Feed Others & Be Fed

Lessons & Recipes from the Heirloom: a guide to making cooking the best part of your multi-hyphenate practice.
By Jack Piscitelli Dahill & Sage Livingstone Molasky

This Week’s Story:
Feed Others & Be Fed

It’s sophomore year and I am nineteen years old. I am far from my home, my garden, and my kitchen, far from my parents, my grandmother, and their culinary wisdom. I rely on the college meal plan provided for me and rarely go to the grocery store. I eat food because I am hungry.  Ingredients I once knew and grew in my backyard are gone, as are my grandmother’s recipe cards, both left behind in my childhood home. No longer do I dance around the kitchen, making food and sharing stories with my family. 

Until one January when my roommates leave for winter break and I am on my own for the first time. New York City is lonely this time of year when the sun sets at 4:28pm and the wind whips off the river, when we all huddle, heads down, against the cold. I stay in the city to take an extra class for my double major but the required classes don’t inspire me, and without my friends I am bereft of art and people to share it with.

But, where art is lacking in my body, there is a rumble in my stomach for good and nourishing food.

One cold morning, I decide to venture to the grocery store. I have no recipe card in my pocket, only my appetite to guide me. I am ravenous, deprived from a winter alone, and I buy too many things for one person to eat, grabbing at whatever catches my eye, grasping for things that, perhaps, remind me of home, of a time when even in the darkness of winter, there was a warm kitchen to come home to. I buy vidalia onions, thinking of my grandmother and how she swore by their sweetness; a basil plant, thinking of my dad’s weathered fingers, plucking at the leaves; a head of garlic, remembering how my mom taught me to pick out the perfect cloves. 

I return to my kitchenette, unload my groceries, and turn on music. I steal one of my roommate's spices and the other one's pans. I try to imagine what I would like to eat, staring blankly at the odd bits of ingredients before me: onions, a smattering of herbs, too many types of mushrooms, garlic, a lopsided and strange-looking eggplant, and three potatoes, all the way from Idaho. Despite what I have learned from my grandmother’s knowing hands, my mom’s sharp knife skills, and my dad’s green thumb, it’s at this moment that I realize I know very little about cooking without a recipe. 

So, I turn to the internet and find a simple recipe that utilizes the vegetables I bought. I follow every step diligently, with all the precision my parents would have demanded were I in  my childhood kitchen. The room brims with oregano, parsley, and garlic. I watch as the sharp onions grow soft and translucent, then brown and jammy. I smile, thinking that maybe my grandma is here with me, peering over her newspaper, making sure I add water so they won’t burn.

I peer over the cracked door of the oven to see my potatoes and eggplants, the olive oil bubbling and snapping in the roasting pan. The steam from the hot vegetables flies out of the oven and stings my eyes. I’m reminded of my mom, her voice warm as she stirs a pot of tomato sauce, her grown up arms around my small ones, reminding me that “cooking is a dangerous sport.” I suppose she’s right about the validity of glasses doubling as cooking goggles. 

I whirl around the kitchen alone, dancing to the music of Héctor Lavoe. I ask myself questions out loud, wishing my family was here. “Does this look cooked enough?” The empty dorm room creaks a pitiful reply. “Maybe more garlic?” I taste and purse my lips — it could use more. 

After a while, the meal is finished. I sit down and admire my dinner. I watch as tendrils of steam curl up from my plate — like ghosts, I think. I swipe my third and final roommate’s hot sauce, and take my first bite. It’s good, especially considering I’ve been living off of 99¢ pizza and dining hall sandwiches. This is quite possibly my first vegetable in weeks. 

I spend the rest of January alone in my tiny kitchen, tweaking and tinkering, experimenting with flavors and textures. But something is missing — and it dawns on me. Alone, I’m a painter holed up in my studio, putting color to canvas, using the ghosts of my culinary past, asking questions with no one but my own memory to answer them. In this solitude, though I learn, I want more. I want collaboration. I am no painter;

I yearn to not execute a recipe but tell a story, one that nourishes my soul as well as my stomach.

Over the course of that long, lonesome month I learned many things: I honed knife skills and mastered my dinky stovetop (a skill that will come in handy as I move from one studio apartment to another). I familiarized myself with spices and herbs that I had only used under the direction of my mom. Much like any other artistic skill, there is merit to doing it alone, to memorizing lines until they are in your body, to reviewing dance steps until you can do them in your sleep. But lines are meant to be shared, uttered to a scene partner, and whispered, like a hymn, to an audience hanging on every word. It would be years after that lonesome winter until I find my scene partner, with whom I would begin a dialogue of flavors, a collaboration of histories, and tell an interwoven, theatrical culinary story. 

***

“Okay cast, amazing work today, can’t wait to see you all in the ‘Zoomsphere’ tomorrow!”, says the director as she waves to us all from her apartment. The stage manager ends the zoom and my face falls, a forced smile dripping off me. It falls, clumsily, into my lap. 

I look over at my partner Sage. She stands in the kitchen, wearing a white apron with hand drawn bottles of french wines. It was her mother’s, and now it is hers. An inheritance. Sage pours a glass of wine and asks if I would like one too. I say yes and walk over to the kitchen, a few feet from the  desk and grab my own apron — it’s navy and white striped, like my mom’s. The tiny space smells of ginger and garlic, lentils and cinnamon, spices Sage grew up knowing. 

“Mujadara,” she says, gesturing to the pot.

This is our first time cooking together. It's clumsy. The kitchen is small. We frequently bump into each other. She tells me that the room smells like the Sabbath, and home, and I tell her that to me, it smells like my travels abroad. We get distracted by each other’s stories. I drop a pot lid, she overcooks the rice. But there is something magical about it, despite the fumbling. It is the first stumble-through of a play. I suggest we add shiitake mushrooms, for a deeper flavor, like the stocks of soups I’ve made with my family, and she agrees, although she’s never made it like this before. She tells me about boiling lentils with cilantro stems and onion skins, and I marvel at how nothing goes to waste. Our culinary histories merge together, in a pot.

We make the dish how we would like it made, not how chefs would tell us to make it, and not really how our parents might have told us to make it too. It is something new, something made out of the both of us.

I soon forget about the uncomfortable Zoom rehearsal; it’s more joyous to be present here, in this clamoring kitchen, on this intimate stage. 

Our nights go on like this for months, and as we watch the seasons change, we grow more familiar with each other's movements around the kitchen, more familiar with each other’s stories. We learn how to navigate the small space together, like two artists making one piece of art. We learn to blend our culinary backgrounds, teaching each other new tricks and techniques, bouncing ideas around the walls of our kitchen. In the years of COVID, when theaters shut down and collaboration came to a screeching halt, we became  each other's collaborators, we acted as each other’s audience. 

Many meals later, and the space is transformed. Now this small kitchen is our shared home. The basil plant that once died from a shaded fire escape has transformed into a verdant garden, and when we cook, we dance about, our bodies moving without touch, our hands moving without sound; the clamor of pots is not one of clumsiness, but of knowing. Knowing each other and the space we inhabit together. Knowing how to cater both to our unique individual palettes as well as our shared one.

I've made a new home — a small one, but a home nonetheless. Since moving away from my first culinary collaborators, Sage is the first person I truly love to cook with.

This love has taught me how to make art more thoughtfully and collaboratively, to feed others and be fed, heartily, in return.

This Week’s Recipe:
Mujadara, Crispy Chicken Legs Quarters & Sage’s Twist on Israeli Salad

What You’ll Need… 

Chicken:

• Bone In, Skin On, Chicken Leg Quarters (thighs work too, but the whole quarter is often cheaper, and always taster)

• Olive Oil

• Salt

• A Cast Iron Pan 

Mujadara (Rice)

• Basmati Rice

• Olive Oil 

• 2 Onions, Sliced Thin and Caramelized 

• Mushrooms, Sliced Thin and Caramelized (truly any kind will work, we use shiitake, cremini, or good old button mushrooms)  

• Baharat

• Za’atar 

• Dill

• Salt & Pepper

• A Large Dutch Oven or Other Oven Safe Pot 

Mujadara (Lentils)

• Lentils (a good rule of thumb is to use a 1:2 lentils to rice ratio)

• A Cinnamon Stick

• A Ginger Chunk

• A Head of Garlic, Cut in Half (do not remove skin)

• A Whole Onion, Cut in Half (do not remove skin)

• A bunch of Cilantro (just the stems, chop the leaves for a garnish at the end)

• A Medium to Large Pot

Yogurt Marinade/Sauce:

• Greek Yogurt

• Lemon/Lime  

• Garlic Powder

• Fresh Dill

• Dried Dill

• Onion Powder

• Salt & Pepper

• Olive Oil

• A Large Mixing Bowl

Sage’s Salad

• Cracked Freekeh (couscous works as well)

• Nectarine (or any ripe stone fruit)

• Avocado

• Hakurei Turnips (specifically these because they’re creamy and do not need to be cooked)

• Radishes

• Arugula or Spinach or even the leaves of your Radishes and Turnips (but not too much; the dish is meant to be lettuce light)

• Parsley

• Mint

• Basil

• Dill

• Salt and Pepper

• Berbere Spice

• Lemon juice (or lime)

• Olive Oil

• Pickle Brine (if you’re feeling frisky)

• Dollop or Two of Creme Fraiche

• A Salad or Mixing Bowl

How To Make… 

​​Chicken Leg Quarters

First, make the yogurt marinade/ sauce. I make double. Some for marinating the chicken legs, and more for serving on top with the mujadara and salad. It asks as a sort of tzatziki, and although we don’t give a hummus recipe, it goes great with any hummus. 

To make the yogurt marinade, combine yogurt (a couple of cups worth), olive oil, the juice of one lime, fresh dill, garlic powder, onion power, dried dill, salt and pepper in a bowl. Divide in two. 

With half of the yogurt marinade, toss in your raw chicken leg quarters. Massage the meat, making sure it’s completely covered in the marinade, and leave in your refrigerator for at least one but up to three hours. About 45 minutes before you roast, remove the chicken legs from the refrigerator to bring them up to room temperature for even cooking.

With the other half of your yogurt marinade, chill in refrigerator and remove just before serving. 

Preheat your oven to 375 degrees, and add your roasting pan while the oven heats, to help with browning. Once the oven is up to temp, remove the roasting pan, place parchment paper on top, and add your chicken leg quarters, making sure to pour the extra marinade on top. The marinade shouldn’t be so abundant  where you lose sight of your chicken, but enough to coat the legs with excess to run off. Add the chicken leg quarters into your oven. They should take about 45 minutes-1 hour to cook, depending on your oven, and the weight of the legs, and the vibes. The FDA recommends your chicken clock in at 165 degrees at the deepest part of the meat. Admittedly, I don’t have a reliable meat thermometer, but I cook chicken enough in my oven that I know when it’s ready. Trust yourself. The juices will run clear, and the meat will be firm. If you need a thermometer to be sure of its safety, then by all means, use your thermometer! At around 15 minutes before the chicken should be done, I like to crank up the heat, to get some more nice browning. I raise my temperature to about 410 degrees, but if you wanted to broil a bit, go ahead! When the thighs are done or the thermometer reads 165, take the chicken out of the over, and let cool for 5-10 minutes. 

Mujadara

Note: The Mujadara takes a lot of time, and as such we’ve found making a big ole batch at the start of the week, and eating it with lunch and/or dinner throughout the week, makes it feel more worth the time spent cooking. Plus there’s no better treat for future you than past you’s home cooking.

• Start by covering the rice with water and adding a dash of salt. In an ideal world this would be done 1 hour before cooking, in our kitchen it is often done 15 minutes before, and it works just fine, so, yeah.

• Preheat the oven to 350 F.

• While the rice is soaking, caramelize your onions and mushrooms. Add water periodically when they look dry to ensure a wonderful, jammy, experience. This takes time, a good 45 minutes to really get ‘em where you want ‘em. Rushing is no good as the onion will sense your impatience and burn on you. So it goes.

• As they caramelize add the Baharat, Za’atar, Dill, Salt & Pepper. 

  Normally I’d offer a substitution for niche ingredients like these, but there really is no way around it. You need them. But good spices are worth the investment. I suppose you could make your own Za’atar with oregano, thyme, marjoram, sumac and toasted sesame seeds, but I don’t think it’s worth it. But hey - your kitchen, your rules. By that token Baharat is typically made of  black pepper, cardamom, cloves, cumin, nutmeg, coriander and paprika. So knock yourself out.

• Once the onions and mushrooms are ready to rock, drain the rice. Once drained, fold it into the onions and mushrooms and toast gently until a nutty aroma can be smelled from the pot.

• Then add chicken stock (fish or vegetable stock works well too, and you can pick the best stock based on your protein of choice) to the pot and bring to a simmer. Use equal parts stock and rice.

• Once simmering season with salt and stir to combine, seal with lid and place in oven until rice is toothsome but cooked through.

• After rice is done to your liking let the rice stand, covered, while you prepare the lentils.

• Get a large pot and mix together all the ingredients from the lentils section (saving the chopped Cilantro leaves for garnish)

• Cover with cold water and bring to a simmer, cooking until lentils are toothsome but cooked through.

• Fold lentils into rice and serve with a hearty smattering of Yogurt Marinade/Sauce. 

Sage’s Salad

Israeli Salad is a traditional chopped salad, usually consisting of some grain, mint, lots of chopped parsley (like in tabbouleh), diced tomato, diced red onion, and diced Persian cucumber. Sometimes, Israeli salad can be made with diced mango in the summertime, when the fruit is ripe on the trees. It is a Persian tradition, adopted by Israeli Jews, to begin a large family meal with various cold, hydrating salads. Inspired by the use of mango in the summer, and feeling nostalgic for the traditional salads of my childhood, I improvised this salad when the weather recently grew warm and I found a stock pile of stone fruit in the refrigerator.

This salad follows the simple rules of an Israeli Salad. Dice your nectarine (or other comparable stone fruit, I think plums would be perfect and tint the salad a beautiful purple hue), your avocado, radishes and turnips. Don’t spent too much time getting the perfect little cubes. My favorite part of these sorts of salads are their texture and irregularity- uniform dicing is never that exciting anyways. Finely chop your herbs: mint, basil, dill and parsley. Use as much as you want. I like herby salads. Chop up just a bit of arugula, spinach, or other leafy greens (I particularly like finding uses for my radish or turnip leaves) to give the salad some bite or sweetness. 

While you chop, you can cook your cracked freekeh or couscous. Bring a few cups of salted water to a boil, and then add one to two cups of your grain, depending on how much salad you want to make. Honestly, I made too little, and would suggest adding lots of all the ingredients so the salad doesn’t go too quickly. Once the grain is added, it won’t take too long to finish cooking, 5-10 minutes depending on what you cook. Drain the water and then submerge your cooked grain in cold water for a few minutes, to flash chill it. Drain the cold water, and transfer your grain to a large serving bowl.

Add all your chopped ingredients to the grains. I like to add a glug of olive oil, and some pickle brine to start dressing the salad. Pickle brine brings a bright, slightly acidic, slightly salty juiciness to salads, and I recommend experimenting to make use of your leftover pickle brine. My particular favorite is a horseradish dill brine that brings a little heat to my meal. Toss the salad. I like using my hands and tasting along the way. Once everything is tossed, you can squeeze a lemon or lime over top, add some more olive oil or pickle brine as needed, and begin seasoning with salt and pepper. I like to do different things every time. I like a sprinkle of Berbere Spice (actually, more than a sprinkle, but if you’re new to the world of Berbere, try it, and see how you like it). Berbere is a warm, gingery and tangy Ethiopian spice blend. I also sometimes add a bit of garlic powder, herbs de provence, or all purpose seasoning. My ethos when making salad: season them the way you would a piece of meat, or a stew! Put all the flavors you like in the folds of your greens, and the outcome will be a unique, complex and exciting salad every time. As I season, I often add more fresh herbs, and lemon juice to taste. At the end, I added a dollop of creme fraiche, because that’s what I had in the fridge, and I thought the creamy tang would go wonderfully with the avocado and radish. It did. 

Serve with a big spoon, and eat it either as a warm up for your entree or, as I like to do, veering from tradition, eat it with each forkful of your main course.