Julie’s Own Mediterranean Chicken and Rice

Also known as, Hey, this is pretty darn good! And it makes a ton. And if you have leftovers, you’ll be glad to eat ’em, you really will.

First, a disclaimer or two: this is adapted, with a lot of changes, from some website. Also, I make no claims of this being remotely authentic. I intend no cultural appropriation—only appreciation. “Mediterranean” seems the best way to describe the spice combination, based on my limited experience.

A slight back story, because food is always connected to something—a memory, someone we love, or a special place and time. Or maybe all of the above.

I was inspired to figure out this recipe based on my memory, from high school days (we’re talking forty years ago!), of a dish I had once at a friend’s house. My friend and her family are Greek; her mom loved to entertain (and still does); and I was invited to several meals at Mrs. Athanassiou’s house. The food was always delicious, and the hospitality warm—they always made me feel at home.

Anyway, Mrs. A made a casserole of chicken with either rice or noodles (I can’t remember which!), with cinnamon. The cinnamon, to me at the time, seemed extremely unusual in a chicken dish. I wasn’t used to seeing that spice used for anything other than sweets: cookies, cakes, coffee cakes, sweet rolls, French toast, hot chocolate.

Of course, today, with my growing experiences in making Indian food, I see that cinnamon is just as appropriate in savory dishes. It’s one reason why Indian food is so beguiling. Cardamom, which is also typecast in American/Western cooking as a “sweet” spice, fits into the same category. Same goes for mint. And this recipe uses all three.

Oddly enough, a few years ago I asked Mrs. Athanassiou about that dish that I vaguely remembered. She said she didn’t recall it. (What-what-what?!) Well, maybe I didn’t describe it well enough. And she had a lot going on back then, so maybe it was one of those “wingin’ it” dishes she made on a whim and then never thought about again.

So, the Internet to the rescue. Last time I made this, I was blown away by how good it is. A very easy one-dish meal. I do hope you’ll try it and let me know what you think!

Oh, and by the way, this doesn't much resemble what I remember Mrs. A. making. Although I really don't have great memories of that dish, I recall it being more buttery and having much less complicated spices. (Indeed, I might be getting her dish confused with a different, noodle casserole I had when I was in college.) But as I searched for recipes, I went down a merry path and ended up with this.

Notes

• Don’t freak out about the number of ingredients; this is truly not a complex recipe. Note that you can be prepping most of the ingredients while the chicken rests with its spice mix.
• Spices are given in ranges; alter by taste and freshness/strength.
• Although there are lots of interesting spices in this dish, it is not “hot.” No chiles.
• Vegetable ingredients (carrots, green peas) are given in ranges; this is not rocket science; vary as you wish.
• I use Basmati rice from the international store; it is extremely forgiving and rarely turns to mush. There’s a reason those Indian ladies buy their rice at the international store in the big city.
• Use a wide, heavy cooking pan/casserole pan/skillet with a lid.
• This will make 2½ to 3 quarts (10–12 cups) of food!

Julie’s Own Mediterranean Chicken and Rice

• 1½ to 2 tsp. allspice, ground
• ¾ to 1 tsp. black pepper, coarse ground
• ½ to ¾ tsp. green cardamom, ground
• ½ to ¾ tsp. turmeric, ground
• 4–6 boneless chicken thighs, fat and skin removed, cut into large sections
• salt
• olive oil
• 1–2 cinnamon sticks
• 2 bay leaves
• 2–3 carrots, cut in bite-sized pieces (about half cup)
• 1 large onion, white or yellow, chopped (at least half cup)
• 1 16-oz can garbanzo beans, rinsed and drained
• 2 cups Basmati rice (washed, rinsed, drained)
• 4 cups chicken broth
• ½–1 cup additional chicken broth (optional, for deglazing; it adds extra chicken flavor; but you can use water instead)
• 1–1½ cups frozen green peas, thawed
• 2 tbsp. fresh parsley, chopped (or more)
• 1 tbsp. fresh mint, chopped

1. Mix together the first four ground spices (allspice, black pepper, cardamom, turmeric). Dry the chicken pieces, season them well with salt, then coat the chicken with the spice mix. Let it sit and come to room temperature (about 20 minutes). Meanwhile, you can prep the rest of the ingredients.

2. Chop and prep the other ingredients.

3. Coat the bottom of your pan with olive oil. Heat on medium-high until the oil shimmers. Brown the chicken pieces (you do not need to cook it through); remove from pan and set aside.

4. Add carrots, bay leaves, and cinnamon sticks to pan and sauté. Sprinkle in the extra stock (or water) as needed to deglaze the goodies (chicken bits and spices) from the pan and to keep it from burning. A few minutes after you added the carrots, add the onion. Keep cooking, adding a bit of stock and letting it sizzle/cook away until the onions are translucent and carrots are half cooked. Stir in the chickpeas. At this point there should be very little liquid in the pan.

5. Stir in the rice (get it coated with the delicious oils and stuff), add the 4 cups broth, and stir. Nestle the chicken pieces on top, bring to a boil, cover, and turn to low. Cook for 15 minutes without lifting the lid. Turn off the burner and let it sit 10 minutes, still covered.

6. Lift the lid, add the green peas, parsley, and mint; stir gently to combine. You shouldn't need to cook it anymore at this point.

Serve hot with Greek/Mediterranean side dishes: a Greek salad (tomatoes, bell peppers, cucumber, olive oil, wine vinegar, thyme, salt) or fattoush, tzatziki sauce or plain yogurt, Greek olives, feta, pita bread, etc. . . . and Mrs. Athanassiou would serve you strong Greek coffee with dessert.

Mrs. A’s Lemonade, in the Greek Style!

Warm weather! Summer is almost here. So this is a good time to tell you about this lemonade recipe, which is an heirloom as well as “the best ever.”

My dear friend Mrs. A, who hails from Greece via Lebanon, taught me this recipe. This is the way her grandmother, Yaya Petrina, taught her to make lemonade!




Here’s why we love it: First, it’s delicious, and it’s full of vitamin C. Second, it’s an heirloom recipe, and therefore holy. Third, it uses alllll of the lemon fruit, including the peel, so it’s flavored with the sweet oils from the skin as well as the juice from the pulp. Fourth, it has a secret ingredient, which gives it a certain je ne sais quoi, or as the Greeks say, Apithano! Fifth, it softens your hands! —Read on.




Here’s how you do it.

Wash your hands. Take four or five large lemons, wash the outsides, and slice them as thinly as possible. Use a sharp knife. Put the slices into a large bowl.




Add sugar—about 1/2 or 3/4 of a cup. Use your best judgment. Just dump it on top.




Then, using your hands, begin massaging the lemons. Mash them with your hands, pummel it with your knuckles, rub the peels well, and squeeze and squish the pulp through your fingers. Immediately, juice will start coming out of the lemon slices!




Hey! This is fun! Plus, it’s good exercise to counter that carpel-tunnel you worry about, and it softens the skin on your hands. It’s also a good way to release your anger or anxiety.

The goal is to squish all the juice, the oils, the living daylights out of those lemon slices. Believe it or not, a great deal of flavor and aroma comes from the peels. Your job is to make the peels get translucent. Indeed, try to make them wilt or even dissolve.

Use a sieve or colander to squish the juices out into another bowl. Pour a little water over the mashed-up, wilted lemons, and squeeze that moisture into the bowl, too.




Then repeat the process, adding some more sugar each time. The sugar is important, as it acts as an abrasive, and it draws the liquids out of the lemon tissues via osmosis. (Remember your biology class? The high concentration of sugars outside the fruit cells creates an osmotic gradient, and . . . oh never mind—just call it “maceration.”)

Keep rubbing and squishing, straining and rinsing and straining again, until you’ve extracted all the goodness out of those poor old lemon slices. When you’re done, the lemon fragments should be looking something like sauerkraut!




(Mrs. A notes that the leftover pulp makes a fine facial treatment mask: Put the exhausted peels in a blender with a teaspoon of glycerin, whirl it up, and put the resulting glop on your face: “It is the best facial treatment, believe me! It cleanses, tones, is an astringent, and leaves your skin soft like satin, once you rinse it off your face. Try it. It beats the best commercial facial treatment, guaranteed!”)

Getting back to the lemonade—Once you’ve pressed all the juice and flavor out of the lemons, pour the precious lemony elixir of happiness into a pitcher. From five large lemons, I got about a quart of concentrated juice. Then, you add water and possibly more sugar to taste. But you’re not done yet!




Next you get to add the secret ingredient! —Orange blossom water. Anthonero! You’ll only need about a teaspoonful. Or heck, a little drizzle of it. You know—just to give it that little something extra. This, Mrs. A. told me, is what really magnifies the lemon flavor.


If you’re not familiar with orange flower water, I encourage you to get some to play with—put it in scones, cakes, and cocktails! You can find it at “ethnic” or international grocery stores. In my experience, the most common brand seems to be A. Monteux, from France. It comes in a little blue bottle. This is an essential water that is perfumed with orange blossoms—not oranges, but orange blossoms.

Mrs. A uses an orange blossom water from Lebanon, made by the Cortas company. If you’re in Central Missouri, you can find this product at World Harvest and at Middle Eastern Foods (next to the Islamic Center of Central Missouri) (the mosque), both in Columbia.

And that’s basically it—to recap: Using some sugar to help draw out the juices, and rinsing occasionally with water and repeating the maceration, rubbing, and rinsing, you literally wring out every last bit of goodness from those lemons and make a concentrate; then you dilute it however you want and adjust for sweetness. And don’t forget the orange flower water!

(Oooh, I love heirloom recipes!)




I offer my heartfelt thanks to Alexandra Athanassiou for sharing her dear grandmother’s recipe with me, and for letting me put this on my blog. It was a true honor to receive this recipe—and it was even better to sip lemonade with her!