Thursday, July 17, 2008

East Meets West Meets East

“Mahina O Hoku/Aloha Wau Ia ‘Oe” by Natalie Ai Kamauu

Once again I've just returned from traveling, but this time only from across the country, the east coast, where we recently celebrated a significant birthday for my mother. It was heartfelt and hard work, but every bit worth the effort. And, more importantly, it was a family affair.

My Samoan mother is the eldest of 11 siblings, and most of them are local to her. Her father joined the military to get his relatively impoverished family out of the poor Samoan islands. He eventually retired in the last coastal town he was stationed at, Wilmington, North Carolina.

Wilmington is this beautiful boutique beach and golf course community off of the Intracoastal Waterway, considered to be right in the center of Hurricane Alley. Its southeastern coastline unapologetically juts out into the ocean just tempting the Atlantic to strike at it every year with a myriad of tropical storms and smaller hurricanes that fizzle into depressions as they hit the Carolina coast. Sometimes these storms do not weaken, and, in fact, severely punish the peaceful shores of Wilmington and its neighboring coastal communities.

This is not to deter from the beauty of Wilmington, however. I used to visit frequently as a child during the summers and most major holidays. Its winters are mild, although its summers are unforgiving, thick with humidity and flying insects. But its landscape is lush and green with rivers, sounds, and beaches seeming to be strategically situated throughout the city limits.

Likewise, my parents live in a lush, green neighborhood, a golf course community, which is not uncommon. Their backyard is where we decided to celebrate my mother's birthday…Polynesian-style. This is where most people are intrigued, that a large Samoan family has settled in a very southern coastal town.

My mother's Samoan side of the family is large, very large. I am one of about 36 first cousins. We celebrate graduations and major life accomplishments within the family by hosting luaus, where we invite friends not familiar with Samoan custom to eat, drink, and dance with us (it has become a cultural experience for many…as well as a time to celebrate for all). And actually, upon my arrival into Wilmington this time, my family had successfully hosted three luaus in the three weekends prior to my mother's birthday celebration. With a family this size, you can imagine how many special events can happen in a given year.

So, this celebration was not unusual; it reminded me of how appreciative I am to have my large, Polynesian family. My sisters and I flew in to town for the weekend (we are all situated in different states). My parents were putting up about 21 family members at their place, while other out-of-towners stayed with other local family for the weekend. And each day, family would come over to help in the kitchen, play suipi (the national Samoan card game), or break out the guitars and sing until late in the evening. It was shaping up to be exactly how I remembered family gatherings to be like in my childhood. Except this time I was taking a more active role.

In the thick of things I was in and out of the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled back, beside my sisters and cousins, preparing dishes like sapasui (bean curd noodles with vegetables, meat, soy sauce, and garlic) and oka (sashimi-grade fish in coconut milk, lemon juice, onions, tomatoes and cucumbers) while children ran underfoot. We had rolled over one hundred spring rolls (for frying) the night before, and I was making my fourth large batch of sushi rice. One of my uncles was prepping the umu (the underground oven) for the pua’a (the pig) with large banana leaves and rocks. He was going small this time with a 65-pound pig. We didn’t expect more than 100 guests at the luau because we hadn’t invited as many as we normally would (yes, they do get larger, much larger; both the luaus and the pigs).

My mother had marinated the chicken the night before, and another one of my uncles was hauling his large grill into the backyard with his truck to barbeque the chicken. Another one of my uncles had assembled a separate food station, complete with portable burners and woks, on a table under a tree outside so that he could prepare the pancit and fry the spring rolls. One of my aunts was preparing her famous banana poi (overripe mashed bananas, coconut milk or cream, and lemon juice served like you would a pudding). I can taste the banana poi in my mouth right now.

So, where exactly am I going with this? Well, all this is to say that, although I don’t really mention my Samoan half that much (I am also half German), I still very much identify with my Polynesian roots. And although most of my immediate Samoan family is not close by, and I only get to see them several times a year, I still hold them close and dear to my heart like a cherished hula that plays over and over in my head. Fortunately, I still have plenty of Polynesian family spread out all over, especially in California, Hawaii, and Samoa. And my roommate and good friend, a Hawaiian herself, and I are also in a halau (a hula school) in southern California, so we are dancing regularly and plugged into the Polynesian community somewhat still.

Of course, it is always in the little things that I am able to feed my nostalgia. Like listening to that familiar hula, or...enjoying this recipe, one of my favorite Samoan dishes that one of my uncles makes better than anyone I know.

Oka

1 1/2 lbs. sushi-grade Ahi tuna, cut into 1/2" cubes
1/2 cup Lime juice (or Lemon juice)
1/4 cup Coconut milk
1 Cucumber peeled, seeded, cut into 1/2" cubes
1 Tomato seeds removed, diced
3-4 Scallions chopped
Kosher or sea salt (big pinch)
Fresh ground pepper (pinch)

Mix all ingredients together well. Let marinate 10-20 minutes. Adjust seasoning to taste. Drain excess liquid. Garnish with some freshly chopped scallions and serve. Variations include: using other fish like halibut, snapper, or swordfish, and/or adding diced red onion, cubed red peppers, grated carrots, or minced garlic.

Monday, June 30, 2008

Greek Mythology

“I’m Good, I’m Gone (Fred Falke Remix)” by Lykke Li

Perhaps it is not so obvious that I just got back from a whirlwind trip to Greece--Athens, specifically, as well as some of its neighboring beaches and Aegina, one of the Saronic Islands--slideshow to the right notwithstanding. My appreciation for Greek Mythology has grown rapidly, exploded actually…insomuch as I tasted foods befitting the gods. I witnessed the turn of humankind in architecture still standing after two thousand years, and marveled at its breathtaking tenacity. I walked cozied narrow streets lined with inviting shops, al fresco dining, and ivy-covered townhomes, and was greeted with a friendly smile or wave. I ate dinner after 9:30 p.m. virtually every night, and followed the dining with drinking and being merry until the early morning hours. I even enjoyed the company of a Greek god who showed me his country from a very different perspective (thank you, Dimitris).

Yes, the pleasures of Greece come in so many unexpected (and some very expected) packages.

One of the more unexpected packages was in this soup, perfect to enjoy when returning home from a night of too much being merry, with lemon juice and chicken and rice, that was so satisfying. I’ve scoured the Internet looking for a recipe so that I can replicate what I enjoyed, but none of them seem to bring about what I believe my experience to have been. Finally, I stumbled upon one purely by happenstance.

I was looking on Epicurious.com for more versions of the recipe, and, again, I came across a version that seemed to miss the mark, but I noticed over 60 reviews of the recipe. Thinking this to be impossible, I started reading the reviews. ‘Lo and behold, one of the early reviewers, a first-generation Greek American from Boston, had graciously reviewed the soup, and then put in her yia-yia’s (her grandmother’s) recipe that she’s been making for years. Every one of the positive reviews was on HER version of the soup, the version embedded in another review. I read it, and I think I have found what I experienced in Greece. I’ve supplied it below…in case you want to have an acute, very Greek, religious experience (granted, without Dimitris).

Soupa Avgolemono

8 c. homemade chicken stock
1 c. orzo
4 eggs/separated
juice of 3 lemons
fresh ground black pepper

Boil broth, add orzo and simmer until tender 20 min. Whip whites until medium peaks, add yolks beating continuously, add juice, beating. Temper eggs with 2 c. broth, adding in constant slow stream while continuing to beat furiously so you do not curdle the eggs. Add egg mixture back to remaining broth and serve. When reheating, do not re-boil - heat slowly until very warm or you may curdle the eggs. Garnish with thinly sliced lemon. Try adding more than the juice of 3 lemons, as the sourness is the best part of the taste! You should taste lemon, richness of eggs, salt of chicken, and starch of rice, in that order and you've made it perfectly. You can also add thin pieces of shredded chicken meat (pull off bone in strips), although classic recipes don't include chicken, vegetables, garlic or any other ingredients.

Wednesday, June 04, 2008

Summer...Quite

“Koop Island Blues” by Koop

Ah, summer. I love this time of year. If I could take anything with me when I eventually leave the southern California coast, I would most certainly take the summer, with its perfect weather and bronzed skin, its beach volleyball and strong sangria, its play of innocence and prey on innocence, all shoved into my suitcase. It is just this kind of summer that provides the perfect excuse to lower inhibitions and commit some sort of scandal.

And what besides too much sangria, you ask, begets a scandal?

Perhaps a smile that is just a little too confident or a look at a most (in)opportune time, and a door with a questionable lock coupled with the anticipation of being discovered. Oh, YES! Don’t STOP!

Or perhaps it’s having a secret---a really, big, fat, brazen secret that you are not at liberty to share with others, and yet someone keeps pressing you for the details, the juicy, memorable, self destructive details. Here, let me get you another glass of that, they say as they smile and pour with that flash of perfect white teeth.

Maybe, just maybe, it’s you knowing full well that you are actually guilty, completely guilty, and, without question, you would commit your sin again…and again…and again.

And then the slightest twinkle appears and that knowing look is shared as the door eases shut.

Sigh.

My season opener, last weekend, was just this sort of unforgiving and unrelenting scandal. I was swallowed up, chewed verociously to unrecognizable, and spit out on to the shore of reason with a moral compass suddenly hanging around my neck like that infamous albatross of yore. Could I blame the extra glass of sangria? Most likely. Would I relive this past weekend? Most certainly.

Too Much Strong Summer Sangria

1 part red wine
1 part cranberry juice
1 part orange-flavored liqueur
1 part rum
Chopped apples, cored
Sliced oranges, with rinds

Mix everything together. Let the mixture marinate at room temperature for a few hours. Chill. Serve straight up or over ice. Drink more than you should.

Sunday, May 04, 2008

My May Day Aubade

“Won’t Stop” OneRepublic

His lips wouldn’t stop moving.

I was not listening, but pushing food around my plate and adding the expected and attentive “Yes” or “I see” or “Right,” etc.

It’s a shame, too. He was actually rather attractive with his longer than necessary wavy auburn hair that kept falling in front of his eyes forcing his large, bronzed hand to push it back…again. And his smile was generous, nice full lips, perfect even white teeth. Straight, autocratic nose. Strong jaw bones. Everything that added up to a very handsome face. His overall physical presence was also a little intimidating. He was extremely tall, broad in the shoulders, narrow in the hips. I could enjoy looking at him for a while, that was certain.

But he would not stop talking, and I was losing interest fast. He chose the restaurant since I chose the day and time. Mutual friends thought we would have the “food thing” in common. Thanks, Sara. We totally have that in common (roll eyes here). Just because I happened to appreciate really good food, my friends thought I had a monopoly on nice restaurants in Los Angeles…well, that and they knew how particular I was about my food, but only when appropriate. I was not so much of a snob that I couldn’t appreciate really good street food as well (ala Philippe’s, a Los Angeles French dip icon).

So, here we were, having dinner at this cozy, little hole of a charming French patisserie called the Little Door, his obviously very proud pick. He had not stopped talking about it since we got seated. I was conflicted; should I be taking him seriously or is he really this full of himself? I refocused on my food.

“Don’t you agree?”

I could faintly hear someone asking me a question. I looked up across the table at his large, serious and questioning expression. He was anticipating an answer from me, and I didn’t know what I was about to agree to. But guiltily I had not been listening, tuned him out a good one or two courses ago as a matter of fact.

I responded purposefully…because the more convincing I sounded, the more believable I knew I would come across. “Yes, I agree.”

My answer must have satisfied him because he continued to talk and seemingly with more fervor if possible. This time I did not feel guilty as I turned to my plate, a delectable feast of a lobster tail medallion with avocado and Belgian endive lightly doused in a blood orange and avocado oil vinaigrette.

He had ordered the seared foie gras napoleon with granny smith apple compote and puff pastry in a port wine reduction. Again, another choice that he was particularly proud of as with every bite he commented about his food.

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

Again, I realized I was being asked a question, so I dutifully looked up at him. This time the expression on his boyishly attractive face was a little flushed, a little worried. Hmmm…interesting; it slightly caught me off guard. Why would he care what I was thinking or feeling? I decided to pursue this look of his with a question back.

“Why wouldn’t I be enjoying myself?” I smiled sweetly and innocently. I was not giving him any help.

He hesitated before responding gingerly, “Because I feel like I’ve been having a one-sided conversation since we got here.” He smiled as if trying to playfully chide me. He was very cute.

His smile did irk me just a little, though. “Well, actually I haven’t been able to get a word in edgewise now that you mention it. You’ve been talking for both of us the whole time, you know.” I gave him back his winning smile. If you wanna play, I can play.

He looked at me quizzically. “Hmmm…I’m sorry if I’ve been doing most of the talking.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sure you can probably tell why.”

Was he being coy?

“I have no idea.” I responded almost impatiently. “Are you nervous?”

“Yes, actually. I—I am.” He stuttered.

Mr. Brawny Know-It-All nervous? I couldn’t even wrap my head around the idea, it seemed so preposterous. But looking at the expression on his face, with his raised brows and shy half-smile, I could have sworn that I was witnessing discomfort sitting in front of me.

“What are you nervous about?” Curiosity was getting the better of me, so I softened a little.

“Well—simply put, I like you.” He was quietly matter-of-fact, hiding nothing. “But…I’m guessing you don’t return the favor…which is okay. I was hopeful going into tonight, though.” He took a deep breath and settled his broad frame back in his seat with that half-smile again, but more resigned this time.

Okay, this was bizarre and completely unexpected. I had to probe further.

“You don’t even know me. How could you like me? I’m pretty sure this is the first time we’ve ever met.” I instantly performed a mental inventory of moments out with our mutual friends soaked up in too much wine and where I might have actually met him. I was drawing a blank.

“No, we haven’t met in person before. This is our first time.” He paused, and mischievously smirked. “It’s just that I’ve heard so much about you, and I’ve seen a lot of pictures.” Pause. “It was my idea to have this blind date actually.”

Wait, what?!

“Uh, you mean to tell me that you are the reason why we were set up to begin with?”

“Yes, I am.” He nervously chuckled.

As the idea slowly dawned on me, I became almost protective of him, and wanted to reassure him that I thought he was actually endearing, so I reached my hand over the table and laid it over his. I was not expecting to feel anything, let alone an instant jolt of electricity, but I did. I could tell that he sensed it, too.

My voice surprisingly caught before I could get out a lame and inadequate, “Well, then. I’m sorry for misreading your intentions tonight.”

He slowly smiled, and his hand turned around to engulf my much smaller one. “You know, you’re shorter than I imagined,” he teased.

I completely blushed. I was totally in the conversation now.

He continued, “And your hair…there’s so much of it…it’s beautiful.”

I blinked. Had the conversation really headed in this direction?

“I’m sorry. Are you serious? What you’re saying?” I shook my head, “Are you teasing me?” I was incredulous.

“No, I mean every word.” He responded quietly, pointedly. His look turned somber. His grasp on my hand tightened. He was all but staring at me now, and I wanted to fidget, turn away for a second to collect my thoughts, but he was still holding my hand at the table.

“Now you’re making me nervous.” I couldn’t believe we had spent the last hour together, and I had hardly recognized that he existed. I had mistaken his chatter for arrogance and disinterest. “Can we talk? Really talk. Get to know each other a little. No more about food. I know plenty about it.”

He grinned, “So, I wasn’t impressing you then.”

“Were you trying to?” I peered up at him sheepishly.

“Well, yes, of course. I know how much you are into food, so I was trying to impress you with my knowledge…but I haven’t, have I.” It was more of a statement than a question.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think that I’ve been really listening to anything you’ve been saying.” We both laughed.

He let go of my hand then and sat up straight in his chair. “Okay, let’s start over.”

I looked at him questioning, but he held his hand out to me over the table, “Hi, my name is….”