As a child, I once went on a field trip where we learned about the history of canned foods. My sense is that this must have been part of a larger historical trip, as I can’t imagine that there is a museum devoted to the subject, or that it would have been deemed important enough by the school authorities to warrant a visit. Regardless of what the larger historical point may have been, I only remember the canning factory. The exhibits demonstrated the history of pictures on cans: originally canned food wasn’t labeled with the colorful pictures we are now accustomed to seeing. However, in the early 20th century, with an influx of immigrants who could not read, or at least not English, American canning companies started to make their labels with bright, vivid and easily recognizable pictures so that customers would be able to tell what they were purchasing even if they couldn’t read, or didn’t know the word in English. I looked at the labels with their bright pictures of tomatoes, carrots, beans and other vegetables. They looked older, different from the labels on the cans my mother bought. They evoked an earlier era and I wondered what the lives of the people who ate those canned tomatoes were like.
I was reminded of this field trip recently when cooking dinner here in Cairo. My own (over?) dependence on familiar packaging was driven home by a minor culinary disaster.
I had, at that time, been in Cairo for a few days, but was not yet settled. I was staying at a friend’s apartment, and living out of my suitcase. But, even in my temporary situation, I could use the kitchen.
Standing at the counter, chopping an onion, I felt at home. I was comfortable there; the familiar monotony of chopping vegetables soothed me. My anxieties about the weeks and months to come slipped away as I let my thoughts wander. I relaxed, humming to myself as I added oil to the pan, chopped some garlic to add to the onions, and then moved on to slice an eggplant, its shiny skin smooth under my fingers.
The vegetables were reliable, familiar, like old friends. Even thousands of miles away from my kitchen, a pungent onion could still make my eyes smart. But added to a pan with a little oil, it mellowed out. The rules were the same here. And, unlike so much of what I do, the results of labors in the kitchen are deliciously tangible and usually quite immediate. The longest you have to wait is perhaps 6 hours to overnight. It is a refreshing contrast to a dissertation project that has no set end point and few discrete steps along the way. As I listened to the sizzle of the onion, I felt at home and content.
The smell of browning onions filled the kitchen. I added the eggplant to the onions when they were clear. As the it cooked I added spices, cumin, coriander, red pepper, black pepper, salt. I drained and rinsed a can of chick peas, adding them when the eggplant was browned and soft.
At this point, I added in a small jar of tomato sauce. As I was scooping it in (because it didn’t really pour), I thought that it looked quite thick for tomato sauce, almost like paste. But I figured that maybe it was just Egypt and didn’t think much of it. I continued to put it into the pan, scraping it out of the jar and then mixing some water in to rinse out the jar. My suspicions that something was awry grew when I put in the water to rinse it out and it didn’t incorporate what remained in the jar. There was still quite a bit stuck to the sides of the jar. I noticed that the tomato sauce was not only unusually thick, but also a deeper red than I had expected.
As I continued to try and scrape out the last of the tomato sauce, I admitted to myself the possibility that I might have inadvertently purchased tomato paste. But at that point, I had added the entire (12 oz) jar. I stirred it in, hoping that it would become normal and right. It did not. I added more water to thin it out.
I rummaged around the unfamiliar kitchen in an attempt to try and find something that would improve this sauce. Chicken broth? Wine? Different spices? Perhaps I could add water and make soup? I added some sugar to temper the acidity of the tomatoes.
Finally, I brought myself to look at the jar. It said, right on the label IN ENGLISH “Tomato Paste.”
This only confirmed the conclusion I had already come to. My plan had been to mix in feta cheese, so I did so, in an attempt to temper the really strong tomato flavor. The feta here is different from American (or I suppose French) feta. It is less crumbly and more smooth, with a texture closer to goat cheese. It is quite delicious. I love it stirred into sauces because it adds a creamy richness. In this case, however, no amount of delicious feta would be able to temper the overpowering tomato flavor.
I toyed around with it, adding what I could to round out the flavors. But the fact remained that instead of adding a 12oz jar of tomato sauce, which would have nicely complimented the eggplant and chickpeas, I had added an entire jar of tomato paste. I made my pasta and ate my overly-tomato sauce.
Alas, it was not my best moment. But the evening was a pleasant one. I enjoyed cooking, and to be honest, I could have made the same mistake at home, if not for the fact that tomato paste only comes in tiny cans. Thank god for those small cans, and for the marketing acumen of the guys at Hunts (or wherever) to sell different products in packaging that comes not only with pictures, but also in special sizes according to the product.
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