Japanese Style Korean BBQ

In Japan, Korean BBQ is called yakiniku. The meat is flavored for Japanese tastes, but the experience is pretty much the same: large platters of beef or pork grilled at the table. But I think things are changing. I just caught the end of a program that showed one Japanese restaurant serving individual portions of meat. Usually, at a Korean restaurant, you order a platter of a specific cut or part (marinated/unmarinated steak, ribs, tribe, etc.). So, unless you're with a large group, you only order one or two platters. But in Japan, people wanted to be able to order a piece at a time, like at a sushi restaurant, so they could eat a variety of meat. I've often wished that myself! This is such a great idea and hope Korean BBQ restaurants here in the US follow suit.

Deep-frying Disaster

Okay. Not going to deep-fry duk (Korean rice cakes) again! One exploded quite spectacularly about five inches from my face. Unfortunate because the deep-fried duk was really delicious -- like golden noorunji (the crisped up rice at the bottom of a cooking pot). I ate them with sugar.

DIY Baking Powder

When I found out you can make your own baking powder, I thought this is something I must try. Well, it took me several years, but I finally did it this morning. Wow. What a difference. I put some in my oatmeal pancake batter and the whole thing bubbled up like a witch's cauldron!

It's so easy. You just need cream of tartar and baking soda. It takes about five minutes. That's it.

The recipe I used comes from Scott Peacock's The Gift of Southern Cooking, a most excellent book. Much of the recipes from the book is from his mentor, Edna Lewis, as is the baking powder recipe. Scott writes that Miss Lewis was so "distressed by the chemical additives and aftertaste of commercial 'double-acting' powders" that she started making her own: 1/4 cup of cream of tarter with 2 tablespoons of baking soda, sifted together three times and stored in a tight-sealing jar (I use a tiny Lock 'n Lock). The powder lasts 6 weeks, but store at room temperature and away from sunlight.

Scott writes that when he first started using the DIY powder, he didn't taste any difference, but that when he tried using the commercial powders, he could definitely feel the metallic tingle on his tongue. I thought my oatmeal pancake batter fried up crisper too.

Baked Asian pears

Recently, while shopping at Costco (one of my least favorite things to do), I noticed a box of fruit labeled "Apple Pears". I, naturally, thought it was one of those weird hybrid fruits, borne out of some mad marketing scheme. But no, the "Apple Pears" were just Asian pears. Go figure. Anyway, the price was right, so I bought a box, and after eating two or three, decided to make some baked pears for a little variety.

The inspiration came from a show I saw about steamed Asian pears. This woman had cut in half this massively big pear (the size of a small watermelon), scooped out the seeds, and filled the cavity with honey, jujubes, ginkgo nuts and all sorts of goodies. I didn't have any of these things, nor did I have a steamer. So I put my halved pears into a baking dish, filled their tiny cavities with maple syrup, filled the baking dish with a little water, sprinkled some cinnamon and baked it in a 325 oven.

After about an hour and a half, I opened the oven to take the pears out and this strange thing happened to me: the warm smell of baking fruit, the steam from the oven, lifting the ceramic baking dish — I suddenly thought about baked apples, how I used to make baked apples all the time — why had I completely forgotten about baked apples — why did making baked pears seem so completely novel?

Why had I stopped making baked apples? Baked apples are fantastic. Why was no one else making baked apples? I can't remember the last time I'd read a recipe featuring baked apples. Caramel and candied apples are all over the place, but the equally good baked apples have disappeared from our collective memory (aka the media). Very strange.

The interesting thing about baked pears is how boozy the result was. I'd only added maple syrup and cinnamon, and yet, it tasted like I'd added a good quarter cup of eau de vie. Since I like boozy, the result was heaven. Or at least a little bit of heaven.

I'd give this dish a solid A.

Welsh Rarebit

On a cold fall day, nothing is better as an afternoon snack than Welsh rarebit. Not the strange runny cheese sauce on toast you often get in the US, but the substantial crusty pizza-like thing you get in the UK. One of my favorite recipes comes from the Two Fat Ladies, Jennifer Paterson and Clarissa Dickson Wright. According to them, the original Welsh rarebit was just a thick slice of cheese toasted in the oven. Their version is like a souffle, the melted cheese puffed up with eggs. And fairly easy to make. If you're making it as a snack for you and a buddy, shred about 4 ounces of cheddar cheese and add some mustard (they recommend dry English, but I used Sierra Nevada Pale Ale mustard), Worcestershire sauce (I add a huge amount), Tabasco, salt and pepper. Now take two eggs and separate the yolks from the whites. Add the yolks to the cheese mixture and stir until things look pretty uniform. Then whip up the whites until there are some nice stiff peaks (mine were just soft, but hey, it all eats the same). Fold the whites into the cheese mixture. Finally, put the mass on top of toasted bread and bake in a preheated 450 degree oven (hopefully, you've put the bread and cheese into a baking pan). In ten minutes, the tops should be golden.

Snacking on Welsh rarebit isn't a bad way at all of spending the time while waiting for the Muse to come back. And, Dear Muse, come back soon. I really don't think it's fair of you to get me all excited about this thing and leave me hanging with barely 40 words. After all, I've been so good. Ever since that time you punished me and left me with a 11,000-word story when I was hoping for a good, chunky novel, I've been your devoted slave. I'm not even hoping for a novel this time.

What I Just Cooked: Japanese-style Braised Pork

I wanted to make a pork stew, but with a Japanese twist, so I went to one of my favorite books, Japanese Cooking A Simple Art by Shizuo Tsuji. There aren't a lot of pork recipes in the book, but I did find something called Nagasaki-style Braised Pork. The recipe called for all sorts of things like bean curd lees and bacon and required two days of cooking. Not going to happen. So I just simplified it by using the basic simmering stock and throwing in whatever vegetables I had.

Braised Pork

About a pound of cut up chunks of pork shoulder (or butt as it's sometimes called)
About 4 small red potatoes cut into chunks
2-3 carrots peeled and cut into chunks
24 pearl onions, peeled

simmering liquid

3 1/2 cups dashi (I just put half a small packet of powdered dashi with 3 1/2 cups of water)
1 cup sake (I used the mei kuei lu chiew because I didn't have sake)
2 tablespoons of mirin (can be skipped)
6 tablespoons of soy sauce
5 tablespoons of sugar

Put the pork into a casserole pot and add the simmering liquid. Let it come to a boil. Skim impurities. Then add the rest of the ingredients and simmer for about 45 minutes.

Recipe adapted from Japanese Cooking A Simple Art.

California Que BBQ Sauce

I was in Whole Foods recently and there was this really friendly gentleman offering samples of his BBQ sauce. I always like to taste samples but I almost never buy anything. Not this time. The BBQ sauce was from The California Que and I've never tasted anything like it. Usually, you can summarize BBQ sauces with "sour", "sweet", "vinegary", "inedible". But not this one. There was such a rich, fruity taste to it, you could just eat it as a dip. But it does make a fantastic BBQ sauce, as I found out when I marinated some chicken legs.

California Que is pure sauce — no additives at all. You have to love the simple ingredients list: ketchup, brown sugar, mustard, vinegar, lemon juice, Worcestershire sauce, pepper sauce, honey, molasses, herbs and spices. The gentleman said it took him years to refine the recipe, and you can taste it. He offers three degrees of hotness — I found the medium plenty hot.