Meaty, Hearty: Fuel for a Winter Odyssey

As Janetta noted, I love words. Probably not surprisingly, I also love thinking about how words, put together, create a whole greater than the parts—that’s why I teach English. My students are a wonderful bunch of high schoolers, 9th through 12th grades, spunky, bright, and affectionate. We spend our time together discovering and reveling in the challenges and pleasures of texts as disparate as Milton’s Paradise Lost and Maxine Hong Kingston’s Woman Warrior.

My 9th graders and I have spent the last month reading Homer’s Odyssey, a work the novelist Henry Fielding called the “eatingest epic”—which it certainly is: it’s difficult to read more than a few pages before encountering a scene of feasting or good hosts plying guests with food.

In Homer’s world, to each eater his own fare. The suitors so presumptuously squatting in the home of Penelope and Telemachos in Odysseus’ absence pack it in, putting away countless “beeves” and skins of wine. Gods and goddesses, the immortals, eat nectar (from nec, death, + tar, overcome) and ambrosia (from a, not, + brotos, mortal). The Cyclops munches on Odysseus’ unfortunate men. One of the things Odysseus and his men learn the hard way is the importance of propitiating the gods through appropriate and properly timed sacrifice—often of a “hecatomb,” one hundred (!) cattle. As you might imagine, the reader happens upon much skinning, flaying, roasting, and the like. Notice a trend? Meat, meat, meat… all of which sometimes becomes a bit much for the vegetarian in me to, well, stomach.

Not that I don’t appreciate the art of Homer’s descriptions. Undoubtedly one of the epic’s loveliest passages is the description of a “ritual feast” in the house of Nestor. To honor the gods, especially Athena, the sacrifice of a heifer, a young cow that hasn’t yet calved, unfolds with lovingly measured attention to detail:

The smith now gloved each horn in a pure foil

beaten out of the gold that Nestor gave him—

a glory and delight for the goddess’ eyes—

while Ekhéphron and Stratíos held the horns.

Arêtos brought clear lustral water

in a bowl quivering with fresh-cut flowers,

a basket of barley in his other hand.

Thrasymêdês who could stand his ground in war,

stood ready, with a sharp two-bladed axe,

for the stroke of sacrifice, and Perseus

held a bowl for the blood.

Book III, ll. 471-81

(from The Odyssey, Homer, tr. Robert Fitzgerald. NY: Farrar, Straus, Giroux, 1998; 1961)

The scene continues, with increasingly explicit details of slaughter and the ensuing dismemberment, ending with “morsels of lean meat” broiling on spits over a fire.

So, what don’t they seem to eat in the Odyssey? Vegetables. Starches. And that feels, actually, absolutely right. In a world filled with adventures in which one is pitted against man-eating beasts and the wrath of the ancient gods on the open seas, meat seems like just the thing.

Cut to yesterday, when Boston awoke to some 6 or 7 inches of snow, courtesy of our first significant winter storm of the season. Like all of my neighbors, Joe and I spent a couple of hours in the afternoon shoveling snow, expending a lot of rigor and energy moving mountains of the copious white stuff from car, sidewalk, and driveway to my rather small front yard, which quickly filled with mounds of snow. Later on, navigating the roads proved to be quite the odyssey, requiring the avoidance of the Scylla and Charybdis of ice and slush, and the traversing of roads filled with imprudent, even impudent, monsters—I mean, drivers.

Hours of much labor, indeed. Such a day leads many people down the path of a series of hankerings: hot chocolate or some other hot beverage, followed in due course by something hearty like, say, braised short ribs, or Julia’s Boeuf Bourguignon. Cold weather, exercise, fraught travels, all seem to clamor for something that sticks to one’s ribs.

Given such gargantuan demands on the body and soul, what might a vegetarian crave? Here was my answer, a soup that provides substantial and flavorful nourishment. (Yup—red lentils again, this time joined with bulgur.) It’s adapted from a recipe of Özcan Ozan, of Boston’s Sultan’s Kitchen, one of my favorite places for a quick and delicious Turkish lunch. This soup was served to more than 1500 guests at the annual James Beard Awards Dinner in May 1995. It is delicious and filling, leaving no room for the craving of meat. I like to believe that a bowl or two would leave even the Cyclops satisfied.

Ezogelin Corbasi

Red Lentil, Bulgur, and Mint Soup

adapted from Özcan Ozan's The Sultan's Kitchen: A Turkish Cookbook

Serves 4-6

2 T virgin olive oil

2 T unsalted butter (clarified if you have it; if not, just be sure not to overheat and burn)

1 large Spanish onion, finely diced (3/4 c)

2-3 garlic cloves, minced

2 T tomato paste

1-3 medium tomatoes, peeled, seeded, and finely chopped (1/2 c); canned okay, preferably San Marzano or Muir Glen brand

2 T paprika (I use Pride of Szeged sweet Hungarian; you are looking for flavor, not heat)

½ t Turkish red pepper or cayenne pepper

1 ½ c red lentils, rinsed and picked over

¼ c long-grain white rice

6 c vegetable broth or water

¼ c fine- or medium-grain bulgur

1 T dried mint

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

Lemon wedges

TOPPING

4 T unsalted butter

3 t dried mint

1 t paprika (again, I use the sweet Hungarian)

In a heavy medium-size saucepan, heat the olive oil and the butter over medium heat. Add the onion and garlic and cook gently for about 2 minutes, or until they are softened but not at all brown. Stir in the tomato paste, chopped tomato, paprika, and Turkish pepper. Add the lentils, rice, and broth. Bring to a boil, then cover and lower the heat to a simmer. Simmer for 30-35 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the rice is cooked and the lentils have blended with the broth. Add the bulgur and mint, and season with salt and pepper. Cook for about another 10 minutes, stirring occasionally. During the cooking time, be sure that the soup is not thickening too much and sticking to the bottom of the pot. If it does become overly thick, add a little water.

To make the topping, melt the butter in a small saucepan over low heat, add the mint and paprika, and stir the mixture until it sizzles. Ladle the soup into invidividual bowls and drizzle the butter mixture over each serving. Squeeze in lemon juice and/or serve with lemon wedges.

Note: The soup will thicken considerably overnight. No worries; just thin to the desired consistency with broth or water.