Pantry raid

Thursday started much like any other day, and I found myself groggily bending headfirst into the refrigerator, wondering what I would be eating for lunch in six hours time. The pickings, as they say, were slim.

Inside the fridge, I found a couple of half frozen chicken breasts, cream cheese, a bag of two-week old plum tomatoes, a half-bottle of Lactaid, several partially used sticks of butter, an assortment of pita breads and lavash, and various condiments. Nearby sat a grapefruit, also two weeks old - it had been a while since the last proper grocery run - holding his own in an empty fruit basket. Slim pickings, indeed.

I was starting to feel like one of those cartoon characters who, starving in the dead of winter, finds that his friend looks more and more like a roast turkey with each passing day. No offense to my office mates, but none of them are particularly appetizing come lunchtime.

So, still hunched over in the fridge, I found my by now shivering brain ransacked by the memory of various cartoon characters and their food foraging dilemmas. Before long, I was reminded of two cartoon friends, once against starving in the dead of winter - oh February, you are an unrelenting beast - fighting over a single bean. In the end, if I remember correctly, the bean was lost to a crack in the floorboards. Devastating, I shuddered at the thought. I closed the refrigerator door and shifted my sights a little to the right.

A bean. Is it really that time of year? I wondered. That time when even the loveliest winter veggies lose their luster and just can't stand up to the summery images of asparagus and blueberries found fresh and in season? That time of year when I, gulp, start living out of the pantry?

Now, I do have to admit that pantry month is one of my favorites but I always seem to bust in too soon and am left bored and hungry when there is nary a seasonal piece of produce, winter or summer, in sight. I had been determined to wait out pantry month this year, relish it when the time came, then quickly move on to all that is fresh and bright and good with the world come spring.

But, seeing as a sandwich of french onion-flavored cream cheese and mild (who bought mild?) salsa just wouldn't do it for me, I took a deep breath and jumped right in. Pantry country, a rich land of canned, dried and bottled anythings and everythings. Oh, the abundance! The luxury of it!

I scanned the shelves and caught site of a can of chick peas. I used to live on them in college, when I enjoyed a "salad" of chick peas, red wine vinegar, salt and pepper on a near nightly basis. I licked my lips at the memory, but knew that come 2 p.m., I would want something with a little more heft, a little more chutzpah.

I pulled out the can of beans, and dug a little further back. There, in the deepest recesses of the pantry's upper most shelf I spotted my mother's most recent culinary acquisition. I reached for it, the bottle sticky, unmarked and unassuming. It was rob-e narenj, the juice of sour oranges concentrated into a syrup with the consistency of molasses. My dear cousin Hojat brought it for my mom from a recent trip to Iran. I fussed with the bottle cap but was dearly rewarded when I got it open. Inside, the syrup was fragrant, full-bodied, sweet, salty and sour. Perfect. I grabbed the olive oil as well as a tomato and that hardy grapefruit, and got to work on a salad and dressing.

The grapefruit was surprisingly succulent and provided more than enough juice as the base of my faux vinaigrette. I whisked up a bit of olive oil, a gulp's worth of the citrusy syrup, a dash of salt and pepper, then in fell the roughly chopped pieces of tomato, which was surprisingly firm after its sad fortnight in the crisper. The chunks swam around dreamily in the pool of grapefruit pulp and rob-e narenj until, finally, in went the chickpeas, the life of the party.

















Gorgeous. It was all I could do not to declare the concoction my Valentine and devour the soppy mess, which was more like a soup than a salad but who really wants to get into semantics, right then and there. But, I decided that such a display of gluttony was inappropriate for 8:30 on a Thursday morning, even if it happened to be Valentine's Day, a day when gluttony is applauded. Inappropriate, I reminded myself. I licked my fingers in a subtle act of defiance, and packed up.

At 2 p.m., I was ready. And my salad-soup was better than I remembered. The beans and tomatoes had gotten all good and marinated, and the soupiness had thickened and goopified somewhat, perfect to be swiped up by a fold of lavash.

















It doesn't sound very sexy, I know, and I admit, it wasn't exactly a camera friendly dish. But oh how the flavor made up for it its profound state of disarray. It was lusty and soulful in every sense, the supreme Oriental fantasy. I always eat lunch at my desk, but my sour chick peas were enough to make me sit back and take notice.

The best part was slurping down the sweet, acidic nectar left behind by the salad components. It was also the worst part because I instantly wished I had made double the portion with the remaining half-can of chick peas. But don't worry, I made up for it with a midday dessert of four - yes, four! - giant Medjool dates. And by giant I mean I could barely hold them all in one hand. Huzzah for gluttony!

Happy Valentine's Day to me, and to you.

***

Sweet and Sour Chickpea salad

For the salad:

One plum tomato, roughly chopped

One cup chick peas

For the dressing:

Juice and pulp of one grapefruit

One teaspoon olive oil

One tablespoon sour orange syrup (pomegranate syrup, available in Middle Eastern food stores and markets, can also be used)

Salt and pepper to taste

Squeeze grapefruit into a bowl. Add olive oil and syrup. Whisk. Taste. Add salt and pepper as needed. Add tomato. Add chick peas. Swish everything around until covered. Can be eaten immediately or after several hours of marinating. Very yummy with bread that is sturdy enough for soaking and sopping.

Serves one, sort of. Make extra if you have the ingredients on hand. It won't go uneaten. I promise.