Carrying On Traditions

Japanese New Year is not like Chinese New Year -- since 1873, it's been celebrated at the same time as followers of the Gregorian or Christian calendar. The cultural custom is to serve osechi-ryōri (お節料理) which is essentially an assortment of seasonal and symbolic dishes that are appropriate for the occasion. The food is presented in stacked boxes called jūbako (重箱). Those who can afford to splurge will have it professionally catered. However, most households will spend the week leading up to New Year's preparing dozens of small dishes that comprise the whole meal.

Normally I benefit from my Mom's labors, reveling in the food she lays out in the morning as I stumble out of bed, still recovering from the previous night's celebrations. Jan 1, 2009 was the first New Year's Day that I spent without family. I took it upon myself to emulate that tradition, even if I was cooking only for one.

Guiding my effort was a 1986 hardcover edition of Kuwako Takahashi's "The Joy of Japanese Cooking", an English cookbook loaned to me by my mother. While I am capable of following recipes written in Japanese, this book was written for a North American audience limited by a North American pantry: Takahashi helpfully suggests ingredient substitutions for some of the more "exotic" foods that the uninitiated may have trouble sourcing. She also offers sage explanations for why things are done a certain way, like removing kombu kelp from stock at a particular point to avoid the build-up of slime and funky odor. Good to know.

The six photos below show the dishes that I attempted. Some came straight from the book, while others were improvised by yours truly.

(1) On the left is a persimmon and daikon salad (柿膾) served in a hollowed out persimmon. It is seasoned with a sweet vinegar dressing (三杯酢) and lemon rind.
(2) Beside it is a marinated spinach dish (ほうれん草おひたし) garnished with bonito flakes. I love eating this with rice.

(3) On the left is a mochi-stuffed deep-fried soybean puff (餅入り巾着) served in a bowl of homemade dashi (出汁) fish stock with baby daikon, enoki mushrooms, Chinese broccoli leaves and green onions. Mochi (餅) is a pounded rice cake that is almost exclusively eaten around New Year's.
(4) The right image below is warmed soft tofu served in a pool of a standard cooking liquid (八方出汁) reduction made with dashi, soy sauce, mirin and saké. It is garnished with salmon roe and green onions. As I see it, this is quintessential Japanese cuisine: the dish looks so light and simple yet the flavors are complex and deeply satisfying.

(5) On the left is one layer of my mini-jūbako which I filled with (going clockwise from the top left) rolled omelette (出汁巻き卵) wrapped in seaweed, some garnishes made with cucumber skin, pickled daikon leaves (緑漬け), persimmon and daikon salad (柿膾), and some pickled plums (梅干) garnished with perilla leaves (紫蘇).
(6) The right image is another layer of my mini-jūbako which I filled with (going clockwise from the left) salmon roe (イクラ) served in a hollowed cucumber, miso-marinated mackerel (it was super-moist and infused with flavor), pea sprouts bundled together by a slice of cucumber, herring roe (数の子), marinated and broiled shrimp, and in the middle, I put some candied pecans caramelized with maple syrup then seasoned with sea salt and yuzu-infused chili flakes.

On a side note, it took me forever to figure out the arrangement of food within the jūbako because it follows none of the rules of modern plating. Food presentation today typically requires the chef to allow each individual dish to "breathe" on a plate. Massive bowls and serving platters that function as a vast canvas for food are de rigueur in trendy, cosmopolitan restaurants. So the idea of cramming multiple dishes in a small space with both efficiency and aesthetics was challenging for me and I'm not exactly pleased with the final result. Pointers are much needed and would be highly appreciated.

New Year, New Resolution, New Approach

Happy new year everyone! "Everyone" will soon refer to a larger group of people, or so I hope: with great trepidation, I've decided to make this blog public. Which also makes this the appropriate opportunity for presenting a more thorough explanation of what this blog is about and what I'm trying to achieve with it.

A few summers ago, I attended the wedding of a childhood friend. We weren't related but he and his family were so integral to our family functions that he was like a cousin. Although adulthood sent us on separate paths, the wedding was a milestone that I could not miss, and it was an honor to be invited. It was a glorious, joyful day full of youthful promise and dreams of a bright future for the newlyweds.

Two weeks later he was dead, taken from us by a negligent driver who had fallen asleep at the wheel on the wrong side of the road.

My own sorrow was eclipsed by the heart-breaking grief that shattered his young bride -- widowed all too soon -- and his parents. I wanted to help, even as I knew perfectly well that nothing I could do or say would assuage their pain. Paralyzed with helplessness, I waffled for a while between one stupid idea and another.

So I just started cooking. I was cooking for people who wouldn't want to eat (never mind cook), but who should. I was cooking as a gesture of concern, empathy and affection. I wanted to bring them something comforting and accessible that would sustain them through this ordeal.

This is how the idea of self-publishing a cookbook was born. The intent is to build a volume of recipes that nourishes the heart as well as the stomach. I'm trying to emphasize good nutrition that elevates mood (instead of crashing it through junk, seductive as it is) while promoting overall health. I'm also taking cues from various cultural traditions that revolve around food during mourning: food may be offered for the grief-stricken at a wake, or prepared in a ritualistic and symbolic manner to memorialize the loss.

The notion of self-publishing came from one of my favorite foodie blogs, 101 Cookbooks. The author, Heidi Swanson, wrote a couple of posts about making one's own cookbook and that got me inspired.

I have no culinary cred, and don't plan on having a career in food. I don't pretend for a second that I'm a chef that anybody would want to emulate. But I do believe in this project for two reasons: (1) I want to keep the memory of my friend alive with this book, which will be dedicated to his family (they don't know about any of this yet), and (2) I plan to donate as much of the proceeds as I can afford to hunger relief organizations which serve up a far more important concept of "comfort food" every day.

This blog is a day-to-day journal of my culinary experiences and experiments. It's also a testing ground for my articles and recipes for the book. The photographs posted here are my own, but eventually I will recruit my co-contributor, Lynn -- an accomplished photographer and talented chef -- for her expertise. My current target for publication is end of 2009. Perhaps with an audience, I'll be rescued from my tendency to procrastinate.

Last but not least, I want to hear from you, about your comforting memories of food. Tell me about the dishes that mended your wounds or have healed others. It's a gift that's worth sharing.

'Tis the Season for Dessert

This weekend brought a deluge of snow, slamming the city with blizzard after blizzard. As a new home-owner, I got a crash course in snow shoveling. After such a Sisyphean chore, the idea of baking in a warm kitchen was highly appealing.

In preparation for my annual Christmas party, I decided to make a Maple Pecan Cheesecake. (The dinner theme was a Quebecois Christmas: Beet & Blue Cheese Salad served with Tourtiere. I'll post about those dishes another time.) The recipe for the cake came from Lynn's cookbook collection. If I recall correctly, it was in the Australian Women's Weekly cookbook on cheesecakes.

The delightful thing about cheesecake is that it doesn't have to involve the oven at all. It looks and tastes sinfully decadent, and yet it can be ridiculously easy to make. That was certainly the case with this cake.

The base was made from ground ginger snaps and melted butter. I took a chance and substituted light cream cheese in place of regular. A modest amount of maple syrup was added to the filling mixture. Coarsely chopped pecans were tossed with maple syrup before being roasted in the oven for about 10 minutes. The result was a kind of pecan brittle which was broken up and sprinkled on top of the cake for some crunch. The dinner guests happily plucked at the candied pecans even after finishing their cake -- it is quite addictive and gives me ideas for other recipes.

I felt compelled to finish off the bottle of organic maple syrup I had bought for the cheesecake. So I baked a maple cake for my co-workers. It's a very simple sponge cake with maple syrup mixed into the batter. After it cooled, I sliced it horizontally in half then slathered maple cream (maple syrup and whipping cream beaten until thickened) between the layers. A light dusting of icing sugar gave it a wintery look. I'll be bringing it to the office tomorrow. Hope my colleagues like it!

The Perfect Christmas

I just saw chef Heston Blumenthal's "Perfect Christmas" special on the Food Network and floated away in awe and reverie. Six very lucky dinner guests were treated to what may be the most magical Christmas dinner of all time. Blumenthal and his crew created a winter wonderland as the setting for this dinner -- one of the guests exclaimed, "It's Narnia!" -- and proceeded to blow their minds and palates with his astounding creations. I watched the entire show slack-jawed, salivating and profoundly resenting the people who had the privilege of eating that meal. I couldn't find the full episode online but a preview is available on YouTube:



There's a reason why this guy turns me into a chattering groupie, and it has nothing to do with his abundance of Michelin stars. What I find absolutely irresistible about Blumenthal is his infectious enthusiasm, imagination and meticulous attention to detail without the slightest trace of ego. He is always like an excited child who has discovered chocolate for the first time. You can't help but want to learn from him and with him. I think the opening sequence of his series, "In Search of Perfection" probably captures what it's like inside his brilliant brain: smells, tastes, colors, textures, science, magic... endless fireworks.

When the Student Becomes the Teacher

Every December, my department welcomes the holidays with a celebratory team dinner. This year, we chose The Chef's House: it is a fully operational restaurant staffed by the talented students from George Brown College and the Centre for Hospitality and Culinary Arts. None of us had been to the restaurant before, but I could attest to the quality of their education, having taken two courses and a workshop at the school.

We were not disappointed.

The venue had very clean, modern decor, comparable to some of the trendiest restaurants in the downtown core. The open-concept kitchen is the focal point, with cameras capturing all the activity for customers who can watch on flat-screen TVs installed throughout the dining area.

Diners have a choice of a 3-course meal ($39) or a 4-course meal ($45), i.e. you could choose any 3 or 4 dishes from the menu. I opted for the 3-course dinner. We were first served an amuse bouche palate cleanser: a tiny mix of tomato, pine nuts, greens plated with a streak of balsamic vinegar reduction.

For my starter, I picked the soup of the day: cream of mushroom soup. Having enjoyed Lynn's soulful soup last week made me crave more of this good thing. The trouble with cream of mushroom soup -- when it doesn't come from a can -- is its unappealing color. It reminds me of the shade of sludge that pools by the side of a curb when winter's frost starts to melt in March. However, the student chefs presented it beautifully, garnished with a dollop of what I believe was crème fraîche and emerald green herbed oils drizzled for color. The wide-rimmed bowl provided a broad, clean canvas for all these elements.

For my main, I ordered a gnudi dish without really knowing what it was, other than it sounded a lot like gnocchi. Turns out, I wasn't far from the mark: gnudi means "nude" in Italian, a reference to the fact that it is essentially the filling for stuffed pasta such as ravioli but without the pasta. It is similar to gnocchi except the potato is replaced by ricotta.

My gnudi was mixed with spinach, served on a bed of arugula and wild mushrooms. The mushrooms had been cooked or marinated in a salty/savory sauce. When eaten with the creamy gnudi and the grated parmesan, the taste sensation made me exclaim, "OMG this is good" (and I'm an atheist). I'm usually a salt hog, but this was so perfectly seasoned that I didn't touch the salt shaker even once.

Choosing the dessert was a no-brainer: maple pecan tart. I am fond of any combination of ice cream, maple syrup and nuts. They were made for each other. The tart arrived before me still warm, with the freshly made ice cream gently oozing from the heat of the pastry. To be honest, my memory of eating the dessert is very hazy because it went by so fast. I was mocked for stopping to take a photo in mid-bite, but I needed a record of the experience before inhaling it.

I can't imagine a better training ground for tomorrow's star chefs. The Chef's House emphasizes locally grown produce, which teaches socially responsible practices while supporting the local economy. The students gain invaluable experience that can't be simulated in a classroom. For the public, dining in a place like that brings them closer to the process of food preparation. I think this heightens one's appreciation for what we eat and the talent of those who serve it to us. These young cooks merit our full support.

Comfort in a Jar

"Worries go down better with soup." - Jewish proverb -

People often complain of boredom when their days are uneventful, but it is the lucky individual who has no occasion to suffer the pitfalls of life.

My weekend started joyfully, with the arrival of my brother who took a long train ride to visit me. Among other things, we went to a rambunctious pierogi-making party hosted by my huggable friend, Gila. If you want to know how pierogi-making can ever be rambunctious, factor in over a dozen boisterous individuals, at least a few hundred pierogi wrappers, dozens of traditional and questionable choices of filling (the more absurd filling ideas having come about after considerable consumption of alcohol), and flour-dusted hands deliberately finding their way onto dark clothing. It was a major gaffe on my part to forget to bring my camera. I brought home some mystery pierogis at least, and will photograph and write about them when they get cooked.

Then came the wrenching news about my brother's beloved cat, who is in a veterinary hospital as I write this, fighting for his life. I won't get into details because it's none of my business to be writing about it here, but there were many long hours that felt like days during which some painful decisions had to be made. It brought back memories of my first cat, Peanut, who passed away a few years ago. I loved him more than anything or anyone in the world. Just writing about this makes me weep even today, so it's not a stretch for me to understand what my brother is going through right now.

Just before the weekend, my very dear friend and co-contributor here, Lynn, had given me a jar of her homemade cream of mushroom soup. I don't know precisely what went into it, but if I know her at all, she would have applied the principle of simplicity: fresh, simple ingredients -- nothing artificial -- that are long on aroma and flavor. The soup was the first thing my brother and I ate after the bad news. It was comfort in a jar. The canned variety often feels too heavy and loaded with preservatives. Lynn's soup was light but captured the essence of mushrooms. It was just what we needed.

Good Things Come in Small Packages

Apologies for the long absence of new posts. I've been back from Barcelona for nearly two weeks already, but my time at work has been monopolized by the inevitable game of catch-up and overtime. And right now, my cats are not making this any easier by parading between me and my laptop and licking my face and fingers.

Another deterrent was the fact that I had ambitious plans for this first post upon my return -- ambitions that weren't matched by my energy level or mental capacity. Winter has descended upon us and this season has a way of sucking the life out of me.

But I digress. The trip to Barcelona assured me that the architectural splendor of the city has remained intact over the past decade and bold plans are already underway to further transform the landscape. Its coastline and natural charms are as beautiful as ever -- what Canuck wouldn't get deliriously giddy at the sight of palm trees in a busy, metropolitan centre? We were given ample opportunity to wine and dine until ready to burst. The conference hotel rooms were equipped with bathroom scales which the women promptly utilized to depress or reassure themselves about their rate of consumption. My scale was conveniently broken and lied to me about my weight, which suited me just fine.

Regrettably, some foul first-hand experiences with crime as well as second-hand reports of incidents from colleagues left a bitter aftertaste. It threatened to spoil the entire experience for me and now I'm not so sure I would want to go back there a third time.

Which would be a real shame given that the sins of the few shouldn't damn everybody or everything.

Spanish tapas is something that I already miss a great deal. Tapas isn't so much a style of cuisine as it is an approach to eating that differs from the regimented meal schedule that North Americans are programmed to follow. For one thing, Spaniards eat later in the day, having lunch between 1:00-4:00pm and dinner between 9:00pm-12:00am. The lateness of the last meal encourages a reduction in portion size -- going to bed with a full belly is as uncomfortable as it is unhealthy. This is in stark contrast to the massive production that is usually "dinner" in North America.

The word "tapas" originates from "tapar", which means "to cover" in Spanish. (Spanish-speakers, please correct me immediately if I'm talking out of my ass.) The consumption of tapas is inextricably linked to the imbibing of alcohol. In my research, I've consistently come across two stories about the origin of tapas: (1) the practice was decreed in the 13th century by King Alfonso X of Castile (aka Alfonso the Wise) who credited his recovery from an illness to a diet of small portions and wine; consequently, wine could no longer be served anywhere in the land without a bite of food, and (2) it became customary to cover a glass of wine with a slice of bread or cheese, either to keep out offending contaminants like sand or bugs, or to hold in the funky smell of bad wine. While I like anyone who advocates drinking wine, I think I prefer the second explanation. El mundo de las Tapas has a much more detailed history of tapas (and recipes!) for anyone interested in reading further.

Catalan food is typified by marvelous variations of Iberian pork -- cooked, cured, dried -- and delicious seafood. Oddly enough, guidebooks state that the seafood sold in Barcelona is mostly imported despite local fisheries along the Catalan coast. I couldn't tell, judging from the superb hake, cod, squid and anchovies I sampled. Paella, of course, was a dietary requirement for me while I was there. It was always moist, flavorful and crammed with monstrously huge prawns, chorizo, saffron and other goodies.

Spaniards don't have a patent on the idea of serving several small dishes instead of one heavy meal. The Chinese have dim sum (I'm planning to take a dim sum cooking course next year!). Greeks, Cypriots, Turks, Lebanese, Albanians, Serbians and Bulgarians have meze or mezze. Filipinos have pica-pica and coincidentally, even a cured beef dish called tapa. Japanese kaiseki cuisine has a tapas-like structure, consisting of an array of small dishes; Japanese pottery is resplendent with gorgeous, tiny plates designed specifically for this.

And why shouldn't this be a global phenomenon? Eating lots of small dishes throughout the day is accepted by many as a healthier alternative to overloading on food three times a day. I think smaller portions also force you to stop and taste what you're putting in your mouth. You can't just scarf it down. Like a Fabergé egg, there's something precious and charming about a small thing that still requires as much effort and skill to prepare as something bigger.

My friend Ireen has taken beautiful photographs of the food we had in Barcelona. She's a far more skilled photographer than I am, so hopefully she'll either post them publicly or let me post a few here for your enjoyment. I'll keep you posted.