 Durian
Ice Cream |
  She reached into the bowels of her pick up truck and dragged out from a huge pile, one after another, several large spiked football-shaped fruits. Fitting a baseball glove over her left hand, she held one up by its dried thin long stem and rested it on her glove; sniffing at its base. Then carefully turning it horizontally, leaning with her ear just above the spikes, she tapped at it repeatedly and lightly with her fingernails. After several tries, she decided on a somewhat rounded one with a slightly asymmetrical contour that had a faint hollow sound resonating through its spikes. She laid it flat on the edge of the truck. Using a very sharp long knife, she carefully cut into the surface of one of the several protruded pouches, making a perfect small triangle. She lifted the triangle out. Nestled deep inside the hard spiky, grayish color rind laid the fruit, with its smooth, silken butter-color flesh. It glowed though the open gap. She took off the baseball glove and carefully inserted her finger inside, touching it lightly, feeling it. The color of her long fingernails, painted fire engine red, flashed and glittered in the streetlight like fireflies. Satisfied, and withdrawing her hand, she then gestured my friend to do as she had done. He reached in with his thick stubby finger and touched the warm golden flesh. It yielded a bit, but otherwise, held firm. He lifted his hand, then bending down toward it, he inhaled deeply. The scent— strong, intense, pungent, and sweet, a mixture of ripened cheese and heated molasses— rose up to greet him. The alluring and intoxicating smell bewitched him with an instant pang of feverish desire. As he lifted his head up, he nodded at the woman; his face flushed with tiny beads of perspiration, as his eyes seemed to glaze over. The woman took the knife and whacked off the stem. Fitting the baseball glove back onto her hand, she turned the fruit over, propping it upright where the stem was, on the bed of the truck. She made two swift deep slashes over the protruding pouches, starting from the top straight down toward the end. She then took off the glove, set down the knife and pick up a clean rag. Covering her hands with the rag, she tugged at the gashes on top, pulling hard, until the fruit gave in, splitting open in halves. One side fell empty, revealing the white blank indentations. Embedded on the other half of the fruit, tugged snuggly inside the white casements were the golden pillows, each separated into three pieces. She gently lifted the small end piece and handed it to my friend. He took it, his hand trembling slightly. Deeply inhaling it first, with eyes closed, he then put the whole piece into his mouth. As he chewed, the inside of his mouth and tongue touched and mingled with the slightly firm filament and the soft warm, creamy custard-like flesh. The scent of fermented-sugary fruit shot up his nostrils. He swooned with ecstasy, murmuring softly. The woman, who had held a stern look through the whole encounter, smiled softly. She proceeded to efficiently extract the rest of the fruit, lovingly wrapping each segment in wax paper, and then packed it into a Styrofoam box. Before my friend arrived at his home in a taxi, half an hour or so later, he would have greedily torn into the box, devouring half of the fruit, while the taxi driver good-naturedly watched him with delighted astonishment. Durian (Durio zibethinus Murr) considered to be the king of fruits in Asia, is the most sensuous of fruits. Believed to have originated in Malaysia, durian evokes extreme feelings and opinions. You either love it or hate it. While some would pay any price to acquire it, others would rather be exiled to a desert island than to be trapped in the same room with a durian. One thing is certain: at first sight durian instantly startles and captivates your attention. You cannot simply walk away, ignoring a durian. Durian commands your attention like a real superstar. — Su-Mei Yu |
 Lemongrass |
While living in Ventura in the early 1970’s, my former husband and I would occasionally drive to Los Angeles to treat ourselves to a Thai meal. Jitrada, on Wilshire Boulevard, served very good Thai meals which were enhanced by fresh herbs grown by the owner. Back then, it was still rare to meet other Thai compadres, and the owner took a liking to us. She invited us to visit her home, which was on the same block as the restaurant. Instead of a front lawn of grass and flowers, she had planted lemongrass—tall, healthy clumps with their long, green blades uniformly shaved off down to the hard stalks. The yard looked like a large, beige flattop haircut. I was quite impressed with the sight because up until then I had never seen fresh lemongrass grown in America. She gave us a couple of stalks that my husband planted in a pot. In no time at all, the roots bored deep into the soil, and the stalks multiplied, growing by leaps and bounds. With fresh lemongrass, cooking the real thing was a wish came true. Lemongrass is cymbopogon citrates (derived from the Greek words kymbe, meaning boat, pogon meaning beard and citrates meaning resembling citrus.) A more common name for it is citronella. Lemongrass looks like its namesake, clusters of wild tall grass. An ancient herb believed to have originated in Southeast Asia, lemongrass, because of its healing properties, is used not only for cooking but also as medicine and in cosmetics. Ancient homeopathic theory relies upon the herb’s aroma and taste as guides in analyzing its curative properties. Lemongrass, because of its citrus aroma is believed to relieve stress, cure colds, and aid headaches, fever, and nausea. Its sharp, citrus-like taste with a touch of pungency is believed to nourish the inner fire element of one’s body, which in turn controls the inner wind, and therefore, cures stomach pain and the feeling of fullness, while at the same time acting as both diuretic and antibiotic. It is used in meat dishes, because meat is believed to be heavy with strong earthy aroma. Lemongrass dissipates the heaviness with its heat and at the same time, masks the meaty aroma with its light lemony fragrance. It is used together with lime to heighten and accentuate the aroma and flavor of soups, salads, and relishes. Lemongrass is often used in conjunction with other herbs and spices to enhance their distinct flavor, while at the same time, rounding all into one blooming bouquet. This is most evident in Thai cooking when fresh herbs and dried spices are pureed together in a mortar and pestle to create seasoning paste. Interestingly, the same technique, perhaps initially derived from homeopathic physicians, is employed to create herbal blends for tea, skin tonic, potpourri for steam bath and massage compresses. During the past 3 to 4 years, lemongrass, once considered a common ingredient for cooking and much taken for granted, has again regained its rightful reputation in Thailand. This is partly due to the emergence of the spa, the newest fad promoted by Thai tourist industry. Unfortunately, without an in-depth understanding of its homeopathic properties, some spas use it more as a popular exotic lure rather than for its true potential. On the other hand, in the West lemongrass is the newly discovered darling among chefs. During the past several years, when a dish needs a Thai touch, lemongrass and chiles are often added. Today, lemongrass is available in most supermarkets. But because of a lack of understanding of how to care for lemongrass, it is often dried and withered away in the bin with its outer hard parts and green top cut off. Its essential oil has been compromised. Nevertheless, for the beginner who wishes to learn how to use this alluring aromatic and gentle herb, making lemongrass tea or skin toner is a good start. The tea, made from fresh or dried lemongrass, is believed to relax and calm one’s nerves while the toner, made from fresh minced lemongrass, invigorates and refreshes the skin. In these times filled with uncertainty and anxiety, lemongrass is a soothing balm for our body and spirit. — Su-Mei Yu |
 Vegetarian
Mah Peh Tofu |
My cousin Susie, who never took vacations, decided to treat me to a weekend holiday at Koh Samui. Our first night, we walked from our hotel along the beach, checking out restaurants. We came upon a lean-to perched by the roadside. Several men were unloading baskets of fresh oysters from a small fishing boat. Instantly, we got ourselves a table and I ordered several dozen of the oysters. The sweet, sea-washed, jelly-like morsels slid down into my mouth, one after another, followed by a couple of swigs of ice cold Singha beer. Susie ate crab-fried rice. The next morning, while doing Tai chi on the beach, I fainted and didn’t regain consciousness until hours later. Flat on my back, I awoke with a pregnant Thai doctor hovering over me. She had hooked me up to a bottle of something through my veins. For the next two days, I lay in bed, with frequent trips to the toilet, while Susie chained-smoked outside our room. For the next month after my sickness, I tried to resume my regular diet. Each time I ate seafood or meat, I would get deathly sick again. So, I became a vegetarian and remained one for seven years. It was then that I became re-acquainted with and developed a respect for tofu, the venerable food of my ancestors, the food I hated as a child. It is believed that the process of making tofu from soybean was accidentally discovered by a Chinese ruler during the Han dynasty (206 B.C. – 200 A.D.) named Liu An. Tofu is believed to have originated in Eastern Asia, either in northern China or Mongolia. Chinese legends bestow the honor of the earliest distribution of soybeans to sages and wise rulers, valuing it as one of the oldest crops grown by man. True or false, soybean was transmitted to Japan via Korea sometime between the sixth and eighth centuries, and today tofu, miso (soybean paste), and shoyu (soy sauce), are revered for their importance in the Japanese’s diet. Tofu is made in the same way as dairy curd is made from cow’s milk. Soymilk is curdled or solidified with either a “salt” (magnesium chloride) or an acid (such as lemon juice or vinegar). When these substances are stirred into hot soymilk and allowed to stand undisturbed for several minutes, the milk separates into delicate, white cloud-like curd floating lightly on top the pale yellow whey. It is called “flowers of tofu” in Chinese, the only kind of tofu I loved as a child. I can still recall the vendor who awakened our neighborhood at the break of dawn with his cry, carrying fresh warm “flowers” in a bamboo tub. Our servant, with the rest of the womenfolk would hand him several bowls into which he scooped the warm sheets of “flowers”, using a thin wide metal spoon, and then topped it with hot sweet ginger syrup. Perhaps my liking of this fresh tofu is because of its rich, delicate, and smooth custard-like texture. It has a subtle and sweet flavor, unlike the firm kind, which turns gritty, as well as exuding a slightly fermented musty smell. But I wasn’t able to find the “flowers of tofu” in the days following my illness. The next best thing to it was the silken soft tofu which I added to soup. Desperate to eat my share of protein, I sometimes also had to cook with the firm tofu. After taking it out of the tub of water, I transferred it into a shallow bowl and crowned the top with a plate and a heavy can, before refrigerating it for several hours. This process extracted most of the liquid, leaving the tofu very dried and compact. I sautéed or deep-fried the slices before mixing it with other vegetables. I also made curry, salad, fried rice, noodles, and spicy stir-fried. My brother Kim remembers mother’s recipe for Mah Peh Tofu, a Sichuan style spicy tofu dish and shared it with me. Its main seasoning ingredient, Sichuan peppercorns, besides being spicy, also numbs the sensations in the tongue after a couple of bites. This makes the experience of eating tofu tolerable. Today, although I am no longer a vegetarian, I have finally found the “flowers” of tofu and eat it as often as I could. Several Asian markets now sell them fresh and warm soon after their stores are open. After eating the first bowlful, I refrigerate the rest and heat up a portion in the microwave as needed. It is almost as good as fresh. As I savor the “flowers”, I am reminded of my childhood mornings on Soi Sam Phra in Bangkok when the days were always warm and we the children lived in a safe cocoon, fussed over and cared for by our parents. |
Pei Tsai - Chinese Cabbage |
The French call Chinese cabbage Pe Tsa, an adaptation of the Chinese words Pei Tsai, meaning white vegetable. One of the oldest vegetables originating in China, its eventual planting and cultivation over the centuries in France and throughout the globe, is credited partly to Chinese migrants who took the seeds with them wherever they settled. Asides from its nutritional value, Chinese cabbage (Chinese celery cabbage, Napa cabbage) is a resilient vegetable. After it is harvested, it can be kept in the cool cellar to last from autumn until spring. It is versatile, offering its pliable texture and bland taste to accommodate other ingredients. My father, like millions of his countrymen before him, relied on this vegetable as a staple while traveling and living as a salesman overseas. Chinese cabbage was not only inexpensive and plentiful all over Asia, but also somehow evoked a sense of familiarity and comfort for father. It reminded him of China…of home. Instead of eating strange foreign food, father would buy a head of Chinese cabbage on the way back to his rooming house, set a pot of water boiling on a portable kerosene stove and make himself Chinese cabbage with pork soup. Years later, after he eventually settled down in Thailand, this same soup graced our table at every single meal, breakfast, lunch and dinner except on Saturday. On that day my mother would mince the cabbage, mixing it with ground pork to be folded into dumplings. Decades later, when my parents emigrated to America, I took them grocery shopping at one of our gigantic supermarkets. To them, seeing Chinese cabbage among innumerable and unrecognizable vegetables was like meeting an old bosom buddy. For the remainder of her years, Chinese cabbage became a familiar and tangible thing my mother could count on in this strange new country. Cooking with it gave her a sense of continuity. Recipes using the cabbage, whether to mark the turn of the season or to celebrate holiday allowed her to maintain her cultural tradition, learned long ago in China, which she continued to practice until her death. It was a comforting expectation for us, her children, that come Saturday or Chinese New Year celebration there would always be Chinese cabbage and pork dumplings. When fall arrived, she would buy several heads for pickling. I was reminded of my mother’s steadfast traditional practice when some twenty years ago, I visited our ancestor’s home in Shantung province on a Chinese New Year. As the men folks and I huddled together against the cold on top of a toasty and warm kung (a cement platform with wood burning underneath), the women were busy. In the dark, cramped kitchen they were boiling mounds of Chinese cabbage and pork dumplings for our breakfast. As they brought out the tray with steaming plate of dumplings, among them was a bowl of pickled Chinese cabbage. A flash image of my mother came into my mind. I could see her as clear as day, sitting by our dining table, eating her homemade pickled Chinese cabbage wrapped in a piece of Chinese scallion flatbread. As she gazed into the garden, savoring the chewy bread laced with spicy, sweet and sour taste of the pickle, her mind seemed to float back, faraway, back to the time, so long ago, of her childhood home. — Su-Mei Yu |
 Pomelo
and Shrimp Salad |
By November, the last of the monsoon rain has been swept away by the steady stream of dry cool wind. It is the season for pomelo. As a child growing up in Bangkok, I remember my father buying, never just one or two, but always a dozen or so of these grand, round, greenish citrus the size of a bowling ball. Pomelo was father’s favorite fruit. These smooth green balls were lined in a neat row against a wall in our small shop house, ready for inspection. After supper, father would pick up each and every one of the pomelos, bounced it lightly into the air, and then toss it back and forth in his hands as if he were ready to shoot it through a hoop. Turning the bottom side with its deep dimple upward, he poked into its well with his fingernail. The fruit sweated, seeping tiny beads of aromatic oil. Father sniffed deeply for the sweet menthol-laced fragrance before pronouncing it ready to be eaten. Mother took the chosen one into the kitchen and proceeded to carve it open. First, she sliced a thin piece off the top exposing the fruit’s secret pigment: white or pink. She then scored the rind lengthwise and around in four equal pieces. Inserting the blade into the sliced top, she ran the knife between the hidden fruit and the rind, around and deep into the thick, cushiony pith. Using her hands, she tucked and pulled where the cuts were made, prying loose the outer rind. The spongy pith was then torn away until the inner thin filmy casement became visible. She pulled the fruit in two, and then separated the individual segments and handed them to each of us. We bit along the thin upper edges, pulling the casement open, then pushed with our fingers at the tightly formed inner glistering sacs. It bloomed like a flower. In America, pomelo is seldom known for what it is. Also known as pummelo, citrus grandis, C. maxima, and shaddock, the fruit has been successfully grown in Florida and California for decades. And yet, it is continually mistaken for a giant grapefruit and treated as such. Although it is a member of the grapefruit family, pomelo is far superior in its taste and texture. The Chinese variety is a larger oblate fruit with rough, bumpy, yellowish rind, while the Thai variety is round with a smooth, bright greenish rind. Both produce either white or pink pulp. Aside from similar genetic links, everything is different between these two citrus fruits. The pomelo has sixteen to eighteen segments while grapefruit has twelve. Pomelo is less acidic with thicker rind and pith, and its juice sacs are firmer, holding the sweet, tangy liquid. One of my earliest childhood attempts was making Som Oh Loy Keaw – a Thai dessert combining sugary syrup infused with jasmine blossoms. A handful of individually separated pomelo juice sacs are sprinkled into the syrup with some crushed ice. As I became more adept as a cook, I not only learned how to make a delicious Thai pomelo and grilled shrimp salad, but also to carve its rind into a decorative container. Once the salad is eaten, the rind is hung to dry in the sun and saved for another day when chill air threatens one with an imminent cold. A cup of hot tea combining pomelo rind, ginger and a bit of honey becomes the perfect soothing balm. — Su-Mei Yu |
 Wild
Turkey Masmun Curry |
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 Cat
Fish Soup |
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— Su-Mei Yu |
When my treasured purchase arrived at last, only one pot and charcoal brazier survived the trip. I was heartsick. With the sole surviving set, I set out to experiment with the traditional way of Thai cooking. First, I hunted for charcoal and decided to combine walnut and mesquite charcoals, hoping the fire would be hot enough to cook but not to crack my one and only pot. Among the old Thai traditional soups I love best is Keang Som (Keang=soup, Som=orange or sour), a spicy-sour soup. Its principle ingredients are dried red chiles, garlic and/or shallots and shrimp paste, fermented fish or fermented bean paste. Variations of Keang Som come from different regions by adding seasonings favored in the region and vegetables and herbs commonly available. No matter what, the essence of Kaeng Som must have a balanced taste of spicy-salty-sweet-sour. It can be made in the morning and eaten at the evening meal or the next day with a handful of fresh vegetables added. When made in the traditional terra cotta pot, Kaeng Som simmers slowly on the brazier allowing the chile paste to brew, it is unmatched in its intense and well-blended flavors. Keang Som is always made with seasonal greens. For example, during the cool season ( November, December and January), tender new shoots of okra plants are used for a distinct bitter taste and fish is added to compliment it. Tender shoots and leaves with a slight astringent flavor such as squash or pumpkin vines, young tender sour tamarind shoots or tangy baby mango leaves are other favorites. Aromatic herbs including ginger, galangal (Lao ginger) and krachai (less ginger or Chinese keys) sometimes are added with seafood. Blossoms such as Dok Khae ( Sesbania Grandiflora), white or purple blossoms resembling pea blossoms render a delicate texture and add a surprise element to the dish. In the late spring and early summer, farmer’s markets in San Diego burst with fresh fruits and vegetables. I bought zucchini blossoms for its sweet delicate texture, oyster mushrooms for it softness, French beans for its refreshing taste, and tender rapini for its slightly bitter taste. Together they would make a perfect pot of Keang Som. When I returned home, I got down to the serious business of pounding my chile paste. I used my mother’s mortar and pestle, my prized inheritance. I squatted on the cement floor of my outdoor kitchen and pounded away on the salt, garlic, chiles, galangal, krachi and shallots. To the smooth paste, I added a tablespoon of shrimp paste which I bought in Thailand. It smells slightly of the sea. It has been ages since I last saw my mother start the charcoal brazier. I decided to start my fire with a combination of newspaper and kindling. Completely out of practice, I burned up a whole issue of the New York Times and still no fire. I was about to give up when I remembered mother used to fan the fire gently to get it going. Starting from scratch, I lit a couple of pages of newspaper with small pieces of plywood and patiently fanned it with an old magazine. In 15 minutes, I had one heck of fire burning in my little charcoal brazier. The day before, I cured the terra cotta pot by soaking it in cold water and drying it in the sun. A brand new terra cotta will crack if you put it directly on the fire without first curing it. A bit nervous and anxious, I put cool water in the pot to boil hoping the pot would not crack from the heat. It did not. As the water came to a rolling boil, I put in chile paste and seasoned it with a small chunk of palm sugar, sea salt fish sauce, several fresh chiles and pickled mustard greens. I took ashes from my earlier attempt to start the fire and covered the burning coals with them to lower the heat. I covered the pot and let it simmer slowly for about an hour. By then, the pickled mustard greens softened. The aroma was wonderful and the slightly reddish color of the soup was just about perfect. I brushed the charcoals from the ashes and raised the heat. When the soup began to boil hard, I add the tamarind juice, and put in the vegetables. In a couple of minutes the vegetables were cooked and the soup was ready to eat. Squatting in front of the pot, I spooned the soup directly into my bowl of rice. I ate and ate until the pot of Kaeng Som was nearly empty. — Su-Mei Yu FISH SAUCE Figuring out the best brand of fish sauce, the secret seasoning ingredient for Southeast Asian cooking, was once left to the Asians themselves. With the explosion and popularity of Asian cooking in America, everyone wants to get a bottle of this magic potion. Without knowing good from bad, one whiff of the bad stuff to a newcomer can instantly kill off the person’s love affair with Asian cooking. So, how can you tell the difference? Fish sauce, like olive oil, has different grades, which determine its quality. Good fish sauce is the color of weak tea and smells like the sea. I have seen dark-colored fish sauce, which looks like soy sauce, in the best markets. Do not buy it under any circumstance- it is spoiled and putrid. The brand does not guarantee the quality of the fish sauce. It is the color that tells it all. Fish sauce has a short shelve life. If you are not going to use fish sauce everyday, buy the smallest bottle you can find. I prefer a glass container, fish sauce seems to stay unspoiled longer in glass than plastic. Once open, fish sauce should be refrigerated. When it becomes dark, discard and buy a new bottle. Regardless of the brand, fish sauce is very inexpensive, ranging from 69 cents to $5.00. Buy a couple of brands and experiment. Taste it first before using. Although fish sauce is generally processed in the same method, different manufacturers add extra or secret ingredients in their product. Some are very salty with first contact on your taste buds, and then dissipate leaving a sweet after taste. Some do not. Use and experiment with fish sauce for other cuisines besides Asian cooking. A teaspoon or so of this wonderful gift from the sea can really make a difference. — Su-Mei Yu
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Keang Som