Chicken wings were one of my favorite childhood snacks: baked, grilled, or fried, it didn’t matter. I’d gnaw on the wing tips until all the flavor and what little meat and skin were on ‘em was sucked off!
So when Monica Bhide asked me to cook her Indian chicken wings recipe from her new cookbook Modern Spice as part of a virtual bloggers dinner, I was happy to oblige!
Sprinkling chaat masala over the tasty wings
Now the recipe called for an optional garnish of chaat masala, a spice blend that is sprinkled onto snacks and used in aloo chaat. Unless you live near a South Asian market, it might be a little hard to find. So I devised a do-it-yourself version using whatever spices you can find.
Mix and Match Chaat Masala
Chaat masala is available as a ready mix at South Asian markets for about $1 but if you aren’t able to find it, make your own. It may seem like there are 101 ingredients and yes the ingredient list is lengthy, but if you’re a spice fiend like me, you might already have quite a few of the ingredients in your pantry. Aside from cumin seeds and coriander seeds which I always have on hand, I was pleasantly surprised to be able to put the dried mango powder, black salt, and asafetida powder I had received as gifts to good use! Of course, there are also 101 recipes for chaat masala but that’s the beauty of it—you can mix and match to your taste.
2 tablespoons dried mango powder (amchoor)
3 teaspoons cumin seeds
3 teaspoons black salt (kala namak)
1/2 teaspoon ground black pepper
As many of the following ingredients you can find:
1 teaspoon coriander seeds
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/2 teaspoon fennel seeds
1/4 teaspoon ajwain seeds (lovage or bishop’s weed)
1/4 teaspoon asafetida powder (hing)
1/4 teaspoon ground dried mint
1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper
1/4 teaspoon paprika
Toast the whole spices separately in a small dry cast iron skillet for 1 to 3 minutes, or until they are fragrant and turn a shade or two darker. Don’t let them burn! Grind them individually into a fine powder.
Combine all the ingredients and store in an airtight container.
I love the crunch of a crisp, refreshing cucumber. And now that cucumbers are in season, I’ve been munching on them as often as I can.
A member of the gourd family, the cucumber may seem an unremarkable vegetable. It comprises mostly water and tastes rather bland solo. But pickle a cucumber in brine or toss a few slices into a tomato and corn mélange and **boom** these cool cukes are reborn into culinary aristocracy.
My cucumber of choice is the Japanese cucumber. Long, firm and slender, it is encased in an even forest green skin and have tiny inconspicuous seeds, unlike regular cucumbers. Funny enough, the Mexican flower grower at my farmers’ market also grows and sells, of all things, Japanese cucumbers!
The Japanese cucumber is my cucumber of choice
As a Japanese cucumber lover, I was delighted to discover a not-your-usual-Japanese-restaurant-version of sunomono. “Su” means vinegar and this rice vinegar-based salad is a common appetizer usually made with cucumbers.
A few Sundays ago, my honey and I were invited to a bonsai exhibition and demonstration organized by the Monterey Bonsai Club at the Monterey Buddhist Temple.
I’ve always been fascinated by this ancient artform originating in China and adopted and evolved by the Japanese. By intricately pruning and training them, these miniature trees in pots mimic aged, mature, tall trees in nature. I learned a few things that day: any type of tree imaginable can be “bonsai’d” and bonsais can be flowering and even fruiting!
I wasn’t expecting to be fed at a bonsai exhibition but our friends snuck us into the member’s only section where a buffet lunch was laid out. The spread was a mix of Western and Japanese dishes and several caught my eye and arrested my tastebuds—among them marinated asparagus, pickled bamboo shoots, and a unique sunomono of cucumbers, glass noodles and shrimp.
Unfortunately, there were no grandmothers/cooks to commiserate and chat with so all I could do was savor the flavors and textures and make a mental note to experiment at home. Which I did and the result of the sunomono experiment is below.
There he is! As much of a habit it is with me, I was advised not to name our bonsai. I think if I did, he would be a Walter.
The second pleasant surprise of the day was that we won a door prize—our very own bonsai! The best part? My husband took ownership of the little specimen and has been watering it religiously.
Bonsai Sunomono
Of course I just made up the name of the dish but I figured since I discovered while perusing a bonsai exhibition, I should name this dish as such. Plus, it commemorates our very first bonsai as well! I recommend using Japanese, English or any other variety of seedless cucumbers. They tend to be a little pricier but they are devoid of the large seeds, waxy inedible green skin and watery flesh of regular cucumbers.
Time: 15 minutes plus marinating time
Makes: 6 appetizer servings
2 ounces glass noodles
6 tablespoons rice vinegar
1 tablespoon sugar
1 teaspoon soy sauce
1 teaspoon salt, plus extra for salting
2 Japanese cucumbers, or 1 English cucumber (about 12 ounces)
1 tablespoon finely chopped green onions
1 1/2 teaspoons sesame seeds (optional)
Place noodles in a heat-proof bowl and cover with boiling water for 5 minutes, or until completely translucent and tender. Drain in a colander and rinse with cold water. Leave in the sink to drain thoroughly.
In the meantime, mix the vinegar, sugar, soy sauce and salt in a medium bowl. Stir until the sugar dissolves completely. Add the noodles, cover and chill.
Peel the cucumbers and cut into half lengthwise. Scrape out the seeds with a teaspoon if desired. Cut crosswise into 1/4-inch thick slices. Place the cucumber in a colander, sprinkle with salt and let sit over the sink for 30 minutes. Rinse with cold water and drain.
Toss the cucumber with the marinated noodles and chill for at least 15 minutes. Garnish with green onions and sesame seeds and serve.
Variations:
You can add wakame (seaweed), or cooked crab or tiny shrimp with the cucumbers.
Pat’s tips:
This dish can be made ahead up to 2 days ahead. Prepare all the ingredients as directed except the cucumbers, green onions and sesame seeds. Add them just before serving.
As grandma always says, please share!
In this installment, Audrey Low contributes a little snippet that reflects on the kitchen chores she had as a child, plus a whimisical look at an old wives’ tale . Of Malaysian-Chinese descent, Audrey is an anthropologist living in Australia. Her blog: papayatreelimited.blogspot.com combines her love of Asian art, food, travel, and writing, blending her personal journey with people’s stories and her research.
If you would like to guest blog about cooking with a special woman in your life, please email me at pat@ediblewords.com.
In the Kitchen with Mum and Popo
By Audrey Low
Audrey and her mum, Judy Low, at graduation
Choy keok, a Hakka hot and sour soup, is a dish my mother learned to cook when she was a child from her nyonya grand-aunt. Imagining my mother as a child reminded me of learning to cook with her.
My mum cooks in silence; it’s like meditation for her. I remember my dad urging me to go into the kitchen to learn how to cook, but she would never say anything except, perhaps, the occasional instructions to get some ingredients: “Take the blunt knife and cut some serai (lemongrass) from the garden,” or “Pluck some curry leaves/fresh limes/chilies.” Mostly, I learned through observation.
There were many chores for kids around the kitchen. I, like Pat, had the interminable chore of breaking the ends off every single bean sprout. I too could never understand why it was necessary, and no amount of reasoning could get me out of that chore.
Pounding chili in the heavy stone mortar and pestle was another favorite job to give kids. And when I was doing the task, I would inevitably get a speck of chili in my eye. My grandmother’s solution was to pour cold water on my feet. Admittedly, it’s a far more elegant method than simultaneously hopping around in agony, rubbing one eye and splashing water on my face, which I did repeatedly.
However, after trying her way a couple of times unsuccessfully, I gave it up. But I’m pretty sure my grandmother still swears by the method to this very day.
Mum’s Choy Keok
Photo and recipe courtesy of Audrey Low
For this soup, mustard cabbage is not interchangeable with other leafy greens — it’s the only vegetable that will not fall apart in this robust soup. You can buy roast pork from a Chinese restaurant or deli or make it yourself with this recipe. Please visit Papaya Tree Limited for more stories and photos!
Makes: 8 to 10 servings
Time: 20 minutes plus simmering time
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
20 slices assam keping or assam gelugor (sometimes mistakenly called dried tamarind), or 3 heaping tablespoons tamarind paste
8 cloves garlic, smashed
5 dried whole chilies
3 fresh red Thai chilies, sliced
1 thumb-sized piece ginger, cut into 1/4 inch slices
1 to 2 pounds roast pork (or any other roast meat like duck and chicken)
2 (12 ounce) bunches mustard cabbage (gai choy), cut into thirds
1 1/2 tablespoon sugar
1 1/2 teaspoon salt
In a big stock pot, heat the oil over medium heat until it starts to shimmer. Add the assam keping, dried and fresh chilies (add more to taste, if desired), ginger, and garlic and stir until fragrant.
Add the roast pork and mustard cabbage. Add the sugar, salt and enough water to cover the ingredients. Raise the heat to high and bring to a boil. Then reduce heat to low and simmer for about 1 hour, or until the mustard cabbage is soft. Serve with rice.
As grandma always says, please share!
I just love the black and white photos on the cover! Grandmothers Nellie Wong (center) and the late Munni Khursheed Ashraf (right) are featured in the book.
A couple of days ago, an unsuspecting me found a media mail package sitting on my front doorstep.
Hmm … I wasn’t expecting any new books nor had I been contacted by any PR people wanting to send me something fresh-off-the-press. What could it be?
When I opened the package, I found two galley copies of The Asian Grandmothers Cookbook nestled neatly within. (A galley copy is an advanced proof of a book that is usually sent to reviewers).
Whoa.
My heart almost stopped.
I jumped up and down till I was silly.
Then I had to sit down.
Once I recovered, I turned the bound book over and over in my hands to make sure it was tangible. Yes, it was real!
The book has a soft cover and the interior photos are in black and white for now but there it was–the cumulation of over two years of hard work. And most swoon-worthy of all, my name is on the cover!
Once the tingles stopped, what did I do? I cooked from it!
As grandma always says, please share!
When I was a little girl, I hated mung bean sprouts, which we call “tauge” in Indonesian or “dou ya” (literally “bean sprout”) in Mandarin. At the market, they’re often labeled simply bean sprouts.
It had nothing to do with their bland flavor or the weird crunchy yet porous texture of their skinny white bodies (mung bean sprouts have a high water content), but everything to do with the fact that I was always roped in to snap the tails off these little buggers.
Yes, with their tails off, mung bean sprouts look neat and tidy and taste a whole lot better (if you’ve ever had any straggly, stringy and musky-tasting bits in your mouth, you’ll know what I mean) but it was a childhood chore that I didn’t quite enjoy when I could’ve been outside riding my bike or catching spiders in the drain.
Before
After
Now that I’m an adult, I do appreciate the aesthetics and the texture of a tail-less sprout, especially since I can buy them already washed and tail-free. In fact, I am offended every time a restaurant serves me sprouts with their tails still intact (which happens quite often at the Vietnamese hole-in-the-walls I tend to frequent).
Just as the name implies, mung bean sprouts come from–wait for it–mung beans, also known as mung, moong, mash bean, green gram, etc. Remember those science experiments in elementary school? Boy, do I remember them! I remember cushioning a handful of green mung beans on a bed of cotton wool soaked with water and sticking them on a warm window sill to germinate. Within days, the beans’ hard shells would split and tiny sprouts would start poking out. What a thrill! I never tried eating them though (I learned earlier on in life that science experiments are not meant to be eaten).
There are no lack of culinary uses for mung bean sprouts. They’re often stir fried with garlic and ginger, or the way I like it, with pieces of salted dried fish. Fresh bean sprouts are rolled into Vietnamese spring rolls and are used as a garnish for phở and numerous soup or dry noodle dishes in many Asian cultures. They’re tossed into fried noodles (think Singapore char kway teow and Hokkien mee) and in Korean cuisine, they’re blanched and seasoned with sesame oil, garlic and salt and served as banchan.
Don’t confuse mung beans sprouts with soybean sprouts—they have bigger, droopier heads–which are popular in Korea.
Because of their high water content, mung bean sprouts get slimy, and inedible, quickly. Store them in the crisper for no more than 2 days after purchasing.
Stir-Fried Mung Bean Sprouts with Tofu and Chives (Pad Tao Kua Tao Ngae)
This is another dish that Pranee kindly showed me how to make. Together with pork and chives, the combination of soft and fried tofu plays a fun game of textures in the mouth. Don’t worry about cutting the tofu to the exact measurements, they are only a guide. Just as long as the pieces are bite-sized and manageable in the wok, you’re good to go! Vegetarians can omit the pork for a tasty and nutritious protein-rich dish.
Time: 15 minutes
Makes: 4 to 6 servings as part of a multicourse family-style meal
4 ounces pork loin
3 tablespoons vegetable oil
3 cloves garlic, minced (1 tablespoon)
6 ounces (about 1/2 package) soft tofu (not silken), cut into 1- by 1 1/2-inch pieces
6 ounces (about ½ package) 1- by 1 1/2-inch fried tofu pieces
4 cups fresh mung bean sprouts, tails snapped off
3 tablespoons soy sauce or fish sauce
1 teaspoon sugar (optional)
1/4 cup Chinese chives cut into 2-inch lengths
Ground white pepper
Chinese chives are a little fatter than regular chives and skinnier than green onions
Handle the pork partially frozen so that it is easier to cut (if it’s fresh, place in the freezer for about 30 minutes). Cut the pork along the grain into 1 1/2-inch-thick strips. Then, with your knife at an angle almost parallel to the cutting surface, slice the meat diagonally across the grain into 1/4-inch thick slices.
Preheat a large wok or skillet over medium heat for about 1 minute. Swirl in the oil and heat until it becomes runny and starts to shimmer. Add the garlic and cook until golden and fragrant, 15 to 30 seconds. Throw in the pork and stir and cook until the meat just loses its blush, about 2 minutes. Add both types of tofu, followed by the bean sprouts. Sprinkle with the soy sauce and sugar and toss gently for 1 minute, being careful not to break up the soft tofu. Add the chives and white pepper and stir everything swiftly, but gently, around the wok.
Chinese chives are thrown into the mix
Once the ingredients are heated through, about 1 minute, remove from the heat. Serve with freshly steamed rice.
As grandma always says, please share!
One cannot complain about living on the gorgeous Monterey Peninsula along the California coast just blocks from the water. Yes, I have a view of the bay from my kitchen’s picture window but please allow me this one gripe — moving from Seattle has deprived me of the plethora of fabulous Asian restaurants and the bounty of Asian produce and products.
So you can’t blame a gal when she gawks openmouthed and almost trips over her own two feet upon stepping into the Mecca of Japanese and miscellaneous Asian food called Mitsuwa Marketplace in San Jose. (The San Jose/Sunnyvale/Silicon Valley area is about an hour 15 minutes north of here). Trust me, I was like a bee buzzing about fastiduously in a wildflower meadow.
After picking up some powdered matcha, kuri dorayaki (chestnut-filled pancakes) and Tamaki haigamai rice, I came across these cute little button-like shimeji in the produce section.
I must admit I was a little wary because the mushrooms were packed in plastic and they were imported from Japan but I just couldn’t resist the mushroom cartoon (see below) beckoning to me, “Buy me, buy me!”
Isn’t it so cuuute?
In the end, I succumbed, burdenened with guilt that I had substantially upped my carbon footprint and food miles, and bought two kinds of mushrooms: buna-shimeji, also known as the brown beech or brown clamshell mushroom, and bunapi-shimeji, white beech or white clamshell.
When I got home, I typed the Web site address http://www.hokto-kinoko.co.jp into my internet browser to find out more about the company that produces and exports the shimeiji. With each sentence I read, I breathed a little easier. They use environment-friendly Polypropylene film for their packaging and 100 percent organic culture media–corncob meal (pulverized cobs of non-genetically-modified corn) and rice bran.
Edible mushrooms native to East Asia, shimeji is rich in umami, i.e. the fifth taste. Buna-shimeji has a somewhat bitter taste which develops into a nutty flavor when cooked. The cooked mushroom has a pleasant, firm, slightly crunchy texture and is excellent in stir-fries, and sauteed with seafood. Or toss it into soups, stews and sauces. On its own, shimeji tastes lovely topped with a dab of butter and slow-roasted in the oven.
As I had a ready supply of pea shoots in my fridge, I made a pea shoot and buna-shimeji stir-fry.
Wok-Fried Mushrooms and Pea Shoots
Pea shoots, sometimes called pea vines are available at farmers markets and Asian markets (under the name dou miao), they should include a top pair of small leaves (the tip), delicate tendrils attached to the young stem, and a few larger leaves or blossoms. Select bright green, undamaged shoots.
Time: 10 minutes
Makes: 4 servings as part of a multicourse family-style meal
1 pound pea shoots, rinsed and drained well
7 ounces buna-shimeji or bunapi-shimeji mushrooms
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
3 cloves garlic, minced (1 tablespoon)
1/4 cup chicken stock or water
2 teaspoons soy sauce or fish sauce
Sesame oil for drizzling (optional)
Trim the pea shoots and remove any tough stems. Break up the cluster of mushrooms to release the individual mushroomettes.
Preheat a large wok or skillet over medium heat. Swirl in the oil and heat until it becomes runny and starts to shimmer. Add the garlic and cook until fragrant, 15 to 30 seconds.
Raise the heat to high, throw in the pea shoots and toss to coat evenly with the oil and garlic for until the leaves are just wilted, 1 to 1 1/2 minutes. Add the mushrooms, stock and soy sauce and toss until the liquid has reduced to a few tablespoons and the shoots are tender and bright green, another 1 to 2 minutes. Drizzle with sesame oil and serve immediately with freshly steamed rice.
Pat’s Notes: Pea shoots are often confused with pea sprouts, the whole baby pea plant. However, shoots and sprouts can be used interchangeably. Just vary the cooking time.
As grandma always says, please share!
About four years ago, I met Shelly Krishnamurthy. An amazing woman, Shelly has Parkinson’s disease but she is a fearless community activist, raising funds for Chaya, a non-profit organization serving South Asian women in times of crisis and need, and paying school visits to teach elementary students about Indian food and culture.
When Shelly heard about my book project, she introduced me to her 78-year-old mother, Champa Ramakrishna.
Champa is already bustling around the kitchen when I arrive. She has soft, kindly features and wispy gray hair bundled into a single braid swishing down her back. As she prepares the ingredients to make aloo paratha, potato-stuffed flatbread, she floats around the spacious, modern kitchen decisively yet gracefully, her orange and burgundy sari rustling about her petite frame.
Aloo paratha is a great one-dish meal for the family that can be served anytime of the day, Champa tells me. It’s especially convenient when she tires of making the requisite three dishes per meal everyone is accustomed to.
Food, I have learned, is never territorial. Even though aloo paratha is a northern Indian dish and Champa’s roots are in the south, she has no qualms about calling this dish her own. However, most of her repertoire hails from the south. Not surprising since her parents are from Bangalore and three generations of her family lived in Bhopal, central India. This is the cuisine she picked up from her mother by watching and learning.
“Southern (Indian) cooking is simple, and uses less fat,” she explains. And in the south, almost all the Hindu sects don’t eat onion and garlic because of their pungent smell.
Aloo paratha doesn’t use onion or garlic, in fact, it comprises few ingredients with potatoes (aloo) making up the bulk of the dish. The potatoes are ready once they are tender “but not too soft,” Champa instructs me as she starts to peel them. She prefers the texture of Yukon gold potatoes and instead of mashing them she grates them. “So there are no lumps,” she explains, fingering a handful of lump-free grated potato.
Her face creased in concentration, Champa mixes onion, cilantro, cumin seeds, chili flakes and cilantro by hand into the potatoes. As her hands massage the mixture into a smooth filling, the gold bangles sparkling with emeralds around her left wrist clink sweetly. For a little pizzazz, she suggests adding grated cauliflower, paneer, lentils or green mung beans to the mixture as well. With the endless variety of fillings, Champa and her family–who as Hindus, are all vegetarian–can eat a balanced diet with just one dish!
As Champa works, she tells me that she moved to the U.S. when her husband got a job with the World Bank in 1979. They lived in Washington D.C. for 10 years before settling down in Austin, Texas. She recalls how difficult it was to find Indian spices 25 years ago. “Every time I went back to India, I would stock up on all kinds of things from all the different regions.” Her suitcase was always full coming back stateside!
When the potato filling is done, Champa sets it aside and starts preparing the dough. Adding water to Indian whole wheat flour, she kneads the dough until it is pliable but “not too loose.”
Champa divides the dough up into balls and deftly rolls each ball into a flat disc about 4 inches wide with a rolling pin. Holding the dough disc in the palm of her left hand, she places a good chunk of potato mixture in the middle and folds the dough over, fully enclosing the filling. Then she rolls it out again into a flat disc. Other than the occasional green speckle, you’d never guess the secret mouthwatering ingredients hiding within.
The griddle–yes, Champa uses a modern electric griddle!–is soon fired up. She lays the pancake-like parathas gently down on the hot surface one at a time. She sprinkles some oil over each disc and smears it all over the top. After a couple of minutes, she flips them to reveal lightly charred brown spots.
In no time, they are done.
Champa serves me my meal on a shiny stainless steel plate typical of a thali meal. She instructs me to scoop some yogurt into a small bowl and season it with a sprinkling of cumin, chili powder and salt.
I break off a portion of the flatbread and dip it into the yogurt. The paratha’s crisp outer layer gives way to soft shreds of bread spiked with cumin, cilantro and chili, which contrasted nicely with the cool yogurt.
Yes, it is confirmed. This is a one-dish meal I could eat for breakfast, lunch and dinner!
Potato-Stuffed Flatbread (Aloo Paratha)
Whenever Champa Ramakrishna doesn’t feel like preparing the requisite three dishes per meal, she makes aloo paratha. Easy to make and nutritious, the one-dish Indian meal can be eaten for breakfast, lunch, or dinner. While Champa can churn out perfect parathas in a matter of minutes, making them symmetrical takes some practice-so don’t be discouraged if your first few don’t turn out quite right. Instead of the yogurt dip, you can serve the flatbread with your favorite pickle or chutney.
Time: 1 1/2 hours
Makes: 10 parathas, 4 to 5 servings as part of a multicourse family-style meal
2 cups Indian whole wheat flour (atta), or a combination of 1 cup whole wheat pastry flour and 1 cup all-purpose white flour, plus more as needed
1 tablespoon vegetable oil, plus more for drizzling
Salt
3/4 to 1 cup lukewarm water
1 pound Yukon gold potatoes
1 small yellow onion, finely chopped (3/4 cup)
1 tablespoon finely chopped cilantro leaves
1/2 teaspoon ground red chili powder or crushed red chili flakes
1/2 teaspoon cumin seeds
1/2 teaspoon ground cumin
Yogurt Dip (recipe follows)
In a large mixing bowl, mix the flour, oil, and a pinch of salt. Add the water a little at a time and knead into a soft, pliable dough. Once the dough starts to pull easily away from the side of the bowl, knead it on a lightly floured surface until smooth, 1 to 2 minutes. Cover with a damp cloth and set aside for 30 minutes.
Meanwhile, put the potatoes in a medium saucepan with enough water to cover. Bring to a boil then reduce the heat. Cover and simmer for 15 to 20 minutes, or until a fork can prick them easily. The potatoes should still be somewhat firm and not too soft. Let cool.
When the potatoes have reached room temperature, peel and grate them. You should have about 2 cups. In a large bowl, combine the potatoes, onion, cilantro, chili powder, cumin seeds, cumin powder, and 1 teaspoon salt. Mix thoroughly with your hands. Taste and adjust the seasonings.
Divide the dough into 10 equal 1½-inch balls (an easy way to do this is to divide the dough in half, then each half into 5 balls). Divide the potato filling into 10 equal portions. Prepare a plate with about 1 cup flour for dusting. Sprinkle flour liberally onto a work surface and roll a ball into a disk about 4 inches in diameter with a rolling pin. Place 1 portion of filling in the center and gather the edges up and around it, stretching the dough if necessary. Pinch to seal securely at the top so that the filling is entirely enclosed. It will look like a fat dumpling.
Gently flatten the dumpling into a thick patty, being careful not to let the filling escape. Dip both sides in the flour. Lay the patty seam side down and carefully roll it out into a circle 5 to 6 inches in diameter and about 1/8 inch thick. Don’t worry if a little filling pops out. Just pat it back inside the paratha as best as you can.
Repeat with the remaining dough and filling, dusting with flour as needed.
Place the parathas on a plate, layering them between parchment paper to prevent them from sticking together before cooking.
Preheat a heavy griddle or 8-inch nonstick skillet. Place 1 paratha on the ungreased griddle and cook over medium-high heat until the underside is speckled with golden brown spots, about 3 minutes. Flip and drizzle the top with oil (about ½ teaspoon). Smear the oil all over the surface with a spatula and press down to ensure even browning. Flip again, drizzle more oil on top, and repeat the smearing process. Cook for another 2 to 3 minutes, flipping every minute or so, until the paratha is evenly browned on both sides.
Slide onto a plate and keep warm in a low oven while you cook the remaining parathas. To eat, tear off bite-sized pieces of paratha and dip into the yogurt mixture.
Variations: Add any of the following cooked ingredients to, or in lieu of, the potato filling: grated cauliflower, mashed lentils or mung beans, and paneer.
Pat’s Notes: Atta (sometimes called chapati flour) is a very finely ground whole wheat flour made from hard wheat. With a high protein content and just enough bran to give it body without making it too coarse for soft pliable Indian breads, atta flour is also strong and dough made from it can be rolled out very thin. It is available at Indian grocers.
Parathas freeze well. Just cook them without oil and freeze, placing wax or parchment paper in between each paratha. When ready to use, defrost and reheat the paratha on the griddle with some oil.
Yogurt Dip
Make individual servings and have everyone tailor the dip to their personal taste.
Makes: 1 serving
1/2 cup homemade or Greek yogurt
Ground cumin
Ground dried red chilies
Salt
Spoon the yogurt into an individual dish. Sprinkle cumin powder, ground chilies, and salt to taste (I recommended pinches to start with). Mix well.
As grandma always says, please share!
Paneer cut into cubes
Everyone has their day dreams.
Mine begins at dawn with me stirring a vat of creamy white milk. Sleep still heavy on my eyelids, my face is flushed from the delicate tendrils of warmth rising from the freshly-milked liquid which not so long ago still resided inside the goats bleating just outside the barnyard door …
…bzztt … it’s back to reality.
I have to admit that I’m not obsessed with making cheese, just with the romantic notion of being a farmstead fromagier–living on a farm, raising some goats, and not having to pay through my nose for some yummy chevre, minus the cleaning of kaka and all that good stuff of course.
However, a chance meeting–in the form of a gentle sari-wearing lady named Sangita Chawila–got me very excited about cheese-making. Sangita showed me how easy it was to make paneer, the mild, creamy Indian cheese that makes its way into everything from saag paneer to paneer-stuffed tikis (potato cutlets).
With Sangita’s simple method, everyday non-cheese-making people like you and me can make cheese in under an hour! If you can boil milk and squeeze limes, you’re already a natural paneer-making machine. How cool is that?
Homemade Paneer
Instead of lime juice, you can make paneer with lemon juice or vinegar. After draining, the paneer is crumbly like ricotta cheese and makes for a delicious snack with apples or bananas and sweetened with honey or sugar.
Makes: 5 ounces of paneer
1 quart whole milk
2 tablespoons lime juice (1 lime), or more as needed
In a large, nonreactive, wide-mouthed pot, bring milk to a gentle boil (the larger the pot the better so that the milk will not overflow). Stir often to prevent scorching at the bottom of the pot. If the pot starts to overflow, whisk it off the stove. Otherwise you’ll have a big, foaming mess and cleaning milk from inside your stove is no joke–I know!
As the milk starts to gurgle, watch diligently that it doesn’t overflow the pot!
Once the milk starts bubbling, add the lime juice and stir continuously for about 4 to 5 minutes, until the spongy white curds start to separate from the sea-green whey (just like magic!). If the curds don’t separate, or the whey isn’t clear, add more lime juice and keep stirring. It will happen eventually.
Curdling milk–not always a welcome sight but in this case …
Turn off the heat and let it rest for ten minutes to complete the coagulation process.
Paneer up close; can you see the sea-green whey in the background?
Pour the curds and whey into a colander lined with fine cheesecloth. Place a bowl beneath the colander if you’d like to collect the whey and save it for making roti, curry, or rice. (After this step, you can use the paneer in a recipe that uses crumbly cheese or eat it immediately.)
Drained paneer curds
Gently wring out as much whey as possible. Tie up the opposite ends of the cheesecloth and hang the bundle around the faucet and drain into the sink for 1 hour. With the cheese still wrapped in cheesecloth, flatten it to about half-an-inch thick and shape it into a disc or a square. Sandwich the cheese between a chopping board and a heavy book and leave for another hour.
Curds and whey or rather, whey and curds
Discard any remaining liquid and unwrap the cheese from the cheesecloth. Refrigerate overnight. The next day, cut it into 1-inch cubes and fry gently in oil, or use in your favorite recipe.
Pat’s notes:
To make creamier paneer, you can add heavy whipping cream to the milk to make up for the cream/fat lost during processing of milk sold in the U.S.
If you can get unpasteurized, unhomogenized (i.e. raw) milk, all the better.
As grandma always says, please share!
I’m thrilled to debut a monthly guest column, “In the Kitchen with …” And who might the author be? Why you!
Many of us have spent time in the kitchen with grandma, whether just messing around with dough and shaping blobs while she makes yaki manju (Japanese bean cookies), or actually alerting our noses and our ears to the sizzle of spices in the wok. I’d like to dedicate this column to the shared experience of learning to cook with a beloved family member, be it grandma, mom, aunty, or even dad. I invite you to write a brief essay and contribute a recipe, photographs, or even a video, as a tribute to these wonderful people in your life. If you’re interested, please email me at pat@ediblewords.com.
I’d like to thank Cathy Danh of Gas-tron-o-my for being my first guest blogger. Enjoy!!
In the Kitchen with … Ba Ngoai
By Cathy Danh
Cathy and her Ba Ngoai
I’m a wuss when it comes to preparing Vietnamese foods from scratch. The fear of slaving over a meal that only vaguely resembles the homey dishes that I grew up on is overwhelming enough to send me running to the nearest Vietnamese restaurant.
When I cook Vietnamese food, I want nothing more than for it to taste like my Ba Ngoai (maternal grandmother) made it. If my seasonings are off or the texture isn’t just right, I consider the effort a big ‘ol failure.
For the past two years, I have been trying to get over my complex by learning how to prepare my family’s favorite recipes with Ba Ngoai.
Whenever I’m in San Diego for vacation or just a short visit, I pencil in an afternoon where I can soak in her culinary know-how. Sure, there are countless Vietnamese recipes online and in cookbooks, but what I strive for is the taste of home; in this regard only a tutorial from grandma will do.
Our lessons usually begin with a trip to a bustling Vietnamese grocery store. I love how demanding and picky she is when it comes to buying meat, fish, and produce. The men behind the counter know to only sell the best cuts to Ba Ngoai, lest they want to see her evil eye.
With our bounty in tow, we drive back to her home and start prepping and cooking. Like a lot of Asian grandmothers, Ba Ngoai cooks by feel. She doesn’t think in terms of tablespoons or cups, she just gracefully reaches into her pantry (and arsenal of experiences) for whatever seasonings will make the dish ‘just right.’ Ba Ngoai has taught me the power of nuoc mam (fish sauce), salt, sugar, and pepper. These four simple ingredients bring about incredible depth of flavor with minimal effort.
With each informal lesson, my confidence as a Vietnamese cook gets a boost. There’s a certain rhythm to Vietnamese cooking that’s starting to come naturally with each effort-sauté, season, braise, rest. Learning to cook with Ba Ngoai has demystified Vietnamese food for me, thus making it more accessible and much less intimidating. I’ve barely begun to scratch the surface of dishes I want to learn how to prepare, but with my grandmother’s basic tips and crafty tricks in hand; I know that I can master the art of Vietnamese cooking.
Ba Ngoai’s Bánh Bột Lọc (Shrimp and Pork-Stuffed Pouches)
Photo courtesy of Cathy Danh
Your mouth will be in for a surprise–the shrimp and pork filling is encased in a sticky and chewy skin made from tapioca starch that is toothsome and somewhat akin to gummy bears. Then it’s topped with green onions and crispy pork fat and drizzled with fish sauce. The result? A burst of textures and flavors probably unlike anything you’ve had before (unless you grew up eating this dish!). Cathy’s bà ngoại, Yen Ho, cooks the filling with the heads as well to impart an intense orangey color but you can omit them. But do leave the peels on–they give the dish flavor and crunch and also keep the shrimp moist and juicy. It’s all a matter of preference. If you do decide to leave the peels on, chew them thoroughly! (P.S. Visit Cathy’s blog for more pictures!)
Time: 2 hours
Makes: Makes 4 servings (24 pouches)
Filling:
12 (about 1/4 pound) medium shrimp, unpeeled
5 (about 1/4 pound) large shrimp with or without heads, unpeeled
1/4 pound pork belly with skin and fat
1 tablespoons canola or other neutral oil
1 1/2 teaspoons fish sauce
1 1/2 teaspoons sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground pepper, or to taste
Dough:
2 cups tapioca starch
1 cup water
1 tablespoon oil, plus more for kneading
All-purpose flour for dusting
Topping:
4 ounces pork fat, diced into 1/4-inch cubes
3 tablespoons canola or other neutral oil
4 green onions, cut into thin rings
Fish sauce
To make the filling, remove the shrimps’ tails, legs (called pleopods or swimmerets) and veins, but leave their peels intact. Leave the heads on the large shrimp.
Cut pork into 1/2-inch strips and then cut crosswise into 1/4-inch slivers containing meat, fat, and skin. Set aside.
Preheat a dry 10-inch skillet over medium-high heat. Add pork and stir and cook for 2 minutes until the meat just loses its blush. Add oil, fish sauce, salt, sugar and shrimp. Stir and cook until shrimp is orangey-pink and all the liquid has been absorbed, about 3 to 4 minutes. Remove and discard the shrimp heads once they release their color. Sprinkle with black pepper, toss with one last flourish and take off the heat.
To make the dough, place the tapioca starch in a large mixing bowl. In a small saucepan, bring water and oil to a rolling boil. While stirring vigorously with a pair of chopsticks or a wooden spoon, gradually pour the boiling water into the bowl until the dough starts to pull away from the sides of the bowl and forms a sticky mass that is still pliable. (Tip: after pouring in half a cup of water, slow it down to a trickle at a time). You may not have to use up all the water. Be very careful during this process. One drop too many and the dough will be too wet and sticky to handle. If the mixture transforms into a pasty sludge (resembling thick Elmers glue), the water wasn’t boiling hot enough. If this happens, you’ll have to start all over again.
Cover with a damp cloth and set aside for 10 minutes or until dough is cool enough to handle. Rub oil on your hands and knead dough on a well-oiled surface for about 5 minutes until it is smooth and pliable.
Wipe down the work surface and dust with flour. Knead dough again for 1 to 2 more minutes until it is very smooth.
To assemble the pouches, divide dough into half and cover unused portion with a damp cloth. Working with one half of the dough at a time, pinch off 12 equal balls (about 1-inch across) and set aside in one corner of work surface. Cover with a damp cloth to keep dough balls from drying out as you work.
With a rolling pin, roll a ball into a flat, even disc about 3-inches in diameter. Place one shrimp and a piece or two of pork in the center and fold in half to form a half-moon. Pinch edges to seal. Set pouches in a single layer on an oiled tray and cover with a damp cloth. Repeat with the remaining dough and filling.
In a 3-quart saucepan, bring 6 to 7 cups water to a rolling boil. Prepare a big bowl of cold water. Gently lower 5 to 6 pouches into the water and cook for 2 to 3 minutes. (You can cook more or less pouches at the same time depending on the size of your pot just as long as they are floating freely in the water.) The pouches are done when they float to the surface, the skin is soft and supple, and the edges are turning translucent.
With a slotted spoon, lift out the pouches and dip immediately in the cold water bath to keep them from sticking to each other. After about 3 minutes, drain pouches again, shaking off as much excess water as possible, and set aside on a plate. The pouches should be completely translucent with the orangey-pink shrimp showing through. Repeat until all the pouches are cooked.
Preheat a small dry skillet over medium heat. Add pork fat and stir and cook continuously until pork fat is golden brown and crispy, about 8 to 10 minutes. Cover with a splatter guard to prevent oil from jumping out. Watch carefully and adjust the heat if pork fat starts to burn. When done, drain rendered liquid fat and discard. Reserve the crispy pork fat pieces.
In the same skillet, add oil and stir in green onions. Stir and cook for about 30 to 45 seconds until green onions turn bright green. Add reserved crispy pork fat and toss together until well mixed.
Divide pouches among 4 serving plates and top with the crispy pork fat mixture. Drizzle with fish sauce to taste and serve immediately.
Pat’s notes:
Getting the dough right takes some practice. There’s a very fine line between perfect and pasty. But don’t be disheartened, just keep trying and eventually you’ll get it! When my dough got pasty, I tried to remedy the situation by heating the mixture in a wok over medium heat. I added water a little at a time and the dough gradually came together to form the right consistency.
As grandma always says, please share!
In response to my previous post, Marisha asked, “What is the effect of washing rice (besides cleaning it from dust)?” and “Do you know something about it from Japanese tradition?”
I have posed this question to several people from different ethnic backgrounds and it turns out that every answer is almost identical. In developing countries and in times past, rice was adulterated and contained dust, talc, bugs and other impurities that the act of washing removed. This habit has somehow stayed with us even in modern times and even though the FDA ensures that the rice we buy in the U.S. is perfectly safe to consume without repeated washing.
As it so happens, I was reading Linda Furiya’s latest book How to Cook a Dragon: Living, Loving, and Eating in China (Seal Press, January 1, 2009). It’s a candidly told food memoir detailing her years living abroad as an expat in China, punctuated with food and cooking of course, as well as a tale of self-discovery. In one chapter, she vividly describes the soothing experience of watching her mom wash rice.
So to answer Marisha’s second question, I asked Linda if she remembers any Japanese rice traditions when she was growing up. Linda told me that her mom grew up in pre-World War II Japan eating brown rice, which was associated with poverty. Not surprisingly, Linda didn’t eat brown rice growing up and had her first taste in her 20’s.
Both her parents always washed their rice before cooking it. “I remember my dad took pride in washing the rice and having the water in the bowl run clear before my mom!” she says with a laugh.
Here is an excerpt from Linda’s book available from Amazon.com.
Mom decided to make ochazuke (rice soaked with tea) for supper for the two of us. It was one of my favorite childhood comfort foods-homey, simple, and uniquely Japanese. She used to make it at times like these, evenings when Dad took Keven and Alvin to a baseball game, or after my older brothers moved out and my mom and I were often alone at dinnertime.
I watched silently as she rinsed the rice. I took comfort in the familiarity of her movements, as I had watched her go through this ritual hundreds of times before. She swirled the rice with her hand in a whirlpool motion, producing a pleasant swish sound as the grains hit the rice cooker’s metal bowl. I could have gone off somewhere in the house and done something else, but there was an unsettled feeling between us that I hoped we could resolve.
As she set up the rice cooker, Mom asked me to get the tall canister of green tea from the cabinet. I saw containers there that I hadn’t seen in years. There were Howard Johnson and Holiday Inn plastic ice buckets holding open sacks of confectioner’s sugar, brown sugar, and gravy flour. In the drawers were ashtrays used to store rubber bands and twist ties. As survivors of the Depression, and having experienced great loss in their lives, my parents kept and recycled everything. My mother always surprised me by wearing my old clothes that I had long forgotten, including the sweater she’d had on when I arrived for this visit.
We had some time before the rice would be done, so we went into the living room with our cups of hot tea. Usually Mom turned on the television to watch CNN, but she didn’t reach for the remote control. Instead she pulled a package of osembe (rice crackers) from the bottom shelf of her china cabinet. Each golden-brown disk, shiny with a soy sauce glaze, was individually wrapped to retain its freshness. The crackers were mouthwatering and crunchy, delicious with the green tea. We munched in silence.
Excerpted from How To Cook a Dragon: Living, Loving, and Eating in China, by Linda Furiya. Excerpted by arrangement with Seal Press, a member of the Perseus Books Group. Copyright (c) (2009)
Linda’s Recipe for Ochazuke
Ochazuke means “tea and pickles,” but as long as you include the bonito flakes, rice crackers, nori, and pickles, you’ll create the essential seasoning base. The Japanese tea is a key ingredient, not an option. Linda prefers hoji-cha or genmaicha. If you want to make more of a meal, you can add cooked egg, scrambled with a drop or two of soy sauce and mirin (seasoned rice wine).
Time: 15 minutes
Makes: 4 servings
4 cups cooked rice (fresh or leftover)
6 cups hot green tea
1/4 cup bonito flakes
1/2 cup arare (rice cracker pellets) or crumbled rice crackers
1/2 cup nori (cut into 2 x 1/4-inch strips or purchased preshredded)
4 pickled plums
1/4 cup chopped takuen (pickled daikon)
1/4 cup chopped green onions
1/4 cup toasted sesame seeds
2 cups bean sprouts
Wasabi to taste
Leftover salmon (cut into small bits) or beef (sliced thin)
Divide the cooked rice among 4 bowls. Arrange the assortment of toppings in individual bowls. Create your own flavors by adding the toppings and seasonings to your liking. Pour hot tea over rice and toppings, enough to cover the rice. Allow the rice and tea to sit for about a minute so that the flavors will meld (and will warm up the rice if it has been refrigerated).
Pat’s notes:
I used furikake, a Japanese condiment typically comprising sesame seeds, seaweed, sugar, salt. Look for a brand that doesn’t contain monosodium glutamate.
As grandma always says, please share!
