Tintinnabulicious! These Bells Just Got POEned!

Sometimes I wonder: if anybody asked me to name one, and only one, food item that defines Serbian cuisine, how would I answer? My instinct tells me I cannot go wrong with The Pig, and I can see why. There is no celebration that does not include one or more (and usually more) of the porcine products. The roasted suckling is the centerpiece of every holiday table, and few people can resist its seductive crunchy skin and the succulent meat, with just enough fat to melt in your mouth (just ask my American husband – it took him about thirty seconds (and one savored mouthful) in the company of the piggy to become a follower).

There is lard, rendered in big metal dishes in the early hours of a Sunday in late November, leaving as residue the tastiest tidbits of salty, crunchy goodness – I guess something akin to chicharrones. There is smoked bacon, garlicky smoked sausages, head cheese, blood sausages, pršuta (cured, smoked, and air-dried pork loin), and smoked ribs. This immediately makes me envision a copper pot full of brined cabbage at a village wedding, or the aromas from an earthen clay pot of beans simmering on the stove, promising to warm up fingers frozen from throwing hundreds of snowballs.

In my musings I move somewhat away from the beloved pig, with a big sigh. The next obvious choice is cabbage. Shredded in a vinegary slaw, cooked cut up in chunks with pork, or sauteed with homemade tagliatelle and lots of pepper. In autumn, the heads are lovingly nestled in wooden barrels and a couple of months later pale green sauerkraut emerges begging to be stuffed and rolled into “sarma”, simmered with smoked ribs for hours, or shredded and sauteed with onions and bacon, to be served alongside roasted chicken or pork.

I love all the incarnations of cabbage. But there is another vegetable that is a jewel amongst the others: pepper. All summer long the narrow, triangular, light-green beauties adorn the market stalls, their flesh firm, their aroma spreading around like the smoke from Aladdin’s lamp. They are sweet, without the hint of bitterness so common to the green bell pepper. We mix them with sun-ripened tomatoes, cucumbers, and onions for a refreshing summer salad, just moistened with oil and touched with salt and pepper. We roast them on the grill or a gas stove, and serve them for breakfast, warmed up with kajmak (the south Slav relative of clotted cream) or layered with chopped garlic, oil, vinegar, and salt, as the most delicious accompaniment to any roast.

When you buy a couple of pounds of sweet peppers, the wizened old grandma dressed in black, with a black kerchief on her head puts a few of the dark green, small, and extremely hot peppers in your bag as a gift. Those are also roasted and served in small dishes, challenging the brave to taste them. The pale-yellow roundish peppers are stuffed with a mixture of ground beef and onions, and simmered for an hour. The hot ones are filled with fresh, unpasteurized milk, and left to ferment into this delicious, creamy, sweet, sour and spicy combination of tastes, that is irresistible on a cold night in January.

Right about this time big plastic sacks filled with meaty red peppers start appearing at the markets, on the road sides, and at the street corners. There is a hint of autumn chill in the air which puts everybody into a preserving mode. Pretty soon the grills will be sizzling with roasted peppers for ajvar, ljutenica, and pindžur. The canning jars will be piled on the kitchen tables, ready to accept the pickled peppers, and bigger, plastic canisters will come out of the cellars and garages to house brined peppers with garlic and parsley. For a month the peppers will play the main role in many houses.

But I am not ready to start preserving the peppers yet. The California sunshine does not yield to autumn chill.  It seldom yields at all. I bought some really nice, meaty, red bell peppers and decided to treat my family to another one of Mother’s perfect recipes. The peppers are roasted, peeled, de-stemmed and cleaned, drained and stuffed with a mix of feta and eggs, dipped in crepe batter and pan-fried until golden and delicious. We ate them with a salad of heirloom tomatoes, onions, salt, pepper, and olive oil. Another day in paradise.  And paradise knows well enough to have Serbs cater the affair.

STUFFED,  BATTERED, AND PAN-FRIED RED PEPPERS (PUNJENE POHOVANE PAPRIKE)

Ingredients:

Filling:

• 8 meaty red peppers
• 250gr (1/2 lb) feta
• 2 eggs

Batter:

• 200ml (1 cup) milk
• 2 eggs
• 1 cup flour
• 1 tsp salt
• 3-4 Tbsp sunflower oil for pan-frying

Directions:

Roast peppers on the grill, on high heat*, turning occasionally, until the skin is blackened and blistery. Put them in a plastic bag for 30 minutes to cool off. Peel the peppers and pull out the stem and the seeds (do not wash the peppers directly under the water stream – it will wash out all the yumminess the grill has imparted). Let them drain in a colander for 10 minutes.

In the meantime beat the mix of milk and eggs with an electric mixer. Add the flour and salt and mix to combine. The batter should be a little looser than pancake batter, and a bit thicker then crepe batter.

Heat the oil on medium-high heat. Fill each pepper with 1 heaping tablespoon of cheese filling (if your peppers are bigger than mine, you will need more – I had some filling left over), and close the opening loosely. Dip in the batter and put gently into the heated oil. Turn the heat to medium and pan-fry until golden brown, 3-4 minutes. Turn and continue frying the other side, for another 2-3 minutes.

Eat immediately or when cooled to room temperature (I love them even cold from the refrigerator). Serves 4.

*roasting them in the oven does not yield the same results, but if grilling is not an option you can roast them on a dry sturdy pan right on the burner turned on high

I am submitting this post to Summer Fest, started by Margaret Roach at A Way to Garden..