Deviating from those tasty food blogs that are featuring recipes on how to make steaming loaves of freshly-baked soda bread or hot corned beef brisket and cabbage, today, I am going to post up some "green" non-Irish foods to celebrate Saint Patrick's Day!
In school, I was one of those kids who always forgot to wear green and instead ended up wearing purplish, silver-dollar-sized bruises on my forearms from being pinched the entire day. I quickly learned to say, "I am wearing green underwear!"
Nowadays, I no longer say, "I am wearing green underwear!" Instead, I say, "I ate green today for lunch," and thus I successfully avoid the onslaught of stubby little pinching fingers. Today, I really did eat green today: green tortellini and lentils! . . . I guess you can say I have a thing for green food.
Happy St. Pattie's Day everyone!
Although my own attempt to live a vegetarian life failed miserably, I will always be an avid proponent of meatless meals and vegetarian options at every dinner table. Accordingly, I will always shamelessly promote tofu. Tofu is a staple in any vegetarian diet, because the ground soy beans that make up tofu provide a plethora of nutrients to a tofu-eater, the most important of those being protein.
Although almost everyone is familiar with tofu, not everyone is familiar with "pressed tofu." Unlike the ubiquitous tofu that comes in the refrigerated section of every major supermarket, pressed tofu is its unique and often neglected cousin.
Pressed tofu is actually regular tofu that has been "pressed" and drained of excess liquid. If regular tofu was the ricotta of the cheese world, then pressed tofu is the dry aged parmesan. Essentially, pressed tofu has less moisture and has to go through a few more processes to get to its final state.
Although you may purchase pressed tofu unflavored, you can also buy it infused with five spice powder. Five spice powder is an aromatic blend of finely milled spices, including ground star anise, cinnamon, Szechuan peppercorns, ginger, cloves, and occasionally cardamom. In Mandarin, five spice powder is called, "wu shiang fun," or literally, five fragrant powders. I believe that the dark brown skin of pressed tofu comes from the infusion of the ground spices into the exposed surface of the tofu and the drying process.
The appeal of pressed tofu (vis-à-vis the spongy, waterlogged, and ivory-toned tofu) is that the texture of pressed tofu is substantial and astonishing meat-like. There is "bite" and resistance to pressed tofu: pressed tofu defiantly and snaps back with elasticity when you sink your teeth into it. However, similar to the traditional type of tofu, it can easily assimilate with the flavors of any dish because of its absorptive qualities.
The pictures above are of a previous recipe I posted before, but I substituted one bundle of asparagus for the okra and added one package of pressed tofu, which I cut into bite-sized strips.
I hope I have sold you on the merits of pressed tofu. I can't wait to hear whether you have tried it!
Can you turn down a bespectacled and uniformed third grade Brownie with pleading puppy-dog eyes?
Well, my answer is no. Especially not if she armed with (and selling) colorful boxes of sugar-laden Girl Scout cookies. Like the rest of America, my favorites are Thin Mints and Samoas. Unlike the rest of America, I would knife a guy in the gut to get my yearly quota of Samoas.
If you've never sampled a Samoa, allow me explain the heavenly cookie ingredients that lead to my demented infatuation.
Samoas start with a buttery shortbread cookie with a hole stamped out the middle. Think of it as a sugary, oversized, and decadent Cherrio, if you will. Then, the cookie is blanketed in a generous carpeting of dessicated and toasted coconut flakes and enrobed with a gluey caramel adhesive. The cookie is then decorated with swirly chocolate stripes, which hypnotically beckon your lips and tongue for a sweet taste. The end result after this arduous cookie-making process is "the Samoa," the Girl Scout cookie of all cookies! And yes, I can polish off an entire box in one day!
If the Girl Scout cookie season was year-round, Samoas really would be my everyday pleasure!
One of the first noodle dishes I learned how to make as a budding, preteen cook, was chilled Szechuan peanut noodle salad. For an inexperienced home-cook who consistently made mistakes and imprecise measurements, I found this dish to be very tasty and forgiving--even where my skill wavered. Thankfully, the ultimate outcome was always delicious.
The ample room for error allowed me to take liberties with ingredients and add what I wanted. . . But I always went back to the basics. The basics are as follows:
To make chilled Szechuan peanut noodle salad, start by whisking together a sauce combination of commercially-made chunky peanut butter, soy sauce, honey (or brown sugar as a substitute), and rice wine vinegar until smooth and all of the gooey peanut butter lumps have melted away into the silken sauce. Although I use chunky peanut butter for the preternaturally crunchy peanut particles, I would advise against using freshly ground peanut butter, because it lacks smooth and artificially whipped consistency of commercially-made peanut butter. Thus, I prefer "artificial" chunkiness to "real" chunkiness for this recipe. Yes, that's ironic.
I use equal parts of about 1/2 a cup of soy sauce and vinegar and about 1 to 1 1/4 cup of peanut butter. Also, I use about 2 to 3 tablespoons of honey, or 1/4 cup of packed brown sugar. You may use less vinegar, but taste the sauce as you go along. It should be creamy and less liquidy. Traditional recipes call for using black sesame paste, and some American-versions substitute tahini paste, but I just use double the peanut butter (the 1 to 1 1/4 cup I was talking about earlier).
As you can see below, things can get kinda messy.
As you are manually mixing the sauce, prepare about one pound's worth of dried wheat noodles. Boil the noodles until pliable and softened, and rinse them under cold tap water until cool to the touch. Drain the noodles well, and add a generous drizzle of sesame oil (two or three tablespoons) and finely minced garlic--about an entire bulb's worth.
Next, pour the sauce over the noodles, and mix until the noodles and thoroughly and completely coated.
At this point, add about five or six slender sprigs of scallions that have been minced or finely sliced on a bias. Include both the white and green parts of the scallions. You could even use the whole bundle if you wanted to. It wouldn't overwhelm the noodles. Also add about five grated carrots and one English cucumber that has been sliced into crescent, half-moon wedges.
I encourage you to add whatever fresh salad-type vegetables you'd like. I like to add crisp patches of iceberg lettuce that are hand-leafed and torn into bite-sized pieces. You may also add thin slivers of red bell pepper, slices of boiled egg, bean sprouts, and cilantro.
And that's it! It's very simple actually. But the best part is, when you taste these noodles, I know you'll be thinking, "Who needs peanut butter and jelly when you can have peanut butter and noodles?"
Oh, and for two food bloggers who tried this recipe, check out their blogs here and here!
A few days ago, I was in the mood for some great Indian food. The only quasi-Indian food I know how to make is curry carrots and potatoes. I decided to be adventurous, and audaciously decided to try an impressive dish I had tried before, karahi beef.
Although "karahi" means a large, seasoned, circular, and flat-bottomed pan--that is comparable to a wok--it also refers to a richly-flavored curry prepared in a karahi and made with tomatoes, green chilies, and ginger.
In a wok, I stir-fried cubes of marbleized beef and white onion just until caramelized, so that the softened edges of the onions were glazed and browned. Following the recipe, I then added minced green jalapeno chilies, garlic, grated ginger pulp, a spoonful of garam masala, chopped tomatoes (with all their liquids), and bulbous chickpeas (garbanzo beans). The relatively dry curry began to metamorphosize and take on a life of its own, as the tomatoes emitted their juices and the liquid evaporated into a thick and fragrant curry gravy.
When the curry was eventually finished simmering on a low flame, I ladled the karahi over a fluffy bed of basmati rice and sprinkled it generously with chopped cilantro.
One bite and I was pleased that I tried something outside of my comfort zone. Mr. Miyagi would be proud of this Karahi Kid!
When I first moved to San Francisco, I was completely, utterly, and stupendously miserable. I had relocated from a secure, comfortable, and sheltered neighborhood in West Los Angeles to the Civic Center region in San Francisco, and had inadvertently signed a year-long lease that placed me right in the middle of one of the filthiest, most crime-ridden, and most drug-infested parts of the city.
Everyday I tearfully longed for Southern California as I laid alone on the carpeted floor of my studio and listened to the clamoring rattle of street cars passing on Market Street.
I remember the day the U.S. declared war on Iraq and protesters swarmed the steps of City Hall and Federal Building. I watched from my balcony as I saw the National Guard congregate and close off the main thoroughfare in San Francisco. The National Guard formed a taut human barrier across all lanes of traffic, and were dressed full-on riot gear and armed with bulletproof armor, ballistic shields, and batons.
I remember fearfully thinking to myself, "This would never happen where I come from."
I also remember visiting the independently-owned coffeeshop a block away from my apartment, and encountering two types of people: 1) bohemians / hippies reeking of incense, with tangled dreadlocks and tattered tie-dyed clothing or 2) studious beatniks sporting rimmed glasses and turtlenecks and sipping on free trade coffee as they flipped through dog-earred pages of Foucault.
With my US Weekly Magazine in hand and neon pink flip-flop sandals on my shivering feet, I felt like a fish out of water.
But the more I lived in San Francisco, the more I began to understand and appreciate it. It wasn't until several months after my move that I realized I had fallen in love with the City because I began to recognize it for the highly cultured and educated city it is--a city brimming with intelligence and flamboyance and ripe with character.
This past week, I strolled through my old neighborhood in San Francisco, and appreciatively reflected on how aesthetically pleasing and picturesque every building, street corner, and tuft of grass truly was. Only in San Francisco. I saw artistic beauty in everything I observed, from colored chalk drawings on the coffeeshop blackboard to the shadows projected by the palm trees at sunset.
Here are some pictures I took that day, images that I felt were particularly compelling, because they illustrate the subtle, yet remarkable beauty of San Francisco that I have come to know and love.
Chicken broth, brown rice, and chili sauce make a fantastically lazy weekend meal. Simple, affordable, and surprisingly delicious!
And sorry for the limited content in this post. I wanted to get a new post out so that my new header would look "original"--and it wouldn't look original next to yesterday's post!
I am officially "over it."
After today's lunch of seared, coriander-encrusted lamb tenderloin, I discovered that I am over my once-vehement and irrational aversion to lamb.
For a foodie, I was a late-bloomer. The first time I ever sampled lamb, was in my dormitory cafeteria at college. "Lamb stew" was what the cafeteria called it. I remember my reaction as if it were yesterday. I angrily threw my fork down on the floor after shouting, "This funky tasting meat went bad!"
From that day onward, I avoided lamb like the plague. I thought I would never get used to the strange and pungent aftertaste of the meat. What others dubbed as "gamey," I dubbed as, "tastes like a mixture of chemicals from the bottom sink cupboard." I tried lamb several more times since then, but each time, I was further convinced that it would take a miracle for my beef-loving-tongue to grow accustomed to the unique flavors of lamb meat.
Today at lunch, I decided to take another gamble on lamb. I ordered the lamb tenderloin, thinking, "Even if I am so repulsed to the point that I don't finish, I can always give the leftovers to someone else."
When my knife touched the blackened crust of the seared tenderloin, a clear au jus immediately began to trickle from the surface of the meat. Unlike a tough, overcooked, and jerky-like steak, my knife easily slid through the meat without the need for any roughhousing or wrangling. The lamb was so tender, it was literally "like buttah." The savory aroma from the lamb was intoxicating. The meat was succulent and substantial, and the flavors were vivacious and sublime.
My plan about taking the leftovers back home in a doggie bag had failed. I finished every single bite of my meal. After licking my lips and my lunch plate, I happily hummed some songs from "Love, Angel, Music, Baby (L.A.M.B.)" Hey, if Gwen Stefani even lauds the merits of lamb, it has to be good!
Deviating from those tasty food blogs that are featuring recipes on how to make steaming loaves of freshly-baked soda bread or hot corned beef brisket and cabbage, today, I am going to post up some "green" non-Irish foods to celebrate Saint Patrick's Day!
In school, I was one of those kids who always forgot to wear green and instead ended up wearing purplish, silver-dollar-sized bruises on my forearms from being pinched the entire day. I quickly learned to say, "I am wearing green underwear!"
Nowadays, I no longer say, "I am wearing green underwear!" Instead, I say, "I ate green today for lunch," and thus I successfully avoid the onslaught of stubby little pinching fingers. Today, I really did eat green today: green tortellini and lentils! . . . I guess you can say I have a thing for green food.
