Alchemical Bites

Legacy

2010-12-24T21:10:00.000-08:00

It's because of her I cook, and possibly cook well.

It's her voice I hear when I shop for ingredients, reminding me that I need more of this, less of that. That I don't need to spend so much for this and instead--why don't I try what I've got in the house?

My Ilocano mother was a brilliant cook. That she could make something out of nothing was endemic to her day and time, when resources were scarce and surviving during wartime occupation -- good times hard to find. But when family got together, and guests came over, you put out your best. And mama ALWAYS put out her best, especially here in America, where she built a comfortable life for us. This was a woman who learned to cook on a stove made from firewood and stones, cooking rice in a clay pot, and preparing fish freshly caught from the sea nearby and vegetables grown in the family garden.

Those practices stayed with her in America, and mama's garden was full of hot purple garlic from the Philippines, sweet potatoes, whose greens we'd eat, and calabasa - or what we now refer to as kombucha squash. She kept the ocean perch she caught in the Monterey Bay in her freezer in the garage, and was always, as they say these days -- food secure. Its a value that I take with me. Unconsciously, I still feel the anxiety she felt working hard to make sure there was rice, salt and sugar in the house by New Year's or else, as cultural superstition dictated, you'd go hungry that year.

From my dad, I learned all about volume. He cooked three meals a day for 200 men--mostly migrant laborers "imported" from Mexico to harvest lettuce, apples and strawberries. I was a kid, not old enough to go to school but observant enough to be fascinated by the stores of beans and rice my father kept in the dry goods room of his kitchen, and a walk-in refrigerator where freshly slaughtered pig was quartered for family meals for an entire season. My fondest memory of the summer was taking naps on sacks of pinto beans and breathing in the rice flour talc covering the Calrose rice my dad used to make arroz con tomates. Mexican rice.

All the rest came from instinct--from learning away from home how to make a roast chicken - a basic food lesson that everyone who wants to take care of themselves should learn. How to make a pilaf, which is the basis for most cooking throughout the world. When I was grown I watched mama cook with interest: how and why she'd smash garlic into a paste in hot oil before putting in the meat and vegetables - it softened the garlic sharpness. I watched when she browned the meat before pouring in the braising liquids for a long-slow roasting in the oven. When I was much older and she could no longer recall the difference between salt and sugar, it became my turn to take over in the kitchen, and I was cooking for her.

2010. Christmas Eve morning, my nephew Nikko called from North Carolina to retrieve my recipe for chicken adobo--he was cooking Christmas Eve dinner for his girlfriend's family tonight. Tonight, my sister Rain, her husband Rick and my niece Felicia came over to my house for Christmas Eve dinner. A first. We had a meal I remembered from Cafe Angeline's in Paris: salmon and haricot verts. Poached salmon with creamy tarragon sauce and green beans, accompanied by champagne and zabayon for dessert. We paused and prepared a meal for the ancestors -- for Mama, whose picture faces my kitchen-dining room in my cozy little cottage in Berkeley. Felicia, my blog co-creator and Number 1 in the kitchen was helping.

Per our tradition, particularly now that Mama has passed, we lit candles in memory and in prayer, and I could only say that this was a dream. My family, here, with me. And like Mama, I put out my best. It was my duty.

Mama, this is for you. You taught me well, and we learn and remember: you are what you eat, and you are what you cook. So glad you were there to teach me and continue to be here, right in the heart. That's where I cook from.

The Full Loop

2010-02-23T10:52:00.000-08:00

We're near the end of an 18-hour marathon of shopping, prepping, chopping, tasting and cooking for Sunday's birthday party for Ruthie's mom. With a crew call at the client's house set for 7:30am sharp in Santa Monica, every minute is critical, and getting every bite right is your only goal.

Using the kitchen timer on my niece's stove, catching respite with snore-filled catnaps on her couch, we managed to spell each other from midnight to 2:00am cooking and checking batch after batch of roasted red potatoes, letting them brown to golden, smearing them with a luscious mix of olive oil, garlic, chopped parsley and sea salt. Please everyone, remind me when I have had more sleep, to write more about the sensually titillating experience of rubbing warm potatoes with a bath of olive-oiled garlic and herbs. I'm serious.

For those who don't know Ruthie, I introduced her here when I first started this blog. She called me to cater this event because 1) She's tasted my food and she's sold; 2) she's a big fan of Alchemical Bites; 3) her daughters, Maya and Sarah fell in love with me when I introduced them to dark chocolate fondue with fresh pineapple at their father's election victory thank-you party for his volunteers, which I catered.

To say catering, or for that matter, industrial cooking like my father did is hard is an understatement. It can be brutal on your body if you don't take extra care of yourself.

First, to be able to think on your feet--a necessary survival strategy in the kitchen, you have to think of your feet. You only have two of them. They're there to move you through an obstacle course of deliveries, wending your way through a kitchen, kicking the door open when both hands are full, and they're probably the last sentient extremities you have left, doing their job while you're keeping your eyes open with toothpicks and your hands are on auto-pilot. You've got to have good arch support in your shoes. In fact, I will fight to the death with any fashionista to defend Mario Batali's living in his fashion-backward orange crocs. I understand, man. Its a totally forgiveable fashion faux pas and an industrial necessity.

You've got to do some form of strength exercise. I don't care: if you can manage a weekly visit to the gym or your Pilates instructor, or do yoga or get a massage, if you do anything even while in the act of making love that gives you some form of core and back strengthening, you'll last longer. When you're bending over a cutting board prepping your vegetables, heaving loads of crates, or pots full of boiling broth, lifting heavy trays of hot food out from under the broiler and you don't have a second to lose--any physical advantage you have is critical to endurance, which is what this business is.

Music is not optional. It is the atmosphere you breathe in to keep you motivated through your day. It also keeps you inspired when you begin to find yourself thinking all of your food tastes the same, or you just can't figure out what spice configuration you need to make the chutney complete, or you've got to determine whether you should make that eighth trip to Ralph's to get more of the vanilla extract that's just run out, or should you use almond extract instead. Music fills the gaps in self-inspiration. It often and always, as Sly and the Family Stone sing--takes you higher.

Comrades in arms. What can I say about this? That I was lucky enough for my sister to give birth to my best kitchen partner in this incarnation in life? It appears to me now that Fi chose to come to this lifetime gifted with a wisdom beyond her years, and the ability to instantly pick up cooking instructions and subsequently IMPROVE them. She's been this way in the kitchen since she was five, by the way. I love the way she swims in the kitchen under even the most stressful of times, as a fish takes to water.

As I am writing this, I am full of memories of my father coming home every night after an 18 hour day in the camp kitchen where he worked for twenty years. His was a life of hard labor, which undid him in the end, but was also filled with some fun times with mates watching over large-scale production of food, sharing filthy stories and ribald jokes to keep it going. Of my mother who labored in a canning factory in Watsonville, California grading produce for packaging and shipment, buoyed by friendships that stood the test of time, following her into retirement and the last years of her life. Fi and I come from a long, proud line of hard working people who did their best under amazingly hard circumstances, weary and grateful they had the skills to make it work in this rough place called America.

In a way, we have come the full loop. Daughter and granddaughter of new immigrants taking on, with pleasure and satisfaction, the jobs our family took on to survive when they first arrived. This time though, there's the difference of experience, modern health regimes, and the wisdom of good business decisions to make sure we get the recognition and the time we need to take good care of ourselves and keep the flame burning without destroying the torch. We're in this because we love this. There's no other reason better than that to do anything.

My father and mother, upstairs in heaven, must both be laughing with pride.

Getting reacquainted

2010-02-20T00:07:00.000-08:00

Has it really been a year since we have last “shared a meal” on this cyber-table? It’s hard to believe that the last piece I wrote was about helping to slaughter and serve a whole pig in Costa Rica. And to think one of my first articles was about being a vegetarian...

...Well I still am vegetarian (barring my carnivorous respite abroad—traveling isn’t traveling with dietary restrictions), and I’m back in good ole Los Angeles, featured city of this month’s Saveur magazine. And who is that on my couch (in the same apartment that I moved into 2 years ago—my have we come far together)? None other than my soul mate in the kitchen, my Auntie Fe! She’s here to visit and to cater a birthday party with me. Yikes! Although she is a seasoned pro at catering, this will be one of my first forays into cooking for people other than my friends and family. I am confident, of course, that we will do brilliantly—we are UNSTOPPABLE as a team in the kitchen (not to brag or anything). But I am a little...uneasy, about cooking for people that I don’t know. How can I mix in the right emotion? How can I pour in love for people I have met only twice? I am at a loss—so much of cooking, for me, is sharing something with people—like a conversation. It’s so easy to share with people I know and love: I know their tastes (food-wise and in general) and moods—I know that eggplant parmesan will taste great with a favorite wine and even better if I play that one song; or that chunky guacamole will remind him of home... I guess I’ll have to trust my intuitions on this one...more to come

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But for now, let’s get caught up on what’s been going on in my food-world in our year apart. Back in LA, I have endless (and I mean ENDLESS) sources of to-die-for food. Food to eat, food to cook, food to dream about. Talk about culture shock from the sweet simplicity of Costa Rica. Farmer’s markets are always the top of my food to-do list at any given time. Luckily there is at least one good farmer’s market open EVERY DAY in LA where I can usually find Tara Kolla, an advocate for urban farms and founder of Silverlake farms, who came to speak to my Education for Sustainable Living class. And here’s the thing about farmer’s markets. Not only are they great for local businesses and organic food and helping the environment, but everything TASTES so much BETTER! And not usually more expensive than buying at Ralph’s (the one I live next to is the nation’s most expensive branch—yikes!). And if it is more expensive...what the heck, I’m saving money by not buying meat, right? If all I eat are veggies, then I’m gonna get GOOD veggies. And my cooking has never been better. I have also been trying to go out to different places—I’ve hit up some of the more “trendy” places, like Real Food Daily (a very hip vegan restaurant—I sat next to Jason Schwartzman, and Urth Caffe (great vegan chocolate cake), but I’ve gotta say, the best places are still the holes-in-the wall joints (that don’t have websites or names more clever than “Indian Cuisine”), and meals-on-wheels fruit vendors and gastro-trucks (that now roll onto campus and can be tracked by twitter).

So that’s it, for now....OK, so I’m skipping out on some bigger food adventures—but those deserve their own stories. For now I’ll say that I am still eating (A LOT) and enjoying the flavors of life with my friends and family—the best side dishes anyone could ever ask for.

Food is for Family

2008-11-30T07:10:00.000-08:00

I wrote the following piece about my food experiences during my homestay for one of my classes....

Life in San Luis with the Mata-Vargas family is all about simplicity. The farm is small and simple; the house is small and simple. It doesn’t take much to be happy, especially in such a warm and loving family. The food follows the same pattern—maybe that’s why I like it so much: I mean, life has many complications (no matter how simply you live), so why not keep what you can control in life simple?

To say that the food was simple is not to say that it wasn’t completely satisfying, for my body and for my spirits. Every meal was warm and freshly prepared and well balanced. And that in itself is quite a feat. One complication in life that Eliza, my home stay mother, faces in preparing these wonderful meals to nourish her family, is that every member seems to have a different schedule and different preferences. But it is important to Eliza that her family eats their meals warm and fresh. Breakfast is an especially important meal—“I don’t understand how people can be satisfied with only a bowl of cereal in the morning. I need something hardy, to make me strong for the day,” she says. She usually prepares scrambled eggs on tortillas (fresh and hand-made, of course), gallo pinto, and if there is meat left over from dinner, she will heat that up as well—simple and hardy. But breakfast is actually the most complicated meal during the week. Adrianna, the teenager, catches the bus in Santa Elena to go to school in the San Luis at 5:30 am every morning—hers is the first meal that Eliza prepares around 4:30. Next, Alvaro (my home stay dad) awakes, and Eliza again prepares a fresh breakfast. Some days she’ll eat her breakfast with her husband, other days I don’t know when she makes time for herself to eat. Finally I wake up at 6:15, usually just after Laura, the three-year-old, (and the most picky eater) wakes up and avoids her mother’s first attempt at getting her to eat. Laura is usually willing to eat what I eat—gallo pinto is her favorite, and always papaya when it is our fresh fruit option. All this is accomplished by the simplicity of the meal—Eliza just chops up some cilantro, onions and peppers for the gallo pinto, and combines the rice and beans from the night before, and keeps a bowl of eggs waiting by the stove, and tortillas patted out, ready for the pan—every thing is ready to be cooked fresh as each member of her family awakes.

As important as meals are, I am surprised by how quiet it usually is around the table. True, we rarely all could eat together (even for lunch and dinner), but when we did, we were generally in our own thoughts. I think that for this family, dinner is a time to be tranquillo, to wind down, and to appreciate life. These meals, as simple as they may be, are the fruits of much labor and love. Eliza went once a week all the way to Santa Elena to buy groceries (anything that wasn’t grown on their own farm), and plans the week so effortlessly. She knows exactly what each family member liked and would eat, exactly which treats to buy. They don’t have much, and although they aren’t extravagant, meals are an expression of love and care.

The value of food as a symbol of care is most evident when guests come to visit. On my last Saturday, Adrianna had her fifteenth birthday party, and the whole family came to celebrate. For this occasion, my family bought a whole pig. A couple family members who live nearby came over on Friday, and we spent the whole day cutting and preparing, snacking and chatting around the traditional wood burning “cocinera.” So much love, work and pride went into preparing the food for Adrianna’s big day. And during the party it was clear that food was an important part of the culture of the family. The epicenter of the fiesta was in the back, around the cocinera, where the family munched continuously through the night, as they shared their contentment.

...During the party, and especially during the preparation for this party, I could only think of my own family, and of my Ammy Irene. I imagined that she would have prepared for a party like this much in the same way. The huge pot of pork cooking over the woodburning stove, the constant snacking as we cooked as a family. The smells and the sound of crackling meat in a hot pan brought me back to my grandmother's kitchen, and I was able to appreciate more than ever the love that is involved in preparing meals like this.

Ohhh Baby Baby It's a Wild World

2008-11-03T20:08:00.000-08:00

Remember that song from Cat Stevens? I'm reminded of that as I read the further adventures of Little Fi in Costa Rica, and reflect on what a month and a half of political writing for Planetwaves is doing for my head.

We are and always will be a political family. My sister, Fi's mom got her degree in social science and Master's in education at UCSC. Fi's paternal grandmother was a teacher for the Pajaro Valley Unified School District. Fi's auntie, me--well I've been politically active since I started work as a CETA artist here in San Francisco. I am an artist-activist, and have been a core member of one of the nation's highly recognized women's theater company - Cultural Odyssey's the Medea Project--Theater for Incarcerated Women.

In that environment, all Fi had to do (because I've always believed she was an old soul to begin with) was be observant. And she is.

Here we are, November already. The world is becoming a wider, wilder place for me and my family, physically and intellectually. Our country is changing, and hopefully, we're changing with it. We're all learning, and the world at this stage, is in transition. You can feel it by the season and you can feel it by the news. We're going to change.

Aside from my blood family, the one thing though that keeps me grounded here in my little Berkeley cottage is the love of my extended family - friends Bob and Wen, Karen and Jim--and having a few glasses of wine, some beastly argument over politics and a great dinner. Hey--its the Berkeley way. And what goes better with some lamb shank osso bucco than some raw veggies with bagna cauda and some risotto milanese?

A little argument with your salad?

A Lobster Experience

2008-09-30T22:15:00.000-07:00

I’m diving in Belize with my dad for a week, and I’ve just had one of the top lobster experiences in my life. It was an EXPERINCE, not just a meal.

The dive shop we are diving with, Chuck and Robbie’s, is small and locally owned. So local, in fact, it is located on the beach right in front of Robbie’s father-in-law’s house.

As it turns out, Robbie’s father-in-law (we never did catch his name), a short, happy, always chuckling and smiling man, is a fisherman. The other day, around 9 in the morning, he came up to the shop with a bucket full of large lobster tail. He had caught them that morning, by hand. Yes, by hand, meaning he went out there with fins and weights and dove down for each one of them. He sold us some on the spot, straight out of the bucket—dinner.

That night, we took them to our room (which had a kitchen) and made a feast. Rice with black beans, steamed peas from a local veggie stand and of course, broiled lobster tail. DELICIOSO. Washed down with the local beer, Beliken.

This simple meal was by far the best lobster experience I’ve had in my recent memory, and never have I enjoyed it so close to the source. Not only did we buy it directly from the man who caught it, on the morning it was caught, but just the day before we had dove and seen these lobster in their native home! Talk about fresh. Just another confirmation that the fresher, more local and native the food, the better.

Just Where Have I Been?

2008-09-29T12:37:00.000-07:00

Just want to let friends and family know that I, Auntie Fi, aka Fe Bongolan, have not fallen off the flat end of the earth. I've been busy writing elsewhere. I was asked to join the crew at Eric Francis' Planetwaves to help out with writing while we're in the midst of a very busy campaign season.

A little background for those of you who know me from my food writing only: I am also a political blogger. In 2003-04 I was a blogger and blog moderator for the Kerry-Edwards campaign. In the past, I've posted at Democracy Cell Project. Most times now, you will find me posting at Daily Kos. If you click on the links I've provided, you can pretty much navigate yourself over (to Planetwaves and Daily Kos especially), and find me.

When Eric asked me two weeks ago to help out, I never thought we would be dealing with a Wall Street crisis, the ongoing sagas of Princess Sarah Palin, or debate politics, but since all of these topics are OTHER passions of mine, its been a hell of a ride. And there's more to come.

Don't worry, there will be more Pantry Zero recipes (otherwise Ruthie will have my head), Little Fi will hopefully give us some travelogue from Costa Rica (where she'll be studying biology for the next quarter), and I may just need to come here and decompress after the onslaught also known as national politics. I'll also be writing here about comfort foods, international hospitality, and the first International Body Music Festival, sponsored by Crosspulse, the non-profit arts organization for body musician Keith Terry, recent Guggenheim Fellow, my favoritist music teacher in the whole entire world, and gang leader of the family's most favorite a capella group "Slammin'".

Its going to be an amazing fall and winter!!!

My Hero

2008-09-01T12:14:00.000-07:00

I was first introduced to Anthony Bourdain when I pondered a possible future as a chef with former roommate, pal and web-genius Mark Petrakis (aka: Spoonman for those of you in the 80's and 90's performance art scene). When I mentioned to Mark, who was also a former cook in a restaurant and who taught me about the frugal magic and majesty of caramelized onions---that I was contemplating a life as a chef, he recommended I read Anthony Bourdain's "Kitchen Confidential".

Being a little afraid of encountering what would amount to a devastation of my master chef fantasies, I stayed away from Anthony Bourdain for five years, until 2004, after catching a bit of "A Cook's Tour" on the Food Network, I realized what I was missing.

Here's this big tall gorgeous guy, serious chef and rabid food writer. His humor had a familiar ring--kind of what my dad, also a cook, would have been if he was raised in Jersey--earthy and irreverent. Catching those brief minutes late at night (Food Network was terrified of Bourdain's outrageousness), I was howling with laughter watching the nation's recipe channel.

A total snarked up foodie. How did this guy make it to national television? But make it, he did, and "No Reservations" is a ritual rush home from work to catch Tony's premiere episode on Monday nights. Thank God, rush hour traffic is light on Mondays in the Bay Area.

Anthony Bourdain has his heart in the right place. He appreciates, respect and emanates a wry enjoyment of all cultures. After being one for most his life, he's got respect for the working man, and certainly reverence for foods and recipes with humble beginnings. He comes to us from a beautifully poignant place, a man in his prime, from a hard-working life in the grueling position of chef. As a cook's daughter, I know what that life was like. That experience makes him cocky and wise, as well as very very grounded. I envy his ability to chronicle his travels with writing skills that are blazingly sharp and loving at the same time.

So today, on Labor Day, I am watching another "No Reservations" marathon in preparation to say adieu to yet another stellar season of first-run episodes. Tony reminds me that loving food is loving life and all its moments. Even if you have to heave up chunks after a bit too much of life. But only he can talk about that, and we who love Tony around the world, appreciate his sacrifice.

An Ode to Love

2008-08-22T07:57:00.001-07:00

In honor of new love, past love and the hope for future love...

Molten Chocolate Cakes

1/4 cup sugar
2 Tbsp unsweetened cocoa powder
2 ounces bittersweet or semisweet chocolate, chopped (or chips)
1/4 cup unsalted butter, in small chunks
2 large egg yolks
1 large egg
2 tsp all purpose flour

Frozen fruit you have on hand (I prefer blackberries, raspberries or strawberries)
Powdered sugar
Preheat oven to 350 F

Blend cocoa and sugar. In a double boiler, melt chocolate and butter over low heat, and stir smooth. Remove from heat and whisk in cocoa mixture. Whisk in egg yolks, then whole egg and flour. Butter and dust wuth cocoa, two, 3/4-cup ramekins or custard cups (or even 3 extra large muffin tins) and divide batter into them evenly, leaving a little room to rise. Push in 1-3 pieces of frozen fruit for a "surprise" in the center.

In 350 F oven, bake for about 22 minutes in a water bath (water bath optional, but ensures that the cakes don't bake all the way through, keeping them "molten"). The edges should be set, with the center still shiny. tester inserted in center should come out with wet batter.

Cut around the cakes to loosen and invert onto plates. Garnish with powdered sugar and/or fruit (warmed and lightly sugared) or fruit sauce (usually with a hint of liquer).

These cakes brought us to our knees in ecstasy upon first bite. Those minutes of spontaneous, inexplicable laughter...those were moments of love. May new Love and future Love give us the same pleasure, and evoke the same reaction.

May new Love and future Love melt us from the inside, turn us molten like these cakes, so that when our inner warmth is spilled out upon Love as he first tastes it, he may also be brought to his knees in laughter.

May we all be laughing on our kitchen floors for a very long time, in Love....

A Question

2008-08-20T22:48:00.000-07:00

Do You Choose Love or Does Love Choose You?
I continue to ask
What it is that draws me to you.
I had no idea, and even then it was just a whisper.
A seed was planted in my dumb ground.
No belief in sincerity.
But then my eyes opened and I began to see you.
You look at me, peeling bark away, exposing tender skin.
For the first time, unlike all the ones who’ve tried and failed,
I let you in. And you succeed.
You’re probably going to doubt everything I’ve just written
And push me off, with a bear’s grunt
But you ought to know
The flame that was lit that day you first kissed me
Illuminated a once dark room in my heart
and it grows brighter each passing day.
I finally for the first time have come to believe
That Love does indeed choose you.
And I choose you. Because I need you
Like the world needs spring.

Welcome to the World, Elizabeth

2008-07-11T23:07:00.000-07:00

A new baby has entered our family circle today. Her name is Elizabeth Rose. Today, on her first official breathing in of the air of the planet, I dedicate this prayer to Elizabeth's first day on earth.

Elizabeth, may you always know that warm hands will hold you, strong and steady people will be there to pull you up if you fall, help you take your first steps, give you your first bites of sweetness, and teach you how to look up and out into the world. Perhaps at the stars.

You'll know the sound of your grandmother's, grandfather's and great-grandmother's and great-grandfather's laughter. You'll feel their kisses, and their joy in holding you in their arms.

You'll sense the bright sharp wind cooling the summer heat as you race across the lake in a summer that feels like spring. You will learn how to swim across that lake and become part of an even larger circle of family, friends, and generations older than your great grandmother.

You will overeat at least one perfectly made cherry pie. You will not be able to enumerate the number of lumpias you will eat. You will have at least one bite of great grampa's trifle, and maybe, if you're lucky, Felicia will teach you how to bake cookies. You might even win a prize doing so.

All these sweet pleasures of the world are immediately available. And you will dream. Of flowers, birds, sunlight and fishes. You will imagine incredible things, and one day, do them all. You will make your own dreams come true. And remember, more than anything, know that you are welcome in this, our world.

Glad to have you here at last.

Prelude to Pantry Zero

2008-06-25T22:48:00.000-07:00

It has been too long since I have written. It has been too long since I have been truly inspired and moved to write about food (how so so sad). But now, I find myself in a very strange state that I have never NEVER experienced in my life, having grown up (as my mom and aunt did) with a promise of family, education and food--I find myself alone in a temporary apartment far from home, and what's more, in an apartment devoid of food. An EMPTY pantry. And I have arrived at this befuddling state in a very interesting moment in my life.

I drove down to Los Angeles (six and a half long hours to drive with only the company of the radio) on Sunday. The Friday before that my family was evacuated from our house because of fires burning their way towards us. As my grandmother with a broken leg, my mom (surprisingly hysterical) and I packed our things (my grandfather, dad and brother were all gone) I was in "stay calm" mode, not thinking about the possibility that I could be leaving my childhood home for the very last time. That very sobering thought hit me as I ate dinner in my best friend's house (her family, bless them, took us in). It was possible that I would never prepare another meal in the kitchen where I learned how to cook (that first batch of chocolate chip cookies). Did I save the right things? What would I miss? I looked at my small collection of things deemed worthy of being saved--family photos and videos, my brother's artwork (saved on his computer), important documents (all in a fire box anyway), some of Grammy's valuable paintings...that's about it. Everything else is replaceable--even expendable--luxuries. (But, thank goodness, my house was fine (the fires were contained under 1/4 mile of dry grass away from our property) and I didn't have to face that reality....)

This brings me to my point. We don't really need much. In life, and (let's connect this to our pantry problem) in the kitchen. So I've been in my empty temp apartment, no furniture, no power (a problem that had better get fixed soon or my building's manager is going to get yet another earful), and no food, for 4 days now. And while the whole no power thing is more extreme than necessary, this very simplified existence has really put some of life into perspective for me. At first I was frustrated and frazzled (not helped by the lingering shock left by the fires) by not having these comforts of living. But now I'm finding peace in it. And with no fridge or snacks lying around (and not enough cash to be willing to eat out all the time) I'm really rethinking my relationship with food.

There are some different dogmas about food that I have been grappling with. I have been raised to enjoy food, not only to nurture my body but to fill and comfort my soul as well. Then there's the idea introduced to me by a very influential teacher/mentor in high school, that we should "not live to eat, but eat to live." I like both seemingly contradictory views, and haven't been able to find a marriage of the two. Now, as I stare at this empty pantry, I see a perfect opportunity to do just that. Find a balance. Work in the opposite direction from my Auntie Fe. I want to fill my new home with essentials. Food that is versatile and healthy and satisfying for my body and soul, but not so extravagant that I feel like food is something to live for, or invest my happiness (and money) in. I can build a pantry that will keep me far from needing a "Pantry Zero" operation.

I’ve started with good whole wheat bread, organic peanut butter and local honey from the farmer’s market (all these things don't need a fridge and are amazingly comforting and nutritious--whole wheat + legume = a complete protein!). When I get more settled in my permanent apartment (the lease starts in July) and finally get power and fridge, I plan to start slow and simple. Here are the essentials that will be the first things to hit those shelves:

Brown rice
Beans
Flour
Pasta
Basic spices
Good olive oil or vegetable oil
Whole wheat bread

With some fresh produce there is so much that can be done with these simple ingredients. And so my new apartment resolution is this: to live as simply as I can, because the parts of life that are out of my control (like fires) are complicated enough as it is.

Ruthie's Challenge - Part 1

2008-06-06T11:32:00.000-07:00

Since "Pantry Zero" was initiated, I haven't had time to blog here until today, having obsessed completely over the last month on who should be the next President of the United States. So now, that has passed, he's in, we can continue our pursuit of innovative tastes, familiar ground, and chic and tasty gustatory frugality.

Which brings me to Ruthie's Challenge. Everyone, I hope you all remember Ruthie, my office spouse (please, I know its the San Francisco Bay Area, but I'm straight and she's a hetero-married mother of two).

Ruthie has been so motivated by Pantry Zero that she's personally challenged me, due to a completely unrelated turn of events, to a Pantry-inspired meal. It seems that the shelves in her pantry are getting replaced and that has caused huge displacement and an exciting discovery for the Simon Family.

She's got jars. Not only that, unopened, hermetically SEALED jars of fancy stuff that she's dying to try now that she's remembered she has them.

So Pantry Challenge #1 - Hoisin Sauce

My response:

Hoisin Chicken

Chicken thighs and wings
salt and pepper to taste
sesame seeds or chopped scallions
Hoisin Sauce

Preheat over to 375 degrees. Sprinkle salt and pepper onto uncooked chicken pieces. Put thighs in preheated oven first (they need a minimum 45 minutes to cook), followed by the wings eight minutes later. At the last fifteen minutes of cooking, brush hoisin sauce on the chicken parts and continue roasting. (If you want a crispier, more caramelized glaze, turn up the oven by another 25 degrees).

Remove from oven and sprinkle with sesame seeds or finely chopped scallions.

And please, if anyone of you has a Home Depot installation contractor who is replacing your pantry shelves and YOU find some forgotten and hidden gems lying in wait in YOUR pantry, do not hesitate to post a challenge here.

If You Haven't Heard by Now (Pantry Zero - Part 2)

2008-04-29T08:00:00.000-07:00

We're in for something we haven't seen for a while. As Pantry Zero below suggests, I have been waking from a coma of living outside my means as a form of pure entertainment--for want of something better to do.

My confession: Most of my young life, given my cultural and familial background, food has been a comfort, a refuge for being unloved, unworthy, and a form of entertainment. This is the deep water under that bridge of my life.

At present for better or worse, food has been my escape from a sometimes disappointing world. Because of that, and my need to create some beauty to fill in the darkest gaps in this all too dark world, my love of family and extended family, a cellular habit to deeply explore the realms of the senses, and my desire to honor the inheritance of a family of good cooks, food is a very satisfying form of creative expression. Next to theater, it is one of the great passions of my life.

But the zeitgeist of the times indicates clearly--now is the time to dust off my ancestral values about living and eating and functioning in this world--and to create my own means of living within my means. And to do it fucking well. Alot is at stake.

Are we going to hold on selfishly to our way of living in order to continue greedily at the trough while others starve? Can we/I continue to drive our cars while the impact of it being on the road means someone does not eat for the day? Or, if we're using ethanol, driving our cars despite the fact whole countries will starve?

The larger heart of me--the heart that learned that love and generosity begins at the table and flows out into the community--is pained to see that the world we live in is imperiled by the selfishness of the few. We are consuming so much so fast and at such a high level that other parts of our shared planet are shrivelling and dying. Our use of resources for our entertainment, functioning, and, face it, luxury are depriving the very lifeblood of those who cannot begin to imagine the kind of standard of living we enjoy. We consume and others starve. Water, land, animals, air. Are there other ways we can exist so that others aren't harmed?

Special thanks to Milos Janus Outlook for their post at Daily Kos. Its a wake up call and inspiration.

More will come of this.

Pantry Zero (updated)

2008-04-22T22:54:00.000-07:00

It's shocking how wasteful I was. A bin full of vegetables going straight to the garbage. Roasted chicken on the bone mummifying in the back of the fridge. Once plump juicy sausage dried out, desiccated, looking lonely, vile and mean. Seriously, if my parents, my uncles, my grandfather, heaven bless them all, saw what was happening in my refrigerator, I would have been summarily beaten.

You. Don't. Waste. Food.

In the 1960s, my father took home roughly $5,000 a year as a cook in a migrant labor camp. My mother worked in a cannery and brought home $12,000. In between were mortgage payments, clothes on our backs, raggedy sometimes, but mostly presentable, and we always always always had good food in the chest. Dad would bring home rice, beans, butter, bread and meat, while mama would make sure we had our eggs, vegetables, milk. We rarely needed to spend much on groceries, because both of them would bring home fresh food from work. And food was cooked and ready to go. Even my sister and I cooked meals as kids, so invested our family was in making sure we had requisite survival skills AND survived.

"We may never be able to leave you a fortune, but we will never let you go without an education or good food in the house".

Now here I was, the food that I worked so hard to pay for, rotting like abandoned convicts on Devil's Island. In total, I'd spent an average of $260 per month for food shopping, which isn't bad for some people, but I wanted to do better. I yearned to know what its like to depend on what I've got, instead of an ephemeral longing for quick bites that satisfy an empty, superficial desire, or a quick fix of some expensive cut of meat or fish bought out of mere convenience, leaving me financially adrift and spiritually numb. I've been shopping and consuming as if trying to entertain myself, with the newest, the latest taste sensation my next quarry. I needed something deeper--an appreciation of what I have instead of the constant pursuit of what I craved. All the great chefs and food writers that I care about - Bourdain, Ruhlman write about their admiration of the global, the simple, the crude and the humble foods that are alchemically transformed through cooking arts that come from the creativity borne of poverty, elevating the simplest of foods to the height of fullness.

In search of the simple and cheap, I had no further to look than five steps from my stove, where my pantry sat, tapping its foot, wondering when the hell I was going to get around to making something of its stock, laying dormant, warehousing food. Which brings me to the concept of Pantry Zero. The name of the top-secret plan to use up my pantry as the BASE for my meals instead of the afterthought, or pantry as storage and filing (aka known as Pantry-as-closet-for my-Trader-Joe's-bitter-71%-dark-chocolate-candy-bars).

And what better companion to embark on Pantry Zero than Wendy. My friend Wendy and I have this close-knit sisterly friendship that's been forged by years of standing together at the stoves of our respective kitchens, getting into a groove fugue concocting dishes from ingredients fabulous and plain, with always great results. We cook together as if we're having a conversation, but the words are the ingredients, and the feast the story. Both our parents are children from the Depression, her mother a former teacher in home economics and with my parental background, we had it in our genes to accomplish what our parents did in their day.

Last Sunday, we began with me purchasing $15 worth of ingredients, and $40 of goods already bought lying in wait in the pantry or freezer. Black eyed peas, a smoked ham hock. Onions from the vegetable bin in the fridge. Uncooked zucchini from last week's barbecue, some stalks of scamp, celery, carrots and minced garlic go into the pot to sweat. Wendy at the other end of her kitchen counter grinding spices she already had in her drawers, a couple of cans of garbanzo beans from the pantry, and some ginger, onions, garlic, and chilis. I pull out six pre-cooked boneless skinless thighs from a foil wrapper and clice these up into bite-sized chunks and put them in the pot of sweating savory vegetables. Stock is added. Simmering begins. I was lucky to have tons of garlic, parsley and lemons from last week's barbecue to do a gremolata to spoon on the chicken-vegetable soup to finish it (add a pinch of parmesan and its really ready). With the pot of black-eyed peas with ham, some brown rice and this soup, I have enough pre-done meals to carry me through the week, lunch and dinner. At a cost of roughly $30, and no more going to the store. No need to spend a ridiculous $8 bucks for a sandwich, a drink and some chips for lunch when I could have homemade chicken soup with vegetables, gremolata and freshly grated parmesan for a fraction of that cost.

But there's more to be done. I'm thinking next time we do lumpias of all stripes. And I wonder what Wendy's planning? She's taken a class in Indian cooking and she's unfolding knowledge gained as we work together. Since we're both getting good at the economics for Pantry Zero, the thing we're approaching now is the fun of doing something new, innovative, and fresh with the old tired simple shit we've had on hand forever.

Just like everyone else around this world. And really, isn't that what it means to truly live?

Pastes, Jars, Squeeze Bottles and Cakes

2008-02-23T18:30:00.000-08:00

Probably because I've been on a very simple diet of a low-fat protein and a vegetable, and starving for a little variety, I have been hungry for a different trajectory in tastes lately. Probably spurred on by my introduction to the variety of Indian and Thai curries. Probably because the Thai Market, called Tuk-Tuk, is within walking distance of my home and I can get palm sugar, red curry paste and kaffir lime leaves there with little effort. Probably because I need to find a different way to making boring vegetables, like, cauliflower--delectable.

You heard me, delectable. Nothing makes cauliflower more delectable than in an Indian curry. And its so simple. Red curry paste, a can of coconut milk, kaffir lime leaves and Thai basil make it work. Its the combination of sweet-spicy that makes it so satisfying, and great with brown basmati rice.

Then there's mole. My family came back from Mexico bearing gifts of Mayan artifact replicas, a squeeze bottle of Mexican vanilla, and a cake of spicy black mole. I've used it as a sauce base with hoisin sauce, which makes for a spicy-sweet black hued glaze that's multi-layered and complex.

Once in awhile, I take out my jar of Thai crab paste with garlic and chilli and add it to a garlic rice and shrimp dish. It adds a beautifully rich deep seafood flavor not unlike a seafood stock, only spicier. Throw in a little black bean chili paste to a steamed fresh piece of fish, add some sliced fresh ginger and scallions and we have the fresh and spicy flavors of Canton available in Berkeley. Heaven.

Most of these savory flavors cost no more than $3.00 at an Asian supermarket, and they pack miles of punch--adding a flavor boost to pasta, fish, meat, poultry, rice, soups, stews, pilafs and whatever you can think of. Scrambled eggs with chili paste? You betcha!!!

Attention college students, a little exploration in ethnic food markets can yield an attractive array of flavors available on the cheap for your ramen bowls, pasta jags, and even maybe a pizza or two.

Take a chance.

A New Leaf

2008-01-29T22:07:00.000-08:00

It was the dizziness in the morning that alarmed me. And the sudden cravings for something sweet mid-afternoon that gave me a clue. When I went to the doctor, my blood pressure was 168/90.

I was scared. Bad cholestrol was higher than the good kind, and fasting blood glucose was high normal at 100, when it should be in the low 60s.

So now, the changes begin.

Instead of the occasional gym, one Pilates workout and two classes at Rhythm and Motion, it will be five classes, one gym session and Pilates workout for the unforeseeable future. I will walk with my workmates during lunchtime, and get my big ass out of the desk every hour to stretch and take a walk through the building I work.

Butter is verboten. And sob, no more pork with fat. Salt use down by half and white sugar and flour are tossed. Instead of blogging four hours, I will do something to organize my house better. Toss out old clothes, shoes and those fucking papers that have accumulated in my computer hutch.

A note to my family and friends - no, I'm not going to die. I'm going to manage myself better. I won't tell you how many pounds I want to lose, but I will tell you I have a long, hard slog.

But does this mean I will have no more gustatory pleasure in my future? Am I not going to cook anymore? Am I not going to share what comes from my ample table with others?

Hell. Fucking. No.

What I will do is make what I've got work. And use the pallette that fabulous and healthy food provides to make this new leaf work. So today's recipe is for ginger carrot soup.

6 big carrots, sliced
1/2 sweet maui onion sliced
5 cups low-sodium chicken broth
1 Tbs. grated ginger

Braise the carrots, onions and ginger in the broth until tender. Pour mixture in blender to puree, or use a hand blender to do the same thing. Serve with a dollop of yogurt, or blue cheese, or feta.

Now get your butt out there and walk for 30 minutes.

Food that Makes a City Great

2008-01-21T20:18:00.000-08:00

I've never been one to sprint to the latest trendy restaurant in this city. I live in a region so diverse and food-obsessed that its a constant, pleasurable process trying to figure out what you want to eat for lunch or dinner. Low $? High $$$? Chinese, fusion, Latin, European, American, pizza, shawerma, pozole or soup dumplings? By the time you've narrowed down your choices, your blood insulin levels go off the chart, you become delirious and head for the nearest Rite-Aid for a bag of chips and the rack with the latest edition of the SF Bay Guardian and its food review section.

It can stress you out.

UPDATED: I am grateful that I live in a region where its a veritable genie's lamp as far as food choices. And I have my preferences: tapas on Valencia Street (Ramblas is great for that), the Los Compadres taco truck at the Civic Center parking lot for their Lengua Super Tacos, perfect chicken congee and fresh-fried Chinese donuts at Hung Ling on Broadway, or the $9 worth of dim sum that you can pick up at the place near 6th and Clement that can easily feed a family of four. The fresh warm hand-made tamales by the women who manufacture their food products at La Cocina in the Mission District. The incredibly soft pan dulce at the Mexican panaderia run by Chinese bakers on Mission between 24th and 25th.

The entire list can read like the first chapters of a gustatory Genesis.

I love that my city does not mess around when it comes to food. Evidence the farmer's markets that occur weekly throughout the city. Now I am not going into which restaurant serves the best gnocchi, or who has the most unctuous uni, or whose pizza crust is the best (a topic of considerable controversy). And I don't care about who serves the best martini, fried olives or roast duck. That isn't my point. There are tons of writers who DO research and investigate that. I'm talking about MY San Francisco, and its a personal journey de cuisine.

I prefer the braised chicken feet at City View over everyone else's, but that doesn't mean I don't love Ton Kiang's scallion dumplings. Its just that there's a difference in approach to each at each site to merit frequenting both. And I always go to Mara's Italian Bakery on Columbus because on a cold rainy day, a latte and a slice of their almond cake makes you ache with pleasure from the soul. Hayes Street Grill's creme brulee is the absolute, while the hamburger with a crisp cold martini at Zuni Cafe provides an experience in pure satisfaction. And I happen to love the shaken beef at Sunflower (Vietnamese) Restaurant on Valencia Street, and willing to stand in line after an evening of theater to get my fix, along with a Vietnamese crepe and a Singha. A perfect Saturday night. And then there's the ritual weekday lunchtime trek to the Tenderloin where a perfect chicken biryani awaits.

There are thousands of personal journeys undertaken each day in this culinary hub. Its a small city, yes, with less than a million people. But it stands pretty well-balanced on its shaky seismic legs, has managed to re-build and transcend itself many times over, and still has room for the traditional and experimental.

When you're in a city at the very edge of your continent, there's nowhere to go but everywhere.

Babe-a-licious - A Love Note to My Boys

2008-01-18T09:58:00.000-08:00

I dedicate this special recipe post to my boys Nikko, Jake, Addison and their pals. In an endeavor to help them improve their cooking skills and perhaps impress a few women while they're at it, I've set about to make this post a first of I hope many to help them become more than adept in the kitchen, perhaps inspiring actual meal prep from salad to dessert, instead of the meal in a microwave bag, cup o' noodles slag or the never-ending onslaught of carbs and cheese called le pizza.

Come on guys, its fun and its EASY to cook. Also--it saves you some much-needed bucks for the latest X-Box iteration of brain-fritzing.

Before I begin, there is only one credo in the kitchen that you must adhere to. Practice makes perfect.

For example, when it comes to doing anything having to do with eggs, practice makes perfect. Let's take a look at the audaciously rich sabayon (or as the Italians say: zabaglione). Egg yolks and Marsala whisked heavily OVER, not in, boiling water. It sounds easy enough, but here are words to the wise.

Watch. Your. Whisking. Practice, practice, practice.

Pre-assemble your ingredients, making sure your eggs are at room temperature before you begin. Separate yolks from white, and save whites for another use (omelettes come to mind), and pour yolks into large metal bowl (large enough to go OVER, not in, a pot of boiling water. Add marsala.

Whisk the shit out of it until the yolks-marsala are foamy AND form firm peaks. You are actually cooking the yolks while they are whisking. Just DON'T allow the bowl with the yolks to touch the boiling water. Once this portion of the sabayon is ready, take it off the heat. Set aside. It should pour off your whisk like a thick sauce. You're done.

Pour a half-pint container of whipping cream into a chilled bowl. Add 1/3 c. sugar. Whip the shit out this until the whipping cream is firm--close to butter but not quite. Fold the whipped cream into the fluffy egg yolks and combine, briefly. Serve immediately or you can serve the sabayon chilled. Pour over strawberries, cherries, berries, or any other fresh fruit.

Now go out there and thrill the babes.

Ingredient List

4 eggs, separated

1/3 c. marsala or other sweet liquor (amaretto, calvados, even kahlua if you want a coffee effect)

1/2 pint of whipping cream

1/3 c. sugar (for whipping cream)

The list above should cost you no more than $15 at Trader Joe's (especially if you go for their generic amaretto).

Final note: You need to proportionally increase the recipe volume if you have more mouths to feed. The above recipe feeds two generously as a sauce over fruit. If you want to increase it to make individual puddings, double the recipe. It translates and volumizes easily and well.

Tails of Beauty, Tails of Might

2007-12-21T09:17:00.000-08:00

Sucking it right off the bone.

That aptly describes the pleasure I feel when I am enjoying a bowl of my mama's simple oxtail soup. Nilaga. Oxtails. Ginger. Onions. Salt. Water. That's it. Simmer slowly until done. For years, I denied myself the oxtail experience of my roots, going instead for the boutique meat. Glamorous filets, chicken breast, an occasional short rib feast. But oxtails were mean, disgusting looking, and only poor people ate them. Which was exactly the reason they will always be so good.

When my forties came, the fall signalled the need to hang in for provisions that would increase warmth and fortify soul. Muscles and bones ached more. The need for a good read and something warm on the stove cooking for a VERY long time was spiritual. I believe I was reading "Like Water for Chocolate" at that time in our walk-up flat in the Marina, when I came across the recipe for oxtail soup. The soup that brought Tita, the heroine of the book, back to life from a nervous breakdown. The soup whose recipe was taught to her by Nacha, the ancient cook in her tyrannical mother's kitchen. What a way to remember the healing power of the bones.

Luckily, I found them at a butcher's on Mission Street. And with ginger, onions, cabbage, and the tails, Tita, Nacha and I shared in the glorious mystery of sucking down on some good bones and gelatinous cartilage. The healing I felt co-incided with that of the literary characters and I felt myself inside Tita through the warmth that these oxtails gave. We were eating meat that needed time, thought, and patience to coax out the very best of its character, which is humble by roots, and mighty in flavor.

This holiday, I'll be slow-cooking them in a base of carrot, celery, onions, bay leaves and other herbs (bouquet garnis), and either a little vermouth or maybe a decent house red. The bones need to start up early, probably before I head out to dance class on Saturday. I'm setting the crockpot to cook them for ten hours. Plenty of time. By the time friends come, they'll be ready to pour over some rice in bowls and it will be us and our faces in sauce and sucking down on some good tender meat.

Bones Basic

2-3 lbs. oxtails

1 onion, chopped

2 stalks celery, chopped

3 large carrots, chopped

1 c. red wine

veal stock

bay leaves (2)

2 TBS. whole peppercorns

1/2 cup flour seasoned with salt and pepper

1/2 c. olive oil

Lightly dust tails with seasoned flour. Sear on high heat in thick-bottom pot or Dutch oven until brown. Remove from Dutch oven and place at the bottom of the crock pot. De-glaze the fond from the Dutch oven with the wine. Add stock and simmer until the brown bits are dissolved. Remove from heat.

Add chopped savory vegetables, bay leaf, peppercorns to the crockpot. Pour the stock over everything to cover. Season to taste then seal crockpot with its lid and leave it alone and read a book. Preferably something that makes you happy curled up with a coverlet on the couch.

I can't imagine a better winter day. Cheers.

Finding Home Anywhere

2007-12-08T00:08:00.000-08:00

Living in the dorms is a special challenge for people like me who love to cook--and who love to share the enjoyment of food with friends. It's one thing to share a meal served on a plastic tray, it's another thing to see something cooked from the heart coming out of the oven or off the stove having and serving it to your loved ones. I think this kitchenlove-isolation has made me particularly susceptible to waxing poetic about the simplest cooking encounters.

I am lucky enough to have older friends with apartments nearby who allow me to raid their kitchens on occassion. I recently enjoyed one such occassion and found myself oddly at home--a feeling much missed by this homebody. My girlfriends and I planned way in advance (a miracle in itself) to treat "our boys" to a home cooked meal. We were so excited for a real meal, and what did we make? Pizza! It felt kind of silly, considering we all have access to pizza every day, but we wanted to throw some dough in the air and make a mess... But really, it was a perfect choice because this time dinner was less about filling our stomachs and all about filling our hearts.

Before the guys arrived we had time to chatter in a warm kitchen over rising dough while we prepared toppings. Really, not much is better than best friends in a warm kitchen in the anticipation of something special; we had nothing but love and warmth in our hearts, and I think these feelings were kneaded into the dough. The boys arrived just as we finished rolling out individual pizzas. We then all got around the table and assembled our own perfect pizzas. Heart-warming perfection. Our friends were all so happy to have a hand in creating the meal rather than being served (especially my girl friends, who admittedly have limited cooking talents); and although we hadn't seen each other much during the busy quarter, we were at home with each other in an instant. The atmoshpere was perfect for food magic. We all were cooks, and we all cooked with the feelings of joy and comfort and love. From that point on I was a mushy mess. While the first pizzas were in the oven we had time to catch up and mess around. It didn't matter that we could only bake 2 pizzas at a time, making the dinner abnormally long; in fact, we didn't even notice that the dinner was long. Like music, in which the notes are made special by the silence between them, it wasn't about the food, it was the time in between the bites that made the meal great. We ate and revelled being so at home again until the last pizza came out of the oven some hours later. Even though we were just eating pizza, the love and intentions with which it was made filled more than our stomachs.

Simple Thin-crust Pizza Dough

bread flour (approx. 3 cups) (bread flour makes the dough more sturdy for spinning, if you use bread flour you don't need to knead or punch down the dough as much after rising.)

1/2 tsp. salt

1 packet fast-rising yeast

1 C. hot water (as hot as tap will give you)

2 tsp. olive oil

Blend the yeast with two cups of flour and the salt. Add the water and the oil and mix to form a dough. Add more flour as necessary until you can knead the dough. Knead for about 6 minutes. Put the dough in a lightly oiled bowl covered with saran wrap, and allow to rise for about 45 minutes. In the mean time, preheat the oven to 400F and prepare your toppings. Split the dough into two pieces and roll into two medium size pizzas on parchment paper. If you can't find parchment paper (some regular grocery stores don't have it), roll out the dough and the place on a cutting board liberally dusted with cornmeal. Grab some guests and have them top their own pizzas!

The pizzas can go directly in the oven on parchment paper (just be careful not to burn the paper onto the crust!). The trick to crust is that it needs to bake directly on a hot surface. I don't have a pizza stone or tiles in my oven, but cooking directly on the floor of the oven works (expecially if you like thin crust crispiness) and even on the rack (more as a last resort to get more in one batch). Bake 12-18 minutes until crust is hard.

Enjoy!!

Paella Perfecto

2007-12-04T17:45:00.000-08:00

Is there really such a thing as a purist? I keep reading in "Catalan Cuisine" by Coleman Andrews about the ultimate authentic paella. As if there were such a thing as an ultimate Any Dish. As if there is the ultimate application of heat, spice, oil, onions, garlic, ingredients to make a paella THE paella. Is it paella when there's no rabbit in it? What happens to vegetable paella? Is that really a paella? And what the hell is paella doing in a book about Catalan cooking when its a Valencia region specialty?

Conventional wisdom about legendary paellas says they have to be cooked over an open fire on the beach. The rabbit must be grilled to perfection before put into a paella, which needs the smokiness of the rabbit to be authentic. No peas. Beans. Green beans for authentic Valenciana. Feh.

I think folks who proffer opinions about what is the right, best, appropriate, perfect version of a dish are as crazy as, well, crazy as me. That's ok with me. With advancements in online publishing, now everyone has a pulpit from which to proclaim the relative merits of a dish and how its made, what ingredients are in it, and even the geneology of the cooks making it.

So in the bright, limitless world of virtual, I stand today, pontificating my heart out about paella and other pressing matters of the state of the senses.

I once heard that an opera house in a big city recently had a $75 million dollar facelift, which included a $1,500,000.00 stage curtain replacement. The fabric and fringe of that curtain was of a certain type and standard produced solely by a convent of blind nuns sequestered somewhere in the Alps. Does that make that curtain authentic, rare and valuable? Yes. Does it make it very expensive? Yes yes. Does it promise to bring more prestige and commerce to the isolated area by promoting its rarity and prestige? Triple yessicas!!

There's no such thing as a purist. I think the purist throughout history is really just someone with a big mouth who opined about things, and in this instance about recipes in particular, and who had the vehicle to do it with. They also had as a willing band of co-conspirators, compatriots ready to agree with their opinion, and be vocal about theirs. And everyone of them had their own vested interest and personal tastes in mind.

So there you go. In the world of paella superlatives, started as early as the 8th century when the Moors first brought rice to Spain, it is this humble author's opinion that the superduper superlative paella was, is, and will always be an experience in relativism based on your available ingredients. And if you could make the rice good. Or you're visiting the Valencia region.

All the rest is marketing.

Serves 4-6 as a main course

15-20 fresh shrimp
1/2 lb New Zealand mussels, fresh
2 Spanish chorizo or good quality linguica sausage, sliced diagonally at 1/4" thick
1 whole chicken (marinated with minced garlic, salt and pepper and Spanish agridulce paprika)
2 onions, chopped
4-15 cloves of garlic, minced (depending on taste/preference)
3 - 4 c. chicken broth
2 c. valenciana rice (calrose or any short grain rice will also do)
1 pkg. frozen peas
olive oil
two pinches whole saffron
2 TBsp. white wine

Roast chicken at 375 until about done. (1 hour, 20 minutes). Turn off heat and let rest in oven. Soak saffron in wine to allow it to bloom.

In a large flat paella pan or wide skillet or saute pan, saute onions in olive oil until golden. Add sausage and cook through. Add rice and garlic. Let rice absorb flavors of the savories and meat, coating in hot oil until rice kernels are opaque. Don't let the garlic burn.

Pour in the broth and saffron wine mixture and stir to incorporate. Let simmer at medium/medium low heat to let rice absorb the liquid. Just before all the liquid is absorbed, and the rice kernels have just a LITTLE bite left, add the fresh shrimp and peas. Cover tightly with foil and continue to cook at low heat for another five more minutes. Turn off heat completely and let rest.

Cook mussels in ungreased cast iron skillet until opened. Turn off heat and reserve any pot liquor. Cut up chicken into serving-sized pieces. Arrange chicken pieces over the paella, then add the mussels and pour in the pot liquor. Serve, enjoy.

And come up with your own damn version of this recipe. This one happened to work for me.

Stop Me If You've Heard This Before

2007-11-19T15:30:00.000-08:00

Having never been faced with cooking the Thanksgiving turkey ever before in my life, the prospect of doing so filled me with ambivalence. Turkey to me is a "so what" meal. Thanksgiving meals are rote, bland affairs that I would not in any way WANT to eat on any other day. I thought the challenge of doing a turkey would be an intellectual exercise at best.

I proceeded with my friend Sean's recipe for a paper bag turkey, which was a basting-free style form of cooking that would eliminate me having to open the oven every 40 minutes to juice up the thing.

Peering inside Mama's refrigerator, there it was, taking up two shelf spaces. When I was told it was a 25 lb. bird, the image of the Norman Rockwell painting of the American family sitting down to grace and the grandmother proudly carrying the golden roasted bird to the table completely flooded my consciousness. It was cooked to perfection. In theory.

But the reality when I opened the refrigerator door was 25 pounds of BIRD-BEAST. The only thing I could think about was the T-Rex chase scene in Jurassic Park.

Not to be overcome, I grabbed it with both arms. Backing away from mama's refrigerator, the Bird-Beast threw me off balance. Taking off the plastic shrink-wrap, the creature exploded, freed up from its cumbersome prison. The huge boil-sized goosebump pores of its skin looked like they were breathing. I searched for the salt.

"Take a fistful of salt and stick it up its ass", I remember someone telling me that was his favorite Thanksgiving duty. He never got invited over for subsequent dinners. But I took in the spirit of this questionable pleasure, and with a handful of Morton's approached the bird. I had forgotten that with all poultry, the processor will usually place the baglet of organs into the creature's crevice. This bird was no exception. With a plunge of my fistful of salt my hand was wedged into the mastodon bird. Thinking I could perform two duties with the one, I started seizing the baglet of organ meats. They wouldn't move. And my hand was stuck. Thinking I could let gravity do the work, I thought perhaps suspending my engaged arm over the roasting pan would free me and the baglet. I certainly did not want to roast the bird with a plastic bag of spleen trapped inside. It still would not move.

Next I tried to ease myself out of it, taking to the chair and using the tight wedding ring scenario, practiced mindful breathing to stop stressing and let the blood flow ease a little, thus freeing my hand and hopefully warming the organ bag enough so that it would release. Still nothing.

Then, in a fit of panic, I violently swung the bird, trying to force it from my arm and it flung me across the kitchen, hitting the edge of the oven, and stopping just short of the kitchen floor, a seething cauldron of bacteria.

It's Thanksgiving and yes, Virginia, my fist was stuck up a turkey's ass.

Misguided heroism prevented me from weakening my wrist and allowing the bird to fall or touch the floor. Rolling over, hoping to get on my back and use that as my vantage point to do a momentum-based sit-up with a twenty-five pound avian life-form in both hands, I engaged my core muscles. Yet my my right knee muscle was twitching, screaming something equally important."PAIN!!!!". I looked down and my knee was starting to hurt from the movement. I micro-wrenched it and was paying the price. Getting up without my hands touching the floor would be impossible.

I lay on the floor, working out what my next move would be. Looking down at my chest, there lay the open exposed neck hole of the T-Rex bird that I was about to bag and put in the oven for dinner, which by this point would happen at 10:00pm. Gathering myself up, I managed to slide my back to the cabinet under the oven with the turkey in my lap. Then, with my good leg, pushed myself up to standing, hopping on the one leg to reach for the big brown grocery bag. I was thirty minutes and a frozen hand into this match, and I was going to get this bird into the oven if it killed me. With all my might I pushed the bird into the bag, and rising to its defense the spirit of this dead bird, a Fighting Demon Turkey Spirit I might add, re-inhabited the body and crushed the bag.

I flattened the bag out with my elbow and tried again. This time, calling for the spirits of my ancestors, for my maternal grandfather, a veteran of decades of pig slaughtering, to my uncles long since in heaven but I'm sure taking pity on me after howling with laughter from heaven's pantry for this half hour of culinary magic. Using a twisting motion with my trapped hand, I somehow managed to dislodge the baglet, free up the salt and my hand at the same time. The bird, laying in "breach" position which would require some a minor procedure to remove later but at least it was finally and at last halleluia, in the fricking bag.

The next day, after I had removed a perfectly roasted bird from the oven and carved it up to dole out leftovers, my brother in law asked me "how did you get the turkey to be so tender?".

Please don't ask.

Support Writers, Dammit!!!

2007-11-13T11:32:00.000-08:00

Because...

Not just because you're entertained. Not just because they provide fodder for titillation, or laughter when you need to ease the pain. Not just because they help you consume time. Its because the collective minds of our culture and our world depend so much on writers to gather and disseminate information. They make us think. They make us feel. They make us hope. And goddammit, they do it WHILE they entertain us.

So please, support the WGA strike.

Stop listening to the anti-strike rhetoric you see and hear on the mainstream news. The vast majority of writers in the entertainment industry DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT, ride around in limos waiting for Scorsese to pony up with the deal on their latest treatment. Most have kids in college, if they can afford kids. Alot have other jobs. And all of us need healthcare. Writers just happen to write for a living, if they're lucky enough to even make a living on a script.

Think about how good writing on TV or in film has given voice to so many of the unspoken feelings and thoughts that have haunted you. Those words that give your feelings freedom, that give your thoughts room to breathe. That's a collective healing experience. And with the miracle of media -- in film, video or online, its available and ready if you're ready to hear it and read it and share it.

Thank a writer for that. And support the strike until writers get what they need. And believe me, what they need probably won't come with a limousine.

Dancing Hard at the Edge of the World

2007-10-30T11:17:00.000-07:00

When an experience exceeds expectations, the only thing you can do is be in awe that you are bearing witness to it and somehow absorb what is happening to you. Because at that moment, you have never ever dreamed you would be in that place doing what you're doing at that time. A place where the intersection of bizarre and sublime reach something new in grandeur, glamour, darkness and depth.

This is Chuck Palahniuk and Carlos Fuentes meeting at Burning Man and dropping acid in a kind of crossroads that only California, the land of borders, earthquakes and burning, can produce. It's the Gogol Bordello concert in Los Angeles.

Little Fi and I drove into downtown and settled into the normal club scene at a refurbished grand and ornate art deco movie palace turned salsa club called The Mayan. The show being at the Mayan had a particularly disorienting effect - surrounded by symbols of the beginning and end of time - see above photo - according to the ancient Maya, waiting to see this engaging and fabulously energetic world gypsy punk band born in the Ukraine. Not only that, but the band's leader, Eugene Hutz is an immigrant whose family were refugees from the Chernobyl accident, and who struggled to survive in refugee camps across Eastern Europe before finally settling in New York.

All of this in goddammed LA, the land of economic and ethnic crossroads, one of the factory cities of American culture, in an America once again troubling over its own immigrant populace. We were immersed in a multi-culti artistic and social barrage from every corner of the globe.

The wait, by the way, was hard enough. The warm-up band from New York provided an hour's worth of audio which had the musicality of flight in a low-pressure cabin of a twin engine puddle-jumper from Chicago to Traverse City, Michigan. You were glad it was only an hour. But then Hutz came and the room took off like a circus gone berzerk. Bug boys in goatees and t-shirts smashing into one another and everyone else. I was fortunate enough that Little Fi and a group of young couples took me and my weak knees under their wing, as we stood together as a rear battalion determined to not get knocked down by wild young punks on dope.

When Hutz started playing with the audience leading up to "Start Wearing Purple", we were all ready to go vertical. Fi had a hold on me and we bobbed upwards for the length of the song. Some young man continued to be bounced from the audience as he floated above us, the crowd dying to pitch him onstage where the two Chinese drum and cymbal players flanked Hutz on both sides. When he played, GB's Ukrainian violinist caused a swoon-like crush across the multigenerational spectrum of females (and some males) in the audience.

This was more than a punk event, there was enough range of folks from ethnicity to years there to deem it a high cultural event, a site specific retablo of a living cultural collage that is musical, visual and global. All of us immigrants in a grand dance palace that is a mecca for the entrenched immigrant population of Latinos that make up the majority of immigrants in Los Angeles and yet were part of this land long before the concept of California was even born. Hutz and his band members--all representing the major continents, were here before us under the ancient Central American symbol for the Wheel of Time, marking the Creative and the Destructive cycles that are part of the Universe.

Little Fi and I are dancing as hard as we can, looking out for each other in this crush of madness while the music plays and the hills surrounding us continue to burn. We are the daughter and granddaughter of immigrants ourselves. Our hearts lurch on, exhilarated and sad, like the feeling you get when you hear gypsy violins play a bittersweet song that grows faster and faster and faster. Even as your heart hurts and its getting harder to breathe, you must continue to dance.

We are indeed at the very edge of the world.

Family Time in the Land of the Inferno

2007-10-24T11:38:00.001-07:00

Starting tomorrow, Alchemical Bites will be making a special pilgrimage from the land of Auntie Fi to the land of Little Fi. I will be visiting LF at her campus home in Southern California, making good on a promise made earlier this summer for us to go to the Concert of the Century at the Mayan Theater in LA.

It is with every last irony in the world that my visit coincides with one of the most devastating wildfires in the history of the state. Is there something Biblical about this calamity? We have yet to see.

All I know is that AF and LF will be doing some live blogging while we're together, and hopefully chronicle history--cultural, natural and everything else that crosses our path. Los Angeles - How could you be on fire and half-asleep?

I've got my face mask ready. Here I come.

Ruthie's Dilemma

2007-10-18T12:40:00.000-07:00

For the last two years, the two of us have shared an office. I am contracts administration. Ruth is financial analysis. Understand me, from the first moment Ruth realized I knew and understood the word kvell, she and I have grown tight as family in this little home of an office we know as work. For all intents and purposes, she is my work spouse.

Ask Ruth about actuals, analysis, cost centers, and she will provide bottom lines. Ask to compare actual billings to contract and she will tell you exactly where your contract went south. Five minutes, tops. She can prepare a monthly report on hundreds of millions of dollars and she won't break a sweat. The girl's a goddamned genius when it comes to capital accounting and all the bells and monetary whistles it takes to keep the captains of industry swimming in cash flow without fear of overdraft. I am in constant, daily, unmitigated AWE of her.

But when it comes to 12:30 and I ask "where do you want to go for lunch?" we have this.

There's nothing wrong with not knowing what one wants for lunch. For me, its usually what's available within short distance, price-competitive, delicious, and incapable of putting me to sleep at the desk. That decision criteria brings up a cavalcade of options. But I just can't figure why Ruth, a woman who I would trust with billions in public funds to account for EVERY SINGLE PENNY, who can organize, cater and arrange decorations for a mega Harry Potter birthday party for her kid while flipping through payment logs on 563 contracts like thumbing through the yellow pages, a woman, in others words who is in such total command of herself---WOULD GO INTO A PSYCHOLOGICAL TAILSPIN IT WHEN IT COMES TO DECIDING WHAT'S FOR LUNCH?.

"F.--what am I going to do about lunch?" she would ask in a tone that sounds like she's got all her good clothes at the dry cleaners and has nothing to wear for the prom. There's even a slight whimper. Given Ruth's totality of life competence, I am perplexed.

Ruthie, my love, what is the dilemma?

I write to you now with love and deep concern, as an intervention of sorts to re-boot you past your decision insecurity. I reach out to you, knowing that together we can find the root cause of this lunch anxiety and with my support, go back out into the World of lunch and make clear, concise and satisfying decisions without fear of repercussion.

You can do it, Ruth. I KNOW you can.

Meats of the Veggie World

2007-10-05T10:16:00.000-07:00

I’d like to wish myself a happy one year anniversary from when I first identified as a vegetarian. It has been an interesting and frustrating journey—especially in a meat-loving family. Although I am thinking about a return to meat (what pleasant symmetry), I will not reject the lessons I have learned as a vegetarian cook.

While struggling to create satisfying dishes that my meat-eating family could share and enjoy with me, I was reminded of important lessons that apply not only to cooking vegetarian foods, but for preparing any satisfying dish.

Through my many flops and successes as a vegetarian cook (and thanks to the critiques of my family), I have come to realize that meat isn’t really the issue. Of course meat is meat, and no one is going to be fooled by tofurkey—but it is possible to satisfy a meat-loving person in different ways, by keeping a few key factors in mind. I realized that what my dishes lacked (besides meat) was a comparable richness, texture and aroma, and that without protein, my dishes weren’t necessarily filling or satisfying enough. I hadn’t mastered bringing out these key components from vegetables—I hadn’t discovered the meats of the veggie world.

The “meats” of the veggie world are veggies or veggie dishes that provide those key things that meat-lovers crave: texture, savory taste and aroma, and filling protein. For texture, taste and aroma, my new favorites are mushrooms, especially shitake or portabella. My favorite (and simplest) mushroom “dish” is the portabella “patty.” They work just like burger patties: after a quick marinade, I throw whole portabellas on the grill and they make amazing, juicy “burgers.”

When replacing meat with veggies it’s also important to add protein. So, when I add mushrooms for texture I also usually add nuts (cashews are my favorite), tofu, or egg, and (when I can) I substitute ingredients for whole grain alternatives. These filling ingredients don’t usually have strong, overpowering flavors, and therefore can be easily incorporated.

Whether I remain a vegetarian cook or not, this year of meatless cooking has been important in reminding me of what we love about food. It’s not about the meat; it’s about being satisfied by the whole meal.

My Quick and Easy Marinade
Great for those portabella patties, or any other grilled veggies

1 Tbsp. honey
1 Tbsp. mustard
¼ c. balsamic vinegar
¼ c. olive oil
Salt and pepper

These proportions can be adjusted by taste. Keep in mind that on the grill the vinegar will become sweeter. When marinating mushrooms, it isn’t necessary to soak them too long—they are like sponges and will take up the flavor in no more than 5-10 minutes.

Autumn

2007-09-25T08:39:00.000-07:00

I always look forward to the first days of September when the night air turns a little cooler. For many reason, more than any other time of the year, this for me, is when I am regenerated and more alive.

Cooler night air means my orchids start their spiking period and begin the long, luscious and luxuriant journey towards blooming.

Cooler night air means I can cover myself with my warm flokati bedcover at night. (It makes me feel like I'm living in some prehistoric cave). Instinctual. Alert.

Cooler night air gives me the perfect reason to make a pot of soup.

Its universal, our love of something warm simmering over the flame. For me, it usually involves a whole chicken, carrots, celery, onions, bay leaf, peppercorns and a truly great book.

Other times, its mung beans and whole pieces of ginger, browned garlic and a hot steaming bowl of brown rice.

Or, at other times, a smoked ham shank, potatoes, tomatoes, beans, fresh oregano from my herb pots and maybe a sausage and some small bits of macaroni.

Wherever there is soup simmering at home, home becomes more than home. It becomes your safe place where dreams are dreamt, thoughts crystallize, the journals go deeper and the view out your window of autumn leaves winding their way past is your perfect movie. On the CD player, Van Morrison sings "I Hunger for your Love". I am home body and soul.

Eternal Bawang

2007-09-12T10:33:00.000-07:00

Among all the memories of my immortal mother, Irene Imperial Sipin Bongolan, the one that sears itself most clearly in my mind is that of her standing over one of her All-Clad pots, smashing whole raw cloves of garlic, (or bawang in Ilocano) sizzling them until their edges got soft and golden brown.

That image pervades almost all my food memories. Its been associated with successful gravies, meat dishes, soups, party foods such as lumpia and pancit. The flavor of the garlic oil itself was enough to send you straight in from whatever you were doing outside to come to her and beg her for supper to come soon. You always knew something good was coming to the table when you smelled THAT smell.

Nothing more clearly placed my mother in the True Garlic House of Fame than when she came to a performance of Euripides "The Trojan Women", at Asian American Theater Company, where I played Hecuba. An emotional roller coaster that part, with all the sturm and drang and angst befitting a Greek tragedy. After all my character, a mother who loses husband son, daughter and grandson in one night-- has alot of murderous rage and overwhelming grief to work out onstage.

Now imagine doing that part with your mother in the audience, kleenex in tow, and safely stowed underneath her seat was a freshly made batch of garlic-laden chicken adobo!

Needless to say, if concentration was hard, the battle between nose and dramatic instinct was epic. By the time the cast did curtain call, everyone, actors included, nudged towards my mother's seat wondering what that smell was. Forget my fabulous performance. An actor's instinct prevails. Its AFTER the show---LET'S CHOW DOWN!

Chicken Adobo*

one dozen whole legs and thighs

Adobo Marinade

1-1/3 - 1/2 c. apple cider vinegar

1-1/3 c. soy sauce

2-3 whole heads of garlic, cloves separated, peeled and chopped fine.

one bay leaf

whole peppercorns

Combine all the ingredients of the marinade together before adding the chicken. Taste to insure balance between the vinegar tang and the soy sauce saltiness. Make sure neither one prevails. Pour over chicken legs (skin side down) in baking dish. Set aside in refrigerator for 1-4 hours to marinate, covered.

Take chicken out of refrigerator. Pour off excess marinade, leaving enough liquid to come a third of the way up the chicken pieces. Bake at 375 degrees for 1.5 hours. Chicken should be tender, and skin should be caramelized and slightly crisp.

Final note: try to keep the chopped pieces of garlic out from the tops of the chicken pieces and into the marinade liquid during cooking. You only have to taste burnt garlic once to not let it happen to you again.

*This recipe is dedicated to Jake and Addison. Chow down, my brothers!

An Early Lesson

2007-09-11T13:52:00.000-07:00

I can’t remember exactly when I first learned how to caramelize an onion—caramelization has been in my cooking arsenal for so long. In fact, many of my earliest memories in the kitchen are blurred together in a warm blanket of sweet smells and the sound of my family’s laughter mingling with the sounds of sizzling oil.

I do know that I was an impatient cook, and caramelizing onions was one of my first lessons in patience. After many trials in fighting back tears as I chopped onions (I had yet to appreciate a good sharp knife), I couldn’t wait for the sweet reward. Sitting in the kitchen with burning eyes, the oil couldn’t heat fast enough.

Once the oil was hot, I’d hope that the moment the onions were added and stirred a bit that the savory results would be had at once. But now I know that heat, low and slow, is needed to draw out the sugars in the onions. I learned to let the onions sit and absorb the oil and the heat, only stirring to keep them from sticking to the pan. I love watching the onions transform through the different stages of “doneness;” from lightly translucent with a little bite, to golden brown and sweet.

Caramelized onions have long been a part of my cooking. They make great garnishes or great bases for rich flavor and savory sweetness. For me, they are also important in setting my cooking mood. They remind me that patience and even tears are rewarded in the kitchen, and that as biting onions transform into something sweet, I have the time to spend with my family in the kitchen, as always.

Caramelized Onions

2 large onions (I like yellow onions), diced
Olive oil or butter to coat skillet plus 1 Tbsp.
Pinch of salt
Pinch of sugar (optional)

Heat oil in pan until you see ripples.Add the onions and reduce heat to medium low. Turn onions to coat them with oil. Add salt and sugar (optional) and allow onions to cook slowly, turning occasionally to keep from sticking and to cook evenly.

Onions may be caramelized to different degrees of “doneness,” but should not be overdone to the point of drying out or frying. For sweet onions with a little bite, cook until very lightly brown and translucent. For very sweet onions, cook until deep golden brown.

My Blood Family

2007-09-09T18:06:00.000-07:00

Since she was one, she was always fascinated with food. She couldn't eat solid food at the time, but I remember how she'd watch us eat, particularly chips and salsa (a personal infanthood favorite), with a reverence one does not usually associate with a baby.

As a toddler, she would watch as her grandmother would prepare foods for her and her brother Nikko--and no surprise here, mama, was no slouch in la cocina. They snacked on chicken and pork adobo, lumpia, and mama's creamy fresh popsicles made with mashed strawberries, evaporated milk and sugar.

But more than anything, she was the first, best student I've ever had in the kitchen. We started when she was seven, making chocolate chip cookies with hand-ground walnuts--a recipe we perfected one summer which she took to the local county fair and won first place.

It was with her that we dared make the Vongreichten molten chocolate cake recipe, and as we pulled it out of the oven and tasted our first mouthfuls, warm--liquid and chocolaty, we simultaneously experienced the strange sensation of having our legs buckle underneath us. We shared death by chocolate.

She's fearless in the kitchen. Been the lead with her dad on the Thanksgiving dinner turkey, surpassing all expectations when we team to make desserts. We undertook the marathon of baking her cousin's wedding cake for 100--an 18 hour slog aided by my friend's KitchenAid and almost no sleep. We've gotten to the point in our cooking dance that I trust her instincts as we saute, roll, sauce and plate recipes. And she's always right.

Introducing my niece Felicia, my ultimate wing girl in la cocina, whose pancit recipe is the best, and who can cook for me anytime.

Pancit
(Filipino chow mein)

This is a great dish for parties; easy to make in large amounts, and a great left over. This is a traditional dish served at birthdays or anniversaries. The noodles are supposed to be kept as long as possible as a blessing of longevity. Seeing as such, patience and care are needed in creating this dish successfully (or else the noodles will get mushy or broken). I usually make it vegan or vegetarian and never hear complaints from meat-eaters. The traditional dish usually has shrimp or pork, but any leftover meats can be thrown in. I never measure the ingredients. The proportions can be adjusted to taste, and to the amount desired, I’ll approximate for a large batch (upwards of 20 hearty servings).

2-3 large yellow onions, diced
3-5 carrots, grated (or two pre-grated bags)
4 cups Chinese snow peas, whole, with ends removed
5 stalks celery, sliced at an angle
2-4 cups dried or fresh shitake mushrooms, sliced (Reconstitute dried
mushrooms and use the resulting broth to cook the noodles) (These mushrooms are the “meat” of the dish, so if you are adding meat, use less mushrooms)
2 cans baby corn
½ head of cabbage (optional, a good filler for a little more
volume)
Vegetable or mushroom stock/ broth (you’ll need more than the water
from the mushrooms)
2-4 cups diced or shredded meat/ shrimp (optional)
garlic to flavor, fresh minced or powdered
soy sauce to flavor
sesame seed oil to flavor
2 ½ packages of canton noodles (in a pinch you could use several packages of Ramen noodles, and even season with one or two of the seasoning packets)

Start by caramelizing the onions, when they are almost golden, add the carrots to caramelize as well. If you are using fresh mushrooms add them with the carrots so they soften and absorb the moisture and flavor of the savory vegetables. Once the carrots and onions are nearly cooked, add cabbage, celery and reconstituted mushrooms. Cook on medium heat until all ingredients are moist and beginning to soften. Add snow peas and baby corn, season with garlic. At this point you could add pre-cooked meat. Thoroughly combine ingredients.

I usually divide the wet ingredients into two parts to cook in two separate pans for easier maneuvering and less mess (I use large roasting pans over two burners).

Put the noodles into the pan and add one or two cups of broth or mushroom stock. The noodles will take a while to start to soften. Don’t be impatient! It is important to add the broth slowly so that the noodles have just enough to soften without becoming mushy. Gently turn the noodles and wet ingredients, allowing the wet ingredients to weigh down and moisten from the top and dry noodles to soak up moisture from the bottom (again, don’t add too much at a time, there shouldn’t be big puddles on the bottom). Once you’re good at turning and lifting this can be done over medium heat, but while you’re still getting the hang of it keep the heat medium low. At this point of cooking it is the most important to remember patience and care, and the idea of keeping the noodles as long as possible. When the noodles and wet ingredients start to soften and combine add the sesame seed oil and soy sauce, a big batch will take a surprisingly large amount. Continue to gently turn the ingredients and gradually add broth (about 1 cup at a time) until the noodles are soft (not al dente), but not mushy.

This dish is good warm and cold, so if you’ve got a busy menu, cook this earlier and keep warm in the oven with a lid (to hold in moisture). Garnish with green onion and lemon slices.

Notice her recipe is for 20. That's my girl.

My Food Family

2007-09-08T13:53:00.000-07:00

I announce my arrival at Bob and Wendy's, computer in tow, ready to blog this new thread. Wendy's shout from the kitchen greets me, as if in warning, saying, "I am in my full glory".

As I walk into their kitchen, Wendy is wiping down the spray of chocolate mousse that had swirled wildly out of control from their broken Cuisinart.

I have a blood family and a food family. Sometimes interchangeable. But mostly, my food family: Bob, Wendy, Karen and Jim, are part of my extended family in the SF Bay area.

Now I rarely cook for myself, stuggling maybe to heat up an animal protein to put between two slices of toasted Ezekiel Bread accomplanied by a glass of red. Call it in for the night. But I also carry the blood gene of a hundred generations that compels me to cook lavish, souful meals for a hundred or so friends and strangers.

Fortunately, these two couples provide a social foundation in my life and an appreciation for the need I've got to cook and cook well. We all have that same need. We met years ago at work, and the stars were right for this confluence of disparate individuals to form a bond based on food, work, books and movies that has grown into a serious family. We've nursed each other through career shifts, near-death experiences, life-changing decisions like retiring, caring for aging parents, and being there to lean on when our parents passed.

We started our friendships in middle age, and were amazingly able to knit together with all our hidebound life luggage with acceptance, and compassion. Not everything is peaches. There's an occasional screaming match over politics that would leave a sullen scar over the evening, and an "I oughta'... gesture, hand raised, nostrils flared, teeth bared gesture coming directly from the gaping cultural maw that is commonly known as the Bronxe. (Sorry Jimbo, my blog).

Everything is followed of course, by coffee and biscotti.

I miss them when they're out of town. There is a need we have for each other, like family, which hurts like a yearning when we don't see each other for awhile. I harken back to the night Karen's wonderful baking produced a fresh, homemade bacon and rosemary pizza when I came back to the Bay Area after a life-draining bout with my mother's dementia. She saved my soul that night. Or Wendy and I engaged in deep conversation over the times I wished my life would be more than what it is, over a glass of wine and a goat cheese salad, all the while Wendy reminding me, over and over again, that I am right where I needed to be.

Or Bob and I, with a few horns under our belts, arguing Democratic politics in a death match with no prisoners, or bugging Jim while he fusses over his pot of "gravy" for the pasta with the threat of fisticuffs for some stupid remark he'd make that would set me off.

And by the way, when are you going to give me your roast turkey recipe, Jimbo?

We give each other cookbooks for Christmas and birthdays. When we get together, our best instincts in nurturing and entertaining each other comes to the fore. We all seem to cook better when we're together for some reason. Like a competition, but mostly because I think we do it because we know we'd all appreciate it. When we get together, I know I'm home.

They worry about me. I know. I get exasperated by them. They know. But I also need them like air and water. They drive me totally batshit. But then, that's what they do.

Just like any other family.

Smelly Lunch

2007-09-04T15:09:00.000-07:00

There is rarely a pairing of words so irksome than the combination of "Smelly" and "Lunch" together in a sentence.

Smelly lunch. Dropped into a statement, like a command, edict, rulebook, guideline is so insulting that I would prefer, even now to just use its acronym for today, SL, rather than write it out ever again. Putting that in an e-mail, an office memo, the posted sheet taped neatly to the office refrigerator means you're sure to get a reaction.

And for me, my reaction is that my blood boils.

Food choice is as essential to a person's identity as skin and hair. Its where you're from. "SL" implies you don't even exist as a separate and unique entity, from a place, a culture, a community. When asked to keep your "SL" out of nose-shot from your office mates, you're being told, indirectly, how you should be "acceptable" for everyone else. Its as bad as saying your eyes should be round, not almond-shaped. Your skin more fair. Your nose less flat. The constant, tired, incessant demand for homogeneity of one's thoughts and culture.

In effect its saying, "Why can't you be WHITE?"

So you can imagine my reaction when my sister told me she got one of "those" emails from a collegue referencing the SL in a list of rules defining what is "Office Etiquette" for her workplace.

"How could I say I was insulted in a way that wouldn't hurt his feelings?" she asked.

"Why would you care about his feelings?" I responded.

Let me go over there and show him a smelly lunch.

But my sister is a far more reasonable person than I am. It is her workplace, after all, and I'm not there to experience the consequences of her decision on how to react. This is all her decision. However, in case she may be lurking today, I offer the following thoughts, serious and ridiculous, to use in making her stand:

The nose is not a gated community. It lives in a big wide wonderful world full of smells that alarm, delight, attract. Smells from all over the planet. Trying to contain or control what smells you encounter is trying to stop the ocean from crashing onto the beach.
Unless you plan to stay rooted to one spot and not plan to go anywhere ever again, they should get their noses used to thirty minutes or so of smells that will challenge their habitual senses. They might learn something important about the people they work with. Where they're from, for example.
Food allergies are an exception (peanuts or strawberries or any food creating a lethal toxic reaction).

The smell of a durian, most often described as a cross between ripe honey and a rotting corpse, is common to and policed by most citizens in Southeast Asia. Those from the culture where its grown and eaten set up rules of containment for its consumption. That's self-policing. Would I want to be in the same room as someone eating a durian? Probably not. But I would probably take my lunch and nose elsewhere, and not make a rule about whether or not they bring it to work. Am I getting clearer here?

To my sister, I hope you're getting my drift. I know you'll work your way through this with aplomb. To that person who wrote that ridiculous "Office Etiquette" memo with the offending SL rule in it, I say "Up yours" with an upraised fork, knife, chopstick, spoon, bowl, ladle, tortilla, banana leaf, fufu dollop or whatever utensil chosen by whoever it is whose lunch is deemed too offensive to your delicate sensibilities. Or better yet, I say it with the upraised eating utensil so dear to my own people in the motherland.

We use our fingers.

Roots

2007-09-03T14:21:00.000-07:00

I’m the daughter of a cook, raised by a family of men and women whose lives were spent in the growing, making, processing and most importantly revering of food. A child of new immigrants from the Philippines, I was born into a mid-fifties America in the heart of one of richest agricultural areas of California, at a time and place where learning English was tantamount to fitting in, being less of a threat. It meant being invisible, and that meant you survived.

Survival always comes at a price, and in my case, it was losing that valuable cultural connection, our parent’s native language, in order to assimilate. Without a similar language between us, we needed common ground, and so my parents and I built bridges between our two cultures – the old Filipino world and the New American one, in order for us to stay connected. Of all the bridges we had to build, nothing was more lovingly instant nor more gratifying than experiencing the pleasures of our family cooking.

Simple and rich, made with humble ingredients that alchemized into something magical, our culture was encapsulated in intense bites, which I would have to experience first and bring words to it later. Food was my mother and her culture expressing itself without hesitation in a country that had yet to get over its fear of us, let alone appreciate us.

Food transmitted care, respect, devotion and love. In a new land where child was divided from parent by the words we used, it became our family’s method of speaking clearly a language that left no question as to how we felt. Its a language that binds us to this day.

If there’s a single recipe I would choose to inaugurate this food blog (the very one I’ve been threatening my friends and family that I’d write before the year was out) its this one. My grandfather was my first cooking teacher, and his lessons taught me the value of rice—cooking it to pearly, separate, soft perfection, keeping it, the sin of wasting it, and its value as restorative when your body and soul is sick and aching.

The Chinese call it jook or congee. We call it rozcaldo.

1 c. white pearl rice
1 lb chicken thighs (skinless, boneless ok)
3-4 thumb sized pieces of fresh ginger – smashed but intact
water to cover to 1.5" above chicken
salt to taste
5 cloves garlic, chopped
2 Tbsp. cooking oil

Wash rice three times in clear warm water, each time draining off excess starch – until water runs clear. Fill rice pot with warm water to the first joint line of the index finger (when fingertip is placed directly atop the surface of the rice). Cook rice on medium high heat until water is almost completely boiled away (12-15 minutes). Turn heat down to low simmer and cover until steaming stops. Turn off heat and set aside.

At medium low heat, boil chicken in water with ginger and salt until chicken is tender. (roughly 1 – 1.5 hours). Add cooked rice and turn up heat to medium high, letting the porridge thicken. Once thick, turn down heat to simmer.

Saute garlic until golden and not one minute more. Add hot oil and garlic and to finish porridge. Stir to incorporate. From the flu to a broken heart, good for what ails ya.

At least that’s what my grandfather said.