How the hell am I going to write a story about quinoa?

The Big Momma of the Grain Family

 

Really? Quinoa? How the hell am I going to write a story about quinoa? This is what I ended up pulling out of my butt (the story, not the grain). Thanks for reading!

http://www.mercedsunstar.com/2011/03/02/1793103/all-hail-keen-wah.html

There’s a Monster on My Plate

Ever have one of those days?

So, before any of you click my column link below, I will tell you this is a much lighter read than my last two — one can only write so much before feeling like slitting her own wrists.

I was told to write about winter veggies, so I wrote about winter veggies. Quite honestly, this was about the only memory I had in my way-back arsenal that pertained to Brussels sprouts and other scary, edible things your mom used to try to make you eat.

I hope you enjoy — again it’s meant to be a light read — unless of course, you’re still traumatized by that one time your mother had a Mommy Dearest moment. In that case, uh, sorry.

http://www.mercedsunstar.com/2011/02/23/1782746/theresa-hong-gaining-an-appreciation.html

Peculiar Eating Habits — The Walking Dead and Chris Cosentino

A feast fit for a zombie (and Chris Cosentino)

Like Cosentino, zombies leave nothing to waste...

I’m a bit late to the Zombie party, but a couple of days ago, I was finally able to catch the AMC series, The Walking Dead. And I didn’t just watch one episode, I watched the entire first season — and I must say, I was completely enthralled.

First, let me disclose that I am terrified of zombies — from the slow-moving zombies creeping aimlessly in the Night of the Living Dead, to the disconcerting cross-country track zombies in 28 Days — the whole concept of soulless, moving carcasses whose only purpose is to sniff and snuff out those with souls resonates through my most inner core, and causes me for brief moments at a time to develop such a severe form of Tourette’s, I believe even my husband (who is well aware of my swearing vice) begins to worry.

That being said, however,  this column isn’t about the ingenious plot, character development and special effects The Walking Dead brings to a cable network that, well, could be the literal walking dead (Jersey Shores and The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, anyone?) — that’s another blog.

Today’s blog focuses on the zombies peculiar — yet trendy (yes, I said trendy) — eating habits. Yes, they bite through flesh, leaving behind mangled remnants of what somebody once was. But they also — when allowed — leave absolutely nothing behind in terms of a carcass. They eat everything in its entirety — talk about being environmentally responsible.

Zombies, it seems, also have a lot in common with today’s trendiest and most well-regarded chefs.

Take for instance, Chris Cosentino.  Cosentino is a chef with a deep sense of love and respect toward the food we eat, and has made preparing and eating offal popular among foodies who share his philosophy of leaving nothing to waste — even if it means consuming the entrails.

Zombies, although without soul or consciousness, share Cosentino’s, uh, passion, for offal. And although their drive is based on pure hunger — their need to constantly quench their taste for (mostly) human flesh — I think Cosentino would appreciate their efforts to ensure every part is consumable and nutritious, providing the sustenance needed to keep their zombie bones strong.

All kidding aside, however, I think Cosentino and the zombies are onto something. As a society, we must begin to realize that food is not a limitless source and meat doesn’t magically appear wrapped in cellophane at the grocery store. Very simply put, food is a nutritional (and also, many times, delicious) source of life designed to keep us alive, healthy and able to function.

And at its very essence — organs, intestines and all — food (meat) should be looked at not as disgusting throw-away parts, but a nutritional source, especially in an era where society is close to maxing out and the population continues to rapidly increase. What does it mean? I hate to break it to you, but it could mean food shortages in the future.

So, next time you begin to turn your nose up in disdain at animal entrails and organs, think about it in terms of not only saving the planet, but saving ourselves — zombie style (sans human flesh, I hope!) — and I’m willing to bet Cosentino would approve, too.

My Name’s Stupid!

I love you, too...

I’m interviewing tomorrow with an organization called “Purple Communications,” an organization whose demographic consists mostly of the Deaf. It’s definitely enveloped me once again in the Deaf culture.

For instance, never, EVER describe a Deaf individual as a person living with a disability — they’ll cut you, I promise. In fact, the Deaf insist that their only disability is the fact that hearing people label them with a disability. Other than that, they are just as capable — if not more — of doing everything a “hearing” person can. This is why when using the word “Deaf” to describe a group or individual, it is always capitalized — they are a proud group, and what they can’t say or hear, they will sign LOUD.

This experience also reminded me of a time ions ago when I looked after a kiddo who was Deaf. I was a teenager and wasn’t aware of the Deaf culture. Steven had parents who could hear, but even as a six-year-old child, the school he attended was instilling in him a pride so big and beautiful, it was almost impossible to look at him as a child with a “disability.” He was merely my Steven, a precocious, sometimes devilish child who loved to terrorize me, his brother and anyone else that told him “no.”

When I first met Steven, I asked him how to say my name in sign. He showed me, and for at least a month, I was introducing myself to his friends and teachers as, “Hi! My name is stupid!” The Deaf would look at me a bit perplexed, smile a crooked smile and then shake their heads, like, “Oh this poor girl. She was most likely shown by a Deaf kid who didn’t much care for her.”

I’d like to think it was just a practical joke. But, I think in a way it was probably Steven’s way of leveling the playing field — of letting me know just because he couldn’t hear didn’t mean he was stupid —  it meant I was.

So, thank you, Steven, for a very important lesson at a very young age — if I get the job, drinks on me.

Sweet on Citrus

Oma and I sharing a moment...

I’m not incredibly impressed with the title of this week’s column. It definitely doesn’t resonate exactly what it’s about, nor the complexity of this simple sharing of citrus — read it and tell me what you think.

Now the recipe on the other hand — to die for! Thanks for reading!

My grandma’s face — my Oma — seems ageless and serene. She is beautiful.

It’s senseless to talk — hard of hearing since childhood, her hearing aid has become a relic of the past. My mother quickly found out you can’t have too much in this place, for residents in their old age become a bit like scavengers, taking bit by bit, piece by piece, a person’s stuff — and in a sense, their memories. Read More

Oh, and the recipe!! You can access it online here or below.

Orange Dreamsicle Icebox Pie

Crust

Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit

1 ½ cup finely crushed graham crackers

1 teaspoon ground ginger

4 tablespoons melted butter

Melt butter, add graham cracker crumbs and ginger. Transfer to a 9” pie dish. Firmly press mixture, making sure to cover sides of dish. Bake about 12 to 15 minutes. Crust should be firm and golden. Let cool completely.

Filling

1 8 oz package of cream cheese (full fat, not reduced or fat-free)

½ cup freshly squeezed orange juice

Zest of one large orange (be sure not to zest down to the pithy white section – just the orange rind)

1 14 oz can sweetened condensed milk

1 teaspoon vanilla

Add ingredients into mixing bowl and beat on high-speed until smooth and creamy. Pour into cooled graham cracker pie crust. DO NOT add whipped cream topping.  Cover with clear film wrap and place in freezer for at least five hours.

Whipped Cream

1 ¼ cup heavy cream

¼ cup powdered sugar

Combine and beat in mixer on high until stiff peaks form

When ready to serve, remove pie from freezer and let sit for about 3 to 5 minutes (don’t let it sit too long – like a dreamsicle, it will start to melt). Cut and add a dollop of whipped cream to each serving. Garnish with fresh oranges, if desired.

Not so ready for my Swanson close-up

And no, I’m not talking about Swanson TV dinners, I’m talking about me in front of a camera, channeling Gloria Swanson and repeatedly asking my darling husband Dan (an editing genius, I might add), “Are you sure I don’t look and sound like a dumb ass?”

I guess this is ultimately the next step, and I’m hoping you guys out in the interwebs will be patient with me while the camera becomes my friend — or perhaps frenemy — not quite sure exactly how this little rodeo is going to end.

These short vlogs serve as a supplementary catalyst to my column, The Main Ingredient, and basically bring the print recipe to life, showing you step-by-step, how it was made. 

So, without further ado, I plunge into this strange, yet wonderful cyberworld, joining scary monkeys jumping out of  trunks of cars and jack asses in wife beaters that seem to continually rack their balls — and for some reason, laugh about it.  

And meanwhile as I dramatically slur (drink in hand, of course), “I’m ready for my close-up!” Andy Warhol rolls over in his grave.

Old Folks, Burgers and Coffee

Life.com Photo

One of my favorite food writers/bloggers/vloggers, Josh Ozersky, recently brought up a question. He muses, “Why do old people like coffee with their burgers?”

Of course, I laughed hysterically at his short monologue, but it really piqued my curiousity. Why exactly do old folks enjoy coffee with their burgers?

I remember vividly as a child going to McDonald’s and without fail, my grandma — Oma — ordering a black cup of coffee (always asking how fresh it was), a burger and small fries.

To this day, as she sits in her nursing home not knowing what day it is, she still drinks coffee with a hot meal. And since under the circumstances, I can’t really ask her what the method to her madness is, I decided to investigate the matter myself.

Much to my dismay, however, my investigative field trip did not result in a train of information like the endless cup of Joe one gets at an IHOP. I simply couldn’t find anyone of a certain age drinking coffee and eating burgers. Instead, I saw younger generations devouring burgers and fries with my beverage of choice, the soda pop.

So, I traveled the vast network of the interwebs, and this is what I found. It’s a short and sweet read, and chock-full of information. It also confirmed what I suspected.

I found both my field trip and the above link, in a sense, disheartening. Why? Because like most of our World War II generation — the generation of the Great Depression — are not only old, but dying at a rapid pace. And with it goes another tradition — the tradition of the five cent cup of coffee — the tradition of simplicity replaced by the $5 gourmet skinny coffee, heavy on the foam, extra hot. What?

What started as a giggle has made me long for one more conversation with Oma, at McDonald’s, sharing stories of a simpler time over burgers and, of course, a steaming, hot cup of Joe.

No Ordinary Love

My mother-in-law, Edna Hong -- her kitchen was her castle

Right out of the box, fresh off the interwebs, my column. But first, I would like to share an experience I had writing the column.

My friends and family know I can be a little weird. Case in point, I’m one of those odd individuals you’ll find venturing up and down the bookstore occasionally grabbing a book, opening the cover and smelling (yes, I said smelling) the pages. It thrills both my tactile and sensory experiences, and for the life of me, I can’t explain exactly why I do it, but it makes me, me.

So, what’s my point? Today’s column has a reference to smelling a cookbook — true story, and I think of it as my direct line to Edna (read the story and you’ll get it). The individual responsible for laying out the print story, however, said, and I quote, “…I found it a little odd.”

So what did she do? She simply deleted it. I was simply miffed.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve been in the editor’s seat, but number one, she wasn’t the editor, and number two, as miniscule as she may have perceived that one little sentence to be, to me, it’s the whole essence of the story — it’s weird, but it’s who I am.

Needless to say, you will find the story — in its entirety — in the link below.

Oh, and one more thing — I HATE, HATE, HATE my photo on the website. Blech. I look like a surprised corpse made up by a mortician with a very heavy hand.

Thanks for reading and if you have any questions about the story or recipe (but not to punk me about my photo), shoot me an email — nothing makes me happier than talking about good food and the accompanying memories.

http://www.mercedsunstar.com/2011/02/09/1763864/theresa-hong-no-ordinary-love.html

Edna’s Famous Spice Cake

This cake was always a favorite in the Hong household. A simple, airy cake, it can be dressed up with a dollop of fresh whipped cream and seasonal fruit, or served casual with your morning cup of coffee. The beauty of this cake is also its simplicity – if you want more spice, add more spice. If your taste buds crave nutmeg, then by all means, add nutmeg! In fact, Dan’s grandfather, Joe Hong, was known to use this cake as a base for his ham sandwiches – the subtleness of the cinnamon complimenting the salty ham perfectly.

10 eggs separated

1 cup sifted flour

1 tsp cinnamon

1 tsp salt

1 tsp vanilla

2 cups sugar

1 cup chopped walnuts

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Beat egg whites until soft mounds form and add 1 cup of sugar, continue beating until stiff peaks form. Set aside.

In another bowl, combine egg yolks, remaining 1 cup sugar and vanilla. Beat on medium speed until incorporated. Slowly add sifted flour in three batches until fully incorporated. Stir in chopped walnuts.

Gently fold batter into egg whites with a rubber spatula. Mix thoroughly, but remember to fold and love – not beat – together.

Pour into a lightly greased bundt pan and bake 55 to 60 minutes. Let cool completely before turning the cake out.

The Main Ingredient

I sent a simple query to the Merced Sun-Star a couple of weeks ago, pitching the idea of a food column peppered with love, happiness, and of course, the spice that makes life, well, interesting. This would be a column featuring recipes, of course, however, wrapped in memories invoking smells of summer barbeques, tastes of traditional (or not-so-traditional) family holidays, the feelings of cooking fudge with your grandma, and the many various sights of families and friends coming together to eat, drink, and be as merry as possible.

This, I envisioned, was a quirky celebration of food, family and friends. A celebration of love.

To my surprise, the editor, Mike Tharpe, immediately responded to my email, asking if I would drop by his office to talk about this proposed food-a-roma (yes, silly pun intended) adventure in writing.

I arrived. Promptly, a tall, distinguished southern gentleman with salt and pepper hair that could have been one of the “good guys” in Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird greeted me with a warm smile. Not a typical California smile — hurried, tight and often times, insincere — but a smile you only encounter in parts of the world where drawls are as sweet as honey, and a piece of cake and iced tea are always available to those that come a callin’.

Being a Texas gal, I felt at home immediately.

We spoke for about 15 minutes. And as easy as shoo-fly pie, I proudly walked out the newly minted new food columnist for the Merced Sun-Star.

Then, my pride turned to panic.

I’m a great cook, however, I’m not a trained culinary chef. And like most great cooks, I don’t follow a recipe from scratch and I don’t write down how much cumin I use for a certain dish — I cook with feeling, passion and love. And as outrageous and pretentious as it sounds, my meals always seem to come together with little drama or effort.

Amazing what love can do.

Now I needed to translate that love into recipes that actually work for people who decide to actually make the recipes featured in my column. Yikes!

As I carefully measure my ingredients and check for the perfect degree farenheit, I must admit it feels a bit like I’m in foreign territory. But I’m discovering  my love is transcending  from a “pinch” here and a “handful” there, to, well, more organized and knowing — like a well-worn relationship where each glance, touch, smell and taste is deep and familiar, but elevated, and therefore, that much more exciting.

To my surprise, I’m quickly finding out I like this well-seasoned relationship — it has heightened my awareness and respect for food, and the time and patience required to ensure everyone receives not only nutritional nourishment, but a warm, cozy blanket of love, as well.

My first column hits the press on Wednesday — it’s called, The Main Ingredient — cook what you love, love what you cook, but always remember love is the main ingredient.

I hope you’ll join me on this experimental, crazy ride combining a bit of prose and weirdness, and a large amount of  food, family, friends and libation (no doubt, a heavy amount of libation) — a madwoman’s diary of eats, of sorts. And through it all, I hope you come away with great recipes, and of course, a deep appreciation of what a home cooked meal really is — the ultimate expression of love — the main ingredient. 

You can find me online at the http://www.mercedsunstar.com/ every Wednesday. Tomorrow’s debut column focuses on my philosophy of cooking and food, paying tribute to a very special woman I never had the opportunity to meet, but means everything to me.

California Dreamin’

Several years after returning to the Alamo City, this Alamo City Chick is once again, California Dreamin’ — or at least, for the moment, living in California, seeking my dream.

It wasn’t the easiest decision for me. For those scattered few out in the intrawebs who actually read my jibberish, you are familiar with the backstory. My mother, amidst the holiday hustle and bustle, became a hostage within herself, collapsing from an aneurysm doctors say, was as big as a plum. In a sense, she literally was consumed by a dancing sugarplum — how’s that for ironic holiday cheer?

Little did I know, however, we would have our own, old-fashioned Christmas miracle — mom made it home before our Baby Jesus’ birthday celebration, and made a full recovery. God spoke, and all was right with the world.

So, God granted a miracle, and I have a feeling in this case, it was a miracle of such grand proportions, we kind of tapped ourselves out on asking for anymore — at least for a while anyway.

And although I don’t regret all of my prayers in the proverbial prayer bank going to my mom, I can’t help but wish I would have rationed them a bit — saving some for salvaging two year’s worth of being an absentee mother, daughter and sister — saving some for my own tormented soul.

Not so much.

After two years of attempting to repair a colossal heartbreak — a heartbreak I take full responsibility for — karma kicked my teeth in, and in a sense, ripped my heart in two.

Like a Biblical allegory, my heart now exists in two very different states — both mind and literal space — Texas and California.

I’ve left my mom, dad, brother and children. They remain in Texas. I’m once again, in California.

And all I can do is dream.