Cuppa Heaven

Japan has always been ahead of the bell curve when it comes to pre-packaged instant food. Instant noodles like cup ramen was invented in Japan by Nissin Foods in 1958. Food giant Ajinomoto was founded in 1909 after they patented MSG, which is used in all manner of processed foods ranging from bouillon cubes, canned goods to salad dressings. Glico (of Pocky fame) is now marketing single serving curry sauce travel packs among its many other instant creations. Other peers have figured out how to make packets of powdered, instant miso soup, vacuum packs of congee (or okayu, as the Japanese call it), instant sushi mixes, bricks of beef stew roux and so much more.

The latest marvel of invention to come out of Japan is the freeze dried packet of instant amazake (甘酒) from the clever folks at Morinaga. Wikipedia will tell you that amazake is "a traditional sweet, low-alcoholic Japanese drink made from fermented rice". The old school method of making this lovely beverage requires cooking rice, cooling it down, and adding some kōji, which is the same beneficial mold added to rice to make sake. The alcohol content in amazake is generally so low that it is a family-friendly drink. But there are definite similarities in appearance, aroma and taste between amazake and its step-sister, the stronger nigorizake (which is an unfiltered sake which acquires its cloudy appearance from rice sediments).

I gave the instant amazake a whirl and was pleasantly surprised. The freeze-dried mix looks like a brittle block of Styrofoam when you pull it out of its wrapper. Boiled or cold water may be added to it; I opted for heat. The block immediately dissolved into a milky white liquid with small, soft grains of rice floating at the top. The sake aroma was unmistakable -- sweet and inviting. It went down very smoothly, helped by occasional stirs of the spoon to keep the rice grains from settling at the bottom.

I used to ridicule the Japanese (especially since I am one) for coming up with such innovations to cater to their overall laziness. After sampling this beauty (and Morinaga's other amazing instant drinks like oshiruko, matcha adzuki, and lemon ginger brew) I really can't complain. There's no better drink to enjoy on a chilly winter evening.

Catch Up!

It's been a woefully long time since my last post. A lot of delightful cooking and eating has transpired in that period, sadly very little of which was recorded. Other projects now consume me, leaving this blog to gather dust by the wayside. As I set new resolutions for the new year, it seems appropriate to dust off these pages and try to instill some renewed vigor. Xmas 2010 is my new goal for publication, so I hope to continue earning your support.

The first meal of the first day of the new year, for as far back as I can remember, has always been zoni (雑煮). It is a dish that consists of three basics: broth, vegetables and mochi (餅). The broth is typically dashi (出汁) which is a clear, light soup made from boiling kelp and bonito flakes. Any assortment of vegetables can be used; sometimes even proteins such as fish balls are thrown in for extra measure. Mochi is a glutinous ball made from pounding rice or rice flour with water to a glue-like consistency. It can be eaten fresh or boiled, baked, toasted or fried. I like them lightly baked before dropping them into the zoni. As kids, my brother and I were told that we were supposed to eat as many mochi as the number of our years. However, after the age of 5 or 6, that becomes an impossible proposition. Mochi is extremely filling and has been known as a choking hazard, especially for folks who don't chew properly before they swallow!

Over a period of 2-3 days, I set about preparing various traditional Japanese dishes to celebrate the new year. Generally speaking, Japanese cuisine is quite simple: the number of ingredients are quite spare and the cooking processes are elemental (marinate, boil, fry, bake/roast). The refinement lies in the orderly sequence of steps required to achieve the desired result, as well as the emphasis on presentation.

Take, for instance, the chrysanthemum turnip. A medium-sized turnip must be selected for its shape. It is then peeled then sliced into 1" segments. The best slice is further carved up carefully into a checkered grid. The turnip is pickled overnight until it is as soft and malleable as fabric. It is then drained and flattened out evenly to resemble a chrysanthemum. I used ruby-like flying fish roe to garnish the center of my "flower", then placed some salad greens around it to mimic its leaves. Nothing about it is terribly complicated, but every step must be executed with elegance and care for the final dish to look (and taste) right.

Lacking a grill, I broiled some large, skewered shrimp with a simple glaze made of soy sauce and mirin. The skewers not only look great, but also make it easy to flip over the shrimp each time you brush them with the glaze. Keeping an eye on it is the only requirement for avoiding the kind of rubbery blobs that garnish too many shrimp cocktails. I like a little bit of charring on the edges for some flavor.

My favorite example of culinary simplicity was the broiled/grilled tofu with a salty-sweet white miso glaze. After skewering slabs of medium-firm tofu like popsicles, they were brushed with soy sauce and broiled on each side until they dried out a little and became slightly crispy on the outside. (Note: a grill would be ideal since they'd leave appetizing grill marks on the tofu.) The thick glaze was made separately, combining white miso (other types of miso would work too), a touch of water, lemon juice and a sweetening agent such as sugar or mirin. The glaze was slathered generously onto the tofu then broiled briefly until slightly browned. I emphasize "briefly" because I got a phone call while doing this and my fire alarm went off almost immediately when the glaze started to smoke. It would have also been prudent to soak the skewers in water longer before using them in the oven. (Coulda, woulda, shoulda... I'm not always sensible.) Grated lemon rind makes a nice garnish, particularly since it brings out the lemon notes in the glaze.

By assembling a large assortment of simple dishes and ingredients, I was able to pack the traditional tiered-box or jubako (重箱) with a variety of flavors and colors.

I filled the first tier with water chestnuts, flying fish roe, marinated wild mushrooms, snap peas, the broiled shrimp, herring roe or kazunkoko (数の子) on kelp, dried baby anchovies or chirimenjako (縮緬雑魚), salty-sweet roasted pecans glazed with soy sauce and mirin, battered and fried calamari balls or takoyaki (たこ焼き), and grated daikon or daikon-oroshi (大根おろし) seasoned with lemon juice and soy sauce.

The second tier was filled with larger servings. I made a smoked salmon and pickled cucumber salad seasoned with sesame oil and capers (to be truly Japanese, I would normally make this with sashimi slices instead of smoked salmon and include umeboshi (梅干) or pickled plums in the dressing). I also pickled some lemon and daikon (大根のレモン風味漬け) and seasoned it with some yuzu-flavored hot chili flakes. I lightly seared some lovely slices of salt-cured salmon (leaving the middle still soft and pink). And boiled turnips were served with the miso glaze from the tofu dish (it has many uses!) and garnished with grated lemon rind.

With a steaming bowl of rice, I had all of the above for dinner on New Year's Day. It looks like a lot but it's not like stuffing yourself with turkey and mashed potatoes. One can go through most of this feeling sated, not ready to blow. Admittedly, it takes time to assemble so many different pieces but the net result is like a Spanish tapas or a buffet -- your eyes and your palate are entertained by the wide variety in textures and flavors. It's a good time to contemplate the flavors to be explored in the new year.

Happy new year to all of you!

ONE Pumpkin, Ah Ah Ah!!!

Continuing my new tradition started last year after buying my first house, I carved a Jack O'Lantern for Halloween. This year, I chose to sculpt Count von Count, the beloved arithmomanic vampire from Sesame Street.

I wanted to carve either a zombie or a vampire since both creatures are big in entertainment these days. However, a zombie on a pumpkin just looks like a person with a bad skin condition -- if you think about it, zombies look like the undead because of the shades of grey (dead flesh) and blood on their faces, neither of which are colors that can be reproduced on a pumpkin -- so I went with the vampire idea.

I thought I was saving myself some time this year by choosing a muppet instead of a human subject, but it took me just as long as last year's carving of Jack from "The Shining". Chiseling the monocle was especially difficult! Anyway, I think the end result is not bad. If you were a kid trolling for candy, would this lantern entice you to my house?

Heston!

I've been starved for chef Heston Blumenthal's presence on TV since the end of his last BBC series, "In Search of Perfection". Imagine my excitement when I saw that Blumenthal is returning to the Food Network Canada tomorrow night with a new program, "Big Chef Takes on Little Chef".

At first, I thought the show looked like a copy of Gordon Ramsay's "Kitchen Nightmares" but it's quite distinct in its format. Instead of revamping a different restaurant every week, Blumenthal will be trying to revitalize a dwindling chain of roadside diners in the UK called Little Chef. I suppose the Canadian equivalent would be rescuing Tim Horton's if it had gone into decline. Little Chef was a childhood favorite of Blumenthal's. In its heyday it was ubiquitous and well known among the the Brits; today it is disappearing into obscurity and its cuisine has much left to be desired. See here the intro to the new series, in which Blumenthal samples the latest that Little Chef has to offer:

Big Chef takes on Little Chef from Neil Pollock on Vimeo.

It's Easy Being Green

Najmieh Batmanglij's cookbook, "New Food of Life", continues to be one of my favorite sources of inspiration. There doesn't seem to be enough I can learn about Persian or Iranian cuisine, it's just so rife with color, aroma and flavor.

In a fit of ambition, I recently attempted to make Fresh Herb Khoresh (Khoresh-e qormeh sabzi). I've been told by a close Iranian friend that qormeh sabzi (or ghormeh sabji -- it's spelled in a myriad of ways) is one of the most quintessential of Persian comfort foods. Wikipedia indicates that this stew is said to be the Iranian national dish.

Which is fascinating because India, Pakistan, Uzbekistan, Afghanistan and other regions once ruled by the Persian Empire also boast localized versions of the sabzi or sabji stew. Depending where you are, sabzi could mean "green", "vegetable", "carrot" or other similarly vegetal terms.

Despite my dedication to authenticity, it's not always easy for me to get a hold of all the ingredients I need for cuisines yet unfamiliar to me. Fresh fenugreek and dried Persian limes weren't at my local No Frills, and so I had to improvise.

I bought fenugreek seeds which I bundled in cheesecloth and dropped into the pot. To sub for dried Persian limes, I had leftover liquid from my last jar of lime pickles, which I had made ages ago using a Nigella Lawson recipe from her "How to Be a Domestic Goddess" cookbook.

If you're wondering why I bundled the fenugreek seeds, this is an ounce of wisdom I earned the hard way. First, let me point out that fenugreek seeds are hard as stone. I once made the horrendous mistake of sprinkling fenugreek seeds into a soup, thinking they would soften and blend in. After hours and hours of simmering, the seeds finally got soft enough to chew. And then I bit into one. I puckered up and cringed -- it was unspeakably bitter with an acetone aftertaste. The only good thing to come out of that kitchen disaster was the discovery that fenugreek yields a mouth-watering aroma. So, steep it but don't keep it.

The stew gets its green from the 6-7 cups' worth of herbs (parsley, chives/scallions, coriander, and fresh fenugreek if you got it) that are finely chopped and sauteed before mixed in with everything else. I normally find myself in the predicament of buying a massive bundle of parsley only to use a sprig or two in a recipe; this recipe used the entire bundle of everything green I had. I must have been chopping for 10-15 minutes. No complaints -- I found it cathartic, whacking away at a heap of herbs with my biggest knives.

The recipe called for about 2.5 hours of simmering, but I let it go for 4 hours. When it was done, the meat of the lamb chops I threw in were falling off the bones. I really can't say if the taste was genuine, but I certainly couldn't get enough of it. Can't wait to try it again, maybe next time with the proper Persian groceries. If you know of any Persian/Iranian shops in the central GTA area, let me know!

Meshuggah About Rugelach

My friend with the ailing relative has informed me that they no longer follow the restricted diet I've been experimenting with on their behalf. The illness has reached the point where the patient might as well be allowed to enjoy whatever food his heart desires in the time he has left.

And so, it was with a mixture of sadness and glee that I turned my attention to decadent sweets.

A recipe for Chocolate Prune Rugelach caught my roving eye. It was in the Holiday 2007 issue of the LCBO's Food & Drink magazine -- a FREE (gasp!) publication that I think is on par with the more glamorous Food & Wine.

This "cookie" is chef Anna Olson's delectable creation. Olson -- for those of you who haven't been initiated -- is the Martha Stewart-esque doyenne of sweet confections. She is probably best known among Canadians as the host of "Sugar" on the Food Network.

The rugelach is a traditional Jewish pastry whose name you might have trouble recalling, but you've probably eaten one before. Doing some Googling, I've found that "rugelach" means "creeping vine" or "little twists" in Yiddish or Hebrew. It's a rolled up pastry with sweet filling that looks somewhat like a Danish except the rugelach has no yeast in its dough. A lot of Jewish American recipes rely on cream cheese instead to give the dough its soft, dense texture, and that seems to have become the de facto standard.

I've never made cookie dough like this, which was remarkably idiot-proof, both in the mixing and in the baking. So often the amateur baker learns too late that he's over-kneaded the dough (making it too tough), or she has rolled it out too thick (preventing the insides from baking), or he has over-baked it (tastes like charcoal). The resulting cookie dough was both flaky and yet moist.

The addictiveness of this cookie has all to do with the filling: chocolate chips, prunes (!), some sugar and cinnamon, all processed together to a chunky paste. For people who think "old people food" when they hear "prunes", it will come as a revelation that chocolate pairs decadently well with prunes. When they bake together in the cookie, the result is a smooth, chewy, chocolatey filling.

The recipe yielded a monstrously huge batch, so I gave a bunch to my friend and brought the rest to work. They were met with positive reactions and people coming back for seconds, even thirds.

I'd love to find other ways to use cream cheese dough and other variations on the chocolate/prune paste idea. Cream cheese pastry balls with red bean filling? Chocolate prune apple tarts? Stay tuned.

In the Night Kitchen

Some might argue that I have never really grown up, but I certainly regressed further this past weekend upon seeing Where the Wild Things Are -- the big screen, live action adaptation of the beloved 1963 children's book by Maurice Sendak. It instantly brought back fond memories and a feeling of wonderment.

Since this is a cooking blog, it seems appropriate to flash back to Sendak's "In the Night Kitchen" (1970):