantially less). When the oil is hot, take golf ball-sized dollops of turnip mixture and place them in the pan, pushing them as you do to flatten them into rough disks. Repeat until the pan is full. Fry the latkes until they are golden brown on the first side, then flip and fry until golden brown on second side. Remove from oil, drain on paper towels, and season with additional salt.

You can serve the latkes with sour cream or apple sauce but they are also great au naturel.