Delicious Coma: October 2006 Archives

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October 25, 2006

gobō

Gobō, or burdock root, really looks like a root when you buy it in the supermarket. About one meter long, coated with a layer of dirt, gobō will poke conspicuously out of your shopping bag and most likely not fit inside your Japanese-sized refrigerator without first being cut in half. But the flavor of gobō is as singular as its appearance; "earthy" is the word that comes to mind, or maybe "rooty" (which actually is a word, believe it or not). Like mushrooms, it is a good thing to eat in autumn.

Though gobō is full of fiber and other nutrients -- it's used as a medicine in China -- Japan is the only country in the world where it is a traditional part of the diet. This may be why I once received a spontaneous round of applause for eating a gobō sushi roll. It may also be why, when I asked my mother what her favorite food was during her trip to Japan, I was so happy to hear, "That gobō thing!" She's no wishy-washy California-roll-and-tempura-only-eater, my mom.

To prepare gobō, rinse it under running water while scraping away the dirt with the back of a knife. Most of the flavor is found in the skin, so avoid peeling too much of it away while cleaning the root. (The gobō pictured here is clean and unpeeled.) After being cut, it will begin to discolor, but it will turn brown in cooking anyway, so this is not a problem. Some people prefer to soak the cut pieces in acidulated water to reduce the earthiness, but I am not one of these anti-rooty people.

A popular gobō dish is kimpira, a mixture of gobō and carrots sauteed in sugar, sake and soy sauce, and sprinkled with chili powder. Lately I've been eating it in gomoku meshi, rice cooked with assorted vegetables in seasoned stock. You can also throw it into stir-fries or stewed vegetable dishes, anything begging for a bit of earthiness during these cool autumn nights.

Posted by anjali at 9:31 PM | Comments (1) | Categories: Ingredients

October 18, 2006

kinako frosting

So in my continued quest to flavor every possible dessert in my life with kinako, I came up with a kinako frosting this weekend to top these banana cupcakes. The kinako seems to temper the tanginess of the cream cheese a bit, which makes for a more mellow, not-overly sweet frosting. I'm thinking of using it to top some kabocha cupcakes in the near future.

Kinako-Cream Cheese Frosting

Makes enough for approximately 1 dozen cupcakes

3 oz/85 g cream cheese, at room temperature
3 tablespoons butter, at room temperature
2 tablespoons whipping cream
1/3 cup confectioners sugar
1/4 cup kinako, plus 1 tablespoon for sprinkling
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

Beat together the cream cheese, butter and whipping cream until smooth. Add the confectioners sugar, kinako and vanilla and beat on low speed until combined, then beat on high speed until fluffy.

After spreading or piping the frosting, put 1 tablespoon kinako in a sieve and sprinkle over your cake or cupcakes.

October 16, 2006

okayu

A year ago, while suffering through a bout of the flu, my first illness in Japan, I wondered what on earth I was supposed to eat. Pho and tom yum gai, my usual cold remedies, were nowhere to be found -- and simple chicken soup seemed to only be available in unappealing cubes. Luckily, a more informed friend gave me a boil-and-serve package of okayu, rice porridge. Mixed with kimchee, it sustained me for the next four sinus-clogged days and has continued to be the only substantial thing I eat when the Japanese cold season knocks me flat. (Which is often. Now, in fact. I credit it to the irritating habit Japanese people have of not staying home sick ever, unless they are on their deathbeds, maybe, but until then breathing their germy-germs all over me.)

When you are sick, there is nothing simpler than popping a foil bag of okayu in boiling water for a few minutes, but making it from scratch is nearly as easy -- just cook the washed rice grains with three times as much water as usual. Making it with leftover rice is even easier and probably the most common method. In Washoku, Elizabeth Andoh credits the association of okayu and breakfast to the overworked Japanese salaryman. Most wives end up with an uneaten portion of rice from the night before, prepared for husbands who didn't return home until long after dinnertime, so they often use it to make okayu. Topped with an umeboshi, some chopped herbs or cooked greens, it makes a savory and comforting breakfast for two.

When I ate okayu for the first time during that first Japanese flu, I suddenly remembered I used to eat the Thai version of okayu every Sunday afternoon with my dad when I was small. Using the leftover portions of rice lurking in the fridge, he would boil up a big pot of what I called Soupy Rice. Sprinkled with tiny dried, salted shrimp and chunks of pickled cabbage from a can, it was an addictive mix of the bland and the aggressively salty. I was especially partial to the pickled cabbage, excessive consumption of which, my mom seemed convinced, would strike me down with a heart attack at the tender age of seven. Thus I was always left wanting more.

This remembered obsession is undoubtedly why I thought of topping my okayu with a big helping of kimchee, plus an extra serving on the side. With no mom for thousands of miles around, I usually end up eating about four times as much kimchee as what you see in the picture. I have a theory based on absolutely nothing but my penchant for pickled cabbage products that the super-helping of chili and garlic keeps the germs at bay. At the very least, I'm keeping all the people at bay and thereby breaking the cycle of illness. I like to consider it a sort of public service.

Leftover Rice Okayu

Serves 2

1 cup cooked rice
2 cups water or stock
1/8 teaspoon salt
toppings (kimchee, umeboshi, chopped fresh herbs, nori, etc.)

In a pot, heat rice and one cup water or stock over low heat, stirring to break up any lumps. Cook for about 5 minutes, stirring frequently, until the water looks starchy and the grains begin to lose their shape. Add the salt and remaining water and simmer for 2 more minutes, or until the desired consistency.

Serve in big bowls, topped with whatever you like. Eat with a spoon and chopsticks.

Posted by anjali at 10:01 PM | Comments (8) | Categories: Recipes | Rice

October 10, 2006

my first hōchō

High-quality Japanese kitchen knives are forged from the same materials and handmade using the same process as Japanese swords. Back in the days of the samurai, the same craftsmen who produced katana, swords, also made hōchō, Japanese kitchen knives. Just as a samurai's sword was considered the embodiment of his soul, in Japan a cook's knife is viewed as the symbol of his skill in the kitchen. When a cook begins working in a new restaurant, his own hōchō moves with him and in the new kitchen the head chef may inspect the knife, noting the maker (engraved in the metal) and how well it has been maintained, forming an opinion about its owner accordingly.

As much as I'd like to carry around a well-made Japanese sword as a symbol of my soul and general toughness, I just don't think it would work with my current lifestyle. A well-made Japanese hōchō, however, would suit me just fine. So I attended the annual Sword and Cutlery Festival in the nearby town of Seki this weekend with a mission: to find the perfect knife.

A twenty-fifth generation swordsmith at work.

Seki, a sleepy town near the center of Gifu Prefecture, is known for its history of sword- and knife-making, and every year vendors gather during the first weekend in October to sell their knives, scissors, garden implements and nail clippers; people crowd the streets; and sword makers give a public demonstration of their craft. You can also buy your very own katana, if you have the cash.

After briefly checking out the forty-plus booths selling all manner of sharp and pokey objects, I narrowed down my criteria. I knew I wanted a nakiri-bōchō in the Tokyo style, not too big or heavy, handmade with an interesting-looking metal. With kanji on it. (Admittedly, many of my criteria were cosmetic, but I don't think a Japanese chef would protest my desire for something beautiful in the kitchen.) I would pay up to 5,000 yen, or a little under $50.

Nakiri-bōchō are vegetable-cutting knives, thin and usually double-edged, unlike most other types of hōchō, which are sharpened on one side only. There are two styles: Tokyo, which is rectangular, and Osaka, which has a rounded front end. (You can see a picture of both here.) Both styles are hard and sharp yet light, so they can do heavy jobs like chopping through kabocha as well as delicate work like cutting cucumber into paper-thin slices.

I finally found my knife at a booth fortuitously close to the jaga-bataa (butter-soaked steamed potato, one of my favorite festival foods) stand. It met all my criteria and was priced at 4,800 yen, but when we had stopped by the booth earlier the cheerful salesman had announced in English, "Discount OK!" and I intended to test this rare offer. (Bargaining is seldom done in Japan.) After some back and forth, we arrived at 4,200 -- but when he gave me my change, he threw in an extra 200 yen and a smile, which I promptly used to buy a jaga-bataa. The 200 yen at least.

Back at home, I had to test out my knife, even though it was nearly midnight and I was exhausted. My expectations were high -- this was the knife to embody my very soul, perhaps for the rest of my cooking life! -- and even then, I almost gasped when I made that first slice through a thick carrot. It was like cutting through butter. Or maybe jaga-bataa. Something incredibly soft and yielding, anyway. If it hadn't been so frighteningly sharp, I might have hugged my new nakiri-bōchō right there. After a lifetime of insufficient, poorly-made, flimsy, dull and ugly knives, I've finally found something worth taking care of.

Posted by anjali at 5:51 PM | Comments (3) | Categories: Festivals | Firsts | Tools

October 5, 2006

mentaiko

You're looking at two membrane sacks stuffed with salted, chili-seasoned eggs from a fish called suketōdara, or Alaska pollack, or mentai. Hungry yet?

This is what mentaiko ("mentai babies") looks like when you buy it in the supermarket. It's a common onigiri (rice ball) filling in Japan and occasionally pops up in things like bi bim bap or pizza, but one of the most popular and, in my opinion, most delicious ways to eat mentaiko is on pasta, typically in a butter- or cream-based sauce.

This may seem strange. When I told a friend in the U.S. about the "fish egg pasta" popular in Japan, she thought I meant some kind of fish-flavored egg noodles, maybe a variation of squid ink noodles. When I told her I actually meant pasta topped with fish eggs, I think she may have briefly considered never emailing me again. But mentaiko, and especially mentaiko pasta, deserve a try. The salting and chili-seasoning process produces something a little spicy and not very fishy, with a flavor all its own. Heck, I'll even go so far as to say mentaiko is my favorite of all the fish roes! You heard it here first, people.

I've eaten mentaiko pasta in restaurants and at the home of a mentaiko-obsessed friend, and it seemed time for me to try making it myself. I used the recipe in Harumi's Japanese Cooking, a good book to have if you are interested in trying out some of the modern-style dishes Japanese people like to eat.

It took less than ten minutes to put the sauce together -- squeezing the mentaiko out of the membranes was strangely gratifying -- and the finished dish was nearly as good as and several pounds lighter than the incredible cream-based version served at one of the cafes in my town. Next time I'll look for darker red mentaiko, as the usually-shocking-pink sauce is part of the allure for me. And I might throw in some mushrooms as well. Perhaps there's a mentaiko pizza in my future?

Some notes on ingredients: If you can't get mentaiko, make a nice eggplant parmesan or something; there are no substitutes. See the notes about shiso here. Kombu cha powder is a hard one. Harumi recommends using a strong fish stock as a substitution, but maybe you could mix kelp powder (available at health food stores) with some matcha powder. Or just throw in some parmesan cheese. The kombu cha is just there to add umami anyway.

Mentaiko Pasta

Adapted from Harumi's Japanese Cooking

Serves 2

6 oz/170 g uncooked thin pasta (such as spaghettini)
3 oz/85 g mentaiko
2 tablespoons butter
1/2 teaspoon kombu cha (kelp tea) powder
2 small sheets of nori, cut into matchstick-sized pieces (about 2 tablespoons)
3 shiso leaves, finely shredded
chopped green onion or chives, to garnish
soy sauce, if needed

Boil the pasta in salted water according to package directions. While it is cooking, soften the butter for 10-20 seconds in the microwave, then beat until creamy. Remove the roe from the membrane and mix into the butter. Add the kombu cha powder and stir until smooth. It will resemble buttercream frosting at this point, but resist the urge to eat it straight from a spoon.

When the pasta is al dente, drain and immediately mix with the butter mixture, tossing to coat the pasta evenly. Taste for seasoning and, if necessary, add a little soy sauce. Divide onto two plates and top with the shiso, nori and a sprinkling of green onions or chives.