Archive for the 'jewish' Category

couscous with vegetables

Wednesday, February 21st, 2007

Couscous is a marvelous dish when prepared properly. I don’t mean the kind of couscous you make by soaking it in hot water for ten minutes. I mean the kind of couscous you steam forever, smother in butter, steam forever again, etc. OK, I admit, this type of couscous comes in a box too. (Most of us don’t have the time to painstakingly prepare the tiny pasta from scratch.) But when served with traditionally cooked vegetables and meat, couscous is a pleasure to eat—deeply satisfying and soulful.

Traditionally, couscocus is served on Tuesdays, laundry day in certain North African communities. While waiting for their laundry to dry, North African women would prepare the pasta and dry it in the sun. Thus laundry day became a social event, an opportunity to get together with friends and neighbors to gossip and exchange recipes.

The Tuesday couscous tradition persists in Israel at North African mom and pop eateries. Traditionally, couscous is served with a soup of vegetables and meat, eather chicken or beef. The types of vegetables and the spices used vary depending on the regional extraction of the cook.

The couscous joint I frequented in Israel was run by a family of Tripolitan extraction. Their couscous included carrots, potatoes, turnips, and zucchini, as well as chicken. Effie, the owner, always had a full house on Tuesdays, when all the high tech employees in the neighborhood would converge on his place for a plate of some down home couscous and little complimentary plates of mezze and pita. Effie’s has no menu.

Instead, Effie would greet everyone with a smile and some friendly banter, and proceed to rattle off the specials of the day. He’d then take everyone’s order faster than any waiter I’ve seen before or since, and pass them on to his wife in the kitchen. One of his sons would cover the table with simple sheet of butcher paper, and another son would arrive with plates and cutlery. The first son would return with a basket of fresh, warm pita bread and small mezze plates, including hummus with olive oil, olives, a Tunisian pumpkin spread, and two types of eggplant salad. It was always a challenge to eat all the mezzeh and still have room for couscous.

Couscous veMafroum
(That’s the official name, but everyone calls it Effie’s)
12 Yehezkel Kazaz St.
Or Yehuda, Israel
03-5339252

couscous with vegetables

Here’s my vegetarian version of couscous with vegetables, loosely based on my memories of Effie’s couscous.

for the vegetables:

1 onion, chopped, or 3 shallots, chopped
2 cloves garlic
3 small carrots, peeled
1 large turnip, peeled
1 large potato, peeled
1 cup garbanzo beans, soaked and cooked
1 bunch chard, spinach, or other greens, washed and coarsely chopped
1/2 tsp whole fenugreek
spice mixture: 1/2 tsp each whole fennel and coriander seeds, 2 tsp whole cumin seeds
(If you don’t have whole spices, use pre-ground. Just spice the vegetables a little more cautiously, reserving any leftover spice mixture for a later use. It is best, however, to use whole spices.)
salt to taste

for the couscous:

250 gr coucous
butter
salt to taste

equipment:

couscousiere, or a medium sized pot with a steamer or sieve
(I used a small pot and a vegetable steamer for the couscous, and a separate pot for the vegetables. Ideally, the couscous should steam above the vegetables to as to absorb their flavors.)

  • Pour the couscous into a large, shallow bowl and soak in 1/2 cup very cold water for 20 minutes.
  • Chop the vegetables into coarse chunks.
  • If using whole spices, place in a clean coffee grinder and grind to a powder.
  • Heat some butter and olive oil in a pot and add in the onions. Season with salt and stir. You don’t want the onions to turn transluscent without browning.
  • Press the garlic cloves into the onions, then add the fenugreek and half the ground spice mixture. Stir to distribute evenly.
  • Add chopped vegetables to pot, along with garbanzo beans, and cover with water.
  • Drain the couscous and rake it with your fingers.
  • Place steamer, sieve, or couscousiere steaming insert above vegetables and place drained couscous in steamer.
  • Bring vegetables to the boil, uncovered.
  • Keep the vegetables on a low simmer and turn the couscous into a bowl.
  • Rake the couscous with your fingers, sprinkle it with 1/4 cup cold water, and season with salt and butter to taste.
  • Let stand, and then steam again over the simmering vegetables.
  • You can repeat the raking-sprinkling-seasoning-sitting process, as recommended on the Ya Rayi site. I was lazy and hungry, so I steamed the couscous twice, rather than three times. It was still delicious.

Serves 3-4

all about cholent

Thursday, January 18th, 2007

There’s been a cold spell out here in California. You can see your breath in the morning, and the cars are covered with a thin layer of frost. Lawns gleam and sparkle with frozen dew, and my dog—who goes into fits of ecstatic anticipation at the sight of a leash—is quite eager to shorten her morning walks. It’s cold, perfect weather for a good stew.

One of my favorite stews is cholent, a traditional Jewish stew cooked very slowly in an oven. Cholent is traditionally eaten as a Sabbath meal as it is well suited to the rules regarding Sabbath food preparation. Religious Jews are prohibited from cooking food on the Sabbath. But food may be kept warm on a pre-existing flame. By starting the cooking process on Friday morning or afternoon, the cholent cooks by sundown—the beginning of the Sabbath. The stew continues to simmer on a very low heat overnight. The oven is not quite hot enough to change the state of the food (the Talmudic definition of “cooking”), but the long, slow heat is enough to build layer upon layer of subtle flavors. Deeply caramelized onions soften into gravy, the meat falls off the bone and infuses the beans and grain with its flavor, while chunks of waxy potato take on an almost smoky flavor.

In the old days, Jewish women would bring their cholent to the village bakery where the pots were kept warm for the Sabbath. On Saturday afternoon, they would gather at the bakery to fetch their pots, bringing home a filling and tasty Sabbath lunch to their families.

Jews the world over made their own style of cholent, with ingedients varying from region to region. Typical ingredients of Eastern European cholent are potatoes, barley, beans, and meat on the bone. (More meat if you could afford it, more bone if you couldn’t.) Sephardi cholent is called hamin, and often includes eggs in their shells. Huevos haminados, as they’re called, turn brown and creamy after a long night of cooking. Iraqi and Kurdish Jews make a version with chicken and rice, called t’bit. North African Jews make a stew called dafeena, with copious amounts of North African spices and often featuring garbanzo beans.

The crown jewel of any cholent is the dumpling or homemade sausage that cooks on top of the stew. The North African dumpling is called kokla, a slightly richer and more savory version of a matzah ball. The Eastern European version is called kishkeh, a sort of poor man’s sausage. Instead of meat, Kishkeh is made of whatever a poor family might have in the larder: an onion, a carrot, some chicken fat, some breadcrumbs or matzah meal. These are grated, mixed, and seasoned simply with salt, pepper, and a little paprika. The mixture is then stuffed into a clean section of beef intestine, or “kishkeh,” loosely translated as gut. When stuffed into the skin of a chicken neck—sewn shut on each end with a needle and thread—this treat is called helzel, or by its typically Yiddish diminuitive, helzeleh.

To the modern, western palate, kishkeh and helzel might sound, well, unpalatable. We’re not used to consuming offal. For many of us, a filet mignon induces an immediate Pavlovian response while the thought of eating intestine triggers a gag reflex. Historically, however, the less desirable parts of the animal were the only parts most folks could afford to eat. This is particularly true for Jewish culinary traditions that feature such delicacies as chopped liver and jellied calf’s foot. And so they should. Ask any Jew of Eastern European descent what they ate at their grandmother’s house, they’ll likely describe bubby’s ethereal chopped liver—neither creamy, nor chunky, and with just the right amount of carmelized onion—on matzah or a slice of warm, toasted challah.

But the beauty of cholent is you don’t have to make yours the way your bubby did. Cholent is infinitely expandable—use garbanzo beans instead of navy beans, steel cut oats instead of barley, osso bucco instead of a large roast. Or try one of the many ethnic varieties of the dish. And leave the window open after dinner.

This post is part of the Waiter, there’s something in my stew! event hosted by Andy of Spitoon extra. Check out Andy’s site for the roundup of stews.

cholent

I used steel cut oats instead of barley. Barley tends to plump nicely and thicken the gravy somewhat. Oats tend to disappear a bit more into the sauce. Millet might work, although I haven’t tried it. I used a combination of new and old world beans, but just about any beans will do. You might want to try using different sizes of beans to achieve a varied texture.
oil for frying
2-3 large veal osso bucco
3-4 potatoes
1 large onion, coarsely chopped
3-4 cloves garlic
1 TBS sweet paprika
1/2 TBS smoked paprika
pepper to taste
1 1/2 c mixed beans, soaked overnight
3/4 c grain, such as barley or oatmeal
4-8 washed raw eggs in their shells

for later:

1 kishkeh (recipe to follow)
1 TBS salt

  • Preheat the oven to 200° F (about 93.33° C).
  • Heat some oil in a large, heavy frying pan and brown the osso bucco on both sides. Meanwhile, slice a potato into 1/4 to 1/2 inch thick rounds. Use these slices to cover the bottom of your pot. Double up if you still have slices leftover after covering the bottom of the pot.
  • Remove the osso bucco from the pot and place on top of the potato slices.
  • Add more oil to the pan if necessary, and brown the onions. Season with both paprikas and freshly ground pepper. Press the garlic cloves into the onion mixture and continue frying until the onions are fragrant and have softened.
  • While the onions are cooking, coarsely chop the remaining potatoes into large chunks.
  • Drain the beans and layer the beans with the onion mixture in the pot. Sprinkle over grains. Add the potatoes and pour over water to cover.
  • Carefully nestle the eggs in various nooks and crannies of the uncooked stew.
  • Cover and bake in the oven overnight. Before going to bed, check to make sure the stew has enough water. If not, add some hot water, cover, and put back in the oven.
  • In the morning, see if the stew needs any more water. Add hot water if necessary. Taste a few beans. If they’ve softened, season the cholent with salt. If they haven’t softened, your beans are too old or you added salt at the beginning of cooking. Start over!
  • Place the kishkeh on top of the cholent and continue baking. If the cholent is too liquidy, leave the top off so some of the water can evaporate. Otherwise, cover the cholent.
  • After 18 to 24 hours, remove the cholent from the oven. Serve each diner some potatoes, beans, grains, meat, and a chunk of kishkeh. Peel the eggs and serve as an appetizer with challah, chopped liver, and pickles, or eat with the cholent.

Serves 8-10

kishkeh

Rather than buying pre-made frozen kishkeh, you can pretty easily make your own. I love the sweet, salty taste of kishkeh, and the textural contrast between the soft filling and the crisp edges of the sausage.

1 large onion
1 large carrot, or 3 small ones
1 large potato boiled and peeled
1/2 c bread crumbs or matzah meal
1/4 c schmaltz or rendered goose or duck fat
1 TBS salt
1 TBS paprika
freshly ground pepper to taste
2 ft (61 cm) sausage casing

  • Grate the onion, carrot, and potato into a medium bowl. Alternatively, process the onion and carrot in a food processor.
  • Melt the schmaltz.
  • Add the breadcrumbs or matzah meal, the schmaltz, and the spices. Mix to combine.
  • Cut the casing in half to make it easier to work with. You’ll end up with two kishkehs, one for now, one you can freeze for later. (You could just as well cook them both.)
  • Rinse the casing and tie a knot at one end. Use a sausage funnel, or your fingers, to stuff the casing. (This is a bit messy, but it works.)
  • Use your thumb and forefinger to find the opening of the casing. Insert one finger into the opening, then another. Pull your fingers apart slightly, forming an upside down peace sign. Use this space to force stuffing down the casing with your other hand. When you’ve got a lump of stuffing in the casing, carefully push it down towards the knotted end by wrapping your hand around the tube. If air bubbles form, push the stuffing up a bit to let the air out, then back down.
  • Continue stuffing the casing and letting out air bubbles. Stop when you have an inch or two of empty casing left. Let out any last air bubbles and knot the casing tightly.
  • Repeat with the other casing.
  • To cook kishkeh, do any one of the following:
    • Poke holes in the casing and fry.
    • Poke holes in the casing and fry. Slice into rounds and fry until crisp on both sides.
    • Poke holes in the casing. Cook on top of cholent.

Makes 2 kishkehs

who put the latkes in harry truman’s gatkes?

Thursday, December 21st, 2006

Celeriac carrot latkes

Every Hannukah, my tone-deaf father who sang “in the key of R” would sing “Who put the latkes in Harry Truman’s gatkes?” No, that’s not the name of a song. It’s just a silly phrase that he’d sing intermittently, while preparing the holiday dinner. I have no idea who put potato pancakes in Harry Truman’s underwear, or why, for that matter.

Last night I finally girded my loins to make our first Hannukah dinner for this year. I’ll be making potato pancakes on Friday for a holiday party, so I wanted to make something a little bit different. Hannukah is all about fried foods, potatoes just happen to taste good when fried. So I opted for celeriac carrot pancakes.

These are a little trickier than potato pancakes, as the celeriac and carrots lack the potato starch that helps bind together traditional latke batter. As long as you squeeze out any excess water and fry them at a fairly high heat, these fritters should come out crisp on the outside and soft on the inside. You could use avocado or safflower oils coconut oil or schmaltz for frying, as these fats tend to have a high smoking point (see note below). I used bacon fat to fry the majority of my latkes. It’s cheaper and imparts a subtle smokey flavor to the fritters. Be sure to turn on your kitchen fan to drive out the greasy bacon odors. (The noise of the fan also helps drown out the sound of your Jewish ancestors turning over in their graves.)

The flavor of these pancakes is both sweet and earthy, with a touch of the metallic sharpness of celeriac. Apple sauce is redundant here, the carrots are sweet enough. A little sour cream, crème fraîche, or yogurt are fine toppings. A mixed holiday genres by topping his with cranberry sauce. I prefer sour cream.

carrot celeriac latkes

300 grams celeriac, washed, peeled, and trimmed
300 grams carrots, washed and trimmed (don’t bother peeling)
1 small onion, peeled and quartered
3 eggs, beaten
a scant pouring of matzah meal, just a tablespoon or two
about 1-2 TBS freshly minced dill
about 1 scant TBS salt
freshly ground black pepper to taste
fat for frying (choose a fat with a high smoking point, such as grapeseed oil, coconut oil, or rendered animal fat such as schmaltz or, ahem, bacon fat)

  • Cut the vegetables to fit the chute of your food processor, and process using the grater attachment. If you’ve got time and want to work out your biceps, grate the vegetables manually. Alternate between celeriac, onion, and carrot (the onion prevents the celeriac from oxidizing).
  • Mix in the beaten eggs. Add a little matzah meal if the batter looks like it needs help keeping together.
  • Season with dill, salt, and pepper and mix well.
  • Heat your fat in a heavy frying pan on a medium-high flame (I like cast-iron). Optionally, heat fat in two large pans to more efficiently cook all the latkes.
  • When the fat is very hot, place a large soup spoonful of batter in the pan and flatten the batter with the back of the spoon. You want a very thin fritter that just keeps together. Repeat until the pan is full. You want some space between each latke, and you don’t want to crowd the pan. Depending on the size of your pan, you’ll probably be able to fry two to four latkes in each pan.
  • When the latkes turn brown at the edges, turn them over with a spatula. Fry until the other side is browned.
  • Taste the first batch of latkes. Correct the seasoning if necessary.
  • Fry the rest of the batter, allowing the latkes drain on some paper towel.
  • As you fry, monitor the heat of the frying pan. You may need to adjust the heat slightly, up or down, as you go along. If the latkes are too brown, you may need to turn the heat down a little. If they take too long to cook and aren’t crisp, you may need to turn the heat up. Be sure to melt more fat in the pan between batches. Then allow enough time for the fat to heat up.

Serve with sour cream or crème fraîche with a bit of dill for garnish, and optionally, a slice or two of gravadlax.

Serves 2-4

Note: Check out this page for a list of oils and their smoking points. Avocado and safflower oils have the highest smoking point.

dishes of comfort: kashe varnishkes

Wednesday, November 15th, 2006

kashe_varnishkes

This is my post for the Dishes of Comfort blogging event, hosted by Cream Puffs in Venice and Viaggi & Sapori.

One of my favorite foods growing up was kashe varnishkes, an Eastern European Jewish side dish full of carbs and mushrooms. As a child, I enjoyed nothing more than a bowl of steaming, sticky white rice, a slice of crusty bread or challah, or a bowl of pasta, hot or cold, with olive oil and salt. I was, and still am, enthralled by the texture, flavor, and the soulful satisfying nature of carbs.

Kashe varnishkes, however, stands apart. A combination of pasta, buckwheat, and mushrooms, kashe varnishkes is the Eastern European answer to Egyptian kushari and Yemeni majadra. The unique pleasure of Kashe varnishkes lies in its combination of nutty, tender buckwheat kernels, with earthy, juicy mushrooms, along with al dente pasta. Kashe varnishkes is pleasantly toothsome, yet very warming on a cold night.

Kashe varnishkes is one of the few dishes that my mother learned to cook from her Eastern European mother. Back in pre-WWII Europe, my great-grandmother enforced the rule that the kitchen was no place for children. Consequently, my grandmother didn’t learn much in the way of cooking, and my mother was often shooed from her mother’s little kitchen in Israel. Kashe varnishkes was one of the few dishes that survived the broken chain of culinary tradition, along with gorgul morgul—a peculiar yet tasty concoction made of egg yolk, lemon juice, and honey—which was meant to soothe a sore throat.

My mother would prepare kashe varnishkes as a treat for a Friday night Sabbath dinner, perhaps with chicken and salad or broccoli. I loved the steaming kernels of toasted buckwheat as much as I loved the big, chewy pasta bowties that poked through the mound of grain. The mushrooms were little buried treasures that exploded with earthy flavor in my mouth.

On Saturday afternoons when everyone napped, I would tiptoe to the refrigerator and fix myself a bowl of leftover kashe varnishkes. They were cold, and I couldn’t reheat them on the Sabbath, but I didn’t care. I would correct the seasoning with salt and perhaps a little pepper. Satisfied, I would take the bowl and a soup spoon and go to the living room, where I would choose an interesting book from my father’s extensive library. Maybe Jonathan Swift, or Dickens, perhaps Aldous Huxley. I’d climb into the big leather Eames chair and cross my legs Indian style. I’d pick up the book and cradle the bowl in my lap. As I disappeared into the universe of my book, I’d dig in my spoon and take a big, luscious bite.

kashe varnishkes

butter
150-200 gr pasta, preferably bowtie (I used fettuccine, which I broke into large-ish bite-size pieces)
3/4 c buckwheat, toasted
1/3 lb mushrooms (I used shitakes and chanterelles)
salt and pepper to taste

  • Cook the pasta as you usually would, rinse it to stop it from cooking.
  • In a large skillet, melt a little butter and fry the buckwheat until fragrant.
  • Add one cup of water to the buckwheat and bring to a boil. Then lower to a simmer and cover.
  • Meanwile, slice the mushrooms and fry them in a skillet with butter.
  • Season the mushrooms to taste with salt and pepper.
  • After a few minutes of simmering, check to see whether the buckwheat needs more water. If it looks dry and isn’t yet tender, add a little more water. You want to add just enough water to keep the buckwheat from drying out. The goal here is tender, yet slightly firm buckwheat, as opposed to buckwheat mush. Towards the end of cooking, remove the cover so that excess liquid evaporates. If a little buckwheat sticks to the pan, do not scrape it up.
  • Season the buckwheat with salt and pepper to taste, bearing in mind that you’ve already seasoned the mushrooms.
  • Combine the pasta, mushrooms, and buckwheat and correct seasoning. Serve at room temperature or briefly reheat in a pan.

Serves 3-4

lulav and etrog, cucumbers and lettuce

Monday, October 9th, 2006

I was recently amused to see a lulav and etrog on display at the Berkeley Bowl. Apparently, you can order them from a guy at the produce section and buy them along with the rest of your groceries.

The lulav and etrog are symbols used in the Jewish celebration of Sukkot, or the Feast of Tabernacles. The lulav and etrog consist of a citron, a ripe palm frond, a myrtle branch, and a willow branch. Each element of the Four Species, as they’re called, represents a different type of Jew. Like Voltron, the Four Species are bound together to create a greater whole, representing the entire Jewish nation. Traditionally, the lulav and etrog are blessed and then gently shaken in four directions, representing the presence of the divine in the four corners of the earth.

My fondest memories of Sukkot are of eating in the sukkah. A sukkah is a sort of temporary hut built outdoors, with a roof typically made of palm branches. The idea is to re-create the huts in which the Jews lived as they traveled the desert between Egypt and the promised land. The sukkah must have a roof that is sparse enough for dwellers to see the stars at night. Ideally, you’re supposed to live in the sukkah for seven days, meaning eating, sleeping, hanging out. For children, this is great news. Any child who loves building forts and camping has a field day, or rather seven field days, during Sukkot.

But nothing is quite like a candle-lit holiday dinner in a sukkah. The palm frond roof rustles in the breeze, and the stars peek through as you enjoy your dinner. The air is permeated by the perfume of the branches, the sweet smell of challah dipped in honey, and the fragrant etrog which is carefully wrapped in a long lock of flax and laid to rest in its own little etrog box.

At the end of the holiday, the sukkah is dismantled and saved for the following year, the sukkah decorations are put away, and the palm fronds lie beside the trash bins awaiting garbage day.

But the etrog isn’t thrown out. Unlike lemons, citrons don’t rot. Instead, they shrivel and harden, which only intensifies their lovely fragrance. An old etrog might find itself snuggled in a sweater drawer. In a Sepharadi or Mizrahi home, etrogs might become etrog jam.

If you can find citrons in your area (try next week, after the holiday), you might want to try making etrog jam, especially if you’re a marmalade enthusiast. Citron jam has a particular flavor of its own. It’s Sukkot in a jar.

shavuot 5766

Friday, June 9th, 2006

Shavuot is Judaism’s gift to dairy farmers everywhere. During Shavuot, or the Festival of Weeks, traditional holiday meals feature cheese-filled blintzes, creamy casseroles, and the ubiquitous, beloved cheesecake. The origins of this dairy-centered feasting are a little obscure. Shavuot marks the day on which the Jewish nation was given the Torah (Old Testament), according to tradition. One version of the story says that the Jews ate only dairy because they didn’t yet know how to keep kosher.

Another version compares the Jewish Torah to the sweetness of milk and honey. Shavuot also coincides with the grain harvest in Israel, and a time when the ancient Israelites would bring offerings of the seven species—wheat, barley, grapes, figs, pomegranates, olives, and dates—to the temple in Jerusalem.

Like most Jewish holidays, Shavuot is a holiday with deep culinary roots. Jews the world over have evolved varied regional Shavuot menus over centuries. The holiday menu of American Jews tends to be something of a mishmash—French style quiche, Italian style lasagna, New York cheesecake (which in itself is probably a derivative of Italian ricotta pie with a Philly cream cheese twist). I drew on the tradition of borrowed foods for my own Shavuot dinner:

Salad with raspberry vinaigrette
Swiss chard and beet green lasagna
Beet, rhubarb, and goat cheese quiche
Ricotta cheesecake with strawberry-balsamic black pepper sauce

The cheesecake was a fun little dessert, though not as dense, creamy, or calorific as the usual New York style. Its charm lies in its simplicity–a lot of ricotta cheese with a little sugar, flour, and eggs. It’s light and mildly sweet, and the freshness of the ricotta really makes the dish. The strawberry sauce is a good complement, a little freshly ground black pepper adds a pleasantly spicey edge to the berry sweetness.

My favorite savory dish was the beet, rhubarb, and goat cheese quiche—an unusual, but very tasty combination. Rather than use the traditional sugar-rhubarb-strawberry trio, I thought I’d combine red beets with rhubarb, onions, and goat cheese. The tartness of the rhubarb brings out the sweetness of the beets, which are grounded by carmelized onions, that in turn, play off the earthy beets. The soft goat cheese adds a little extra tang. The whole thing is baked in a shortcrust with a savory custard to hold it together. I only used one stalk of rhubarb, but it might be interesting to experiment with more.

Here’s my shavuot dish for 2006 (Jewish year 5766). It’s fashionably late.

Beet rhubarb tart with goat cheese

1 shortcrust, pre-baked in a 10 inch quiche pan (Clotilde’s recipe, by way of Pascale)
3 medium onions, very thinly sliced and slowly carmelized in butter
2 bunches (about 8) small, fresh red beets, steamed, peeled, and roughly diced
1 stalk rhubarb, roughly diced and sauteed until a little liquid is released but rhubarb is still crunchy
2 eggs
1/2 c creme fraiche
salt and pepper to taste
soft goat cheese

  • Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.
  • Distribute the cooled onions on the crust. Top with cooled beets.
  • Arrange the cooled rhubarb evenly among the beets.
  • Beat together the eggs and creme fraiche and season to taste with salt and pepper.
  • Pour the egg mixture over the vegetables.
  • Rip small pieces of the goat cheese and distribute evenly.
  • Bake for 30 minutes, or until quiche sets.

Serves 8

Thanks to Clotilde for the quiche methodology.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.
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