Indigo Days

Sushi

Akagai: Red Clam

Most Japanese don’t eat sushi.  Or if they do, it’s store-bought.  Sushi is perishable and expensive, so usually saved for special occasions.  Though these days, the cheaper (and lower quality) sushi-in-the-round is rapidly replacing traditional sushi restaurants.  In fact, single owner sushiya are dying at an alarming rate.  They just can’t survive.  Even up-scale Tsukiji fish market based small chain sushiya are closing up shop.  Why?

It’s all about value.  I’d rather go to a good sushi shop once a year, than a mediocre one once a month.  But then, I’m crazy for sushi.  And not just any sushi.  I recharge my system by sitting at the blond wood counter, in front of a glass case of raw fish, picking out and eating each selection, two small pieces at a time.  Slowly and lovingly savoring each bite as I flip the fish onto my tongue.

Shima-aji: Jack Mackerel

Toshi-san, the sushi master at my local sushiya in Palo Alto hooked me up with my first job in Japan.  The owner of the English school was also part owner of the Palo Alto sushi shop.  My first taste of sushi on Japanese soil was a letdown, to say the least.  I arrived at Narita in July of 1988.  This was pre-cell phone and pre-Tokyo bypass era.  It took us over four hours to get to Saitama by car.  I thought the guy who picked me up was kidding (not).  Knowing my love of sushi, my hosts had ordered some from a local shop for a late night supper.  Demae (takeout), especially sushi, extends an inherent feeling of generosity toward one’s guest and is often preferred over homemade food.

Although well intentioned, the round lacquer trays sat in the cupboard awaiting our arrival.  For a few hours, I imagine.  (In the heavy, muggy July weather.)  The fish was warm and slightly ripe, but I valiantly dug in.  Bad judgment lead me to try a piece piled with ikura.  The salmon eggs were tacky and unpleasantly fishy.  Luckily in those days I never ate it in one bite.  Trying not to gag, I washed down the eggs with a swig of beer and gently laid the uneaten half on my plate.  This was my first initiation into a phenomenon I have run into over and over in Japan.  The form is often more important than the content.  In other words, as good hosts, they served me my favorite food, regardless if it was practical or not.  It’s the thought that counts.  And here I am, still ungrateful after all these years.  But that’s not true.  I am grateful, though sometimes hope for more content and less form.

This disappointing induction into “Japanese sushi” lead to my obsession in finding a real sushiya.  Armed with the characters for sushi and some pointers from Japanese co-workers, I ventured out on the town but was totally baffled by the cloth hanging curtains in front of each storefront (be it restaurant or not).  I blundered up the stairs into someone’s house and the surprised (but kindly) grandmother directed me to a nearby drinking spot that also served food.  I managed to order some grossly oversized slices of yellowtail sashimi, salt-pickled napa cabbage and a beer.  At least I snared some raw fish.  Still, it wasn't sushi.  The place was raucous, smoky and not at all the peaceful haven I was seeking.  A couple nights later, tired of the sickly smell of summer festival food, I stumbled upon a teeny shop with a fish tank out front.  Hmm…could it be?  I slid open the wood and glass door, and as I poked my head through the noren cloth, the owner’s head jerked up in surprise.  Nonetheless, he was welcoming and patient as I tried to order familiar sushi.  That was when I still thought sushi was all about the little dishes that California shops serve or that ikura demands a quail egg yolk (the master got a good giggle out of that one).  Perhaps the quail yolk softens the acrid salty taste of not-so-fresh salmon eggs, but certainly adds nothing to firm eggs freshly nudged from their sac and sprinkled with a bit of sake, salt and grated yuzu peel.  These eggs burst one by one as you squeeze them between your tongue and the roof of your mouth.  These eggs don’t need the quail yolk because they’re that good.

Komochi konbu & Katsuobushi: Herring eggs laid on kelp topped with dried bonito

Sushi is one of those meals that ends with little butterflies in your stomach as you ask for the check.  That night I rang in at around $50 (phew).  When my paycheck held out (not often), I tried to visit once a week for my “fix.”  The price crept up a bit as I ate more or ordered special items like live kuruma ebi (shrimp).  Tadaaki had never been to a sushiya, so I initiated him on the ins & outs of sushi protocol:  don’t put wasabi in the soy sauce dish because it leaves an unsightly muddy mess.  Pick up the sushi with your fingers and flip it upside down, dipping one little corner of fish into the soy sauce, then pop the whole piece of sushi into your mouth, fish side down.  This sequence is crucial to immediately get the full fish taste, followed by a flash of hot wasabi and the satisfying finish of vinegared rice.  And never let stray rice grains escape into your soy sauce dish (very bad form).  Once Tadaaki joined me at the sushi counter, our per person tab went up to $100.  These days, our hole in the wall occupies a spare but elegant space that exudes calm ( 甲すし).  The sushi is still the best I’ve ever had:  “the master” is creatively gifted and truly a master of the art.  I’m fascinated with pickles and his are inspired.  It’s a 40-minute drive and of course we’re up into the $150 per person range, so somehow don’t go as often as I’d like.  Though as I write, I’m getting the urge.

Even in the U.S., I found sushi pricing to be creative.  The longer you stay (whether you eat more or not), the higher the tab.  One more reason why we eat in Tsukiji-based small chain shops in Tokyo. There is less uncertainty and less need to worry once you know the basic price for what you regularly eat (and drink).  It’s nice to know you can eat your fill and bring the kids as well, without racking up a $500 bill.  Our favorite shop closed recently, but we’ve found its sister shop (a cut above, so of course more expensive).  So far, we’ve only gone two at a time as the boys have healthy appetites and my pocketbook is lean.   竹山

竹山: Chikuzan

In Japan, sushi is all about the impeccable fish.  It’s all about simplicity.  Fish + vinegared sweet rice = sushi.  That’s enough.  It’s delicate, it’s subtle…there is ritual.  Sushi is not about monster rolls or mayonnaise.  Sometimes we should just accept something as it was meant to be and not insist on pushing and prodding it to be exactly how we think it should be.  And sometimes, giving in is a relief.

Saba: Mackerel

Bitter Melon & Eggplant

 I don’t like brown food.  Which is unfortunate given that most Japanese country food is flavored with miso or soy sauce and therefore cast with a brownish hue.  While I did come to Japan because of the food, I was mainly pulled by the startling freshness of sushi and the restorative calm of the sushi bar.  The funny thing is, traditional sushi marries raw fish with sweet vinegared rice and vegetables don’t really come into play.  But I love the vivid colors of farm vegetables:  red tomatoes, bloody beets, orange peppers, bright green lettuce, deep green spinach…these are the colors and flavors that excite my mouth.  These are the colors and flavors I crave. Japanese revere white rice.  And that makes sense when you consider this preponderance of brown and reliance on fish.  Rice is the meal and everything else served just an accompaniment to that pristine bowl of luminescent grains.

A couple weeks ago my husband was making tsumami to go with drinks before dinner.  Japan has some really amazing attitudes on liquor that veer between the extremely lax (letting children buy alcohol for the parents at the corner store) or traditionally conservative (as a single woman, I was served alcohol, as a married woman, often not).  But the custom that makes the most sense is that you always, always serve food with drinks.  And I don’t mean bar snacks like pretzels or peanuts.  Whenever we used to go out, my Japanese friends would order full on hors d’œuvres:  from broiled meats to fried foods to salads to sashimi.  And at home we do the same.  We never have a drink without food. 

That night, Tadaaki was making abura miso and champuru.  Champuru is probably one of my most favorite things that Tadaaki makes.  It is made from a vegetable popular in Okinawa: goya, though in English it’s dubbed “bitter melon.”  Goya looks more like a cucumber than a melon, and has the texture of a hard zucchini.  It was the end of the season, so Tadaaki picked our last ones.  He collected a basket of eggplant from the field as well.  Champuru combines four tastes into an explosive finale:  bitter (goya), sweet (egg), hot (red pepper) and salt.  I had some Dashe Riesling open that night and the slightly sweet fruit quelled the fire.   Christopher and I stood around the counter pinching up bright green and yellow mounds of champuru with our chopsticks as soon as Tadaaki turned it into the waiting pottery bowl.  But Tadaaki was still at work.  This time making abura miso.  By the time that was done, I had eaten my fill of champuru, and despite Christopher’s urging, decided to take a break.  Christopher moaned with pleasure as he stood over the quickly dwindling bowl of steaming abura miso.  Tadaaki offered a small cup of atsukan (warm sake) and he accepted.  No driving that night.

Last night Tadaaki made dinner:  Miso soup with clams, abura miso and a pot of niimono:  chunks of potatoes, Satsuma age halves (pounded fish cakes), slivered ginger, thinly sliced beef and beef tendons simmered in soy sauce flavored water.  I boiled some fall edamame for the green, but was really craving yaki niku teishoku at the local ramen shop (an irresistible concoction of quick sautéed pork served with raw egg, chile paste and green onion).  Again Christopher urged me to try the abura miso.  Tadaaki had sliced up some Japanese eggplants and sautéed them in sesame oil with red pepper and ginger.  Once the eggplant slices were shiny and soft he gently tossed in a mixture of sake and miso, stirring carefully as he coated the slices evenly, without breaking them apart or smashing them.  I yielded to pressure and picked up a few slices with my chopsticks.  They were hot, creamy and subtly salty.  The miso’s haunting salty/sweet character combines well with the melting eggplant.  The sake serves to give balance.  No sugar is necessary because farm vegetables are flavorful and naturally sweet.  Like Christopher a few weeks before, I couldn’t stop scooping up more and more mouthfuls from the bowl.  But I also took a couple handfuls of edamame.  It’s all about balance.   And I still went to the ramen shop.  I’m not fond of brown, and that night, the dinner was brown.

Christopher is 18 and doesn't understand why I sometimes don’t eat dinner with the family.  I try to explain, but it’s hard for him to hear.  What I eat keeps me sane.  Although I love our life, I didn’t choose to live in Japan, and there are many aspects of life here over which I have no control.  But I can control what I eat and I just don’t feel like eating something solely to avoid deviation from the group.  This is my last bastion.  So when Tadaaki and the boys are eating Curry Rice or some other food that leaves me feeling indifferent, I just choose to make something bright and simple, often a salad or a sandwich.  Because that’s what makes me happy and that’s what keeps me sane.

Champuru

Slice bitter melon in half lengthwise and scoop out the seeds with a spoon.  Cut off ends and slice into 5mm half-rounds.  Tear two dried red chile peppers (Japanese or Arbol) into 2 or 3 pieces and reserve in a small bowl.  Break 2 farm eggs into another bowl and whisk with a fork or chopsticks.   Heat a little dark sesame oil in an iron stir fry pan, drop chile peppers into the hot oil.  Add bitter melon slices and toss until no longer raw.  Mix in beaten egg and a little salt.  Toss quickly as the egg curds form.  Turn into a bowl and eat hot.

Goat Kids

 I got there by a little after six, but Tadaaki had already killed the boy goat and strung him up by his hooves to drip the blood out.  The morning air was still and cool, though would turn hot by noon.   A couple of the mothers from my school were crouched in the nearby weeds almost like voyeurs.  They had come to witness the kill, though I’m still not sure why.  I think it was more of a dare than out of respect for the goat.  I had come because it was I who had wanted to eat the goat and I needed to be part of his transition from live animal to meat.  I needed an image of his kill and his blood to really feel the impact of what it is to so capriciously say, “I want to eat the goat.”  I came because I had to and I won’t soon forget the power of that early still morning.

When goats have kids, they usually have two.  The first year we had two girl babies and Christopher easily sold them to friends.  Girl goats are desirable because they give milk.  Boy goats are kept for making babies or meat.  Our mommy goat had a boy and girl the next year, though the girl died right away.  The boy goat was cute, but I steeled myself not to get close.  Of course I wasn’t the one feeding him and his mother.  But I knew we wouldn’t keep this goat and I knew he was going to be eaten.

We couldn’t mate the boy goat with his mother, so Christopher, Tadaaki and I discussed what we would do with him.  Even if we took him back to the goat farm, he would most likely end up killed for his meat.  Here was the moral issue:  should we kill him ourselves and eat him or should we turn away and have someone else do it out of our line of sight?  We debated this at length.  Tadaaki was reluctant, but willing.  Christopher was adamant that I do the killing.  And I wanted to eat the goat, so provisionally agreed.  One of our teachers at the time said he had killed a goat in Africa, and would help, though I didn’t quite believe him.  He was given to telling stories.  Although I had said I would try, I really had no confidence I could kill the boy goat with any real skill.  My one feeble attempt at slitting a chicken’s neck had been tentative at best.  Tadaaki had had to guide my hand, and then finish the job himself.

But I knew that Tadaaki, when pressed, could kill an animal with precision and speed.  He doesn’t like doing it, but he can get the job done.  A couple months before, Tadaaki had gotten a call from his friend Matsuda-san.   He had trapped a marauding teen-aged female boar on his field and needed Tadaaki’s help killing and cleaning it.  When we got there, Tadaaki whipped out a hunting knife designed especially for skinning animals, so I knew he was prepared.  As the time wore closer to the day of the goat, it became clear that Tadaaki was going to do the killing.  And I was relieved.

When you witness the kill (or at least the cleaning process) you are really reverential when you later treat the meat.  This is very powerful stuff.  The image of the goat stayed with me firmly, viscerally, as I prepared a rub for the legs and ribs.  The boy goat deserved the best, so I pulled out the Jean-Marie Corneille olive oil that we had hand carried back from France, chopped up some of the still juicy fresh local rose garlic along with feathery soft early summer rosemary leaves from the garden.  To this I added Sicilian sea salt and India Bold fresh ground peppercorns, and I massaged the mixture gently into the goat meat.

We considered spit roasting, but in the end it just seemed too complicated.  My friend Sylvan was in Japan that summer cooking at Soba Ro and when consulted, drew me a sketch of how they had built a spit for a Chez Panisse event.  Ok, it was doable, but at that point beyond my ken.  Tadaaki likes the pit barbecue, so pit barbecue it was.  He dug a hole at SSU! and filled the bottom with large stones.  Then he built a raging fire over the stones to capture the heat.  After a few hours, he laid the foil wrapped goat meat on the stones and embers and covered the pit with a damp straw mat and a thin sheet of iron before piling the dirt back in to fill up the hole.  The meat cooked all night to meltingly fragrant perfection.

We invited friends to share the boy goat and I cooked Eastern Mediterranean dishes to complement and honor his contribution to the meal.  Before we ate, Tadaaki talked of killing the goat.  At the moment before the kill, he had told the goat, “Ok, this is it, this is your chance to fight.  It’s either you or me.” (Of course he was the one with the knife.)  But that’s his way.  Tadaaki is deeply respectful and gently in tune with the natural world.  He’s more at home loping through the mountains than crunching numbers in Tokyo.  That’s what captivated me and that’s why I married him.

On Monday, some of the SSU! kids asked me where the boy goat was.  I told them we ate him.  “Why?” they wondered.  “Because he couldn’t make baby goats with the mommy,” I returned matter-of-factly (getting down to their level and looking them straight in the eye).  “Oh,” they answered.  And they were satisfied.  I didn't get apologetic or project guilt or regret.  It was a fact of life and they got it.  That’s what we teach our kids and the SSU! kids:  respect and accountability.  The truth is I was sad about the goat, but they needed me to be strong and give it to them without all the baggage. 

I don’t think everyone has to witness or actually kill meat to appreciate it, nor do we have to imagine the blood and the killing act each time we sit down to a steak dinner.  But it really does heighten your appreciation of that steak (or chicken, or fish or whatever) if you’ve raised it, caught it or killed it.  Food that has that history for you, those “legs” so to speak, is unforgettable.  And it becomes hard to eat food with no history, because it is often lifeless and plain.

Paula Wolfert’s Macedonian Relish with Green Tomatoes

This is my shortened version of Wolfert’s recipe from The Cooking of the Eastern Mediterranean (I refer to it as the “blue bible”).  Sylvan grilled the vegetables, but had to get back to Yokohama, so I put this dish together late at night after dinner.  I took a taste and it brought me to my knees.  This easy to overlook relish is one of the best things I have ever eaten.  But the next day, it lost a speck of that fresh edge that made it so grippingly tasty the night before, so plan ahead.

Cook 1 lb. each:  Japanese eggplant, green pepper & green tomatoes (unripe) over a low wood burning fire until soft.  This takes awhile.  Wrap up several cloves of garlic in foil and stick them in the low fire for about 15 minutes.  Crush the cooled garlic with salt in a mortar.  Add 4 Tbsp. chopped walnuts and crush to a paste with the garlic.  Place the just done peppers in a bowl and cover with a plate to sweat, then peel off the skins and cut out the seeds and cores.  Transfer your garlic and walnut purée to a large wooden bowl, or if you have one, a Japanese grinding bowl (suribachi) and add the peeled peppers.  Peel cooled eggplant and take off the tops before adding to the bowl.  Core the green tomatoes and add them as well.  Use a wood bean masher or Japanese large wooden pestle (surikogi).  Crush the vegetables together then toss in ½ cup chopped Italian parsley and 1 ½ tsp. red wine vinegar. Season with sea salt, fresh ground pepper and Hungarian paprika.  Before serving, heat 2 Tbsp. olive oil until quite hot and pour over the relish.  Stir in, then sprinkle with chopped garlic and parsley. (I think I probably forgot these last steps…)

 

Making Goat Cheese

Antique French Cheese Molds

 It took me three years to figure out how to make fresh goat cheese.  I suppose that makes me seem inept in the kitchen (which may or may not be the case).  However, the main reason it took me so long to get it right is that I was approaching the process from a totally wrong direction.

I had already been successfully making fresh homemade cheese from Patricia Wells’ Provence Cookbook, but wanted to make the unheated variety.  The homemade cheese made from milk and vinegar is wonderfully warm and fragrant when first cooked, but tends to dry up and harden when used the next day.  I was dreaming of those creamy goat cheese rounds that I had bought in the markets in France.  Around that time, I took the boys to France and we spent several days at the Dubois’ foie gras farm in the Dordogne.  Danie took me to her fromagerie where they had a small herd of goats and were making rocamadour.  The cheese-making wife kindly showed us how she made her cheese and explained the process as I furiously scribbled notes.  She talked of petit lait and présure, words I didn’t know, but faithfully transcribed to research later.  Petit lait turned out to be whey and présure, liquid rennet.  OK.  So, off I went to the pharmacie to pick up some présure and once home, started my cheese making operation.

The only problem was I didn’t have a goat.  But Harigaya-san was dropping off a few liters of milk every 4 days or so.  The arrival of goat milk in my mudroom, though always appreciated, was often also greeted with an ungrateful internal groan (“oh god, I have to make cheese today”).  Nonetheless, I carefully saved my whey (the petit lait) in little Tupperware containers and tried to recreate the cheese making conditions as in the Dordogne.  Some days, the milk just didn't get used and eventually had to be thrown out.  Though really, the main problem with the cheese making was I really never loved what I made.  Sometimes it tasted fine, but it never really grabbed me and sometimes it tasted downright sour (not enough “good” bacteria).

I knew I needed help, so my friend Sylvan offered to hook me up with the Cowgirls.  Sue Connolly graciously agreed for me to spend a couple days at the Cowgirl Creamery in Pt. Reyes to get some cheese-making pointers.  I dragged along my father and his wife and we arrived early one morning in August to observe Maureen making Mt. Tam and cottage cheese.  I learned that the method using petit lait as the culture was unpredictable and in my case not possible since my whey was not fresh (no goat yet).  Sue recommended getting mesophilic culture from New England Cheesemaking, so I went on line to order my supplies.  We spent a couple mornings at the Creamery and I went home feeling like I could really do this. 

I tried the cheese a few times before Harigaya-san’s milk supply dwindled down to nothing.  By this time we had our own goat and after a 6-month hiatus, I started making cheese again. This time, with our goat milk.  It was still quite an operation and the cheese was again fine, some batches better than others, but it just wasn’t wonderful.  We ate some and gave the rest away.  Sometimes the cheese just went bad in the fridge.  I started to resent the 2 oversized bottles of milk that Christopher left me everyday on the counter. 

In the summer of 2008, we again went to the Dubois farm in the Dordogne.  And this time, I noticed little goat cheese rounds sitting on the kitchen counter.  And so began my goat cheese-making education.  Finally.  Although Danie no longer has goats or cows, she is a farm wife and I am a farm wife so it makes sense that the method that she learned from her grandmother would work for me.  And it did.  Out went the sterilization.   Also, out went the (smelly) cheese muslin.  Danie diagnosed my problem right away:  too much rennet.  No surprise, as I’m prone to wildly adding more of everything when I cook.  The cheese has to sit over night.  Also the cheese has to drip for 8 hours.  And cheese making must be done religiously every day right after milking.  

The first day I unmolded 6 (almost) perfect little rounds, I zoomed over to Sunny-Side Up! to give the staff a try.  I didn't think the kids would be interested, but when I walked into the school with my cheese board in hand, I was assailed by eager little ones clambering for a peek at what I was carrying.  I offered small wedges all around and they took them without hesitation.  That’s trust.  I walked into the backyard with my board and dropped more wedges into grimy little hands.  No worries, a little dirt adds flavor.  I couldn’t keep up with the demand and had to go home for more.  I’ll stop right here and mention that Japanese kids don’t really eat much cheese, and certainly not goat cheese.

And what I realized that day is that every single kid wanted to taste what I was doling out.  They trusted that I would give them something good without question, even if they didn’t end up liking it.  They trusted me.  That was a powerful moment.  And a responsibility that I take very seriously as I cook for them every day stretching the limits of what they can eat, by giving them the freshest and most delicious versions of any food.  Because they deserve it and because they trust me.

 (And the goat cheese was really, really good.)

Patricia Wells’ Tomato Confit on Herbed Goat Cheese Toasts

I learned a lot about cooking from Patricia Wells at Home in Provence and my first copy is falling apart.  I bought a new one, though still use the old (even though the pages are all out of order now).  The book is full of really useful country recipes that still make sense today.  In fact, they almost make more sense because they bring great comfort to the table.   I used cherry tomatoes, but Patricia uses Romas (I also omitted the pinch of confectioner’s sugar).  Line a baking sheet with foil.  Cut small tomatoes lengthwise and place skin side up on the foil.  Scatter little sprigs of thyme leaves over the tomatoes and top each one with a thin slice of garlic.  Drizzle with good olive oil and back in a low heat oven (200F).  Cook for about an hour then flip the tomatoes and continue cooking for another hour.  Cook less for cherry tomatoes (make sure they don’t dry out).  Transfer to a jar and they’ll keep for a week in the fridge.  I chopped up a bunch of summer herbs and mixed them into mashed up fresh goat cheese (basil, parsley, summer savory or thyme are all good contenders) and added some sea salt & fresh pepper.  Spread goat cheese on baguette toasts drizzled with olive oil then baked for 7 minutes on a cookie pan in a 425F oven.  Top with a piece tomato confit half. 

Danie's Goat Cheese Method:  We were getting about 3 liters of milk a day.  Pour the goat milk into a big crockery bowl, add 4 drops of liquid rennet and about 3/4 of a ladle of the whey from the day before.  Let it sit 8 hours and then gently scoop out large pieces of curds with a small mesh strainer into a larger mesh strainer set over another big crockery bowl.  The next AM, start again with the new goat milk.  The drained cheese from the previous day gets packed into little antique pottery molds and sits for a day to drain a bit more.  Reverse the drained cheeses onto little trays with bamboo racks (for soba) and pop them in the cheese fridge (a small refrigerator on the lowest setting for the affinage).  Turn the cheeses every day.  (I was never successful at the aging process, though.  They just dried out.  Back to Danie’s perhaps?)