I suppose you could say I have lamb in my bones. I grew up in a Middle Eastern home, and the meat was at least as common as beef or chicken.
At Thanksgiving, we would include a rice dressing called hushwee, infused with ground lamb. In summertime, our wara aieesh, the term I knew for stuffed grape leaves (known more popularly as dolmas), were filled with lamb, rice, and cinnamon and cooked in a broth flavored by lamb bones. Those bones were like dessert; everyone gnawed on them and scooped out the marrow in a swoon after the meal.
My mother, the daughter of Lebanese immigrants, didn't need to take a butchering class. I remember watching her flash a knife through the fat and cartilage of lamb shoulder and legs, cutting the meat precisely into right-size sections.
It was common for us to drive two hours from our home in mid-Michigan to the farmers market in Detroit, where my mother trusted the quality of the meats because Arabs and other Arab Americans, as passionate about lamb as she, worked many of the stalls.
"Trusted" might not be quite the right word. When entering one of the small markets, I would trail behind her, a little embarrassed, as she would harangue the poor guy behind the counter.
"Is it fresh?" she'd begin her inquisition.
"Yes, yes, of course," the man would answer through an Arabic accent.
My mother's eyebrows would narrow.
"I don't want it if it's not fresh," she would say.
"It's fresh," the man would reply. "Fresh. Look. Fresh."
He'd pick up some of the red meat and hold it in front of her. Mom would give it the once-over with a diamond-cutter's eye.
"Hownee," she would say, which roughly translates as, "Bring it here. I want to smell."
The guy would raise the meat closer to her nose. My mother would inhale delicately, a trust-but-verify type of sniff.
"Ma badeesh dihin!" she'd say. I don't want fat. Her way of saying: Okay.
You don't have to be Lebanese to go a little lamb crazy at this time of year. Spring lamb is a treat and, somehow, it signals the beginning of grilling season. I don't feel as if the season has really begun until I grill some lamb, typically kebabs.
Years ago, I visited Lebanon, and lamb, you might say, was in the air. My cousin and her family whisked us from one restaurant to the next, this one with a natural waterfall, that one on a mountaintop overlooking the rippling blue Mediterranean Sea.
All of them had one item in common: grilled lamb. Menus typically offered it sliced from a rotisserie (shawarma), stuffed into a sausage (maanke, mild; suuok, spicy) and as a loin with an olive oil and herb sauce (sharhat ghanam). But the go-to dish was inevitably grilled kebabs (lahum mishwee).
The waiters made a show of using a round of pita to slide the cubes of meat down the skewer, along with the grilled onions and tomatoes, onto an oblong platter. The performance seemed somehow to heighten the lovely, hot-off-the-grill aromas. The lamb was tender, with mild spice and a light char from a wood-fueled grill. Kebabs in my home and in Lebanon generally were served with mezze of hummus, labneh (sour cheese spread), baba ghanouj (smoked eggplant dip), warm pita, olives, feta, tabbouleh and/or a green salad with a lemony dressing.
I could not help comparing the restaurant kebabs in Lebanon to the ones my mother made, and I could never decide which I thought was better. I learned from my mother, as she had from hers, how to select and cut lamb. But my education was more intentional. I was a boy, after all. The male members of a Lebanese family were not expected to learn how to cook. It wasn't until my 20s that I asked my mom to show me how to butcher a section of lamb.
Neither of us knew it at the time, but my newfound knowledge led to what my mother would regard as a culinary criminal act.
I moved to Texas, where I discovered flavors of the Lone Star State and the Southwest. I began pairing some of those flavors with traditional Lebanese foods: cilantro instead of mint, hominy rather than garbanzos, lime in lieu of lemon, and jalapenos in dishes where no peppers had existed.
I called the fusion cuisine Leb-Tex. Why would anyone reinvent that which was perfect, my mother wanted to know. Had I no respect for tradition? The worst offense was slow-smoking the kibbeh, arguably the Lebanese national dish, which, often shaped like a small football, is finely ground lamb mixed with bulgur wheat and filled with pine nuts, seasonings and coarsely ground lamb.
My Southwestern take on shish kebab didn't sit all that well, either. Even as I paid tribute to my Lebanese roots, I was nonetheless thoroughly Americanized. Rather than marinate the lamb chunks in lemon juice, as is standard not only in Lebanese but in other preparations, I bathed them in lime, garlic and cilantro. For the finishing touch, I added a chili pepper to the skewer. The zesty result is a Sun Belt take on a Mediterranean favorite.
I tried making Texas mezze as an accompaniment, with guacamole, chile con queso, deviled eggs, queso blanco, pickled okra and tomato salsa. But that was a bridge too far even for this heretic. Instead, I served my Southwest kebabs with Lebanese standards.
Grilled Southwestern-Style Lamb Kebabs
2-pound boneless lamb leg or shoulder, trimmed of fat and cut into 32 (1 1/4 -inch) chunks
8 cloves garlic, chopped
Juice of 2 limes
1 teaspoon coarse salt
1/2 teaspoon pepper
1/4 cup olive oil
1/2 cup cilantro leaves coarsely chopped
1/2 medium onion, cut into 1/2 -inch chunks
16 pearl onions, pealed
16 cherry or teardrop tomatoes
4 serrano peppers, cut in half lengthwise and seeded
Place the lamb chunks in a large resealable plastic food storage bag. Add the garlic, lime juice, salt, pepper, oil, cilantro, and onion. Seal the bag, pressing out as much air as possible, and massage it to evenly distribute the marinade. Refrigerate for at least 8 hours and up to 18, turning the bag once or twice.
An hour or two before serving, prepare the kebabs. Remove the lamb from the marinade and pat dry with paper towels; discard the marinade. Thread a chunk of lamb on a skewer, then a pearl onion, then lamb, then a tomato. Repeat, using 4 lamb chunks per skewer. Add half of a serrano pepper to the end of each skewer. Repeat the process to fill all the skewers.
About an hour before you want to cook, prepare the grill for direct heat. If using a gas grill, preheat to medium-high (450°). If using a charcoal grill, light the charcoal or wood briquettes; when the briquettes are ready, distribute them under the cooking area for direct heat. For a medium-hot fire, you should be able to hold your hand about 6 inches above the coals for about 4 or 5 seconds. Have ready a spray water bottle for taming any flames. Lightly coat the grill rack with oil and place it on the grill.
Grill the kebabs uncovered on each of the 4 sides for 3-5 minutes for medium-rare. The vegetables should be lightly charred. Transfer the kebabs to a platter to rest for about 5 minutes before serving.
Yield: 6 to 8 servings
Grilled Butterflied Herbed Lamb
8 cloves garlic, minced
3 tablespoons chopped thyme leaves (OR 1 tablespoon dried)
2 tablespoons chopped rosemary leaves (OR 2 teaspoons dried)
2 tablespoons chopped parsley leaves
2 tablespoons chopped tarragon leaves (OR 2 teaspoons dried)
2 tablespoons chopped marjoram leaves (OR 2 teaspoons dried)
1 tablespoon coarse kosher or sea salt
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1/4 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes, optional
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
7- to-8-pound boneless leg of lamb, trimmed of fat and butterflied by the butcher (4-4 3/4 pounds boneless)
1 lemon
Combine the garlic, thyme, rosemary, parsley, tarragon, marjoram, salt, black pepper, crushed red pepper flakes, if using, and the oil in a small bowl.
Place the lamb on a cutting board and cut 1/2-inch-deep slits all over it. Rub the herb mixture into the slits and all over the lamb. Let the lamb sit at room temperature for 1 hour. You also may cover the lamb and refrigerate it overnight; let it sit at room temperature for an hour before putting it on the grill.
About an hour before you want to cook, prepare the grill for direct heat. If using a gas grill, preheat to medium-high (450°). If using a charcoal grill, light the charcoal or wood briquettes; when the briquettes are ready, distribute them under the cooking area for direct heat. For a medium-hot fire, you should be able to hold your hand about 6 inches above the coals for about 4 or 5 seconds. Have ready a spray water bottle for taming any flames. Lightly coat the grill rack with oil and place it on the grill.
Grill the lamb uncovered for about 10 minutes on each side or until an instant-read thermometer inserted horizontally into the thickest part of the meat registers 130° for medium-rare. Transfer to a cutting board.
Cut the lemon in half and seed it. Squeeze the juice over the lamb. Loosely cover with aluminum foil and let the meat rest for 15 minutes before cutting into slices.
Serve with any juices that have accumulated.
Yield: 4 servings
First Published March 27, 2012, 4:15 a.m.
