MITCH IN THE KITCHEN

rice porridge

Okay you guys, I am back from a spectacular vacation that included a wedding in California and a family trip to Taiwan and Hong Kong. No (publicly noticeable) jet lag, but I am suffering from that warm, fuzzy, wistful feeling that comes with missing the family members and friends who are practically family members I spent time with. Also, I miss the food in Taiwan. This is the first time I’ve come back from vacation completely un-excited to return to my usual way of eating. I thought I’d have wild cravings for a good slice of pizza, a crunchy bowl of my favorite homemade granola, cheese on everything, and maybe Indian and/or Mexican food. Not so much. What (John and) I want more than any of these things is more warm, sweet, freshly made soy milk with egg pancakes and shao bing for breakfast, a cheap bowl of minced pork and stewed eggs with rice for lunch, and a humble serving of rice porridge with an array of small dishes for dinner like I had one evening at a bustling little eatery whose location I’ve forgotten.

Between six people we shared a big pot of plain rice porridge (aka congee, “jook” in Cantonese, or “jou” in Mandarin) and something like 10 small dishes of bite-sized things like three-cup chicken, crispy small fish with boiled peanuts, strips of tofu with bamboo shoots, marinated seaweed, fried wheat gluten, scrambled eggs with tomatoes, and the requisite plate of lightly sauteed greens (pea leaves, sweet potato leaves, and water spinach are among my favorites) that were ordered with every meal. The meal was light but satisfying, everyday but memorable.

It just occurred to me that this is sort of a metaphor for how I feel about this whole trip and visiting my family. We are enormous in number; my mom has 10 siblings and my dad has 11. I lost track of how many first cousins I have so I just did a count and the grand total is 45. We live all over the world, in California, New York, Wisconsin, Taiwan, Japan, Hong Kong, and France. But when a bunch of us are together, it’s like putting a whole mess of different dishes that came out of the same kitchen on the same table for a night, and there is a palpable sense of harmony. Leaving all that great food in Taiwan gave me unexpected pangs of longing, but being there with my family (with my very own newish 2-person family as a subset) gave me a very hard-to-describe deep sense of belonging that I will never miss, despite the double-digit hours of air travel time and a bit of a language barrier that separate us (I probably have the Chinese vocabulary of a 6-year-old minus all the up-to-date slang… and then I turn around and try to translate things to John). I am beyond fortunate and beyond grateful. </sentimental thought-sharing>

To make basic rice porridge:
Bring 1 part short-grain white rice and 7-9 parts water to a boil in a large-enough pot. Season with a bit of salt, then lower heat and simmer partially covered, stirring occasionally, for about 30 minutes or until rice is softened. You can also toss in brown rice (might take a little longer to cook), peeled chunks of sweet potatoes or taro root, mung beans, or other dried beans at the beginning of cooking. Since rice porridge is wet and unflavored (okay fine, bland), I think it makes sense to have it with dishes that are on the dry side (as in not eaten with big puddles of sauce), crispy and/or fried, and a little heavy on flavor (spicy, salty, tangy, fermented, yes!). At home (in the photo) we had pressed tofu and peanuts with soy sauce and hot chiles, sauteed mustard greens with edamame, a basic omelet with scallions, and store-bought fried tiny fish coated in sesame seeds.

And finally, Happy Lunar New Year! I will be celebrating on the first night with the usual vegetarian dinner.

scallion pancakes

Who doesn’t love scallion pancakes? At their best, they are crisp, not too heavy, and make you want to eat a big stack of them. Their Chinese name, 葱油饼, translates literally to “scallion/onion oil flatbread,” so you definitely need to have enough scallions and enough oil. This was my third or fourth attempt at making these, and though they tasted okay, I don’t quite have it all down. Definitely a “practice makes perfect” (or at least “better”) kind of thing. I followed Serious Eats’ comprehensive guide to making scallion pancakes, more or less; the main thing I did differently was adding about 3/4 teaspoon salt to the dough instead of sprinkling it on top at the end. Though these are best fresh, I like to re-crisp any leftovers in a pan, then fry them with a layer of beaten egg and top it off with some chili sauce. Perfect for brunch with a bowl of lightly sweetened cold soybean milk.

cold and spicy sesame noodles

I’m still on this cold/picnic/unintentionally vegan food kick. Cold sesame noodles are a classic Chinese takeout dish that easily please. They also make good use of leftover cooked noodles and warm summer days spent indoors poring over class lecture notes (no one has to smell my spicy garlic breath). I like my sesame noodles extra spicy and without peanut butter. Strips of cucumber add a little textural contrast and help cool off your tongue a bit. You can also add shredded chicken to make it a full-on meal.

(serves 1)

4 ounces fresh wheat or egg noodles, (or you could even use spaghetti)
2 tablespoons well-stirred Chinese sesame paste
1/4 teaspoon finely minced ginger
1/4 teaspoon finely minced garlic
2 teaspoons soy sauce
1 teaspoon rice wine vinegar
1 teaspoon sesame oil
garlic chili sauce (Sriracha works too) and/or hot chili oil, to taste
julienne cucumber, scallions, and toasted sesame seeds for garnish

Cook noodles according to package directions. Drain and rinse under cool water. If you’re using leftover cooked noodles sitting in the fridge, loosen them up a bit by placing them in a colander and running some warm water over them. This way, you don’t get a giant, stuck-together clump of stiff and sticky noodles.

Combine remaining ingredients (except garnishes) to make sauce. Combine noodles with sauce and toss to coat evenly. Serve with cucumber, scallions, and sesame seeds.

shredded tofu salad

I’ve always had a thing for tofu in all its forms. I kind of forgot about shredded tofu until I came across a small bag of the stuff at a supermarket in Chinatown. The noodly strands are served as a cold appetizer dish (sometimes for free) at casual Chinese restaurants here and there. I don’t remember exactly where I’ve had it, but the most memorable version had rice vinegar, sesame oil, edamame, shredded carrots, and scallions in it. I attempted to recreate it, with mixed results. How do they get such bland tofu so tangy? I feel like I dumped an awful lot of vinegar into mine but couldn’t taste it very well. In any event, it’s a light and delightful thing to have around when the weather is warm and you’d rather not do much cooking. Thinly sliced celery would also add a nice crunch.

chinese new year

Gōng xǐ fā cái, xīn nián kuài lè, happy lunar new year! There are a lot of foods associated with Chinese New Year, but I usually stick to a one-night vegetarian feast on the first night of the new year. The idea is to begin the year without the loss of life, and it’s a Buddhist-based tradition that my entire family follows. Pictured above: fried rice, steamed greens with oyster sauce, Buddha’s delight (I keep it simple with napa cabbage, mushrooms, water chestnuts, tofu skin, and bean thread noodles), and soy sauce stewed tofu. Not the most lavish of dinner spreads, but it was wholly satisfying (and quick and easy to make).

pork and napa cabbage potstickers

As I mentioned before, winter break has given me a great opportunity to spend (even) more time than usual shopping for, thinking about, and making food. Weekday stuffed French toast was just the tip of the iceberg. After a long visit to Hong Kong Supermarket in Chinatown (long because: 1. I want to buy everything that looks remotely familiar, 2. there is a lot of negotiation with myself over how much I can really carry home on the subway, and 3. I can read only a few Chinese characters, so there is a lot of interesting logic that goes into figuring out “what is in this jar and is it what I think it is?”) I hauled home all kinds of Asian ingredients for things like homemade dashi, all kinds of noodle dishes (maybe this, this, and this?), recipes from the Momofuku cookbook, and homemade potstickers. By the way, there is also a jar of kimchi fermenting in a dark corner of my kitchen. We are fusing all kinds of cuisine together for the next couple weeks. Asian-inflected everything!

But back to the potstickers. The best ones have doughy and not-too-thin skin, in my opinion. To achieve this: you gotta make your own. With flour and water and rolling out each individual wrapper. Believe it or not I’ve come close to swearing off making my own wrappers after one exhausting attempt back in the summer of 2007. And even though I have all this time on my hands, I opted to stick to the packaged stuff and give myself a little more time to curl up on the couch with a book. As for the meat stuffed inside, I like the simple and reliable combination of pork and napa cabbage. Basic, satisfying, and omg did I really just eat 15 of these?

For the filling:

1/3 small head napa cabagge, finely chopped
1/2 pound ground pork
2 cloves garlic, minced
1-inch segment of ginger, peeled and minced
2 tablespoons soy sauce
1 teaspoon rice wine
a few pinches of white pepper
1 egg

Put napa cabbage in a bowl and sprinkle generously with salt. Let sit for about 30 minutes. Put salted cabbage in a clean dish towel, roll it up, and wring it out from both ends to squeeze all the water out. (Learned this tip from a Ming Tsai cookbook. Drawing liquid out of the vegetables prevents soggy filling that soaks right through the wrappers.)

Combine cabbage with remaining ingredients. Overwork the pork mixture (i.e. mix the shit out of it with clean hands) to the point where the meat soaks up all the egg and becomes more paste-y than granular or dripping with egg. This way, the filling holds together and you won’t have little meat crumbles falling in your dipping sauce when you double-dip.

To make potstickers (recipe above will give you somewhere between 25 and 35):

Put roughly 1 heaping teaspoon of pork mixture into a wrapper. You want the round kind (called dumpling wrappers or gyoza wrappers). Dip a finger in water and drag it over the inside edge of the dumpling wrapper, then pinch shut. You can make them pleated (like we did) or crimped or just sealed flat.

Heat oil in a large pan over medium-high heat. Add potstickers in one layer, with the sealed edges sticking up. Let them brown for a few minutes, then add about 1/2 cup of water to the pan. Tip from my mom: add a tiny bit of sesame oil to the water. Cover immediately to avoid messy and painful grease splatters, lower heat, and let steam until most of the water is gone. If the water disappears too quickly, add a bit more. Uncover and let the dumplings crisp up again. Serve with…

Dipping sauce: Combine soy sauce, rice wine vinegar, hot chili sauce (I like Yank Sing’s chili pepper sauce or that bright red chili-garlic sauce with seeds), and shredded ginger, to taste.

homemade char siu

I’ve been meaning to do something neat with pork shoulder for awhile now. My Cantonese roots beckoned me to try my hand at char siu, that beautiful, glossy red specimen of pork seen hanging in a Chinatown restaurant window near you. (I don’t actually speak Cantonese beyond the names of my favorite foods, so I call it “cha shao” in passable Mandarin.)

After scouring the internets for an idea of what exactly goes in the marinade, I came across unusual-sounding variations (from Hawaii and beyond) that included ketchup, sherry, and apricot jam. Mmm… no. And then I found this gem of a post on Chowhound telling me that the “richest flavoured sauce comes from generations of boiling down and adding to the original marinade.” Amazing. Just like yogurt cultures or sourdough starters that get passed on, batch after batch. Also note that my char siu is not really red because I didn’t use any food coloring.

(photo of yours truly by Jocelyn)

I also took the extra “Mitch you are crazy” step of using s-hooks from the hardware store and rearranging the racks in my oven to simulate the old-school way of getting a nice sticky (not soggy) glaze on the entire surface of the pork slabs. But you can also use a roasting rack or a regular baking pan and not be concerned with my unusual habits.

This is also an inspiring beginning to a tour of pork shoulders around the world. Next stop: carnitas? Bo ssäm? Pulled pork? Pernil?

Char siu recipe:

2 1/2 to 3 pound boneless pork shoulder
3 tablespoons hoisin sauce
3 tablespoons dark soy sauce
3 tablespoons light soy sauce
1/4 cup rice wine
lots of ginger, grated (I did about a 2-inch segment)
2 teaspoons Chinese five-spice powder
honey for basting (about 1/2 cup)

Cut the pork shoulder into 5-inch long strips (they should be about an inch thick and 1 1/2 to 2 inches wide). Combine hoisin sauce, soy sauces, rice wine, ginger, and five-spice. Marinate pork in this mixture for 8 hours or overnight (throwing it all in a gallon-size zip-top plastic bag is the easiest way to go about it).

Preheat oven to 425 degrees F. Place pork pieces on hooks (or on a roasting rack or roasting pan). Place a foil-lined sheet pan on a rack placed at the bottom of the oven (you know, the lowest part it can slide in and out of). Place another rack at the top of the oven. Carefully hang pork on the top rack, making sure the pieces don’t touch each other. Roast for 15 to 20 minutes, then baste with honey. The honey can be warmed up a little if it’s too thick, or you can thin it out with some of the reserved marinade. I think I combined a little too much of the marinade with the honey for this basting part and the end result wasn’t as caramelized and sticky as I would’ve liked it to be. I am one of those people who will fight you for the burnt end pieces.

Lower temperature to 325 degrees and roast for another 40 minutes, or until pork is cooked through, basting every 10 minutes or so. You can check the meat with an instant-read thermometer (160 degrees F) or try the finger test (or stop stressing about slightly pink pork… nice restaurants out there do it on purpose). If you’re using the hooks, carefully remove pork using a sturdy pair of tongs and be careful about the drippy juices.

zha jiang mian (noodles with pork sauce)

I’ve been having about one wedding-related nightmare each week. In the most recent one, I was at a Chinese restaurant ordering lunch with my friend Jeanice. After mulling over my options, I decided to get a basket of xiao long bao (soup dumplings). When the gruff, middle-aged manager-cum-waiter came to take our order, I asked him if he also had zha jiang mian (炸酱面). As he walked back to the kitchen to check, Jeanice asked me if my flowers were ready. I dashed out of the restaurant to arrange for flower arrangements, two days before the big day, leaving the possibility of zha jiang mian for lunch behind.

A few days later, I decided this was inspiration enough to make zha jiang mian, possibly the only Chinese dish I’ve come anywhere close to “mastering” (yes, it’s that easy). You can also find versions of zha jiang mian at Korean restaurants (jajangmyeon) and Japanese restaurants. The noodles should be wheat noodles (made from wheat flour), and the sauce should be pretty salty thanks to all the fermented bean products that go into it. Zha jiang mian is usually served with crunchy vegetables on top, typically bean sprouts, cucumbers, and shredded carrots. I like to cook diced carrots in the sauce (what my mom does) and top it with matchstick-sized strips of cucumbers and blanched bean sprouts. It’s a nice contrast of hot and cold, salty and cucumber-y, and soft and crunchy.

vegetable oil
1/2 medium yellow onion, chopped
1 medium carrot, diced
2 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 pound ground pork
1 teaspoon corn starch
1 tablespoon light soy sauce
3 ounces pressed five-spice tofu (looks like this)
1 tablespoon broad bean paste
1 tablespoon hot broad bean paste (or substitute with more regular broad bean paste)
1 tablespoon sweet bean sauce (or hoisin sauce)
3/4 cup water
sesame oil

thick wheat noodles, cooked according to package directions

Heat vegetable oil in a large pan or wok over medium heat. Add onion and carrot. Cook until onion is translucent.

Combine pork with corn starch, garlic, and soy sauce. Add to pan and cook until pork is browned. Add tofu, bean paste, and bean sauce. Toss to coat everything evenly. Add water and bring sauce to a simmer. Turn heat to low and continue to simmer until sauce has thickened. Add a tiny bit of sesame oil at the end. Serve over noodles with blanched bean sprouts and julienne cucumbers.

stir-fried shredded potatoes

I have so many potatoes right now. My CSA is expecting a bumper crop of them this year, and I’m already fretting over how I’ll use them all. This is a Chinese dish called 炒土豆絲 (chǎo tǔ dòu sī), which translates very simply to stir-fried potato shreds. The phrase for potato very literally means “bean of the earth”, which is kinda like the French pomme de terre, oui?

Anyway, these stir-fried potatoes made for a nice starch-on-starch meal with some rice and an omelet with onions, garlic, and leafy greens.

2 medium white potatoes (each about 3 inches long)
1/2 cubanelle pepper (or other sweet pepper)
1 hot pepper (I used a killer jalapeño from my CSA)
2 teaspoons vegetable oil
1 teaspoon rice wine
1 1/2 tablespoons light soy sauce
1/2 teaspoon crushed Sichuan peppercorn (or you could substitute with white pepper)
1 stalk scallion (wish I had added this)

Julienne potatoes (with a sharp knife or a mandoline, NOT a large-holed grater), and soak in a bowl of cold water for 30 minutes. This keeps them from oxidizing (turning that ugly brown/gray) and also washes away some of the potatoes’ starch, leaving you with a firmer, less mealy final product.

Cut peppers into the same size strips as the potatoes.

Heat vegetable oil in a wok or saute pan over medium heat. Add potatoes, tossing frequently so they don’t stick. After about 7 or 8 minutes, add peppers. When potatoes are cooked through, add rice wine, soy sauce, and Sichuan pepper (or white pepper). Stir fry some more to coat everything evenly. Garnish with chopped scallions.