Injera

Today, I'm making injera:
Or, more accurately, THIS WEEK I'm making injera.  It all began on a particularly autumnal day, perfectly suited for a big bowl of nice warm stew.  For some bizarre reason, I chose to make an Ethiopian Stew, Yemiser W'et, from this cookbook.  At the end of the recipe it said, "serve with injera (see page 525)."  As Minneapolis is a hub for many east African immigrants, I could run to just about any local grocery store and pick up a batch of injera (this recipe suggested 3 batches), but here was a recipe staring me in my face like a dare. Little did I know it was a double-dog dare.


I'd already started the stew.  I began to mix the injera.  Eight cups of flour in, I realized I'd need a bigger bowl.  And that was only the first ingredient.  I poured my dry ingredients into an even bigger bowl.  Now I needed to add 12 cups of warm water.  And the biggest bowl in our kitchen had about an inch remaining of unfilled space.  Hemm.  Hah.  What shall I do?!?!


Oh, look, Ruth's cake carrier:

Pour, pour, mix mix mix.
Read the recipe: "Let rise 3 days at room temperature."
3 days!?!?  I put the lid on.


I ate my stew sans injera.  It was deliciously perfect for the crisp autumn weather outside.


I washed my many dishes. I revisited my mysterious injera and realized that if it had to rise for 3 days(!),  even this upside-down cake carrier was not nearly capacious enough.  I fetched my freshly washed mixing bowls and filled each about half full with injera batter, covered them, and began to wait.


All the next day at work I worried about my injera.  Would I return home to find a dough explosion all over my kitchen?  How much would my roommates hate me, should that happen?  (Un)fortunately, when I returned home my injera hadn't risen much.  Was this due to the lack of heat in our house?  I worried about my cold toes; Evie, Ruth, and I brainstormed all the warmer places we could be while wearing our heavy jackets inside.  Quietly, I gave a slightly concerned thanks for my un-exploded injera.  Three days passed without tragedy.  


Bread is funny that way, how it needs to rest.


Today is my first vacation day since school started after Labor Day.  Big plans for the day: clean the Teachers' Shelves at school; shop for linens; rearrange my room; put on storm windows.  But first, there's a video lecture I've been waiting to watch.  Oh, and my injera is NOW about to explode.  So I take my laptop to the kitchen and begin to fry (?) up my injera, one quarter cup of batter at a time.  The first few resemble pancakes (they should look more like crepes).  Mmm! Pancake!  I take a pinch of one.  Not sweet. Not a pancake.

Injera in the pan

Four hours later, the injera batter and I have become friends.  Not one thing has gotten crossed off the mental to-do list I'd begun accumulating for this single day a month ago.  I've spent the morning in the kitchen sipping coffee and water, pouring quarter-cups full of injera batter into a pan, one at a time, waiting, and repeating.  I made a second batch of Ethiopian stew (a different recipe this time) and a quart of vegetable stock to freeze for winter.  I've watched foot traffic come and go from the garage sale across the street.  But mostly, I wait.  The injera has begun to speak to me.  It likes the burner set at 2 and its edges begin to pull away from the pan when it needs me to lift it from the pan.  But mostly, I wait.


Bread is funny that way, how it requires me to rest.