nakji

Have you made one yourself? I would, but most of my mother's recipes come from clipped-out Canadian Living mags. What I really need to get a hold of are my grandmother's recipes. Of course, since she was usually cooking for 10 or more people, they all start with, " Take a 5 kg bag of flour..."

Samgyupsal in curry??? Genius! Sorry, I binned my mul kimchi, with sadness.

Sugo Fresco di Pomodoro, p. 122 Marcella: "Here is a recipe as sweet as it is short." There was a moment, on Sunday, as I was tumbling head over heels down a trail outside of Hakone, where I finally understood all the posts over on the You know you're an eGullet member... topic. When I heard my right arm crack, my first thought was, "Not my knife hand!" As the leaves settled around, and the silence of the forest was broken only by the frantic puffs of my husband running back up the trail after me, I stared up at the sky and wondered how I was going to cook dinner. Two days and some extremely expensive hospital visits later, I'm laid up at home, facing the considerable annoyance of having a lot of time on my hands, a fridge full of vegetables waiting to be chopped, and a useless right hand. And straightened fiscal circumstances. Finally, I'm part of the zeitgeist. But there are worse things in life than being shut up in an apartment with a new Jenny Cruisie novel and a can of tomatoes in the cupboard. My husband, genius that he is, came home with a can of tomatoes, saying, "I noticed we were out. You said we should always have a can of tomatoes around." And I complain he never listens to me. Right, so trauma aside, I knew I couldn't miss my date with Marcella. Priscilla, I don't have my own copy of her biography, so I can't say for sure, but she seems like the kind of lady who wouldn't let something as silly as a broken arm stop her from cooking. I have to honour that. So I dug out the can of tomatoes, thinking that I wouldn't have too much trouble opening it with its ring-pull top. Let me tell you, the word I shouted when the ring popped off without budging the top was enough to make the petty yakuza who live next door blanch. Twenty minutes later I had it off with the can opener, and had the aching arm to prove it. What Would Marcella Do? I cast my eye around the kitchen until it found my husband's bottle of Ezra Brooks Kentucky Straight Bourbon, and I knew She was sending me a message. Fortified, I addressed the issue of the garlic. Was it in Goodfellas the scene where they're in prison, slicing garlic with a razor blade to get it thin enough? Marcella states the magic of the recipe comes from the thinly sliced garlic melting into the sauce as it simmers. I experimented with using my left hand to chop. Slicing the garlic as thinly as possible with a non-dominant hand is the sort of risky task that requires calming music - in this case, only the Cowboy Junkies would do - "Sun Comes Up, It's Tuesday Morning" seemed the most appropriate. The Timmins' elegy to failed relationships and waking up to find you're out of milk for the tea suited my mood perfectly. When the garlic was done, after another ten minutes, I added the 1/3 cup of Olive Oil OMFG is She serious, and does She know there's a recession on? and simmered away. When they were pale gold - and I watched them like a hawk, I have a bad history of burning garlic - I slopped in my cursed tomatoes, put on "Horse in the Country", and waited for my husband to get home so I could put on the pasta. When the door clicked open, I dumped into the water a half pack of De Cecco spaghettini and thanked Marcella for recipes so easy they could be done one-handed. My husband requested his favourite Junkies number, "Anniversary Song", feigned shock and unfeigned relief that I was cooking. Sometimes, you're so blue that the only thing that can make you better is a big bowl of pasta with red sauce and Margot Timmins on the stereo. Actually, a large pans of brownies for dessert would have helped a lot, but I can't expect miracles. Guess it's tea and toast for breakfast again maybe I'll add a little T.V. too No milk! God, how I hate that - Cowboy Junkies

Fascinating pictures, Peter! My mum's family always pronounced it 'brew-is', with two syllables, but they're from 'up Labrador way'. As for hardtack, wouldn't Purity biscuitsbe a good substitute? If the Newfie shop is still open on North street, you might be able to source them there. eta: link

I usually use momen tofu when I'm frying, and the weight of the panel keeps everything in place. But I got my tsukemono ki at the 100 yen shop! It's quite small, maybe 500 ml - it holds one block of tofu nicely, as it's rectangular.

I use mine to drain tofu before I fry it. I'm not sure how it's supposed to work exactly, but I just tip the water out the top as I go. I usually put whatever I want in when I first go into the kitchen, and then as I work on other projects, I just tip the water out. If the pressure's strong enough, there shouldn't be much danger of it leaking back in. I've left stuff in for several hours without any problems.

Oh, wow, what a great link! I'm always happy to get a potato panchan, and kamja jorim is one of the best. I sometimes make kamjachae bokkum for a side dish at home (the second recipe on that link), but I never knew how to make jorim before. In Korea, they use malt syrup, though, don't they - not corn syrup, is that right? Do you think there's any difference.

Yeeeeesssssssss! That's it exactly. One of my favourite ways to eat rice. Thanks for finding it - it's hard to search for something you don't know the name of. gfron1 - make some of that - you won't be sorry!

I rarely ate Ottogi brand curry while I was living in Korea. I don't miss Ottogi products. But certainly, their curry-in-a-pouch, in which my husband occasionally indulged, was definitely yellower than the ones I see in Japan. It also had vegetable lumps, and seemed a bit milder to the taste. I'm not sure about the powders, though, because I always used Vermont curry roux when making home curry.

I have to say it: Kimchi. I've never had kale kimchi before, but that doesn't mean it can't be done. Making kimchi at home topic. The Kimchi topic

And can I just say how utterly shocked that anyone other than my mother has read my blog? Thanks, Klary, I appreciate the kind words. Have you got a favourite recipe from Marcella? I'd love to see what you make, especially if it involves any of the large cuts of meat I don't have access to. Hint, hint. My problem with this topic is that I'm already eyeing Marcella's other books on-line - and I've barely delved into this one!

I don't know - but I'll ask next time. We just used plain water. Um, maybe next time. It's possible - my co-worker got a lot of grief for being "strong" with the noodles. Step 3 - Rolling After he cleared away the bowl and the dough rested for a few minutes, he was ready to roll. He rolled it out to a thickness of around 5 mm. Then he shaped it into a square by rotating it and rolling it at opposite sides, to stretch it out and square it off. He used flour as a marker to help him know where the middle and sides were. Note how little flour is actually on the table. Then he rolled it up on one of his pins. This itself was rolled around 5-10 times using a circular motion with his hands - alternating the pressure along the pin from inside to out. Then, he unrolled one side from the pin to the halfway point, and started to roll it out to lengthen it on that side, using another pin. Ideally, it should roll out perfectly straight. In reality, it may need a little correction on one side with the pin. He had another, heavier oak pin on the side to use for detail work at this stage. When I took my turn, I was able to roll it out almost entirely straight on one side. He said that the way someone rolls soba shows their character- if they roll straight, then they have a good character! This made me feel inordinately proud. Detail work: Eventually, it should be as thin as a straw.

Right now I'm eating a lot of pickled aubergines from Marcella's Italian Kitchen. They go great in sandwiches or in my lunch box. I often put some out with a bit of bread before dinner. I'm sorry that the season for them is over, or I'd make some more; I'll be sorry when they're all gone from my fridge. Actually, I'd like to learn more about pickled vegetables in Italian cuisine.

I love oolong tea, and it's popular as a cold bottled drink in Japan. My question is - how does it differ from other kinds of tea? Is it a black tea?

I see her as kind of a cranky auntie, the sort that wouldn't hesitate to use a wooden spoon on you if she felt like you were stepping out of line and using sausage with fennel or similar crimes. Please report back. It could be revolutionary. Surely not. I'll keep my eye out for them. I've seen little stars here in the shops, too - they'd be pretty cute. Japan has made me love cute food. What do you think about orzo? I rarely get back to Canada, but I wish my hometown had a place like that. I could really have some fun cooking for my friends and family.

I have a lot of free time on my hands. I know, right? When I poured in the half cup of olive oil she called for, I was shaking my head, but thinking, "Well hey, at least it's olive oil. That's good for you, right?" But sausages cooked with cream and butter.....well, it must be nice to be young and able to eat that, like your sons. I'm sure that cacciatore had tomatoes in it. And what - no cucumbers? Priscilla, I wish I got Jaime's programs - it would be an excellent way to mark time in the kitchen. Are they 30 minutes long? Would it be equivalent to watching one Gossip Girl? Recipe:"Shell chickpeas for two "Jaime at Homes" or one "Gossip Girl". Do not, under any circumstance, use CSI." And what kind of pasta did you put in your soup? I'm glad you have good tofu available, although the idea of a "pan-Asian" supermarket intrigues me. It sounds like I could have a lot of fun in a place like that.

You got the sauce just right! I hope you enjoyed it. It is quite spicy. I could never get over how the kids in Korea could eat so much of it, impervious to the heat. I made some mul kimchi on Monday, and set it aside to ferment for two days, as my recipe calls for. Today when I opened it up, it was extremely bubbly, and a layer of vegetables had floated to the top and was sitting exposed out of the liquid. The carrots in the layer had lost their colour and were white! When I pushed down on the layer it bubbled excitedly. I wasn't sure if it was safe or not, so I had my husband try it. (I'm no fool) He said it tasted extremely fermented. I was planning to bring it to a dinner party tonight, but I don't want to poison the guests. Is my kimchi safe to eat?

When somebody goes to the trouble OF ALLCAPS there's usually a good reason. It should have been a warning, really, when I read, On the record, I have never dealt with chickpeas before. I've eaten lots of them - in hoummus, in curries, and even in the odd soup. But I've never worked with them. So Priscilla, when you told me to PEEL EACH CHICKPEA, I was fairly blithe about it. Yup. Peel each chickpea. Check. No prob. *sigh* When I knocked the peas out of their can, I was quickly reminded of how, well, small they are. And numerous. I made the mistake of starting the soup at eleven-thirty on Monday night, with the intention of having it for lunch on Tuesday. We had a dinner date with some friends for the evening, but I'd ended up picking up the can of chickpeas last week, and I had some tomatoes nearing desperation on top of my microwave, so I thought it would be the perfect thing. My husband was happily installed on the computer in the other room, and I could count on no interference from him in the kitchen. Staring at the pale mound of peas in the bowl, however, I started to have second thoughts. I started off pinching them one by one, delicately peeling the skin off my finger and scraping it into the can in the sink. This lasted about five minutes, until I got bored, and found a sharp edge on the top of the can. Then, I developed a method where I peeled them two at a time, bracing two against my longest fingers, and rolling off the peel with my thumb. The peels were dispatched into the sink with a quick flick of the wrist. But I kept misjudging the pressure on one of them, sending little peas pinging across the kitchen floor. Since my can was slightly underweight, I had to go chasing them, of course. I lost a few souls underfoot, and began to leave pale smears over the wood floor. So then I went back to the one-pea method, but sped up. Instead of delicately taking of the peel, I squeeze roughly, and flicked the peel off my hand anywhere it wanted to go. As I surveyed the cast of ghostly peels accumulating over my kitchen prep area, I had a sense of grim foreboding. I knew that this was turning into one of those kitchen events, the evidence of which I would no doubt find for months to come, stuck to the back of the refrigerator and under the cupboard - like the results of a dropped bottle of mustard or a loose blender cover. The peels themselves bothered me, and I couldn't figure out why - until I realized they reminded me of used contact lenses - that's when I had to get the water out, mid-task, and hose everything down. Meanwhile, the silence was stretching between the kitchen - where I laboured, and the living room, where my husband was merrily surfing LOL cats and the like. I kept expecting him to say something like, "Hey hon, it's taking a long time. Need some help? Want the radio on?" But nothing. He never even noticed. I resolved to sabotage his lunch the next day. In the end, it took me twenty minutes to shell the lot, through a combination of incompetence and frustration. But the soup was absolutely worth it. Of course, it wouldn't be me if I hadn't taken vast liberties with the recipe. Well first, she calls for adding a half cup of olive oil. A half cup. But I had faith, and put it all in. The onion and garlic went in as well, and simmered while I was peeling the chickpeas, benefiting from my distraction, no doubt. A few errant peels had to be picked out, of course. As for the tomatoes, (she calls for canned) after all the business with the chickpeas, I couldn't bear to peel them and dirty another pot with the blanching, so I chopped them roughly and scraped them right in. I resolved to pick the skins out later. For herbs, I limited myself to two, thinking about this: I used some thyme, of which I curiously have three bottles of in my spice bin, and one bay leaf. So they all bubbled away together, and I amused myself by reading the intro to the recipe, which is charming: It's a pretty accurate description of my family as well. When people meet me and find out I'm from Canada, they always assume I must be a top skier or snowboarder. Little do they know I spend most of my winters in Canada in the kitchen baking, which, as far as I'm concerned, is the only rational way to deal with a Canadian winter. Right, so when the tomatoes had given up the oil*, I picked out the skins with my tongs - I was in a considerably better mood, have wandered into the living room to catch up with those funny cheezburger cats- and ran it through the blender, since I lack a food mill. At this point, I was supposed to add pasta, but there were no soup shapes to be had at my local supermarket. I had originally been intending to use shells or fusilli that I had left over, but when I tasted the soup, I realized that they would be all wrong - the little pasta shapes were meant to give texture, but not heft to the soup. So left it out entirely, leaving - Ceci soup, if you will. Sweet, dusky, and rich, this soup improved even the next day in my packed lunch. I made mimolette sandwiches on wholegrain to accompany it, and it was so satisfying, I got a thumbs up text message from my husband - a hard-won accolade! His only complaint was that I'd forgotten to add a spoon to his lunch. How did that happen? I must be slipping. He swore the soup must have had ginger in it (it didn't) and I thought for sure it tasted like a cream soup (there was no cream)and it literally kicked the a*$ of anything I'd had recently at Soup Stock Tokyo. Worth the effort! But if you have any tips on how to quickly and efficiently peel chickpeas, I'm all ears. (* A quick digression, hopefully Marcella won't mind. I learned about tomatoes giving up the oil quite independently of Marcella, in Vietnam of all places. I was learning to make one of my favourite dishes there from a co-worker, and she gave me the tip. The dish is tofu and tomato, and it's simplicity itself. If you make this for a vegetarian in your life, you will learn their lifelong love and gratitude. But you must only make it if you have excellent tofu and tomatoes on hand, since that's all that goes in. Take a block of tofu cut into six cubes, which have been deep fried. I can buy this sort of tofu at my local supermarket pre-fried, but you may have to do it yourself - use firm tofu, and fry the cubes, making sure that all sides go brown and crispy - be careful, and make sure the tofu is well-drained, though, or it will spit water. When it's ready, start a tablespoon or so of vegetable oil in a wok or fry pan. Add mixed chopped garlic, ginger, and green onions in equal proportions, to your taste. When these become perfumed, add your chopped fresh tomatoes (I use canned) and the tofu. Cook the lot until the tomatoes give up the oil. Adjust seasoning with salt or fish sauce, and a little sugar if the tomatoes need it. Serve with rice.)

What with the silliness of the tea-towel that was on my head, I may have to decline. You will see the apron, however. As with many things in Japan, the afternoon's program was well-organized. We would first watch a demonstration by one of the teachers, then we would take it in turns every fifteen minutes to start making our own. First, Ota-sensei showed me a buckwheat plant, and then two small containers: the un-hulled buckwheat (black) and the hulled buckwheat, before grinding. Then, the other sensei (and I didn't catch his name - but you can see his name tag in the picture - anyone?) started his demonstration. As with most things in life, an expert always makes it look so much easier than it really is. First, he measured the flour. When I touched it later, I was surprised how silky it felt, like silica sand. He mixed buckwheat flour and wheat flour in an 80/20 ratio - why was lost in translation, but I imagine the buckwheat needs some gluten from wheat flour. He sifted it to remove any remaining hulls. Then he added water. The water, was surprisingly, measured by weight. I apologize, since my limited Japanese prevented me from asking why. Sensei did mention that the total amount of water eventually added would vary with the humidity of the day, and the "heat" of the cook's hands. Rob said that when he had made it previously in August, it was quite humid. He also mentions that he though that most of the liquid in his noodles probably came from sweat, because of the heat. Mmm, salty soba. At any rate, water should be 40% of the volume of the flour - so 1 kg of flour would need 400g of water. The water is added in halves in a circular motion. (So: first 200g, then 100 g, then 50 g....) Then he began to mix in a circular motion using only his fingertips. The practicality of the red bowl became apparent at this stage, since he could see clearly if flour was sticking to the bottom and force it off with his fingers. As time went on, and it started to look like panko breadcrumbs, he added more water and continued rolling and fluffing until it started to look like small firm lumps - like a rolled cookie dough. Or "brains", which I wrote down, no doubt because of the gray colour of the dough. Note to self: stop watching CSI before bed. When it got into larger balls, he started to used the whole of his hand to bring it together. The mixing in this manner took about 15 minutes of constant motion. Panko: Brains: At this point, the teacher told us that at the Matsumoto festival in Nagano, they made enough soba to feed 400 people a day, which is a lot of noodles, no matter how you cut them. When the dough had absorbed enough water to stick together to his satisfaction, he started to knead it like a bread dough, folding it over itself several times. Then he rolled it into a ball shape, turning with one hand, and pressing with the side of his other hand, to force any air out, and rolled it into a ball. He called this the "kiku momi" - the chrysanthemum shape. It looked like a large char siu bao, with a flower-like top. We ooohed and aaahed. Then he pressed down on it, saying goodbye to the flower. It took the shape of a butternut squash as he rolled it around the bowl, and then after about five minutes, he effortlessly patted it into smooth disc. I knew I would completely fail at this when it was my turn. I have a bad history with dough.

[cracks knuckles] Well, Hiroyuki, my Korean is simply not good enough to give you a line-by-line translation, but here's my interpretation of the instructions, influenced heavily by my own preparation of ddeok bokki in the past: It looks like the sauce you have there is made from tomato and nashi. It also may contain rosemary, I'm not sure. Whatever it is, it's not your regular adjumma's ddeok bokki. Add 350g of mochi and 200 cc of water to a frypan. Heat the water up and add the seasoning paste - there's some in the pack, right? 150g worth, anyway. To this, add whatever vegetables you like - the package suggests onion, negi, and cabbage and something called dang myeon, which I think is some kind of noodle - maybe chinese yellow noodles - They could be suggesting a popular variation of ddeok bokki called"ra-bokki", a love child of ramyeon and ddeok bokki. But "street" ddeok bokki usually has negi, oden, and hard boiled eggs. Maybe a bit of onion. Then you cook the lot down until it's got a nicely thickened sauce - it should cling thickly to the ddeok, which should be tender and chewy. It may take ten minutes of cooking to achieve this. Enjoy with toothpicks.

I miss Annapolis Valley apples! Has anyone had the chance to use any local apples this fall? I remember all the varieties available, and I miss that!

One of the few things that I enjoy about my current job is that I spend a lot of time with the retired citizens of Japan. They're fun to talk to, and since I came to Japan to learn more about its traditional culture, they're the perfect people to grill about the best way to make a certain pickle, or the best place to buy daikon. In the early afternoon, my school has classes targeted at retired people, and I have a good time sitting with them and chatting about Japanese food. They get a kick out of the fact that I try to cook Japanese food, and they often bring little treats in for me - like a nasu tsukemono, or homemade miso. The other week, I was called out to an unfamiliar school on my day off to work for another sick teacher. Normally, I'd be quite grumpy about this since - well, nobody likes to work on their day off, do they? But I met someone who rescued the day for me. One of the students, Mr. Ota, is passionate about soba. He makes soba in his free time, and teaches soba-making lessons once a month at the community hall. What luck! My co-worker, who is also the sort of person who enjoys large-scale cooking projects, and who had been to the lesson once before, agreed to come with me to the next session The lessons are taught at a community centre near Ofuna station, in Kamakura. I met my friend, Rob, at the station, equipped with a plastic container for my soba, a tea-towel to cover my head, and a crappy apron I'd gotten at the Daiso 100-yen shop (profoundly ugly - they should have paid me to buy it, really.) Rob warned me that making soba is quite a workout for the arms, and the last time he went, he felt as if he'd been to the gym. He said he'd been sweating buckets, so we stopped at a 7/11 along the way to stock up on green tea and water. When we arrived, the community centre was set up with two tables, so that students could rotate through the stages - mixing, rolling, and cutting. The equipment reminded me of drafting class in Junior High - there were wooden tables, brushes, rulers, and a sliding knife in a case. I cast my eyes around for a t-square; but there was none. I'd later learn that the teacher was so good, he didn't need no stinkin' t-square. The centre set-up: (Apologies for the utilitarian nature of these photos. There was low light, and I only had my pocket camera - instead of my husband and his photo equipment, like I usually do) You can see some of the tools in the lower photo. There are three rolling pins, which you'll see used later. There's also another pin, not pictured, made of oak, and a bit heavier than the ones you see here - used for evening out areas. The brown plastic sheet is used to protect the noodles as you cut. (...to be continued)

Koiwai Farms!!! I didn't know it was a real place. My husband loves the juice that Kirin makes under that brand name. I can't believe the leaves have turned up there - no sign of it where I am. How are the apples in Tohoku? Most of the apples I've tried in Japan are rather bland and mealy textured. I can't say I really enjoy them, especially since I grew up eating MacIntosh, Northern Spy and Russets off the tree in October in Nova Scotia. Are different varieties available there, or is the same pale pink kind you get in the cities? I can't believe that kabocha cut! I have to figure out how to do that.

The only time I had hanjeongsik in Korea is in Gyeonju - but it wasn't stuffy or formal at all. I think eating without having your kids around is still a pretty new concept in Korea - most restaurants go out of their way to be accommodating to children. Posh places will often go as far to have a fully-equipped playroom off to the side! So I think your kids will be fine. In my (admittedly light experience) with it, you don't order it - they dishes they have that day all come to the table. You eat what you like, and don't eat what you don't like. If you eat all of something, it gets refilled. This is a picture of a small part of the table of the hansik I had in Gyeongju:

I listened to the podcast today - thanks for turning me on to it! It made the ride to Kawasaki go so much quicker. I agree, Marcella's spot was too short, but several things in her interview struck a chord in me: First, she said when she moved to the US, she couldn't understand the supermarket, because everything was dead. She didn't know how to cook. For me, the journey has been the other way. When I arrived in Asia, I was confused by the supermarket, because everything was alive. I didn't know how to deal with it. I was angry at the vegetables, because they came with dirt still on them. (Nevermind the time I had to help someone kill a chicken for lunch in Vietnam - I never thought a city girl like me would be doing something like that.) Can you believe it? Now I feel like I'm more equipped. Second, she said she was motivated to cook because of Victor's reaction. I'm the same way. I find cooking rewarding when it makes other people happy. If I've made someone's day better by giving them a decent bowl of soup, I consider the day well spent - like I've contributed to good karma somehow. Additionally, she said that in Italy, what you leave out of cooking is as important as what you include. I fought strongly against the urge to add a little basil to my Salsicce dish, mainly because my plant needs a little pruning - but I think in the end I appreciated the subtlety of the flavouring from only the bay leaves. Japanese food is sparely seasoned as well, and I feel that I have more respect for that point of view. Interestingly, she said she felt like today's "Italian" cooking in America was no closer than the kind she saw in the 70's to real Italian cooking. Can anyone shed some light on what she might mean? And I'm still waiting for someone to show me a "real" Italian sausage. Anyone?