The Kitchen Question

A friend of mine is active on the online food and cooking forums sponsored by Tribe.net. She tells me that a perennial topic of discussion on the board is what you would want for your deserted island kitchen—that is, if you were stuck on a deserted island and could only have a few cooking implements, which ones would you choose?

I am having a bit of a deserted island kitchen dilemma at the moment. I am going to live, for a while at least, in a house in Seattle that is sparsely furnished. No one has really lived there yet. A few nights here and there, but not full-time, regular living—and not by someone who likes to cook. The kitchen is a bit bare.

I was up at this house over Thanksgiving last fall and brought some kitchen stuff—a square, glass Pyrex baking dish, some dishes, mugs for tea, drinking glasses. There are measuring spoons and cups already there, some wooden spoons for stirring, a cutting board, a fry pan. There are no decent knives, but my brother promised me one for my birthday last December and I have yet to collect.

What makes it a bit more difficult is that I am not packing up my kitchen here in San Francisco. I’m not moving completely, just partially. I’ll be back and forth for awhile, and I’ll want to be able to cook on the times I come back. Other people are going to be staying here while I am gone, and I’d like to leave enough kitchen stuff so that they are comfortable. What to take and what to leave behind?

There are those who say you can do all the cooking in the world with a mere chef's knife, a cast iron skillet, and a cutting board. There are lists of “Ten Things for the Minimalist Kitchen,” (though between you and me, if I get only ten things for my kitchen I'm not going to pick a meat thermometer as one of them, I can think of much more crucial items to choose).

But I’m not going to a deserted island either, I’m going to Seattle. I hope to cook a lot and I want to have a kitchen that, while pared down, supports that. I am trying to simplify my life, but I’m not quite ready for a three-item survival kitchen, probably not the ten-item minimalist kitchen either. Don’t get me wrong—I can do survival. I can whip up a mean Thai green curry with only a Swiss Army knife and a backpacking stove while camped at 7,000 feet in the backcountry, but survival is not what you want to be doing on an ongoing basis (possible, yes; comfortable, not really).

At the same time, should I bring the ice cream maker? How about the canning supplies? Will I need a roasting pan, a nabe pot, the sushi set, or an electric pan for sukiyaki? How about muffin tins, bunt pans, a tortilla press, or the oval dish I use to make baked polenta?

Do you begin to see the dilemma?

I am also constrained by the fact that everything I bring needs to fit into my car—along with books, clothes for the next few months, computer, bedding, toiletries, mountain bike, and camping equipment. It’s going to be a tight squeeze.

In the end I narrowed it down. I’m bringing far more than ten items, but the ice cream maker is staying at home. David Lebovitz nearly put me over the edge with his gorgeous new ice cream book, but Molly has promised that I can come over and use her and Brandon’s ice cream maker if I get desperate.

Here are some of the things that made the cut. Things that, while I could survive in the kitchen without them, I’d really rather not. It’s not the minimalist kitchen of ten items, nor the deserted island kitchen; it’s the things that make me happy in the kitchen, the things I use regularly and love.

IMPLEMENTS AND CONTAINERS



You may laugh and think the tiny whisk terribly precious, but I use this nearly every day in the summer for whipping up single servings of my favorite vinaigrette salad dressing. Yes, you could use a fork, but it doesn’t do as good of a job at emulsifying things, especially as I like to use as little oil as possible, just enough to bind, because I am a sour/acid freak.

I use this small red spatula just about every day as well. I was raised by a frugal mother and I hate not being able to fully scrape out a bowl, jar, or can. I’m always surprised when people put bowls into the sink for washing when they still have a goodly amount of food still sticking to the sides. I have some spatulas of larger size at home, but if I have to pick one I’ll choose the small size because it fits into tiny cans of tomato paste—and red because, well, tomato paste stains.

I didn’t have a skimmer for a long time. I always saw them and they seemed to make sense, but I didn't get one until about a year ago when I started making chicken stock on a regular basis and discovered a store that sells them for under two dollars. It’s perfect to skim the top of stocks, also for vats of boiling fruit jam. You can use it in place of a slotted spoon to poach an egg or, in a pinch, to strain small amounts of liquid. Again, I’d survive without it easily, but I am happy to have one around.

Tongs—do I even need to say anything here? If you have them, you’ll know what I’m talking about; if you don’t have them, you might want to get a pair and find out what the fuss is about (although I hear that Thomas Keller is not a fan).

These saucers are a legacy of my Japanese homestay mother. Whenever she wanted to taste something she spooned a tiny bit into a saucer to let it cool before sampling. I started using them as well and now I cannot imagine doing without, though perhaps this is because I generally cook by taste. They also come in handy as a spoon rest, mise en place bowls for small amounts of herbs, and they store half a lemon or lime perfectly, cut side down. I have about seven of them here in San Francisco and they are constantly in use, often showing up in photos on this site. I’ll bring three or four of them with me to Seattle.

These French Jam Jars are what we used as juice glasses and water tumblers when I was growing up. These days I mainly use them to store the leftover half an onion or lime, the last bit of sauce or soup, loose olives and capers, jams and chutney. Though they remind me of being a kid, as an adult I’ve found them infinitely useful. They also cut down on the use of plastic bags, tin foil, and plastic wrap.

The glass canister comes from Ikea. I hate that it comes from Ikea. Most of the time I hate Ikea. I hate that their stuff, while looking okay from across the room, seems to be just a slight step up from dorm furniture, not sturdy enough for the long haul (there are a few exceptions, it is true). Mostly I hate that it’s everywhere and you can pick it out wherever you go—I noticed these canisters in a movie I went to recently, apparently the Kate Winslet character and I have the same taste in kitchen containers. But I have a kitchen filled with grains and beans and I wanted containers that I could have out on open shelves. I don’t like the glass jars with screw top lids because the threads end up getting rusty over time. The top on these canisters has a silicone bit that seals it, not airtight but good enough. I’ve got an entire shelf of these here in my kitchen in San Francisco, I’ll take some with me to Seattle, and I’ll probably end up going back to Ikea for more, and hating myself for doing so (at least, thanks to David’s brilliant essay, I’ll have something to laugh about while I do).

ELECTRONICS



I asked for an immersion blender two Christmases in a row before I finally got one, now if I had to make a choice I’d rather give up my real blender (though that would mean an end to icy blended drinks). For soups and sauces, even hummus and Molly’s delicious white bean puree, this is the answer. No more ladling hot soup, batch by batch into a traditional blender, just stick the blade end of this into your pot and whirr away. This one is definitely coming with me.

The Cuisinart was a tough call. I don’t actually use it that often. The hand blender takes care of most blending needs and I never use a food processor for chopping vegetables (its the fastest way I know to make slimy onion mush). But for pesto and chimichurri sauce I do turn to the Cuisinart—and I like pesto and chimichurri quite a lot, especially in the summer. It made the cut, but just barely.

The KitchenAid—what can I say about the KitchenAid that I haven’t said already? I love it, unabashedly. Granted, if you’re going for a minimal kitchen, a 22-pound mixer is not going to make it, but having lusted after it for so long and finally receiving it as an unexpected gift, I am not going to be giving it up any time soon. The mixer is coming with me, there’s nothing more to say.

The microwave—there’s no microwave in the picture because I am not bringing one, but it’s something I went back and forth over many times. I didn’t start using a microwave until I came back from Asia and moved into a house that had one, so I know it’s perfectly fine to do without. At the same time, working at home I am always heating up leftovers for lunch and having to pour them into a pot and heat it on the stove is a hassle, not to mention it often dries them out. And what about the steel cut oatmeal I like to make in the microwave, and the tamales from the freezer that I can heat up in four minutes? It’s a tough call and I’m letting it ride for now. We’ll see how I feel about it in a month or so.

OTHERS



Since getting my sexy red pepper grinder I am now hooked on pepper—fresh pepper, that is, none of that tinned powder anymore. The pepper grinder was definitely coming with me, but what would I do when I came back to San Francisco? Would I have to travel with my pepper grinder, packing it in my luggage each time I came back? The solution presented itself when I noticed another hot red pepper grinder at Kamei Housewares here in the city (Clement at 5th Ave). It wasn’t Peugeot but it was half the cost of a Peugeot and I think I might like it better (the grinding mechanism runs smoother). Now I have two saucy red pepper grinders, but that’s okay. They’ll both get used.

In the unexpected but totally addicted category is the Kyocera adjustable slicer. I’ve been flirting with mandolins for awhile, but they are big and bulky and many of them don’t work as well as they should. I finally got annoyed and bought this slicer, which has a blade that adjusts for four different thicknesses. It was much cheaper than the high-end mandolins and I hoped that, since I could keep it in a drawer and grab it easily for quick slicing, I might use it more frequently than the mandoline. Turns out I use it all the time—for onions, cabbage, fennel, radishes, lemons, limes, and raw butternut squash. There was even that day where I sliced my own fingertip with the uber sharp ceramic blade. I like it so much I probably will take it with me when I come back to San Francisco for quick trips. I just wonder if they’ll allow it in my carry-on baggage.

It’s far from essential, but I love my olive oil dispenser with pour top. I keep it within reach of the stove and use it almost every day. I know you’re not supposed to keep oil near the heat of your stove, but I only fill it about a quarter full at a time—the rest is stored away in a dark glass bottle in a dark cupboard, safe from light or heat. Of course, I might like it so much because it’s filled with Bariani olive oil

If it’s passion I feel for the KitchenAid mixer, then it’s a deep abiding love I have for this large Dutch oven (seven quarts large). This is a relic of my childhood, the largest pot in the house, pulled out only occasionally to make vats of soup. When I was a small child this pot seemed huge—a caldron boiling away on the stove that I might fall into if I wasn’t careful. It’s battered and bruised but I love it. Last year I reclaimed it from dusty obscurity in the back of the cupboard in my mother’s kitchen, and we have been happily cooking together ever since—soups, sauces, jams, and marmalade. I now know it was designed by Michael Lax, in the 1960s, for the Danish company Copco. While I call it simply old, there are others who might call it vintage. I don’t care, it’s not going anywhere without me, and I’m not going to Seattle without it; you never know when you might need a caldron—or a decent upper body workout, this thing is heavier than Le Creuset.

Pyrex Mixing Bowls—I grew up with these as well, not these exact bowls but others like them. I like a heavy mixing bowl, I hate it when you are trying to mix something thick and the bowl is sliding all over the place. I have friends who are happy with metal or plastic or melamine versions that come in pretty colors, but I prefer the glass. Maybe not as snazzy, but I like to be able to see through them. I don’t like super deep bowls either, I want them as wide as they are deep. Call me old fashioned, but these are still my pick.

SOMETHING NEW



I’ve already bought a little present for the new kitchen. While at Ikea (which, as I’ve said, I hate) I noticed this little ceramic container with two compartments. Perfect for storing the two salts I like to have close at hand—kosher and Maldon. And it has a lid that can go on top when the cooking is over (I’m a little OCD about open things of salt sitting next to the stove, though I realize most people are fine with it). Lately I’ve become frustrated with my salt set up—a series of jars with screw top lids. I’ll keep the other salts tucked away in these jars in the cupboard, but happily my two mainstays will now be at easy reach.

There are other things that will be needed, for sure. A smaller saucepot, a Microplane grater, a baking sheet, a garlic press (yes, I am a press type of girl, though I do chop on occasion). The gaps will get filled in as they come up, but these are most of the basics—and some not-so-basics—that I would prefer not to do without. My not-so-deserted island kitchen.

What would you want in yours?
And more crucially—is there anything I’m missing?

Sometimes It’s Good to Leave Home

Anyone who has followed this blog for a while knows that I love San Francisco. This foggy city with her vibrant farmers’ market and her secret summer has a hold on my heart. I love bike rides through the city, unexpected walks as well. There are restaurants I adore, cultural events I take part in, and a passel of people here who feel like family to me.

More than that, I am in love with Northern California, the landscape of my childhood. This place is home to me in a way that no other is, though I have traveled far and wide. Whether it is hiking on Mt. Tam, beach walking in Bolinas, or blackberry picking all over Marin and Sonoma, this is the territory of my heart.

So you might think it odd if I tell you that I’m leaving.

But it is true. I am heading northwards, to another city set on the water. At least for a while, I am going to Seattle.

There are a lot of reasons for this move of sorts. My brother and his family are in Seattle, two small nieces who melt my heart and whose lives I want to be part of. When I mentioned this to a friend she looked at me scandalized. “You’re moving for a child?!” It’s not the only reason, but it is a not an insignificant part either. Every time I see my nieces I am aware of how quickly time passes, how fast they change and grow. I don’t want to put off spending time with them, only to have them grow up while I’m not looking.

And anyway, who wouldn’t want to hang out with these two?



There are other reasons as well. I have a writing project I want to focus on, other family I would like to spend time with. Seattle puts me closer to the island, a place that tugs at my heart, and it’s a city I have spent time in but would like to know better. I have friends there as well—from college and grad school, but also two food bloggers who have become very dear to me, Molly and Shauna.

I met Shauna and Molly for the first time last June, after reading and falling in love with their blogs. We spent a Sunday afternoon together—a day in which we never made it to the farmers’ market we intended to visit. Instead we sprawled on the floor of Shauna’s apartment, and later in a park where we had a picnic, and talked about life and love and writing and food in a way that doesn’t usually happen with people you’ve just met. At the end of the day Shauna looked at me and asked, “Why don’t you live in Seattle?”

But I’m not moving to Seattle for Shauna either, though it is nice to have food-loving friends nearby.

I’m going to Seattle for myself. I am stepping back from a life and a city I love, taking a break. Things have been interesting lately—illness, fatigue, and yet good changes as well. This blog has crept into my life unexpectedly, bringing with it new friends, a focus on food and writing in a different way, new political issues I want to support. My life is changing in ways that make me happy, but transition is unsettling. I don’t know what the new structure looks like yet, it’s not fully formed, but I know that old things are slowly drifting away. In times like this, it’s good to get some perspective.



When I lived in Japan I traveled. Every three or four months I would take a trip somewhere in Asia for a week or two. In part I traveled to explore Asia and to take a break from my life in Japan—as much as I love the Japanese culture, it can be a hard adjustment for an independent female. But I also traveled to lose myself a little bit. In our days and our lives we set down patterns, expectations for who we are and what we do. My trips were a way to shake up those patterns, to find out if they still applied. I always came back with a deeper understanding of who I was and what I needed from my life. I traveled to lose myself, but I came back found.

I remember when I first moved back from Asia to the Bay Area, nearly nine years ago. I had one family member and two friends in all of California. I had dreams of being a writer, of working with books and in publishing, but no clear understanding of how I might accomplish that. My days were wide open, there was so much possibility it was scary, like I might just fall off the map. I desperately wanted a life here, a real life filled with people and work and connections. I remember looking longingly at the business cards that other people carried. I wanted business cards; I wanted to belong to something larger than just myself.



These days I have a real life. Sometimes I feel like I have too much of a life, and I long for those days of wide open and scary possibility. I have, at last count, four different business cards; that’s a lot of belonging. And though I treasure what I have built here, it sometimes feels like it is too much for me to keep up with. I have friends I adore but haven’t seen in months (some of them in years), I have work I love but I often work through the weekends and late into the evenings, I have causes I feel passionate about, but I sometimes give too much time and energy, leaving not enough for myself. I long for the time to walk on the beach, time to spend with friends, time…just open hours of time.

In the past nine years I have built patterns, deep patterns that sometimes make me feel like I am too rooted to the ground, without the nimbleness that I used to have. I don’t want to fall off the map, but it might be nice to be able to move around it a bit. Movement is good, especially when things are changing.

And so I am moving—not completely and probably not forever. When I think of leaving San Francisco forever I get a little clutching feeling in my stomach and in my heart. And yet, San Francisco is not where I want to be right now. My life here no longer feels right. I find myself pulling back, not being able or even interested in keeping up with everything I’ve created. I knew it was bad when I stopped answering my home phone last fall and didn’t check the messages either—for three months! Between the phone and the email and work and the people I have to see and the people I want to see, I don’t always feel like I can keep up. It’s too big and too busy. These days I long for something simpler; a smaller life in a smaller city.

I am following my heart, and it leads north.



Through a miraculous bit of serendipity and a grand act of generosity there is a house for me to stay in. A home away from the city I think of as home, with big windows and views of trees. It’s modern and sparsely furnished in a way that feels right to me now, like a canvas that is primed but does not yet have any color. There is space and light, room to stretch my wings, to see what feels right to me now. It’s exciting, and a little scary too.

But oh, to leave San Francisco—that is hard, even when you want to be going. The days are lovely and sunny, the farmers’ market bursting into springtime glory, there are events I want to attend, people I still want to see, restaurants whose food I will long for when I am gone. I have dear friends here—and all the lovely food bloggers in the Bay Area, some of whom have become dear friends. As fun as it is to read their sites and keep tabs on their adventures, it’s even more fun to run into them at the farmers’ market, to have meals together, to barbeque with them. I will miss that too.

But the path is diverging and I am taking the northern route, at least for a while. Will it stick? Will I fall in love with another city and want to stay? I don’t know. Washington is not new to me—I went to college in a small town on the eastern side, near the Oregon border; my brother has lived in Seattle for more than a decade and I’ve visited often; my family’s history in the state goes back to the 1800s, my great-grandfather an early member of the Washington State legislature. Perhaps this is a homecoming of sorts.

What is certain is that I will be hanging my hat in a new city for a while, looking for new grocery stores and restaurants, new good things to eat. Who knows, perhaps I’ll even learn to like fish. What is certain is that I’m taking my life and turning it on its side, looking to see what shakes out, what sticks. It’s a time of change, of uncertainty.

In the midst of uncertainty it’s hard to know anything for sure, but I do know this:
I know where I’ve come from, where I’ve been, and I know I need something new;
I know that often you have to lose yourself in order to find yourself;
and I know that sometimes it’s good to leave home...

even if you decide to come back later.

Hana-mi, in Five Easy Steps

My friends—it is officially spring. There is no denying it any longer. Not when I needed sunscreen yesterday and wished I had brought a hat on my walk to go along with my sunglasses. The sun is out, the flowers are in bloom, and if we were in Japan, we’d be planning a hana-mi.

What is a hana-mi?

The literal translation is flower (hana) viewing (miru, or mi), but in Japan flower viewing generally means cherry blossoms. Yes, we’d be planning a cherry blossom viewing party.



This time of year the parks in Japan are filled with friends and families celebrating the cherry blossoms. They sit on the ground under blooming trees and eat, drink, and make merry. They make so much merry that it’s not uncommon for some drunken soul to take off his necktie, wrap it around his head bandana-style, and begin to serenade the group with silly love songs. Don’t think I’m making this up—that so-called Japanese reserve is only so deep. Underneath there is a bawdy sense of humor and a great love of fun.

There’s also a great love of cherry blossoms.

In late March and early April there are cherry blossom updates on the news each night. A map of the country shows the progression of the blooms—starting in the warm south in Okinawa, heading northward as the week progresses, to Kyoto and Tokyo, and finally to cold Hokkaido where the season ends. Parties are planned, people show up in the parks early in the morning to claim a picnic spot. There are festivals and decorations. The Japanese school year starts in April as well, so it is a time of new beginnings, a time of celebration.

Why do the Japanese love cherry blossoms so much?

It has to do with the ephemeral quality of both the blossoms and of life, the fleeting beauty that must be appreciated while we can—at least that's what they tell me. Cherry blossoms are the Japanese national flower so there is a great connection with identity as well; to be Japanese is to appreciate cherry blossoms, though I like to believe that nationality is not a requirement for hana-mi appreciation.



I didn't take much notice of cherry blossoms before I lived in Japan, but while there I couldn’t help but fall in love with the ritual. Those trees are so delicate and lovely, sometimes heartbreakingly so. I made a point to go for as many bike rides as I could during cherry blossom season. Riding through clouds of pale pink petals floating down on the warm breeze was one of those things that made me feel glad to have been born and lived this long just so I could experience something so utterly delightful and entrancing. One dose of that and I never questioned the Japanese reverence for the cherry blossom ever again.



Even now I make a point to stop each year and search out the cherry blossoms. They really are lovely, raining down their pink petals, and to sit or lie underneath the branches, to enjoy such beauty, is always worth the small amount of time and effort involved. Perhaps I stayed in Japan too long—or maybe I am just a sap at heart—but cherry blossoms never fail to make me a bit teary eyed for one reason or another. That fleeting beauty, so pristine and fragile, and over so soon—the Japanese are right, it is worth celebrating.

I’m not in Japan at the moment but I don’t think that should stop me from carrying on the tradition—and neither should it stop you. If you ask me, we should all be celebrating the joy of spring and new beginnings.



But you don’t know how to flower view?

It’s not that difficult. There are a few preparations to undertake, easily accomplished, and soon you’ll be flower viewing with the best of them. In fact, there are only five simple steps for serious Hana-mi aspirants.

1. Set aside some time.
This sounds obvious but it is not. We Americans think we can rush through things so quickly but you need time for quality blossom viewing—time to appreciate the blooms; time to relax and unwind; time to eat and drink; time to joke with your friends; perhaps even time for a nap in the soft sunlight (you have been eating and drinking, after all). Yes, you need a solid afternoon for cherry blossom viewing; a full day is better.

2. Invite others.
While it’s perfectly fine and adequate to observe and appreciate blossoms on your own—and a bike ride through drifting petals is an experience like no other—for the full celebratory ritual you really want someone along. This may be one other special someone—hana-mi can be quite romantic—a group of friends or colleagues, or your entire extended, multi-generational family. Who's going to say no to good food, good fun, and pretty flowers?

3. Find a suitable site.
While all you really need is one cherry tree in bloom and a small patch of grass under it, this is a situation where you can never have too many blooming cherry trees (or other fruit trees, I'm hardly a purist when it comes to flowers).

Search them out in parks, riverbanks, and backyards. They are easy to find this time of year—all puffy and pink. The nature of your site may determine the size and style of your gathering—the more space you have the more people you can invite. But don't think you're constrained or doomed to a lackluster hana-mi for want of a large space. One of the best cherry blossom experiences I had was the spring A. and I discovered the cherry trees around Elk Glen Lake in Golden Gate Park. There are a couple of young trees planted on a hillside covered in tall grass—all of which made for a terribly private and romantic hana-mi for two, concealed in the tall grass with boughs of pink petals arching just overhead. Of course for a larger group you’ll want someplace that looks like this—a perfect hana-mi site:



4. Assemble your gear.
At the very basic, hana-mi is a picnic. All you really need is a blanket, tarp, or other covering to sit on and something to eat and drink. There are those who will get elaborate, of course. I’ve seen hana-mi parties in Japan that included gas-fueled burners over which stewpots boiled (in a public park, no less). I never go that overboard. Cold food is fine, but I do like to have a quality blanket. My favorite was bought a few years back and features a plastic lining underneath—no chance of the damp from wet grass seeping through. Since Americans bring blankets on picnics, and the Japanese bring blue plastic tarps, this is a perfect cross cultural ground covering for someone like me (a.k.a. the culturally confused).



5. Make Chirashi-zushi.
There are plenty of things you can bring to eat at a hana-mi party. Most any picnic food will suffice but I hold out for chirashi-zushi, a confetti-looking mixture of sushi-style rice with assorted vegetables and other ingredients scattered throughout; it’s sushi without the rolling. This is one of my very favorite Japanese dishes—vinegary and slightly sweet, with colorful taste surprises here and there. It’s worth savoring—just like the cherry blossoms.



CHIRASHI-ZUSHI (Scattered Sushi)

Hana-mi may be accomplished in five easy steps, but chirashi-zushi takes a few more. It’s a bit of a project, I will admit, but it’s worth it in the end for the tangy-sweet colorful concoction that looks like a party on your plate.

In all honesty, if we were in Japan we’d most likely buy our chirashi-zushi pre-made at some shop or deli, but the benefit of making my own is that I get to customize it to my taste—picking and choosing the ingredients I like. There are probably a million different recipes for chirashi-zushi, you can add nearly anything you like—vegetables, fish, almost always a cooked egg cut into ribbons. Feel free to adapt it to suit your own tastes.

For the Dashi (soup stock)
Dashi is the soup stock that is the basis for all Japanese cooking. It is possible to use a powdered mix, and many Japanese do, but dashi is not difficult to make at home and requires only two ingredients.

1 piece of konbu seaweed (4-6 inches long)
2 cups katsuo bushi flakes (bonito fish flakes)

Rinse or wipe the konbo and place in a pot with 7 cups of cold water. Add the katsuo (I place a large wire mesh strainer into the pot and put the katsuo in that, so I don’t need to strain the stock later). Simmer for 20-30 minutes, but do not bring to a boil as the konbu will go bitter if you do. When the stock has developed a full flavor, remove the konbu and fish flakes and strain if necessary.



For the Renkon (lotus root)
Pickled renkon is available at Asian markets with a good selection of Japanese foodstuffs, however, if you have access to raw renkon it is not hard to make yourself. Renkon gives the dish a nice crunch—somewhat like jicama, which might be a good substitute if you can't find renkon.

1 small to medium piece of lotus root (renkon), when sliced it should yield 1/2 cup to one cup. Peel and slice into 1/8 inch slices.
6 tbs rice wine vinegar
6 tbs sugar
4 tbs dashi
1 tsp salt



Mix all ingredients for the marinade in a small pot and put to simmer so they dissolve. Add the sliced renkon and simmer for 10-15 minutes, until the starchiness of the renkon disappears, but there is still a crunch to the root (taste it as it goes along to make sure). This can be prepared a day before and stored in the marinade (though take the renkon out until the marinade cools down so the cooking process doesn't continue).

For the Skiitake, Kampyo, and Carrots

6-7 shiitake mushrooms, dried
1 carrot (julienned into tiny matchsticks or cut into flower shapes with a cutter)
15 grams (about 1/2 cup) dried kampyo (gourd)
3 cups dashi
2 tbs soy sauce
2 tbs sugar



When I first saw carrots carved into the shape of spring blossoms I was a little stunned by the over-the-top cuteness and sheer labor intensity of it all (no wonder it’s been hard for a women’s rights movement to develop in Japan, I thought—they’re all too busy carving carrots into flowers!). But I soon discovered that there are cutters made for this sort of thing. Now I have a set myself and on rare occasions I carve my own carrots into the shape of blossoms—right after I read my Ms. Magazine and sign a few petitions in support of the ERA (can you believe it was never fully ratified?).



Put dashi, soy sauce, and sugar in a heavy pot and bring to a simmer. Add shiitake mushrooms and cook for 10 minutes, until fully reconstituted. Add kampyo and simmer for an additional five minutes. Add carrots and simmer for another five minutes, until slightly softened but still firm. Remove the veggies from the broth and slice the shiitake into thin ribbons, cut the kampyo into 1/2 inch strips.



For the Tamago-yaki (grilled egg)

2 eggs
1 tsp sugar
1/2 tsp mirin, sweet rice wine (can be omitted if you don’t have mirin in the house)
1/4 tsp soy sauce (don’t add too much!)

Scramble the eggs in a bowl and add other ingredients. Mix together and pour into a small pan which you have already oiled and set on medium high heat. Rotate the pan so that the egg mixture spreads and cooks evenly. Cook on each side until the eggs have fully set. Remove from pan, let cool, and slice into ribbons. For a larger amount of eggs (or thinner pancakes) cook in two batches.



For the Rice:
3 cups short grain rice (I use Lundberg’s sushi rice)
3 1/2 cups water
pinch of salt

6 tbs rice vinegar
4 tbs sugar
1 tsp salt

Wash the rice in cold water, scrubbing it vigorously until the water runs clear. I find it easiest to put the rice in a mesh strainer and let the water rinse it as I scrub. Traditionally it is done in a bowl and the rice water is changed 2-3 times, but it’s a challenge to pour off the water without losing the grains (and as the old Japanese proverb says—if you waste rice you will go blind).



Put water and rice in a heavy bottomed pot with a tight fitting lid and let soak at least 30 minutes. Add salt, bring water to a boil uncovered, then wrap pot lid in a towel and cover pot (careful not to let the ends near the heat element). Simmer until the rice is just beyond al dente, remove from heat, and let steam for about 10 minutes. For this dish you want the rice just this side of fully cooked.

Mix the vinegar, sugar, and salt in a small saucepan and heat until dissolved and set aside (this can be done in the microwave).

Additional ingredients, as desired:
Sesame seeds
Pickled ginger (beni shoga), add at the last minute as it will gradually color the rice.
Green snow peas, shocked briefly in simmering water and cut into strips
Roasted sheets of nori seaweed, cut into thin strips (can be bought already in confetti-like strips, if desired).

To Assemble the Chirashi-sushi:

Traditionally sushi rice is made in a large, flat bottomed tub made of wood and held together with copper bands. It is called a sushi oke (or hangiri). The shape allows the rice to cool quickly and the unvarnished wood absorbs some of the moisture and keeps it from getting gummy. Since I am out of town and away from my kitchen at the moment—and since the local Japanese market wanted an outrageous $70 for a sushi oke—I decided to improvise and mix my rice on a large wooden cutting board. Whatever you use, try for unfinished wood and wide shape for a quick cool down.

It’s helpful at this point to have someone around to assist you. The rice needs to cool quickly and it is customary to fan it to help the process along (not usually with this sort of a fan, but it was all I had). Trying to mix and fan at the same time is a little like patting your head and rubbing your tummy—possible, but a bit awkward (throw a camera into the mix and it’s quite a challenge—thus no action shots here).



Be careful with mixing the rice, use a cutting motion across at a diagonal and fold over—somewhat like folding whipped eggs whites into a batter. Be gentle, you don’t want to break the rice. Drizzle a little bit of the vinegar mixture over it, fan quickly, and fold carefully. Wait a bit, fanning and folding slowly, and repeat until all the vinegar mixture has been added.



Once all the marinade has been absorbed you should hopefully have rice that is moist and slightly sticky but not gummy and definitely not broken (horror of horrors). The grains should be glossy but individuated and the flavor should be tangy sweet with a hint of salt. Make sure not to eat too much of the rice at this point, it will be tempting.



Begin to slowly fold in your ingredients, careful not to overwork the rice or break your add-ins (the renkon and peas are the most fragile). I like to get a good mix of ingredients throughout, though you might want to leave the ginger on the top only as it will turn the rice pink where it touches it (add this last, or just before serving). You’re going for a good mix of flavors and colors. The whole thing should begin to look a little like a pile of confetti on your rice.



It is awfully pretty.



And yummy too.

While most of the ingredients can be prepared the day before, you want to make and mix the rice the day you plan to eat it. Unless you include fish in your mixture, I wouldn’t bother refrigerating it. This makes great picnic food—all the tangy sweet flavors melding and contrasting with each other.



While making chirashi-zushi is a bit of a commitment, the result is both pretty and delicious. Like hana-mi and cherry blossoms, you've got to enjoy it all you can for soon it will be gone.

Confessions of a Bean Snob

My friends, I have a confession to make: I have become a bean snob.

I didn’t mean for it to happen, truly, and if truth be told I find it slightly embarrassing.
It may be perfectly acceptable in certain circles to be a wine snob—these days you even get to call yourself a “cork dork,” which is kind of cute. There are chocolate snobs and coffee snobs, and an ever-growing circle of tea snobs in this country, but who has ever heard of a bean snob? I mean, really.

But it is true—without my knowing or intention, I have become a bean snob.

I blame it on Steve Sando. He is the man behind Rancho Gordo, purveyor of heritage beans and other New World products (posole, red popcorn, tortillas, chile peppers, and hot sauce). I’ve been buying Rancho Gordo beans for the past year—ever since the Eat Local Challenge last May—from his stall at the Ferry Plaza Farmers' Market.



Steve’s beans are grown in the Sacramento River Delta—not far from San Francisco—and they are a cut above, that was clear from the start. They cook up quickly, you can even get away with not soaking them, and they are plump and flavorful and hold together well. Not to mention, they come in such pretty colors.



I hadn’t really thought much about the bean situation. I like Steve, I like his beans, I like how he is preserving traditional New World products. I always have a couple of different types of Rancho Gordo beans in the kitchen and happily use them when I have a recipe that calls for beans.

Until this week.

This week I wanted to make a ribollita—an Italian country stew with tomatoes, chard, and white beans. I had some beans that needed to be used up—not Rancho Gordo beans, but they would do fine in a pinch I thought. I put them to soak and cooked them until soft. Then I tasted them.

Ugh.

Chalky and flavorless, nothing like I the Rancho Gordo beans I have become accustomed to. Steve's beans are smooth and actually taste like something, this mealy mess was devoid of flavor or texture. It was a sad excuse for a bean and couldn’t hope to compare to its heritage brethren. I very nearly spit it out of my mouth (see—blatant bean snobbism in action).

But what to do? I had a whole pot cooked up, a soup in need of beans, and a dinner guest arriving within the hour. There wasn’t time to cook more beans. Should I use these mealy sub-par beans? The bean snob in me couldn’t bear to put them in; I knew I would grimace with every spoonful that I ate.



Bulk section canellini beans, broken and chalky.

Salvation came in the shape of a ziplock baggie of Rancho Gordo marrow beans that I had cooked a few weeks ago and put in the freezer (cooked beans can be frozen—a trick I learned last year in a soup cookbook). I popped them in the soup, they defrosted in the warm broth, and each bite was smooth and satisfying. Crisis averted.



Rancho Gordo marrow beans—even though these beans have been frozen once, cooked twice, and spooned out of a pot of soup and rinsed off in order to be photographed (thus the reddish tinge, it's from the tomatoes), they are still in better shape than the store bought beans. And the taste—no comparison. These beans are smooth and nutty tasting, firm yet yielding to the tooth.

But what to do with these sad, disappointing beans? It wasn’t their fault—they were organic beans, bought from the bulk section at a popular store. A year ago I might not have noticed how bad they were—but that was before my palate became spoiled and snobby. Granted, they had sat in the kitchen cupboard for months, but they are dried goods—that’s what dried goods do (though Steve Sando says that one of the things that make the Rancho Gordo beans so good is that they are fresh, picked and dried that year; beans that you buy off the shelf may be years old).

Because I was raised with the idea that wasting any food is wrong, I couldn’t possibly throw the beans out. The solution was to turn them into a white bean hummus, to blend and beat their chalkiness out of them, to smooth it over with tahini and olive oil, to woo them into submission until all was left was a creamy mixture, perked up in the flavor department by the addition of lemon and parsley. It was pretty good.

Had it been made with Rancho Gordo beans it would have been even better.



Sigh.

It’s not easy being a bean snob. But give me one bite of those smooth and nutty marrow beans and it all is worth it. Who knew a bean could taste so good?

Thomas Keller is known to order his beans from Rancho Gordo, so at least I have company in my snobbism—good company at that. The bean snob club is growing as well. I recently made lunch for a food blogger friend. Halfway through the meal she leaned over and asked me conspiratorially, "where did you get these beans—they're the best beans I've had in my life." She went home that afternoon and ordered four pounds.

Apparently this bean snob thing is contagious.

Rancho Gordo website (order at your own risk)
Steve’s blog—a good place to find recipes and other food news.
Watch Steve cook beans on YouTube

NOTE: while this may seem like a blatant advertisement for Rancho Gordo beans, let me assure you that I never write about products unless I find them myself, fall in love, and think they are worth sharing. I cannot be bought, not for love or money. I have gotten to know Steve Sando over the past year of shopping at his stall at the Ferry Plaza Farmers’ Market, but I liked his beans from the start. As for this recipe—it can be made with any old beans, dried or canned.

WHITE BEAN HUMMUS
(a bean snob’s suggestion for how to use up sub-par beans)

2 1/2 cup cooked or canned white beans (canellini work well)
1 tbs. good quality olive oil (I love Barianni)
1 tsp. tahini (sesame seed paste—available in health food stores, sometimes in bulk)
3/4 tsp salt
2 tsp lemon juice
1/2 tsp lemon zest
(you can replace both salt and lemon with 2 quarters of a preserved lemon if you wish)
2 tbs fresh parsley
fresh pepper as desired

Blend all ingredients using a hand blender, food processor, or traditional blender until smooth. Add parsley at the very end and pulse just enough to break the leaves down a little, not enough to blend completely (if using a traditional blender chop the parsley and add it separately so it doesn’t get overly blended). You want the parsley to add a little texture to the hummus.

Serve with crackers, bread or pita, or fresh vegetables.
Don’t tell anyone you used sub-standard beans; they’ll never know.

THE SALVATION OF A BAD BEAN: A STORY IN PICTURES



Beating the bad beans into submission, salt and olive oil assist in punishing the offending legume



Lemon and parsley extend a helping hand, showing bad beans the light.



Bad beans are reformed, give up their formerly chalky ways, become smooth and deliciously mild, embrace their destiny as hummus.

Everyone is happy.

THE END