Indigo Days

From Nut to Tree

My husband and I have had our fair share of cultural differences over the years.  He’s a Japanese farm boy and I’m a California suburban girl.  (Though technically, at 50, he’s no longer a boy and at 53, I’m no longer a girl.)  Somehow, we manage to muddle through.

Building a house together can test any relationship.  Ours was no different.  One day I noticed huge cutouts around the front and side of the house.  My husband, Tadaaki, called them “windows,” I called them “doors.”  I won that argument and they put in windows.  But now we live in Tadaaki’s family farmhouse and almost all the windows are doors. 

Then there was the whole tree issue.  Our lot was a chestnut orchard owned by Tadaaki’s father.  Tadaaki hates chestnut trees because they attract caterpillars, so he happily cut down a slew of them to open up the backyard.  I grew up with a grandfather oak tree dominating our back yard and my father rigged a rope swing on one of its main branches.  Gathering up courage to scooch onto that wooden swing and sail out over the lawn below became the rite of passage for many a neighborhood kid.  I wanted to recreate that in our backyard.

And so it started:  “I want to have some big trees.” (Me)  “We can plant some small trees and they will grow big.” (T)  I don’t want to wait 15 years to have big trees…I want them now.  I’ll pay for them.” (Me)  My conciliatory Japanese husband gave in and agreed that I could buy three trees for the backyard.  But he continued planting small fruit trees in the front.  Because he was patient.

Truthfully, the keyaki grew vertically, so it never was a climbing tree.  Nor was it a great swinging tree.  I can’t even remember what the name of the 2^nd tree was…yamaboshi?  I mistakenly thought it had berries.  Well, maybe it did, but they weren’t edible.  I do love the Japanese maple though, with its branches sweeping gracefully across the brick patio.

But what I really treasure are all the trees that Tadaaki planted in the front yard:  yuzu, daidai (Seville orange), Meyer lemon, bay, loquat, date…a mysterious berry tree.  And now they all produce lovely things that I can use for cooking or preserving.  I should have been more patient.

A couple months ago, my husband dropped a ratty plastic bag bulging with something brown in the middle of my writing projects stacked all over the dining table.  “A present,” he said laconically, while lifting an eyebrow, telegraphing that I should be duly grateful for this mysterious manna.  I dragged myself off the chair where I was writing.  Peering into the bag, my memory flooded back to a similar gift last year:  one small precious bag of pecans.

Pecans?  Yes, simple, incredible…perfect pecans.

These are home grown pecans--like nothing you have ever tasted.  Mmm, my mouth is remembering that first bite last year.  The surprise…the tingling feeling of “oh my god this is one of the best things I have ever tasted.”

I dig my hand into the bag of dusky nuts and feel their naturally powdered shells.  I take a few out and admire them on my malachite counter.  The pecans have teensy brown speckles on their buff shells with irregular dark brown streaks tapering down to the point.

They’re almost too perfect to crack, but I do it anyway.  I crack open four.  I’m not very good at this, so the nutmeat gets a little smashed.  Remembering my French walnut knife, I rummage around in a drawer to find it.  I dig out all the meat, collecting my spoils on a small plate normally meant for soy sauce.  I pour myself a glass of Cliff Lede Sauvignon Blanc and sit for a quiet moment.  I pop a small piece of pecan into my mouth and slowly bite down, savoring the slightly oily flesh.  As I chew, the “pecan-ness” floods into my mouth.  It’s nothing like the organic pecans I buy.  The pecan reaches deep inside of me so I can taste the heart of the tree.

And my husband grew the trees from nut.  Can any of us imagine this?  I never understood when Tadaaki told me it would take 20 or 30 years to grow a tree.  Why would you do that?  Why not just buy something big enough to produce in say, 5 years.  That’s pretty long to wait as it is.  But now I get it.  These pecans were worth the wait.

Twenty-six years ago, Tadaaki bought a bag of pecans in Nagasaki on his way home from a trip he took on the Peace Boat to North Korea, China and Russia.  He knew that in the Stone Age people ate a lot of varieties of nuts, so he was interested in trying pecans (he’s an odd guy).  The nuts tasted so good, he decided to plant some of them and luckily a few began to germinate.  The trees grew for 10 years and never produced one nut.  Then about 5 years ago, the nuts started to appear.  I vaguely remember hearing Tadaaki tell me this, though in my busy haze still didn’t really know where the trees were.  But last year was the first year Tadaaki actually gathered the nuts and brought them home.

Every night, I have my 4 or 8 pecans.  I keep thinking I should make something with them.  The first bag is dwindling down, but I still have one more bag.  Maybe pecan brittle would be nice…I have some killer organic sugar.

Oh, and these days, it’s my husband who buys trees.  He gave me a weeping cherry blossom for my birthday.  I wanted a goat, but was properly thankful. 

Pecans in Andrew's bowl on antique Japanese cloth

Pecans in their shells:  Serve in an earthy pottery bowl of a complimentary color to the nuts and with no busy design (preferably Japanese).   Pass your guests a couple nutcrackers.  We use an iron nutcracker with a spring action guaranteed to crack the rock hard black walnuts found in the Dordogne.  Tadaaki also recently came home with an unusual flea market find:  a 2-foot tall antique wooden Nutcracker Man made in Germany, complete with a patch of real fur for his beard.  Place the nutcrackers near your most industrious guests and don’t forget an empty pottery bowl for the shells.  Open a bottle of your tastiest Sauvignon Blanc or Rosé.  Avoid Chardonnay.

 

The Airplane Sandwich

As soon as the drink cart starts trundling down the aisle, with great anticipation, I unwrap my “airplane sandwich.”  It is a chunk of organic baguette that I have drizzled with olive oil and homemade wine vinegar; topped with baby celery chopped with its leaves, dressed with olive oil, lemon juice and shaved Parmesan; creamy hardboiled eggs from our farm; some canned white tuna, drained, then tossed with olive oil and lemon juice; and is finished with a sprinkling of fleur de sel, cayenne and fresh pepper.  Every time the airplane sandwich is different and this may be the best one yet.

I hear the domestic airlines are charging for food now--they’ve done us a favor.  Who needs it?  You can make an “airplane sandwich” with whatever vegetables are in season and it holds up well even if they confiscate your cool pack.  At the end of the trip, you don’t feel greasy, unsatisfied or unsettled.  You feel healthy from having eaten great vegetables.

I started making these sandwiches after I moved to Japan.  On trips back to the U.S., I never liked the airline food (who does?).  After my first son was born, I realized bringing my own food was the only option if I wanted to stay one step ahead of the inevitable “travel cold” brought on by sleep deprivation and lowered resistance.  Traveling with one baby is exhausting; I ended up traveling with three.  And the food I brought with us kept me going. 

My mother-in-law, like many older Japanese farmwomen, has a bent back so it was hard for her to hold babies.  But she is an expert at making country sushi:  inarizushi and inakazush--a traditional meal prepared for special days.  I enlisted her help in making our lunches for the plane.  She was ecstatic to be useful to her stubbornly independent foreign “bride” (me), and whipped up several boxes each time we went.  Enough for about eight people, but we did our best to finish.  (I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was too much.)  Inarizushi is made from deep-fried tofu skins that are halved, simmered in soy sauce and sweet saké for flavor; then stuffed with sushi rice.  They are silky slightly sweet pillows that slip down quite nicely.  Inakazushi is a thick country sushi roll made with soy sauce simmered carrots and gobo, egg, sweet gourd strands, crunchy jelly fish, and a little pickled ginger.  The inakazushi is rolled up in roasted seaweed and cut into fat rounds.  You eat both inarizushi and inakazushi with your hands—no need for soy sauce—but a hot towel is recommended for wiping fingers.  Clean tasting, and slightly sweet for a needed energy boost, these two country styles of sushi are typically made ahead of time, to me eaten later in the day.  They are excellent choices for travel lunches—or bentos—as we say in Japan.

The airplane sandwiches are constantly evolving, a reflection of the seasons and my mood, but the country sushi remains firmly rooted in the Hachisu family recipe.  When the mantle passes, I’ll probably add boiled and squeezed greens for variation.  We now had two great options for our travel lunch, but something was missing.  Then a couple of years ago, another lunch made its way into our lineup.  My youngest son, Matthew (at the time, 10), sidled up to me one day when I was cooking.  “Mommy?” (in his typically high voice, rising accent on the last syllable)  “How about…I’m just saying…what do you think…how about tacos?”  Tacos.  In the middle of making dinner, I was not really focusing on what he was asking.  Finally he blurted out his proposition.  Matthew had decided that tacos would be just the thing to bring on our impending trip to France.  “There’s the meat…and they’re a little bit hot, so that’s good…and the lettuce…dontchya think it's a good idea?”  I thought about it and yes, I did.  So tacos were on the menu.  These were not the Taco Bell variety, they were from Diana Kennedy’s Cuisines of Mexico:  slightly crisp fried tortillas, pork in salsa de jitomate, sliced onions & shredded lettuce (or cabbage).  I packed the tortillas separately, the meat and vegetables in Ziplocs on ice and we had a little taco making session on the airplane.  Matthew was right, it was a great idea:  the heat of the chile and the crunch of the fresh vegetables added a “zing factor”—eating tacos on the plane was exciting.

Now we all have our rituals.  Christopher (18), Andrew (14) and Matthew (12) eat grandma’s sushi in the 3-hour bus ride to Tokyo-Narita airport.  Matthew and I eat tacos at the airport, while Andrew and Christopher have a sandwich.  Matthew and Christopher dig into tacos on the plane while I am content with my Airplane Sandwich.  Andrew, not a good traveler, abstains.  None of us ever get sick and these days, I actually like traveling across the world.  Sometimes I get upgraded to Business class, but still bring my lunch.  Though I do like their wine.

Airplane Sandwich

This sandwich is a bastardized Pan Bagna.  I learned how to make it through, well, through making it.  The idea here is: “less is more.”  And keep it seasonal.

1 baguette (cut into 3 or 4 pieces horizontally, then in half vertically, top shelf olive oil and best quality red wine vinegar.  Some good quality canned tuna and cage-free, fresh eggs (using a fine mesh strainer, lower into boiling water and cook 8 minutes, drain and run cold water over until cool).  Optional: salt-cured anchovy.

A selection of seasonal items (use only if very fresh and farm grown):  fresh herbs, lettuce, arugula, sliced onions, sliced radishes, sliced cucumbers, chopped celery, green beans (parboiled 3 min), fresh snap peas (sauté-steam, al denté), favas (raw), asparagus, tomatoes (sparingly, they get soggy).

Go to the farmers’ market and look for organic vegetables or herbs.  Pick ones that are bright looking and not floppy.  Try a piece if allowed.  It should taste sweet and flavorful, not woody or flat.  Get an assortment of vegetables that feel like they might be nice together.  Pick up a dozen eggs while you’re at it.

Assemble all your ingredients: 

Eggs:  Cut boiled eggs in half vertically, the yolk’s center should be still a bit creamy, if not next time let it sit a minute less.  Scoop out eggs from shell and slice each in half again.  Set cut eggs on a small plate.  I use about 1 egg per sandwich, but it’s up to you.  Tuna:  Flake the drained tuna in a small bowl, drizzle on olive oil and lemon juice and toss with your fingers.  Anchovy:  Wash off salt, fillet and dry in dishtowel.  Toss with olive oil.  Vegetables:   If you’re using lettuce and/or arugula, toss in a bowl with some olive oil, vinegar, salt and pepper.   Celery is good chopped with olive oil, lemon juice and Parmesan.  Asparagus works well with other spring vegetables like snap peas and favas.  I like green beans alone with tuna, egg and greens.

Assemble your sandwiches: 

Lay down one large piece of heavy-duty foil per sandwich.  If you are obsessive (like me), add a sheet of cooking paper on top of the foil.  Open up the paired baguette segments and place them on the foil/parchment diagonally, with the bottom piece in front, crusts down.

Drizzle olive oil liberally on all of the bread faces, then sprinkle on red wine vinegar to taste.  Add tuna to the bottom half of the sandwich (if you are using it), sliced onions next would be nice.  Keep smashing down the ingredients as you go.  Lay on the eggs next, and keep building with the harder vegetables, carefully trying to keep things together.  Don’t forget chopped herbs for freshness.  Pile on as much lettuce or arugula that you can manage to stuff in and with great skill, close up the sandwich, all the while stuffing the ingredients back into the center.  Grab a towel and wipe your hand clean to wrap the sandwich.  Fold up the diagonal portion from the bottom, then the two sides and finally the top (open and eat like an ice cream cone when ready).  Do the same with the foil and squeeze gently, but firmly with clean hands.  Put sandwich in a large Ziploc.  Pack in a cooler bag with a cold pack, extra salt and pepper and cayenne for those who like spice.  I also bring cloth napkins and damp washcloths.  But I’m obsessive.

The Kitchen Garden

Spring 2009

Tsugumi picks up the offending piece of green bean, pokes it out towards me and declares, “I don’t need the green one!”

Tsugumi is my 6-year-old student at Sunny-Side Up!—the English Immersion Preschool/Kindergarten I run in the Saitama countryside.  I have made macaroni and cheese for lunch and served alongside, is a small pile of my husband’s first-of-the-season green beans that we picked that morning.  I boiled the beans for exactly 2 minutes and drizzled them with organic olive oil.  I know they are beyond delicious—they will knock her socks off.

 “Just try one, please, Tadaaki grew them for you!”

Screwing up her face, Tsugumi pops a small segment in her mouth.  Slowly she chews, then her whole face alight with pleasure bursts out, “They’re yummy!   They’re so, so, sooooo yummy!”   And she promptly goes back for more.  In fact, she ends up going back 8 times, each time receiving a little pile of those magnificent beans.  Tsugumi was converted.

I think it worth mentioning that the macaroni and cheese is not the boxed variety.  I make it with organic penne, béchamel sauce made from homegrown wheat flour and organic cheddar and mozzarella cheeses.  Oh, and I add a few dashes of Tabasco and some splashes of Worcestershire sauce.  That’s the school lunch at SSU!.

A lot of people think I’m crazy to cook for my students every day—especially since I use the best stuff around to make the lunches.  But there is something magical about seeing the kids’ faces light up and hearing their joyous cries of “Thank you, Nancy!  It’s so yummy!  I love you Nancy!”  Who wouldn’t want to cook for them and who wouldn’t want to give these kids something wonderful to eat each and every day?

Recently I realized it wasn’t enough just to cook for them, so last year, we started a kitchen garden.  Now even the little ones have jumped into the fray.  In the morning, when I call out, “Who wants to help cook?” I get about 10 miniature assistants climbing up on the stools around the table anxious to help peel potatoes or smash organic canned tomatoes.  And the 2 year olds are the most enthusiastic of the bunch--though I’m looking for a knife that can cut vegetables, and not fingers.  They still manage to cut themselves with the peelers, but I tell them, “Don’t worry about it, it’s just a little blood.  I cut myself all the time!”  And they keep peeling.

The kids are no less enthusiastic in the field.  Once we cured them of their initial instinct to run, they got right into the planting.  Of course everyone wanted to do it, but with a little bribery we managed to get them to wait their turn.  Grubby little hands shot out and each kid got a sprinkling of seeds.  No surprise, the seeds were sown too densely, resulting in lots of over crowding.  We’ve been practicing with birdseed for the spring plantings.  Also some ruthless thinning will be helpful.  The preschoolers (and some elementary kids) love to try anything and everything in the field.  They smell the wild fennel and bite into it, exclaiming that it tastes like toothpaste.  Arugula is “spicy” and the lettuce is “yummy.”  Trying new tastes in the field is always an adventure.

I asked a Japanese organic farmer friend once how he could keep on farming.  “When people love to eat my vegetables, it makes me happy and gives me energy to keep on growing things,” was his response.  And that is what I’m trying to show the kids at SSU! through the garden.  Love goes into the field as we grow our vegetables and love goes into the food as we cook the lunch.  The kids understand that very simple, but essential idea.  We don’t need to teach this, they just “get it” through experiencing the seed to table process.  And even if all the kids don’t yet eat their vegetables—they want to—and will be able to soon.  The ones who go for seconds are proud and tell me how many times they have gone back to get more.  The others who clean their plate turn it towards me for inspection and a few words of praise that I give gladly.  Good job! 

We made mistakes our first year:  overcrowding, too short rows, haphazard flower planting resulting in a mass of green shoots impossible to differentiate between weed and flower…but we’re learning.  This year we have already planted six long rows of potatoes and the lettuce and radish seeds are in planting boxes waiting to sprout.  During the winter we lost the use of 2/3’s of the field due to drainage ditch repair.  We had to move our herb garden to accommodate the construction crew.  It survived the move and is happily sprouting new bright green leaves.  The radicchio, chicory and lettuce that never seemed to take last fall have gotten a second wind and are healthily growing.  The goal this year is to plant the whole field and it’s a big field—but we have lots of helping hands!

A lot of people (my farmer husband included) thought I was even crazier to start a school garden.  But you know, there is something so basic and so elemental about growing food.  And this is something that every child should learn.  When you grow it, it just tastes better. 

 

Macaroni & Cheese

For 1 kilo organic pasta.  Make béchamel:  melt 70 grams butter in heavy saucepan.  Add 70 grams organic bread flour and smash and spread around the bottom of the pan until you see white spots on the edges of your flour smudges.  Don’t burn the butter, but make sure you cook the flour enough (otherwise the béchamel will taste floury).  Slowly whisk in 1000 cc hot milk.    Stir like mad after each addition to make a smooth sauce.  Cook a few minutes more, constantly stirring.  Cover and heat up again right before the noodles are done.  Before adding the noodles, sprinkle 150 grams (or more) each:  grated organic cheddar and mozzarella cheese, a few generous shakes of Worcestershire sauce, some drops of Tabasco and salt & pepper to taste.  Add noodles and stir well from the bottom.  Serve quickly.

 

On the Farm

Tadaaki Hachisu piqued my interest with his unusual, “Call me Rodrigo” self-introduction.  Tadaaki had spent a year in Brazil as a cowboy, hence the “Rodrigo” handle.   I was his teacher in Japan and had come to learn Japanese because I love sushi and always wanted to know what they were screaming about.  Tadaaki sometimes wore geeky farm boy clothes, but looked great in jeans.  I wondered if he were a little “too organic” for me, a Northern California native who still liked nice clothes and going out to dinner.  Tadaaki’s ideal was a life without electricity, but Tracy Chapman and something called a “red string” drew us together.  Exactly what we call fate.

When he asked me if I wanted to be a “Japanese farmer’s wife,” I said I’d have to think about it.  Twenty years later, we have 3 teenaged sons, are still married, and are still on the farm.

I’ve been cooking since I was 13.  As a small child, I spent hours perched on a stool next to my mother as she cooked one of her typical Sunset meals.  I still remember the salty wild taste of the raw beef or the crunch of the vegetables she was chopping.  In high school I worked for a woman who had studied at the Cordon Bleu.  She taught me how to make puff pastry and vanilla sugar.  As an exchange student in Belgium, my host mother cooked earthy country food from the twice a week local market. I ate my way through some of the best restaurants in San Francisco and Berkeley, I shopped at Delices de France, Oakville Grocery and Real Foods.  I loved good food and sought it out. 

But I never really knew about seasons.  Until I moved to Japan.

I couldn’t understand why Tadaaki would bring me so many of one kind of vegetable when he came to visit.  Later, I found out why.  When you have a lot of something, you eat it every meal.  You don’t choose the vegetables, they choose you.  In the middle of summer you can’t give away the slender cucumbers and eggplants.  Everyone grows them, so the summer is all about eating eggplant and cucumbers.  They’re said in the same breath:  nasu/kyuri.  I used to stop my mother-in-law at the door when she tried to drop off big bags of each.  Somehow I thought of the field as my own private vegetable shop.  I could saunter over and pluck a bit of this or that for any meal.  In those days, I didn’t know that you have to pick the whole row every two days.  Otherwise, the plants stop producing.

My education was a slow process and I was typically stubborn.  It took me many years to wean myself of planning the meal around recipes.  Or even from planning meals ahead.  I learned to be flexible and I learned to listen to the vegetables.

As my sons got older and my husband got busier, I started picking the vegetables.  Walking among the rows, I would stroke them and feel their energy course through me.  Touching vegetables while they are living is something every cook should do.  And you have to accept them, not force your will on them.

A huge turning point in my cooking came the day I really began to listen to the vegetables.

It was late September.  Our organic grower friend, Suga-san, dropped by bearing a few haphazardly picked turnips from the field.  At the time, I was standing in the kitchen wondering what I would make for dinner.  He left and I still stood there, looking at the turnips lying on my counter.  Suga-san’s vegetables are like none you’ve ever tasted and each bite reveals the 40 years his family has been growing organically.  These vegetables deserve to be eaten fresh picked, at their peak of flavor, so the idea for a gratin started to emerge.  I looked beyond the turnips and found some late summer tomatoes in a basket…also some summer onions and potatoes.  I snipped some thyme from the garden and pulled out a bottle of thick cream skimmed from the milk of grass-fed cows.  And for the very first time I listened to a feeling coming from the spot where my neck meets my torso.  I don’t know what that little hollow spot is called, but I could “taste” the gratin from there and I passively followed the pull of the vegetables.  Talking me through that first “new” gratin.  Now one of many. 

Early Fall Gratin:  Prepare boiling salt water.  Having first cut a handful of turnips into wedges (like for apple pie), boil them quickly—about 3 minutes.  Scoop the turnips out with a strainer and set them aside in a medium-sized bowl.  Meanwhile, cut some potatoes (skins and all) into thick rounds and boil them in the turnip water until al denté.  Sauté some onion slices in olive oil until no longer raw, but still slightly crunchy.  Right before taking these off the flame, added some chopped thyme, salt and pepper.  Tuck this mixture alongside the turnips.  Next, sauté a few chopped garden tomatoes in olive oil until they released their juices.  Toss them in with the turnips and onions.  Cut the turnip greens into 2-inch segments (stems—1 ½-inch) and dunk them in cold water to rinse off any dirt.  Sauté the dripping greens briefly in hot olive oil with a little salt—until just wilted.  Lay the greens on top of the onions and tomatoes.  Heat a generous amount of cream with some squeezed summer garlic, salt & pepper.  Dump half the potatoes into a gratin dish and toss with half the warm cream mixture.  They should be a little drippy.  Even the slices out so that the bottom is covered.  Gently turn the turnips, onion, tomato and greens mixture with your fingers.  Spread this evenly on top of the creamy potatoes.  Add the rest of the cream to the remaining potatoes, then layer evenly over the vegetables.  The gratin ingredients should not be too deep.  Sprinkle with grated Gruyère cheese and bake for about 10-12 minutes in a 500 degree oven.  If the cheese isn’t browned, broil quickly.

Early Fall Gratin (variation):  Peel potatoes, slice into thick rounds and bring to boil in cold salted water.  Boil until done but not falling apart.  Drain.  Sauté quickly in good olive and sea salt (separately) and reserve in different bowls:  1-inch rounds of okra, 1-inch lengths of green beans, sliced vertically if thick and heirloom cherry tomatoes, halved.  Gently warm thick cream and a generous amount of garlic muddled with sea salt.  Film gratin pan with good olive oil for flavor balance.  Add half the cooked potatoes and pour over half the garlic cream (scoop out some of the garlic with your hands and distribute it evenly).  

Strew each of the reserved three quick sautéed vegetables over the potatoes (substitute at will here, though tomatoes are really needed for the acid they bring to the cream).  Top with the remaining potatoes and garlic cream.  Ladle over a small amount of herb vegetable broth if you have some handy.  Sprinkle with excellent Gruyère and cook for about 30 minutes at 450F or so.  The cream should be bubbling up but not completely absorbed and the cheese should be melting and golden in places.