Epicurious
This is my version of _harira_, the national soup of Morocco, which shows up in unending variations from city to city, street stall to street stall, and family to family. It can be vegan, vegetarian, or made with meat—usually lamb. Some cooks add chickpeas, chicken gizzards, or broken-up bits of angel hair pasta. But the result is always unmistakably _harira_, and that's what makes it so comforting and satisfying. _Harira_ has the inexplicable quality of being both light and filling at the same time, making you feel perfectly content. That's why, besides being the national soup, it's also a religious institution: it's what every family in Morocco eats to break their daily fast all through the monthlong observance of Ramadan. All over the country, for an entire month of sunsets, the first thing the entire population tastes is _harira_, and breaking the fast with anything else would be like serving Thanksgiving dinner without turkey. During Ramadan here in the States, I fast all day, even though I keep up my normal schedule, shopping in the farmers' market and working in the kitchen. As soon as the sun goes down, I step away from my expediting station and have a quick bowlful of _harira_ to get me through the evening. And on days off, I take home a quart of it to break the fast at my house. The first time you make this, try making a light meal of it, with just some bread and maybe a simple salad. You'll understand what I'm talking about. It's weirdly, wonderfully satisfying—in a way that fills your soul more than your stomach. I make _harira_ with water, not stock, because I think this vegetarian (actually, vegan) version is lighter and cleaner tasting, but you can make it with chicken or lamb stock or half stock and half water. While its flavor is very true to the original, I've played with its preparation. For example, I cook the lentils separately, to keep them from breaking down too much. (My mom called that crazy, but she smiled when she tasted the result.) And if you cook them in the soup, they darken the cooking liquid and give the soup a muddy appearance. The yeast-and-flour mixture is my version of the traditional starter made from fermented flour and water, used exclusively for _harira_, that you'll find in every Moroccan kitchen. It's easier to manage but has the same effect as that sourdough original, thickening and lightening the soup, and keeping it from separating, while adding a rich, tangy flavor. I wanted to give people a little crunch without adding an extra element, so I took the celery out of its usual place in the sautéed soup base and reintroduced it at the end as a raw garnish. In Morocco, _harira_ is classically served with dates, which add sweetness to balance the soup's acidity. Taste it without the dates, and then try it with them. You'll find it's an entirely different experience. When I first started serving this soup at the restaurant, I'd accompany it with a few beautiful (and expensive) California Medjools on the side. The dates kept coming back uneaten. People just didn't get the idea of savory soup and sweet dates, which drove me nuts. So I thought of a way to work the dates into the soup, rolling them into little balls and adding them as a garnish. People get it now. The date balls are never left uneaten. They're a part of the bigger idea, as they should be. This makes a big batch. That's how I always do it, even at home, because we love to eat it over several nights, and it keeps for up to a week.
