SOUP DU JOUR

RYE BERRIES AND CABBAGE

After a few days through the Thanksgiving holiday, I came home and made me soup. (A basket of vegetables were waiting at my door upon entry, and a note signed with an emoji heart; it was a welcome obligation to cook.) Wild rice-like the rye berries make a great liquid stock especially when boiled with a node of ginger root (I love that they break husk and elaborate their grains). So that was my base. Aside: I know salt theoretically "releases" the flavor of food while cooking, but my technique is partial to the ingredients' natural secretion so there's minimal seasoning there, just a little nudge in the pot - as with only a dappling of olive oil.  What's important is there's enough soup in the pot for what's coming next to absorb more diverse flavors; you can see in the photo yellow jalapeños, bok choy and white cabbage as herbal accomplices of spicy, bitter-peppery, sweet. And it doesn't take time to release these savories. What I do is I turn the heat to high and let your base boil vigorously (thus I recommend to over water) and then transfer the said veggies in, jalapeños first, and let them steam out halfway, covered, and turning off while the bok choy is still chlorophyll green. Yes, you might see fresh-cracked black peppercorns on the soup, maybe a little pinch more of salt and chili pepper flakes, but your presentation at its critical temperature is ready and you are home now, and happy to be. 

I was the only guest of six at a festive table to a family Thanksgiving dinner who'd met me for the first time, yet warmth and kindness was shown from the beginning to end (I helped prepped food in the kitchen, carried supplies back and forth, washed dishes after; it was the least I could do). On the airplane back, I was reflecting on this occasion as a harbinger of the holidays that are coming up next month, and thoughts of past traditions and loved ones touched my heart. New York is on my mind for the holidays. I know the city well enough as not to feel so alone getting there. If I go. It is beautiful walking the winter trails of Central Park; beautiful silver lining on the Metro North train to Peekskill along the Hudson River; beautiful just being on the steps of the Brooklyn Arts Museum, or the library of the performing arts in Lincoln Center, both with fountains; beautiful giving a deep embrace to my chef-friend at his restaurant in Bushwick where we used to live (I wonder if our regular waiter/actor from Jersey is still there) - because it is so close to home. Alice Munro wrote a book called Too Much Happiness. I will take this book on my trip this holiday season, as I journey back to how it used to be.    

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A FOODNOTE

    The worshipers (no, the hipsters) at the Temple of Peace in Haiku are all vegan, creatives and Woodstock-era descendants. Under crystal chandeliers hanging from the party tent, the open church rocked with Ayurvedic vibe and live music of praise to the mystery creator of the universe pervading the gathering with love and peace. But I went there for the legendary food, with all due respect. Starfruit kebabs (very ingenious); a pumpkin (and other garden-grown vegetables) spiced ratatouille (delightful); avocado dip with olive oil crackers; raw greens-and-herbs and watermelon beets salad, no dressing; my favorite in the banquet braised Swiss chards-wild rice basmati-lemons and grits (just phenomenal in its peasant food goodness); and on top of it all: Nigerian yellow mung beans and okra stew, garnished with roasted kukui nuts! The hand-to-hand circle song in the gathering before eating was the 1970s crooner “You Are So Beautiful,” an island kumbaya rendition of everyone at the temple with soft gazey eyes for one another affirming we are. Although I started getting self-conscious with the innocent stares of admiration, but I showed the best of my game to the group by swinging along my shoulders and neck in the beats of our meta-energies infused with intoxicating peace-love-flower vibe. I once read when I was still living in Portland, Ore., that where hippies congregate and transform as counter-culture community in their domicile utopia, is where foodies are created. I agree. Hippies are grounded but elevated, and their green thumbs run parallel to their down-to-earth spirits. They grow food for a communal table, they farm for the household of friendship. And boy they sure can cook another-level tasty. My idol chef-poet Anthony Bourdain was one. Patience Grey was another. And these two, of countless culinary luminaries I admire, were writers-at-soul first, and being a cook was beside the point. Cooking is an act of the nourishment of their great minds - they can make you just eat simply warmed sourdough baguette with churned homestead butter but it feels like a cozy alternative to the ceremonial breaking of bread and wine. They toss salads with their lime-rinsed hands and plate them edible colors dynamically. They woo you for the pleasure of your dining consciousness - the sage grassiness of the rare-grilled rack of lamb; the cacao soufflé with oozing pomegranate jam at the center of the airy cake. That's magic. Back at the Temple hula was a prayer my friend and I danced to. We were actually having a wonderful time, albeit spiritual and church-minded. The collection basket came out and floated around and I put ten dollars, she five. Not bad for a price (a donation) to a poetic meal and cool heavenly music experience. Namaste.          

   

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DOUBLE BOILER

"City to city, airport to airport, time zone to time zone, country to country, this it appears is my life. Least I could do is see the world with open eyes - this life's glorious mosaic. But travel isn't always pretty. You go away, you learn, you get scarred and changed in the process - it even breaks your heart."        (Anthony Bourdain)

  

    I traveled to Taiwan (ca. 2016) deliberately with two goals in mind: the hot springs in Bai Yen, and the captivating night market with bustling food stalls cooking on the spot local fare. I read in the Times Magazine about this hidden oasis on the mountaintop that only a few internationals had seen, the writer of the article was one them, and his writing immediately intrigued me because the description was unlike any other. It was an all-natural pool under a forest canopy, and its confluence was “slightly” engineered by the local villagers (who were diehard protectors of the “spring from heaven”) by manipulating the flow of both the waterfalls and the volcanic geothermal effluence existing side by side in that unique ecology, thereby mixing cold and hot springs through stone dikes-path riverine which beautifully like a zen garden collected into the perfect living pond, downstream at the serene riparian canyon. And the writing of this article emphasized this subtle human touch, giving me the appreciation of the ingenuity of the Taiwanese people, as already reputed of them, developing their nature only to enhance itself. It was hours hike from the only small hotel in the village, but it was worth it. The reality of the oasis was more beautiful than the words imagined hitherto; perhaps those words in their final divination took upon me the unfolding for lasting memory.     

(I am interrupting this story for a double boiler alert! I was melting baking chocolate in unsweetened cashew milk while writing this blog, and I almost forgot about it. Whisking the concoction is important constantly, breaking out the chunks, and whisking more and more to emulsify to molten but pourable viscosity was my food project this Sunday afternoon on the double boiler, notwithstanding the time to write, to make my favorite cold beverage: poured iced cafe mocha. It's a 3pm pick-me-up drink. It's been raining all day on Maui, and it's warm and humid. It is perfect.)

On his scooter, a local friend I had met in Taiwan (a former monk turned vegan cafe chef/owner) took me to the Wunshan District market past midnight, which in that time zone was just about the start of the weekend, and I was in for the gastronomic delight of my life - albeit scared to death on the freeway at high speed and holding on tight. Locals, especially those with culinary sensitivities, are originals when when it came down to their food choices, minding only what works and what they like with street food that's time-and-recipe-tested (their intention was not so much to impress, but to eat what they eat best, and drink what drinks to go nicely with what, and that's the way how I had wanted to be showed around). Do Hua is a tofu custard dessert (very traditional in China) that's mix in shaved ice and garnished with boiled peanuts and sweetened by ginger syrup. That was served after the pipping hot soup of watercress, lotus roots and glass noodles from the next stall over. That afternoon I had helped my friend in his kitchen prepping vegetables for dinner service, we were across from each other at the table picking spinach leaves, and he had noticed the tears in my eyes I was trying to hide. He had asked kindly what was wrong... It was a long story that held out the best of us until our night market run, the monk knew the heart as much as he knew food, the heart and the stomach are on top of each other like a double boiler, (his metaphor), and for the heart's sake, you will never burn it. 

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LEGUMES AND POLENTA

     The last memorable polenta dish I had was in Venice, Italy at the osteria Al Four Feri — a family-run, hole-in-the-wall but traditional, you can hardly move inside, and the white plates of food were almost as large as your tiny window table smacked across the bar it was a feat busy Friday night dining was accomplished spatially, but that’s the old world for you — and the romance of it all never died; (with the lingering scent of grilled langoustines on the creamy polenta with vin santo wine, how could it?) This travel background (though an old memory) is important to write for two reasons: one, it was why I was inspired to buy the coarse polenta meal at Mana Foods this morning; and second, polenta is deceptively one of the hardest grains to cook perfectly and since the holidays are coming (Thanksgiving in three weeks), I have to recheck my culinary techniques for precision, hopefully achieving something as close as possible to how I remembered the exquisite polenta at Al — and I will include it on the menu. 

The dried figs in the plastic bag (from the bulk section) burst at the seam at check out and the cashier put it aside and I said it was alright I’ll just take the preserved dates (I plan to infuse the cooking liquid for my polenta with medjool and figs for hints of fruitiness, and salt it nice and evenly after with butter.) Polenta is from corn as you know, and breaking down even its powder version is stubbornly hard, and because coarse ground meal means haphazard-cut grains, it is difficult to emulsify evenly and that’s why constant stirring and replenishing of hot infused-water is essential to tie up all the grains to a smooth porridge consistency — ironically the hardest grain to dissolve is the powdered form (it’s like eating sand when uncooked); so the trick is patience and low heat over the pot uncovered, and time — you have to relax in the cooking and waiting as if on the beach imagining “the ocean to come wash up to the grains of sand.” But in the rest of the polenta meal come its natural creaminess and maple. And it’s worth standing in the kitchen for long. 

When I serve my polenta this holiday (and other legumes dishes), I will think of food as the gathering element that shines a light in our hearts, with the traditions we remember and celebrate with family. True that some traditions fade in time and connections wither - they are a matter of course - but food can bring them all back with hospitable intentions and sharings, there will be new friends in your life (or even a new home with a new someone, or albeit you're still alone after once belonging to an old tradition) so long as you cook with delight and savor all your memories in them, you will not "go hungry" in spirit. You will be remembered, too, for the devotion that comes with your food— and in the love letters you keep for them.  

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OF THE COOK

 

The essential thing in a poet is that he builds us his world.    —Ezra Pound

I met a girl (a fellow traveler) on the bus from Gilroy, Ca., and she pointed on the GPS of her phone the route from the airport where we boarded together (before that borrowing a buck for bus fare) to Chinatown. Why did you want to get off there? curious. To want to eat dim sum and congee, I said. And you don't have that food where you came from? No. She wasn't particularly impressed; if only she knew this decision of mine to do first thing after landing was the stuff that stirred my soul. You're here. And just at the stop was the Golden Palace, the doors were open (it was almost 11am; opening time for Sunday dim sum service), and the timing couldn't be more perfect - the silver carts were being prepped by elderly Chinese women in aprons carrying bamboo steamers of har goa and shumai and rice congee, I was showed at my table and immediately hot tea was served, the usual condiments were at the table - hot sauce, mustard, soy sauce - the demi saucer was there of course for this trinity, I poured tea, relaxed and looked around, an aquarium of live fish (very typical), round tables and large family groups are coming, accents bespoke of the natural accounting of the dim sum varieties and a stamp of your order as pointed was left on your table to track. I think the invention of dim sum is a compelling evidence why food matters to sustenance and comfort. One high-level dim sum I've had was at this dirty (in a sense sweaty staff and unkempt room, the floors sticky) restaurant in Shanghai moons ago, and it's called the xia long bao: there's captured soup in the shu maui and what you do to release it is to bite on its side to puncture the dough cavity and then immediately slurp, drain out the juice - and then dip the morsel in vinegar soy sauce laced with pickled ginger and you're in heaven! food heaven, that is, with a Far East register. The rice porridge is an elevated experience of a traditional silky soup with a hearty punch, not to mention the umami given the garlic and scallions bouquet garni emotional temperature of the congee. A "century egg" is typically found sunken in the congee, I remember growing up and the kid in me thought the egg had a funky taste and smell to it, but I realized with education from my traditionalist family that the century egg was like aging cheese in its mold and the resulting creaminess to the palate exposed a devilish good quality to it to shake your appetite senses and open them up. I use food to write poetry when I need to make my world a little bigger, especially for my heart. I've been away from my New York City for a while now, and it's like this absence was going on so long a vacation and I never returned home. My travels overseas - which is "existentially" part of what I call "home" (I have a nomadic nature, in the sense journeys of the soul one takes to find it) - have also been deferred. Ezra Pound had translated into English a great armada of Oriental literature works at the turn of the 20th century for the Occidental audience, like Japanese haikus, and importantly, Chinese ideograms (kan-gi), and of course their poetry. Poetry gives, and this man builds.  (PS. I couldn't write my blog yesterday; I was at the "Golden Palace" and writing, out of respect to eating there, wasn't allowed. But here it is.)  

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