Synonyms or related words

January, noun. The first month of the year.

Synonyms or related words: 

1. Grey. It's my sixth successive January in Amsterdam, and although none of it, as far and wide as my memory can stretch, appealed greatly to the golden glow, this January I shall remember as a Sun-forsaken month. True, there have been five or six days, alone, unaccompanied by one another, to draw the window curtains open and let the daring, crisp, arousing light in, but the hours were still short and impotent, unable to keep it from drowning too early in the evenings. The rest of January stayed hiding behind the blinds, eyes rolled up, veins swollen, overdosed on rain.

2. Unhurried. Days-off are home-bound. They start with the drone of the street sweepers slowly percolating through an open window (to air the room) and diluting the post-sleep quiet the way milk thins out a confident coffee. The voices on the TV often announce blizzards and whiteouts elsewhere. A space heater in the living room is on, its warmth is mellowing. One step away into the unheated and the skin starts to crawl. Coffee, not unlike an IV solution, drips through a filter into the mug. As always, I'll have it uncut by sugar or milk. In a few hours, despite the caffeine, I'll fall asleep. The brain is just too droopy.

3. Quiet. Some days, a mere couple, looked like they were made of rice pudding, comforting and milky. Their softness could absorb every drdrdrdrdr of a drill on the rooftop and each yowl of the neighbor's beagle. It filled up the air and in the evenings cut the eye off from the lit kitchens and living rooms of the house across. On days like this I'm drawn to go over the list of things I'd like to do and goals I need to reach. I think of a light-room photography course I'd like to take this year, and a trip to Paris with my girlfriends and another one to Russia to visit my family and then to NY to see Anthony's, and that I want to find a writing job, and that I want to read more and start writing short stories again, and those ideas I've been nursing for a while now, I should finally pitch them to magazines. And not to forget to renew my passport, and to keep bringing my own lunches to work, and to be more patient and accepting, and to collaborate with my friend Morgane on a jewellery project, and to be better at keeping in touch with people I care about, and, above all, to be brave.

4. Moroccan carrots. Long sunsets the color orange; Bedouins sailing through the nebulous and incandescent Sahara on their haughty camels; coffee cooked in the seething sand; spices, more vibrant than the vision of an oasis; whispers of the fountains in the marble courtyards; the magic of the foreign eyes. Woot woot, doesn't it sound just right for January? 

Moroccan Carrots
Adapted from One Good Dish, by David Tanis
Yield: 4-6 servings

I never cook(ed) carrots for a salad, which is why the recipe caught my eye in the first place. (On a side note: every recipe written by David Tanis is guaranteed to bewitch me, and his latest book, One Good Dish, is a feast on all fronts, eyes, plates, mind, etc.) This one happens to be a common Moroccan dish, as Tanis writes, but for me it's anything but. It's an exciting little salad -- soft, yielding carrots are very much on first name terms with fragrant, toasted spices and zingy ginger, garlic, and lemon juice -- full of go and zest. It's new to me and yet it feels very familiar -- familiar despite being born centuries ago, in a faraway land.

A dish to stay.

1 kg (2 pounds) carrots, peeled
Salt and pepper
1/2 teaspoon cumin seeds
1/2 teaspoon coriander seeds
3 tablespoons lemon juice
1/2 teaspoon pressed garlic
1 teaspoon grated ginger
Large pinch of cayenne
1/4 cup olive oil
60 to 90 g (2 to 3 ounces) feta cheese, crumbled (I usually skip it)
A handful of olives
1 small preserved lemon, rinsed, pulp removed and discarded, rind diced (optional, but recommended)
3 tablespoons chopped flat-leaf parsley

Cut the carrots up in half, or in quarters if they are too large. Place them in a large pot of well-salted water, bring to a simmer, and cook until soft, about 15 minutes. Drain and let cool to room temperature.

In a small dry pan and over a medium-low fire toast the cumin and coriander seeds until fragrant, about 1 minute. Coarsely grind the seeds in a spice mill (or a clean coffee grinder) or with a a mortar and pestle.

To make the vinaigrette, in a small bowl combine the lemon juice with the cumin and coriander seeds, garlic, ginger, preserved lemon (if using), and cayenne. Whisk in the olive oil. Season with salt and pepper.

Put the carrots in a large bowl and, using a potato masher, crush them slightly. They should be fairly chunky. Dress with the vinaigrette then mix in the olives and parsley. When ready to serve, garnish with the crumbled cheese.

Needed to find out

I came to spices by way of a fairy tale.

Before I learnt to read I liked to while away my pre-school time listening to children's vinyl records that my mother regularly bought for me. There was a good deal to be all ears for, from Grimm's Fairy Tales to Kipling to Andersen to Soviet creations (some meager, some good), and I dutifully listened to them all. I had my favorites, but none was more loved than Hauff's Little Longnose. I couldn't -- I wouldn't -- stop listening to it over and over, often dragging the turntable needle across the scratched vinyl disk back to the start as soon as it reached the end.  

In a few brushstrokes, Little Longnose is a tale about a young boy, Jacob, who unwittingly insults a disagreeable woman at his mother's vegetable stall at the market. The woman asks him to help her carry her purchases, and when they reach her home she offers Jacob a plate of soup with knödel. The soup is so delicious it's unheard of, but the old woman being a wicked witch, it's imbued with magical herbs and spices that cast a spell on Jacob and turn him into a long-nosed hunchback. Unable to leave, he stays at the woman's house for the next seven years, during which he learns the magic of cookery. The story ends happily, but for our purposes today I just meant to say that it cast a spell on me. I listened lying on a couch in the living room, my eyes repeatedly examining a few cracks on the white ceiling, whily my mind, merging with the sounds flowing out of the spinning vinyl, was long gone to the old woman's garden, where I was beside Jacob, collecting musky herbs and blending mysterious spices. I could almost taste them.

Little Longnose got me intrigued, but for the time being that was that. I was too small to take any action of my own to hunt down the mysterious spices, my parents didn't seem that interested to do that for me, and in all honesty, in the Soviet eighties (not to mention earlier) there wasn't much on offer anyway. Intrigued I remained.

Then my mother started to (rarely) bake. She took to apple pirozhki with cinnamon, and often cinnamon wound up to be the key ingredient. I loved it. For educational purposes I liked to discover that a lot of cinnamon could cause my throat tingle, but what I really, really loved about cinnamon, even if it was past its prime and of dubious origin, is how different it suddenly made my everyday food. One moment it was the beloved baked apple with vanilla sugar, but add cinnamon and the deeply familiar fruit shifted ever so slightly toward the worlds far-off, an equally comforting and mystifying feeling. O the child's joys of discovery! Then my mother went on to use those spice mixes for fish or chicken or meat in her cooking, and faceless as they were they still took our meals off the beaten track. An interesting world was lurking somewhere in those spice mixes.

Then, at the age of twenty two, I had my first Indian curry. My friend Luke and I met up in snow-coated Saint Petersburg for New Year's then, and it was Luke's choice to have a hot Indian meal in the northern Russia. Did I want to? Hell yes, Indian sounds good. Equipped with the restaurant pages from a city guide I believe we went here. As a bold first-timer I ordered chicken karahi, the hottest on the menu. Our waiter giggled upon hearing my choice and pointed out that it was very spicy, pausing on 'very' for effect. Yes, I'm sure I'd like chicken karahi, please.

I cried and blew my nose through the whole meal. But, those piquant spices submerged in the incendiary sauce were such a revelation! My curry, it seemed, was otherwordly and I felt blue when the meal was over. My napkin was stained, heavily, with fragrant sauce; I took it with me. The aroma lasted for another day, and then, whoosh, the spices were gone. I didn't know what they were and I needed to find out.

Soon after I moved to Moscow for a year where I found an Indian grocer, and with him the vermillions, the scarlets, the ambers and the ochres of spices. For me, it was like upgrading from the children's watercolors to a professional art supplies store. I fell for Indian cuisine hard and fast. That comforting and mystifying feeling, a promise of discovery comes in tenfold each time I open a jug of garam masala or curry madras or toast cumin, fenugreek or mustard seeds in hot oil to make a tadka. Born and raised Russian to parents who till now never even ventured beyond the Soviet Union borders and so far with no experieces of my own of travels through India, I'm most certainly in no position to install myself as an authority in Indian cuisine. My only credential is that I'm mesmerized by it. I open a recipe, jack up the fire and let my mouth and my nose take me where I need to be. As my Indian friend Vijay once said, to cook Indian well all you need to do is listen to the pot and taste. I do! And so, me and my spices live happily ever after.

Chana Masala
Adapted from A Homemade Life, by Molly Wizenberg
Yield: 4 servings

A good chana masala (hello chickpeas!) is a balance between spicy and tangy, and this one delievers with a bang. The sour note traditionally is supposed to come from unripe mango powder (amchoor), but -- the purists, look away! -- you can strike the target by making use of lime or lemon juice instead, as done here. Taste and adjust the seasoning to how you like it. Does it need more citrus note and salt? It very well might. May I only insist that you use canned tomatoes that are more acidic than sweet? Somehow sweet tomatoes numb the dish. You don't want a numb chana masala.

I like to accompany this chana masala with basmati rice. Molly suggests to serve it with some full-fat yogurt (1/3 to 1/2 cup) to soften the flavors, or plain with a squeeze of lemon (I prefer lime). Whatever you choose, don't forget to sprinkle it with a pinch of garam masala and some chopped cilantro (or parsley). And be prepared, this dish gets only better the second day.

1/4 cup olive oil
1 medium onion, coarsely chopped
2 medium cloves garlic, pressed
1/2 tsp cumin seeds
1/2 tsp ground coriander
1/4 tsp ground ginger
1 tsp garam masala, plus more for serving
3 green cardamom pods, lightly crushed
1 tsp salt, or to taste
Water
Two 400 g (14 oz) cans peeled tomatoes (see headnote)
a handful of coarsely chopped cilantro or flat-leaf parsley leaves, plus more for serving
A good pinch of cayenne, or to taste
Two 400 g (14 oz) cans chickpeas, drained and rinsed
1 tsp lime (or lemon) juice, or to taste

Heat the olive oil in a thick-bottomed, preferably cast iron, pot. Add the onion, and cook, stirring occasionally, until it's thoroughly caramelized. The more color in the onion, the more flavor in the final dish. Adjust the heat if the browning happens too quickly.

Scale the heat down to low and add the garlic, cumin seeds, coriander, ginger, garam masala, cardamom pods, and salt, and cook, stirring constantly, until fragrant, about 30 seconds. Add 1/4 cup water and stir to scrape up the brown bits, if any, from the bottom of the pot. Cook until the liquid had eveporated. Pour in the juice from the cans of tomatoes, and add the tomatoes themselves, carefully breaking them apart with your hands as you add them to the pot. (You can also use a potato masher to crash the tomatoes directly in the pot.)

Bring the pot to an idle simmer. Add the cilantro (or parsley) and cayenne, and cook gently until the sauce starts to thicken, about 5 minutes. Add the chickpeas and lime (or lemon) juice, stir well, and cook for another 5 minutes. Add 2 teaspoons water, and cook for another 5 minutes. Add another 2 teaspoons water and cook until it's absorbed, for about 5 minutes more. This process of adding and cooking off water helps to concentrate the sauce's flavor. Taste, and adjust the seasoning.

Serve with basmati rice, yogurt, or plain (see headnote).