TO HEALTH

Broiled eggplant and pickled cucumber on toasted sunflower bread with vegan butter. Vegetables from my landlady.

“In the early 1960s, a physician named Stewart Wolf heard about a town of Italian immigrants and their descendants in northeast Pennsylvania where heart disease was practically unknown. Wolf decided to take a closer look at the town, Roseto. He found that almost no one under age fifty-five showed symptoms of heart disease. Men over sixty-five suffered about half the number of heart problems expected of average Americans. The overall death rate in Roseto was about one-third below national averages. After conducting research that carefully excluded factors such as exercise, diet, and regional variables like pollution levels, Wolf and sociologist John Bruhn concluded that the major factor keeping folks in Roseto healthier longer was the nature of community itself. Everybody knew everybody else intimately, so that the bonding of reciprocal exchange could hold people together. People gave with the expectation of taking and took with expectation of giving.” 

My beautiful landlady (a surrogate kin)— it has been that way ever since moving to Maui, she, like an auntie or mom, who lives below my flat, takes care of me with weekly rations of local vegetables and fruits she picks out carefully so the prettiest and greenest I get (she even wraps the papaya in newspaper and stubs out the root ends of cabbages and almost always leaves a paper cup with a fragrant flower in it, yesterday was a gardenia, inside the produce bag carefully tied outside my door) with a note of aloha. I take care of her, too, in a dutiful and respectful (and artful) grateful way like a son (the fellow living upstairs a longtime tenant of her the writer from New York she has been fond of as I have been, too, very much indeed of her) and have always in exchange of food I surprise her by her front door putting small gifts on the pink plastic baby chair her grand daughter sits in when her family’s around to visit, with her favorite milk chocolate (candy or cookie) and cute little trinkets to match/mismatch, for fun, like a turtle eraser or comfy ankle socks with a cat embroidery on it, all these with my signature homemade card I cut out from cartoon magazines and her gifts all elegantly wrapped up with a string bow and almost always with words of thanks that melt her heart. Not far (spiritually) from us on the west coast mainland is a lovely and fabulous single mother with a high-level corporate career in healthcare who takes care of four handsome boys, amazingly pulling it off with fervent dedication— and she happens to be my best and childhood friend that through our long relationship all these years has been for each other with a special bond I call altruistic siblings, sharing everything, especially when carrying us through in difficult times and good times, we love sharing recipes (I told her to cook for her boys last week, NYTimes-derived, a scallion-honey glazed mushroom udon yakisoba), and she said they loved it! And not far from her in the same So. Cal. city is my real, biological sister, older than me by a year, and the three of us, plus counting my late mom’s best friend living North of the state, we were all neighbors growing up, and till now, though I have moved the farthest, have synthesized emotionally and materially into the true definition of what family is all about — and that’s all about unconditional love, in light of the context in which that unconditional love was formed through loyal and abiding friendship from day one. And that completes my “community” — which transcends so much health and support for my mind and body, aspirations, sense of belonging, not to mention my stomach always full of wellness food. The book I’m reading now (where the above quote came from) is about the science of how humans evolved to be tribal and members of many but forming a unit that stood by each other through thick or thin, from our hunting-gathering days when food was seasonal, to the discovery of agriculture and land cultivation around 10,000 years ago when food production was controlled and lasting longer. The take away is cohesion as genetically embedded in our nature as people. And food was the glue.  

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TURMERIC AND RAMBUTAN

 

I was writing haikus deep in Iao Valley this morning where I swim, and I caught sight of two mating forest spiders on a web line over the rock pools. And I have to say it was fortuitous for the poem to receive this imagery on the accident that art was there. In grad school I remember my writing teacher saying that the beauty of a haiku lies, not when a revelation is imagined as compared (ergo a metaphor), but instead you will find it in a nature scene and express it as it is - words merely set their stage, and they show. I have often been asked why I suffuse with poetry and even poetic studies are prominent in my food blog, and I address the question with candor. Cooking is a thematic approach to "storytelling" in the spirit of I harvest the fruits and vegetables I eat. But it is not that food and poetry are connected; they only meet every time at the intersection of my lifestyle. On weekends if I'm not reading/writing, I am in the kitchen always making salabat (a Filipino turmeric root hot tea, an indigenous panacea for the weary body), or thinking up what to do with the teeming produce I have in the fridge (mostly given to me by my ohana friends). I think through the lens of poetry and that is to say: when I am full and happily nourished, a lot of that goes to my heart. The rambutans aren't as sweet as I'd hope, and it's probably because of the absence of the trade winds (lately) from the earth's rotation, but I got them at the store anyway. They were unexpected at the fruit section where bananas and pineapples were common - just like the insects I found at the waterfalls stream cove while I was writing a poem. I think I will "plum wine" the rambutans to prune in their hidden flavor, fermenting them for a while is a clear jar with water, sugar and a node of spice from the root (in picture). Years ago I was traveling to Suzhou, China and had a wonderful tea service on a floating restaurant adorned with red and gold lanterns. On the bottom of the antique cup was a green pruned plum and it made all the difference in the oolong tea, elevating the flavor of my drink by giving off (like smoke) its concentrated spirit from an aged fruit (until they bloom; it reminded my of an Aeschylus parable that warned if you truly love a flower don't pick it). I visited a classical Chinese garden in Suzhou (this ancient town, by the way, is the cradle of Zen landscaping design) and my local friend there, an art historian, guided my imagination as we walked through the winding pebbled pathway with hidden symbols marked for the discerning eye. Bats. They are bats, he said, very significant in Chinese poetic literacy. The filigreed window of the pond temple is a bat. As the mosaic wall against the bamboo trees. The wood bridge railing is carved with bats. The serenity of the garden is the evident reason why during the day the bats are asleep. They slumber for the sake of the garden's tranquility (and for us, he explained, to capture beauty's moment). Only at night do they fly out like infinity ... to the harvest moon.           

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ELIXIR CONGEE

GINGER, CARROTS, PIGEON PEAS, SAVOY CABBAGE RICE CONGEE

Those are pretty much the ingredients for this healing soup, in that order you cook it with a little olive oil for sauté, it's good to have a hot vegetable stock standing by, also cooked white rice, you just have to do the slice-prepping of the roots and legumes in advance and you're good (it will take less than fifteen minutes to finish in the pot), but this recipe is ancient in the Orient and tastes divine. I hope one of my old friends in New York is reading this blog at the moment and inspire to make it given the weather there. 

The key to enjoying this healthy soup and getting all its vitamins and nutrients is temperature. Scalding but perfectly drinkable through a big concave spoon (or if you're like me, straight from the bowl) as it percolates in your mouth the steaming vapor is given off and goes down slowly like free fall in your chest and gut while warming you bodily when you needed warm. Dante, the Divine Comedy bard, in classical times wrote that if you do something extraordinary for yourself then the soul comes around and comes alive. Especially if you're under the weather. I finish off the broth fast at intervals of chopsticking the greens to chase it down, and when my forehead is perspiring the soup is gone, but the porridge and the peas remain for encore nurturing. Now the soul is full. 

How to: In a medium sauce pan with handle, over med-high heat, sauté ginger, carrots and peas until browning on all sides (keep stirring, though, to char evenly) and when aromatic add the cooked rice, stir in, add salt, pepper, chili flakes, add a ladle of the standing by veg stock - it will sizzle and bubble and that's the dynamic you want to release the gastronomy of your soup. When settled, add more stock almost to the brim of the pan, and allow to boil. Then finally add your cabbage in, just the ribboned leafy greens only for mild bittersweetness taste (I saved and pickled the stems separately). Cover for 5 minutes, turn to medium heat. Look at the soup through the glass lid; it's ready when the greens are bright and the pigeon peas are peeping on top. Transfer to an enormous Oriental bowl and your elixir congee is up.      

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LIFE OF FOOD

 

Without constant experiment literature dies. Experiment is one of the necessary elements to its life. Experiment aims at writing that will have a relation to the present analogous to the relation which past masterwork had to the life of its time.   — Ezra Pound

    I think it is the joy of food themselves to try out all their possibilities and challenge the cook to find the ways. Just look at the picture! So much was delivered to me by friends and co-workers this weekend; least I could do is make the most of them, not waste anything, delight them for how the food turned out and enhance my gratitude for all their giving. Even my ex from New York texted me a podcast recipe for “Chicken Soup for the Weary Soul” — an audio short story of one writer’s coping through the challenges of the pandemic by cooking home food he remembers growing up prepared by mom — and inspired after listening, I made me (through experimentation) a vegan version of tinola, a classic Filipino ginger-onion-green papaya based soup, minus the meat. His favorite. I will call mine ginger-onion-asparagus-sweet potato dal using up what my friends locally had brought me. I reconstituted the prepared curried dal from the farmers market and added it to the sizzling ginger roots and onions in the pot, and once giving out nasally amazing steam poured over some liquid stock of the sweet potato, pressed in some frisée lettuce, some basil and arugula for counter bitterness, and for sweetness balance with asparagus sticks and the golden yams already tender and creamy, and more stock. The resulting soup wasn’t overpowering at all but surprisingly light-spiced and minerally delicious to the heart I ate my soup from the lip of the bowl holding it with both hands on either side. The “life of food” is what I’m eating now for my health, a fusion of goodwill and friends love and a plethora of ingredients I “played” with. But, on the other hand, and I have to say this purely out of nostalgia: There is nothing  better for the soul than companionship. Since New York, true, I’ve been alone for a few years now, and albeit I can cook, there’s no true comfort in being solo at a table with fine food when there could’ve been the two of you like before. But I’m O.K. I have memories to live by and a “living" kitchen to be a poet for with a beautiful roof over my head, the sky of Maui. Did I mention the fruits? Upcountry strawberries and tangerines juiced fresh. The big pomelo chilling in the fridge will be hand-peeled later when the afternoon gets hot — and I am already imagining it mild like a cool martini yet zero-proof. Ezra Pound said to never abandon the beauty of poetry, and for the arts to be the antidote for the multitude. It’s a phenomenon I do not take lightly how poetry and food transcend like a gemini twin spirit in my life, I approach writing with food I give poetry, and poetry will have a prose for me to cook on. Did I mention what’s for dessert? Well, I have to think of something creative with what I have waiting in the fridge (more goodies from my care package): fruity popsicles, candied lemons, coconut milk yogurt, local ripe bananas. How about a “parfait split”? What an adventure to discover!           

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RESTAURANT GABRIEL KREUTHER

 

New York City. Dec. 29, 2021

A [personal] review. Arriving at the gilded reception where the maître d' greeted us to our table was immediate to send the sommelier, noticing the need, after peeling off my heavy scarf intuitively. Fig carpaccio with the Alsatian Beaujolais summoned. Impressive match. Famous French chefs amuse with symmetry. This, gentleman. is local honeycomb with chive fromage blanc. Wine choice is an essential arbiter to taste perceptions. The genius to haute cuisine. Notwithstanding keen observations of the professional table staff to timing and palpable exquisiteness. It is easy to lose interest in the formation of an elevated dining experience if not through the osmosis of service it inheres. And then the squid ink gnocchi (with a silky golden egg yolk at the center) descended on the table gracefully. The rest of the story is a mirage accounting of events intractable, because the point of it all was the reunion of a perfect companionship around food performance they celebrated all over the world. Conversant not perfunctorily with the next table, evident were travel passions and academic politics enhanced. The former took a discreet picture from his phone of the writer fully engaged with others. Like Pamela Hanson's black and white off-assignment from fashion to take on social scenes with the lens on being. In his enthusiasm the writer explained to the sommelier that Andrew Rich was a label in the Willamette Valley blending varietals that captured the region's terroir. Thus inevitable with the merguez-chickpea ragout plate came the Bergström reserve pinot noir as company. They both remembered that nothing as exquisite as that pairing was achieved since Zavala, Croatia's zinfandel with Adriatic mussels, an old trip they took to the Balkans one fine summer season on the golden age of their time. When they were just starting to build their lives together (and home) in Portland, Ore., he came across an article in the Times magazine and read aloud to the writer while he was unpacking groceries in the kitchen about the lavender fields of Hvar Island that almost seventy percent of it bloomed all season long. It was the reason they went that year and fell in love with the country. Voyages far and wide were impulses they shared with immediate resonance. And action. They were like Lewis and Clark, but discovering otherwise that night again their internal landscapes to pioneer reaching together in their minds... [forever].     

  

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CULMINATION TABLE

 It’s 5:24am and I’m at JFK on New Year’s Day waiting for my flight back to Hawaii, but yesterday for Eve not long ago this brunch table I put together for dear friends (see photo: I rented an entire apartment in Brooklyn for the holidays with the requisite kitchen) was a culmination of sorts—  topped with peace, rejuvenations and amazing food. The menu was deliberate, a “classic libretto” from my books I knew well to play, they were expecting it, it was one of the best I did culinarily, and it was my pleasure to cook and be their chef de cuisine by affinity and for old times. 

Two days before my gathering I walked up several blocks to the Polish bakery in Greenpoint and ordered an apricot cheese loaf and paid with a big smile. I had sent my invitations previously a photo of that giddiness using my phone and cropped a text dialogue box to write the menu under it: (1) rack of lamb, marinated overnight in fresh sage, kalamata olives and pepper corns (with sides of garlic spaghettini and asparagus); (2) Septime-inspired winter salad created with fennels, fennel fronds, mixed greens, pomegranate seeds, pears, grapefruits, brown tomatoes and sunflower nuts (Septime is a restaurant in the 11th district in Paris); and last but most elegantly, (3) roasted chestnuts (I roasted them slowly in star anise and maple syrup, and the apartment smelled for hours like Christmas heaven — the chestnuts were surrogate to cheese charcuterie to complement the heretofore appetizer/constant nibble of delicious bright-tasting bing cherries I got at Eataly in the Flatiron district; I want both omnivores and vegans happy and satisfied at the culmination table). I cooked the lamb a la  carte, as they like it, one medium, one well done; New Yorkers come to parties always staggered late and stylish but will never compromise on the perfect timing of food deliverance.

It was hard to believe I would do this again after all these years cooking to the same set of folks that had been my circle family, and now living separate lives. It was like we owed that reunion to each other, for we would all be remiss spiritually to unlearn of the past which had been the pure reason why we were made friends in the first place. No one let anyone down that evening. Besides, we were no strangers to each other, and we were merriest that way as we fed our souls. (He stayed behind and helped me with the dishes after dinner. I packed some leftovers and the flowers for him I could not take home in a long distance flight. It was nice to see him again. To see him eat so well, like before.)

Three stars are in the sky,

a night, a night,

to see man, and hold him pleasantly.

 Now I’ve bundled up the grass,

There stars rise o’er the hill,

a night to meet,

a night to meet,

by luck, not by our will.

Now I’ve bound the thorns together,

Three stars above the door

have brought me to tie with such a lass

as never saw before.

                        — Confucius, 744-738 B.C

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