Quail with Israeli Couscous

As a writer, even as a child, long before what I wrote began to be published, I developed a sense that meaning itself was resident in the rhythms of words and sentences and paragraphs, a technique for witholding whatever it was I thought or believed behind an increasingly impenetrable polish.

Joan Didion, The Year Of Magical Thinking

“I’m having a hard time being funny,” I said to John this morning. We were getting dressed. More accurately: I was dressing him, yanking on his jeans, tugging a sweater over his head, guiding his arms through the sleeves. We were in a hurry, meaning no pressure stockings today. Socks, shoes, medic alert necklace. Lift from bed back to wheelchair. Vitamins, coffee, lunch bag. Jacket. Good to go. John calls this “being rehumanized.”

My increasingly impenetrable polish hardly achieved Didion-level prose. It was an amused humor, offered at a third-person reserve. Look at that wobbly woman in her second-rate kitchen. She can’t even open a can of beans.

That I’d woken at 5 a.m. to begin my caregiver duties, the showering, the dressing, washing the breathing equipment, the thousand tiny details that go into keeping an adult wheelchair user alive–is information I’d skimmed over. People don’t want to hear about this.

My own health makes nice joke material. The more troubling issues, those refusing to become punch lines, are not mentioned. People don’t want to hear about this.

I can’t tell you how long my finger hovers before I hit the “Publish” button.

David Lebovitz, My Paris Kitchen

Like a lot of people, I’ve been in a bad way since November 9–frightened, depressed, barely able to read the news. I’ve no idea how to cope with the election and ensuing fallout: the rash of hate crimes, the shockingly ugly speech suddenly given free rein, the potential legislation. That many others share my feelings is cold comfort. For all of America’s serious problems, I had always considered myself fortunate to live here. Now I am struggling with the loss of a faith–in my country, in the people who inhabit it–I’d no idea I possessed. This makes blithely nattering on about holiday cooking feel trivial in the extreme.

Do people want to hear about this?

Probably not. Then again, who can blame them? Anyone who began 2016 trouble-free surely isn’t ending that way.

It’s hard to be funny right now.

—

Quail With Israeli Couscous.

Revision #37

I’ve never seen fresh quail in Northern California, only frozen. And the same frozen package of six quail is six bucks cheaper at 99 Ranch than at Berkeley Bowl. So those of you living in NorCal know where to buy your quail. You are hearing this from a woman who spent $300 bucks at Berkeley Bowl yesterday, okay?

Which leads us to the fact that this quail comes from Quebec, which is not exactly around the corner from NorCal. Then again, no quail is. But if your kitchen, like mine, is full of pc locavore foodstuffs, the very occasional quail can perhaps be forgiven. Readers living in the Southeastern United States or Europe may have better luck locating fresh quail. If so, enjoy.

Know also that quail carcasses, properly called “frames,” makes wondrous broth. Prepare as for chicken broth.

We should talk about Israeli couscous for a minute. It’s couscous with larger grains, bland in the best possible way: you can jazz it up with all sorts of herbs and alliums and spices, as I do here, or just let it be (whisper words of wisdom…).Left alone, Israeli couscous may be served to picky children (or adults) or those with unhappy tummies. The larger grains also mean easier eating if you’re serving people with Neuromuscular disease, no friend to bitty foods. This said, feel free to use regular couscous, orzo, or polenta. Those with Celiac or carbophobia–vastly differing scenarios–can simply make the quail.

This recipe is nominally from Ottolenghi; the original uses a great deal of honey, resulting in a very sweet dish. As I am not fond of a mixing sweet with savory, I’ve gone a very different direction. Then again, I’ve been making quail for years, and often felt rather alone in advocating for this poor bird, which Fergus Henderson rightly calls “fiddly.” This is another way of saying it is best eaten with your hands, something that freaks some people out. Why this is I cannot say. Then again, the older I get, the less I understand anything.

N.B. As evidenced by all those revisions, this wasn’t an easy post to write. A blog is only as meaningful as its readers. Thank you for being here.