Humba, or the Dish My Grandmother Refuses to Eat Twice

I grew up eating humba (pronounced "hoomba"), a pork stew staple in the Visayas, or central region of the Philippines. It's a familiar and homey dish that sits in your stomach for days on end -- which is the point if you don't eat much meat for penny-pinching reasons.

While the pork was happily marinating in the fridge, I asked my mother if there were any family stories around humba. I didn't expect to hear a story of food igniting domestic conflict.

On Sundays, the designated cook in my grandmother's household, a maid or most often my mother, cooked a huge pot of humba to last for a few days. Back then, they stewed the meat over firewood; most cooks were confused as lachrymose folks, their eyes tearing from blowing the cinders to stoke the flames. Also back then: no fridges. Yes, there were fridges in other places, but my mother lived in a poor fishing village with little electricity in the 60s. The humba was kept "fresh" by steeping it in oil, my grandmother spooning out servings for her family at mealtime. My mother joked, "It's no surprise your grandfather died of a heart attack so young, the crap he was eating all the time." Sometimes my grandmother sent her to school with a lunch of humba sauce (no meat) and rice.

Since pork and beef were dear, most families in her barangay (or neighborhood village) ate fish during the week and indulged in meat dishes on Sundays (it so happened that pork was sold in the village market on Tuesdays and Sundays, so it worked out for everyone). My grandmother bought, slaughtered and sold pork, while my grandfather bought fish from the fishermen and sold the catch to market vendors. Understandably, my grandfather looked forward to Sundays when the unsold pork would make its way to his dinner table. Also understandably, my grandmother disliked heavy pork dishes. My mother remembers arguments over my grandmother's finicky and wasteful attitude. While the rest of her world ate humba for a few days after Sunday, she sent one of her kids or the maid to get her something else to eat. Even now, she hates leftovers. She'll eat it but she makes sure to let us know she doesn't like it.

The humba, if anything else, might cause marital strife. Be warned.

Rice to humba ratio depends on the diner, of course. 

Ingredients:
1 1/2 lbs pork belly, cut into 1-inch cubes
1 small onion, thinly sliced
1 tsp. black pepper
5 cloves of garlic, smashed
1/4 c. white sugarcane vinegar
1/4 c. soy sauce
1/2 c. pineapple juice
6 oz. salted black beans, drained and rinsed
1 tbsp. brown sugar
1 bay leaf
1 tbsp. oil

1. In a bowl, combine pork, pepper, garlic, pineapple juice, vinegar, and soy sauce. Marinate for at least an hour in the fridge. Drain meat and set marinade aside.
2. Heat oil in a large pot over high heat. Add pork belly and cook until lightly browned. Add onions. Scoop out the garlic in the marinade and add them, too. Cook until the onions are a bit transparent.
3. Pour in the marinade and bring to a boil. Add the bay leaf and the black beans. Lower the heat and simmer for about an hour. You'll know it's ready when you can pierce the pork's skin without resistance. 
4. Stir in the brown sugar. Reduce the sauce as thick as you like. Serve hot. Or, if you don't have a fridge, steep in oil for the week. 

Just kidding. Never, ever do that. 

**Traditional humba also calls for banana blossoms, if you can find it. 

My Mother's Fried Chicken

Firstly, I'd like to apologize for the radio silence. Wrapping up the first year as a full-time professor and planning (then traveling!) for a long trip to Paris ate up all my time. I imagined I would be blogging furiously upon my return, dishing on my culinary adventures in la ville lumiere. As it turned out, I brought something unexpected back to New York--my second child. So, I've had a rather bad case of morning (and night) sickness to occupy my time. The good news is that I've been able to stomach Filipino dishes and threw a favorite together the other night. Coffee, garlic, and tomato-based soups? Not so much.

Filipinos love fried chicken. There's an entire international empire with a bee mascot hawking fried chicken and a chain restaurant specializing in the dish. The main difference between this dish and traditional Filipino fried chicken is the complete omission of batter, though you can always drench the marinated chicken with some flour and egg prior to frying. But who wants the extra calories?

Ingredients:
A 1 lb. package of bone-in chicken* (no shortcuts here! bone-in chicken yields the most flavor and juice)
1/2 c. of soy sauce
2 cloves of garlic, smashed
1 whole lemon, sliced
A few pinches of pepper
Enough oil to cover an inch deep in a frying pan

*Double the recipe according to how much chicken you have. I tend to buy smaller portions.

With the exception of the oil, combine all ingredients together, squeezing the lemon juices. Leave the slices in the marinade. Marinate from half an hour to an hour.
Heat up the oil over medium heat. You'll know it's ready when you throw a piece of bread in the pan and it floats up after sinking. With long tongs, carefully place the pieces in the pan, skin side first. Do not crowd the pan. After 10 minutes or when one side is golden brown, flip over to the other side for another 10 minutes.
If cooking in batches, place cooked pieces on a cooling rack to keep them crisp.
As always, enjoy with Mang Tomas and white rice.

Biko, or The Poor Filipino's Cake

Growing up, my mother continually reminded my brother and I of our privileged lives with her childhood stories of extreme poverty in the Philippine countryside, or probincia. One such line was, "When we celebrated any happy occasion, we were content with biko and pancit." Back then, this anecdote prompted surreptitious eye-rolling, but in retrospect, I envy the provincial simplicity of two perfectly executed dishes that fed an entire village of fishermen and their families over the maddening race to feed twenty hungry mouths with a seven-course dinner at a birthday party.

The younger me associated this dish with culinary captivity: I used to hate standing over the wok, stirring and stirring and stirring the liquid mixture, asking my mother over and over, "Is it done yet?" Stirring felt like an eternity, especially when you're eight years old and had better things to do, like play pirate with your younger brother.

The present me doesn't mind it so much anymore. I feel like this dessert represents so much about my Filipino identity: sweet, simple, and sustaining.

Biko (Sweet Sticky Rice with Caramelized Coconut Glaze)

One can of coconut milk (not creme of coconut)
One 1-lb. box of dark brown sugar
1 tbsp of anise (more or less, to your preference)
4 cups sweet sticky rice (also called glutinous rice)

1. Steam rice in rice cooker. If your household does not consider a rice cooker more important than an oven (and probably does not eat spaghetti with hotdogs), cook rice in a pot with enough water to cover a half inch over the rice (or a fingertip to first knuckle length). This is my mother's method and how I've measured the rice to water ratio, and it hasn't failed me yet.
2. While that's cooking, mix coconut milk and brown sugar in a wok over medium heat. 
3. Stir mixture occasionally in wok until liquid thickens. I do the tablespoon coating test - the liquid should be able to coat the back of a tablespoon, like thinner caramel. 
4. Add the anise. Stir to blend. Enjoy the fragrance.
5. Add the rice to the wok to blend all ingredients evenly. 
6. Enjoy warm or cold. I like biko for my merienda, or snack. 

Oh, Farmer's Market - How I've Missed Thee!

Last Saturday, after a three-month hiatus due to a Saturday morning course, I eagerly walked to my neighborhood farmer's market with my two-year-old in tow. After a stop at the bank, I walked across the street to find the two vendors who are there when the the farmer's market is lively with crowds buying "specialty" goods (April - September) and sluggish (October - February): Meredith's Bread and a family-owned farm from upstate New York.

Jay, who is Meredith's husband of "Meredith's Bread," immediately remembered Jonathan and welcomed us back with a huge smile and promises of a cookie for the kid. Jay's freebie cookies basically secured Jonathan's early love for the market, as soon as Jonathan could eat them. I used to hoist Jonathan in my Bjorn "baby backpack" and troop from my apartment to the market, so his memory of the market stretches as far back as he can remember. I made it my mission to show my son that food do not appear on shelves out of thin air; they are grown and cared for by people with faces and names. 

I bought a ham and swiss quiche, raisin swirl bread, pumpkin cookies for me, a giant double chocolate cookie for Dave, and chocolate lace cookies for Dave's family (which were a big hit with my sister-in-law!). I didn't realize until I unpacked my bag that Jay had added an extra treat for us - the rest of the oatmeal raisin cookies Jonathan had chosen as his freebie cookie. I vowed that I would always, always patronize "Meredith's Bread" every week if I could, even if I had no need for baked goods. I believe that this kind of relationship between producer and consumer is a rarity today and I feel sorry for those that do not or cannot experience its warmth.

The next and last stop was the produce stall. The person selling the items today is coincidentally a university professor as well - he helps his family by selling their food on the weekends. I usually chat with him on the latest agricultural or food movement news, while he rings up the fingerling potatoes, a head of green cabbage, onions, sweet potatoes, and dozen eggs (that don't need the "organic, free-range label" because it goes without saying) I wanted to purchase. He introduced me to another customer, Gwen, who lives on my block and works at City Tech, another CUNY college. We struck an animated conversation and parted with contact information, promising to stay in touch. 

This is not an extraordinary day at the farmer's market: a real relationship exists between vendors and customers, and customers with customers. These two vendors are here, rain or shine, fair or foul weather, to sell the goods nurtured from their own hands. They sit in their down parkas next to their portable heaters, unfailingly every Saturday from 9 am to 1 pm. In the "high season," other vendors vie for the profit, but I always buy from those two who shiver in the cold in February just so I could have my quiche and bok choy for the week - no matter how cheaper the other vendors sell their wares.

When I go to a supermarket, I never, ever leave with the same kind of appreciation and restorative ebullience as I do at the farmer's market. It angers me to no end that people continue to frequent supermarkets for reasons of economics or convenience. I always spend less on Saturday mornings on fresh, clean produce than I ever would at the Shoprite.  

I have another Saturday morning course lined up for the spring semester. In the meantime, I'll make my weekly visit to the market, renewing my vigor and resolve to advocate for these vendors. 

Victories and Defeats in the Food Movement - so far

I've been absolutely derelict in my duties to this blog, but with the whirlwind of the holiday season, followed by a 16-day composition course, I haven't had the time (or energy) to write a post. Since there's been a flurry of movement in the food landscape - some exciting, some disappointing, and some plain crazy - I feel compelled to discuss these issues:

1. A lobbying group is fighting to keep the EPA from releasing the limits for safe exposure to dioxins, an industrial pollutant that causes cancer, the same stuff used in Agent Orange. Americans consume this toxic chemical through the fats in meat. Again, the food industry objects to the proper labeling of food which would help American consumers can make informed decisions. The group's central argument? “You will have a whole lot of folks running in circles saying there’s nothing safe to eat, it will scare the crap out of people.” Right, because releasing this information will immediately result in mass mania. 
2. Agricultural pollution is laying waste on the American landscape. The Environmental Working Group reports that farms are losing valuable topsoil at a rate 12 times faster than the government's estimates. This is of course a direct result of monocultural farming demanded by the food industry. 
3. Pizza is now considered a vegetable in school lunchrooms. What the fuck? Do you know how much the food industry spent lobbying to make this happen? 5 million. 5 million. Schools spend less than a dollar per meal. The government subsidizes surplus products from the industry, but the industry charges more to process the food for the schools. A chicken might be free, but turning that into an insipid chicken nugget costs a lot more. Watch Seth Myers and Kermit the Frog's hilarious response here. 
4. The FDA finally placed higher restrictions to the amount of antibiotics in livestock, a critical change since 75% of the antibiotics in America are used on animals. I'm hoping that this will have a positive effect on consumers' medical treatment. 
5. Because of anti-obesity incentives in schools, I'm so pleased to report that childhood obesity rates in New York City are declining! I hope this momentum can be sustained and, at best, accelerated. 
6. Since 2012 is an election year, there's been talk that progress in the food movement will be slow. Now that corporations are people, candidates have to keep them happy. Corporations like the ones  in Big Food. Here's to hoping that we at least don't move backwards. Obama's the first president to acknowledge that there is a huge problem that stretches back to agricultural policy, but lip service doesn't fix things. I hope whichever candidate wins 2012 will help make strides in the food movement, though that might be asking for too much. 

Happy 2012! 

Leche Flan

If you're Pinoy or have eaten at a Pinoy's house, chances are you've experienced the majesty of the leche flan. Much creamier and sweeter than its Latin American counterpart, the leche flan was introduced to Filipino cuisine during the Spanish occupation (1521-1898) and has graced Pinoy dinner tables since. It's also added as a garnish to halo-halo. The dessert's attraction comes from its apparent effortlessness, requiring less than five ingredients normally found in the Pinoy cupboard.

I've taken over leche flan duties for the holidays early in my high school years, but I've continued to tweak the recipe and method to get it perfect. The best leche flans have the texture of a solid creme brulée that does not jiggle like Spanish flan, with no air bubbles. The air bubbles can make the leche flan taste like overcooked, curdled custard. To me, this element is the hardest to master. I've always used the open-steaming method, but I've discovered that the best way to achieve the desired texture is to bake it in a bain-marie, or a water bath. 

You want this.

Not this bubbly business. 

For this year's Thanksgiving, I baked three leche flans this way and hoped for the best. The result was divine - and I'm so pleased to have finally perfected my recipe. 

Leche Flan

Ingredients: 

1 can evaporated milk 

1 can condensed milk 

10 egg yolks at room temperature 

1 teaspoon vanilla extract 

For the caramel: 

1 cup sugar

3/4 cup water 

1. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees and boil some water in a kettle.
2. This step takes some patience and babysitting. In a medium sized saucepan, add the sugar and water over low heat. Make sure all the sugar is dissolved by the water. Do not let the sugar water boil vigorously. Do not mix the sugar water. Leave it alone, moving the pan by its handle to see if the sugar has thickened and lightly browned - a light amber color. When it's done, remove from heat. Even if it's a little lighter than you want, it'll continue to cook from the residual heat in the pot. *Some recipes call to boil the sugar which is such a mistake! 
3. Pour the caramelized sugar into aluminum molds and spread to evenly cover the bottoms. 
4. Mix the evaporated milk, condensed milk, and egg yolks slowly with a rubber spatula. Many recipes call for a mixer, but this only contributes to more bubbles. Blend the vanilla. 
5. Gently pour the mixture in the molds, on top of the caramel. Fill the molds to about an inch thick. 
6. Place molds in a deep flat pan - I use a roasting pan because the handles come in handy in carrying the pan with the hot water to cool on the counter. Place pan in the oven's middle rack. Carefully pour hot water into the pan, filling up halfway to the molds. 
7. Bake for 45-60 minutes. They're done when an inserted knife comes out clean. 
8. Remove the pan very carefully from the oven. Some of the water should have evaporated. Remove the molds from the pan and let cool to room temperature. 
9. Chill in the refrigerator overnight. 
10. When you're ready to serve, fill the sink with some warm water. Place the molds there for a few seconds. Using a sharp knife, separate the sides of the flan from the mold. Invert quickly onto a plate. 

My late grandfather used to call this dish my specialty. I wish he were alive to taste it now! Oh, Lolo - how far I've come since then. 

Thanksgiving Edition: Origins of the Tamayo Thanksgiving and Postcolonial Reflections

In the past month, whole food advocates have suffered severe attrition from the political landscape. In sum,  pizza (with enough tomato paste) passes as a vegetable in school lunches, the USDA is cutting back on critical research, consumers have been fed mislabeled fish, and the Super Committee's failure could mean serious cuts for the FDA.

As I schlepped through my Thanksgiving food shopping this morning, a dark, dismal cloud of despondency hovered over my head, my negativity worsening with every processed food purchase ringing at the registers. Notwithstanding the holiday's ignoble origins, Thanksgiving was my absolute favorite American holiday. My family didn't celebrate until years after we immigrated to the States, mostly because we felt detached from its apparent purpose - to commemorate the friendship between the Pilgrims and the Native Americans with a golden turkey. What the hell did that have to do with us? Between working two jobs, raising three kids, and supporting a spouse studying for the medical board exams, my mother felt the holiday's demands to conjure a feast for patriotic purposes absurd and frivolous. As an adolescent, I felt alienated from the other kids who excitedly chatted about their Thanksgiving plans and returned from the long weekend with Guinness World Record feats of eating. 

My family soon caught on and thought it was a good reason to have turkey and my grandfather's famous baked ham. Turkey soon disappeared from the menu and the ham remains the porcine prize of the dinner table, flanked with white rice, my grandmother's incomparable pancit, my leche flan, and my mother's fruit salad. Over the years some experimental dishes would appear - candied yams, spinach lasagna, stuffing - but the five Filipino dishes have a fiercely tenacious presence on Thanksgiving. An extra holiday (other than Christmas and New Year) when we had the chance to weigh our plates with these dishes sounded like welcome news to me - without the mad rush of Christmas gift-giving and the unavoidable reflection of the past twelve months of the New Year. Give thanks and eat. 

Now it seems like a serious serving of cognitive dissonance is necessary to derive pleasure from the holiday. Was that beautifully dressed ham processed in the Smithfield plant in North Carolina, where pig manure runoffs pool into "lagoons," contaminating the drinking water and the soil? Besides questioning the source of our food, I lapse into the self-flaggelation of privileged guilt: One billion people on earth are starving and I refuse leftovers? 

Perhaps I will never reclaim that politically insular sensibility, which kind of sucks. I guess that was the tradeoff: a privileged existence living in a "superpower"nation, while fighting for our right for access to  wholesome food, surrendering a humbler life with a basket full from that morning's catch from the sea.  

Horse Meat and the American Taboo

I came across an interesting piece by Food Safety News' Dan Flynn on the subject of horse slaughter in Florida. Apparently, a horse carcass without legs and a heart was discovered in Florida's C-9 Basin. Many suspect the illegal sales of horse meat persist in the region, even after 70 illegal horse slaughter operations were shut down down in 2009. 
What I found particularly interesting is that 60,000 - 100,000 American horses are exported to Canada and Mexico for human consumption. 
Some figures in Congress are moving to make horse slaughter and the export of horse meat a federal crime, while other state populations view horse slaughter as a boon to the paralytic American economy. State regulation of horse slaughter will create jobs and stop horse abuse, they claim. 
I have never eaten horse meat, not because I choose not to, but because I have never had the opportunity to consume equine delicacies. The taboo of eating Mr. Ed seems to be an American one, since Europe and Asia consider horse as a part of their cuisine. Experiencing horse meat consumption requires the use of one's passport. 

Bon appetit, Mr. Ed. 

Coming from a culture that includes dog in its cuisine, I can't quite understand why horse meat is off-limits from the American menu. 

Chocolate and Child Slavery

For a lot kids, Halloween is a damn good time. Tricked out in a costume, kids go door-to-door for free treats, then come home to Mom or Dad (hopefully) examining the candy before a veritable orgy of sugar consumption. For many chocolate manufacturers, Halloween is their Christmas - profits soar as citizens participate in a holiday of which the purchase of candy is an essential feature. I live in a co-op where very few families live, so after one quiet Halloween, I've stopped buying bags of candy for trick-or-treaters. I do cruise the streets of my mother's neighborhood with my 2 year-old son, so one way or another, snack size candies make their way into my house (and eventually, into my belly).

Kristen Howerton's topical piece on chocolate and child slavery, and a BBC documentary have completely made me averse to the purchase or consumption of any goods manufactured by the major chocolate companies, Hershey, Mars, Nestle, and the US division of Cadbury (the British Cadbury tastes completely different, trust me!). 284,000 children on cocoa farms in the Ivory Coast and other countries in Africa are employed as workers and, for many of them, were ripped from their families and sold as slaves. (By the way, Hershey's had its fair share of controversy - like their modern version of indentured servitude)

I guess one can literally be enslaved to chocolate. 

Slavery for chocolate. This is craziness.

What's more, the International Labor Rights Fund sued the American government for not enforcing laws that prohibit the import of commodities made by child labor. The chocolate industry, in response, has offered free-trade products in addition to the stuff made by kids. That's like having a brothel in a church.

I cannot wait for the gems I will inevitably hear from cognitive dissonance to justify the continued purchase and consumption of these products.

Jonathan will go trick-or-treating this year, but those chocolates will end up in the trash during my screening process. It sucks that on one end of the world, kids are literally slaving away so that kids on the other end can enjoy a holiday.

Carrot-Oat Muffins

Last weekend, I fell in love with my sister-in-law's super moist and guilt-free zucchini and banana muffins, a recipe she found in Martha Stewart's Everyday Food. Inspired and determined to end my streak of bad-luck baking in the past few days (flat meringue cookies, terrible bread, bubbly leche flan), I baked my own take on healthy muffins. These muffins have a lot of texture from the oats and flaxseeds, but remain nice and moist from the carrots - and they passed the taste tests of both my spouse and my toddler!

Reporting on the Colbert Report

Last night, I saw, in person, one of the greatest living satirists, Mr. Stephen Colbert (I am aware of the many commas in that sentence.). Coincidentally, his show's featured guest was U.S. Ambassador to the UN, Susan Rice, who spoke about the humanitarian and terrorist clusterfuck in the Horn of Africa, a subject that continues to break my heart every day.

First-World Guilt

My heart is heavy with "First-World-Guilt" today. Guilty that I not only had enough to eat for lunch, but threw out what was left over. Guilty that it is raining in Scarsdale, while those living in the Horn of Africa haven't seen a drought this bad in over 60 years. My privileged self-pity does not help anyone, and it certainly does not put any food in any of these malnourished children's mouths.

On Microwaves; Or, Microwaved Food Tastes Like Hot Garbage

As I waited for my mug of hot water to heat up in the microwave, I felt a wave of shame brought on by conscious laziness. Let me explain.
When one wants hot water for tea, one usually uses a teapot. After the teapot screeches its announcement that the water's done, you remove it from the hot burner and allow it to cool a little. Scorching hot water burns tea leaves, which is a huge reason why I hate how Starbucks makes tea. Totally wrong! Anyway, you pour the hot water into a clean mug and steep the tea bag or tea leaves for a few minutes, depending on your preferred potency of tea. Sip and enjoy with your favorite Eliza Haywood novel.
So here I am, heating up tea in the microwave. But my toddler's napping and I don't want to make noise by dragging the teapot out of the depths of the upper (key: upper) cabinet in the kitchen. That means I'd have to do all that while balancing unsteadily on a rickety stool with the loose screw that I've been meaning to tighten.
Here I am, sipping tea that feels like radioactive goblins brewed it from a moldy pit in a hole in a tree stump. There's just something that happens to food when it's microwaved. I'm not sure if there's any scientific basis for this claim, or if it's truly some mental neurosis of mine, but food tastes different after its carousel ride around that plastic box. Softening butter in microwaves is impossible. It either entirely melts or the middle section is completely frozen while the edges have drooped into an oily mass. Defrosting food in the microwave is unforgivable - unless half cooked-half frozen meat is the desired effect. "Cooking" vegetables in the microwave is just gross. I will reheat leftovers from time to time, but I do it with begrudged resignation.
Obviously, I'm a microwavist. There is not one thing in my pantry that requires microwaving as the primary cooking process. Absolutely not. Wait - that's a lie, I have a box of popcorn somewhere.

Don't you dare cook that meatloaf in that! 

To Arnie: Thank you.

It's been a while since I've written here and I've been feeling the itch all week. I just didn't know what to write about. Dave and I recently registered Jonathan in daycare for the fall, and I was thinking of writing about what pushed me to choose this particular center: their revamped menu of food items that consist only of organic, seasonal, and locally source food products. This was exciting for me, but I think I'll save that post for when I actually see (and perhaps taste) the food in September.
Speaking of organic, seasonal, and locally sourced, my septuagenarian neighbor Arnie, who runs Barton Orchards in Poughquag, New York, generously supplied me with huge bags of yellow plums, golden delicious apples, and his famous sweet white corn. And, in true Arnie fashion, offered me a can of beer to go with them while he let Jonathan run through his sprinklers in the late summer afternoon.

A beautiful landscape of yellow and green on my kitchen counter.

Unsurprisingly, as a huge fan of Tobias Smollett and Jonathan Swift, I have frequent flights of misanthropy fueled by the news and my daily interactions with American society. However, it's good-hearted, hardworking, honest, fun-loving, big-laughing, beer-offering, porch-talking, ox-strong farmers like Arnie who remind me that the world is not a bag of shit all the time. It can be a bag (or three) of gorgeous produce that feeds my family.

P.S. What in the world am I going to do with all these plums? Suggestions? 

The Best Recipe (so far) in Amanda Hesser's NYT Cookbook: Flat-and-Chewy Chocolate-Chip Cookies

Last month, I received a lovely gift from my dissertation advisor for finally(!) completing my manuscript: The Essential New York Times Cookbook: Classic Recipes for a New Century, meticulously compiled by Amanda Hesser, a renowned NYT food columnist. After receiving it with grateful excitement, I imagined Kathy, who is a very petite woman, schlepping down 1st Avenue towards Momofuku Noodle Bar with this monolithic, red brick (as I write this, Hesser's book competes with Bittman's How to Cook Everything for space on my cookbook shelf, both books standing proudly in their crimson jackets). 
Over our fried oyster buns and charred octopus appetizers, Kathy dished on the merits of Hesser's book. The book is no mere collection of recipes; it literally traces the evolution (and backslides - ambrosia salad. What the hell?) of the American culinary landscape, including recipes in the late 19th century (deviled crabs from an 1878 recipe, for example) submitted to the Times. As anticipated, the early recipes took a lot of guesswork, since they were about as vague as they can get. 


An example: 


Crullers (1878)


One pint sour buttermilk, nearly the same white sugar, half pint butter and lard mixed, three eggs, one teaspoonful soda, flour to make a light dough; warm ingredients. 


Um... how much butter? How much lard? How much flour? Dump them all together? You can imagine the kind of work that went into testing out these older recipes. This kind of recipe writing isn't totally extinct; whenever I call my grandmother to ask for the exact measurements in her pancit recipe, which, by the way, is very complicated, she becomes annoyed with me, expecting me to know! 


Hesser's book is a delightful read, but not all the recipes included were good. Asparagus alla Fontina was good, although too salty with the amount of prosciutto the recipe calls for. The Corn Chowder was okay, but not memorable. One recipe called for a strange combination of ingredients for a vinaigrette, which did not win too many diners over. The Florentine cookies were a hit at a party, but they need to be kept cool since they melt as soon as they are exposed to heat or humidity. 


My absolute favorite recipe is Hesser's flat-and-chewy chocolate-chip cookies. I have an undeniably sweet tooth, and this salty, buttery, chewy cookie gratifies my sugar cravings. This is also a winner with David, in sharp contrast to Jonathan's absolute indifference. Easy to understand, when sometimes it feels like this finicky toddler subsists on oxygen and crackers. 


I will share the recipe here, but I've made some slight changes after testing it a handful of times. 


Flat-and-Chewy Chocolate Chip Cookies
Makes 30 cookies

My attempt at plating. I'm a minimalist.

2 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/4 teaspoons of baking soda
1 tablespoon kosher salt 
       not Morton! I use Japanese sea salt, which holds more moisture and adds texture
8 ounces unsalted butter, softened 
       back when I was young and stupid, I didn't think using salted or unsalted butter made a difference. Boy, was I wrong! 
1 1/2 cups packed light brown sugar
1/4 cup granulated sugar
2 eggs
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
2 cups chopped bittersweet chocolate (chunks and shavings) 
       I don't use baking chocolate; I process chocolate candy bars in the food processor for uneven "chips" and "dust"
2 cups chopped toasted walnuts (optional)
       I hate nuts in my cookies, so I've never done this.
1. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper or Silpat. Sift together the flour, baking soda and salt.

2. Cream the butter and sugars together until fluffy, about 3 minutes. Add the eggs, one at a time, then the vanilla. Add the flour mixture all at once and blend until a dough forms. Fold in the chocolate and nuts, if using. Chill the dough. She suggests overnight, but leaving it in the fridge for at least 3 hours did the trick for me.

3. While the dough chills, preheat the oven to 325 degrees. Roll 1 teaspoon* lumps of dough into balls, then place on baking sheet and flatten to 1/2-inch-thick discs spaced 2 inches apart. You must keep the dough in the fridge between batches, otherwise you'll end up with sticky palms and shapeless, stubborn lumps of cookie dough. Bake until the edges are golden brown, 11 to 13 minutes.** Let cool slightly on the baking sheet, then transfer to a baking rack.


*her original recipe says 2 1/2 tablespoon lumps of dough, which spread out too far, resulting in conjoined cookies. Reducing the lumps to teaspoonfuls makes pretty little discs. 
**originally 14-16. My oven does the trick in 11 minutes. 

Queens Comfort

Last night, a friend, who I'll call John, introduced me to Queens Comfort, a sweet little place on the edge of Astoria. He suggested this particular spot because he thought I might blog about their homemade ice cream. He also thought it would agree with our other friend, who I'll call Mark, since the restaurant screened The Warriors during dinner one evening. I understood why he'd recommend the place for me, but both Mark and I were confused to why John thought Mark would like it because of a campy gang movie. Towards the end of our dinner, when we were enjoying our ice cream, they screened Dawn of the Dead, of which Mark thought was "awesome."
When I viewed the link to the restaurant, I told John that it looked like a homeless shelter. Perhaps the pictures didn't represent the restaurant accurately, because it did not look like that at all once I walked in.
Anyway, the restaurant has a short menu composed of eclectic and slightly weird, but homey, dishes. The kind of stuff you'd make if you were kind of broke but wanted to eat something filling. Shortly after I arrived, thirty minutes late because of infuriating traffic on the I-87, Mark tried the Olvera Street Corn, a corn on the cob drizzled with sriracha, parmesan cheese, and mayo. I didn't sample it, but it looked like Mark enjoyed it, as messy a food as it is.
I ordered the Fried Chicken and Eggo for my main course. I've never had chicken and waffles before, but I've been meaning to try it. So, I thought this was as good a time as any. Besides, John recommended the dish, so that clinched it. The thick strip of darkly fried chicken, which was crisp and moist, was wedged between two Eggo waffles that were soaked in maple butter. When I say soaked, they were soaked. The saltiness of the chicken balanced well with the sweetness of the maple syrup, but I couldn't enjoy the Eggo once I ate all of the chicken.
For dessert, I ordered the mint ice cream with Oreos. The server highly recommended this ice cream, claiming that the mint leaves were grow in her grandmother's backyard. That was enough to convince me to try it, and I wasn't disappointed. The ice cream was rich and evenly peppered with mint leaves. So rich in fact, that I couldn't finish it. I could have done without the Oreos; I felt like it didn't add anything to the dish.
Overall, a good dining experience. The servers were so pleasant and friendly - which can be a rarity in NYC dining. This is the kind of place where you could literally linger for hours, if you'd like. The place is BYOB, so be prepared to be disappointed if you planned on drinking a beer or a cocktail. If you forget to BYOB or choose not to, there's a bar next door, Canz a Citi Roadhouse, where you can continue your conversation over a few drafts or "canz" of beer. The bar is a complete culture change from Queens Comfort, however - you go from a leisurely, casual atmosphere to a bouncy, techno-poppy, semi-pretentious bar scene with predictably scantily clad waitresses. Its redeeming qualities for me are its al fresco section (where you can sort of escape the music) and having Guinness on draft. But, if it weren't for the company and the close proximity to the restaurant, we probably would not have chosen to go there. Mark especially detested the fact that they allowed a giant bear-beast-dog inside the al fresco area. I didn't mind, since I love bear-beast-dogs.

Global Dining in the Oldest City in America

I like to use birthdays as a reason to dine at more extravagantly priced restaurants. I love to try new places, but I'm definitely much more of a home cook. Last year, David took me to the incomparable Le Bernardin, a dining experience which can never be rivaled. The dishes and service were literally perfect. I can still taste the sea urchin risotto's creaminess on the roof of my mouth. And it better damn well have - the price tag for a dinner left a bruise in my wallet.

But Le Bernardin's not the subject of my post today. This year, I celebrated my twenty-something birthday on the coast of northern Florida, staying at my in-laws' place in Palm Coast. A short drive away is St. Augustine, a pleasant little beach town with a rich history from mid-sixteenth century Spanish occupation. The little city can border on the kitschy, as most beach towns can, but the narrow cobbled streets lined with independent merchants selling various wares, from handblown Venetian glass to souvenir T-shirts, more than make up for it. 

Dave surprised me with dinner at Collage Restaurant, whose tagline is "Artful Global Dining." The owners, Mike Hyatt and Cindy Stangby, transformed the French establishment to an eclectic one in 2007, boasting flavors from across the culinary globe: A collage of flavors, you see. I was immediately intrigued, never mind the claim that they are considered one of the ten most romantic restaurants in America. 

After much debate, we began with escargot, cooked with mushrooms and a creamy cognac sauce in a puff pastry shell. The combination of complex textures, from the viscosity of the cream, the bounciness of the escargot, to the airy crunch of the puff pastry, was very satisfying. 

For my entree, I chose the charred steak with truffle butter. And, just because that wasn't enough indulgence, I added charred fois gras to the plate. The result, of course, was sinful. This dish needs to be eaten slowly, savoring every fatty, creamy bite. 

Oh, and we split a bottle of '06 Argentinian Malbec, Famiglia Bianchi, which hit the notes well with my steak. And since I hit the third glass by the time dessert came, I can't remember too much of the last course - though I remember the creme brulee being delicious. That's the problem with ordering a bottle of wine and reviewing a meal; amnesia roosts around dessert.

Overall, the dinner was excellent. My only disappointment: The steak was not locally sourced and the server did not know which farm it came from. I'm used to visiting restaurants where our servers knew exactly where their meat was sourced. When my server told me she didn't know, I actually reconsidered ordering the steak. Obviously, I couldn't resist trying the meat with truffle butter and fois gras. 

The long drive along the coast on route A1A back home was lovely. An evening well spent with my significant other, the beach, and good food. 

How Homemade Pakistani Food Opened the Gastronomic Floodgates

Back in my undergrad days, I met one of my dearest friends. She comes from a rich southeast Asian heritage, specifically Pakistan. It was at her house, at her dinner table, where all my prejudices about "foreign" food shattered and my tastebuds experienced the glory of spice for the first time.
Let me tell you a little bit about my food preferences pre-Pakistani food. I loved pinoy cuisine, of course, but nothing with any heat. I enjoyed the food my husband (then boyfriend) ate with his family, but was averse to anything that smelled too strongly of spice. Basically, I felt like a big bad foodie because I ate chicken feet and pig liver, but in reality, I was a spice sham.
That is, until I ate lentils, roti, and some savory chicken dish I don't remember, with my hands as the rest of the family did. I remember hearing an Indian chef say that unless you ate with your hands, you could not reach the full sensory experience of the dish. Perhaps it was that, or perhaps it was the good company, or maybe her mother poured love and care into the dishes that occasioned the sea change in my culinary landscape. Whatever it was, I'm glad for it. Dishes with complex spices are a treat for me and I still find myself craving the same dishes I used to eat at her house. Now that she has moved across the country (ready to have a baby!) and her sisters are scattered across the globe, I miss dining with them. Now, I eat at random middle eastern and southeast asian cuisine establishments, but it's just not the same.
For those of you who are wary of trying new foods, go to a friend's house and have dinner with their family. There is no better way to experience something new than to share food with friends.

Fisherman's Dream [Insert obscene joke here]

It's not what you think. This relatively complex fish dish is very pretty and delicious to boot. My mom presents this is the piéce de résistance at any family party. The younger me used to throw a fit when party guests poked and broke the fish apart, completely ruining the aesthetics. 

I've omitted the MSG the original recipe called for. I try not to use carcinogens in my cooking if I can help it.

This grouper's stylin' in stripes.

Ingredients: 

1 ½ kilo apahap or lapulapu (grouper)

2 calamansi or 1 slice of lemon

2 medium size onions, chopped

2 medium sized tomatoes, chopped

4 tbsp. white wine

½ c. olive oil

1 ½ c. water

1/3 c. grated cheese

2 tbsp. butter

extra salt and pepper

1 medium sized boiled beet, chopped

1 medium sized boiled carrots

4 tbsp. chopped sweet pickle relish or sweet pickles

Scale and clean fish thoroughly. Cut diagonal slashes on sides of fish. Dredge with calamansi or lemon juice, salt and pepper. In a baking dish arrange onions and tomatoes, and lay the fish on them. Put in the wine, olive oil, and water. Sprinkle grated cheese on top of the fish and dot with butter. Season with a little salt and pepper.

Bake at 350 for 45 minutes to 1 hour. When done, place fish on a serving dish and cover the sauce over it. Decorate with chopped beets on the band across the fish. Alternate with chopped carrots and chopped pickles.

Sauce:

2 tbsp. butter

2 tbsp. toasted flour

1 ½ c. fish stock

2 tbsp. grated cheese

salt

pepper

Melt butter in pan. Remove from heat. Add toasted flour and strained fish stock (if you don't know how to toast flour, here's what you do: heat flour over a high heat in a pan until it browns a little. Done.) Season with salt and pepper. Stir over low heat until slightly thick. Add grated cheese and pour sauce over fish just before serving. 

Sweet (or Hot) Longanisa or; My Mom's Idea of Comfort Food

For some reason, whenever I'm feeling bummed out my mother cooks me fried sweet longanisa, or pork sausage. She knows I can put them away like a can of Pringles, and probably believes that the sweetness and homey-ness of the food can fill up whatever's breaking my heart at that moment. Tomorrow she's undergoing a follow-up procedure for her breast cancer. This event - which scares me to death - reminds me of the many longanisa dishes she's served me during my harder times.
This pinoy staple is frequently served as hearty fare for breakfast, along with fried rice and an egg, sunny side up. Along with tocino, cocktail hotdogs (no, that's not a typo), spam, canned corned beef, and beef tapa, traditional pinoy breakfasts are meant to slow down your heart rate a little and put some fat in your flesh, meant to be burnt off during hard work during the day. This kind of lifestyle, of course, is rapidly becoming more obsolete as food consumers in developing nations are becoming less active than their ancestors.
I wish I knew how to make the sausage from scratch, but for now I'll settle with the store bought version. If I'm lucky, an independent sausage maker will have his or her bags of homemade longanisa at the local Filipino store.

Love in a hog casing.

Ingredients:
A few links of longanisa
Water
Neutral oil

Some fry their longanisa straightaway, but I like to boil them first to cook them through. The seasoning of the sausage caramelizes quickly, so frying them at a high heat might undercook them. Start by boiling some water with the sausages over high heat, enough to reach halfway, in a frying pan. Turn once or twice to evenly cook. Once most of the water evaporates, add enough oil to cover the pan and lower to medium heat. Poke some holes into the sausages immediately, or you'll end up with a lot of oil spatter from the sausage fat. You'll know it's done when the sausages are browned nicely.

Once my mom is discharged from the hospital on Saturday morning, there'll be a hot plate of longanisa waiting for her at home.

My mother and her awkward children. That's me with the Goofy shirt - and no, I wasn't being ironic.