Tampopo

Ahh, Tampopo. I had never seen this film but my friend Meghan assured me I’d love it. During the opening scenes, when the old man described the perfect bowl of noodle soup and how to eat it, I became intensely hungry. It brought back two memories, old and new.Photo courtesy of www.theragingspork.com

When I was about six years old, right around the time my mother and father divorced, I would spend Wednesdays after school and daycare with dad. He lived near my school and a short drive from Chinatown in Victoria, BC. He would take me to a little hole in the wall restaurant that I could never pronounce. I referred to it as “the place with the ducks in the window” as it served whole barbequed ducks. The owner came to know us and would send out a giant bowl of noodles for me along with a fork. I insisted on being a big girl and using chop sticks, much to my father’s chagrin as he was splattered with steaming hot broth. These Wednesday afternoons fostered my favorite pastime of finding a good soup place on miserable days (weather or emotional).

A few months ago, Sam and I discovered Samurai Noodle in the International District. We stood in line for 45 minutes until a spot opened up in the tiny restaurant. It was totally worth the wait. The bowls of noodles were amazing! The broth was perfect and you could order the noodles at varying stages of soft or chewy. A big, thick slice of fatty pork floated on top and each table offered condiments like sesame seeds, chili flakes, or dried seaweed. We both worked through our noodles quickly and discovered that we could order extra noodles to finish off our broth. There is now a sign on a building in the University District claiming that a Samurai Noodle will be moving in. I can hardly wait!

Another side effect of watching Tampopo was that I splurged at Uwajimaya on items I have no clue how to cook. I bought dried ramen noodles, fish sauce, and a few other things with no real intention of trying to make my own noodle soup. I just like having the stuff around my house.

The Future of Food

The most disturbing part of watching the film The Future of Food, for me, was the notion of a company patenting something like seeds. Seeing the farmers deal with their crops becoming “infected” with GMO seeds and then being sued for supposedly using the seeds without purchasing them was really alarming. It made me think of Ruth Ozeki’s book and how adamantly her characters fought the idea of seeds being controlled. I agree with the right of farmers and gardeners to save their seeds for future seasons. Mother Nature doesn’t understand patents. She created seeds and made them opportunists that will stick to the cuffs of pants, fall with the droppings of birds, and float on wind currents in order to propagate their species. Without each other and a symbiotic relationship, seeds and humans wouldn’t survive.

Photo courtesy of asianreporter.com

Overall, I thoroughly enjoy Ozeki’s book All Over Creation. It has been a while since I’ve actually cared about fictional characters and I welcome the change of pace. I usually read “scary food” books in the form of Michael Pollan or Raj Patel. A story about the struggle for non-GMO foods in a fictional book was refreshing. The information was still there but delivered in a much different fashion.

Dumpster diving dilemmas

Photo courtesy of mollygood.com

What stops me from dumpster diving? I’m not afraid of produce that might have a bruise or juice that is a day beyond its expiry date. I think removing perfectly good food from the waste stream is a noble idea. I’m strapped for cash and not above sifting through grocery store garbage bins. So what is it? I’m a coward. The thought of confrontation with a store owner or a dumpster-protecting-rent-a-cop (seriously?) makes me willing to drop ludicrous amounts on apples from Safeway.

In an effort to figure out which places I might sift through a dumpster without being chased off, I have scoured internet sites such as http://www.wayfaring.com/maps/show/3726 only to find tips for jumping fences and dire warnings about security. Not exactly my cup of tea! Posing the notion of dumpster diving to Sam (“Hey honey, want to go wade through some trash cans for dinner tonight?”) results in The Look followed by silence. I asked Ann Anagnost if she would bail us out of jail if we got arrested while dumpster diving in the name of education. I told her I was joking…

Meanwhile, the vegan banana bread David Giles, a representative of Food Not Bombs (FNB), has brought in was delicious if mildly burnt. You’d never know it was from a dumpster upon tasting it. David’s figures and statistics were astonishing. I didn’t realize how much food gets thrown away by families. I am certainly going to make more of a conscious effort to watch what I’m throwing away and adjust the amount I purchase if I can. Sam and I do a pretty good job of consuming any leftovers we have around the house so I think we’re already a little ahead of the crowd.

I also think about the many times I go into Safeway at Roosevelt and 75^th to see homeless men hunched over at the counter, eating pints of cheap ice cream or tearing lettuce leaves out of a bag and eating them plain. Why on earth should they be forced to purchase food when the grocery store is probably throwing away tons of perfectly edible produce?

In the coming weeks, I hope to convince Sam to play look out while I hoist myself into the dumpster outside QFC on Roosevelt and root around.

I am a fun gal. Fungal. Get it?

The last section of Pollan’s book The Omnivore’s Dilemma caused a peculiar thing in our household. First, let me say this: I. Hate. Mushrooms. I have tried to like them. I have eaten them raw, cooked, chopped up and disguised in other foods, etc. No can do!

However, Pollan’s description of going mushroom hunting ignited something with my little heart. I felt a desperate need to forage for fungus. So, at the end of last summer when the days started getting cooler, Sam and I grabbed a couple canvas bags and drove east to the Curtis-Asahael trail in the Cascade range. As we walked along the path, we discovered many different varieties of mushrooms. We carefully loaded up our bags and brought them home where a friend helped us identify them.

Sam taking a photo of some crazy mushrooms on Asahael-Curtis.

Photo by Beth Hamburg

I was convinced we would have a feast that night. I would fire up the grill, invite friends, and make delicious mushroom dishes that even I couldn’t resist. This didn’t exactly happen. Almost every single mushroom Sam and I brought back, with the exception of a badly bruised Chanterelle, was a variety of Russula which causes bad things to happen. Since then, I have spent time at mushroom exhibitions in Seattle and have purchased a couple mushroom identification books. I have thought to myself, “Man, I bet it’s cool to be a mycologist.” But I still hate mushrooms.

I think there’s something not quite right with me.

The P-Patch wait

While I wait for my chance at a P-Patch, I have been working on my patio garden. Sam and I recently received approval from our landlord to hack out half of the monster rosemary bush (tree) that was growing in front of our door. The soil beneath was rich and dark. We added some compost and manure then set about choosing what we wanted to plant. I was torn between filling the space with as many varieties of vegetables as possible or being minimal and letting a couple larger plants take over. In the end, my desire for zucchinis won out and I planted two where the rosemary used to be.

I then proceeded to take note of every nook and cranny that could be exploited as garden space. The unused space in front of our living room window that sported a healthy bed of weeds became home to a dozen or more herbs, climbing peas, and honeysuckle. I thought this would be a dead zone. Instead, I’ve been rewarded with fast growing, thick peas and honeysuckle that is apparently trying to take over the house. In the corner of another bed I found a small patch not being shaded by a Japanese maple and put a pumpkin plant in. I used a large container for wild lettuce and another for green onions. One container sits empty, waiting for tomatoes. My landlord came out the other day to mow the lawn and do some edgework around our stone path. He left strips of grassless dirt that are about half a foot wide and could easily be converted to homes for strawberry plants.

In the end, I wonder if I would really need a P-Patch. I have more opportunity than most apartment dwellers in Seattle to grow my own food right where I am. During our tour with Teresa Mares, I enjoyed looking at the small garden plots stuffed with veggies but I doubt I could fit in anymore than what I have going here. Perhaps I should leave the P-Patch for someone who truly needs it.

Animals: Good to eat

It was Pollan’s book that reverted me back to being a carnivore after a long period of vegetarianism. My decision not to eat meat, at the time, was based on my concerns about the environment. I have never had a problem with animals being (humanely) killed and consumed. After all, I was nearly eaten by a lion in Uganda. I figure as long as animals are willing to eat me, I’ll do them same for them. Rather, I was critical of the processing of animals and the distance traveled to bring meat to my table. When I read about Joel Salas’ farm, I thought, “That is how it should work.”

An animal should be able to live its life as an animal. Chickens should scratch around and eat bugs. Pigs should wallow in “clean” mud. Cows should graze on grass under the sun, etc. If the animal has had a happy life, I have no problem with eating it. There is something grotesque about torturing an animal all its life and then sending it through a disgusting mass slaughterhouse process.

Humans were made to eat meat on occasion. We do take this to the extreme in America, though. Meat consumption is through the roof and our health problems confirm this. When my mother came down with breast cancer, she was told to lay off the meat and fat and focus on better sources of protein such as legumes. We don’t eat enough fiber to take care of all the meat we eat. What I decided to do was resume eating meat but only do so if I can afford to purchase locally produced stuff. This limits my meat intake and I support local, humane farms at the same time.

Commodified Taste

A widely known truth in my elementary school was that eating raw (unheated) Top Ramen gave you worms. As I eat my chewy, barely “cooked” noodles, I am glad my inner child now knows better. However, I don’t remember Top Ramen being so…fluorescent. What is this traffic-stopping crud clinging to the side of my paper cup? I’m glad the term “chickenized” has been added to my vocabulary because without it I would be lost in describing its flavor. Mostly, it tastes like salt. The Diet Coke tastes like sour water as I was too afraid of the sweetener (I get migraines from it) to pour much and I let it set until it went flat. It does nothing to quench my thirst from the sodium. As the minutes go by, I’m still thirsty and now there’s a thick film of what tastes like…well, sick! Seriously, it tastes like vomit.

When I’m up late at night, craving junk food, I often wonder why my body wants commodified tastes. Truth is, I know why. Sugar is addicting. I can hardly find a healthy snack that I honestly think is as delicious as Swedish Fish or root beer. I try to trick myself into thinking blackberry yogurt or apple slices will quench my desire for a Nutella milkshake but my body knows better. It won’t be fooled. It wants processed, simple sugars. Despite the vomit and sour water taste our Diet Coke and Top Ramen experiment is leaving in my mouth, the food leaves me craving more.

The last thing I think of as I gulp down the final forkfuls of this experiment is the time in Uganda when my dad fed his German Shepherd, Ben, leftover Ramen and, undigested, it came out the same way it went in. Mary, a Ugandan friend of the family who is unfamiliar with most processed and packaged foods, saw Ben’s droppings and proclaimed, “The dog has worms!” …fitting.

***A food I lay claim to...***

I am parts Dutch, German, Irish, Scottish, and Welsh, with a smidge of Cherokee on my mother's side. I have a difficult time identifying with a particular food type though I do have favorites (Thai food, southern Mexican food, Indian food). My grandma is from former Yugoslavia and spent several years avoiding Nazis in Germany and before finally settling in Holland. Somehow, during all of this, she became an expert goulash maker. It is my single favorite dish of hers and she makes it whenever I visit and ask for it. I know, when I’m tired from a long drive and ferry trip to Vancouver Island, that when I arrive at her place late in the night she’ll have a steaming pot of beef goulash waiting for me.

When I backpacked through Hungary for two weeks, I spent each evening hunting down restaurants and trying their goulash. Some were like hamburger soup, others nailed it and made grandma-like masterpieces. In particular, one restaurant that fellow hostel-dwellers recommended called Fatal (ignore the name…) served me a huge dish of melting beef, tender dumplings, savory paprika sauce with dollops of sour cream on top. Heaven! I sent postcards to grandma every couple of days telling her about the various goulashes I had tried.

Grandma is getting old. I don’t know how much longer I’ll have her around and I’d never mastered her goulash. She never committed it to paper and when asked to tell me how she made it, she would say things like “a little of this, a little of that.” The last time I was up there, I asked her to make it. I practically perched on her shoulder like a gargoyle and watched every step. I finally felt confident.

Upon returning home, I ran to the store and purchased what I’d need to make Grandma Goulash. I pass along her simple gift to you, dear reader.

A package of stewing beef

Two yellow onions

2 tbsp vegetable oil

A couple of bay leaves

4 or 5 tablespoons of paprika

Enough water to just cover the beef

Salt and pepper to taste

1. Dice the onion and toss it in a soup pot with the oil and bay leaves. Add some salt. Cook over low heat until soft and translucent. Add the stewing beef and cook just long enough to sear the outside of the meat. Toss in the paprika and pepper, give a good stir, then add water and cover. Simmer this for 2-3 hours. Season to taste.
2. To make the noodles/dumplings, I’ve had to rely on my mother’s recipe which is not the same as grandma’s (next time I visit, I’ll watch her again). Also, I don’t really measure things out here. You’ll have to fiddle with it a bit.
3. Mix about 4 cups of flour with a pinch of salt and two eggs. Add enough milk to make the dough wet and very slowly slip off a spoon. It should be softer than bread dough…not something you’d want to stick your hands into but not soupy either.
4. Boil a big pot of salted water and drop teaspoon-sized balls of dough from a spoon into the pot. When they float to the top, give them another couple of minutes then drain. Return to the pot and add a couple spoonfuls of the beef stew to keep the dumplings from sticking together. Serve with strew on top and a little sour cream. Enjoy! (Make sure you have some veggies with this so it’s a little healthier.)