When it comes to choosing a dessert, one that spotlights lemon rarely makes the top of my list—not when there are sexy indulgences with bittersweet chocolate, ripe berries, or stone fruits vying for my attention. It’s not that I don’t care for lemon; I do! I love it; I value it ; I mean, think how bleak cooking world would be without this bright citrus!

But I’m easily seduced by the sounds of a dish, the lure of its place, whether it features damson plums grown at a neighboring farm or cacao beans gathered in an exotic rainforest. The lowly workhorse lemon seems, well, lowly. Unfairly or not, I’ve tended to regard it as a fine supporting player, not the star.

I have encountered, however, this exception: Lemon Tirami Su

A number of years ago, while searching for something a little uncommon to complete the menu for a client’s springtime Sunday brunch, one of my bakers, Michele, found this recipe in Jane Freiman’s Dinner Party. Always a fan of the traditional cocoa-espresso-based version, I urged her to give this one a try. For a recipe whose ingredients scarcely stretched beyond Lemons-Sugar-Eggs-Cream, the results were astonishing.

Here’s the line up:
Soak lemon-infused simple syrup into
spongey ladyfingers, follow with
a slather of intense lemon curd, top with
a pillow of barely sweetened mascarpone.
And repeat.

Oh, my. It’s this happy marriage of acid and dairy:Twang-Twang in the midst of dulcet cream that makes this a sublime dessert. Tirami-Su, lyrical Italian for lift-me-up…or let me just plunge into that dreamy lemon pillow.

I’ve got the simplest way listed first, by steps. But if you have the time, feel the least bit ambitious, I’ve included recipes for making your own mascarpone and ladyfingers. Both are not hard at all to do.

Homemade mascarpone requires only heavy cream, lemon juice, cheesecloth, and time.
I recommend trying this. The lemon juice acts as the thickening/separating agent for the cream, but doesn’t sour it. It remains true to what mascarpone is all about—a concentrated sweet cream. The lemon barely scents it, making it all the more perfect for this dessert.

Lemon Tiramisu, simplest way
adapted from Dinner Party, Jane Freiman Harper&Row 1991

Step 1
Lemon Simple Syrup
1 cup water
¼ cup Sugar
Zest of 1 Lemon
4 Tablespoons Rum

Dissolve sugar into simmering water in a non-reactive saucepan. Simmer for 5 minutes, then add lemon zest and rum. Simmer for 5 more minutes, then cool. Strain the zest from the syrup.
Note: the rum creates a complex, almost bitter bottom note to the syrup but if you prefer to not use alcohol, simply omit.

Step 2
Lemon Curd
4 Lemons
2 teaspoons Cornstarch
¾ cup Sugar
4 Eggs
4 Tablespoons softened Butter
pinch Salt

Zest two of the lemons. In a heavy, non-reactive saucepan, mix the zest with sugar and cornstarch.
Juice the lemons: you’ll need about ¾ cup. Pour half of the lemon juice into the saucepan and stir into the sugar. Gently heat while stirring constantly, about 3 minutes, until the sugar dissolves.
Beat the eggs with salt and remaining lemon juice. Whisk into the saucepan and continue stirring. After a few minutes, the mixture will begin to bubble and thicken, becoming pudding-like. Whisk in the softened butter and cook for another minute. Transfer to a heatproof bowl and cool.

Step 3
Filling
3 Eggs, separated
½ cup sugar
1 lb. mascarpone (or 1 recipe of homemade mascarpone–see below)

Beat the eggwhites until soft, stiff peaks form. Whip the mascarpone with the egg yolks and sugar until smooth and well incorporated. Fold in the beaten egg whites.

Step 4
The Assembly
Start with the ladyfingers: You’ll need about 2 Dozen. Dip them one-by-one into the lemon syrup and line the bottom of your baking dish.
Spread a layer of lemon curd over the ladyfinger layer and top with half of the mascarpone mixture.
Repeat this process; cover, and refrigerate overnight.
Before serving, garnish with a little lightly sweetened whipped cream and slices of lemon.

Feeling A Little Ambitious ?

Making your own mascarpone is cost-effective and fun!

Homemade Mascarpone
3 cups Heavy Cream
3 Tablespoon Fresh Lemon Juice

cheesecloth, strainer

Pour cream into a mixing bowl and allow it to stand at room temperature for 30 minutes.
Whisk in the lemon juice, and stir well for about 5 minutes; the cream will begin to thicken and become sour cream-like.
Line a strainer with a piece of doubled cheesecloth and place the strainer over a bowl. Scoop the thickening cream into the cheesecloth. Allow this to stand in a cool place for 5 hours–or overnight in the refrigerator. The whey will separate and collect in the bowl, leaving behind a luxurious, dense mascarpone.

Don’t worry about making “perfect finger” shapes. It all gets lost in the layers. Once, when we had to make this dessert for 250 guests, Michele made “Lady Slabs”—entire shallow baking dishes of thin sponge that we carved into pieces for tiramisu.

Homemade Lady Fingers
4 Eggs, separated
½ cup sugar
1 cup flour
½ teaspoon baking powder.

parchment
pastry bag

Beat egg white until soft, stiff peaks form, set aside. Beat egg yolks and sugar together until thick. Beat in flour and baking powder. Fold in egg whites. Scoop into pastry bag and pipe onto baking sheetpan that has been lined with parchment.
Bake in preheated 375 degree oven for 7-8 minutes. Cool and remove. Makes about 2 dozen.

“These are making me so hungry right now,” my brother Jim said, eyeing my photos of spinach-ricotta stuffed shells, “but I can’t eat ‘em.” We were in his graphic arts office hovering over his Mac; I was trying to entice him with a couple of my posts.

“How about these?” I scrolled to the page with golden peppers and Israeli couscous. “Tasty and healthy. With no cheese.”

That idea hit with a thud. “Peppers, Nan.”

Then he said, “Post on piccata.”

“Piccata?” I was surprised by the request. A simple, maybe not-so-exciting dish. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m down with that,” he said. “I don’t know why…I love chicken cooked that way. ”

Piccata conjures up the word piquant—zesty, spicy. For varying reasons of health, my brother has myriad foods he must avoid; the worst perhaps is his pepper—as in sweet red, cayenne, paprika, poblano, jalapeno, serrano, banana—allergy. Ingesting even the smallest bite can cause blistering disfigurement.

So I understand his piccata enchantment: while much of his eating necessarily treads on the bland side, (hard to get through a day if your face is a combo of Rocky Balboa, post-prize-fight and Mick Jagger, post-collagen-lip-treatment) piccata, with its deeply tart lemon-wine piquancy, satisfies.

Even in its simplicity, I’ve seen it prepared with many variations:
Some use capers, some use cream, some use chicken stock, some use a roux.
My take is straightforward, using none of the aforementioned.
In my piccata, I like an intense garlicky-lemon-white wine reduction. Capers distract. Cream and chicken stock don’t belong.

Now, in his honor, at his request—he’s an excellent brother, after all—I’m posting my recipe and method: one that works just as well for catered dinners for 200 as for the small one given below. And, I’ve included recipes for piccata accompaniments—a complete dinner to pique your interest and tastebuds.

A small amount of butter with the olive oil aids in flavor and browning. I like the balance of fresh lemon juice and white wine and recommend Meyer Lemons if you can get them. You’ll note their darker yellow rind and sweeter juice. As the sauce deglazes, it thickens from the flour dredged onto chicken, and gets a rich brown gloss from the cooked-on bits in the skillet.

Chicken Piccata
¼ cup Flour
¼ teaspoon Salt
¼ teaspoon Black Pepper
1 heaping Tablespoon Italian Parsley
1 lb. Boneless Chicken Breast fillets, trimmed of all fat
1 Tablespoon Butter
1 Tablespoon Olive oil
1 large clove Garlic, minced
1 Meyer Lemon, juiced (3-4 Tablespoons)
3-4 Tablespoons White Wine

Mix flour, salt, pepper, and parsley together in a shallow bowl.
Heat a skillet, add olive oil and butter. Melt the two together.
Dredge chicken fillets in seasoned flour and shake off any excess.
Stir in garlic to heated butter/oil mix, then add chicken.
Sauté for 4 minutes on one side, then flip, and repeat.
Mix juice and wine together and pour over the fillets. Swish and swirl the liquid around in the skillet, scraping any browned bits. In a couple of minutes, the sauce will deglaze, brown, and thicken.
Serves 2-3

Cook’s Note: If you have a large quantity of chicken to cook, increase ingredients accordingly and brown all the chicken first (remove the breasts when they’re done) before adding the lemon juice/white wine. Return the breasts to the skillet with the reduction, allowing them to get drenched with the lemon-wine sauce.

These festive little drums of butternut squash may look otherwise, but are easy to make. The texture is silken, custard-like.

Savory Butternut Squash Timbales

1 large Butternut Squash, roasted to make 3 cups
3 Eggs
½ cup Half-n-Half
1 scant t. Salt
½ t. Black Pepper
¼ t. Nutmeg
fresh Italian Parsley–a few leaves to place on the bottom of each cup before filling

4 T. Butter
1 cup toasted Walnuts
2 T. fresh Sage

12 custard cups or cupcake/muffin pan
parchment

After you’ve oven-roasted the squash, scoop out the tender inside—about 3 cups. Season with salt, pepper, and nutmeg, then puree with eggs and half and half. Liberally coat custard cups or muffin tins with butter. Fill the cups and place in a shallow baking dish. Create a water-bath (bain-marie) by filling the baking dish with water until halfway up the sides of the cups. Cover the tops of the cups with a piece of lightly oiled cooking parchment cut to the approximate size of the baking dish.
Bake in a preheated 350 degree oven for 30 minutes. Cool for 10 minutes, then carefully invert to unmold. These can be prepared in advance and gently rewarmed. Garnish with Walnut-Sage-Brown Butter. Makes 12 timbales.

Walnut-Sage-Brown Butter
4 Tablespoons Butter
2 Tablespoons fresh Sage leaves
1 cup toasted Walnuts

Using medium heat, melt butter in a small saucepan. Add sage leaves. Stir and increase heat. Butter will begin to bubble and brown, sage leaves will frizzle. Remove from heat.
Put toasted walnut pieces into a food processor fitted with the swivel blade. Pour in browned sage butter and pulse the mixture until the walnut pieces are very small. The mixture will be thick. Place a spoonful on top of the timbale and serve.

The penne with asparagus that you see in the dinner-plate picture below is so simple, it barely warrants a recipe. You want use “mezze penne”—a smaller, thinner penne, and pencil-thin asparagus. When the asparagus spears are sliced into pieces on the diagonal, they mimic the penne shape.

The penne takes about 10 minutes to cook; I plunge the asparagus pieces into the pasta pot for the last minute of cooking. Drain, toss with a drizzle of your favorite olive oil, season with salt and black pepper, and little fresh dillweed, if you like. Makes 2-4 servings.

Asparagus-Penne
1 cup mezze penne
1 bunch pencil thin asparagus
salt, black pepper, good olive oil, fresh dillweed

Sometimes a certain dish or ingredient or aroma can trigger a memory:
Food is powerful that way.

After Maggie and I made her south Louisiana red lentil soup, it set me thinking—people all over the world eat these delicious little discs, and in so many different ways.

I recalled how my daughter reported making, with great relish, a simple, spicy, and fortifying red lentil soup when she lived in Bahar Dar, Ethiopia.

In 2006, Madeleine spent four months in this lakeshore town doing her public health internship for the Amharic Development Association (ADA.) She found cooking at home to be a necessary, but daunting prospect.

Her ADA-provided house, located in the faranji (foreigners) neighborhood, appealed at first glance: a cream and periwinkle concrete bungalow in a yard of flowering bushes and a producing lime tree. Its charming garden and cheerful exterior belied its beyond-Spartan furnishings.

The kitchen was outfitted with a library desk, a hot plate, and nothing more. A bare faucet jutted out of the living room wall, around which, at her coaxing, the landlord clumsily hung a long, shallow sink. The refrigerator was absent, a promise never delivered.

“Everything about eating is hard,” she wrote me. “To eat chicken, you must buy a live chicken from the market, take it home, slaughter it and clean it. The onions that I bought on Saturday have already rotted. Tonight I had oatmeal.”

A daughter’s struggles with the very basics of living are the sorts of things that make a mother toss and turn at night —especially when there’s ends-of-the-earth distance involved. So I was ecstatic to learn that she’d found a nutritious dish easily made in such austere conditions. And it tasted good!

There’s precious little required: the lentils themselves, garlic, onions, dried spices, tomatoes, water. And that precious little was accessible to her. Even then, the lentils had to be painstakingly sorted— rocks the same size and color were in the mix. That accomplished, a satisfying meal was just thirty minutes away.

I got to experience “the kitchen” firsthand. As her internship was winding up, Bill and I made the long journey to visit her and this land of extremes. Before embarking on our family adventure south to Omo Valley, we spent a week in Bahar Dar and often cooked meals in her home.

A rough and wide dirt road leading to her ‘hood was lined with assorted vendor stands and shops selling everything from coffeebeans to phonecards, the air laced with dust, spice, smoke from wood-burning ovens. On our walk to her house, we would stop at a favored store to buy water and produce for dinner.

Everything was so small–golf ball sized onions and plum tomatoes, avocados that were mostly pit. Once home, I enjoyed selecting large ripe limes from the garden tree: a squeeze in the mesir wat —vegetarian lentil stew— added brightness.

There’s a real pleasure in living so immediately, using what little you have at hand to make a good meal for yourself.
I’m grateful that it’s a pleasure whose challenge I don’t have to face daily.

Ah, Spice, smoke, dust: some Bahar Dar memories conjured up in a spoonful of thick red lentil soup.

Cooking the spices–”blooming”– in the oil, followed by lightly toasting the lentils before adding liquid brings depth of flavor to the soup.

Northern Ethiopia Style Red Lentil Soup
2 T. Olive Oil
1 t. Turmeric
1 t. Coriander
½ t. Cumin
½ t. Salt
¼ t. Red Pepper Flakes
1 medium Onion, small dice
2 cloves Garlic, minced
1 cup Red Lentils, rinsed
2 cups Water or 1 cup Vegetable Broth, 1 cup water
2 cups diced Tomatoes and juice
1-2 Bay Leaf

Lime juice, plain yogurt
Cilantro

Heat a 2-3 qt. saucepan (using medium heat), and add the olive oil. Stir in spices and allow them to “bloom” in the oil. Add onions and garlic, and stir so that all the pieces are well coated with oil and spice. Sauté until translucent, 3-5 minutes. Stir in lentils and cook for another 5 minutes, allowing the lentils to gently toast. Add vegetable broth, water, diced tomatoes and juice. Stir well. Add Bay leaves. Cover and simmer for 25 minutes. Stir occasionally. The lentils will break down and thicken. Thin with additional water or broth.
Taste and adjust for seasonings.

Garnish with a dollop of plain yogurt, a few sprigs of fresh cilantro, and a squeeze of fresh lime, if desired.

Delicious also served over a bed of rice.

In Ethiopia, one would serve injera–the large spongey pancake made from fermented teff. Lacking said grain, I took Maggie’s recipe for Skillet Buttermilk Cornbread and made corn cakes!

Buttermilk Corn Cakes
1 cup Plain White Corn Meal
1/3 cup Unbleached All-Purpose Flour
1 t. Salt
¼ t. Pepper
1 T. Sugar
½ t. Baking Soda
1 Egg
1 ½ cups Buttermilk
4 T. Vegetable Oil

Measure all the dry ingredients and whisk together in a bowl. Make a well in the dry mix, break in the egg, pour in the buttermilk and vegetable oil. Stir together–so that the batter is well mixed, but do not overbeat. There may be lumps, and that’s okay. Heat a skillet; when it’s sizzly-hot, ladle in the batter.
Flip after about one minute (you’ll see the edges brown and bubbles coming up through the center)
Repeat until you have used all the batter. If it gets too thick, you can thin it with a little buttermilk.

I’m a city girl at heart, but whenever I get the chance to spend the day in the country at my friend Maggie’s, I’m in my little car motoring out to that cozy spread on Bogle-off-Burnt Knob before you can say Bogle-off-Burnt Knob.

Going there is not just a step out of the urban beat; it’s also a step back in time. Don’t get me wrong—everything’s up to 21st century techno-speed— but Maggie (with husband Steve) has created a lifestyle that moves on a slower track, harkens to simpler times.

In the growing season, a day in her life might take in tending garden tomatoes, making zucchini pickles, foraging wild blackberries but it will certainly include walking the grounds to admire the wildflowers, enjoying picnic lunch creekside under the boughs of an ancient tree, or having a coffee and toast on the sun porch— perfect for viewing bluebirds and chickadees at the feeder.

I’ve told Maggie–and she takes it as supreme compliment–that when I’m at her place, I feel like it’s 1978.

We hadn’t gotten together since harvest time last fall; with light green hints of springtime now emerging, I was anxious to visit: review garden plans, inspect the newly-tilled beds, discuss food and life,

And cook.

Maggie comes from a family with Italian and South Louisiana roots—there’s a compelling combo for good food—and she wanted to teach me her recipe for red lentil soup. It’s a common sense down-home recipe—as in down-south-louisiana-home cooking—using ingredients that are simple, readily available, and cheap.

The protein-rich red lentils provide more of a background and body for this soup while the andouille sausage imparts the spice and heat. The package of Savoie’s that she purchased at Publix was made—as it has been for 60 years– in Steve’s hometown Opelousas, LA. A little of this lean sausage goes a long way on flavor.

“And, I guarantee,” Maggie said, “there won’t be an ounce of fat from it either.”

We used a quart jar of insanely sweet (candy!) tomatoes that Maggie had put up from last summer’s harvest—they melted into the soup—but it’s fine to use a can of your favorite red-gold.
I don’t know why I forget about cooking with cabbage; a young head, gently steamed—or poached as it is in this soup– is tender, and adds an earthy-sweet element.

Maggie often makes skillet cornbread—another great recipe I’ll share soon. She and Steve like to break up pieces of it into the soup. In the summer, she’ll scrape in some fresh Silver Queen corn.
Steve swears she’ll make a good cook out of me yet!

South Louisiana Style Red Lentil Soup
2 T. Olive Oil
2 Onions, chopped
4 stalks Celery, chopped fine
5 cloves Garlic, minced
6 Carrots, diced
10 oz. Andouille Sausage, sliced
1 cup Red Lentils, rinsed
1 qt. Tomatoes and juice (or 28 oz. can)
1 ½ qt. water
1 T. Salt
2 cups Cabbage, cut into medium shreds

Heat a large (6-8 qt.) stock pot, then coat the bottom with olive oil. Sauté onions until translucent—3-5 minutes. Add celery, garlic, and carrots. Continue to sauté another 5 minutes, then stir in andouille sausage. Cook for 5 minutes, add lentils, diced tomatoes and juice, and water. Stir well and simmer, covered, for 30 minutes. Stir occasionally, so that the lentils, as they swell and break down, do not stick to the bottom. Add the cabbage last—cook until tender, about 15 minutes. Serves 8 generously.

When I was helping Muna design the ambitious menu for the cooking class last month, we discussed whether or not to include a dessert.

“We really don’t focus on sweets the same way as Americans do. Not as a part of dinner,” Muna said. “Sometimes we have a nice piece of fruit.”

“Let’s not worry about a dessert,” I said.

“Of course, Baklava is easy to make,” she said.

I nodded. “Sooooo sweet, though.”

We fell quiet for a moment; sometimes you have to get quiet when summoning the kitchen muse for inspiration; then Muna’s eyes lit up with an “A-Ha!”

“My friend has this recipe for date-walnut bars. It’s really good. And healthy. You can’t believe how many nutrients are in dates.”

“Walnuts, too. I like that.”

The morning of the class I got her email with the recipe and it seemed simple: A short list of ingredients. No butter or oil, small amount of flour and sugar, and loaded with our nutritious headliners. No need to drag the big Kitchen Aid out of the closet either—this could be mixed up—dare I say—by Hand!

Still, my first attempt at making the recipe would be at the class—no matter, we’d all be learning together.

The batter was gooey, dense with nuts and dates, and took little time to make. The most effort went into chopping the fruit. I was concerned that the batter was too dense, but it baked up moist and chewy in less than thirty minutes. I liked that it could be easily cut into any size or shape.

Sure, these bars are calorie-rich–that’s the nature of dessert– but they’re so high in potassium, fiber, vitamin B6, niacin, countless amino acids, that a small piece is well worth it. While gobbling them up at class, everybody called them “Muna’s Brownies.” My little surprise–a discovery that enhanced them just a tetch more— came a few days later.

The following week, we made “Muna’s Brownies” for a First Harvest Café luncheon at the food bank.
(The recipe expanded ten-fold flawlessly.)
I wanted to garnish the bars, give them a little pizazz on the plate. We had heavy whipping cream on hand, but that alone didn’t seem right. What would be good? I wandered around the culinary arts center kitchen, feeling blank, hoping to access a bit of inspiration…

when I had my A-Ha! flavor the cream with cardamom—a heady spice that Muna espouses in much of her cooking.

I rummaged through our copious spice cabinet, which housed Everything But. Instead, I found a small jar of Garam Masala seasoning—that Indian compound of the big C’s in Spiceworld: coriander, cinnamon, clove, cumin, cardamom…along with black pepper.

I’d never whipped cream with all those spices–certainly not black pepper–but sometimes unlikely ingredients work. Following my kitchen-muse-nudge, I decided to go for it.
Mmmmmmmm.
The lightly sweetened cream flecked with those fragrant spices and a little black pepper bite was the right complement to the bars—and an unexpected treat. It has opened a door to some new possibilities–already I’m thinking about some fresh takes on cream cheese icing for carrot cake!

“Muna’s Brownies” with a surprise spiced whipped cream

Date and Walnut Bars
2 eggs
½ cup sugar
½ tsp. vanilla
½ cup flour
½ tsp. baking powder
½ tsp. salt
1 cup chopped walnuts
2 cups chopped dates

Beat eggs until foamy.
Beat in sugar and vanilla.
Sift flour, baking powder, and salt together and stir into egg-sugar mixture.
Fold in walnuts and dates.
Spread mixture into lightly oiled 8″x8″baking pan. Bake for 25-30 minutes at 325 degrees.
Cut into squares while warm, but allow to cool before serving.

Spiced Whipped Cream
1/2 cup Heavy Whipping Cream
1 heaping Tablespoon Confectioners Sugar
1/4 t. Garam Masala spice blend -or-
1/4 teaspoon Cardamon and a pinch Black Pepper

Place all ingredients into a small, chilled bowl and whisk (again–easily by hand!) until thick peaks form. Scoop into a pastry bag outfitted with a star tip and pipe on top of each petite bar. Garnish with a sliver of date.

My friend Muna is well-known as a couturiere, but few are aware that she is as talented in the kitchen as she is in the sewing room. That same creative force that finds an exquisite fabric and fashions it into a standout ball gown finds its way into her dolmas (Turkish for “stuffed thing”.)

I first sampled those delectables when I helped serve at a party in her home a couple of years ago.

Her stuffed grape leaves were delicate wraps encasing a lemony herbed rice, but it was her stuffed onions, caramel-sweet, bursting with that same intense filling that kept me greedily circling back to the buffet. I couldn’t help myself. I rationalized this rapacious behavior as a cook’s curiousity–hmm…what’s in this dish–but it was more than that. They were addictively delicious.

After the sixth or seventh loop around the dolmas platter, clearly I was not curious–just hoggish—and had to stop. I pulled Muna aside, and pleaded,
“I must know how to make these.”

Muna was breezy, “Sure, I’ll teach you. I love to share my recipes.”

At last, I learned from the Dolmas Maestra. I recently helped her give a cooking class in a friend’s home. (And, it’s no surprise, there are other specialties in her repertoire worth sharing–more to come!) It’s always exciting to learn about new ingredients, new combinations of flavors, new cooking techniques. Muna is generous that way, so now to spread the fruits of that generosity for you to enjoy.

Stuffed Grape Leaves and Onions (Dolmas)
2 cups Basmati Rice—rinsed 2-3 times
3 stalks Celery, finely chopped
5 medium Onions: cut top and root end off each, slice lengthwise almost halfway to the heart of the onion and parboil until the onion can be easily pulled apart into “stuffable” pieces. Of the 5, take 1 whole and the hearts of the remaining 4, and chop finely.
1 large Tomato, finely chopped
2 big bunches fresh Italian Parsley, finely chopped
5 cloves Garlic, minced
Juice from 4 large Lemons (almost 1 cup)
1 T. dry Mint
1 T. Dillweed
1 ½ T. Tamarind Paste
1 small can Tomato Paste
Salt
Black Pepper
½ cup Olive Oil
Jar of Grape Leaves—rinse and dry the leaves, then de-stem

Heat olive oil in a large skillet. Add finely chopped garlic, onions, celery, tomatoes, parsley and sauté for a few minutes. Stir in rinsed rice, lemon juice, mint, dillweed, salt, pepper, tamarind and tomato pastes. Continue stirring and cooking until all the ingredients are well combined and the rice is well coated. Mixture is partially cooked.
Stuff the onions first.
Cut each grape leaf in half—down the center. Place a spoonful of rice mixture into the middle of each piece and roll up neatly—the leaves will be tight, but open on each end.
Layer in a Dutch oven or deep skillet (first onions, then grape leaves)and put a plate on top to press down on the rolled up pieces.
Add a little water.
Cook for the first 10 minutes on high, then simmer for one hour.
Cool slightly, and serve. Makes 25 stuffed onion pieces and 50 stuffed grape leaves.

SPECIAL TIPS:

When assembling the ingredients, you’ll notice one uncommon element– Tamarind Paste–which this curious cook could never have discerned and what indeed makes this dish extraordinary. Its particular tart/sweet pulp is also found in chutneys and more commonly known sauces like Worcestershire and Pickapeppa. I bought it at an international market, K&S, here in Nashville.

Dried mint leaves and fresh lemon juice are also key.

Muna rinses the basmati rice–at least twice–to remove any excess starch. The benefits are two-fold: Rinsed rice is more receptive to the flavors of accompanying ingredients and will steam up in less liquid.

Rather than wrapping the filling in the center of each leaf–the traditional method– Muna splits each leaf up the spine and rolls the filling up, cigar-fashion. “It makes a big difference.” she says, “the leaves cook more tender and the rice mix has more flavor. And, don’t worry, the filling won’t fall out.”

Using a lightly oiled Dutch oven, layer the bottom with the stuffed onions first, which buffer the grapeleaves from searing onto the bottom of the pot and infuse them with their sweetness.
Only a small amount of water is needed. Muna weighs the top with a dinner plate. “The plate on top is my mother’s trick. She also taught me that it is best to cook it on high heat for the first ten minutes. That high heat sears the onions. Then reduce it to low and just leave it alone for almost an hour.”