Wrapping and Pan-frying Dumplings
Sichuan Dry-Fried Green Beans
Thai Lemongrass & Ginger Iced Tea
It took a trip to Japan to realize I've been making edamame wrong all these years.
Well, not necessarily wrong wrong. But not the best way possible.
When I discovered the joys of edamame about 10 or 12 years ago, I would buy bags of the frozen stuff, microwave them, and sprinkle table salt on top. Then I progressed to boiling them in a pot. When I discovered fresh edamame in Chinatown, and replaced Morton with Malden, I thought this was as good as edamame could get. After all, it tasted the same as at all the Japanese restaurants in the US.
Then I went to Japan. In Tokyo this past summer, I noticed something slightly different about the fuzzy little legume that was as good an accompaniment with omikase-style sushi as it was with beer at 2 a.m. My meals of tempura, sashimi, fugu, and yes, even fugu sashimi were all bookended by a dish of edamame that tasted, well, better. Was it just because my subconscious dictated that the Japanese food had to taste better in Japan?
One night when returning to the guest house, a traveler from the north of Japan was snacking on some edamame in front of the TV. He was watching game show contestants clad in knee pads and mud hurling themselves around an obstacle course. He offered me some edamame.
These pumpkins are so oddly beautiful I just had to share. My friend Christa picked them up at Farmer John's pumpkin patch in Half Moon Bay, about 30 to 40 minutes from San Francisco. Having never seen them before, I spent the longest time trying to figure out how they developed to look like two different species squashed into one, with a warty belt around the middle.
These pumpkins have a handful of colorful names, including Turk's Turban, Turk's Squash, Scotchman's Purse, Ladies' Eardrops, and (for the smaller ones) Aladdin's Turban. Apparently, because the sun hits the top more directly, the pumpkins develop top heavy, like an upside-down hat.
Oh, and they don't taste very good, so it's best to just display them around the house, maybe near the punch bowl at your Halloween party.
More pics of these odd- but fun-looking specimens.
_________________
Related posts:
When I was living in China, the kitchen was never without rice. Long grain, short grain, jasmine, or brown, a sack or bulk bin bag would slouch in the corner, just waiting to be cooked. I would steam it, fry it, or boil it to a pulp for congee. And one day, out of severe homesickness, I decided to make horchata.
A Chinese friend was over and watched me pull a plastic carton from the fridge, which I had filled the day before with pulvertized rice grains and water to soak overnight.
"What is that?" she asked. I explained that Mexicans make a really nice icy drink out of rice water.
"But that's just like waste water from washing rice," she said."We dump that stuff down the drain."
"Um, true," I paused. "But when you add tons of sugar and vanilla and cinnamon, it's a great drink to go with your tacos."
"I'll stick with margaritas."
I couldn't convince her to try it, which makes sense. The Chinese think anything raw is for barbarians and marvel at how Westerners down large bowls of salad, so why would they go for milky water from soaking raw rice? Come to think of it, none of the Mexican restaurants in Shanghai (all operated by Chinese-Americans) served horchata either. The only time I encountered the drink in China was at a Mexican-run Mexican restaurant in Beijing, and its clientele was predominantly Mexican embassy workers.
This week the food world had its own Black Monday. To reduce costs, Condé Nast has decided to shut down Gourmet. I mourned on Twitter, along with a thousand other food writers and bloggers. It felt cathartic to be reassured that there were many others who will miss seeing the magazines in their mailboxes every month.
But then the insults started flying. Among the many criticisms the magazine received was that it was "elitist", "irrelevant", and that its "recipes took too long." In the most scathing piece published this morning, The Boston Globe called it a "symbol of bygone vision of gourmet life in America - and as sign that even upmarket niches can be too confining."(Disclosure: I used to write for the Globe, and still read it, and contributed a piece in August to Gourmet.)
It seems that most of these critics stopped reading Gourmet in the 1980s. Or they ignored the 90% of magazine that doesn't have to do France or fine dinnerware. What's so "elitist" about street food in Thailand or a mom-and-pop Chinese barbecue stand? Or a first-person account, not just some fluffy service piece, about living frugally? Or for that matter, in-depth coverage of sustainable food issues? If elitism is defined by reaching beyond the scope of soccer moms and trend-seekers or calling olive oil by its rightful name, then I must be elitist too.
With all due respect to Memphis and Kansas City, Californians know the nation's best barbecue may be in their own backyard. I've spent enough time in the Central Coast to know that no occasion is too small for Santa Maria-style barbecue. Fundraisers, Quinceañeras, and Saturdays are all reasons to fire up the 50-gallon oil drum grill and slow cook enough beef for the whole town. For my Foodbuzz 24, 24, 24 event this month, I attended to a local fundraiser for spare ribs cooked on a giant grill, then at night, made my own tri-tip feast.
So what exactly is Santa Maria-style barbecue? Well, legend has it that California's barbecue culture dates back to the early 19th century, when vaqueros ended hard days of cattle branding with feasts of fresh steer, bread, and beans. And they were economical too, these cowboys. When they couldn't bear to toss the triangular ends of their sirloins,
they made the tri-tip a regional Cal-Mex speciality.
One of the things I like best about Vietnam is the café culture. And by café, I mean any collection of plastic stools on the sidewalk, set up by an entrepreneurial local who mixes drinks for her neighbors. At any time of the day, along the streets of Saigon, Hanoi, Hoi An, etc., the Vietnamese just crouch around wobbly pastel tables and sip their drink of choice. Whether it's cafe sua da, sugarcane juice, aloe vera shake, or passionfruit juice, the icy beverages are practically lifesavers in a sweltering climate.
If a fruit grows in abundance in Vietnam, you can be sure it is pulsed into a shake. And avocados are everywhere. I grew up associating avocados with salty foods: mashed into guacamole, fanned on chicken sandwiches, sprinkled with sea salt and eaten straight. So a sweet shake was something of a novelty.
But it makes sense. Because avocado flesh is naturally neither sweet nor salty, it's a tabula rasa for any creamy concoction you want to make.
Since the shake comes out rather thick, and contains both avocados and sweetened condensed milk (not exactly diet foods), I consider it more of a dessert than a light drink. But you can always thin it out with a little more milk and crushed ice.
No wonder travelers to Vietnam fall in love with Hoi An. It is close to beaches, a gazillion times less chaotic than Saigon and Hanoi, and home to amazing, amazing food. In a previous post, I professed my love to banh mi op la, the best breakfast in Southeast Asia. Here, I'll elaborate on some noodles whose photos I still drool over.
While riding a motorbike to the beach, we stopped at a roadside noodle stand for lunch. I was so famished and ready to pounce at a table that my left leg brushed against the muffler of the motorbike. The iron-hot muffler. The scorching pain was momentary, but my leg now had a burn mark the size of a big toe. The restaurant ower sat me down, then zoomed away and back, super hero-style, with a tube of ointment. At least, I thought it was ointment. The next minute, my leg was tingling and covered with what really was minty toothpaste. In the middle of nowhere, any moisturizing gel or was better than no ointment at all.
Recently, while visiting Jacob's grandmother in California, I discovered a torn cookbook in her kitchen drawers. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "You found my bible!"
Titled "Country Cookin'", the book was published in the 1970s by the Monterey County Cowbelles, otherwise known as the wives of Monterey's ranchers. Surprisingly, only a tenth of the book is devoted to red-meat-centric dishes. Most of the recipes are charmingly anachronistic, like Dove in Wine Sauce and Hot Russian Tea (with Tang!). But what really caught my attention were the handful of Chinese recipes.
Zooming past the egg foo young and sweet and sour beef, I zeroed in on chop suey. After all, it was the page with the most food stains, the telltale sign of a beloved recipe.
