all things to all people...

At last Saturday’s Dinner and a Movie, the question arose: How did i make the Tagine?  In fact, that question was much more prominent than its corollary: Where did you find that film? I suppose the programmer in me felt hurt, while the chef in me gloats. 

Now, chef’s don’t usually give up their secrets. But in this case, i’ll make an exception. Are you listening?  The secret is Raz el Hanout:

This Moroccan spice, whose name means “top of the shop (as in “top shelf”),” is the secret to all great tagines.  A mixture of cinnamon, cumin, corriander (the holy trinity) along with allspice, saffron, and rosehips, this fantastic flavor manages to bind the disparate elements of the Tagine into that ineluctable whole.

So there’s my secret: here’s my recipe:

Chicken:

• 4 chicken drumsticks (about 1 pound)
• 4 chicken thighs (about 1 1/2 pounds)
• 1 tablespoon plus 2 teaspoons fresh thyme leaves
• 5 cloves garlic, thinly sliced
• 1/2 cup olive oil, plus 1 tablespoon (divided)
• 1 white onion, thinly sliced
• 1 lemon, quartered
• 3 cups chicken broth or more if needed
• Salt

To make chicken: Thoroughly pat the chicken dry with paper towels and dredge the chicken in the ras al-hanout spices so the pieces are completely covered. Place in a bowl or baking dish and scatter thyme and garlic over the chicken. Pour olive oil over everything, toss to coat, cover with plastic wrap and let sit in the refrigerator overnight.

Remove marinated chicken from refrigerator 30 minutes before cooking. Take the chicken out of the marinade; set remaining marinade aside. Heat 1 tablespoon olive oil in a large Dutch oven over medium-high heat; add chicken and cook until brown on all sides. Remove the chicken from the Dutch oven; set aside. Add the onion to the Dutch oven and cook until translucent, about 3 to 4 minutes. Place the chicken in the tagine or return to the Dutch oven, add the onions and lemon, along with the reserved marinade. Sprinkle generously with salt. Add enough broth to almost cover the chicken, bring to a simmer, cover and cook until the chicken has begun to pull away from the bones and the meat is quite tender, about 1 hour and 15 minutes.

Remove chicken, lemons and onions from the broth and keep warm. Skim any fat from the surface of the broth, bring to a rolling boil and boil until the sauce is reduced to about 2 cups, 6 to 8 minutes. Season the chicken to taste with salt return to the broth along with the lemons and onions. Serve with Couscous

NOTE: I added chickpeas, apricots, and some other jazz.  You could add anything, really!

Here is a picture of a kid working:

I often am reminded that it is called a “work” of art. I usually work in the theater, where we make “plays.”  But the 2D realm of the fine arts almost always puts the emphasis on the “work.” 

This last week’s workshop with Artist-in-Residence Kumi Yamashita reminded me of how fundamental that work is. Kumi led a group of kids in using very simple means—paper cutting, potato printing, rubbings—as a way to focus them on creating complex expression via building complexity.  It was remarkable to see the concentration on their faces.  These were kids fully bent to the task.

I don’t much like the poetry of Khalil Gibran, but he does get high marks for recognizing that “Work is love made visible.” 

I suspect that it is easy to view cutting down trees, mowing grass, and fixing stone walls as lovely work.  Kumi’s workshop reminded me that it is of a piece with making a potato print, making paper cuttings, and rubbing the relief of a floorboard.  Art is lovely work. And the work of art can be lovely.

If you are interested in Kumi’s work, she will be hosting an open house on SATURDAY, JULY 23.

‘Twas a VERY full house here last nite at the DAC.  SRO (Standing Room Only, for those not in the theater trade) with even a few turnaways.

It is axiomatic that it is not the size of the house, but the fullness that makes a great show.  You show me a performer who prefers a half-full stadium to a packed basement speakeasy, and I’ll sell you a bridge or two.  Whatever the numbers, a packed house has a spirit of its own.   As space between bodies is compacted, and peoples auras become threatened, a curious thing happens: Defenses break down. Protective layers are abandoned, and that ultra-sensitive sub-dermal shell is laid bare.  I suspect this is why crowds are so easily whipped into all kinds of Frenzy!

Of course, the best frenzy is a standing ovation. I”m happy to report that there was a suitable one for our two white chicks last nite.  Mazel Tov!

Jamie

NOTE: There is a genuine artifact here at the DAC: An old steamer trunk, that bears the marks of an immigrant life as rich as any lived round these parts.  This week, HANNAH SMITH imagines its life for your pleasure.  Enjoy!

I am tired, and my life has been full of adventure. Is Denmark my final resting place? It would be ironic since I am so close to the town of Sweden. My journey started in Sweden, the country, not the town. After that first long journey, we only rested in America for a short time. Alfred tried to like New York, he really did, but our timing was awful. The city that he thought was paved with gold, where any man could climb to the top, was plagued with The Great Depression. It was nearly impossible to find work, never mind a meal. So, with the last of his money, he bought a ticket to Halifax, Canada.

 Maybe I’ve gotten a bit ahead of myself. These things happen in old age, you know?  First of all, you should probably know that I am a trunk. The word trunk isn’t exactly glamorous, but I like to think that my presence is greater than my title. There was a time when I was shiny and new; when my black veneer was bold, and my brass fixtures gleamed. My 80 years have been kind to me, though. The newness has gone, and my features are certainly weathered. Still, I’m proud of every chip and scrape. They tell a story; a story that I’d like to share with you.

Alfred was my owner.  His life ended before mine. We had a great life together, though, and I was happy to carry his possessions. We started out near Gothenburg, Sweden. Alfred’s family worked hard to pay his fare to America. Alfred worked in the shipping industry throughout his adolescence, and was always particularly fascinated by the ships leaving for New York. The rumors glamorized America, and more and more Swedes left their homeland to try their luck in the land of equal opportunity. After long years of working for very little salary, the family finally earned enough money to purchase his ticket across the ocean.

 Our arrival in New York: Crowds of people at Ellis Island— some rejected entry due to illness. If only they knew how close quarters were on that boat. Once we passed customs, we were taken by surprise. The New York we saw was nothing like what we imagined. The time spent there was hard for Alfred. Through a friend, he managed to find a factory job in Hoboken, New Jersey. The conditions were menial, the pay was terrible. Two years of labor, and Alfred saved up enough money for a ticket to Canada.

 He knew almost nothing about Canada, but he had heard that the shipping industry was booming in Halifax. Once again, I was loaded on a ship, and made the journey to a new home. Thankfully, Alfred had much better luck finding a job in Halifax. He worked in the sea salvage industry for a bit less than 20 years. Until the SS Foundation Franklin was decommissioned in 1948. At this point, Alfred had met a Norwegian woman, and the two had 3 children. Together, the family decided to make one final journey back to America. The depression was long over, and America’s economy had recovered, and his children had left to live in Portland, Maine years before. The ferry was fairly convenient, and Alfred had gone (without me!) to visit his children once before. He seemed to think that America had much improved since he last saw it.

One evening, he was pouring over a map of Maine, and found something that astonished both him and his wife; their countries names on the Maine map! Sweden, Norway, and Denmark were close together, and not too far from Portland. He packed me up for one final boat ride, and we returned to America. He found a beautiful farm in Denmark, and he and his wife raised cows for the rest of their lives. He became involved with the Odd Fellows Hall downtown, and after his death his children donated many of his belongings to their organization. I was used for storage, and served as a memory of a man who was truly appreciated by the townspeople. Now, the building has become the Denmark Arts Center, but here I rest, unused, but not forgotten.

Last nite saw the premiere of the Denmark Arts Center’s production of John Ford Noonan’s 1979 play, A Coupla White Chicks Sitting Around Talking. 

The house was 2/3rds full—which is remarkable, for a June in Denmark—and the word on the street (there is only one, here: Route 160 cuts through the center of town) is that the show is a great pleasure.  I ducked out early, to save myself for tonight, like Ms Middleton for “Willy,”  so I cannot offer my ironclad critical appraisal until the morrow. But I can offer an long view, from loveseat here by the old front door of the dear old DAC.

I arrived back in Denmark only a few days ago, just as the energy of our performers began to congeal into that juicy, pre-dress pulp that ripens at the end of the rehearsal process.   The actors had chosen their costumes.  They had settled on how and where to stand, how to speak, and when to leave.  And the empty space of the noble DAC stage, so alluring to the theatrical eye, had been skillfully transformed into a Westchester kitchen, with each element the victor of some small directorial battle. 

I was party to one battle over the upstage left wall decoration: The director favored the poster of peppers, for its toothsome reds, while the actors favored the chastity of the onion illustrations. A bystander, I was enlisted to serve on behalf of the peppers, securing their victory.  And as I looked at the stage thereafter, I was reminded that every other knick-knack, doo-dad, and gee-gaw on that stage had been through its own similar Waterloo.

A play—any play, from the nonsense of Ionesco to the puzzles of Ariel Dorfman—is an edifice built by decision. Thousands of decisions, from the muted to the momentous, line the path that leads to opening night.  When we watch a play, we are seeing something that, at every moment, could be vastly different.  Left could be right; up could be down; loud quiet and quiet loud.  And it is the serial acts of decisiveness that beat at the heart of any good work of theater.  Life doesn’t allow us to try out the impact of decisions made in time.  Theater does. 

This quality of the theater is axiomatic, of course. But it is worth remembering.  We may know what life is, but we go to the theater to see what life might be. 

I hope you will make the decision to come join us, tonight, June 11th, at the theater.

Here, amidst the cacaphony of crickets chirping, berries ripening, thunder storming, and life slipping gently by, we will explore the ins and outs of running a small rural arts center in the tumult of the season. 

stay posted!  we’re all up on this stuff……