Sunday, March 26, 2006
You say empañada; I say empanada, but what about the dough?
Everywhere we look there’s compromise to be made. Perspectives, ideas, beliefs, biases and everything in between. When I thought about making empanadas, my first concern was, could they ever be as amazing or as tasty as Julia’s? Of course not, but she’s been at it for years. Once I reconciled that, I moved on to the next, inevitable concern: how do you really pronounce empanada? Do I sound completely ignorant when I leave out the “ñ?” Does it even matter?
Should I just call them homemade Hotpockets instead and openly throw away all credibility I might have had? The glory of Google came to my rescue here. Where else can you find a Spanish-Portuguese dictionary proving that no “ñ” belongs at all?
When I stopped fretting and started making the empanadas, I realized that all of my concerns were pointless when confronted with an imposing mound of flour on wax paper. It’s time. Just do it. Make that dough. And “make that dough” I did. I turned a veritable volcano of flour into beautifully smooth dough. Not without gaining a little perspective, though.
In the beginning, as I poured the homemade vegetable stock cup by cup into my volcano, I was sure this would be a failure. I knew that I would end up with a gooey mess of celery-onion-oregano glue. But somehow, as time passed and kneading became a groove, my glue gelled together. The pessimism faded into optimism, into excitement.
I realize that sometimes in life, we tell ourselves that failure seems logical and success is something we won’t experience simply because we haven’t seen it yet. As the girl who can barely remember to check the mail, how can I be expected to manage this empanada production? When confronted by something as yet undone, how do you know you can do it?
It turns out that the glue holding my life together is a mixture of moxie and preparation. The willingness to do what it takes and the gall to actually try it makes the impossible seem possible. Even with an MIA rolling pin, I managed to put together an impressive stack of equally sized empanada shells. Once you’ve spent an hour convincing flour, vegetable stock and shortening to get along, how do you turn your back when you can just use a can to roll things out?
When I look at my world, I recognize that I wouldn’t even know what an empanada is without having left the comfort of my Wisconsin roots. I mean; anything past pasties and cheese curds just doesn’t make sense. Yet, bucking the system as a rule, I managed to dart away from a life of supper clubs with fully-loaded baked potatoes into the great, wide world where curry and cumin reign hand-in-hand with the eggplant I hold so dear.
I take a look at a life pulled together by shear will and waitressing and I know that a little empanada is nothing to fear. Now if I can just figure out how to broil them without burning the tops…
Should I just call them homemade Hotpockets instead and openly throw away all credibility I might have had? The glory of Google came to my rescue here. Where else can you find a Spanish-Portuguese dictionary proving that no “ñ” belongs at all?
When I stopped fretting and started making the empanadas, I realized that all of my concerns were pointless when confronted with an imposing mound of flour on wax paper. It’s time. Just do it. Make that dough. And “make that dough” I did. I turned a veritable volcano of flour into beautifully smooth dough. Not without gaining a little perspective, though.
In the beginning, as I poured the homemade vegetable stock cup by cup into my volcano, I was sure this would be a failure. I knew that I would end up with a gooey mess of celery-onion-oregano glue. But somehow, as time passed and kneading became a groove, my glue gelled together. The pessimism faded into optimism, into excitement.
I realize that sometimes in life, we tell ourselves that failure seems logical and success is something we won’t experience simply because we haven’t seen it yet. As the girl who can barely remember to check the mail, how can I be expected to manage this empanada production? When confronted by something as yet undone, how do you know you can do it?
It turns out that the glue holding my life together is a mixture of moxie and preparation. The willingness to do what it takes and the gall to actually try it makes the impossible seem possible. Even with an MIA rolling pin, I managed to put together an impressive stack of equally sized empanada shells. Once you’ve spent an hour convincing flour, vegetable stock and shortening to get along, how do you turn your back when you can just use a can to roll things out?
When I look at my world, I recognize that I wouldn’t even know what an empanada is without having left the comfort of my Wisconsin roots. I mean; anything past pasties and cheese curds just doesn’t make sense. Yet, bucking the system as a rule, I managed to dart away from a life of supper clubs with fully-loaded baked potatoes into the great, wide world where curry and cumin reign hand-in-hand with the eggplant I hold so dear.
I take a look at a life pulled together by shear will and waitressing and I know that a little empanada is nothing to fear. Now if I can just figure out how to broil them without burning the tops…
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You're correct, the name of the pastry is always empanada.
There is a Spanish word empañada, but it's entirely unrelated -- it means misted or clouded, like a steamed-up mirror or a tarnished reputation.
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There is a Spanish word empañada, but it's entirely unrelated -- it means misted or clouded, like a steamed-up mirror or a tarnished reputation.
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