You don’t even want to know how long it took me to spell Moroccan right.
Who rightly cares though because THIS DISH. Ahhhhhhh!
It’s going to change you. As a person. Changed.
Also, I’m having a serious talk with myself right now about the amount of all-caps abuse in the coming of this post.
I TRY, I DO.
(^^ I’d like to apologize on behalf of that rude carrot that is giving you the bird. ^^)
First of all, it’s slow cooker. The heavy lifting is in the beginning. And by heavy lifting I mean fat trimming. I know we’ve discussed this before, but let’s talk about it again! I LOVE TO TRIM FAT. Do you? Tell me I’m not alone in this dark world.
There’s something so meditative about it. Cutting that enorm meaty shoulder/butt open right in the middle, only to discover a world of marbled ick that needs a haircut. All of these words are disgusting and awful, I know.
It seriously takes me half an hour to trim a 3-pound chunk o’ meat. I hum. I chant. I get super into it. And you’re super into x-ing out of this blog post if I don’t change the subject.
After some trimmin’, throw that sucker into a slow cooker with some black beans, diced tomatoes, onions, garlic, CARROTS (I feel like carrots are totally Moroccan. Like, if you get a Moroccan dish somewhere, there’s always a good looking carrot in it), and spices!
But let’s talk about the spice. Oh geez. This freaking spice.
Our first day in London, we took this fun little gastro pub tour, where we dropped into this tiiiiiny SPICE SHOP O’ BLISS. I think I snapped it, saying it smelled like a delicious armpit or something. You know what I mean!? How spices can totally smell tantalizing and slightly funk-0-tron at the same time? In the best way? This is a good thing. Anyway, I bought this Moroccan Raz El Hanout and slipped into a coma at the first sniff. The petite, portly British cashier chirped, “Put this ovah pork and beans! You’ll nevah be the same.”
(pee ess – you can find the spice on the spice aisle at your store! not the London version, so it won’t be exaaaactly the same. but you’re still a good person.)
Sixish hours later, a little shreddin’ right in the pot, some fresh parsley and a bit of zingy lemon juice, and you’ve got this beckoning baby beaut.
I served mine over basmati rice, and it one beautiful day for my tum. (<–gross) But even some torn crusty bread or couscous or even flat egg pasta would be ridic divine.
(This is the part where you’re changed forever.)
(Like, I can’t wait for you to taste it and faint over and over.)
(It’s stupid good. Did I mention that?)
GET YOUR FACE IN IT.
Can you believe I made it this entire blog post without a single “rockin’ Moroccan” joke? Will you forgive me?