Sugar Free Me

I've been without sugar, wheat, and milk for eleven days.

It stinks. I'd like to say that I feel the beginning of a refreshing change to my health and that my mind is clear and rejoicing in the new me. I don't. I feel homicidal. I haven't baked any cakes either, even though I assured everyone the Cake Lady would carry on. I don't feel I can resist eating just a slice.  I really wanted to make my mates a date cake for work today too. I boiled the dates, then I froze the date mush. I thawed it out, and left it on the counter instead. Date cake is my absolute favorite, and honestly my date cake with homemade caramel sauce is brilliant.

Maybe if I added raisins to it, I'd find it repulsive. Cause raisins are gross. Ya think?

I digress. This happens a lot lately. Last night I snapped and started driving to the MacDonald's drive through for a diet Coke and a small french fries. In the middle of the night. Potatoes are still allowed, and I was hungry as hell. I never made it, as it occurred to me halfway there that my behavior was slightly mad and perhaps I should just go home and sleep it off. Not everyone was impressed either. Ahem. Don't get me wrong. There is loads of food at home. Loads. I got every allowed food item I could think of, but I just can't be arsed anymore no matter how hungry I am. Brie? Who cares. A lovely salad? No thank you. I just don't want anything, except for possibly a tuna sandwich and a chocolate chip cookie.

I've been fat my entire adult life, with varying amounts of chub over the years. I've actually been very damn fat, as opposed to rather north of pleasantly plump as I am now. I vowed never to go on a diet again; they don't work and when I do it I hate all of humankind.

Then my stomach started aching all the time, and I wanted to sleep every spare minute of my life. My doctor said to cut out wheat and stop drinking milk. And yeah, cut the sugar out too. It's like a mystery malady that he attributes either to stress or some kind of food sensitivity. Those are the go-to things blamed when someone feels like crap and there's no explanation. I suppose I am less tired. My stomach maybe feels better. I'm not sure there's an appreciable difference, but there's only one way to find out. Baskin Robbins and a Big Mac. Yeah baby. If I get a stomach cramp then have to take a nap immediately I guess we'll know won't we? Hah!

I plan to make that date cake soon. Whether I will break down and have a slice or not, I couldn't say. Perhaps it's time for a meal off.

Date Cake with Caramel Sauce

2 cups pitted dates, boiled to paste with about 1/2 cup water. Cool to room temperature.

1 t baking soda

1 T baking powder

1 1/2 cup boiling water

1 cup butter, softened

3/4 cup brown sugar

1 t. vanilla extract

2 eggs, room temp

2 cups all purpose flour

Preheat oven to 350F/180C

Cream butter and sugar on medium high until fluffy. Beat in the eggs one at a time, followed by the vanilla. Add half the dry ingredients and mix. Pour the boiling water slowly into the batter and blend. Add the remaining dry ingredients. 

Pour into well greased tube or bundt pan and bake for about 45-60 minutes. The edges might still be a bit sticky when it comes out of the oven, but the interior should test dry on a toothpick. Cool completely and invert to a plate.

Caramel Sauce

1 cup brown sugar

1/2 c heavy cream

1 t. vanilla extract

1/4 cup cold butter, chopped into pieces

Melt the brown sugar over low heat with the cream and bring to a simmer. Boil gently for about 5 minutes, until nice and thick. Remove from heat. Let stand 10 minutes, and beat in butter and vanilla. Cool to room temp and pour over date cake.

Not my cake. It's just an awesome way to serve it. 

If you want to see my cake, well you can just go read all my blog posts till ya find it! 

Cause that's the kind of mood I'm in eh!

I don't know how long this regime will last. Maybe not until my next post. Meh. Here's to sore tummies and thighs that rub together! Bravo! 

Love,

Felicia El Aid

The Saint Patrick's Day That Wasn't

Even in Salalah, talk of wearing green on "the big day" was everywhere. To get a special on Irish beer at the bars, ya had to wear green. Green eyeshadow doesn't count by the way. I didn't want beer but I did want one of the specials and the Oasis turned me down. No discount on calamari for you!

I wailed that I didn't HAVE any clean green clothes; I put on green eyeshadow instead!. I wailed that I, in fact, was one of the only people sitting in the club with a genetic connection to Ireland. No dice. No specials, no discount, no way. Come back in green.

It kinda pissed me off, but I've moved on. Very few people here even know why they will wear green tonight to get boozy discounts at the Hilton. Even fewer know what St. Patrick's Day is all about.Or care. This week, we're all Irish!

Cracks me up every time.

The day actually celebrates St. Patrick and the arrival of Christianity in Ireland and is held on the anniversary of his death on March 17, 461 CE. Should you ever get the urge, reading about Christianity in Ireland before Rome took over is really interesting stuff.  Lenten restrictions are lifted that day, which might explain the green beer and enthusiastic drinking. Not that the Irish are typically known for excessive drinking. As for green, the story goes that Patrick used the shamrock to explain the Trinity to the unconverted, and it's green, so there ya go. 

I remember my mother insisted on American Irish food on that day, a salty corned beef and boiled cabbage dinner beloved by New Englanders, Irish or not. She said we had to have a meal and think about our crazy Irish relatives. There was my Aunt ****, for example, who broke her arm and for years simply flopped it around, hoisting it's considerable girth with her free arm when she needed to. It was kinda gross really, but she didn't want to go through the hassle of a bone graft, and since she was in no pain, didn't see the point. Her sister was a legend in the area for her prodigious skills with men, and had a very special nickname I dasn't repeat. I dasn't. I don't think being faintly and remotely Irish had anything to do with this family lunacy, but it made for good talk over the boiled cabbage! 

I wanted to make a green cake for the good people at work; we have one Irish teacher left so why not? The problem is I had very little good green food coloring left, and I don't love my coworkers enough to drive to the store and buy more. Hah! 

I made a simple almond flavored bundt cake (again with the bundt cakes) and put a dite of green in the batter. Then I had a massive gas bubble in my brain and dumped in BLUE AND RED COLORING. What possessed me to think those colors make green? I know they don't. At the same time I did that, I turned off the oven with the soda bread, thinking I was shutting off the burner with the boiled eggs. 

Not my morning. The soda bread was delicous though, even though the oven was off for about 20 minutes.

Irish Soda Bread

This recipe really does cook in an hour, and is yummy with butter and jam. Or beef stew. Man I'm hungry. 

4 cups of flour

1 T baking powder

1 t baking soda

1 t salt

1 c raisins or currents (disgusting..I did NOT include)

1 T caraway seeds (I didn't have any)

2 1/4 c buttermilk (use whole milk with a tablespoon of white vinegar if none available)

Preheat the oven to 350. Leave it on the whole time you bake the bread (unlike meself). Lightly oil a baking sheet.

Mix the dry ingredients in a large bowl. I personally use a stand mixer with a dough hook for the whole process. Add the buttermilk, raisins and caraway seed. Mix until it all comes together in a ball. Knead briefly into shape and place on baking sheet. Slash the top and bake for about 40 minutes, until golden and hollow sounding. 

Their bread. Note the yacky currents.

My soda bread. I want some now, except the doctor told me to stop eating bread. Dang it!

I dub thee Larry Flint Pink. If you have to ask.....

There is no recipe for this, as I can't really remember what I did. It was one of those kinds of mornings. Mornings where you try and make a green cake for an Irishman, and you end up with a ghastly porno pink confection. Let's just leave it at that. 

Tasted ok though. 

Love,

Felicia El Aid

Pinterest Pinning Fool

What the hell happened? What possesses me now to spend money keeping my data plan firing away on my phone? Pinterest.

You know, when a coworker suggested I'd love it, I kinda pished at her. Like...pffft. I'd looked at it before and wondered what the point was. Why were people grabbing pictures of this and that off the internet and putting a little red "pin" on them. Useless right? Then, mildly curious after watching her cute little head hunched over a laptop poking red pins on pictures, I took a serious look.

SO not useless. I totally found a crocheted owl on there, used to store rolled fancy towels. I shall make it and put it in the bathroom of my someday dream restored farmhouse. A friend even MADE a small test owl and told me how to start the damn thing. Have I made it yet? No. That is not the point. The possibility of a crocheted owl for towels now exists in my head, and I revel in it.

Do you want to do yoga? Well you can read about it on Pinterest! Any asana, thoughts about yoga, you name it. Pin away! And as everyone knows, reading about yoga in a really meaningful way is the same as doing it. Heck, you don't have to read it anytime soon. It's pinned! Go to your "Someday I will get off my lazy arse" board and read at your leisure.

I have boards for books, North African food, Arabic food, regular food, desserts, erm....sewing...erm....ok I might be a little out of control. Maybe I am using Pinterest to live life without actually getting out the door and living it. Maybe I am depressed and living in a dreamworld.

Nah. I will absolutely someday make a rug out of old tee shirts using the friendship bracelet technique. Absolutely.

The splendid owl. It could happen.

As for the cake, I made the same recipe I used before by Ina Garten. I doubled it, then realized I didn't have enough baking soda. So I tripled the baking powder. It was fine, I guess. This doubling made for three good size layers. Two went into this cake, and one stayed at home. Here is the modified recipe:

Ina Garten's Chocolate Cake

(adapted from the original)

3 1/4 cup flour, sifted

4 cups (yes!) sugar 

1 1/2 cups cocoa

1 t. baking soda

3 t baking powder

1 t salt

4 eggs

1 c. vegetable oil

1 1/2 cups hot coffee

2 cups buttermilk (or 2 cups milk with 2 t white vinegar added)

Put all dry ingredients in a mixer and mix using the paddle. Add the oil and eggs and blend. Add the buttermilk and blend. Add the hot coffee and mix well. 

Preheat oven to 350/180. Grease three 8 inch cake pans and LINE THE BOTTOM WITH PARCHMENT. Grease the parchment. 

Bake for about 23 minutes or until toothpick clean. Cool in pans for 20 minutes, run a knife around the edge and invert to a wire rack. Cool completely before frosting. This is a sticky cake. I don't know why. If you don't line the pan, it will come out in pieces. Besides, you haven't lived until you've smelled buttery hot parchment. Really. 

Frosting:

6 oz chopped semi sweet chocolate (I've used Hersheys bits twice. Not good. It just doesn't melt properly. No more.) Melt it in microwave and cool. 

1 cup butter

1 egg yolk

1 t vanilla

1 t instant coffee dissolved in hot water

4 cups confectioners sugar

1 T cream

This recipe is quite different now from Gartens. 

Whip the butter on high until fluffy. Add the ROOM TEMPERATURE egg yolk and whip. Add the vanilla. Slowly whip in the powdered sugar. If you dump this all in your mixer at the same time, you will wear a lot of it. 

Blend and pour in melted chocolate. Whip until light and fluffy. Add the cream if you need to for texture. 

Frost the cake. I love the taste of this cake but it annoys me to frost it. Sticky. Both times. 

If it looks like its caved in on the side, it is a bit. Tried to fill it with frosting but meh. Part of the dang cake stuck to the sides because I was late for work and didn't wait long enough. Sigh.

This cake is for my class of rangers, a group of men working for the Diwan to try and save the Arabian leopard. They have been a joy to work with every time. I hope they like it, even if it is a little fugly. 

Our rangers. May Allah bless their efforts.

(published with permission)

Love,

Felicia El Aid

Angela's Ashes Anyone?

I would like you to take a look at this picture of my mother. She is the redhead in the corner holding the (real) baby.

Honestly, this picture makes me a little ill. I asked her why she looked so angry, so sad. At 73, 60 years after that Christmas day, she remembers exactly what happened.

Her father was drunk. He'd promised to play a board game with her on Christmas day, and as this picture was snapped, he was lurching around the kitchen, acting like a drunken ass. Sad isn't it? To remember the keen, sharp feeling of disappointment so many years later? To have looked so forward to playing a game with your dad, only to see he cared far more about getting sauced than spending time with you. My aunt is holding the doll. She talks to me of how she'd leave every Friday when school got out to stay at her Aunt Bea's. She'd return Sunday night. As much as she loved her father, she just couldn't watch his weekend benders. She rages to this day, increasingly lost to Alzheimers.  The youngest sister sits with her chin in her hands as if to say, "Well, isn't life just that way?" She's still kinda like that. (By the way, I got the pic from the baby in Mom's lap). 

My mother never recovered from her childhood. She is a nice lady for sure, but narcissistic and unable for all of her life to stop being a victim. I love her anyway. I remember this father of hers, though he died when I was six years old. He was funny; a right jolly fat man. He loved us dearly, and my mother said he cried when she told him he couldn't play with us when he was drunk, that she just didn't want him around. One day, in his early fifties, he walked out on the porch and died in his boots. Now down to the third generation, many of his grandkids have "issues," or we consistently choose someone who has "issues," as if we cannot see a world where we aren't trying to fix something. I can honestly say most of us are incapable of true happiness. We just didn't learn how to do it. My chin holding auntie told me that once, and I regret it may be true. The children and grandchildren of alcoholics are either drunks themselves or exhausted by one. We don't know any other way. The great grandchildren are doing well. Only four generations to recover from one alcoholic. Not too shabby eh?

What does this maudlin crap have to do with Salalah you say? Welp, there has been a flurry of concern the last couple months because the majority of Omani community representatives voted to ban alcohol in Oman. This would result in a loss of 100 million rial a year to Oman in taxes. One friend said if drink were banned in Oman, he'd leave. I value my job way to much to give booze so much importance in my life, but there is no denying it's importance to a lot of people. Regular people too, the vast majority of casual drinkers who haven't any problems with excessive consumption. Nobody really thinks the law will pass; the Sultan would need to approve it for one, and most people think he won't.

Not so long ago, I went for shisha at one of the local hotels. Late that night, a punch up occured. A few locals got in a brawl after getting sloshed at the bar. I watched one man go arse over teakettle to the ground. I wondered if he fully realized the humiliation of his position as he fell face first in the dirt, a man from a race of people with prophets in their history. I wondered if this law might indeed pass after all. Omanis may decide that the social consequences of drinking are not worth the financial benefit, and that if the law follows what they believe to be correct, God will sort it out. It's complicated isn't it? 

I guess we'll find out. 

I think they vastly over estimated their appeal. I bet, though, my grandmother understood the sentiment.

So enough of all that. Onto the cake! It was Bob the Birder's birthday today, or rather Dr. Robert Tovey's birthday. He is a fellow blogger, and travels all over bloody Oman...well the world really...looking for birds. When not birding, he teaches English.

Birding for a Lark Coffee Cake

(yeah...this is a link to his blog)

2/3 cup white sugar

2/3 cup unsalted butter, room temp

3 eggs, room temperature

1 t. vanilla

1 cup all purpose flour

1 T baking powder

1 T instant coffee, dissolved in 1/4 cup very hot water

1/4 cup cocoa

Raspberry jam (optional)

Preheat the oven to 350/180. Grease and flour two 8 inch cake pans. I personally used greased baking paper in the bottom of my tins for this one. I don't trust cocoa.

Beat the sugar and butter until fluffy. Add the eggs one at a time, and mix well between each one. Add the vanilla. Mix the 1/4 cup cocoa in with the coffee mix and fold into the butter mix. Add the flour and baking powder and mix until incorporated.

Divide evenly between baking tins and bake about 12 minutes. These are not tall layers by the way.

Cool 10 minutes and invert to a wire rack to cool completely. 

Icing:

1 cup room temp butter

4 cups (approx) confectioners sugar

1 t vanilla

1 T instant coffee dissolved by 1 T hot water

Beat the butter and two cups of sugar on high until blended. Add the vanilla and coffee. Slowly add about two more cups, whipping on high until light, fluffy, and creamy. 

I generously scooped icing on the first layer and spread it. I put a thin layer of jam on the bottom or the other side. Next time I'd use more...just wasn't sure of the combo but it was brilliant. 

I used all of the balance on the top. I did not ice the sides as the pic Bob sent me showed an "open" cake. His day.

Note the artistic bedspread backdrop. Stylin.

There ya go. Read his blog, dang it.

I hope my post doesn't put anyone in a tither. Other than me poor ma, it wasn't personal to anyone really. I've always been a thinker, and very emotional, but that doesn't make me right about every solid thing. 

As the goofy announcer for a Maine news channel used to say after editorializing, "That's our opinion, we welcome yours."

Love,

Felicia El Aid

Tunisian Quest

Being in a cross cultural marriage is like being an adventurer in unknown worlds. I feel, at times. a bit like Richard Burton questing for the source of the Nile. When I got married, my husband (only half joking) said, "First an Arab man loves his mother, then he loves food. Then he loves his wife." I did roll my eyes a bit, but since his mother is lovely to me when we speak on the phone, and always expresses her love for me, the first quality is acceptable.

But food. Oh my dear lord the food. Tunisian food is unlike Gulf food in every way. It's not like I can whip up a batch of hummus and throw some flat bread at him. No. Harissa (a hot chili paste) features in just about everything! There is also what I call the "Tunisian triumvirate" of green peppers, tomatoes, and onions in many things as well. Spices like barat have to come via Tunis, and we keep it in the kitchen by the half kilo it seems. I actually felt a bit panicked when we ran out. Fortunately a sister in law came to the rescue and sent down a large jar of the stuff. As long as I have that, harissa, turmeric, cumin, and ground caraway, I can (barely) manage.

Tunisian spice market. You've got to be kidding.

I used to fancy myself a good cook. I've made couscous from a box back in the States and my daughter really liked it. Think that is the way to do it? Nooooo. Think again. Tunisian couscous has to steam above a red sauced meat dish of some kind, then (I guess) some of that red sauce is mixed in, in JUST THE RIGHT AMOUNT, to give it that red color so beloved by Tunisians. I despair.

The thing is, I put a lot of stock in food happiness. I want the person I love, my person, to be happy with what he eats. He's a good cook himself, but my white sauced meals don't always thrill. During a recent trip to Muscat, the women in his family cooked for us all weekend, and his jokes about finally eating good food wore thin. I sent more than one hard look in his direction. Gave him the ole gimlet eye so to speak. Hardy har mister. Haaaardy har. I decided I would try, really try, to make something that tastes somewhat North African-ish. With the help of Pinterest (fab app), I nailed a few things recently, Felicia style.

The women in his family make a yummy dish called a tagine. The word tagine covers a seemingly limitless number of foods across North Africa, but this is essentially a frittata. Even Pinterest couldn't really help me with specific directions for this egg dish, but really, how freakin hard can a glorified quiche be? Not very.

This tagine is also my cake of the day. How, you say, can I get away with calling a quichey dish a cake? Well, a Dhofari friend told me they call these tagines cakes. If it has chicken in it, it's chicken cake. How cute is that?

So here, my friends is MY OWN version of the egg and cheese tagine. As for the other cross cultural marital issues, well, good food helps, as does patience from all concerned.  After all, Richard found the source of the Nile didn't he? Yah. No. He didn't.

Felicia's Egg and Potato Cake

Several sheets of filo dough. Damn that stuff.

Preheat oven to 350/180.

12 eggs. Yes. 12. Beat them in a bowl with a splash of milk. 

Mince one onion and one green pepper very finely. I do it in a food processor.

Boil three potatoes and cut into small bite size pieces. 

Grate about a pound of cheese. I see this as an opportunity to use up those bits of various cheeses you have in the fridge. 

Melt a half stick of butter and get out a pastry brush. 

First butter a medium size casserole dish, about 10 inches or 20 centis long. 

Line the dish with a few sheets of filo, letting the filo drape over the sides of the dish. Brush with butter. 

Layer in the cheese. Then layer in the minced onion and pepper. Layer the cubed potatoes. 

Pour the eggs over the lot. Fold the filo over the top and brush with butter. Add a few more sheets of filo to the top of the tagine, brushing with butter to make it all stick down. 

I hate handling filo. Just sayin. But filo gives this a nice buttery crunch. My husband's family doesn't use it; actually none of my Tunisian friends have that I remember.  But this is my tagine, so filo it is. 

Bake about 30 minutes until golden. 

Serve hot or cold. It's nice. 

And there you have it. Cake. 

I wish all of you out there in relationships with those from very different backgrounds bon chance. Good luck. God be with you. The rewards of any relationship that crosses borders, religions, age, social statuses, and educational backgrounds add color to our lives. I suspect that is why I see red sometimes. Hah!

Love, 

Felicia El Aid

Butt Shorts at the Mall?

I can't quite put my finger on it. There seems to be more skin showing these days. Is it me? Am I imagining this? I'm talking about expats of course.

When I arrived in Salalah in 2012, many Dhofari women totally covered their faces with the long end of their shaylas. You couldn't see a dang thing. I still see this occasionally, but not as often. Yes, the niqab is still de rigueur (and they certainly make it look good), but the completely veiled face is not so evident. I tried this veiling myself a few times. The anonymity is a bit comforting. I certainly still do it if I'm wearing a hijab and there is a sandstorm going on. Practical!

That isn't what I'm talking about. I see quite a few women in short shorts and short sleeve tops now. Even, gasp, tank tops.Three years ago, you knew exactly who the few expat women in butt shorts were. They were talked about, and tut tuts were clucked. People remarked about how so and so was at Lulus in her tiny clothes and how the locals were following her around in a happy daze. The shame! The Oasis and hotels were the only places it was acceptable to bare a lot of skin and relax. Even the tourists getting a look at our funky little city had the courtesy to drape a shawl around their arms.

Not so much now. Tank tops, thigh bearing shorts, tight clothes and cleavages; it seems many don't care that they are living and working in a conservative part of an Islamic country. Yeah...Muscat is kind of fast and loose, but this isn't Muscat is it?

I sound like the church lady. I think there is a new wave of workers here that can't be bothered to give a crap what people think. They dress as they would in their own country and so be it. Omanis are incredibly courteous people, despite some people's individual experiences. Jibalis especially so. They may appear to glance past you, if you are out in your small clothes, but it registers. It registers. There is a conservative backlash happening in this country that will end up biting us all in the keester if we aren't more careful. Making gin in your bathtub sound appealing does it?

I think there is a way to wear clothing that is light and comfortable and still look decent. I see my friends do it all the time. No, they don't all wear long sleeves or look like they've been in purdah half their lives. They just look...respectable. And for locals, respectable is no problem. At the end of the day, we are not Omanis, and they don't expect us to look like one.

You know who I'm talking about too. Uh huh.

Stock photo taken at Hafa souk. My kind of girl. And no, I don't find this attire "depressing."

Your friendly Church Lady. 

Dhofari stylin.

As for the cake, it was a disaster. I wanted a blueberry cake. I was craving one wicked bad. So I picked up a package of frozen blueberries and went to work. I've used frozen blueberries before with no problems. This time my bundt cake oozed with goo on the top. I think this recipe would have worked had I baked the cake 10 more minutes (I was anxious about it burning) and waited until the cake was cool to pop it out of the pan. I also think this particular recipe doesn't lend itself to frozen blueberries the way a heavier pound cake does. This recipe is from A Spicy Perspective.

Blueberry Muffin Cake

• 1 cup unsalted butter, softened
• 2 cups sugar
• 3 large eggs
• 1 tablespoon vanilla extract
• 2 3/4 cups all purpose Gold Medal Flour
• 2 teaspoons baking powder
• 1/2 teaspoon baking soda
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1 1/4 cup buttermilk (or milk with a teaspoon of white vinegar)
• Zest of 2 lemons
• 1 pound fresh blueberries

Cream the butter and sugar on high. Personally I think this is too much sugar, but I didn't experiment with less. Add the eggs one at a time and beat until fluffy. Blend in the vanilla and zest of lemons. Sift the dry ingredients together and add to butter mix, alternating with the buttermilk. Fold in blueberries.

Spoon into a well greased (every nook and cranny) and floured bundt pan and bake at 325/160 for about 60 minutes. Cool completely before inverting to a wire rack. I don't care what the spicy blog lady says about how this is perfect every time. It's going to be touch and go.

You can glaze with:

3 T. milk 

1 cup powdered sugar

You can also top with toasted almonds. I didn't bother with any of this because the cake was a hot mess.

Her cake. From Pinterest.

My cake. Points for honesty ok? 

This is a blueberry cake last time I made it. I didn't worry about burning cause the oven back in America isn't a piece of crap. Just sayin.

I hacked off the blueberry goo and ate some of the butter cake that survived. It's pretty tasty. I still despaired. 

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed my lecture of the day. I am on a tear lately between the drivers going into Saada and the wave of legs at the mall. Maybe I'm imagining the whole thing. Meh.

If you are still with me, here is my recipe for North African style beef stew. I steamed some Turkish bulgar for our starch. It is a bit spicy, but dang good. You need to go buy a pressure cooker. Really. Life altering apparatus. This recipe is genuinely mine. 

The list of spices is daunting, but easily available. 

Felicia's North African Fusion Stew

1 kilo, or 2 pounds of stew beef, cubed

1 large onion, rough chopped

6 cloves garlic, minced

a handful of cilantro, chopped

2 stalks of green onion, sliced

1/2 t ground coriander

1 t ground cinnamon

1 t white pepper

1 t cumin

1 t ground ginger

1 t tumeric

1 t paprika

3 sachets of tomato paste (a 6 oz jar for Americanos)

4 cups of hot water and a cube of beef bouillion (or beef broth)

olive oil

Sear the beef with a little oil in your pressure cooker. Remove. Add a bit more olive oil and saute the onions and garlic. Dump in all the spices and give it a stir. Add the cilantro and green onions. Put your meat in and stir it up. Add the tomato paste and beef broth or water and bouillion. 

Bring the pressure cooker up to whistling on high. Reduce heat to medium and cook 20 minutes. Let the cooker come down normally. Serve with rice or couscous or french bread. 

Very freakin yummy.

I have a coffee flavored birthday cake to make for a friend later this week. Wish me luck. I will need it, clearly.

Love,

Felicia El Aid