The One Spice I Could Never Give Up

Last month, I went to hear the musician Jordan Rakei perform. I knew only a few of Rakei’s songs, but I was soon sucked into harmonies that bounced off the walls, forming a self-contained universe of jazz, soul and R&B. It was lush, lavish, bighearted — transportive but in an enigmatic way, as I couldn’t quite tell what about the music made it feel so complete.

It wasn’t until Rakei introduced his collaborators onstage — guitarists, singers, percussionists, keyboardists, a Corsican polyphonic group and half an orchestral arrangement — and allowed each a long solo that it all made sense. The whole wasn’t greater than the sum of its parts; it was a perfect embodiment of each part and its singular abundance. Rakei’s special gift was making room for everybody and still revealing his own textured voice.

Recipe: Cabbage and Mandarin Orange Winter Slaw

This bringing together of many elements into a singular work that transcends and resonates them is what happens every time we throw ingredients into a pot and cook them. And though this may seem pretty obvious, I am always amazed by how we take it for granted, ignoring how multilayered and diverse it actually is. This is best illustrated, I find, with a small (but mighty!) ingredient in my winter slaw: cumin seeds.

Whenever I am asked what spice I would save if I had to give up my entire spice drawer, or about my ultimate cupboard ingredient (there are many variations on this question), I say cumin. Though it may not be my favorite spice — is there even such a thing? — cumin is so singular in flavor that it’s definitely the most impactful. It also covers the most ground, in the kitchen and across the globe.

Whenever I’m asked about my ultimate cupboard ingredient, I say cumin.

Cumin is unique among many of its fellow spices, like cardamom, cinnamon, allspice, clove and coriander (with which it is so often paired), in its pure savoriness. There isn’t a hint of sweetness in cumin, and for that reason, it is easily matched with many ingredients: most meat and fish, any vegetable, legumes, eggs and even cheese.

Countless quick dinners in my home kitchen start with vegetable chunks (cauliflower, potatoes, carrots, squash, eggplant or a large celery root) tossed in olive oil with cumin and minced garlic and roasted simply in the oven. What goes with it — chickpea stew, for example, or a tranche of fish — matters less. I can also, of course, add other spices to my vegetables: I can insert heat, acidity, sweetness, creaminess, but cumin is a wonderful starting point no matter what direction I end up taking.

Cumin’s ability to elevate a dish is peppered — or should I really be saying “cumined” — throughout history. As Gary Paul Nabhan writes in “Cumin, Camels and Caravans,” a historical outline of the global spice trade, “Once it has been introduced into a new land and culture, cumin has a way of insinuating itself deeply into the local cuisine, which is why it has become one of the most commonly used spices in the world.” As Nabhan suggests, and as is so evident to me when I travel the world, cumin is a basic ingredient in the tool kits of so many cooks who, just like me, are looking for something interesting to start building flavor with.

Cumin’s particular savory quality works so well when it is applied solo. More commonly, though, cumin is used across the world as part of an ensemble of ingredients that often underpin a whole cuisine or a range of local dishes.

I am thinking of North African ras el hanout or Middle Eastern baharat, two blends with, admittedly, many regional variations, but you can always find savory cumin balancing sweeter notes. They are added to meat, fish, vegetables and soups. I often use baharat as a base for a shawarma marinade applied to chicken or vegetables, adding extra cumin, turmeric and sumac.

Cumin and chopped cilantro is a common pairing in falafel and chermoula, a North African paste used for seasoning fish. Mexican bean and meat stews feature these two often as well. Lablabi, a hearty Tunisian chickpea stew with egg, includes a generous helping of cumin. Cilantro is optional, but harissa is essential, in much the same way that those Mexican stews would tend to feature dried chiles with a smokiness accentuated by the cumin’s woody aromas.

Cumin also suffuses masala mixes across the Indian subcontinent. I particularly love dal tadka, a dish in which garam masala, or a similar spice blend, is added to lentils to make a dal base. Separately, whole spices are tempered in hot oil or ghee — often cumin, garlic and chile — which is then poured over the dal as it is served, for flavor, texture and color.

Much like the individual contributors in Rakei’s ensemble, the solo appearance on the dal’s surface gives us cumin as both focal point and background player. Cumin — two ways — keeping things interesting and harmonious, as only this little spice does so well.