I know where I'm going when the food crisis hits...

I have discovered a new source of cheap food... dim sum! I went out to brunch last Saturday with 10 friends/acquaintences. The restaurant was called Honey Court, on 3rd and Maynard (or 2nd... 1st? ) in Seattle's International District.

This was my first Dim Sum experience, and I'll say that it was definitely an interesting learning experience. Basically, Dim Sum is a meal eaten between morning and midday, in which one drinks tea and selects from a wide variety of dishes, each served in small quantities... much like a french a la carte brunch. Tea is served in a large kettle, and nice Chinese ladies come by to offer various cakes, pastries, meatballs, rice dishes, gelatins, meat- filled pastas, and more, from a cart. We didn't know what anything was by looking... its all a little strange-looking, to be quite honest. But our host/Charlene's friend (I'm sorry, but I just cannot remember your name!), was able to interpret for us, explaining what was in each dish and how it was to be eaten.

Though most of the time, it didn't matter what he said was in it... the server would take the lid off of the dish to show us, and invariably one of the eleven people around the table would say, "oooh, yes! let's have that!" So we ended up eating. And eating. And eating. Until the "ooh, yes!" would be slower in coming and was said with a little less gusto... and until we all finally said, "alright, now, I'm done." But by the time that happened, we had already ordered:

• three rice rolls (veggie, beef, shrimp)
• two rice dumplings (veggie, shripp)
• two crispy fried shrimp dumplings
• two barbecued pork puff pastries
• two barbecued pork flake pastries
• one barbecued pork bun
• three sesame balls
• one potato cake, one pork meatball
• one rice and chicken dish.

Mind you, each of these dishes had 3-6 small servings on it! And the most amazing thing about this entire affair was the bill... only $65.76, to feed eleven people!

Possibly the best part, though, was that everyone tried a little of everything. There were no cop-out pansies in our group, no one proclaiming an allergy or an aversion to get out of eating something. Even if it looked wierd and slimy, everyone had a taste... and that was so awesome! Being able to take a bite and explore the newness with someone else, a whole table of someone-elses, at the same time... I'm definitly looking forward to doing dim sum again... and at that price, how can you resist?!?

A Mother's Love

I realized when we were making our obento in class on Thursday that while Japanese mothers might indeed prepare the obento to live up to a standard set forth by the Japanese school system and Japanese government, they also do it out of love.

My mother never spent an extraordinary amount of time molding rice balls or cutting octopodal figures out of wieners and carrots... but she did pack my lunch, and I remember there being a great amount of care involved - more than I wished she would have spent. All of the other children I went to school with seemed to have ordinary lunches: a pbj or ham sandwich, an apple, and a couple of oreos. There were times when I desperately wanted one of those ordinary lunches. But my mother was more creative than that. I would get soup in a thermos, maybe a hard-boiled egg. I remember for awhile getting breadless sandwiches in my lunch - little rolls of lunchmeat and cheese held together with toothpicks, accompanied by crackers. My mother had made these because she knew that I did not much care for bread. And she was right: I didn't like bread, and her version of a sandwich was much tastier than other moms'. But as much as I liked these breadless sandwiches, I didn't want her to make them for me. They were too different from the lunches that my classmates brought to school, and the last thing that I wanted was to be different. And perhaps - though I wasn't really conscious of this thought at the time - perhaps I didn't want it to seem that my mother cared for me as much as she did. Cool kids were more independent, and they didn't let their moms coddle them. Eventually Mom gave up and gave in, telling me to buy lunch or pack my own, and when she did pack it for me, she would make a perfectly ordinary, run-of-the-mill, boring lunch - exactly what I had asked for.

Looking back, I have a new appreciation for what my Mom did for me. Those lunches were a symbol of her creativity, her knowledge of her daughter's likes and dislikes, her devotion - exactly what the obento are for Japanese moms. I was reminded, and appreciated anew, my mother's lunchmaking ability when she packed a lunch for me last week. I had been selected to go to the Democratic county convention to select delegates to the state convention, discuss a platform, and listen to a lot of really long campaign speeches by local and state politicians. The convention would be an all-day affair, and I was supposed to bring a sack lunch. That Saturday, my mother woke up early and made me a lunch, complete with her famous crispy oatmeal cookies. She had gotten up at six AM to bake the cookies so they would be ready for my lunch... and oh, they were good, just as I had remembered them from my childhood, when she and my Nana used to make them to put in those labored-over lunches. And I realized, once again, how much my Mom loves me.

CRISPY OATMEAL COOKIES

1c. shortening

1c. brown sugar

1c. white sugar

2 eggs

1/2 tsp salt

1 tsp baking soda

1 1/2 c. flour

3c. "quick" oatmeal

1 tsp vanilla

1. Combine all ingredients. Blend well. Refrigerate for 4 hours, or overnight.


2. Roll into small balls and place on a greased baking sheet a little distance apart.


3. Grease the bottom of a small glass. Dip into granulated sugar and press cookie flat. Repeat sugar dip and press for each cookie.


4. Bake at 375 degrees for ten to 12 minutes, or until light brown.

"Japanese" Food*

After a long day of class, followed by the dizzying experience that was the UW Career Fair, my friend Charlene and I went out to dinner - to Blue C sushi.

I thought it was funny that we ended up getting sushi, because we had a discussion about obento just a few hours earlier in my Anthropology of Food class. And yes, I know that sushi and obento are not the same thing at all - though sometimes obento will include sushi as a part of the meal. But I do think that the same aesthetic principles apply - everything is small, cut into tiny pieces, with colors and textures arranged in a pleasing manner, and everything arranged neatly on separate plates. Of course, all of this tiny, pleasant beauty is overwhelmed by the rest of Blue C's atmosphere - pumping techno music, video footage of young, attractive Japanese dancing in the streets is projected on the wall. And constantly the food rolls by on a conveyor belt, tempting you to eat more.

And though I've heard several sushi hot-shots criticize it, I think the food at Blue C is good... but perhaps this is because it's been so Americanized. Yes, they do have raw sushi at Blue C, but this is often the stuff that sits on the conveyor belt for awhile until a truly adventurous person decides to find out what "flying fish roe" is. But most of what they make are rolls. Hundreds and hundreds of California, Crab, and Spicy Tuna rolls, but also some less common, and some I'd never seen before. Actually, I have a feeling that some of these are Blue C exclusives - not meaning that no one else makes them, really, but meaning that you couldn't walk into just any sushi joint and order a "Las Vegas Roll" and expect them to know what you mean. The Las Vegas Roll, by the way, is just as decadent as the name suggests. Avacado, cream cheese, unagi (eel, my favorite), and rice are wrapped in seaweed and deep fried. I wonder what Japanese people think of this - it seems so much richer than other sushi, so inauthentic.

That makes me think of something Ann said in class yesterday, about culture flow and "reverse culture-flow," basically referring to the way that Western culture has invaded countries around the globe, and how the opposite is now happening - the Western world, the U.S. in particular, is adopting all of these foods and products and practices and aesthetics from elsewhere. Some might find this a little odd and even a little disconcerting. I know there was one visitor in our class who expressed that he found it "odd that you [Americans] find our [Japanese] food appetizing... it would seem more natural for the Japanese person to want the obento and the American person to want the sandwich."

I can see both sides of this young man's comment. For the Japanese, the appeal of the obento lies in its familiarity. It was perhaps made by thier mother, or it at least bears some resemblence to the food made by one's mother. The tastes are familiar as well, with a main course of rice and perhaps some pickled fruit, vegetables, or fish of which the Japanese are so fond. But to the American, what is the attraction? The foods, while they are becoming more mainstream in the U.S., are still not a part of the average American's daily menu, and are certainly not remnicent of childhood foods. In fact, most Americans I know who enjoy "sushi" and "Japanese Food" do not like the ginger and wasabi that accompanies their california rolls, and do not appreciate the umeboshi (pickled plum) alongside the green tea ice cream. Most Americans only like sushi when it is adapted to American tastes (thus my use of quote marks above) and served in a restaurant or in packaging that emphasizes the Japanese-ness of the food they are consuming. So while the Japanese are consuming sushi or obento because both the idea of the food and the taste of the food are familiar, Americans who consume "sushi" or "bento" eat it because the idea of the food is exotic, but the taste has been tempered to the American palette, and is thus familiar.

Is this bad? I don't think this sort of culture flow is necessarily bad or good. I can see it going the way of Chinese Food, though - becoming incredibly Americanized, but leading to a general appreciation of "Chinese Culture" by Americans - who, in reality, know nothing about real Chinese food or real Chinese culture. But putting that quandry aside, I will likely go back to Blue C again - even if it's for a Las Vegas roll.

A Family Legend

There's a story that we always have to tell in my family. Actually, I'm sure we're all sick of it by now, but it just comes out of our mouths like vomit every time the word "mushroom" is uttered within earshot. And although everyone is sick of it, even the person telling the story, the silent code of our family states that we must sit and listen to this story all the way through, and smile, nod, and laugh as if it were the funniest thing we had ever heard.

I was perhaps 13 years old when the fabled event occured at a restaurant at the Washington Coast. The name of the place is the Ocean Crest, and it is a snooty, over-priced restaurant attached to a hotel of the same name, located about 30 miles outside of Ocean Shores. Being perched on a hill overlooking the beach, it was only appropriate that this restaurant served almost nothing but seafood. My father, redneck that he is, did not see this to be any excuse to order some delicate entre like seared halibut fillets drizzled with lemon aioli over a bed of fresh spinach with rice pilaf. No, he wanted a steak - a Man-Steak - and so he ordered the Portobello Mushroom Steak, with a heaping side of potatoes, and, ok, I guess it came with a vegetable too, though that was of little meaning.

When the entrees arrived, all seemed well - everything was beautifully presented and piping hot - so we dug in. Well, Mom, Nana, and I dug in... and Dad just stared at his food. For it was a rather odd-looking steak. It was very dark brown in color, almost black, and softly rounded in shape. What's more, there were no mushrooms to be seen. It seemed that the chef had forgotten the mushroom garnish, or mushroom sauce, or whatever mushroomy thing it was that gave this steak its name. But the mushrooms weren't that big a deal to Dad - as long as the meat was there, that was all he cared about. So he began to eat, and we all began to talk about things other than food. A short while later, Dad interrupted the conversation to say, "I think I know where the mushrooms are." He stabbed the steak with his fork and flipped it over to reveal a slimy, black substance clinging to the meat, and a portrusion from the center of the steak. For the steak was not a steak at all - at least, not a meat steak. The oddly colored circular meat my father had been eating was a gigantic portobello mushroom, grilled and served as a main course.

After a long minute of staring at the gigantic fungus, Mom looked at Nana, who looked at me, and we all slowly began to laugh... and laugh some more... throughout the rest of dinner we debated whether or not Dad should explain the mistake to the waiter and re-order. In the end, Dad's pride held out, and he poked the mushroom around on his plate for the rest of the night... and ate a peanut butter sandwich when we got back to the hotel.

Image courtesey of: Wikimedia Commons, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Giant_mushroom_underside.jpg