winner celebration party

Beginning of biji jjigae (ground soybean stew): pork, kimchi, green onion

I traveled home this weekend. 

As always, there was cooking involved.  I (mostly) watched.

Soybeans are rinsed for the biji jjigae

There is something comforting about watching someone cook for you.

Pureeing the soybeans

The pureed soybeans go in last.

Halibut.  Alive yesterday.

Downtime flower gazing and piano playing

Mussels in an impromptu broth of the mussels' own briney flavor and garlic

A mishmash of dishes, just the way I like it

Driving home, I saw a soft farewell

I made Korean dumplings (mandu) for lunch. I had leftover wrappers and only needed to pick up a package of tofu, pork, and green onion. There was no ground pork at Mitsuwa, so I chopped some pork loin instead.

These days, I read far fewer food blogs. The result is that I am less influenced to try new recipes. I view it as a positive change. I'm doing what most home cooks probably do: cooking what I like to eat, what I crave, and what makes use of ingredients already in the fridge. By repeating recipes over and over again, I finally master them. I know it's not rocket science, but it seems worth emphasizing the value of practice, in an age of novelty.

Making mandu isn't sexy, but it's comfort food to me. It also tastes delicious. Put on some NPR and get lost in that repetitive filling and folding.

Filled to the max and boiled. Tender skin and savory filling.

Flowers at sunset, just because.

This weekend, I went to the market at Pico and picked up two bunches of garlic chives, tomatillos, a Brandywine tomato, and some green beans. Shopping at the farmers market when you have a life versus when you have nothing to do but explore the farmers market are two entirely different experiences. Wow. Time is valuable, but being present is the ultimate luxury.

Step 1 in being present: Making mandu (mahn-doo), or Korean dumplings. I'm not sure what makes these Korean. These were based on the dumplings I used to make with my mom, so in that sense, I suppose they're Korean because they are...made by Koreans? I don't know. Unlike my mom's mandu, mine contained no meat. In hindsight, maybe they should have. Garlic chives and tofu version are good, but I applied a heavy dose of soy sauce after boiling them.

I love fresh, boiled dumplings-their soft skin, plump filling. My mom has a habit of plucking up the tray, after we've made two or three rows of dumplings, and taking it to the stove, where she would topple several into a pot of boiling water. Patience doesn't run in our family. I would have preferred to wait because I like seeing the results of my labor. But watching my mom extract so much visible pleasure from eating a fresh dumpling made me want to have that same feeling, and I believed that doing what she did was the way to attain it. Why we like what we like, that's a complex question.

I always feel a little sad when I eat fresh mandu. You put so much time into making each half moon but eat them in mere seconds. They're not beautiful in the way a three-layered cake with frosting might be. They're basic, and that word that describes something of the gut, a mix of pleasure and necessity. I would make them again and again. From making the filling to pinching the ends of the wrappers to dipping a dumpling in sauce, the entire ritual is entirely worth it.

I've never used tomatillos before. I imagined them as being complicated. There was the papery husk, but I didn't know how many. What did they look like inside? Were they shriveled and dried? They're not! Just remove the papery exterior and wash.

Papery skin. "Papery" is my new crutch word.

After you broil tomatillos for about 5-7 minutes, they bubble and seem to melt. I dumped them into the food processor with leftover cilantro, some diced jalapeno, onion, garlic, salt, and lime juice.

The resulting salsa verde was damn good. Fresh and bright, nothing like the bland, slightly sweet goop you get in a jar.

I've eaten heirloom tomatoes before, but I didn't love them until today. I paid $5.00 for this Brandywine, and for once, I said, "This was worth every penny." The trick was figuring out to make it taste great. Some people love eating heirloom tomatoes plain, but for me, it took some salt to bring out the rich tomato flavor.

Look at that color! That's not Photoshop.

An amazing breakfast. A baguette from Surfas, Brandywine tomato sprinkled with salt and feta, raw red onion. I dipped the bread in some grassy olive oil, also from Surfas. Never underestimate the power of good olive oil.

Last in this week's impromptu banchan series is ggakdugi (Gahk-doo-ghee), a type of kimchi made with Korean white radish (moo).  Ggakdugi is simple to make, making it a good choice for beginners.  In fact, this was my first kimchi attempt, and I can say it's much less intimidating than it sounds.

I began with recipes from both Eating and Living and Maangchi and ended up with my own adaptation below.  According to my mom, you don't need rice powder, which helps thicken the sauce.  Also, although fermented shrimp is often used in making kimchi, I followed Maangchi's suggestion and used fish sauce instead, just to see if the result would be noticeably different.  After three days of fermenting at room temperature in my kitchen, the ggakdugi tasted perfect, just like my mom's.  I'll definitely keep this recipe around; next time, I'll use saewootjeot (fermented shrimp) instead of fish sauce.

Ggakdugi (Radish Kimchi)
Adapted from Eating and Living and Maangchi

Ingredients

• 2 medium to large moo (Korean white radish), peeled
• 1/3 cup sea salt
• 1 tsp. minced ginger
• 2/3 cup gochukaru (Korean red pepper flakes)
• 1/4 cup fish sauce
• 4 stalks green onion, chopped into 1-inch segments
• Approx. 5 cloves garlic, minced
• Approx. 2 tbsp. sugar
• 1/3 cup reserved radish brine

How-To:

1. Cut each moo into thick disks (about 3/4-inch to 1-inch wide), then cut each disk into rough blocks.  They should be about 1-inch wide, though obviously you'll have some rounded corners.
2. In a large bowl, toss the radish with the sea salt, and let this sit for about thirty minutes, until much of the water has come out of the radish.
3. Drain the radishes, placing a bowl beneath your colander to collect the brining liquid.  Set aside 1/3 cup of the brining liquid.
4. In a medium sized bowl, combine the ginger, gochukaru, fish sauce, green onion, garlic, sugar, and reserved brining liquid.  Taste.  If it's too spicy, add some more sugar.  If you don't think it has enough funk, add some fish sauce.  Keep in mind that the way the mixture tastes now is not how it will taste in a few days, after fermentation.  Fermentation will make the flavors mellow and harmonious, i.e. a lot less funk.
5. In the large bowl that you salted the radish, toss the radish blocks with the spicy mixture.  Make sure each cube of radish is adequately coated.
6. To store the ggakdugi, put it in an airtight container, like a big jar or tupperware.  I used what I had on hand: A leftover plastic tub that previously contained nuts and a small tupperware.

Eat right away if you like, or let the ggakdugi sit at room temperature for 1-3 days to let it ferment.  You will know fermentation has occurred when you open the container and see bubbles (it's alive!).  At that point, stick the ggakdugi in the fridge.  It will continue to ferment, and you'll notice how the flavor changes over the course of a few weeks. 

In part two of this week's banchan series, I present to you sukjunamul (sook-joo-nah-muhl), aka mung bean sprouts.  This is a banchan you see all the time at restaurants, whether as a side dish or as an ingredient in bibimbap.

And it's dead simple to make.  Boil the mung bean sprouts, drain the excess water, and toss with a few ingredients to make the mild, nutty flavor of the sprouts shine. 

This time, I used a recipe from Maangchi, Internet Queen of Korean cooking.  The last time I checked, she was in her fifties, though she doesn't look a day over forty.  Check out her recipe page for both written instructions and a video.  You can see I adapted her recipe by using only sprouts and leaving out the cucumber. 

P.S. I can see by my photos that I need to go shop for new props.

P.P.S. My new favorite food?  Raw,  young mung bean sprouts, barely cracked.

Many of you are already familiar with banchan—the little dishes of food that you can find on any Korean table, whether in a home or at a restaurant.  Some people describe banchan as side dishes, though they are an essential part of any Korean dining experience.  Having many different kinds of banchan means every person at the table can customize every bite of his or her meal.  And in a pinch, rice and banchan make a perfectly acceptable meal.

Although Korean food is ubiquitous in Los Angeles, I'm interested in making my own.  Take banchan.  You can make a lot of it and eat it for days or weeks (months, in the case of kimchi).  And honestly, some of these dishes are so easy to prepare that you can make several in one go.  The other day, I made three types of banchan in under two hours, counting waiting time. 

The one pictured above is oi muchim (oh-ee moo-cheem, "oi" meaning "cucumber" in Korean).  I like to eat oi muchim on hot summer days, though I'll eat it any time with a bit of rice.  Despite my rough English translation, oi muchim is not very spicy and tastes more like a quick pickle with a peppery kick.  Make a lot, and keep it in the fridge.  But don't wait too long to eat it; oi muchim isn't meant to ferment like kimchi.  Like most banchan, serve oi muchim in a small dish, and sprinkle sesame seeds on top.  Everyone eats from the same banchan dish, though there's no rule against giving everyone his or her own.

I tried the recipe from Eating and Living, one of my favorite Korean food blogs.  It came out great.  A tad salty, but good.  Give it a shot!  My only tip is to make sure to use quality cucumbers.  Korean cucumbers or Kirby pickling cucumbers are ideal.  The worst are the flabby, flavorless ones you find at your standard grocery store.

My second attempt at soondubu jjigae was excellent (see lackluster first attempt, here), thanks to my mom's rescue.  This doesn't taste like BCD Tofu.  It tastes homemade, which I prefer. 

Also, this recipe is not the soondubu jjigae recipe, and I don't know if such a recipe exists.  One Google search demonsrates how widely recipes differ.  For example, many soondubu jjigae recipes call for a paste composed primarily of ground red chili pepper, soy sauce, and garlic.  I skipped the paste and added the chili pepper straight into the pot, and I didn't detect a big difference. 

I want you to try this so badly that I would make it for you myself, if I happened to have space for a party in my apartment.  Maybe I'm inflating the merits of this recipe—after all, I'm a novice home cook who only learned how poach chicken last year.  But I believe you will devour this one.  Don't be intimidated by the ingredients.  This is a true one-pot meal that requires minimal prep and time.  You can find most of the ingredients at any Korean grocery store or online.

Use about half a pound or less pork or other protein (chicken, beef, seafood).  Or leave out meat entirely and keep it vegetarian (in which case, I would recommend lots of kimchi on top of your other vegetables).

If you're using pork, beef, or chicken, cook the meat first.  But don't stress.  This is a one-pot meal.

After the meat is cooked, add a few tablespoons of gochugaru (Korean ground red pepper).  Adjust to match your spice preference.  Gochugaru is essential, so I wouldn't try to use a substitute.

Add water.  Crucial: Do not overfill the pot.  Don't let the water pass the midway mark.  You'll end up with a watery soup and an overflowing pot instead of a concentrated stew.  Such was the drowning doom of my first soondubu jjiage attempt.

Add hondashi powder if you want this to be quick.  If you're a purist, then go ahead and make your own stock with kelp and dried anchovies before beginning to make this stew.

Add kimchi and vegetables.  Keep everything boiling.

Add big spoonfuls of tofu.  Silken tofu is fine, though soondubu has an even softer texture (so soft, it comes in a tube).

Finally, add some minced saewootjut (fermented shrimp).  Don't worry.  It doesn't taste as scary as it looks.  If you can't find fermented shrimp, then use salt, or maybe fish sauce.

See?  Harmless.

The end result: Korean comfort food in your own home.

Mom's Soondubu Jjigae with Pork
Serves 2-4
"Dubu" is Korean for "tofu," and "jjigae" (JJEE-geh) is the ubiquitous Korean term for what you might know as a stew.  This is not THE way to make soondubu jjigae, just one version of my mom's method.  My mom likes food that tastes good but doesn't take all day to make (unless we're talking kimchi).  I used zucchini, but onions and mushrooms are also common.  There's no need to stick to pork.  Soondubu jjigae can be made with a variety of proteins-chicken, beef, pork, and seafood (ex. clams, shrimp, mussels) are common.  You might add seafood later in the process, since it requires less time to cook.  You can also leave out the meat entirely and keep the stew vegetarian (ex. kimchi soondubu jjigae!).  Feel free to experiment!

Ingredients:

1/2 lb. or less of pork (or chicken, or beef), thinly sliced
A few tsp. sesame oil
3-5 tbsp. gochugaru (GOH-choo-GAH-roo) (Korean ground red chili pepper)
2-2 1/2 cups water
1 tsp. hondashi (instant fish soup stock)
Approx. 1 cup napa cabbage kimchi, no juice
Approx. 1 cup zucchini (or other vegetables), chopped
Approx. 1 tsp. saewootjot (SEH-woot-jut) (fermented shrimp), minced
1 14-oz container silken tofu, or 1 tube soondubu (extra soft tofu made for soondubu jjigae)

Optional: Chopped green onion, sesame seeds, and eggs (one per person)

How-To:

1. Heat some sesame oil in a medium sized pot over medium high heat.  Add the pork and cook until the meat is no longer raw.
2. Add the gochugaru to the pot and mix well with the pork. Then add the water and bring to a boil (be sure you fill the pot less than halfway).  Add the hondashi, and stir until it dissolves.
3. Add the zucchini and kimchi, and stir.  Boil for about five minutes.
4. Add very large spoonfuls of the tofu, whichever kind you're using.  Be sure to keep the pieces large, and try not to break them up while stirring.  Boil for a few more minutes. 
5. Stir in the saewootjot, then crack egg(s) into the pot while it's boiling.  If desired, garnish with green onion and/or sesame seeds before serving.  Serve as-is or portion into separate bowls (separate from your rice bowl).  Eat by spooning the jjigae over rice.  (I prefer doing this bite by bite instead of dumping my rice into the jjigae).

Notes:

• If your local grocery store doesn't stock gochugaru, I found some on Amazon, like this coarse gochugaru and this finely ground version.  I used a coarsely ground powder for my jjigae.
• Silken tofu is really a fine substitute for soondubu.  If you're a soondubu jjigae diehard, though, you will appreciate the even softer texture of the soondubu, which you can look for in the refrigerated section of a Korean grocery store.
• If you're a purist, you could substitute dried kelp and dried anchovies for hondashi, but who's looking?  My hondashi has MSG in it, but I don't mind using it if I'm the only one eating.

I'm on a roll!  Yesterday, it was Mom's Daikon Soup, today it's Cucumber Kimchi.  This isn't what you typically think of as kimchi, i.e. this doesn't require a long fermentation.  It's more like a quick pickle, and a slightly sweet, slightly sour one at that. 

All of these dishes straddle the line between an Asian cuisine (here, Korean, obviously) and fusion.  Stubborn, old me is finding this a good exercise in relaxing my expectations of authentic cuisine.  Do you experience this yourself?  Is there a cuisine or even single dish that you fiercely guard against dilution, misinterpretation, or flat-out heresy?  These recipes are challenging me to ask what makes a cuisine authentic.  What are the essential components or techniques of a dish that make it, say, Korean, or American?  It's one of those questions I ponder often, to no satisfying conclusion.  But I ask it all the same.

On that note, here's Chef Sara Jenkins' article in The Atlantic on Italian food and authenticity.  And I listened to an old Radiolab episode last night on the "self."  It got me thinking about change, how we are fluid beings.

This day is shaping up to be a very good Friday, and it's not even brunch hour.  The air is cool, gently filling my living room and curling around the flowers and tree branches littering the space.  Los Angeles offers just enough of the seasons to make you grateful for the moment but not so much to make you bitter.  Perpetual contentment.

Above you see last night's dinner: Seafood soondubu jjigae.  It's one of my favorite Korean comfort foods--hot, spicy, flavored with meat and vegetables, never too heavy.  Jjigae (JEE-geh) is the Korean word for stew, and there are endless types: Doenjang jjigae (fermented soybean) and kimchi jjigae are two you may already know.  The double j means the letter should explode from your tongue--a hard sound, not the flabby j in jam.  Soondubu (SOON-doo-boo) is soft tofu, available in Korean (and maybe Chinese) grocery stores.  It differs from silken tofu, though you can use silken tofu as a substitute.

I'm not posting a recipe at this time because, being a perfectionist, I wasn't satisfied with the result.  The flavor was very good, almost right, but I think I added too much water.  So let the photo whet your appetite until I get it right.  When I do, a recipe will follow!

In the meantime, what are your weekend plans?

Aside from work, of which I should speak far less, I'm looking forward to getting out of my apartment and reading in a cafe.  I know it rings cliche, but much time has passed since the last time I found myself lingering over coffee in a semi-public space.

Also, I'm excited to start testing some recipes for Steamy Kitchen!  Yes, you read correctly.  Jaden Hair of Steamy Kitchen is coming out with her second cookbook, full of healthful, easy, Asian recipes.  Somehow I was one of the lucky fifty chosen to help test as many of these recipes as I can between now and March 20.  I've scanned them all; they look no more difficult than your average weeknight dinner, and more, they sound delicious.  Check back here for photos (though, of course, to find the recipes, you'll have to buy the cookbook).

I waver in the murky grey* between cuisine purist and American melting pot, but I do think there is value in simplified versions of a cuisine.  They introduce you to new flavors in an accessible way, and should you feel so inclined, you can always try the truer recipes later. 

Enough of that tangent.  I hope you have a great weekend.  Get out and enjoy the sunshine!  Or if you're in one of those places with snow and low temperatures, go outside and feel your nose burn. 

* Grey: Imagine me in elementary school.  With only a partly English speaking household and a school that was militant about "correct" everything (grammar, syntax, punctuation, you name it), I found much joy and escape in Roald Dahl's children's books.  You can say I was obsessed.  For better or for worse, this was happening during my formative years, and not long after I had learned English.  Being a blank slate, I absorbed everything.  Like "grey."  It wasn't until high school, when a teacher marked me down a point for spelling gray incorrectly, that I learned my language wasn't entirely American.  Is that really what it was all about?

Time for another Korean recipe!  I'm starting slow and easy to avoid any discouraging disasters.  Today it's pajeon (PAH-juhn) jeon (juhn), a Korean pancake with a variety of fillings.  I'm showing a classic buchu pajeon jeon here.  I also made one with kimchi (kimchi-jeon), but it broke into pieces, so you wouldn't recognize it. 

* * Edit: Well, I have some proverbial egg on my face.  A Korean classmate graciously reminded me that pajeon is, literally, "green onion pancake."  In other words, if you're talking generic Korean pancake, you will often find the name of the ingredient + -jeon (pronounced juhn).  "Pah" is Korean for green onion.  Thus, since I'm not using green onion here, "pa-jeon" is incorrect.  In my haste, and given the fact that growing up, my siblings and I called all -jeon "green thing" (I'm not kidding), I overlooked the error!  Also, I think I get knocked off two Korean points now. * *

Buchu is the Korean word for garlic chives.  It smells like a cross between garlic and onion and is milder than the scallions you find in most grocery stores.  If you've had Chinese dim sum with chives, you know what I'm talking about.  Look for it in your nearest Chinese or Korean grocery store, but if that's not possible, scallions are probably your next best bet are good, too. [** Edit: And in fact, per the above, pajeon would be the name for green onion pancake. **]

Kimchi is...well, you probably know what kimchi is.  For this recipe, I'm talking napa cabbage kimchi. 

Pajeon Jeon is the savory counterpoint to the American pancake but can be eaten at any time of day.  Growing up, I ate it as a light snack.  When done right, it's thin and crispy on the edges, not doughy and heavy.  My mom likes to pile on the ingredients so that you're eating mainly greens, not dough.  (She piles on even more than what you see in the photos below!)  Other popular fillings include seafood (fresh squid, clams, shrimp) or other vegetables like zucchini.  You can cut the pajeon jeon into wedges before serving or, if you're comfortable with your fellow diners, just dig in with your chopsticks.  Dip each bite into a mix of soy sauce and vinegar.  Yum!

Enough talking, time for the recipe.

Korean Jeon (Pancake) with Buchu and Kimchi
Makes 2 large pancakes

Start with 2 small bunches of buchu (rinsed and cut into 2-3" lengths) and about half a cup of nappa cabbage kimchi.  You can mix these together to make buchu-kimchi pajeon jeon, or you can keep them separate, as I did.  You will probably have some buchu left over, unless you pile it on like my mom.

First, go hunt down Korean pancake flour.  It may not look like this bag, but it will read Buchim Gahru (Bu-cheem Gah-roo).  Just to be sure, you will hope there is a line in English that reads "Crispy & Savory Golden Korean Pancake Mix."  Be sure to get the right flour.  Pancake flour is often sold alongside Tee-geem (frying) flour.  Not that frying flour will be a disaster, but if you're trying to do it right the first time . . .

The pancake flour I bought contains (and here, I am simply writing what's on the label): Wheat flour, corn starch, corn flour, oxidized starch, salt, potato powder, baking powder, garlic powder, and riboflavin. 

If you can find this stuff, use it.  If you can't, my Westernized Korean cookbook says you can use all-purpose flour, but I imagine it would taste different.  Maybe a little less flavor, different texture.  But why not try it?

I couldn't understand the instructions on the bag, which were in grams anyway, so I mixed two cups of the pancake flour with about 2 1/2 cups of chicken stock (almost a 1:1 ratio) and one beaten egg.  You're normally supposed to use water and a pinch of salt, but I substituted stock and omitted the extra salt. 

You can mix the fillings right into the batter, but I learned this technique from my mom: Spread the ingredients in a pan (at least nine inches wide) in which you've preheated a generous amount of vegetable oil over medium high heat.  Then ladle the batter over the ingredients, filling all the spaces.  Don't add too much batter.  Minimal batter, maximum filling.

Cook the pajeon jeon for a few minutes, and when you see the edges start to brown and crisp, flip it over and cook for another few minutes.

Remove the pajeon jeon from heat.  Cut into wedges or serve whole, with a sauce made of soy sauce and a splash of vinegar.  You can go crazy with the sauce, but I like it simple.

Enjoy!

Last weekend, I traveled home for my mom's birthday.  She described growing up in Pusan, eating live sea creatures straight out of the ocean.  Sea women prepared them for her, slicing up every wriggling specimen and adding at most a dressing of hot red chili pepper paste and vinegar before she devoured them.  For me, she made pajeon, a savory pancake, with fresh squid and buchu (Korean garlic chives).  There was radish soup.  Santa Maria barbecue.  More sea creatures.  We ate together, we cooked together. 

All that time with family, over food, told me this: Food isn't about determining the boundaries of my own preferences.  In fact, it's not about me at all.  I can't put my finger on it.  Sharing?  Family?  Or, that familiar term, culture? 

A college nonfiction writing professor gave me this gift:  Never say whether something is good or bad, but simply ask, "Does it work?"  One is open-minded and constructive; the other is mere opinion.  Indeed, there is little to no empirical "good" and "bad" in this world.  Yes, I know this statement is vulnerable to healthy debate, but let's stick with one application of the theory: There is no good and bad in food; there is only your awareness of what you're eating, where it comes from, and the person with whom you're eating.  Everythings stands in relation to something else.

It pains me to see someone turn up his or her nose at a dish offered by a host or discount the value of an entire cuisine.  I'm no Emily Post, but my head nods vigorously in agreement with Anthony Bourdain’s Grandma rule, which is that you “should eat what's put on your fucking plate…That's called fucking manners.”

But this is so much more than etiquette.  It’s about shedding the convenience and security of labels and actually being open to considering cultures, practices, and preferences besides our own, especially when they make us uncomfortable.  It's about growing, not confining.  By labeling a dish “good” or “bad,” we state opinion, which has little value and likely sits on shaky ground.  I’m talking deceptively benign statements, like “Burgers are disgusting, but pizza is delicious.”  “I would never eat food out of a can; that’s gross.”  You get the idea.  These statements are, at best, tedious and imprecise.  At worst, they reveal a sense of cultural and class superiority.   They seem so harmless; after all, it’s just your opinion!  But sometimes, it's not about you.  Would you tell a family at a soup kitchen that they should never eat food that comes in a can?  Have you ever had someone tell you that the food you ate growing up was gross (I have)? 

I’m a hypocrite.  I commit the above offenses on a regular basis.  I am doing my best to be more aware, but in order to really-truly-change, I have to do more than just bite my tongue.  Changing the way I think about food, being more aware of the effect each word I say might have (even when no one is listening), believing that things outside my comfort and preference zone may not be all that bad.  This is what I’m talking about.

I would like to live in a world where we do more than give lip service to acceptance.  Some do, but many don't.  I'll still keep trying.

I get it.  What’s the relation to FOOD?  I’m hungry!

In the theme of authenticity and having an open mind, I’m going to face some of my food fears this year.  My goal is to rely less on my foolproof dishes (single-pot dishes, I’m looking at you) and to try my hand at things I love but have been intimidated to try.

Number 1: Korean food.  Yes, today marks my first, official day of attempting to make Korean food, the way my mother makes it.  I haven’t tried until now because I have been too afraid of failure.  But the time to learn is now.  I’ll be mining my mom for recipes, so stay tuned! 

Number 2: Meats.  I don’t really know how to prepare them (and seafood? Heaven forbid.). 

Number 3: Pastries and breads.  Enough with the cookies.  It’s time to get serious. 

Number 4: Cuisines that are not American, not Korean. 

Let's start with Number 1.  Below is my recipe for my mom's mooguk.  Moo is the name for Korean white radish, similar to Japanese daikon.  Guk means soup.  Mooguk is delicious.  It should have a subtle beef flavor, enriched with the faint sweetness of radish.  The key is the umami flavor, and for that reason, it’s important to get the broth right.  I've listed substitutions where appropriate, though to be frank, be careful of tweaking this recipe too much.  With so few ingredients, it only takes a little adjustment to completely change the flavor of the soup.   One of my all-time favorites, and it only gets better with each day.  I would insert ten exclamation points here if I didn't think it would turn you away for good.

And sorry for the wonky photo lighting.  I was in a rush to get this recipe to you!

Korean Mooguk (Radish Soup)
Serves: Your entire family, and then some

Ingredients

• Beef stew meat - or better, says Mom, beef with bone.  I used beef brisket.
• Daepah (Korean leek) - Green onion works, but daepah tastes different and is milder.  Use a lot.
  
• 1-2 onions, peeled but left whole
• Kelp - You could be like me and use hon-dashi (Japanese fish soup stock), or better yet, dried anchovies, which are featured in many Korean recipes
  
• Moo, aka Korean white radish, peeled and cut into small sections - Japanese daikon could work, too.  Moo is shorter and stouter than daikon.
  
• Guk ganjang - Guk = soup, ganjang = soy sauce.  Hence this is Korean soy sauce made especially for soup.  Do not use regular soy sauce!  They DO taste different.
  
• Garlic, several cloves minced or squeezed through a garlic press
  
• Salt
  

How-To:

1. If you are using boneless beef, soak the meat in cold water for up to an hour to remove the blood.  If you have meat with bones, boil it thoroughly to remove any off aromas, then discard the water and set the meat aside.  This is a (mostly) clear soup.
   
   
2. Add the beef to a large pot, along with the daepah, onion(s), salt, and hondashi (or kelp, or dried anchovies).  Boil for about 20-25 minutes, until the meat is fully cooked.
3. Remove the meat, then turn down the meat to medium or medium-low.  Continue to boil the onion and daepah.
   
   
   Cut the mu into thick slices, about half an inch thick.
   
   
   Cut each round in half, then (not pictured) cut each half into three squat pieces by making two cuts.
   
   
4. Slice the meat (I cut against the grain) or tear into shreds.  Add the meat to the pot, along with the moo, garlic, salt, and a few tablespoons of guk ganjang.  Don’t add too much soy sauce.  The soup should remain clear.
   
   
    
5. Boil for 25-30 minutes, or until the radish is soft to the bite.  Adjust the seasoning to taste.
   
6. Serve in bowls, along with rice.  Enjoy.

Notes:

• This soup doesn't rely on strict measurements, but if you are curious: I used 2 moo, 4-5 tablespoons of guk ganjang, 5 cloves of garlic, and several teaspoons of hondashi. 
• I think using kelp or anchovies would give a more natural, and better flavor than hon-dashi, which tasted a little artificial to me.  It's first two ingredients are salt and MSG.    

Finally, I'm back!  I meant to kick off the new year with a list of resolutions, but first things first: Winner Celebration Party is one year old!  Yes, somewhere between a quiet New Year's Day and what my doctor suspects was a short-lived virus, I forgot that on January 1, 2011, I began this pet project.  Lo and behold, I'm still going.

WCP arose out of a cliche, pull-my-hair-out moment of frustration, in which I bemoaned the lack of creative outlets in my life.  Some people need their daily hour at the gym or their eight hours of sleep.  I need to create things, even if pedestrian.  I chose food because everyone has to eat, and even I had to admit I no longer have much time to dance, draw, or play music.

Last year brought insights: Simple dishes are good.  Being able to feed people is even better.  The term foodie should be banished from popular culture, as should intellectualized, romanticized food (I'm a culprit).  Finally, taking photos of food is hard.

This year, I plan to write about something besides recipes and to post at least once a week.  This seems manageable, at least until the bar exam.  I have personal resolutions, too: Get rid of non-essentials,  spend less social time on the Internet, and spend more time doing nothing.  

Thank you for reading WCP and for bearing with its growing pains.  It befuddles me that anyone but my five best friends would read this, but hey, I will not probe the questions of the universe.  In return, I promise lots of comfort food, amateur food photos, and my rambling sentences.

Persimmon Galette, a story

I prepared half of Martha Stewart's pie crust recipe.  I thinly sliced some ripe Fuyu persimmons and simmered them in a solution of water and sugar, adding sliced ginger and a bit of cinnamon.  Once the persimmons were soft, I strained them and set them aside in a bowl.  I tossed the fruit with a haphazard combination of white sugar, brown sugar, and agave nectar.  I then removed the pie dough from the fridge and rolled it out to about 1/4" thickness.  After transferring the dough to a baking sheet, I spread some agave nectar in the center of the dough, leaving one inch bare all around.  Finally, I spread the persimmon slices over the agave nectar, folding the edges of the dough over the fruit, forming pleats with my hands.  This went into the oven until the crust looked golden brown.  Honestly, I can't remember how long.  Somewhere between 25 minutes and 45 minutes.  My memory is awful, I know.  Just use your judgment.

The verdict: This galette tasted amazing.  It's simple in form but lacks nothing in flavor and texture.  I normally like Fuyu persimmon raw, but I couldn't stop eating this galette.  I got the idea of ginger and cinnamon from soojongwah, a Korean persimmon beverage that I drank as a child.  The poaching, in my opinion, transforms the subtle flavor of raw persimmon into an indulgent, dessert-worthy thing.  I will definitely make this again.

Happy Food Day!  Do you know the six principles behind Food Day? 

One thing missing from this list is community.  Why not celebrate Food Day by sharing food and dialogue?  Sharing as in a two-way exchange-offering our experiences as much as receiving other people's experiences into our lives.  Every day, I see people talking at each other, each person silencing the other with a new thought.  Where is the listening?  Listening isn't a mere nod of the head, it's empathy and the potential to be changed.

The brightest moment of my weekend was talking to my mom on the phone and receiving unsolicited food advice.  Concerned when I said I rarely made it downtown for Korean food, she gave me what is her version of Korean fast food.  Cook thin slices of steak, and dip it in a mixture of salt, pepper, and sesame oil.  Top with samjang.  Wrap it in lettuce.  Eat wth banchan from the Korean grocery store.  Maybe some gaenyip, or anything, really.  That's it!  You don't have to make it yourself.  Don't cook every little thing like American food!  This is love. 

I am also celebrating Food Day with actual food.  Hopefully, I will be posting recipes during most of this upcoming week.  For today, I leave you with beef back ribs, baked in the oven.  I've never made ribs before, so I didn't quite know what I was doing going in to this.  But success!  Next time, I'll quadruple the quantity of ribs. 

Happy Food Day, and happy sharing.

Oven Beef Back Ribs

One small note: This recipe is based on some online research on how to make ribs in an oven, since I lack a grill.  The spice rub is a mix of various spices in my pantry.  I bought a mere pound of beef back ribs because, having never cooked ribs before, I wanted to start small.  If you are actually planning to make this into a meal, you'll probably want to at least double the quantity of ribs.

Preheat your oven to 300 degrees Fahrenheit. Combine a teaspoon each of coriander, cumin, chili powder, plus a few tablespoons each of brown sugar and kosher salt, and a dash of cayenne pepper.

Rub the mixture into the ribs, and rub it in like an I-told-you-so (sorry, couldn't resist the awful pun).  Double wrap the ribs in aluminum foil and place in an oven-safe dish.  Bake for 2-3 hours.

I didn't realize how much the ribs would shrink from the bone, but it makes sense.  Tasty.

Looking for a road trip snack that doesn't involve Cheezits or Sour Patch Kids (both of which are loved by a certain someone who will go unnamed)? Consider gimbap (pronounced GEEM-bop), which in Korean literally means "seaweed rice."  To be specific, gim is dried roasted seaweed.  In Japanese, you know it as nori.  Gimbap is in fact similar in looks to a sushi roll, minus the raw fish.  Sliced into bite-sized pieces, gimbap is perfect for eating on the go.  And it's delicious.

Pictured are some common gimbap ingredients: carrots (lightly sauteed), egg, ham (other proteins can be used), spinach, pickled radish, and imitation crab (yes, imitation).

Question: Who will be the first person to turn this into a food truck??  You read it here.

Spread cooked, short grain rice over a sheet of gim.  My mom recommends using less water to cook the rice so that it isn't too mushy.
 

Arrange a bit of each ingredient over the rice.
 

Like so.  Sort of.  This was my sister's first attempt, i.e. it's not picture perfect.
 

Carefully roll and press partway.
 

Roll and press again.  Don't be afraid to use a bit of pressure.
 

Perfect.
 

Not perfect.
 

Slice with a sharp knife and EAT.

Oi kimchi.  I made it.  This weekend.  While visiting my parents for Labor Day.

Ok, fine.  My mom made the kimchi.  But I did my fair share of washing, chopping, and general prepping.  I also took photos.  Ok, fine.  My sister took most of the photos.  Check her out at I Heart Woo.

Oi Kimchi.  Oi, pronounced "oh-ee" ("oh" as in "voracious" and "ee" as in "teepee"), means cucumber in Korean.  Just one of an endless variety of Korean kimchis, and a simple one at that.  Oi kimchi is meant to be eaten fresh, i.e. you don't let this stuff ferment like Napa cabbage kimchi.  Makes sense-you don't want the cucumber to get mushy, with its high water content.

So I said oi kimchi was simple to make.  True, but let me add a few qualifications:

1.  I can't give you a recipe.  Not my mom's recipe, at least.  I tried, but "about this much garlic" and "just guess" just don't translate into recipe lexicon.  [I remember hearing about this woman who followed Asian grandmothers around, trying to record their recipes for traditional dishes.  I admire that woman so much more now.]  

2.  On that note, there is no perfect recipe.  There's no "secret ingredient."  It's all about adjusting a standard combination of flavors to taste.  Trust me, bulgogi tastes delicious, whether you make your marinade with white sugar, pear juice, or (my mom's latest experiment) blueberries.

3.  Good Korean food tastes, well, Korean.  Obvious, but I think this point is worth making, given all the adulterated bulls*** I see in LA.  I guess I'm close to being a Korean food purist. 

Don't make things complicated.  Before you reach for the tortillas and weird condiments, just try a recipe using the basic called-for ingredients.  You would think that there are only so many variants of the same ingredients that you can taste, but that would be oversimplifying Korean cuisine (or Chinese, or Thai, etc.).  

4.  The closest thing to a perfect recipe is your mom's home cooking.  It's the food of your childhood, the food you love most.  You go on to try other kimchis, but none of them tastes like the one you grew up with. 

Good Korean food is more than just food.  I know, you're rolling your eyes.  But it's true.  Something is transmitted, from cook to eater, something that hits your gut.  And that's why my favorite Korean food is my mom's.  Because it's the only food that makes me happy at first bite, without fail.

So, no, I don't a recipe for you today.  But you don't really need it! 

It starts with a crate of Korean cucumbers (soh-bae-gee).  Yes, you read correctly: A CRATE.  When I asked the staff at the Korean grocery store for a box, they didn't even bat a eye.  DIY preservation, sans the hipster/artisan element.

First, you triple wash the cucumbers.  See how they are straight and relatively short?  Perfect for kimchi.  I had to go to a Korean grocery store to find these, but you can probably substitute other cucumbers.
 

Oi kimchi should be consumed fairly quickly, unlike other fermented kimchis.  So we set aside most of the cucumbers for a quick salt pickle.  These little guys are waiting to be covered in boiling salt water.  The salt bath will be repeated a few times over three days, when the cucumbers will be ready for a rinse and a slice, to be eaten like other Korean banchan.
 

But back to the kimchi.  You trim the cucumber ends, slice them in half, then cut cross-sections into each half (keeping them intact).
 

The cucumbers are then tossed in very coarse sea salt.
 

Then you triple rinse and finely chopp a s*#@ ton of buchu.  According to Wikipedia, buchu is garlic chives.  It looks a bit like grass, it's oniony in scent and flavor but milder than green onion.  You can find it at a Korean grocery store or, if you're like my mom, you can toss it in the backyard and wait for it to grow. 
 

Ok, now time for the fermented shrimp.
 

The shrimp gets blended with a ton of garlic.  Not literally a ton.  Just enough to raise an eyebrow.
 

It's the smelly stuff that makes the kimchi taste so good.
 

The paste is combined with the chopped buchu.
 

Then in goes a generous amount of gochukaru, which is Korean red chili pepper powder.
 

Combine until you get a paste.
 

And now you get to work.  Real Koreans sit on the ground.  Rookies like me wear plastic gloves.

Using chopsticks to pry open the cucumber halves, you stuff them with the pepper paste mixture and line them up in a ready container.
 

Voila.  This will sit for a day before being put in the fridge.  Or, if you're bacteria-phobic, you can just stick it in the fridge right away.

Photos by Winner Celebration Party and I Heart Woo

It's my last year of law school, which for some people means a downhill coast to freedom.  But as luck would have it, my year is as busy as ever.  But there is still time for food.  First, I'm excited about my food law and policy seminar.  You know it's going to be a good semester when your first assignment is to visit a grocery store and to read Michael Pollan's In Defense of Food.  Second, a student still has to eat.  Here are a few things I've whipped up recently:

Remember my last post about the Food Porn photography event?  Well, after two hours of infamous Los Angeles traffic, my cousin and I never made it to the event.  We scrapped our plans and headed to my sister's instead, and we all feasted on a giant dish of japchae, or Korean noodles.  Japchae is dangmyun (sweet potato noodles) mixed together with marinated beef, spinach (or in some parts of Korean, pah), carrots, mushrooms, and onion.  Everything is tossed together with some soy sauce, sugar, and sesame oil, then topped with a sprinkling of sesame seeds.  It's a popular dish at big Korean parties and potlucks.  So how did our japchae taste?  Pretty good, but nothing like my mom's.

Faced with a glut of berries from the Santa Monica Farmers Market, I armed myself with a new tart pan and made my first ever fruit tart.  This is a butter crust (made from scratch), vanilla cream, and organic berries.  

The finished product.  Thanks to the guy at Sur La Table who steered me toward the fine mesh strainer that, yes, turned out to be perfect for dusting confectioner's sugar.

Then I turned around and used the tart pan to make this mushroom gruyere-swiss quiche for a potluck.  Again, a butter crust, oyster and crimini mushrooms, and both swiss and gruyere cheese.  I later trimmed the crust (I let it hang over after seeing my tart crust shrink).

A healthy dose of eggs, whole milk, and cream later, voila - a savory, soft, DELICIOUS quiche with a flaky crust.  You can see that I could have done a better job beating together the cream and eggs, but I was in a rush, and trust me, it tasted no worse for it.  And note: I think the quiche crust turned out better than the tart's since I let the butter chill in the freezer for a bit before making the dough.

I've been to BCD Tofu House so many times that I have never thought to recommend it.  Growing up, I would climb into the back seat of the car for a solid two to three hour drive to LA.  There would be groceries, and trips to the hair salon, and dinner.  BCD is still one of our reliable go-to's.  It's a chain with locations scattered across the country, but I recommend the one on Western and 9th in Los Angeles.  Why?  It's always busy, and I for some reason associate rapid turnover with fresh food.  I've been to two others, including the one on Wilshire and the one in Irvine, but this is my favorite.  Unfortunately, it takes me a while to get downtown, so maybe I will have to learn to make it myself, with my Korean cookbook and mother to guide me.

[photo by avlxyz via Creative Commons. This isn't BCD but fairly close.]

How to spot it: The Western Ave location is housed in a standalone building, along with other restaurants, on the edge of a parking lot.  It's not glamorous, but it's bright, clean, and always packed with Koreans (don't worry, non-Koreans come, too, and have no trouble ordering from the bilingual menus).  You will recognize the logo above the glass doors.  Parking's free and not an issue.  Snag a spot in front of the small building or in the big lot surrounding it.

What to order:  You come here for the soondubu jjigae*, or tofu stew ("dubu" being Korean for tofu, "jjigae" for stew).  Some call it simply "tofu pot."  The menu is straightforward: Get a tofu pot by itself-it comes in a handful of varieties like kimchi, dumpling, seafood, and original.  I like it all.  If you're extra hungry or are eating with a group, order a combo: tofu pot plus a dish like galbi (marinated beef marshort ribs) or bulgogi (marinated beef).  Oh, and be sure to tell the server how spicy you want your stew.

* What is soondubu jigae? This is a popular Korean stew consisting of fresh, silky soft tofu and various combinations of meat and vegetables.  Everything is cooked in a very hot iron pot in a broth, along with lots of spicy Korean red pepper paste.  You eat it with rice and banchan.  It's pronounced SOON-doo-boo GEE(as in "gee whiz")-geh (as in "get").

What to expect: First, your server will bring out your banchan, or side dishes, which usually includes kimchi, potato salad, pickles, and other accompaniments.  Each person also gets his or her own yellow covina.  Note that you can start snacking on the banchan when they arrive, but that normally you eat them with the rest of your meal.  In fact, Korean food isn't centered on a main entree like Western cuisine, so it is not uncommon for Koreans to eat meals consisting solely of rice and banchan (see me raising my hand).  Once you and your friends have settled into some friendly chatter, your server will return with bubbling hot pots and meat sizzling on an iron plate.  Each person gets rice scooped out of an iron bowl, which is then filled with water (for later).  If you like, you can grab an egg and crack it into your pot.  I've seen people eat tofu pot in different ways-some people spoon their rice into the tofu pot, but I prefer to add spoonfuls of tofu to my rice dish.  I am always amazed at how a tiny bowl of rice can absorb so much tofu stew.  You'll feel happy and full about 3/4 into your pot, at which point your server will return a final time to give each person a bowl.  Inside these bowls you will find toasted (euphemism for burned) rice immersed in water, from the very pot your rice came from.  It sounds peculiar, but I like the mild, calming flavor of burned rice (is it a broth? a soup?) at the end of a spicy meal.

Ambiance: Medium to loud in noise, casual

Cost: Expect to pay around $9 and up for a tofu pot, and $15 or more for a combo.

Service: While this isn't a hole in the wall, neither is it a fancy dining experience.  You go for tofu!

Tip: This location is open 24-Hours, so now you know where to go if you find yourself stranded in downtown LA on a late night.

BCD Tofu
869 S Western Ave, #2
Los Angeles, CA 90005
Neighborhood: Koreatown
Phone: 213-380-3807
Hours: 24-7

Photo from Bionic Bites

Mmm, soondae, aka Korean blood sausage.  I have a serious craving for this treat, thanks to Serious Eats.

My family would pick up soondae from the Korean grocery store during regular trips to LA.  One of many styrofoam trays piled in a plastic bag, holding hot foods made fresh that day.  For the longest time, I refused to try this strangely dark sausage, sticking with the familiar: gimbap (literally "seaweed rice") with threads of carrot, spinach, beef, egg, maybe some pickled daikon.  And mandu, the giant variety with white, pillowy buns and meat or vegetable filling.  Whenever I asked what was in soondae, my mom would get a mischievous look in her eye, stuff a piece in her mouth, and mumble, "Try it. It's good."  To a young kid, that is not encouraging.  Those noodles looked like brain bits.

Unlike American or European sausages, soondae has a mild flavor and is much less dense than its Western counterpart.  The texture is soft, thanks to cellophane noodles and barley.  You eat the sausage fresh and straight, dipped in the salt that usually accompanies it.