how to make kimbap

Once a week, I go to my friend Helen’s apartment and we cook. She shows me the ropes of traditional Korean food, the only food she’s ever cooked, and I show her how to make something else. After nearly two years of eating Korean pancakes, or pajeon, at restaurants and a couple of wobbly attempts at the stove, I finally (!) learned how to mix and fry good pajeon at home. I taught her how to make buttermilk pancakes and tomato sauce, neither of which I’ve been making very long myself. Our approach in the kitchen is similar, in that we’ll both dive in headfirst, and that makes the whole thing a blast. I try to record her measurements, but nothing is ever precise. She uses paper coffee cups, metal soup spoons, and the spot between the top knuckles on her index and middle fingers – her pinch – to measure. The rest is all instinct.

She taught me to roll kimbap last week, which is as important to a Korean picnic as the sandwich is to the American. Most Westerners are more familiar with makizushi, or sushi rolls, and kimbap is similar, conceptually, but different. Instead of vinegar, rice for kimbap is seasoned with roasted sesame seed and sesame oil (I’ve read that some people do use vinegar for their kimbap rice, but it isn’t very common). Crabstick, pickled radish, fried egg, cucumber, and ham make up the most popular components. Now, I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume you don’t find that mix particularly mouthwatering? Neither did I until a bitter and blustery night last December. I needed dinner on the go, so I ducked into one of the city’s most beloved kimbap spots, unbeknownst to me, and ordered The Seoul Roll. It was fresh, so it was warm, and I could eat it with my hands as I walked. When a food and a place are so intertwined, you can only love one while resisting the other for so long.

Kimbap is adaptable and approachable once you have the right setup, and it’s especially appropriate now that picnic season’s in full swing. The first thing you need is a package of dried seaweed in big sheets, specifically for rolling kimbap. Look for the photo on the front of the package. All Asian groceries will have it. Note: once the package is open, it needs to be used right away. Gim doesn’t keep.

You could also use a mat like the one below. Supposedly this tool is the difference between loose rolls and tight rolls, but Helen didn’t use one when she taught me, and I have an easier time without it. If you use one, your rolls might be beautiful and tight, but they might be that if you don’t use it, too. Put a piece of plastic wrap between the sheet of gim and the mat if you do (more on the subject further below). Otherwise, a clean, flat surface is great.

Rice. You need it! Sticky, short grain rice. I’ve tried quinoa and brown rice, but white rice works best. Cook it and mix with roasted sesame seeds and a scant teaspoon of sesame oil.

Spoon a layer of rice on the gim, thinly and gently. Spread to the edges and leave an inch of free space at the top.

Add your ingredients one by one. Layer bulkier, heavier components at the bottom, and go for a balance of textures and flavors. Cut long strips of vegetables and other ingredients, or overlap shorter strips like the peppers below.

I like kimchi, and I add it to everything. Like kimbap.

Avocado is not traditional, and neither is lettuce. But fusion can be really fun.

After you’re finished layering your ingredients, brush the top of the gim with water or sesame oil to help the end of the roll stick, and you’re ready. I started to roll with the matt for the photo, but then I got flustered, and I finished rolling without it. There’s a panoply of videos online showing how to make it work. Like here, starting at 1:43.

A sharp knife with a straight blade works best to slice the roll into pieces. A dull or serrated knife will tear the gim, and that, says Helen, is the mark of a poorly rolled kimbap. Mine ripped, and I didn’t cry about it, but a sharp knife definitely helps.

Brush the top with sesame oil and sprinkle with sesame seeds. Wrap the sliced rolls in foil to transport to a picnic.

Mike and Ashley came over last weekend, and the four of us made a spread of fusion kimbap, like so:

Jambalaya (Mimsie) : sausage, peppers, cajun-spiced tomatoes, rolled with brown rice

Ballpark (Mike) : sausage, mustard, relish, onion

Chicken Salad (Ashley) : chicken, lettuce, mayonnaise, avocado

BLT (me) : bacon, lettuce, tomato, mayonnaise

Health Nut (me) : spinach, radish sprouts, carrots, cucumber, hummus, rolled with quinoa

Kimchi Breakfast: kimchi, cheese, egg

Invite some friends over, deal a deck of gim, and roll to the beat of the South (or whatever you’re listening to these days). Then go on a picnic and sit on the grass in the sun. Now that’s some fusion.

Banana Almond Smoothie

Smoothies don’t make the breakfast docket often around here. I guess it has more to do with an instinctive, totemic belief and less to do with preference: Mainly, that a cold breakfast is not a proper one, especially not on a weekday.

To me, eggs are the most perfect food, but they’re more of a treat these days and less of a given. We had eggs of all denominations as kids, and often. My dad either fried them over-easy or whisked and folded them into omelets. My Aunt K is an expert soft boiler, and her eggs had yolk that pooled over the crust and around the plate after the quick prick of a fork. Heaven. My grandma scrambled. So did my mom, and she’d somehow char bits of cheese in the process for a taste I’ve tried to capture since I was a teenager. I spent my college years hard boiling eggs to oblivion, turning the outer edge of the yolks that unappealing shade of greyish-green. Swamp Water Eggs on Toast! I should patent that.

I forget about smoothies, how easy they are to make, and how good I feel afterward. I’ve yet to find the perfect recipe, but I shall persist. Too often, a smoothie can taste like powdered Flintstone vitamins. Ice makes a smoothie cold and refreshing, but watery. I think a smoothie should be thin enough that you don’t need a straw to drink it – and what’s more irritating than a thick, blockheaded mass of fruit and ice that gets stuck midway up the straw, anyway? If you can remember to stick a few bananas in the freezer before bed, do it. I added almonds for protein, and they didn’t blend completely. That didn’t bother me, but you could blitz them separately if you want. Also! I froze the bananas with the peel on, and had quite the time trying to peel them this morning. Next time I’ll peel them first, then stick them in a plastic bag to freeze. This recipe made enough for one, with a little left at the bottom of the blender (which I tipped upside down to drink, double-handed, in front of an open window). Good morning.

Banana Almond Smoothie

2 small bananas, or 1 big one, frozen

½ cup milk

½ cup plain, unsweetened yogurt

2 tablespoons raw almonds, chopped

½ teaspoon honey

Blitz everything together and pour into a glass. While I encourage you to embrace the chance of a smoothie mustache, it is, by no means, required.

Rosewater, optional.

Every year on Mother’s Day, my dad calls me, and every year, I inevitably miss the call. He leaves a voicemail to tell me how much he misses his mom, and that he can’t imagine how much we must miss ours. Then his voice cracks, and then I lose it. I don’t know that we’re ever prepared for the vulnerability of a parent.

Trivial things are what I ache for the most, like if she had the choice between chocolate cake, a nightcap or a joint for dessert, which would she choose? Why didn’t she wear perfume? Or did she? Did she love roses? Was she indifferent?

Would we have talked on the phone daily? Weekly? What did she love about herself? What was she proud of? How old was she when she began to realize her own mother was human?

I do remember some things. I remember that her fuse was short, but so was the turnaround time from when she’d lose her temper and when she’d be laughing again. For years, I could summon the sound of her laugh as often as I wanted. Time blotted it out, until one day the sound was gone, the space it held hollow, silent. Her sisters laugh the same way, evenly and without restraint, and when they do, everything becomes exponentially funnier. If you make a joke and it makes them laugh, you feel like you’ve won the lottery. That kind.

She let my brother and me watch Dirty Dancing years before most kids our age were allowed, and I learned the value of wit and individuality through her and her affinity for Joan Rivers and Richard Simmons. She cried when she was happy, sad, or moved, and she swore like a fucking sailor (or maybe only when she stubbed her toe). She married my dad because she loved him, even though he said he didn’t want any more children, and she did. She kept diaries and medical records and every letter and card anyone wrote to her, or so it seems. When I was seven, I wanted the world from her, and I remember feeling disappointed a lot. But also safe and blissfully happy, and when she tucked us in at night, I’d think, “This, right here, is perfect.”

I wanted the sour, jelly-filled fruit snacks other kids brought to school, but she packed us plain yogurt and strawberries. Maybe that’s why I never developed the insatiable sweet tooth that runs rampant with the women in our family.

Sometimes when I cook for one, I pretend that I’m also cooking for her. Today, with yogurt and strawberries in mind, I made us a fruit fool, or a dessert with sweetened cream that’s been whipped by hand to soft peaks and swirled with macerated fruit. Gooseberries are the classic fruit of choice, but strawberries, rhubarb, and raspberries are common substitutes. For the occasion, I spiked the berries with rosewater, and it edged away some of the sugar, though it was still too sweet for me. Next time I’ll mix in some plain yogurt, like Nigel Slater suggests. Another summer without this ‘soft, lazy-day pudding?’ I pity the fool. (My mom would have been alllll over that).

Strawberry (Rosewater) Fool (for 2), adapted loosely from Nigel Slater

1 1/2 cups strawberries

1/2 cup heavy cream

1/4 cup plain yogurt

sugar

1/2 teaspoon rosewater (optional)

Wash and hull the strawberries. Mash them lightly with a fork. Mix in 1-2 teaspoons sugar and rosewater. Set aside. In a chilled bowl, whip the cream until it’s developed soft, not stiff, peaks. Sweeten if you want, then fold in the yogurt. Spoon 2/3 of the strawberries in the bottom of the glasses. Top with cream/yogurt, then finish with the rest of the strawberries.

how to begin

Maybe I should rename this blog to Something for Someday, since I miss just about every Sunday deadline that’s ever been set. In the beginning when I decided to set aside time each week to cook and record it, I chose Sundays because I didn’t like the day and I wanted to love it. I’m learning to, and maybe that’s part of the issue. Read: beer.

While I taught in Seoul last year, I wrote a few articles for a local publication, and those articles have led to a more permanent opportunity. This week, I joined a fantastic creative team in Seoul and took on the responsibility of Food Editor for Seoulist, something I’m super excited to share. I’ll be here, and there, and hopefully a few other places once I get the ball rolling. Baby steps. That’s how you begin. When you feel like leaping, you will.

Five years ago I worked in New York for a small design company. Our team felt like a family, a day of work like a privilege. On Fridays when the weather was nice, we’d climb the spiral staircase in the middle of the showroom and barbecue on the roof. I could barely pay my rent, but for a raw girl from Minnesota, that job was a dream. One day without warning, the company president summoned us together and announced he’d sold us to a pair of profit-driving, well-dressed smooth-talkers with slippery ethics and slicked-back hair. We would all come along, but soon after the merge, the new owners cut our original team by half. The old and the new had polarized philosophies, though no one knew until it was too late. I still miss that original group and the camaraderie we had.

Later, when I could pay my rent and eat and have some money leftover, I wanted out of the fashion business entirely. I thought of other jobs that might fit better. I researched psychology graduate programs and registered to take the GRE (the test date of which I missed, subsequently). I picked the brains of a holistic nutritionist and the founder of a sustainable tourist startup, and I emailed a stranger-turned-friend in Australia to get her input. I joined a club and geeked out among fellow food nerds. To Harlem I rode for weekly harmonica lessons. Well, two harmonica lessons. I considered culinary schools in New York and a graduate program in gastronomy from a university in Australia. After years of avoidance, I finally summoned the courage to see a shrink, and she helped me work through some buried paraphenalia – all gross and painful, but ultimately, necessary. Self-help and career counseling books gave the same advice, though it took awhile for me to hear it: to quit the outward search and start looking within.

Those days, I traveled without getting on an airplane by tasting global flavors, like Sri Lanken whole roasted goat and ox tongue at San Rasa in Staten Island, slow-cooked rabbit ragu and burrata mozzarella straight from Puglia at Frank. I ate congee and dim sum in Chinatown, spare ribs in Flushing, banh mi on Orchard Street, xiao long bao in Chelsea, and blood sausage and grilled tomatoes in Hoboken. I fell in love with a Russian-born, Peruvian-bred man who showed me salchipapas and tostones. We’d travel to Jersey City for chana saag and saag paneer. We ate golubsty and olivier, and he took me to his favorite grocery in Brighton Beach for sour cherries and yogurt that he taught me to layer and eat for breakfast.

Looking back, I realize my curiosity for world culture and food was born earlier. In eighth grade a group of students and I would visit a different restaurant every month – places like Gardens of Salonica for lamb gyros that dripped with tzatziki. Our teacher was retired, and he taught the class voluntarily. He believed in the benefits of exposing young people to culture and art, and though I fell asleep at every opera we saw, I will always be thankful for his dedication to the cause. He passed away recently, but I saw him almost two years ago in Minneapolis. I was waitressing, and he was eating lunch with his wife, always lovely. When I told him I was about to leave to teach English in Seoul, he suggested I make a true difference by applying to work at a high-needs school in rural America. He had a point, and I lost the words to respond appropriately at the time. I should have told him that I wanted to be a food writer, and that he and his class had planted the seed.

I found several well-established food blogs while in New York, too, and I spent hours reading through their archives. Here was a whole food and writing community and finally, something that clicked! I felt like I’d found treasure. Ultimately, the discovery of those writers paved the way for everything since. I started my own wee blog and nervously sent a link of the the first post to a few close friends, who were each unconditionally supportive.

In 2009, I took a trip to the Philippines to visit a good friend, and when I returned, thoughts of a career in food left an acrid taste in my mouth. I lacked clarity and felt paralyzed by Manhattan’s excess and momentum. Hoping to ease the break, I left New York quietly in the summer of 2010. I held onto the illusion of the city like an unrequited love, all the while attempting to reconnect with family and friends I hadn’t lived near in years. On my best days, I was right where I was supposed to be. On my worst days, I was a failure without direction. Twenty-somethings can be so dramatic, can’t they?

I pitched an idea to a Twin Cities publication, and the editor-in-chief graciously gave me a chance. The night I got her email, I had a dream that all my teeth fell out. But I finished the assignment, and two more after that. I visited friends in Colombia, Peru, and Argentina and I learned about the people of these places through the food they ate. In Peru, I met a woman who invited me on a quick trip to a Quechua community outside of Cusco, and though I’d visited Machu Picchu the day before, it didn’t compare to the day in the mountains with them and the lunch they’d prepared. In Argentina, my friend Joanna and I traveled to San Rafael, a place brimming with vineyards and small town charm. We met Sebastian, and he invited us back to his house. We sat at his kitchen table for hours and drank bottles of red wine made with grapes grown on his family’s plot. I turned twenty-eight that day, and I learned to slow down during that trip.

It’s hard to imagine over two years have passed since I started this project. To you, whether it’s your first or tenth or hundredth visit, thank you. You could go anywhere, and I’m really (really) grateful you’ve chosen to come here.

Caramelized Onions

I’ve been spending long bouts in the kitchen since returning to Seoul, slowly stocking the pantry and fixing simple and foolproof meals. Onions take a good while to caramelize, but the results are completely worthy of your time and effort. In a world of uncertainty and consistent, rapid change, isn’t it nice to have a few guarantees?

Tips: Make sure to use a pot that hasn’t been coated without a non-stick surface. The onions won’t caramelize otherwise – they need a chance to adhere to the bottom of the pot. You can certainly use butter or half butter/half oil as your frying fats, but since olive oil since has a higher smoking point, the onions stand less chance of burning. Resist the urge to stir too much. They’ll finish properly when left alone for several minutes at a time.

How to begin: Cut the ends from two or three onions, then slice through the belly of each from end to end. Lay each half onion cut side down on a chopping board, and slice again from end to end, as thin or thick as you prefer.

Heat a pot over medium-high heat, then pour in three tablespoons of olive oil. Let the oil get hot, then toss in the onions. Stir until all slices are coated with oil. Stand close and stir occasionally. After five minutes, turn the heat down. After ten minutes, add a teaspoon of salt. Salt draws water from the onions, and waiting a bit before salting encourages the caramelization process.

Let the onions continue cooking. Stir sporadically. At the twenty minute mark, add a teaspoon of honey. If the pan becomes dry, add a splash of water or a touch more oil. Scrape the bottom with the edge of your tool if the onions get too attached to the bottom of the pan.

After the onions have colored to mahogany and wilted completely, turn the heat up to medium and add a splash of red wine. Stir, taste, and add more salt if needed.

Lately

Lately the news has painted South Korea to be a place of imminent danger, and while I was home in the States, it was easy to become concerned, too. Reeled in by the collective paranoia that the media inspires, it takes a great deal of care to strike a balance between staying informed, or at least feeling informed, and reacting rationally. It’s difficult to address the situation without knowing more than what the news says and how it seems here, but if you’re wondering what current life is like in Seoul through the eyes of an ordinary ex-pat, one thing appears to be true: it is as it was. Seoul feels safer than many other parts of the world, though everybody has a different threshold.

I moved recently from the basement bedroom in the home of one of my surrogate mothers to the top floor of a brick building owned by a grandmother/grandfather duo. Mimsie and I looked at seventeen apartments around Seoul in one day. We fell for the charm, the space, and the owners, and two days later we moved in. Our new neighborhood is eclectic and alive, with quite possibly the most independent burger joints on one block of any other neighborhood in the city. The jewel of the apartment is in the kitchen, smack dab in the center beneath a window looking over a courtyard. It’s an oven, and from what we can tell, it works. If I don’t seem as excited as I ought to be, it’s because there’s a gentleman roasting coffee straight ahead, and the ensuing fumes have rendered me high. Not that I’m complaining.

We’ve scrubbed our fridge free of little black hairs, cleared the corners of cobwebs, buffed the biff and aired out our bedrooms, and the place is beginning to feel like home. Last night we cracked open a bottle of Rioja and sopped up heaps of Shakshuka with hunks of baguette. Shakshuka is a frittata that’s been widely adapted but is originally found in traditional Sephardic Jewish cooking. The version here is common in Israel, made with tomatoes, peppers and onions, loads of cumin, and eggs poached over the top. I got the recipe from my ever-amazing friend Jen, who got it from her friend Shahar, and though I can’t confirm it turned out how it was supposed to, I can confirm it was delicious, and absurdly so. This is a one-pot meal, warming and delightful, and you’ll probably want to make it two days in a row. You could even eat it cold, which might be especially good during the coming months.

Shakshuka adapted from Adventurous Appetite

4 tomatoes

1 onion

1 red pepper

2 tablespoons tomato paste

4 eggs (Shahar and Jen’s recipe calls for 5-6 eggs, but I used a narrow, deep pan and only had room for 4)

1 tablespoon olive oil

1 heaping tablespoon cumin

1/2 teaspoon sugar (if your tomatoes are sweet, use less sugar or none at all)

salt and pepper to taste

Chop onion into cubes, set aside. Chop pepper and tomatoes into cubes. Heat a wide pot on medium-high and add the olive oil. Add onion and caramelize, stirring frequently. Add salt. Add red pepper and tomatoes, and cook until softened. Stir in tomato paste, cumin, sugar, and more salt and pepper. Taste, and if you’re satisfied, break the eggs over top, taking care to keep the yolks intact. Go for an even layer of eggs over the whole. Put a lid on it. When the egg yolks are barely set, it’s ready. Serve warm (or cold) with bread.

Steel Cut Oats

Unless it’s vacation, the first day waking up in a new city is usually tough. I’m talking a place you’re going to be for awhile that isn’t all that familiar. Minneapolis was that way to me just six weeks ago for the first few days, until it became familiar again. Seoul is that way today – wet, gray, and a tad strange. Sometimes I wonder if I’m cut out for extended bouts of traveling anymore. People insist that it gets easier, but I disagree. I actually think the older you get and the more you appreciate and open yourself up to what’s around you, the harder it is to leave. Patience is the softener for shortening the adjustment period, and so that’s what I’m aiming for.

Onward.

Minutes after I wrote the paragraph above, I stepped out for coffee. Ladies walked with umbrellas, though the rain had stopped and there was no sun. Bursts of fuchsia blossoms snaked through iron fences that line the sidewalk. Thomas, our building manager, gave me a hug and a string of indecipherable words. Upstairs, my old roommates and I sat in the kitchen like we did every morning months ago. It’s hard to describe how grateful I was for that. Then I made a pot of oatmeal.

Steel Cut Oats adapted from TasteSpotting

For four, or for less with leftovers

1 cup steel cut oats

3 cups water

salt (2 pinches)

Combine oats, water, and salt in a pot deep enough so that the water covers the oats by one to two inches. Bring to a boil, then turn heat to low and simmer for twenty minutes or more, stirring occasionally, until the oatmeal is thick and a little dry – not goopy. Top with cinnamon, sugar, and toasted pumpkin seeds.

 

 

Top Eleven Twin Cities Eats

At the moment, there are exactly three-and-a-half million other things to think about besides food. Say, how Minnesotans are soldiers of winter, though that’s all I’m going to say about the weather. Comfort foods here are essential, and Minnesotans know what’s good. Big things on the food front have happened over the past couple of years, and I’d say our Twin Cities deserve a spot on America’s list of food destinations. As I wrap up my trip home, I wanted to part with a quick list of places worth checking out, places good enough to take a visiting friend. These haunts comfort in a way that goes beyond the food. Keep calm and carry on, Minnesota. You’ll be missed.

Eli’s East.

For thoughtful, delicious Midwest comfort food, great cocktails, and service that’s easy and unadorned, Eli’s fits the bill. Dishes to try: tempura walleye, cauliflower and beans, chop salad.

815 East Hennepin, Minneapolis

(612) 331-0031

http://elisfoodandcocktails.com

Borough. 

My friend Niki is always hot on the next-big-thing when it comes to food, and she takes visitors to Borough. Best to go with adventurous diners, order a myriad, and get recommendations from the chef if you can as he or she brings food to your table. Less salt all around would be better, but that’s where my critique ends. The menu changes, and if octopus is included when you go, order it, if only to obliterate any misgivings you’ve had of how perfectly tender octopus texture can be.

730 North Washington Avenue, Minneapolis

(612) 354-3135

http://www.boroughmpls.com

The Groveland Tap. 

Baby food, thirty-four tap beers, and an award-winning turkey burger are just some of the gems of The Groveland Tap’s menu. I go with my cousin, and she’s been going for years. Cozy and super family-friendly, it doesn’t get much more neighborly than this.

1834 Saint Clair Avenue, Saint Paul

(651) 699-5058

http://www.grovelandtap.com

Chimborazo. 

Go for the lunch special (usually a sandwich) and add a cup of the plantain dumpling soup. It’s my favorite restaurant in the Cities – the people who run the place are so nice, and even if the food sucked, I’d return. The food, however, is outstanding.

2851 Central Avenue Northeast, Minneapolis

(612) 788-1328

http://www.chimborazorestaurant.com

The Coffee Shop. 

I love the unassuming, come one, come all vibe of this Northeast java joint. Feels like everyone in the neighborhood does, too. With strong coffee, good cookies, and genuine Midwest hospitality, it’s the first place I choose when I need an energetic space to work or want the kind of afternoon pick-me-up only a local coffee shop can deliver.

2852 Johnson Street Northeast, Minneapolis

(612) 259-8478

http://www.thecoffeeshopne.com

Que Viet. 

People travel far and wide for Que Viet’s egg rolls, but I was lucky to grow up down the block. Fried to perfection and tightly-packed with minced pork and shreds of tender vegetables, these rolls hooked me years ago and keep me coming back whenever I’m in Minnesota.

2211 Johnson Street Northeast, Minneapolis

(612) 781-4744

Smack Shack.

When it comes to a sandwich Minnesota can be proud of, most of us think Juicy Lucy over Lobster Roll. Yet Smack Shack’s rolls and po’ boys have garnered such a following that they’ve recently expanded to bigger [and fancier] digs. Don’t go to relax. Go to be a part of the buzz, ideally at the bar, where an open seat is tough to come by. And whatever you do, don’t leave without tasting the lobster guacamole. That’s an order.

603 Washington Avenue North, Minneapolis

(612) 259-7288

http://smack-shack.com

Mojo Monkey. 

Righteous doughnuts, particularly the old fashioned kind. Closed Mondays.

1169 7th Street West, Saint Paul

(651) 224-0142

http://mojomonkey.biz 

Red Savoy. 

For the best taste of Minnesota-style pizza, head to Red Savoy. That’s a pie with a thin crust and toppings blanketed in cheese, and always cut into squares. Go for the gold and try the sauerkraut and sausage.

421 7th Street East, Saint Paul

(651) 227-1437

http://savoypizza.com/location/minnesota/st-paul-7th-street/

The Bachelor Farmer.

Start with a drink from the progressive cocktail program, stay for the thoughtful and beautifully-plated food. It’s contemporary Nordic fare, and it’s excellent.

50 North 2nd Avenue, Minneapolis

(612) 206-3920

http://thebachelorfarmer.com

World Street Kitchen.

Another mobile to brick-and-mortar expansion, WSK fuses global flavors with gusto in a way that might turn off the purist. But the team deserves praise for shaking up the MSP dining scene with their ambitious mission and enthusiastic menu. Dishes to try: lemongrass meatball lettuce wraps, short rib rice bowl, curried peanut butter cookie, mango and passionfruit lassi soft serve.

2743 Lyndale Avenue South, Minneapolis

612-424-8855

http://www.eatwsk.com

 

Marinated Watermelon

A quick hi from Charlotte, North Carolina. They say Charlotte will lose spring to summer in a few weeks, but it’s hard to imagine. If you’re in Minnesota and reading this, I’m sorry to say it, but spring fits Charlotte like a glove. We’ll get there, Minnesota. Believe.

After a long weekend of eating and walking and stoop-sitting in New York, I took a bus to Philadelphia to visit my friend, Grace. The trip took under two hours, and I passed the time by looking out the window. The driver pulled over, announced the first stop, and unloaded our  luggage as we stepped to the side of the highway. A quick exchange, rough at the edges, but with typical fast-talking, East Coast charm. I miss that.

Our visit was short, but we packed in as much as we could. Grace is a mom now, and nothing seems different even though everything is. She’s still laid-back and intuitive, and if I didn’t know how multi-tasking looked before, I do today. She’s a hero.

My friend Jess lives in Charlotte. We used to work together at PF Chang’s, and then we lived together after college, and when I moved to New York she visited and we’d travel to any borough for the best Cuban sandwiches or bloody marys. She has a baby now, too, a boy who’s just about ready to walk, and though she’s not quick to admit it, motherhood fits her like a glove. She and her family live in a busy neighborhood where everyone waves to everyone. The other night we sat on their deck for dinner while a neighbor mowed her lawn. The air swelled with mosquitoes and enough pollen to coat the bare surfaces and stain your bare feet yellow.

In a few hours, we’ll take a drive to visit my aunt and uncle and cousin outside of the city. The last time I saw them together was in Pittsburg almost twenty years ago. I’ve remembered her way of turning watermelon into something extraordinary since then and have found nothing to compare since. It’s a little premature to consider watermelon, especially when some parts of the country are still getting snow, but I think Marlene’s method is worth sharing anytime. It’s simple enough to remember. File it away for a day when only sweet, sour, and drippy fruit will do.

Marinated Watermelon, Marlene’s way

I doubt she used exact measurements, but I can’t remember. I do remember the taste – to get it right, the watermelon should be less sweet than sour and taste distinctly of lemon. The juice should scoot down your chin like with all good watermelon, and the sugar helps extra with that. Use all of the watermelon’s flesh – even the white part close to the rind.  

Peel and hack a watermelon into bite-sized hunks and put them in a big bowl. Squeeze two to three lemons over the lot, sprinkle with a quarter cup of sugar or less, and stir so that each piece is coated. Chill for a few hours at least.

home

I grew up in lots of homes, starting with a modest blue house in Northeast Minneapolis. I’ll call it Benjamin in the name of clarity here. When my parents divorced, my mom, my brother, and I moved in with my great-grandmother Nana. Her house itself wasn’t stately, but she had fancy furniture and expensive lamps, and as she got older and less lucid she grew less amused by our curiosity – especially when we used our hands. She made a killer red jello salad, and the recipe lives on today. We ate it with perogies for Easter yesterday, in fact, even though Nana never cooked Polish food, even though Nana was Polish.

When Nana died, we moved to an apartment in Roseville, and when our mom died, we went back to live with our dad, his basement renters, and a new nanny named Tasha with bleached blonde hair and a spanking new high school diploma. She was as underprepared as the rest of us, but she was honest and generous, and I liked her immediately. A year later we moved to southwestern Ohio to live with our aunt and uncle for two years. I spent a year with my sister and brother-in-law before it was back to good ol’ Benjamin. When I was a senior in high school and the house became too small for both my dad and I, a friend’s family had an empty bedroom waiting.

When I graduated from high school, I chose Florida. It was far and warm, and I was fancy free, never homesick. Once I had a choice, I didn’t stop moving. I lived with strangers who became friends, friends who became strangers, friends who remained friends. I learned how to cohabit and communicate differently than how we’d done it at home, where it was all notes and silence when it wasn’t shouting and slammed doors. Not exactly healthy, but certainly not without expression.

I’m back in Northeast Minneapolis while I’m home, and the neighborhood has evolved into this hip arty district with great food and lots of locally-owned shops. I want to hang out here more than anywhere while I’m home, when before the neighborhood gave me the creeps. My dad still lives in Benjamin, but he’s constantly renovating, so in his way, he’s still making change. I’m staying with his first wife, my siblings’ mother, where she’s lived since 1974 in a house they used to share before I was even a possibility. It’s not a conventional arrangement, but we’ve found a cadence, she and I, and it usually begins with the local paper and butter on toast. She mothers me with small gestures, things like emptying the garbage can in my bathroom, leaving the porch light on at night, and keeping the fridge stocked with soup. We blew the snow from her driveway a few weeks ago, me for the first time and she … for the hundredth? Today her lawn is all mustardy grass and slush, a patchwork of residual winter. She gives me free reign of her kitchen, and that feels like the offer of the year.

Time is, and always has been, a thing of significance and irrelevance at once. Last week when I looked at a calendar so that my dad and I could schedule dinner, I realized I’d been here for three weeks. After a year and a half away, three weeks felt like a blip. It felt like a gift, too.

Whenever I’m back in Minneapolis, it takes time to find a steady pulse and to be comfortable within such close proximity to family again. Sometimes I pass with flying colors. Sometimes I fall ass over teakettle. In a week, I can cook dinner with my brothers, have breakfast with my dad, go through old photos with my aunt, and have pizza and paint a room with my cousins. I can’t believe how grown-up and gorgeous the teenagers in my family have become. The young ones who weren’t talking when I left are more articulate than most adults. Vacationing back home is a refresher crash course in How To Be Around Family. It’s good, even when it’s fucking hard.

I have a car here, and after a week of commuting by bus and foot, I broke down and pulled it out of storage. A nanosecond later, I got a ticket for expired tabs, for which I stewed and cursed time, the car, and every other nonsensical source. When I went straight home and poached some pears, all was instantly well again. I’m not here consistently, so while I am, I try not to waste time, but sometimes I need space to recover. When I do, I hide out and read. Or drive alone with no radio. Or mix a simple drink with whatever we’ve got. At the end of Easter dinner last weekend, I made us a nightcap that we drank from coupes. It was pale pink and feminine and I was surprised when everyone wanted one. My brothers, built like football players, finished theirs first.

Grapefruit Daiquiri (makes 1)

2 ounces good white rum

1 ounce fresh red grapefruit juice

squeeze from half a lemon

1/2 ounce simple syrup

Pour over ice in a cocktail shaker. Shake. Strain into coupe glasses.

Roasted Lettuce

There are some places I feel like I’ve never left, places where I instantly feel at ease. Minnesota has always felt a little foreign and slippery, somewhere I could never quite get my footing. But it’s one of a handful of spots I refer to as home, and that I feel drawn to especially when I’m away. I’m here for two months and trying to make everyday count.

The other morning I waited for the bus to take me back from downtown Minneapolis. I was leaving my friend Annie’s apartment at the same time she was leaving for work, lest you think otherwise, you dirty devil. For a few minutes, the sky was black, then a brilliant moody blue, the dawn of a cloudless day. Sidewalks were covered with slick, random patches of ice. Fat jagged aimless snowflakes whirled about, a reminder that this cycle of winter is still a very comfortable houseguest. People rushed to work, bravely bearing the elements in authentic Midwestern fashion. It was a morning I wanted to preserve.

At a supermarket last week, the condiment aisle was a veritable condiment kingdom. There were 6,297 different kinds of mayonnaise, which was exactly half the number of salad dressing choices. The produce section was a gigantic dreamland of seasonless bounty. Who, seriously, is buying dragonfruit in Minnesota in the dead of winter? At the co-op, though smaller, the variety was still unbelievable. Fat, bulbous golden beets, tidy bundles of asparagus, dusty, leafy red radishes, husked, lime-green tomatillos, meaty heads of elephant garlic, perfect violet plums, flat leaf parsley! - all specimens I hadn’t laid eyes on in a long, long time. I bought blackberries and strawberries and I didn’t care that it wasn’t June. I bought romaine lettuce and a jar of anchovies packed in oil and some of that weird, gigantic garlic.

Currency doesn’t look normal yet.

It’s easy to eavesdrop on conversations when you can understand the participants’ language. How would a polyglot feel?! I can’t imagine.

I am not too old or evolved or mature to argue with my dad, or my younger brother, but I’m old enough to apologize and mean it even if it still isn’t easy.

Roasting lettuce is not only simple, it’s brilliant, and it evokes an ethereal sweetness in romaine that I never knew was possible before the other day.

Hallelujah.

Roasted Romain, Caesar Style - adapted from Bon Appetit

Split two heads of romaine in half, lengthwise, and lay split side up on a baking sheet lined with foil. Mince a clove of conventional garlic, or half a clove of elephant garlic, and scatter over the romaine. Drizzle with olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Roast for 5-8 minutes at 450 degrees until the edges are golden and crisp and the leaves have sufficiently wilted. Finish with four minced anchovies and a good squeeze of fresh lemon. Serve with a serrated knife.