Indigo Days

Kids, Food & Overnights

"Big Momoka," sister "Rammy," and "Little Momoka"

Momoka Kanezawa tilts her four-year-old-cute face up toward mine, eyes brightly excited as she accosts me at the threshold of my English Immersion Preschool in the Japanese countryside.

 “I wanna overnight Nancy’s house,” she blurts out, urgently awaiting my affirmative answer. I barely make it through the door when ten other preschoolers crowd around. They join her anxious pleas, which I palm off with my signature crunchy eyed-smile and a non-committal, yet hopeful, “OK!” knowing it’s not up to me. Alhough as their teacher, sometimes the lines are blurred, I’m not the mom.

Overnights at Nancy’s House happen a few times of year and attendance is a much-coveted privilege. What the kids don’t quite understand is that attendance at the Overnight is up to Mommy and Mommy’s willingness to pony up the extra fee. It’s as simple as that.

Why are the kids so desperate to go to “Nancy’s House?”

Since “what are we eating for dinner?” or “are we having ice cream?” are the most common questions kids ask before the overnight, I would say they come for the food. I believe in a no-holds-barred kind of attitude when it comes to kids and food. The butcher cuts me a few thick pieces of the best Japanese beef for tender marbled steaks cooked on the grill, I pick vegetables from our field and churn ice cream from local grass-fed cow cream, my husbands’ free-range eggs and organic sugar. That’s why the kids come.

 

But why do the moms send their little three year olds (on up to ten year olds) off for a night at my house? Like most of the special programs at my school, the Overnight “Camp” started at the request of the moms. I’m guessing they wanted a free night more than anything else. Some spend it with their husband, but others go out with “the girls.” In Japan, the babysitter system doesn’t exist. Parents rely on family members to watch their kids, so handing over a child and spending the night on the town is not really an option. Too selfish.

Never one to follow the rules, I hired a local mother to watch my babies while I taught. And I also found high school girls to pitch in part-time on the weekends so I could get some work done as we didn’t use a playpen, and parking the babies was not in the cards.But we never went out at night without the kids. Eating in restaurants (or traveling) with children is not what I would call “fun,” though it's a necessary rite of passage for parents to get through if they want to enjoy meals out with their kids in the future. For many years now, our sons have been delightful dining and travel companions, and the early years of harried meals and constant vigilance at the table, now barely a memory, were well worth it.

 

The Sunny-Side Up! kids are like my own, so table manners are taught relentlessly (sit on your butt, please…eat over your plate…close your mouth when you chew…turn around…don’t play at the table….the list is endless). I also encourage the teachers to actively promote conversation, since the table is a great place for language learning. As a result, SSU! kids are quite comfortable hanging at the table and just “shootin’ the breeze.” I feel strongly that everyone should sit down before the food is actually ready because I want them to soak in the cooking smells and get their appetite aroused. Also, I want the kids to have a visual reminder of the work that goes into a meal, and that it’s not just the push of a button (it helps that we have an open kitchen and dining space). Typically, the kids wait for about ten minutes or so as my assistant and I finish and serve the lunch.

Several months ago, I had a little oven disaster with a humungous Le Creuset pot full of cabbage balls. The bottom layer was almost cooked, but the top layer was virtually raw. It took another thirty minutes to get lunch on the table that day. And not one kid said, “I’m hungry,” or asked, “Where’s my lunch?” I looked over at the tables and the kids were chatting away, like they were born to be there. I was so moved that I put four fingers in my mouth and blew out a sharp whistle shriek to call their attention so I could tell them how great they were. And I gave them a round of applause. It’s their vocal appreciation and positive attitude towards the food that keeps me going back into the kitchen every day. You gotta love that energy (and those kids).

 

We had an Overnight last weekend and for the first time in three years, I did it at Sunny-Side Up! These past three years we’ve had our share of trauma and drama at SSU!, and it came to the point where I almost wanted to close the school. But I’m not a quitter, so I forged on, initiating a school garden project and increasing the school lunch program from twice a week to every day (except Sunday). Before you start thinking I’m a super woman, stop. I have an assistant who does a lot of the prep work for lunch and teachers who actually do the teaching at the school. I’m the “sweep in at the last minute person,” who takes all the accolades. Though I do hear from the teaching staff that the lunches are never as good when I’m not there. (It’s the love I put in.)

But Sunny-Side Up! has passed into a new era. We have an earnestly engaging new teacher, a young woman who is bicultural/bilingual and spent half her life in Germany. I’m writing every day, and find myself now able to work at the school despite (or because of?) the din. And we have two little boy kitties scampering around the house thanks to a friend twisting my arm (it wasn’t too hard). So Sunny-Side Up! feels like home again. 

And the Overnight was a blast. The lot of us all hopped in the big inflatable pools we have on the patio for a night swim right before a storm whipped through. And while we were swimming, one of the BBQ legs fell off and the $100 steaks dropped into the dirt. Tadaaki washed them off and slapped them back on the grill, none the worse for wear. When it came time to change into P.J.'s, I sent them off with an airy, "Go get ready for bed." A far cry from the days of frantically scrambling to get the kids to jump in and out of the bath and at the same time keep all the clothes separated and prepared for the next day. I've let go of all that. And we had raspberry milkshakes with French toast for breakfast. Like I said, it was a blast. 

Panzanella Bread Salad (adapted from Simply Recipes)

Elise Bauer, founder of mega-successful food blog, Simply Recipes, told me I’d love this salad, and I did, though I altered the recipe because of my mood and the vegetables I had.

I made this Panzanella Bread Salad for the overnight, and the kids liked it with varying degrees of enthusiasm. That’s OK, I just keep cooking regular food and eventually they all start to eat everything. I’m patient. In my version, I marinated the torn bread chunks in olive oil first and added homemade red wine vinegar (I was craving that taste). I also put in more cucumbers (about 4 slender Japanese ones), because that’s what we have coming out of our ears right now. And I wasn’t feeling the mix and sit idea, so tossed the vegetables into the bread about 15 minutes before serving. I also always slice basil with a super sharp knife because it bruises if you tear it with your fingers.

Wagyu Steak

I started working on my youtube channel: nancyhachisu’s My Japanese Farm and was looking around at what other people are posting. I stumbled upon a few Jamie Oliver clips. He’s an engaging chap, wouldn’t you say? I think he said something about rubbing a steak with rosemary and garlic, so I gave it a go. As I suspected, there was no hint of either flavor in the cooked meat, though perhaps dropping the steaks into the dirt didn’t help. When kids ask me why the meat is red (we serve our beef rare, no exceptions), I tell them because “it’s supposed to be.” Their response, “Oh, O.K.” Who said kids are hard to cook for?

Making Washi

Going anywhere with a motley crew of preschoolers is always a challenge, and guaranteed to tax anyone’s patience. But try packing a gaggle of exuberant little English-speaking Japanese kids onto an excursion bus for a craft museum visit. Even a 5-minute walk to the field, leaves us frazzled and exasperated. But that doesn’t mean we don’t do it. Because we do.

I’m always scrounging around for new venues for field trips with my Sunny-Side Up! preschool students. One little impediment is that most places only conduct classes or demonstrations in Japanese. Since we’re an English Immersion Preschool, that doesn’t work. A couple of months ago, we had a photographer from England visiting. He was in Japan shooting mountain towns to document their unfortunate demise. Randomly, I took him to a culturally and agriculturally thriving little town about 40 minutes away by car. I hadn’t been there since my first year in Japan, so didn’t know what to expect. We had no joy at the craft beer place. Monday is their off day. We also never found Kaneko-san’s place, a well-known organic grower friend of our own local grower friends. On one last whim, we followed the signs to a place optimistically named Saitama Traditional Craft Hall. They too were shuttered up, I guess nothing much happens on Mondays in Ogawa-machi. But peering through the smoked glass windows, the Craft Hall looked promising and so the next day I had my assistant make the call.

For about $2 per person, the kids could each make a sheet of paper. That sounded like a good deal to me, so we reserved for our upcoming field trip. I figured I’d deal with the issue of Japanese explanations when we got there. My theory was that the ladies could tell us the instructions, then we’d tell the kids how to make the paper in English. Yeah, that was the theory. Try getting Japanese ladies of “a certain age” to follow those rules.

The Japanese part was a disaster, but the kids had fun and the paper turned out very cool. You may wonder why obsess about the language. Unless we strictly enforce the “no Japanese” rule, the kids will speak to the teachers in English, but will naturally speak to their friends in Japanese. And once they create these relationships in Japanese, it will be almost impossible to bend them into English. I know, because when I started SSU!, not wanting to introduce “language negativity,” I never told them “no Japanese.” I just assumed the kids would organically begin switching over to English as they got better in the language. Didn’t happen.

Early on in Year Two, we initiated the No Japanese rule and that has been in place ever since. It took me the following two years to wrest the group into an only English environment. I won’t go into all of my methods, though a couple involved private sessions at “Nancy’s House” (everyone is desperate to come to our house for some reason) and well-placed money rewards. No shame here. It worked.

You may have noticed recurring photos of my more photogenic students at SSU!. The boy grinning impishly out of the lead photo is Ibuki. He came to us at 1 and 7 months and is now 6 years old. He has grown up in our schoolhouse, and is one strong little boy. And passionate as well. But I don’t need to tell you that, you can see it in his face.

I take very seriously the responsibility of growing little human beings. And believe deeply that we are planting seeds in these children that will flourish for many years to come. It is heart breaking when children leave the fold, but I know we’ve touched their lives, so feel comfort in that. And even now I get visits from ex-English conversation students from the early years when “the school,” called “Nancy’s English Club,” was merely a classroom in our home. They often report that they’ve continued with English, or perhaps have spent time living abroad, and it is warming to know that I made a lasting impression in their lives.

And that feeling makes it all worthwhile. No one gets rich teaching kids and certainly by the standards of fellow Stanford graduates, I wouldn’t call my little school a success. But I can’t imagine being the CEO someone predicted I would become back in the days at Stanford, affectionately know as “the Farm.”

I grew up in an oiled redwood house that shimmered iridescent silver in the rain.  The house was designed by William Hemple, an architect who had studied in Japan.  He built the house in a square around a screened over courtyard with rice paper plants growing in the corner and glass doors surrounding.  We had a Japanese garden with a slatted fence spanning our dining room and kitchen and the floors were cork.  The furniture was minimalistic Danish modern from House of Today in Palo Alto.  It was the ‘50’s.

As I write about my life here in Japan I think a lot about how the House is the center of our life and I also think about that Japanese-influenced oiled redwood house with the rice paper plants and sliding glass doors that planted a seed in me that grew and eventually brought me to Japan.

But what does this have to do with making Japanese paper anyhow?

Not much really, though I always did think our rice paper plant actually was used for making what we foolish Americans erroneously call "rice paper." In fact, handmade paper is most appropriately called washi  (literally Japanese paper) and has a gorgeous pulpy, tactile texture that takes dyes beautifully. Washi is my new favorite present to bring to the U.S., if I can just figure out a way not to smash it in transit.

 

And here’s how we made washi with the kids…

 

The teacher sets a rattan mold on top of a wooden frame.

With her help, the child dips the mold into the pulpy water.

With her help, the child dips the mold into the pulpy water.

With her help, the child dips the mold into the pulpy water

With back and forth motions, the child swishes the frame to catch the pulp. It's harder than it looks (we adults didn't fare so well).

   

Once the rattan mold has accumulated enough paper pulp, the teacher releases it from the frame.

With her help, the child dips the mold into the pulpy water

The Teacher gently lifts the pulp-coated rattan mat from the frame...

 

And brings it gingerly to the pile of other paper the kids have made (each marked with a piece of washi marked with their name).

With her help, the child dips the mold into the pulpy water

She expertly lays the rattan mat squarely on the pile...

With her help, the child dips the mold into the pulpy water

And lifts the mat from the pulp, leaving the wet "sheet" behind on the pile of other just-made paper.

 

Et voilà! The stack of freshly made paper dries on a rack, and magically separates when fully dried.

The Japanese Flea Market

Twenty years ago some foreign wife friends coerced me into helping raise money by selling odds and ends at a flea market in Omiya, a sprawling suburb of Tokyo.  The 20-foot-high banner spanning the blocked off shopping street splashed “Free Market” across the white cloth in red letters.

Hmmm…though I suppose it really should have been a "free" market, for all the junk that people were selling that day. 

Ten years later, we began a year long house renovation project with the intention of moving out of the house we had built, to move into Tadaaki’s parents’ 70-year-old farmhouse.  And so began a year of designing, scrubbing, and scavenging for old tansu (chests) and shoji (wood-framed paper and glass doors).  And no they don’t use rice paper, the paper is called washi and literally means Japanese paper (nothing to do with rice).  For several years, I had been hearing about a monthly flea market on the gateball ground next to the Japan Agriculture vegetable stand in our town.  I didn’t think much of it, having already experienced that dubious “free market” in Omiya, but should not have been so quick to dismiss.

When Tadaaki started coming home from our local flea market with very cool unusual pieces, I saw immediately I had misjudged.  From that time on, I have haunted the market winding my way through the rows on that dusty ground and have become pals with some of the sellers.  And no matter what I say, they still think I’m a dealer.  Maybe because I buy wisely, and in volume.  It’s hard to pass up an intricately woven basket for ¥1000 ($9) that probably took someone several painstaking days to craft 50 years ago.  Heartbreaking, really when you think how undervalued that basket has become.  But then, I tend to buy big things:  baskets, mixing bowls and wooden buckets; often affordable because Japanese today have little storage and houses are no longer designed for large pieces.  Farmhouses have cavernous closets with few shelves, so oversized nesting baskets and wooden boxes were used to store clothes or papers.  Sometimes the traditional storage style in our farmhouse is inconvenient, but at least we have space for my “finds.”

It’s mostly the wealthy Tokyoites or other antique dealers who see the value in much of what is being sold at our local flea market.  Even in our old neighborhood, the typical modern couple will tear down their parents’ (or grandparents’) farmhouse and build a monstrous pre-fab house on the lot.  While many Japanese may see the intrinsic beauty in old things, those objects have become far removed from their lives.  Old is cool, just not in their house.  Old is dirty.

But I don’t mind a little dirt and for me, old has aji (literally “taste”).  Also we have three sons, and I know if I don’t buy now, there will be nothing left to buy.  I spent a summer antiquing with my mother in Vermont and New Hampshire while she was a professor at Dartmouth.  Under tents set out in fields, we’d bid on the only ratty pieces we could afford.  It was fun, but in a way depressing to see how little remained from our short American history.

In Japan, the dealers buy up whole kura (storage houses) from farming or merchant families, sight unseen.  The older generation (as well as the younger), see no inherent value in the “junk” stored from the past and are happy to unload the stuff and have someone to haul it away.  So, when I haggle, I have that in mind.  Also, I look for unusual or well-crafted wooden boxes, ceramic serving bowls (often cracked), lacquer miso soup bowls with lids (sometimes hand carved with shell inlay) and baskets.  Glorious, glorious baskets.  And I also buy tansu (Japanese chests of drawers)—though less now that one of our old chicken coops is storing about twenty tansu scavenged from old houses due to be demolished.

In the end though, the dealers at our flea/antique market are not getting rich, so there is a limit on how much I try to get the price down.  And it’s all about the relationships we form.  I trust their pricing and they know I value the things I buy because I have an eye for humble artistry over flash.

I’ve got my favorite guys at the flea market, though they’re not always there.  Some have given up, while others hang in there despite encroaching age and shaky health, but their stuff seems to deteriorate along with their health.  My favorite vendor has a dyed black comb-over, and stutters when he speaks.  And he always puts together a great package for me.  Of course I come away with way more than I intended to buy, but the prices he offers me are too good to pass up.  And he is sweetly sincere.   Last time I bought an alligator purse for $25 dollars and an antique round wall clock for $45.  I still haven’t figured out where I’ll put the clock or carry the purse, but they were great buys.

f someone is selling swords, I know his wares are too rich for my blood. There 

But if someone is selling swords, I know his wares are too rich for my blood.  There is a crotchety old guy with swords and beautifully crafted trinkets such as inro.  When I ask him the price, he deadpans, “takai” (it’s expensive), and says no more.  Vendors who deal in katana (Japanese swords) tend to be dismissive of gaijin and scruffy people (like me) who don’t have the prerequisite bulging wad of cash in their wallet.  And I can spot those customers a mile off, either their skin is well-inked (semi-yakuza) or they’ve got slicked back hair and are sporting sunglasses and golf clothes. 

he flea market in our little town of 15,000 has grown from once a month to a weekly affair, and now has spre

The flea market in our little town of 15,000 has grown from once a month to a weekly affair, and now has spre

The flea market in our little town of 15,000 has grown from once a month to a weekly affair, and now has spread out to an adjacent parking lot.  I stumbled upon that annex the last Sunday in May.  A wicker armchair caught my eye, but before I could scuttle away, the adept seller had me in his clutches.  And yes, I did buy it, though I didn’t need it.  It was hand woven and just too gorgeous to pass up (though probably not Japanese).  I’m not sure why our little area has become a magnet for old things (and junk), but the gateball ground is mobbed on the 1^st and 3^rd Sundays of the month (the main markets) and new vendors seem to be pop up each time I go.

 

 

AAnd on that last Sunday in May, I ran into dear friend a

And on that last Sunday in May, I ran into dear friend and editor, Kim Schuefftan, who edited and ghostwrote most of the seminal cookbooks that came out of Kodansha International in the ‘80’s.  Kim has been in Japan since 1963 and loves Japanese old things as much as I.  He knows a lot more than me, though I introduced him to our flea market, to which he often drives 40 minutes each way.  He knows a good thing when he finds one.  And we foreigners hold one advantage over Japanese buyers, in that we can often discern intrinsic beauty in mundane objects that Japanese may well overlook.  

Local vegetable stands are about the closest thing we come to farmers’ markets in Japan.  And since our family produces a lot of our food, we don’t really buy much food at the vegetable stand, so the flea market has become the place I create connections with “purveyors” and where I run into Japanese and foreign friends alike.  I always missed that while living here, and thought nostalgically about living in Menlo Park, perhaps running into old friends from childhood or Stanford at Draeger’s.  But now, with Facebook and the blog, I “run into them” anyway, so suppose I have the best of both worlds.

 

Kamikawa Flea Market Finds:   Edo period tray, lidded wooden baskets for sweets, lacquered miso soup bowl lids.   Fontvielle Marché (Les Baux):  antique linen napkin

                                                                Photo by Kenji Miura 

Ohagi:  Wash 500 cc glutinous rice (mochi gome) until water runs clear. Place rice in rice cooker receptacle. Add 500 cc (2 cups) minus 3 Tbsps filtered or spring water and let stand overnight. Cook in rice cooker on okowa (おこわ)setting. Or, wrap in thin muslin gauze or two layers of cheesecloth, place in steamer, and steam over furiously boiling water for one hour.

Transfer cooked rice to a large mixing bowl and mash with a large wooden pestle until the rice grains begin to adhere into a sticky mass. There will still be visible grains. Let cool 20 minutes for easier handling.

Set a small bowl of cold water by your side. Dip your fingers in the water to keep the rice from sticking to your hands. Shape rice into 10-cm (4-inch) by 5-cm (2-inch) oblongs.

Sesame: Toast 4 Tbsps sesame seeds in a dry pan over medium heat just until they pop. Grind roughly with mortar and pestle, add 1 Tbsp sugar and ¼ tsp salt and mix. Pour sesame mixture into a small plate and roll rice oblongs to coat. (substitute: walnuts or pecans)

Soybean powder (kinako): To 4 Tbsps kinako, mix in 1 Tbsp sugar and ¼ tsp salt. Follow above procedure for rolling ohagi.

Azuki Bean Paste (anko): Measure 250 cc (1 cup) azuki beans into a medium-sized pot fill pot to top with cold water. Bring to a boil over high heat, remove from flame and let sit one hour. Drain, return beans to pot, and fill with cold water to about 4 cm (2 inches) above beans. This is known as “surprise water” (bikkuri mizu); it shocks the beans and softens them. Simmer until beans just get soft. Stir in 50 grams (¼ cup) sugar and ¼ tsp salt and continue cooking and until beans start to fall apart. Mash roughly. The paste should be still about the consistency of mashed potatoes, but still chunky. Smooth anko around the rice oblongs instead of rolling in sesame or kinako.

New Garlic & Miso

When I mentioned seasonal garlic in one of my recipes, a friend asked, “Garlic has a season?”

Oh yes, everything has a season.  We just may not see it, especially for those ubiquitous everyday ingredients like potatoes, onions and garlic.  But seasons they do have and their seasons should dictate how you use all three.

Like many people who do not grow professionally, there are times when our fields are lean and we must buy from other farmers or make do eating negi every day.  Family members tend to rebel, so we are lucky to have other organic grower friends in our area to turn to when we are between seasons.  And precisely right now, we are in the most barren season of all:  hazakaiki (literally:  “on the edge of the season”).  Late winter and early spring vegetables have come and gone, while the early summer shoots are still struggling their way to maturity.  Farmers who started their seeds in green houses are cropping vegetables now, so I break some of my unwritten rules about waiting to buy edamame, tomatoes or potatoes before ours are ready.  I cook lunch for the kids at Sunny-Side Up!, and the vegetables that Fukuda-san, Suka-san and Iwata-san grow, give me the essential inspiration and energy I need to create meals for those kids, day in and day out.

Garlic, though, is one of those crops that we are never too successful at producing.  So, no guilt there about buying locally.  And by some lucky stroke of fate, a few farmers in the next town over are growing rose garlic.  I first read about rose garlic in the Seeds of Change catalog.  I loved the sound of the small cloves with their purported delicate flavor.  I’m more of a "small is better" kind of person, so don’t buy into the gigantic fruit varieties that are so popular here in Japan.  Today, tracking down Japanese heirloom seeds is no easy feat, but twenty years ago, it was nearly impossible.  We ordered our seeds from Seeds of Change and along with those seeds, a couple pounds of garlic.  Too bad they didn’t make it through the agriculture inspection.

A few years later, inspired by A Food Lover’s Guide to France, my boys and I began meeting brother, Peter, and niece, Olga, in Provence every summer.  It was June, so new garlic flooded the market.  Rose garlic, how providential.  I stuffed some in my suitcase each trip, and no one was the wiser.  But school and other obligations have derailed our yearly summer sojourn in Provence.  I’m pining away for the sun, the lunches at Le Bistrot du Paradou and hooking up with Slow Food Provence Méditerranée friends.  Perhaps I’ll have to go on my own.

As for our garlic “seeds,” since I discovered those farmers growing rose garlic in a neighboring town, we now have our own local source.  Who would have thought?  They're not organic, but I’ll overlook that.  (Yes, I do go back on my principles.  Limes for mojitos or margaritas are from Mexico.  Sigh.  Andrew razzes me for my lack of conviction.)  The local rose garlic appears in the beginning of June and is sold out by the end of the month, so every year I order about 10 kilos to get me through the year.  The alternative is white elephant garlic from China, a bit rank and totally lacking in subtlety. 

Over the years, I’ve tried various storage methods.  Tadaaki always insisted on hanging the small crop of garlic that he grew under the eaves of the chicken coops.  But the cloves turned to dust after several months and never made it to Christmas.  Tadaaki completely ignored my logical advice, but not having grown the garlic, I had to shrug that off.  I learned to use our homegrown garlic quickly, before it disintegrated.  On the other hand, the garlic I bought was mine to store as I liked.  I tried refrigeration, but the air was too moist and the garlic tended to sprout.  Room temperature in the larder was not the answer either.  Eventually, I discovered that garlic stayed best when packed loosely in thick American supermarket bags (rolled up, but not sealed airtight), and left in the kura, a traditional storage house that maintains a cellar temperature through out most of the year.  There are some rats that scamper about, and although they gnaw at the wine bottle foils, they don’t get into the garlic.  And these days, Tadaaki has given in about where I store his garlic as well. 

Tadaaki grows garlic most years, though his crop is usually small and would be quickly depleted, should I use it to feed the SSU! kids.  I ration his garlic out bit by bit, usually only for salads constructed from our own baby lettuces.  Also, the garlic bulbs we grow sometimes melt in the field, engulfed by monster weeds.  As the boys and I were often gone in June (cropping season) and Tadaaki is busy with the rice planting at this time, our garlic crop suffered.  But this is changing since we are no longer traveling in June and I am more involved in supporting Tadaaki’s work on the fields.  When in Japan, Christopher has always been an invaluable right-hand man to Tadaaki, but will be leaving soon for college.  As for the younger boys, Japanese school and basketball club have swallowed them up, so I suppose that now just leaves me.  Gulp.

In a fit of I-don’t-know-what, Tadaaki decided to till the field where he had planted onions and garlic, so cropped them early.  Too early.  Though to give Tadaaki his due, it was a miserable crop to begin with, and probably not worth leaving in the field.  So much nicer to gaze over the pristine richly brown dirt, nary a weed in sight and begin one’s summer planting with a clean canvas.  Much more satisfying than leaving a single scraggly line of alliums to mar the vista.

I found Tadaaki’s newly cropped garlic in a heap on the garage floor, mingled in with some fresh-cropped onions.  Moist earth still clinging to their bulbs, the garlic and onions were all in danger of molding.  I separated them and dried the garlic a bit on the gravel in front of our house, heated by the late afternoon sun.

I also brought a few teeny bulbs into the house and set to work peeling them to mash up with salt and put in my salad that evening.

But as I peeled, a thought came to me.  Miso.  These little teeny cloves, not much bigger than a one year old’s pinky must be sensational dipped in the organic brown rice miso I had in my fridge.  Earthy, rustic salt against juicy hot.  Yum.  I tried one.  Yum.  I had to try another, and another.  But finally I forced myself to stop after about eight of those weensy cloves.  Before bed, I just had to have a few more, but regretted it the next morning.  I woke up to garlic in my brain.  Over the course of the following two weeks, I was addicted to this little snack and struggled to keep myself in check.  The only reason why I stopped was because I ran out of that special miso and my everyday one was too light to be an effective foil to the garlic.  I’ve been busy writing, so haven’t had time to make the trek up to Yamaki to buy more and don’t trust anyone else to buy the right one.  The taste haunts me and now I’m craving that miso with Tadaaki’s new garlic.  Today.  I’ll go today.  (as soon as I post)

 

New Garlic & Miso:  I overlooked miso for years but, a bit like taking an old friend as a lover, am now completely enthralled with it.  My favorite miso is made in Kamiizumi-mura, a mountain town bordering ours.  Yamaki Jozo is family-owned and part of our Slow Food community.  But do not despair, you can buy Yamaki brown rice miso in the U.S., packaged under the name Ohsawa.  The brown rice miso has enough depth of flavor to hold up to the garlic, and no distraction of the underlying wheat tones that you get with wheat miso.  I couldn’t have told you that a month ago, but recently I’ve been yanking off stalks of wheat to taste wheat seeds in the field with SSU! kids. 

Spoon out a dollop of miso onto a small plate.  Peel very young garlic, dip in miso, scooping up about the same volume of miso to garlic and eat sparingly.  Watch out, this is completely addicting and totally unforgettable.  (And can lead to an upset tummy if over-consumed.) Also fantastic with radishes, Japanese cucumbers, small green peppers or mild chiles. 

  

Vietnam with Patricia

I’d follow Patricia and Walter Wells anywhere.  And I did.  When I read last summer that Patricia and Walter were offering a Taste of Vietnam class, I jumped at the chance.  I had wanted to go to Vietnam for about 10 years now, mostly because of the food, but also because of my romantic (yet mistaken) view of Vietnam as a sort of “Frenchified” Asian country.  Other than some colonial-style architectural influences, I didn’t see much lingering evidence of France’s presence in Vietnam.  But I did feel an unsettling (well hidden) undercurrent of disdain for Americans.

I loved the peace of being on my own in a different world.  I love “vacation mode” when I can be almost a different person.  A woman of leisure.  Hah.  I swam laps and lazed by the pool by day, watched iTunes downloads and read books by night.

I loved everything about Patricia and Walter’s

I loved everything about Patricia and Walter’s class:  the food, the ambiance, the laughter, and the camaraderie.  The private villa at the Nam Hai (with personal butler and private pool) that butted up against China Beach was like something I’ve only seen in movies.  I loved the luxury of it all.  A big change from the farmhouse.  But I did not love Vietnam.

Perhaps my stay was colored by the sharp stomach pains that kept me up all night.  Every night.  Something I ate the first day in Hoi An did not agree with me.  I finally gave in and called the doctor, though the antibiotics just made me more queasy.  In truth, my stomach never recovered until I got back to Japan.  And I still feel lurches from coffee, shrimp and pork.  So no, I did not love Vietnam.

Bin Vietnam.  Despite the kindness of many, 

But there was another reason for my malaise in Vietnam.  Despite the kindness of many, I quickly felt strangely foreign and alienated in a way I had never felt in Japan.  I stepped off the plane in Da Nang and a smiling driver from the hotel was waiting, sign in hand.  He handed me a lavender-scented ice-cold towel and motioned to the bottle of chilled water perched in the holder in front of my seat.  Cold water and icy towels scented with ginger, lime, or flower essence greeted each change in locale throughout my stay in Hoi An, and were thoughtfully welcome touches.  But on that ride into Hoi An, I chatted with my driver.  The first of several disconcerting conversations during my 12-day stay.  Despite a fairly competent knowledge of English, the driver showed no reaction to any of my responses to his questions.  Considering my blond hair and Western face, “I’m from Japan,” certainly deserved more than an impassive smile and a nod.  It was as if my words just hovered close to his ears, then veered off into space.  He heard them, but did not listen.  Over and over, I experienced that phenomenon in the following days.  Gradually, I became inured to the insincere overtures, and also less and less inclined to initiate conversation that was merely pro forma. And as my ill ease grew, so did my feeling of alienation.  By the time I left my first hotel for Patricia’s cooking class at the fabulously decadent Nam Hai, I was fairly anesthetized emotionally.  And my stomach never seemed to get better.  I’m a “mind over matter” kind of person, so daytime, I weathered through, it was the nights that were tough. 

There I was in the fabulous villa, with my 

There I was in the fabulous villa, with my personal butler, Trung and a private pool where I could swim laps day or night to work off the numerous, yet deliciously flavored dishes (and equally generous amounts of wine).  Of course, I could not pass up trying any (especially Patricia’s), because that was what I was there for.  To cook Vietnamese food.

Patricia approaches French cooking with a light hand and is a master of the menu, so I always come away from her classes having learned so much more than cooking.  And I always look at Patricia and Walter as models of grace as hosts and as organizers (even under stressful cooking conditions such as outside kitchens and unfamiliar ingredients).  Neither ever loses their cool (unlike me), so I continue to be in awe of them and hope to move more in that direction myself.  I get fairly snappy and impatient when I’m cooking for a crowd, though truth be told, I’m more visibly relaxed thanks to mentors like Danie Dubois, Patricia Wells and the crew at Chez Panisse. 

My favorite meals were ones orchestrated by Patricia and I will certainly make many of 

My favorite meals were ones orchestrated by Patricia and I will certainly make many of those once I feel more kindly towards Vietnamese food.  Walter’s Spicy Lime and Lemongrass-Cured Beef Salad, Char-Grilled Eggplant Salad with Fresh Mint, Saigon Baguette Sandwiches with Pork Terrine, homemade mayonnaise and pickled vegetables (yum!)…oh there was much, much more.  

I was less excited about a couple fusion restaurant cooking classes, but we had I was less excited about a couple fusion restaurant cooking classes, but we had

an 

I was less excited about a couple fusion restaurant cooking classes, but we had an absolutely unforgettable meal at a little beach side place on Cham Island.  There was a lightly dressed pea vine salad with peanuts that was to-die-for, along with some native scallop-type shellfish grilled on the open fire.  Our Italian dive master guide picked us up some small one-day dried local squid, threw them on the fire and passed the squid around with a dish of salt and pepper into which we squeezed a piece of lime.  Heaven.  But then, that is the kind of food I love, wild and fresh, straight from the land or sea.

Patricia Wells’ Pork with Green Beans, Ginger and Fresh Coriander:  Tear off tops of ½ lb thin green beans, boil for 1-2 minutes (depending on thickness, they should be no longer raw, but still crispy), refresh in a large bowl of icy cold water and cut into ½ to ¾ inch pieces.  Sliced white part only of 6 thin spring onions into ¾-inch lengths.  Fine chop: a couple small cloves of fragrant new garlic, fresh ginger (5 Tbsp) and fresh summer lemon grass bottoms (1 Tbsp).  Measure 4 Tbsp rapeseed or peanut oil into a large frying pan and, without heating, stir in the chopped garlic, ginger and lemon grass.  Heat over medium flame and cook until it smells heavenly and is lightly colored (about 5 minutes).  Add 6 oz. lean ground pork from the butcher and cook until the meat separates into clumps up and is just cooked through (about 3 minutes).  Reduce flame to low, and add 2 tsp Vietnamese chile sauce, 4 Tbsp garlic chile sauce, 1 Tbsp Vietnamese fish sauce (Phu Quoc or 3 Crabs), the blanched green beans and spring onion pieces.  Stir gently, but thoroughly to blend flavors.  Cook for 1 or 2 minutes more, serve with 1 Tbsp pan-roasted sesame seeds or peanuts (chopped); a generous sprinkling of chopped fresh herbs (cilantro, and mint or Thai basil) and a bowl of rice.

minutes more, serve with 1 Tbsp pan-roasted sesame seeds or peanuts (chopped); a generous sprinkling of chopped fresh herbs (cilantro, and mint or Thai basil) and a bowl of rice.

Cham Island "Pea Vine" Salad with Peanuts 

Cham Island Purslane-like salad with Peanuts 

 

Air Dried local Squid