Working at Salaam has given me the opportunity to research the foods of the Middle East, North Africa, Greece, Turkey, and other countries all along the Silk Road. This is very exciting to me, because at the same time as I am researching recipes and cuisines for the restaurant, Zak is writing a novel which includes characters who lived during the time the Moors ruled Al Andalus, a time and place where Jews, Christians and Muslims lived in harmony. (Not perfect harmony, but better harmony than has been managed anywhere else since.)

Both of the main characters are into food and cooking, so Zak has been asking me questions about the foods typical of the Muslims and Jews of that time period. So, my research is doing double duty, and the goodness that gets reaped is that I get to try out new recipes and flavor combinations both at home and at work. (Have no fear–even as I become fascinated with the foods of these regions, I will not abandon my first loves–Chinese and Indian foods. On the contrary, I am just as interested in them–in no small part because the foods of both countries also feature in the culture of the Silk Road. )

A new favorite recipe I have tried is the one we had for dinner tonight–a hearty soup from the Sephardic Jewish community of Tangier. When I saw it, I knew I would have to make it, as white beans and greens are two of my favorite foods. Bean soup was a big favorite of my childhood, though instead of greens and beef, ours was always made with ham, onions, carrots and celery.

Of course, this recipe is Jewish, so there is no ham, but I didn’t miss it. This soup is just too tasty.

I found the original recipe in a gorgeous little cookbook entitled, The Scent of Orange Blossoms: Sephardic Cuisine From Morocco, by Kitty Morse and Danielle Mamane. Their traditional version of the soup was made with chard–a green that was brought to Morocco from Spain by those who escaped the Inquisition by immigrating to North Africa. I would have used chard, however, I didn’t have any on hand. I did have kale, so that is what went into the pot. I am sure that the frugal Jewish mammas and grandmas who originated the dish would have approved–one makes do with what one has, after all.

In addition, changed the methodology a bit–the recipe in the book called for just putting the beef, dried beans, spices and carrots into the pot together with water or beef broth and bringing them to a boil, then simmering them all together without browning the beef. I like the flavors that browned meat brings to soups and stews, so instead, I heated up some olive oil in the soup pot, and added a thinly sliced onion and cooked it until it browned nicely, then added the cubes of chuck roast, and cooked them until they were browned deeply on all sides. Then, I added the spices and bay leaves, and deglazed the browned bits off the bottom of the pot with a bit of Shiraz wine, and then added beef broth, the beans and carrots.

I think that the addition of onion, wine and beef broth gave the final soup broth a very meaty flavor that is beguiling and well worth the extra trouble. Cooking the spices in the hot oil with the meat also helped bring out all of the volatile oils which lend their flavor and scent to the finished dish–these are all oil-soluble, being oils–so this leads to a more intense flavor extraction than you get from simmering in water alone.

Similarly, I substituted some smoked Spanish paprika, otherwise known as pimenton, for the sweet Hungarian variety. I did this for two reasons–one, I like the former better, and two, I suspect that it is probably a little bit more authentic, being that the Sephardic Jews originally came from Spain and Portugal, not Hungary. Of course, either paprika would work to give the soup a distinct, rich reddish-brown color which is quite appetizing to see. I also added a bare pinch of cinnamon to the soup near the end of cooking–I have found that if you put just a tiny bit of cinnamon in a dish with beef in it, the aroma of the spice seems to heighten the “beefiness” if the meat.

Cumin, which is the main spice in the dish, is also a perfect pairing with beef–I love how its somewhat musty, musky scent brings out the best in the strongly flavored tougher cuts of beef such as the chuck which is used in this soup. It brings a freshness to the beef, a sort of fragrant spark that dances on the palate like dapples of sunlight over the darker shadows that are the flavors of the meat.

This soup is really a simple dish–perfect for a light winter supper, especially with the addition of bread and a salad. If you want to spice up the flavors a bit, you could always add a spoon or two of harissa–a brilliant scarlet Moroccan chile sauce redolent with cumin, garlic and lemon juice. (I’ll post a recipe for it tomorrow, though you can buy it at many grocery stores and many Middle Eastern markets.)

Poteje Tangirois

Just before serving, stir in cilantro leaves.

“Sephawhuh?” I am sure that thought is running through many folks’ minds when they read the title of this post, but be at peace, and let me explain a bit.

“Sephardic”, is a term which refers to Jews from Italy and the Iberian Peninsula–meaning Spain and Portugal. It is one of the designations of Jews which refers to the geographical homeland or origin, as well as to the liturgical style which they follow in worship. Other terms which describe groups of Jews which you may or may not have heard are “Ashkenazic,” which refers to Jews whose ancestry hails from Germany, Eastern Europe and the Baltic region, and “Mizrahi,” which refers to the Jews of the Middle East–technically, it means, “Eastern.” In the US, the terms used are usually Ashkenazic, meaning those of Eastern European ancestry, and Sephardic, meaning those from everywhere else, not just Iberia and Italy, with the term Mizrahi not used at all, which makes it all somewhat confusing. In Israel, all three terms are used–so some American Jews who have ties to Israel (or who are scholars or genealogists) may have heard the term Mizrahi, but it is not used commonly here at all.

More’s the pity it isn’t used, because it is more specific and correct a term to use than to lump every Jewish person of non-Eastern European descent under the term, “Sephardic.”

It is all very complicated, yes, and I am simplifying greatly, but I wanted to give some background here so that folks who were not Jewish could follow along a bit.

Most Jews in the US are Ashkenazic, though there are a few Sephardic Jewish folks scattered about here and there. And so, the food that most of us Americans think of as Jewish are foods that are typical of Eastern European cuisines–cabbage rolls, brisket, knishes, kugel, latkes, blintzes, and of course, matzo ball soup. The foods of the Sephardi and Mizrahi are different, filled with the flavors of the Mediterranean, North Africa, Yemen, and the Middle East; with a much more pronounced use of spices and a myriad of herbs. Examples of Sephardic or Mizrahic foods would be hummus or falafel.

On Monday, Zak had an uncomfortable stomach, and asked me for matzo ball soup, and while I was in the kitchen, I began to think about what it would taste like from a Sephardic or Mizrahi kitchen. This is because he is working on writing a story that features a character whose mother is an American Ashkenazic Jew and her father is Sephardic, and he had been asking me about what kinds of foods Sephardic Jews cooked and ate. I had been doing a bunch of research for him on the issue, and all of the cookbooks and recipes I had been reading had fired my imagination.

So, I decided to experiment with the idea, and added a few spices, some tomato, some pasta, and a some chickpeas–and surprisingly, came up with a very delicious version of matzo ball soup, even if it probably doesn’t exist anywhere in nature.

Matzo balls, as I mentioned before, are an Ashkenazic food; though I have read here and there that there are some Jewish families in Turkey who make them for special holidays. after I made this soup, I found a vegetarian Sephardic version, which interestingly contained all of the root vegetables I used in my own recipe. I used mine because we all like them, but, perhaps, they may be somewhat authentic after all.

They are simply made; you beat together two eggs, two tablespoons of olive oil and two tablespoons of chicken or vegetable stock. Then, you mix in 1/2 cup of matzo meal, and season it as you like with salt and pepper. I also added some ground cumin, smoked Spanish paprika, and some thyme.

You let your matzo mixture sit in the fridge uncovered for a half an hour–this lets the liquids soak into the matzo meal. While the batter sits, you bring a large pot of water to boil. Then, with oiled fingers, you shape the batter into balls the size of walnuts and drop them into the boiling water. At first, they sink, and then, in a few seconds, they bob to the top of the pot, where they dance among the bubbles and waves. After they are all in the pot, you cover it up, and let them cook for twenty or thirty minutes. If you let them cook for twenty minutes, you then transfer them to the simmering soup where you let them cook the final ten minutes. If you let them cook thirty, you just transfer them to the soup and serve it all right away. (I like to let them cook the last ten minutes into the soup, because they soak up some of the soup broth that way, and become quite flavorful and rich that way.)

Anyway, how did it all turn out?

Zak, Morganna, Dan and James all loved it, and hoped I would make it more often. The Aleppo pepper, along with the browned onions, garlic and spices, gave a really strong flavor base to the soup. The turmeric and tomato combined to give a robust color and flavor to the broth as well, and the chickpeas not only added a good flavor, but their round shape echoed the matzo balls. The pasta could have easily been overdone, but thanks to the fact that I had very little of it on hand, it wasn’t. Now that I know that I could easily have overwhelmed the soup with too much pasta, I will have a care in adding noodles or pasta to soups in the future.

The combination of cumin, coriander and cinnamon warmed the soup up considerably, giving it a lovely aroma that was warming not only to the body but the soul as well.

There are variations I would like to do–like add some diced canned tomato, and probably more chickpeas. I would definitely use orzo in the soup instead of the ditalini I had here to use, although I am curious about how it would taste with rice added to it as well.

At any rate, it turned out to be quite a tasty soup, rich with chunks of chicken, root vegetables and chickpeas, fragrant with onions, garlic, herbs and spices, with delicately flavored matzo balls floating among the garnish of fresh green herbs among the droplets of golden chicken fat.

You could conceivably make this soup in a crock pot, starting it in the morning or the night before, and having it ready for dinner. Then, all you would have to do is make the matzo balls. I made it in about an hour by using the pressure cooker. You could also cut down on the time involved by using only bone-in chicken breasts and thighs; these would cook faster, and would be easier to debone. Or, you could use already cooked and shredded chicken from another recipe, but your soup broth wouldn’t be as flavorful as the one made with a whole chicken.

Sephardic Matzo Ball Soup

Serve with a crisp green salad with a simple vinaigrette.

Note: As Emily, a longtime reader, pointed out, Ashkenazic Jews traditionally serve matzo ball soup at Passover. During that holiday, families who keep kosher, meaning, they follow the laws of Kashrut which involve what foods to eat, and how to eat them, do not eat either noodles or legumes. Sephardic Jews, on the other hand, do eat legumes at Passover.

So, do understand that this soup I did not mean as a Passover dish, but rather a soothing, comforting soup for any day except Passover. And then, if it was for Passover, what was in it would depend upon the traditions of the household for which it was being cooked.

The shiksa–that’s me. I call myself that because I am a goyim married to a Jewish fellow; however, I am told by all of Zak’s relatives that I most definately -am not- a shiksa.

You see, “shiksa” is a derogatory term for a non-Jewish woman or girl. I don’t take it as a derogatory when I refer to myself that way, though. I just like the way the word sounds. “Shiksa.” Rolls right off the tongue, with the soft “shhh” sound and the hard “ks.” It is one of those words you can draw out forever and give a thousand intonations to–like this: “Shiiiiiksaaa.” Or, it can be short and sweet, like it is spelled–”shiksa.” It just has an appealing sound to me for some unknown reason. (But then, I like the sound of a lot of Yiddish words, so who knows?”

So, while Zak’s family most certainly do -not- consider me a shiksa, I sstill call myself that for fun, just ‘cuz.

And every now and then, I have to haul off and try out a recipe from Zak’s Eastern European Jewish heritage, just because, well heck–a lot of that food is damned fine and tasty. (Although, strangely enough, a lot of the traditional fare, Zak hates, but I like. Like sweet and sour red cabbage, chopped chicken liver and gefilte fish. He won’t touch any of them, whereas I think they are splendid. Go figure. Who knows, maybe I really was someone’s bubbe in a past life or something.) I have already written about my take on matzoh ball soup, which I renamed “Shiksa Ball Soup” just because it sounds funny, and then I can say things like, “I bet you didn’t know shiksas had balls.”

Last night, I decided it was high time this shiksa took on the challenge of making blintzes from scratch.

What are blintzes, you goyim are probably wondering?

Well, they are like French crepes, but better. Let me tell you all about my first experience with cheese-filled blintzes way back in my college years around 1984 or so, back when there was a Jewish delicatessen in Huntington West Virginia named “Victors.” I think that little story will explain blintzes better than a clinical description could.

Back in the day, I was standing in line at Victors along with a group of friends who had all decided to go out for a corned beef sandwich and some matzoh ball soup. Mind you, we were all goyim. I wasn’t really in the mood for a corned beef on rye, so I was looking on the menu board, and I saw something called “cheese blintzes–served with your choice, sour cream or applesauce.” So, I said aloud, hoping one of my friends knew from blintzes, “What are blintzes? What kind of cheese is in them?”

A voice from behind me says, “Oy, listen to the little goy girl, wanting to know from blintzes.” I turned around and there was a stereotypical Jewish grandmother standing behind me, all round and smiling. “You want to know about blintzes?” she asked, and before I could answer, she continued, “They are only the best thing on this earth God never made.”

I raised an eyebrow. “So God didn’t invent the blintz?”

She smiled, eyes twinkling and winked. “Oh, no, honey, God didn’t invent them. A Jewish bubbe invented them, bless her for her foresight and ingenuity.”

I found myself smiling and said, “What are they?”

She patted my shoulder and said, “Oh, they are paper-thin pancakes, like crepes, only better than the French do, and filled with sweetened cottage cheese and fried in butter.”

“How can that be bad?” I said, and grinned as she nodded. “I’ll order them. Thank you.”

She smiled broadly and squeezed my shoulder again. “You’re too thin, honey, you need those blintzes–oh, and when they ask sour cream or applesauce, get both so you can figure out which you like better.”

Which is what I did.

And I was glad I did it, though I found I liked the sour cream slightly better, because, frankly, the bubbe was speaking truth–I was too thin. The blintzes would have been the first and only thing I ate that day, as I was an anorexic at the time.

So, those are blintzes–only the the best thing on this earth that God didn’t invent.

So, let’s bow our head and thank the bubbes who have been making blintzes forever and ever and start talking about making them.

The version of blintzes I decided I wanted to make is somewhat untraditional. I wanted to fill them with sweetened cheese, of course, but I also wanted to top them with a sauce made from the fresh sour cherries which were sitting in the fridge all lonely and sad. As I did a bit of research on the net and found out that blintzes probably originated somewhere in Poland where sometimes they are filled with sour cherries, I was happy to know that my instinct wasn’t that far off from tradition.

What recipe did I use? Well, I consulted with The Molly Goldberg Jewish Cookbook, a venerable tome by radio, stage and television actress Gertrude Berg and cookbook writer Myra Waldo first published back in 1955 when the TV show “The Goldbergs” was popular. Normally, I don’t purchase cookbooks that are tied into a television or radio show, but when I bought it, it looked like a neat bit of history, and I was right.

The blintz recipe from the book also worked quite well, so I cannot complain that the recipes are not good, either. The thin pancakes came out just as Ms. Waldo and Ms. Berg promised they would, though I did add a pinch of cardamom and didn’t use butter to cook the pancakes themselves in, but instead used a tiny spritz of canola oil in my small Le Creuset frying pan just as if I was making crepes. (I still fried the filled blintzes in butter, so do not start scolding me–they turned out really well, in fact.)

The filling recipe was also accurate, though, of course, I did change it around a little. It called for two egg yolks, but considering how large my pastured eggs were and how rich the yolks are, I only used one. I also sweetened it primarily with honey and used the zest of one lemon in it, just to you, know, add my own little shiksa touch.

With the sour cherry sauce, I was on my own, so I improvised. It was simple, really, and the results were spectacular. I think you could use this sauce in place of any recipe that called for canned cherry pie filling, and the results would be far superior to the original version.

The next day, with four leftover crepes and some leftover filling, I made blueberry cheese blintzes by adding a few fresh blueberries to the filling, wrapping them up and frying them. Served with a sprinkle of powdered sugar and a scattering of blueberries, they looked lovely and tasted quite divine.

Cheese Blintzes with Sour Cherry Sauce

Note:
I liked the cherry sauce version better, but Zak liked the version with the blueberries mixed in the cheese filling and sprinkled on top better. You should try both and see which one -you like better and let me know whether Zak or I are right!

The finished soup, ready to go forth and heal the sick. I have never seen it raise the dead, though it has come close.

I will be the first to admit that most shiksas do not have balls. But this one does.

Of course, this entire discussion is predicated upon the reader knowing what the hell a shiksa is. “Shiksa” is an uncomplimentary Yiddish term for a female gentile. I, being not Jewish, could be called a shiksa, though it wouldn’t be very nice to do so. All of my Jewish friends and relations assure me that I am not a shiksa.

The problem is, I like the -sound- of the word, and enjoy saying it. “Shiksa.” It is just fun to say. Say it with me. “Shiksa.” I like to draw out the “sh,” and then append the “iksa” in a quick perfunctory fashion. One of the greatest words of all time.

Now, knowing as we do that a shiksa refers to the female of the species, why would she be endowed with anything resembling balls?

Well, I am not referring to that kind of balls. I am actually referring to matzo balls.

Matzo balls are dumplings made out of matzo meal, which is ground up matzo. Matzo, for those who are not knowledgable about such things, is the crisp unleavened bread that is eaten during Passover in remembrance of the exodus from Egypt, when the Jewish people had no time to leaven their bread, so they made flat breads.

Matzo balls are usually served in a very rich chicken stock, which may or may not have noodles in it in addition to the balls. Sometimes there are shreds of chicken. A sprinkling of herbs is nice, but it is a fairly simple soup.

It is the soup that Bubbes (Jewish Grandmas) make when kids and grandkids get sick. And it is a supreme comfort food, indeed.

Well, that is great, but I like soups that eat like a meal, so the first time I made matzoh ball soup, I added an entire farmer’s market worth of vegetables. Leeks, garlic, carrots, mushrooms and potatoes all found their way into the soup, along with the chicken and the matzoh balls. In fact, I changed the dish so much, I felt the need to rename it. Having a sick sense of humor, I called it Shiksa Ball Soup. Zak and his family all think it is a cute name, so it stuck.

To this day, it is what Zak wants when he is sick, unless he wants Hong Kong style Barbeque Pork Noodle Soup, in which case, I make that for him, though it is infinately more complicated, involving a pork and chicken stock and Chinese barbeque pork.

When I was a personal chef in Baltimore, several of my clients were Jewish. I was booked for Passover every year by a wonderful woman who grew up in Russia, and who was a most delightful cook herself. She would have me help her cook for the sedar, which is the ritual Passover meal, because it was a lot of company and she getting up in years and wanted to be able to enjoy the dinner and ceremony. So, I would come and help with the main course, and once she saw I knew how to make matzoh ball soup, I would make that, though I would stick to the traditions and not “shiksa up” the recipe. She laughed when I told her about my version and what I called it, though she assured me that I was no shiksa.

I would serve the dinner, but hang out in the kitchen, watching the food. Her husband, who conducted the service, had the most beautiful tenor voice, and he chanted many parts of the Hebrew. The melody would soar and dip like a bird in flight and I would hover near the door, listening.

When they found out I was listening, they made a place at the table and insisted I sit with them. They had assumed that since I was a gentile, I would not be interested. So, I sat with them, and celebrated with them. At one point while we were eating, one of the guests pointed to the empty place set at the table near the open dining room door. “Why is it we always set an empty place at Passover?” the woman, who was indeed Jewish, asked.

Before I could check myself, I said, “It is for Elijah. That is why the door is open, too.”

Everyone looked at me with surprise, and the host smiled. “Yes, yes, you are right!” he exclaimed and then went on to explain the tradition of leaving a place for the prophet Elijah to his guest. I blushed and was silent, but my client, as we cleared the plates said that I shouldn’t be embarrassed to know so much.

“It was her who should have known and didn’t who should be embarrassed.”

So we served the next course, and all was well, though I felt very shiksa-awkward for a while after that.

Let us fast-forward to yesterday evening. We were supposed to be flying to Tucson for vacation. Instead, Zak was abed, sick with the flu, and I was in the kitchen, cooking shiksa ball soup, and praying that the touch of the flu I had didn’t develop into a full-blown case of it. (So far, so good.)

Since I had the flu, I did not start with a whole chicken carcass. I cheated and started with chicken broth, because I was too tired to roast bones and skim scum off the top of a stockpot. Besides, Zak needed healing, pronto, so I needed to make soup in a couple of hours, not in a process that takes all day.

But there is so much other good stuff in there, and I made the shiksa balls from scratch, so hey–it turned out to be quite flavorful. When next I have a whole chicken to work with, then, I shall make shiksa ball soup slowly and traditionally, rather than using my fast, cheater’s method.

But, as I said, I am breaking tradition all over the place in this soup, so why not?

Also, I used leeks in the soup. I love leeks in soups and stews; if you slice them very finely they eventually break down into the broth, giving it body and a most delicious flavor. However, there is a problem when it comes to leeks. They are filthy. Fine black grit gets in between the layers that make up the leek stalk, so I advocate rinsing them, cutting off the root ends, splitting them in half, and then rinsing them again. And then, I slice them thinly and stick them in a big bowl and rinse them again, letting them soak a bit this time. I swish them around in the water with my hand, and then lift them out of the water–if you pour them into a colander and let the water wash over them, all the grit just gets back on them. And gritty soup sucks, let me tell you. After lifting them out of the water, pouring out the bowl and rinsing it, I repeat the bowl treatment at least two more times.

Notice the dirt caught between the layers of the leeks. This is why I advocate cutting the leeks up and then rinsing them in at least three changes of water.

Leeks are a pain in the tuchus, but they taste really good, so it is worth it.

You will also note the presence of dried shiitake mushrooms and a dash of soy sauce in this soup. I generally explain this by commenting on the Jewish people who wandered off and ended up in China (apparently, several of the lost tribes did this a long time ago–I used to joke about this as an explanation as to why Jewish folks love Chinese food so much, but I recently read an article by a scholarly rabbi documenting just such a historical occurance, so I guess I won’t joke about it any more), but the truth of the matter is that both add a great amount of flavor to the soup, so that is why they are there.

I also add turmeric, not only for the rich yellow color it imparts to the broth, but also for the subtle flavor it gives the soup.

Here is the recipe as I made it last night:

Shiksa Ball Soup

Ingredients:

2 tablespoons olive oil
4 large leeks, sliced thinly and washed at least three times, then drained
5 cloves garlic, minced
2 tablespoons fresh rosemary, minced
1 teaspoon dried thyme
1/4 teaspoon dried sage
1/2 teaspoon crushed celery seed
1/2 teaspoon turmeric
2 bay leaves
black pepper to taste
1/4 cup sherry or dry white wine
3 quarts chicken broth
2 cups vegetable broth
1/2 pound baby red potatoes, scrubbed and cut into eighths
1/2 pound baby carrots
2 dried shiitake mushrooms, soaked
1 tablespoon aged soy sauce or tamari soy sauce
1 1/2 boneless skinless chicken breasts, diced
2 eggs, well beaten
2 tablespoons olive oil
1/2 cup matzo meal
1/4 teaspoon salt
seasoning to taste (I used Penzey’s Fox Point and Northwoods Seasonings and a dash of dried chipotle chile powder)
2 tablespoons chicken broth
2 small turnips, peeled and diced finely

Ingredients for shiksa ball soup, the fast method.

Method:

Heat olive oil in a heavy-bottomed, deep soup or stock pot. Add washed, drained leeks to the oil, and saute until they just begin to turn golden and shrink a bit. Add garlic, herbs and spices, and continue cooking until the leeks begin to brown on the edges, then add sherry or white wine and allow alcohol to boil off.

Here, the leeks, garlic, and herbs are cooked in olive oil a bit in order to make a flavor base for the soup. Eventually, the leek slices will disintigrate into the broth, giving it body and wonderful flavor.

Add chicken and vegetable broth. Add potatoes and carrots, and bring to a boil, then turn down to a simmer.

Take shiitake out of the soaking water and squeeze out the excess water. Cut off stems and discard, then cut the mushroom caps into a dice. Add to the pot, along with the soaking liquid. Allow soup to cook while you prepare shiksa balls.

Dried shiitake mushrooms before being soaked.

Beat eggs, oil, salt and seasoning together until well combined. Add matzo meal and stir to combine. Add broth and stir well. Cover loosely with plastic wrap and let mixture sit in the refrigerator for fifteen minutes.

When the potatoes are tender and done, take out shiksa ball mixture. Add diced chicken to the soup, and bring to a boil, then turn down to an active simmer.

Using a small cookie scoop or a tablespoon, scoop up mixture and form into balls. Drop into simmering soup and cover with lid. Set timer for fifteen minutes.

Using a cookie scoop makes the making of matzoh balls a less messy and somewhat simpler process.

After fifteen minutes, add turnips, put lid on pot and set timer for fifteen more minutes.

When timer goes off, the shiksa balls should be done, and the soup is ready to serve.

Unlike most people, I cook the matzo balls in the soup itself, because I like the soup flavor to get into the dumplings. Also, why dirty two pots?

Okay, a few more words about matzo, or shiksa balls.

There are two kinds of them–dense ones that Zak kindly refers to as “neutronium balls” and light fluffy ones which I call “fluffbunny balls.” He prefers the former, which is what my recipe will make. If you want the lighter ones, there are a couple of things you can do. One, is you can get Manischewitz Matzo Ball Mix and follow the directions on the package. When I do that, they turn out light and fluffy. I suspect that the bicarbonate of soda that is in the mix is what does the trick.

If you follow my recipe, they will be heavier, though not leaden. Leaden shiksa balls would be nasty indeed, and would probably not heal anyone or anything.