Though my trip to Las Vegas was a few years ago, a lot of what I saw there became emblazoned in my memory (and noooo, it wasn't strippers or anything like that). For some reason when I went to Paris back in 2004 (way before I learned to really love food, much less cook), I didn't go to any Patisseries. Seeing one after another in Las Vegas whet my appetite for even more Patisserie, but again I skipped something that I really wanted to try - the flans. On the top shelf, you'll see the Flan Peche, with that irresistible deep brown burnished film on top of the custard.
I didn't really obsess about them because they weren't a standard in most of my cookbooks, which were in English, and I didn't want to make other pastry that resembled it, because I wanted to know what the real deal was like first. Right now I realize I must sound crazy. Who goes ga-ga over custard?! It's the golden film on top, I tell you...
Medical school can certainly be a strange place for people who went through college together. In undergrad, you take courses in a semi-random order you prefer, but in medical school, everyone has to follow the progression in the hierarchy. So, being naive enough to ignore this, I thought working with my friend, who was a year higher in Biology but now a medical resident (while I was an intern), would be nearly the same as it used to be. Not so. For some reason, instead of my name, she called me "dear."
I transferred from another elementary/primary school to high school. As a result, many of my classmates knew each other from before, and my classmates had friends in other sections. In the Philippine school system before college, sections of 40-50 students are stationary in the room, it's the teachers that moved around, so I never really got to meet anyone outside my 49 classmates in 4 years. Anyway, there was this boy from another section about a year older than me who was a paraplegic (? functionally, if not totally) and therefore always walked with crutches all over the campus. I knew his name but I didn't know anything else about him.
When I was in my fourth year of undergrad (positively the Dark Ages), one of my friends who was frustrated with me told me point-blank that I cut people too little slack. As a result, she said, I hurt one of my closest friends at the time, who said I made him feel stupid. You have to be thankful for those moments when people are being brutally honest with you, because during the 90% of the time when people are just being mindlessly polite, you can't accurately make an assessment of yourself and your values. (Hopefully not too often, though, because it can get depressing.) However, even though I felt really bad for how he perceived me (for the record, I never thought he was stupid), I never said sorry for the things I made him feel.
Finally, after enduring treacle-slow internet due to... the flapping of a butterfly wing probably, as my ISP is the worst ever, I can get on with blogging, then tomorrow it's off to read everyone's wonderful posts over the last few days. I've been trying to deal with the online paralysis by doing the laundry (still fun, so far) and making a few desserts. Sometimes I wonder why we keep up with things that are so unbelievably horrible (escalation of commitment comes to mind).
Amaretti di Cioccolato Ah, I've finally started answering your comments. But I just managed the Strudel and the Blintzes posts. I don't know why I thought I'd go through them faster. Clearly reading, thinking, and replying take time! Yes, I know the image title isn't a word. But since I returned, I've gone mad from meeting random relatives and family friends. Why? Because no less than ten people have told me, "mukhang tumaba ka!" (Translation: It looks like you got fatter! Unsaid: ... Porky!) And while just the plain words written out just seem baseline-offensive, the thing that drives me crazy is the way they say it. With a giant smile on their faces! Like somehow they think it's a good thing to tell someone that they have chubbed up. Twisted.
Without speculating too much, I think there may be a cultural/ generational difference going on here. And not in the way that the Romans thought that overweight women were attractive or something. You see, if we're just talking about my own circle of friends, the only time we'd talk about it is (1) asking point-blank ("Do I look fatter?"), in which case the answer is always either "No!" or "Not by much, don't worry!" or (2) a male friend poking fun at another guy. But it's always undesirable, unless we are talking about my friends who have difficulty gaining weight, curse them.
So, there are a few of you who are probably wondering what happened in the almost 2 weeks I didn't post on this blog. Big changes. HUGE changes. They are changes in plans, though-- as in real life, what I instead have is a giant stop sign in front of my face. You see, I failed to match for a hospital (read: the four hospitals I interviewed for went another way). What followed is almost a week of malaise, juggling trying to "feel the feelings" (as my friend Allen puts it), smacking myself in the head for inadequacies, smacking myself more in the head for realizing that there are people out there with real problems and this: coming to the United States to grab an opportunity, missed as it was, does not even rate. However, even though we can argue about what the factors were that led to this outcome were-- internal or external-- the fact remains that I could only have really influenced the internal factors, and that's what really kills me. (Especially since it worked for some of my Filipino peers, but not for me.)
"It's time to go back to the house, pack your belongings, and go. Home." In all probability I'll give it another $hot. Even though there are $ome problem$ a$$ociated with that. But frantic sublimation a week after falling flat on your face is a little superhuman, don't you think? (The start of the next application period is September.) Though I try to be a Tiffany, I usually end up a Rebecca, which is probably for the best because the last thing I need is Tyra yelling at me how to feel. But I am trying, Tyra! I want to take control of my destiny!
Apfelstrudel mit zimt und sultaninen Happy new year to everyone! I realize that it appears I dropped off the face of the Earth, and in some respects, that's true. I tunneled through the core and ended up on the opposite side, in sunny, beachy New Joisey, and man is it hot! (Mind over matter.) One of my first thoughts as I was walking away from Newark International Airport was, "OH, MY FUCKING FREEZING FACE!!" (Little do you know that the original thought was, "... my beautiful fucking freezing face.") Pardon the profanity so early on in the year but that was me, and at the time I thought that the nerve endings in my lips had all died. They sorely needed another pair to warm them, hee hee.
But to those who thought I hadn't posted-- au contraire! I have a short essay on my other blog (opens in new window) about Christmas, which you might like to read. But the other reason I've neglected my life in the internets is because I've been working on a print project, which I had to finish before my flight, which was January 1, 7:45AM. I was working with it till almost midnight, with the fireworks polluting my sky. Of course, I was also stocking up on posts for the rest of the year, or at least the next few months. Cooking might become scarce, which makes me a little sad thinking about it, but it might be a necessity in the future-- time will tell.
Gai Hor Bai Toey This is my second entry to Darlene's Regional Recipes event, featuring Thailand. Except that the fantastic Thip just posted this days ago and she wrapped it better too, haha :P
During the day my pretty crappy neighborhood can get on my nerves. Even though the construction that made my ears bleed is done, every now and then the serenity will be broken by the impossibly loud honk of a truck's horn. Imagine that coming down not 4 meters from your window. Even without the vehicles, the children who live in the area (a squatters' area sadly) are horrible thugs in the making. In the afternoon they play dodgeball, which is fine-- kids should be able to play as much as they want especially during holiday. But these brats scream and yell at each other like lunatics. Having nine year-olds scream "(Pu)tang ina mo!" (literally "your mother is a whore" but the usage is more similar to "Fuck you!") at each other is quite jarring. When they combine forces, it's so tragic it becomes funny again: (Kids play on the street, yelling obscenities at each other.) HOOOONK! Kid: (Tauntingly) HA HA, HINDI KAMI NAGULAT! (Ha ha, we weren't startled!) Truck driver: UMALIS KAYO SA DAAN, SA SUSUNOD SASAGASAAN KO KAYO! (Get out of the road, next time I'll run you over!) Kid: 'TANG INA MO! (Fuck you!) They grow up so fast.
(The next few pictures were taken from my grandmother's house in Pampanga last All Saints' Day.) At night, all these harsh elements go away. Lovely Siberian winds have brought us a gentle chill (if you can call it that, o people of the frozen north), with temperatures of about 24°C (75°F) at night. I usually sleep with the electric fan on, but recently I've wanted to feel the cool temperature on my skin without any help. Even though the electric fan has a barely noticeable whirring sound, the quiet that resulted was a sweet surprise. Nothing but the crickets. Amusingly, when I was a boy I thought that it was the sound the moon makes. Flowers for my grandfather What I think is my grandfather's old bike (it certainly is aged and beautiful, like he was). The tracks on the side were from rain falling from the scalloped roof edge. It reminded me of those times in my childhood when we spent the evening at my grandparents' one hour North (in Pampanga). Some rooms had no electrical outlets or fluorescent lamps, and we slept on mats on the floor, in pitch darkness and with the sound of frogs and crickets outside our lullaby. I hated those nights; I longed for my light and my television. However, during my recent quiet nights, my memory only associated my sleepovers with a feeling of calm. And now that the year is ending, as always, reflection. My grandmother's tools: a chopping board and a paddle (for washing clothes). Overgrowth of kangkong (water spinach) at my grandparents' pond Though there were many joys and triumphs this year, it had its share of tragedy as well. But after the dust settles, I can't deny that life has been very kind to me. I'm so looking forward to the opportunity to start giving back to the world again as a working physician. Jackfruit tree Seat from my grandparents' siesta hut, made of bamboo (and nails). My favorite non-food photo I took this year, of a Passion flower I just happened to find near the water pump. Probably the first time the beauty of the shot matched the beauty of what I saw with my eyes. This year I also got to meet a lot of new blogging friends, and a lot of new places to enjoy on the web. Thanks so much for your support-- I thoroughly enjoy your company and your food, even if I can only taste it through the monitor! Even though by mid next-year I'll be posting a lot less due to work (crossing fingers!), I hope you'll still continue visiting. I'll make it a point to still visit you guys each time I get a chance. But that won't be for a while, so let's enjoy ourselves for now :) Gai Hor Bai Toey This is one of the first Thai dishes I ever tasted, and it still is one of my favorites. Quite kid-friendly too, and though I am not a fan of cilantro and the aroma is quite strong as it marinates, the end-result is very pleasantly flavored and not offensive at all. There are plenty of recipes out there (here's Syrie's quick and delicious version, which was the one I adapted): this is a hybrid of all the versions I saw, though a little simpler on the ingredient-aspect (no coconut milk). I encourage you to add whatever you feel may be good-- I particularly liked Thip's addition of red chili powder-- wish I had thought of it.
500g (1 lb) chicken thigh fillets (I used skin-on, just a preference)
about ten stems of cilantro (coriander), roughly chopped
Cut each fillet into 2 or 3 pieces, each about 2-3 inches. Mash together the cilantro, garlic, white pepper, brown sugar, cornstarch and salt (alternatively you could blend/process it all with the oyster sauce and sesame oil). Add the oyster sauce and sesame oil if you haven't already. Coat the thighs in the marinade, cover, and leave in the fridge overnight. The following day, wipe the marinade off each chicken piece with your hands (just to make sure there aren't any big pieces of cilantro or garlic sticking to it) and wrap each with a long pandan leaf (sorry I can't diagram these; as you can see I didn't do a good job of it-- a skewer helps to keep it in place). Place in a steamer for 5-7 minutes, then fry until golden brown all over, about 3 minutes each side. Serve with sweet chili sauce on the side.
Pastéis de Nata Sorry if I've been away for a while (yes, 3 days is a while in our world, isn't it?). Last Saturday I got a massive headache from fatigue which was a sure sign that I'm on the edge of illness so I took it easy the next day. The good news is that it worked. Now, what was I sick about? Oh, yeah, I went from mall to mall and virtually spent the remainder of the time in a car. I obviously love to shop but I like to do it at a leisurely pace, at only one place, and in a relatively quieter area. But of course, you won't get any of that these days, as there's only 2 weeks till Christmas. I'm all for the spirit of Christmas-- giving, sharing, spending time with family, being thankful for my blessings-- but not this mad rush. And it's not just about the materialism. Even when I look at the offerings they have on the shelves, it's one of three things-- expensive, ugly, or uninspired. Here's an excerpt of an e-mail I wrote to a friend of mine:
I suppose I would enjoy shopping more (and really, I normally do) if I had money to buy gifts for my family. Everything seems either expensive or ugly. Nothing is calling to me, inspiring me to buy it because the recipient would really like it. Everything seems rushed, fake, ordinary, unnecessary. I swear, I'm going to shove wads of money into envelopes and give them away on Christmas.
And here is my friend's (partial) reply to that:
Your expensive/ugly/uninspiring gifts thing finds resonance here. I hate how the shelves are suddenly laden with all the trash that nobody would buy as gifts under normal circumstances (here he proceeds to name a few hilarious things which I WON'T share with you because it's too mean/might hit a nerve). And people will buy them and give them without a flicker of concern that the gift was a duty.
It'll be my birthday in two days (the not-so-big 2-7). I remember when I was very young (in "Prep", the grade level between Kindergarten and First Grade-- dunno what the system is now), I made the "mistake" of telling my teacher that it was my birthday (shouldn't she have known?). She gave me these tiny horse figurines (at least two of which I still have here). When I'd told my parents about it, they very gently told me not to go around telling people it's my birthday next time, because they'd feel like I was asking for loot.
The truth is, I think I've come to a point where I don't get too excited about my birthday or Christmas, at least not for the gifts. I feel incredibly lucky to have the blessings that I do on a daily basis, and content with whatever I have. Gifts are pleasant surprises-- extras. I feel like I annoy plenty of people (parents included) when I'm asked what I'd like as a gift, and I say "nothing, it's okay." Because it is okay. And I annoy even more people when I receive gifts like it's the most fantastic thing that's ever happened to me and I end up embarrassing them by gushing too much. But friendship and love? That's enough. Maybe that's more precisely what I'm excited about. On that note, I'd like to gush like a fool for the gifts my dearest Deeba sent me all the way from Gurgaon-- SPICES, baby! It was a very fragrant day when DHL stopped by my front door and gave me a bag full of lovely things: saffron (ooooh), garam masala, darjeeling tea, raita mix, and special cloves. (No, "special" isn't code for anything, you naughty things!) From the bottom of my heart, thank you (embarrassing you yet?), and may your days be filled with passion-- for baking! Burned, baby, burned!
Pastéis de Nata Warning: if these aren't one of your favorite things already, be prepared to add it to the list... I essentially followed Duncan's excellent recipe here almost to the letter, with a few adjustments:
Since I wanted to replicate the pasteleria experience and used disposable (yeah right) foil pie pans (actually I think they're really baked in individual pans and sold naked) that measured 11cm diameter x 2cm high (4-1/4" x 3/4"), I baked them for only 6 minutes.
My oven does too good a job at broiling and warps my precious baking sheets. I instead used a turbo broiler. Mine could only reach 250°C (480°F) but it's a convection cooker, and probably the best way I have at home to achieve the delightful brown spots you usually find on top. I only achieved it partially, but I didn't want to curdle the custard or burn the pastry, so I stopped short of that.
I used my thumbs to squish the pastry into the form as thin as I could, getting it almost to the rim.
I used ready-made puff pastry since it's not really possible to make it in this climate. I used a single 24cm (9.5") square. However, it was only about 2mm (between 1/16 and 1/8 inch) thick, so I cut it into two rectangles and stacked them on top of each other (forming a single 12x24cm rectangular stack) and rolled it up as per the instructions. I was able to make five tarts this way.
You'll notice it doesn't rise quite as well. My puff pastry is more than a year old, ha ha ha! Tasted great though :P
The custard in Duncan's recipe is good for 10 tarts if using my pan size.
I tried using a blowtorch (yeah, baby) to create the dark areas but I ended up making a charred, rough surface. Tasted the same but I wouldn't do it again: my intended result was a shimmering surface, with the char appearing to come from under the sheen. Obviously the flame of a blowtorch is too harsh to accomplish this.
Oh, PS (if you're still reading), I passed the Step 2 CS exam (what I went to El Segundo for). Residency interviews, here I come!
I would make a terrible, terrible spy. And no, it's not because of the stealth issues involved, because I actually think I'd be good at it (hence, my enjoyment of the game Tenchu Z, despite what all the reviews say). But in real life when I think I have to do something that requires stealth, I get jittery and weird. Such as reading books in a bookstore. You see, for some books in some stores here, the staff wraps them in plastic. WHAAAT? Yeah, they do. The thing is, it is actually a pretty good deterrent against careless browsers. And you are free to rip them apart if you really want to know if a book is worth buying. But I don't, usually. I don't know why: maybe I feel like I'm making trash, or making the staff's efforts futile especially with books I know I can't afford. So, to paint a picture: Me: (eyeing Tessa Kiros's Venezia, drooling at the cover and promise of beautiful pics of a fantastic city inside) Staff: (walks to cashier for a little chat) Me: (rips plastic apart, heart about to explode) Aaaah. Staff: ... whatevs. Me: Huh, George Kamper's pictures are much prettier. But knowing what's inside a book is really important. I recall one other time when a mother and daughter from the country/provinces were browsing local cookbooks, which for some reason were wrapped (though they aren't usually). Mom: Gosh, why is this wrapped? I wonder if it's good. Me (butting in when he wasn't asked): It's okay. Open it. Open it. Open it. Open it. Open it. Open it. Open it. ... Just kidding. I only said it once (Dwight Schrute says to say it seven times to hypnotize them into actually doing it). But I couldn't bear the thought of the two not finding the book they want, or worse, buying a book that turns out to be a dud because they bought the one with the best cover. Maybe I need someone like me (one of you guys?) to tell me to cut out the imagined moral dilemma and just open it, open it, open it.
I knew already from previous experience that Flo Braker's new book Baking for All Occasions would be good, but till I opened it I had no idea it would be incredible. The book is quite heavy, but barely has any photographs-- it's jam-packed with all-American recipes ready for any occasion, even if you have to make one up yourself. The recipes are detailed and imaginative, yet accessible to any home baker. And because it's from Flo Braker, you just know they will be delicious and work every single time. Pick it up. Pick it up. Pick it up. Pick it up. Pick it up. Pick it up. Pick it up.
By the way, I didn't rip a plastic wrapper apart to peek at the book-- I eventually lucked upon a bookstore that had an unwrapped copy. Pathetic, I know.
I'm also using this post to respond to Deeba's tagging me for the Worldwide Blogger Bake-Off Campaign, which I first learned of from Jeanne. I can't share this particular recipe because it's Braker's and not mine, but if you do bake some bread (or even if you don't), please do consider participating. Admittedly donations have been slow due in no small part to the global financial crisis, but I hope it will turn around soon. Pull-Apart Lemon-Scented Coffee Cake from Baking for All Occasions This recipe is simple enough, even for someone who constantly flops at bread like me. And it is also very addictive-- have friends over for tea so you can finish it in one go and don't have to keep picking at it by yourself till you've eaten the whole thing. After you've baked it, the butter may seep out of the dough and appear to flood it-- don't be alarmed and let it be as it cools. The dough will reabsorb the butter and be that much deadlier.
Sweet Yeast Dough
about 350g (2-1/4 cups) all-purpose flour
50g (1/4 cup) granulated sugar
2-1/4 teaspoons (1 envelope) instant yeast
1/2 teaspoon salt
75g (5 tablespoons) whole milk
55g (1/4 cup or 1/2 stick) unsalted butter
60g (1/4 cup) water
1-1/2 teaspoons vanilla
2 large eggs, at room temperature
In the large bowl of a stand mixer (though you can also do this by hand as I did), stir together 255g (2 cups) of the flour, the sugar, and the yeast. In a small saucepan or microwaveable container, heat the milk with the butter on low heat/power until the butter is just melted. Set aside until warm (about 130°F/55°C or 1 minute), then add the vanilla. Pour this over the flour mixture and using a strong spatula or wooden spoon, stir together until the flour is evenly moistened. Attach the bowl to the mixer fitted with a paddle attachment (or continue to use the spatula), and mix on low speed while adding the eggs one at a time, just until each is incorporated. Add 65g (1/2 cup) of the remaining flour and mix on low speed until smooth (about 45 seconds). Add 2 more tablespoons flour and mix at medium speed until smooth and slightly sticky, about another 45 seconds. If doing this by hand, you might prefer to knead it gently and squeeze the dough till it comes together.
Sprinkle a work surface with 1 tablespoon flour and place the dough on top. Knead gently until smooth and no longer sticky, about 1 minute, adding an additional 1 to 2 tablespoons flour only if necessary to lessen the stickiness. Place the dough in a large bowl, cover with cling film, and let rise in a warm place until doubled in size, 45-60 minutes. The indentation of a fingertip on the dough should remain.
Lemon Paste Filling
100g (1/2 cup) sugar
3 tablespoons finely grated lemon zest (3 lemons)
1 tablespoon finely grated orange zest
55g (1/4 cup or 1/2 stick) unsalted butter, melted
In a small bowl, mix the sugar and the citrus zests together, rubbing them between your fingers until it resembles wet sand. Preheat the oven to 175°C (350°F) and spray a 9x5" loaf pan with baking spray.
Gently deflate the dough. Referring to the nifty step-by-step I drew: 1. Happy dough on a lightly floured surface. 2. Roll out to a 20x12" rectangle. 3. Brush the surface with the melted butter. 4. Using a pizza cutter or sharp knife, cut the dough crosswise into 5 strips (each about 12x4"). 5. Sprinkle one of the rectangles with 1-1/2 tablespoon of the zest-sugar filling. 6. Place a second rectangle of dough on top and sprinkle with 1-1/2 tablespoons of the filling. Repeat using the rest of the dough rectangles, ending with a sprinkling of the filling. 7. Stack of 5 dough rectangles. 8. Cut the stack crosswise into 6 smaller stacks, each about 4x2". 9. Fit the layered strips into the loaf pan, cut edges (the 4" side) up. You'll end up with something like the photo above. Loosely cover with cling film and let it rise in a warm place until puffy and almost doubled in size, 30-50 minutes-- the indentation of a fingertip should remain. Bake until the top is golden brown, about 30-35 minutes. Transfer to a wire rack and let cool in the pan for 10-15 minutes.
Tangy Cream Cheese Icing
85g (3 oz or 6 tablespoons) cream cheese, softened
35g (1/4 cup) powdered sugar
15g (1 tablespoon) whole milk
15g (1 tablespoon) fresh lemon juice
In a medium bowl, beat the cream cheese and sugar together until smooth. Beat in the milk and lemon juice until the well-combined.
Unmold the coffee cake (all the butter will allow it to release quite easily) and place on a wire rack or serving platter. Using a pastry brush, coat the top with icing. Serve the coffee cake warm or at room temperature.
I think it's a fair observation to say that hugging is most prevalent in American society. The (beloved and sadly breathing its last) show Pushing Daisies once described them as "emotional heimlichs" wherein "someone puts their arms around you and they give you a squeeze and all your fear and anxiety come shooting out of your mouth in a big wet wad and you can breath again." In recent years I've sensed a backlash against what might be considered excessive invasion of private space among Americans. I don't mind if it goes either way, I'm pretty flexible (and I certainly don't want to be caught in the middle of this debate-- settle it among yourselves!). I've been trying to understand how the emotional heimlich-- a gesture of welcoming and caring-- suddenly got such a bad reputation. I don't touch people on an emotional level very often but I have to admit, when it counts, it does feel good. Maybe the backlash is against devaluing the hug, or giving it away when there is no emotion behind it.
Warning: truly neurotic thinking coming up. Last October I met up with the awesome Todd and Diane. Because I was in total nerd-mode, my brain went through several hundred if:then iterations of how I should go about greeting them. When I saw Diane coming up from the curb, with her terrawatt smile, there was little doubt in my mind that a hug was the only way to go. Todd was coming up a few meters behind, though. Now, I doubt you will find many more guys more welcoming and just darn-nice than Todd, but not wanting to look like a space-invading fool, I shook his hand instead. Brain: WARNING: DIVISION BY ZERO. Trust me, this is not uncommon interaction between men. After all, we have complex algorithms for determining which urinal we stand in front of at the restroom. To be fair, Todd and Diane are not the kind of people to persecute me for any social faux pas, so: sorry, and thank you. Now, though I'm in the potions and leeches business these days, I still consider myself a closet mathematician. What I have here is a poll. And before you (Jen) roll your eyes and say, "Good grief!" This is not a way to fish or to paint myself in a puppy-dog light. I really want to know the correct probability of doing the correct thing in (and I cannot stress this enough) a hypothetical meeting between me and another food blogger. Pretend we have had a reasonable amount of interaction via e-mail and through the blogs. As I said, I really don't care if all of you answer "No"-- I said I could go either way on the issue of hugging. But I do care about looking either too standoffish and cold, or invasive and inappropriate. Besides, this could be fun. You don't have to reveal or explain your answer, but if you feel like doing so, it should be an interesting read. I've stratified the poll into male/female (the answerer), in case there might be a difference.
Hugging?
What does hugging have to do with devil's food cheesecake? Absolutely no-thing, huh! But I saw this recipe from the ill-conceived Throwdown with Bobby Flay and I haven't been able to put it out of my head: it's from Junior's Cheesecakes, which I understand isn't even universally embraced. (Huh, see what I did there?) It works, for the most part. The cheesecake is as perfect as I've ever made a classic cheesecake-- not a crack in sight, the top lightly golden, perfectly smooth, rounded at the rim. The devil's food cake leaves a bit to be desired. Sure, I scaled it down, but the problem is just it's not chocolatey/bitter/dark enough. By the way, proper devil's food cake is made with buttermilk. It is better the next day, though. The icing is also a bit too sugary, but it does go well with the cake and cheesecake.
Devil's Food Cheesecake adapted from The Junior's Cheesecake Cookbook This recipe is scaled down to fit a 6-inch pan. If you're eating cheesecake sandwiched between chocolate cake and butter frosting, that probably sounds like the right size to do it in anyway.
Cheesecake layer
225g (1 8-ounce) package full-fat cream cheese, at room temperature
88g (7 tablespoons) granulated sugar
1 tablespoon cornstarch
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 large egg
53g (3-1/2 tablespoons) heavy cream
For this recipe, you may use a 6-inch cake pan, springform pan, or cake ring. If using a springform or ring, wrap the outside with plenty of aluminum foil, covering the bottom and seam especially, extending to the top edge. If using a cake pan, line the bottom with parchment and have on hand a piece of clean stiff circular cardboard 6 inches in diameter. In any case, spray the inside with baking spray. Preheat the oven to 175°C (350°F).
In a medium mixing bowl, place the cream cheese, sugar, cornstarch, and vanilla, and beat until creamy and well-combined, scraping down the sides of the bowl occasionally. Blend in the egg until just incorporated. Beat in the cream just until it's completely blended-- no more. Pour the batter into the prepared pan and place it in a shallow pan containing hot water that comes about 1 inch up the outside of the pan with the cheesecake. Bake until the edges are light golden brown and the top is slightly golden tan, about 1 hour. It will still jiggle in the middle when you shake it, but don't overdo the jiggling or you will crack it for sure. Cool in the water bath until the water is just warm and transfer to a wire rack. Cool in the pan for 2 hours, cover with plastic wrap, and freeze while still in the pan until it's completely cold, about 4 hours or up to 1 month. Leave in the freezer until ready to assemble the cake.
Devil's Food Cake layer
100g (3/4 cup) sifted cake flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
pinch of salt
56g (1/2 stick) unsalted butter, at room temperature
67g (1/3 cup) granulated sugar
33g (2 tablespoons + 2 teaspoons) firmly packed dark brown sugar
1 large egg, separated
38g (1-1/3 ounce) bittersweet or semisweet chocolate, melted and cooled
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
120g (1/2 cup) whole milk
pinch cream of tartar
Preheat the oven to 175°C (350°F). Spray the interior of 6-inch cake pan, springform pan, or cake ring with baking spray. Line the bottom only with parchment.
Sift the flour onto a small bowl and set aside. Stir the vanilla into the milk and set aside. In a large bowl, cream the butter, both sugars, salt, and baking powder until light and fluffy. Add the egg yolk and beat until well-combined. Beat in the melted chocolate. Using a wooden spoon, stir in the flour alternately with the vanilla-milk, mixing well after each until blended.
Put the egg white and cream of tartar in a clean medium-size bowl and beat with clean, dry beaters on high until stiff (but not dry) peaks form. Fold about one-third of the whites into the chocolate batter until they disappear, then gently fold in the remaining whites. Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out with a few moist crumbs clinging to it, about 40 minutes. Cool the cake in the pan on a rack for 15 minutes, then remove the cake from the pan and gently peel off the paper liners. Let cool completely, about 2 hours, then cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate overnight or freeze up to a month.
Dark fudge frosting
300g (2-2/3 cups) sifted confectioners' sugar
22g (3-1/2 tablespoons) unsweetened cocoa powder
pinch of salt
75g (2/3 cup or 1-1/3 stick) unsalted butter, at room temperature
75g (2-2/3 ounces) bittersweet or semisweet chocolate, melted and cooled
1 tablespoon dark corn syrup
1 tablespoon pure vanilla extract
53g (3-1/2 tablespoons) heavy cream
In a large bowl, cream the butter, salt, and cocoa with a mixer on high until paler and slightly thickened, about 3 minutes. With the mixer still running, beat in the chocolate, corn syrup, and vanilla. Sift the confectioners' sugar into the butter, then beat it in completely. Blend in the cream until the frosting is a spreading consistency, adding a little more cream if needed. Whip the frosting on high until light and creamy, about 2 minutes more.
Assembly Remove the cheesecake and cake from the freezer. Run a thin knife around the edge of the cheesecake. If you've used a cake pan to bake the cheesecake, flip it upside-down to unmold, using the cardboard circle to prevent the cheesecake from breaking as it comes out of the pan. If you've used a springform or cake ring, simply release the rings.
Using a serrated knife, remove the dome from the chocolate cake (if desired) and split the cake into two even layers. Place the bottom cake layer on a cake plate and spread with some of the frosting. Place the frozen cheesecake on top and spread with some more frosting. Place the top layer of cake on top. Brush away any crumbs from the sides and top of the fudge cake layers. Frost the sides and top of the cake with the remaining frosting. Use a long metal spatula that has been warmed under hot running water to smooth out the frosting on the sides and top of the cake (I used a cake comb to achieve the effect above). With a small spatula or table knife, swirl the frosting on top into a decorative design.
Refrigerate the cake for at least 2 hours to allow the cheesecake to thaw enough to easily slice. Use a sharp straight-edge knife, not a serrated one, to cut it.
Chicken and Mushroom Pasta Bake This is my entry to dear Susan's Blogiversary Bash at Sticky, Gooey, Creamy, Chewy-- a friend to this blog as you all probably know. Let's unhinge or mouths, point our noses at the sky, and with dangling arms, give our best Muppet "YAAAY!" for SGCC! I think many of you would hate me if you could read my mind. And guess what, I'm sharing a little bit more of it today! Confession: each time I browse the used magazine piles, I encounter Everyday with Rachael Ray Magazine, and other titles (Bon Appetit, Cook's Illustrated, Fine Cooking) that boast meals that can be prepared in 30 minutes or less, and I think to myself, "What's with the arbitrary cut-off time of thirty minutes? Does food beyond that officially become too much of an undertaking? What about developing flavor? What about the joy of cooking? Of the process? What about skill?"
These are just some of the insensitive thoughts I think when I'm feeling pedestal-y and grumpy, like when people walk too slowly in front of me (WHAT?! They're TEXTING!!!) or when people on television bake poorly (Seriously. I saw Julia Louis-Dreyfus on The Rachael Ray Show, and they made baking seem a thousand times harder than it was. Just disorganized, and wrong, wrong, wrong. No wonder people are afraid of baking). Then of course I think to myself quite guiltily that I am between jobs and when I do get one, I'll be lucky to squeeze thirty minutes out of my schedule for a decent meal. (Hockey) moms must have it much more difficult, picking up the kids from school and getting the house in order with just enough time to slap together a decent meal that the cute young ones will hate no matter what you do (barring making a burger or pizza). I was feeling a bit under the weather last, last weekend, while hauling major ass to produce a pasta dish for my grandmother's birthday last September 8 (all birthday celebrations must have a pasta dish, which everyone must eat for long life). Hence the substandard pic. But I assure you, the taste was not substandard.
I was actually quite surprised how much I liked this pasta dish, especially since I am a sworn member of the red sauce brigade. But my grandmother loves cream sauces (ugh), so I decided on this dish without hesitation. It's also my first time to cook for a party of 50 (okay, 60) people, and I'm quite pleased with the results and how inexpensive it was. The hardest part was cooking a kilo and a half (3 pounds 5 ounces) of dry spaghetti-- no pot we had was big enough, so I understirred the pasta at the bottom.
So I'm thinking right now how much more my pictures would suck if I actually had work. Oh God, I've got to stock up on great recipes before I start residency!
At the party, my grandmother was gifted 6 cakes. I am puzzled by this behavior. Do people really come to birthday parties thinking there might not be cake and they're saving the day? Because we had a huge sheet cake. Obviously. Over the next 4 days, we (a household of 6 people) had to eat all the cake and since I'm the designated sweet tooth, I had a bigger share, and I ended up weighing 4-5 pounds heavier and feeling very ill (seriously). Give a tiny red envelope of money containing a third of the cost of a cake. Or preserves, they keep for months. Prayer cards would be GREAT for my grandmother, she loves those. Mango chutney would be nice. Just not cake. NEVER cake. It's just not wise.
Spaghetti Tetrazzini adapted from Jamie's Italy This is from an old Italian cookbook, I swear Jamie said that. Even if it does sound like something out of a school cafeteria. But you cannot argue with good taste. And once you've fed 60 people, you really can't argue with the results.
3 small handfuls (80g or 3oz) dried porcini mushrooms
olive oil
200g (8oz) bacon, chopped
8 chicken thighs, boned (what I really got was the hind part of the chicken with the thigh and minus the leg, so they were quite large. Try deboning, it's fun just "winging" it-- chicken humor)
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
6 cloves garlic, peeled and finely sliced
450g (1 lb) mixed fresh mushrooms, cleaned and torn
2 cups white wine
1.5kg (3lbs 5oz) dry spaghetti
750g (3 cups) heavy cream
500g (18oz) Parmesan cheese, grated (I had no budget for this much Parmesan, so I subbed a major portion of this with whatever cheese I could get.)
a handful of fresh basil, leaves picked
Put the dried mushrooms in a bowl and pour just enough boiling water to cover them. Leave to soak for a few minutes. Meanwhile, place a giant pot over medium heat and pour in a splash of olive oil (be conservative, as plenty of oil will come out of the bacon and the chicken). Add the bacon and fry until lightly brown. Season the chicken thighs with salt and pepper, then pushing the bacon to the side, lay them skin side down on the pot (you may have to do this in 2 batches as pots will rarely be able to hold all the chicken). Once the bacon and the chicken skin has become brown and crisp, turn the chicken and continue cooking until cooked through. Once all the chicken is cooked, chop them into bite-sized pieces (I used a pair of shears) and park off the heat. Strain the porcini mushrooms, reserving the soaking water. Turn the heat up to high, and discard all but 6 tablespoons of the oil in the pot (or not... Your arteries), then add the garlic and all the mushrooms. Cook for about 5 minutes, then add the wine and porcini liquor, and turn the heat down to low and allow to reduce a little. Add the chicken and the cream. Bring to a boil then turn off the heat. Add the basil and 3/4 of the Parmesan and stir well. Season with salt and pepper (I find that the salt is unnecessary).
Preheat the oven to 200°C (400°F). Cook the spaghetti in plenty of boiling salted water according to the package directions and drain well. Toss with the cream sauce and transfer to 2 or 3 large ovenproof dishes. Sprinkle with the remaining cheese and bake until golden brown, bubbling, and crisp.
Risotto ai Zucca e Salvia Ooh, you like the 90's-style food pic? Best I could do under the circumstances. Strangely enough there are quite a few declarations that instantly become untrue when you make them. I'm humble (No.). I'm feisty. I'm quiet. I lack self-awareness. I'm fierce (Ew.). How about this: I'm funny?
My friend Mira and I were having a heart-to-heart about something I've forgotten by now, and in the course of the conversation, I told her that I actually thought I was funny. She made this face of such disbelief: all that was missing was an impression of David Walliams' Sebastian character from Little Britain. "WOT." I actually became quite offended! It's funny now, when I think about it.
I faced up to the fact that I wasn't the most attractive guy in my group of friends (uh, just hunt for a picture if you like, it's out there), and neither was I the smartest. I don't know what made me think that being funny was my thing, especially now when I can name lots of friends who are funnier (I was going to add "in a traditional sense," but let's just leave it at that for now). Obviously I had let it get to my head when someone suggested I should do stand-up (I KNOW. It's silly. And difficult.) or when people ask me to say something witty at a moment's notice like a court jester.
It must be (even more of) the foolishness of youth, the way we flatten our personalities to fit certain stereotypes. It's probably only on television that these roles get filled out so perfectly: in your group of friends, there's the attractive one, the neurotic one, the funny one, the smart one, the secretary, and the slimy green ghost that manages to let all the evil ghosts loose (or the giant rat that teaches you martial arts). Or, in the case of other shows, the whiny one, the bossy one, the prissy one, and the slutty one. It's only after a period of self-reflection that you realize: there are no roles to fill. You can be everything you want to be, and other people won't always be there to fill in the gaps of your personality. Refuse to be defined in the context of your other friends: if you want to be funny, be funny. Don't let the fact that there are funnier people out there dim your light.
The Italian food fanatics among you (let's face it, even those who aren't) will notice something glaringly wrong with the picture. I know, I know, risotto isn't supposed to... mound like that. It would certainly enter the gallery of regrettable food if it didn't actually taste good. I know people don't really care if I have an excuse for such shoddy work, but it was for Father's Day lunch and I was juggling a lot of other dishes. Apparently if you leave wet risotto alone for more than a few minutes with the lid on, the rice will absorb the rest of the liquid and give you dry, overcooked risotto. Factor in the time you take to take a picture. Oy.
1 medium butternut squash, quartered and seeds discarded
extra virgin olive oil
1.5L (6 cups) chicken or vegetable stock
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 tablespoon butter
1 large onion, peeled and finely chopped
4-5 ribs of of celery, trimmed and finely chopped
600g (3 cups) Arborio rice
270mL (1 full wineglass) dry white wine
1 tablespoon mascarpone cheese
100g (7 tablespoons) butter
1-2 handfuls freshly grated Parmesan cheese, plus extra for serving
a bunch of fresh sage, leaves picked
Preheat the oven to 200°C (400°F). In a mortar, pound the cinnamon stick and chili with a good pinch of salt until you get a fine powder. Rub the squash with some olive oil and the spice mix. Place on a baking sheet and roast 45 minutes, or until soft. Set aside.
Meanhile, in a large skillet, add the 2 tablespoons olive oil and 1 tablespoon butter over very low heat, then the onion and celery and cook very slowly for about 15 minutes without coloring. Once the vegetables are soft, add the rice and turn up the heat. Keep stirring the rice and after a minute it will appear translucent. Add the white wine and keep stirring. Once it has cooked into the rice, add the stock ladle by ladle, stirring and massaging the rice grains, until you've added about 2/3 of the stock (1 liter). Pour in a cup more of the stock and scoop the flesh out of the squash and add it to the risotto, stirring to break it in. Bring to a boil, then turn down the heat to a simmer until the stock has been absorbed. If the rice is still not yet cooked, add the remaining stock a ladleful at a time until it is. If it still isn't after using up all the stock, you can add hot water until the rice is soft but still al dente. Add salt and pepper to taste. Take off the heat and stir in the 100g butter, grated Parmesan, and mascarpone. Put the lid on and leave for a minute. Meanwhile, heat some olive oil in a frying pan and fry the sage leaves for a minute, until crispy. Drain on paper towels. Serve the risotto with the crispy sage leaves and some more Parmesan cheese.
Some of you might have noticed that I have a bit of anti-Martha Stewart sentiment. It usually surfaces when I read a blog post that used her recipe. It all stemmed from an unfortunate microwave minestrone recipe I got from Everyday Food. I know, I know, the title alone should have signaled disaster, but I was hard of head so I tried it and as a result got to taste the blandest-ass soup ever. The only other recipe I've made of hers (and her rumored not-so-thoroughly-tested kitchen) was a peanut butter swirled brownie, which was okay (on the bitter and cakey side). So since then, I've just enjoyed looking at the pictures in her magazines, even if I've stopped buying them. But I don't hate her: in fact I quite enjoy the undercurrent of bitchitude she has on her talk show and the creepy, crazy, robotic obsessive-compulsiveness. You just know, if you weren't a celebrity and your stencil or whatever didn't line up, she'd shiv you. I haven't seen one of these things in a while, so it was pretty cool. The thing is, I was not the neatest kid in school. I recall dumping all my notebooks (we had 13 of them, one for each subject) in my bag in grade school. One day, I found remnants of a dead rat inside (Hello! Welcome to a man's blog). Even in high school, I just piled my books haphazardly inside my locker while my classmates had theirs vertically arranged according to height and subject. In college, my friend Marga constantly criticized me for having the messiest bag ever: sometimes I'd just throw receipts inside, and if a box of staples spilled, my books would be littered with tiny metal confetti. I'm sure Martha Stewart would approve. There were times when I'd fix my locker (even go so far as to add knick-knacks to make it look good) or bag, and I've found that neatness inspires even more obsessiveness. Suddenly, there's a little space in your brain devoted to keeping things in order, because you've already established the order. I think, in the past, keeping my things a mess was my way of not using up valuable head space. I know, I'm making excuses. I've since reformed my ways. Except on my bed. I share it with Claire Clark, Pichet Ong, Pierre Hermé, Flo Braker, Jamie Oliver, and Jason Atherton (and the editors of New Zealand magazine Dish). Quite an orgy I have each night! I wake up with paper cuts all over. Just kidding.
How do you like the picture? The brilliant stylists at the Martha Stewart institute were my inspiration. It took me a while after I'd made the jam to take it, because of the rain. Then when the sun came out, it came out too strong and I had to wait for that 10-minute window of time when it just hides behind the horizon but there's still daylight. It helps to scramble for the props early in the day, and to just wait. I'd also just bought several napkins of varying hues at Shoemart (about 67¢ to $1 each), so I'm really happy!
When I started the blog's food trajectory I told myself I would tackle on a new skill each time, but lately I've been rehashing basic skills (like cake mixing). Making preserves was altogether frightening for me. But, I thought, hundreds of Americans do this, so why can't I? Anne and Allen make wonderful preserves (Anne's I've even tasted!), so it inspired me to make my own-- I used the Ball home canning jar that Anne gave me, mangoes that were gifted to us, and pineapple leftover from another dish. I squealed with delight when I heard that reassuring pop as I took it out of processing. Vacuum-sealed, baby! Unfortunately, I didn't have any of the other tools, like a jar lifter and magnetic lid lifter, but I just used a pasta pot with removable colander, and a large spoon to fish out lids. And asbestos fingers.
I didn't just use these fruits because they were what I had-- Mango-Pineapple Jam is widely commercially available in the Philippines and is my favorite flavor hands-down (I may have to gift some, with all my raving...). As for the taste and texture? Absolutely perfect. Since my mangoes were really ripe, I didn't have to add as much sugar and as a result, they were less artificially sweet. Serve on warm rolls or lightly toasted bread (it goes well with soft, buttery bread). You can also use it to fill pastry and make turnovers. Would I do it again, though? Probably only if I have a lot of fruit that needs preserving (as in, the quantities listed below). I only made one and a half jars and it was plenty of effort, handling scalding jars.
Mango-Pineapple Jam There are so many different recipes for making mango jam that I've come to the conclusion that it rarely can be messed up. Some call for 5 parts sugar to 6 parts fruit (!). Some more reasonable recipes call for 1 part sugar to 4 parts fruit, or 1 part sugar to 7 parts fruit. Take note that the recipes that call for smaller amounts of sugar were formulated in the Philippines, where mangoes are far superior to the ones in Europe or the US. Philippine mangoes are smaller and more elongated in shape, softer, and are yellow when ripe-- do search for them if you can. I use a very conservative 1 part sugar to 8 parts fruit, but that has to be the absolute minimum amount of sugar to use. Because both mangoes and pineapples are low in pectin, some recipes call for subbing 1/3 of the amount of ripe mangoes with green mangoes. I find this unnecessary (potential for tastelessness) and used citric acid instead.
450g (1 pound or 2¼ cups) ripe mango chunks (about 5 small mangoes; you can use overripe ones)
450g (1 pound or 2¼ cups) ripe pineapple chunks (about 1 large pineapple)
200g (1 cup) granulated sugar (average amount; I used only 110g)
1 tablespoon kalamansi or lemon juice
Prepare around 5 or 6 250mL (8oz) jars suitable for home canning. Sterilize and prepare them as directed here. Chop the pineapple finely (the mangoes as well if they are not very soft). In a large, heavy-bottomed pot, combine the fruit and the sugar and set over high heat to bring to a rapid boil. Once it does, decrease the heat to medium and cook, stirring constantly, until it reaches a setting consistency, or 105°C (220°F), about 20-30 minutes. Drain the sterilized jars and make sure they are dry. Pack the jam into the jars, leaving 7mm (¼ inch) headspace. Use a clean rubber spatula to release any air bubbles. Center the lids on top and screw on the bands until fingertip-tight. Process in boiling water for 25 minutes. Check if it has properly sealed by making sure the central button is depressed; if not, you will have to refrigerate the jam or reprocess it.
Before I started blogging, the only things I ever really baked were these chocolate chip cookies. The recipe is the urban legend, a false copy of Mrs. Fields' recipe that was rather good anyway. Good enough for some of my friends to ask me to make big batches for Christmas for them to give away. They remind me of my friend, Ads, who at one time while we were hungrily waiting to leave the campus for a teaching excursion, gave me some pinwheel cookies that were surprisingly moist: my savior. I promised her these cookies in return after the Christmas break (hoping to knock her socks off). Mission accomplished.
Our surnames were close together so we hung out a fair bit, being the best friend of the girl here. There were times that we did fight (because I was a tight-assed leader and couldn't readjust her schedule for her birthday out of fear the world would fall apart-- stupid me). But I mostly remember the good times-- Karaoke, her being the only one to congratulate me for my first commissioned poster (well, I pulled her arm to see it), and eating at my first French Patisserie. The lot of us had ordered several petit gateaux, and I told her I was pretty sure the Opera was a classic gateau with a recipe out there (oh, the days before blogging!) and that one day, I'd make it and she'd be the first one to taste it. But my fear of messing it up (and baking in general) hindered me from getting off my ass to make it until several years later.
There are times when I'd see a girl with long hair who moves a certain way who I'd think might be Ads, and I'd get excited thinking about all the things I've made since and how Ads would be so proud. But I snap out of it and remember that they couldn't possibly be Ads. Two years ago this day, she passed away.
I was shuttling between Manila and Batangas (3 hours away south) for my stint in community medicine, so I was shocked to receive a text one weekend I came home that she had lapsed into a coma. And a few hours later, she was gone. There were a lot of regrets expressed, many fingers pointed, blame passed, anger burning between the interns, doctors, nurses, and hospital administration. I still remember the anguish of her parents, and how her father screamed at all of us.
I don't know why we ever thought we were so invulnerable. That somehow helping the sick gave us a karmic barrier. But she was only 23 (I was 24). Diseases that make children ill (and at the Philippine General Hospital, many children came in fulminating states) easily latch on to us (this is an assumption, by the way-- there was no conclusive evidence that she contracted a disease from the hospital in the first place). I don't know when we thought the machinery was more important than the components-- that keeping the service running smoothly was more important than her welfare. But Ads was worth than that-- if I only knew, if I could turn back time, if I'd seen her-- I wish I could have told her to make sure she's okay before she continued on. Everyone would understand if she missed work. In the end, she gave up her life instead, being the dedicated doctor she was until she couldn't any longer.
Sorry, I'm ranting. The anger isn't there anymore, but somehow it's revisited on this day.
Dak Kalbi Okay, for all of you who love it when I tell my stories, I promise this one is a doozy. I would've told you sooner on Yahoo!IM, Graeme, but I wanted to preserve your reaction right here in the comments section (that hopefully won't be distilled to "You IDIOT!"). This may very well be the most embarrassing thing that ever happened to me, erasing all previous records set. The reason I feel comfortable sharing it with you guys is because, well, it's you guys, and I found myself laughing about it a little later. When it comes to self-deprecation, I am king. I don't mind since I kick ass 95% of the time anyway. (uhh... kidding)
As I'd just finished my exam last week, I was looking forward to some shopping. I planned on getting a wireless guitar for our XBox 360 so I can see what all the Guitar Hero fuss is about. I thought one place may have been selling it for P1900 ($43), but they no longer had any so I took the rail to another shopping mall so I could meet my friend Vany (she comments here occasionally) to possibly watch a movie and pick up books for my next exam. I don't know what the HELL I was thinking, but I misstepped the gap in between the sliding door of the train and the ledge, and my heel went over the gap, my foot slipped, and my WHOLE LEG WAS STUCK IN THE GUTTER.
(Diagram of what the fiasco looked like.) Here's a transcript of what happened: Time 00:00.10 Me: SHIT! FUCK! Time 00:00.20 Two young ladies on the train: EEEEEEEE! Uh, that's about it. I don't shout or panic, because that's not me (except if you throw a rat or cockroach at me). Here's thoughts I made up now that I could've been thinking had I not been concentrating on getting my leg the fuck out of there. Time 00:01.00 God, I knew those leg presses would be my death one day! Time 00:02.32 How come no one's pulling me out of this sinkhole? Time 00:03.57 There's no way this train will run, as my body will prevent the doors from closing... Crap, that's gotta be doubly embarrassing if I get crushed by the doors with my leg stuck here!
Eventually, my other leg was enough leverage to free me when I put all my strength into one push (hey, leg presses kind of saved my life!). Then I proceeded to hold one of the rails as I checked my new jeans for any traces of grease, rust, or dirt. Everything okay. Then I checked my leg. Everything functioning. Some nice foreign man who looked like Santa Claus asked me if I was okay, then I laughed. "Probably more embarrassed than anything." YES, I laughed. He commended me for my quick reaction, saying if it were him, he'd still probably be down there. "Something to tell your grandkids!" I'd rather not, I said. I think the other people, while I was carrying on this conversation, were still in a state of shock and thinking WTF? Porny, huh? It didn't hurt immediately after but after a few hours of shopping with Vany, it became really sore, and true enough, there was a huge hematoma and some muscle swelling, but not enough to compromise circulation in my leg, so I just applied warm compresses. You're probably wondering if some of my circuitry is outta whack since I checked my jeans after that 5-second ordeal, but it was really just my pride kicking in in front of my "audience", plus my leg felt fine for the most part. I'd just bought them 2 weeks ago when I was getting stir-crazy studying intensely for my test which was a week away, so I escaped for an afternoon at the mall and bought the jeans on sale from Topman (one doesn't walk away from 50+% off on jeans at Topman empty-handed), a shirt from Buffalo (a Canadian brand) I'm excited to wear, a slick tie and belt from Topman, and some cooking supplies. The Springfield bag is another sale purchase a few weeks back. Maybe I should be cutting back on stuff... This is one corner of my room last week. Shopping bags, hockey equipment, cooking magazines, cookbooks, study materials, and songbooks. It's cleared up now, except for the cooking magazines.
Last Sunday my mom surprised me one morning and said, I've bought chicken breasts. Can you cook them for lunch? Okay, it was not a great surprise, and in my head I was thinking, "You gotta warn me in advance! I need vegetables and spices!" Thankfully, I already had something I've wanted to make for a long time that I prepared for in advance-- by buying a tub of Gochujang.
Korean cuisine is one of my favorites, if only for their fearlessness in the spice department. My absolute favorite dish is Dak Bulgogi (here, since we have big chunks of chicken, it's more correctly called Dak Kalbi), but it has to be prepared a certain way. Definitely red and spicy, perfect with rice. The whole family loved this dish, and I'm looking forward to cooking it a lot, especially when I haven't prepared anything in advance! The recipe is adapted from My Korean Kitchen-- I wasn't able to follow it exactly as I had few vegetables and I wanted a spicier, saucier version. I just threw this together so the measurement aren't exact, but it's hard to screw up.
Dak Kalbi
2 boneless, skinless chicken breasts (or skin-on chicken breast, butterflied and pounded flat for Dak Bulgogi)
2 tbsp Shao Hsing cooking wine
1 tsp powdered ginger
1 tsp crushed dried red pepper
Cut the chicken into 1-inch cubes (or leave whole for Bulgogi). Mix with the other ingredients well and leave in the fridge for 15 minutes.
6 tbsp Gochujang (Korean red pepper paste, very easily found in any respectable grocery selling Korean products. If not, they should close already.)
2 tbsp chili powder
2 tbsp soy sauce
2 tbsp dark brown sugar
2 tsp Korean yellow curry powder (I didn't have this on hand, so I used turmeric just for the heck of it, which didn't do much except tinge my chicken yellow. I'd skip it.)
2 cloves garlic, grated
1 medium onion, grated
In a small bowl, combine all the ingredients. Take 1/4 of the mixture and add it to the chicken pieces, stirring thoroughly until all the pieces are coated. Set the chicken aside in the fridge for an hour; set the remaining sauce aside as well.
Preheat a wok or large nonstick skillet over high heat and add in about 3 tbsp vegetable oil. Stir-fry the chicken pieces until just cooked through, about 5 minutes. (If using whole butterflied chicken breasts, you may instead use a grill pan or barbecue. Baste with a bit of the remaining sauce as it grills.)
In the still-hot wok, pour in the sauce you set aside and let it boil for 15 seconds. Pour over the cooked chicken and toss to coat. Serve hot with rice.
. Mine could only reach 250°C (480°F) but it's a convection cooker, and probably the best way I have at home to achieve the delightful brown spots you usually find on top. I only achieved it partially, but I didn't want to curdle the custard or burn the pastry, so I stopped short of that.
