Everyday Kimchi & Lou Reed

“Looking for another chance
For someone else to be
Looking for another chance
To ride into the sun.”

— Lou Reed

I was stirring a cup of roughly chopped kimchi into a pan of sauteeing onions the other night when Lou Reed's "Ride Into the Sun" came blasting through the kitchen speakers. I couldn't remember the last time I had heard that song, but just as I was thinking this, a feeling of joy surged through me. I paused, holding my wooden spoon in mid-air.

It's always surprising when a strong emotion shows up unexpectedly during an otherwise mundane moment. You're just doing what you do, minding your own business. In my case, I was making dinner by myself while everyone else in the house was happily engaged in other activities.

The song itself reminded me of being young, discovering Lou Reed's music for the first time in the form of The Velvet Underground. I remembered listening to it at the age of fourteen and feeling then that somehow the world was suddenly different, I was different, and that my life would never be the same again. The things he wrote about! Drug use, addicts, Holly from Miami F-L-A who "plucked her eyebrows on the way/shaved her legs and then he was a she" -- people who lived on the margins of the margins of society. I was a Chinatown- and Chinese Baptist Church-raised girl, but somehow he spoke to me. 

Fourteen. It feels so profound and real, whatever you're feeling at that age. You're alive in a way that no one else is. You're convinced of this undeniable fact, certain that you are connected to the deepest, truest parts of yourself. You hear your favorite song, or one that has those lyrics that mean something, and you are rapt as you suddenly feel altered yet again...and forever. I made such feelings known to the world by way of the canvas bookbag I carried everywhere; I'd painted Lou Reed's face on it so that it covered the entire front flap. Stomped around in my Doc Martens.  

Perhaps that's what it was, the feeling that had appeared when I was tossing some kimchi into a frying pan that particular night: a deep sense of aliveness. It was as if a gap had opened up in the everyday which allowed the slender glimmer of another time to slide back into my momentary existence, just like that, before disappearing again. Such moments, nearly forgotten gifts of the past. 

But I started off talking about kimchi and cooking, didn't I? Well, let's talk about it then, shall we? I've posted about kimchi mac n' cheese and my family's kimchi pasta, but I've never posted an actual kimchi recipe. Well, that's being remedied here today. 

If you're not very familiar with kimchi, it is a staple of the Korean diet, which Lauryn Chun of Mother-In-Law Kimchi describes as "more than one type of recipe; it is one of the most versatile pickling techniques." Kimchi can be made using a wide range of vegetables, from napa cabbage and chives to bok choy and even butternut squash. Here in the West, the type we most often see is napa cabbage or daikon mixed with a seasoning paste containing salted shrimp or fish and red chili flakes.

This version makes a smallish amount, which is a good place to begin, is very easy and adds just the right bit of joy and aliveness to my life these days. Here it is, along with a bit of Lou Reed. 

Everyday Kimchi (Napa Cabbage and Daikon Radish)

Makes 3 pints

Adapted from The Kimchi Cookbook.

Tips: Use glass or ceramic bowls and containers for mixing and storing. Pack your vegetables very tightly. Keep out of sunlight. Resist the temptation to open the jar when you are initially fermenting this at room temperature. Opening it up will introduce oxygen which can promote the growth of mold. You'll be able to see some bubbling up, which means that things are happening. Also, note that the ambient temperature will affect the fermentation rate. Somewhere in the 65°F to 70°F range is ideal. If it's cooler than that, it will take slightly longer and if it is warmer it will ferment faster. At Momofuku, they put their kimchi straight into the refrigerator to ferment rather than leaving it at room temperature, so that's an option too. Just know that the fermentation process will take longer.

Ingredients
For the initial vegetable brine:
1 medium head napa cabbage (about 2-3 pounds), cut into 1 1/2" squares
1 medium daikon radish, cut in half lengthwise then sliced into pieces 1/8" thick
1/4 cup kosher salt

For the seasoning paste:
1/4 cup thinly sliced yellow onion
2 teaspoons minced garlic
1 teaspoon peeled, finely grated ginger
2 tablespoons anchovy sauce, such as Red Boat
1/2 small apple, peeled and grated
1/4 cup Korean chili pepper flakes (gochugaru)

2 green onions, green parts only, cut into 2-inch pieces
2 tablespoons water

Instructions
Set aside three clean glass pint jars. Mason jars work well.

Combine the cabbage and daikon with the salt in a large bowl. Set aside aside for about an hour. Drain the liquid. Rinse the vegetables to remove any residual salt. Drain in a colander for about 20 minutes. Alternatively, place the veggies in a salad spinner to remove extra water.

In a mini-chopper or blender pulse together yellow onion, garlic, ginger, anchovy sauce and apple. A paste will form. Transfer it to a bowl and add the chili pepper flakes, combining well. Allow mixture to sit for at least 15 minutes so that the flavors can come together.

In a large bowl, mix together seasoning paste, vegetables and green onions. Combine thoroughly, flipping the vegetables and seasoning paste around so that the paste is evenly distributed throughout. Pack as tightly as you can into the clean jars. Add the water to the bowl and swirl it around to collect any remaining seasoning paste. Pour this into the packed jars, dividing evenly. Cover the jars tightly. Place a tray or plates under the jars. The vegetables will expand as they ferment, which may cause an overflow of liquid.

From here, you can let the jars sit at room temperature for about three days before placing into the refrigerator. Or, place them directly into the refrigerator for a slower and longer fermentation process. Your kimchi can be eaten beginning in about 7 days if initially left at room temperature. I like it best at about 14 days. It's alive and will continue to age and ferment, changing in taste and texture. This is best eaten within 6 months.

From his 1972 album Lou Reed.

Heirloom Tomato and Charred Red Pepper Soup

It came upon us as quick as a blink, didn't it? I can't say I was completely ready. Of course I'm talking about our old friend, Fall.  

What a summer we had here! Glorious it was and longer than our typical (and measly) eight weeks. This year the sun and warmth stretched impossibly across late spring well into the third week of September. The long days of light! We were living the dream.

I do love the Fall, though. Cool mornings with spider webs damp and glistening in the light, fog hanging low across tree tops. Sitting by the fire at night.

Then, of course there's soup. 

Late last summer, I became obsessed with April Bloomfield's Summer Tomato Soup. I couldn't stop making or eating it. The minute I stopped eating it, I would start thinking about it again, the memory of its umami flavors causing the most primitive parts of my brain to clang, "Make soup. Again! Must eat!"

I'm not exaggerating. 

Some of you might think it's a bit late to be talking about tomatoes, but I know that a good tomato or two can still be found (I've seen them with my own eyes at the Ballard Farmer's Market most recently). Stragglers though they may be, they must be used, so this is what you should do with them without question: Make soup.

This soup takes those end-of-summer tomatoes sitting on your counter and combines them with the straggler red bell peppers that you also still have on hand.

Roast the peppers to the point of blackened char. Skin them. Add them to the tomatoes with salt, olive oil, a smidge of water. Toss in a few basil leaves and you're done. So easy. Low effort for a spoonful of glory.

Fall and winter can be hard on those of us who live around here. It gets so dark and stays damp for such a long time that light and warmth can become an abstract idea, a mere daydream. To gird against such occasions, it's best to make some extra of this soup and freeze it. Now.

When darkness and rain envelopes us soon enough, late summer will live on, if only in a bowl.

Heirloom Tomato and Charred Red Pepper Soup

Adapted from April Bloomfield.

Makes 4 servings.

Ingredients
2 lbs. heirloom tomatoes
1 lb. red peppers (or a mix of red and orange)
5 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
3 tablespoons plus 1/4 cup olive oil
3 teaspoons flaky sea salt such as Maldon
1/4 cup water
One handful of fresh basil leaves
1 scant teaspoon of basil pesto (optional)

Instructions
Preheat oven to 475°. Place peppers on side on baking sheet. Once the oven reaches temperature, place sheet in oven. Roast peppers for 20-25 minutes, until blackened and blistered. Immediately place peppers in a large bowl and cover with plastic to allow peppers to steam. Once they have cooled, peel skin and remove stems and seeds. Set aside. 

Place a fine-meshed sieve over a large bowl. Cut tomatoes in half, removing stems and any hard parts. Gently squeeze tomatoes over strainer, allowing juices to run through. Using fingertips, push any remaining seeds out of the tomato flesh. Place pieces of tomato flesh in bowl with juice.

Place 3 tablespoons olive oil with garlic in a medium pot. Cook over medium-high heat for a minute or two until garlic is just becoming golden. Add tomatoes and their juices and peppers. Add 1 teaspoon of salt and a few of the basil leaves. Give everything a stir and cover. 

After about 5 minutes, when tomatoes and peppers are swimming in juices, uncover and add the water. Stir. Adjust heat so that the mixture simmers gently. Allow to cook for 20 minutes. 

Once the mixture has cooked, turn off heat, add the other 2 teaspoons of salt. Add remaining basil leaves. Add pesto if using. Add the 1/4 cup of olive oil. Using an immersion blender, blend soup until it has emulsified and become smooth and creamy. Adjust salt if you like. Serve warm in bowls.

Smoked Salmon Croquetas

The other day, I was listening to an old podcast of Evan Kleiman’s show, Good Food on KCRW. I love this show – it’s thoughtful and smart and gives me a window into what’s going on back home in Southern California, where I am from.

I especially enjoy hearing their report from the Santa Monica Farmers’ Market, which explores what’s in season and looks at the shopping choices of local chefs. Kumquats. Cherimoya. Surinam Cherries. All are exotic products that I no longer have easy access to and which thus do not play a part in my cooking or eating here in the Pacific Northwest.

Living vicariously, I suppose, is what I do by listening to the show, especially the Market Report.

So the particular podcast on was a show from around the holidays. Evan was talking to Mark Bittman about deep frying. They were having a nice conversation about how he has ended up using his pressure cooker as a deep fryer because it is narrower than many of his other pots, which means he can use less oil.

Not only did he talk about the kinds of things he likes to deep fry (Beets! Potatoes!) but also the types of oils he uses. Including…olive oil.

For me, the smell of olive oil, no, the very thought of olive oil immediately elicits memories of the year I lived in Spain straight out of college. Back when I barely had an inkling of who I was.

Across from my apartment in Nicasio Gallego near the new train station, there was a shop where each day I would see housewives enter with their large plastic jugs and bottles, ready for another fill up of the magical golden liquid. I would watch wondering how much oil they actually used in their cooking (or did they just drink it?) if they were going in for what seemed a near-daily replenishment.

Then there was the busy older part of town with its dusty, narrow streets. I would ride through them on my bike, the one purchased at the Sunday flea market. It was the same bike which was eventually stolen from me, reappearing at the Sunday flea market soon thereafter, which I then repurchased probably for more than what I'd originally paid (What can I say; I was attached to that bike).

In the afternoons, Sevilla seemed almost completely deserted. Only a foreigner would be pedaling around on a creaky stolen-then-not-stolen bike at that time, just as lunch was being cooked and enjoyed, soon to be followed by a long siesta.

But for me, that was precisely the best time to wander about alone. The town was mine. Its streets were so still. The best part was the smell of olive oil, which perfumed the air. People had their windows open. They were frying and sauteeing and doing everything else a person might do with a warm pan of olive oil at lunchtime.

It has been a while since I have been anywhere in Spain, including Sevilla, which I came to love so much that for a long time after I returned home, I felt a distinct ache inside whenever I thought of it. Even now, each time I smell olive oil cooking, bite into a briny little olive or taste a sliver of meltingly rich jamon I am transported yet again.

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A crisp croqueta is a friend indeed.

Can a memory take the form of a deep-fried morsel? If the answer is yes, then this croqueta is it. I remember eating croquetas filled with warm béchamel and jamon serrano and coated with crunchy breadcrumbs on the outside.

A memory can alter over time. In this case, I’ve changed it slightly by making a classic croqueta and including a local (and distinctly Pacific Northwest) ingredient – hot-smoked pink reefnet salmon from Lummi Island Wild.  Its dense saltiness is the perfect foil for the creamy béchamel.

If you want to add anything additional to the bechamel and salmon, a bit of green is nice. Say, half a jalapeno or some chopped parsley.

You can also follow in the steps of the venerable Edna Lewis (whose cookbooks I have been reading lately) and put a slice of ham into your frying medium of choice (she liked to use pastured lard) to give your final product additional flavor. And speaking of frying, no need to fear a heavy, oily croqueta if you follow this tip: Heat your oil/fat to 350 degrees (use a thermometer) before cooking and all will be well. 

A croqueta is just a croqueta. Or is it? When I was twenty-one, I didn't fully comprehend the way time shifts and slides and never stops dancing forward. It's important for us to continually summon our most vivid memories if we are to never forget who we are. If that summoning means taking the time to pat some breadcrumbs around a mound of cold bechamel and salmon and gently slide it into some hot olive oil, then so be it.

Food memories mean the most when we can make them into something our own, into the here and now using the best products we have around us in the place we currently call home. 

Buen apetito!

Smoked Salmon Croquetas

Ingredients
For the bechamel filling:
3 Tablespoons unsalted butter
¼ cup all-purpose flour
½ an onion or leek, minced
1 cup whole milk
Generous pinch of paprika
Salt and pepper to taste
½ cup diced hot-smoked salmon*

For the coating:
2 eggs
2 ½ cups of bread crumbs (I used homemade, with bread from The Breadfarm)

Olive oil for frying, or fat/oil of your choice (lard, grapeseed oil, ghee, etc.)

Instructions
Heat the butter in a saucepan and sauté minced onions until transparent. Stir in the flour and cook it briefly then slowly whisk in the milk a bit at a time until all of it is incorporated. Cook, stirring constantly until the sauce thickens. Season with salt, pepper and paprika. Stir in the smoked salmon and spread the mixture into a dish. Refrigerate until it stiffens and is almost solid.

Lightly beat eggs with a tablespoon or two of water in one dish. Place the bread crumbs in another dish. With moistened hands, form the chilled mixture into balls or cylinders using a tablespoon or so for larger croquetas and less for smaller ones. Dip each croqueta first in bread crumbs, then in the beaten egg, then in bread crumbs again, taking care that they are well covered.

The croquetas will soften slightly while you work with them, so handle them gently. Chill breaded croquetas in the refrigerator for at least 30 minutes, or put them in the freezer like I do for 10 minutes or so. This works well enough.

Heat enough olive oil in a small vessel (preferably taller/narrower than wide a la Mark Bittman, to use less oil) to generously cover the croquetas. Fry the croquetas a few at a time, until golden, about 3-4 minutes.

Makes approximately 15 larger appetizer-size (5-6 bites each) croquetas or 18 smaller tapas-size ones.

*Note: Hot-smoked salmon, which is fully cooked is a different product than cold-smoked salmon or lox. This recipe uses the hot-smoked variety.

Recipe slightly adapted from latienda.com.