But is the “special” really that special? Or is it merely a fanciful attempt at being different?  There seems to be an collective compulsion on Valentine’s Day, after all, to make a statement, to do something extraordinary for the one we love, which makes us more willing to venture into the culinary unknown.  By “unknown” I don’t mean “Bizarre Foods” territory, just the esoteric–stuff that may sound cool and hip that we may or may actually enjoy eating.  A deconstructed lobster served five ways for two perhaps?

Marketing plays a big part in how we present a menu.  For instance, we give a dish a cheeky moniker to make it stand out.  I’ve called a dessert fondue for two “The Hot and Sticky.”  It sold pretty well.  Clearly the clever play on words got people’s attention, however I think the platter of fresh fruit, homemade marshmallows, cookies, profiteroles, and puff pastry along with hot fudge and salted caramel sauces closed the deal.

I go by the theory that the best stuff, be an entree or dessert, are the tried and true.  The classics never really go out of style.  Case in point, this year’s Valentine’s Day dessert special–Red Velvet Baked Alaska with Vanilla Bean Mascarpone Semifreddo and Dark Chocolate Sauce.  It has all the components of the classic dessert we remember, but with just a little something unusual–the shocking red velvet cake–to make it “special.”

In the end I believe that what the heart (and stomach) truly desires is that which is familiar and comforting.  By all means tweak it a little and give it a whimsical name.  Just make sure it is satisfying.

So what’s the big deal? Well, for one thing blissfully melt-in-your-mouth ethereal buttermilk biscuits and sumptuously tender and flaky pie crust.  For another, it is a dream for work with.  The pie dough I make with this stellar product is far more forgiving than your standard butter and/or shortening dough so you can actually re-roll the scraps with little or not ill-effect.  I do incorporate a small amount of butter into the recipe just for flavor but the star of the show is the lard.

With the weather turning colder I have even more reason to fire up the oven and bake something comforting–cheddar herb biscuits, apricot ginger scones, hand pies.  Yes, pumpkin and pecan pies will still take center stage at Thanksgiving, but after that, sky’s the limit on my creativity.  While I do look forward to sitting down with my family for the traditional Thanksgiving feast, I relish in all the delicious possibilities of that ultimate “mystery basket” that we call leftovers.   I already have plans for that turkey and gravy–savory herb infused turkey hand pies with caramelized onions, mushrooms and dried cranberries.  And the honey baked ham?  Parmesan biscuit ham sandwiches!  The magic ingredient of course is that little tub of pork leaf lard.

Thus was born the coconut and black sesame panna cotta.  This would be the perfect amalgam of two of my favorite Chinese desserts, black sesame soup and coconut pudding (well really more like coconut jello).  The coconut panna cotta was easy enough.  I substituted a certain amount of coconut milk for whole milk, added some coconut powder to the cream and a tiny bit of coconut extract.  The black sesame creme, however, proved to be a bit more challenging.  Lucky for me, mom is a great resource.  In fact she rose to the challenge and actively participated in my experiments.  Did you know you have to rinse the black sesame first to flush out the sand and grit, and then carefully toast them in a wok to bring out the nutty sweet aroma?  And who knew that certain brands were “blacker” than others?  The brand mom favors has more pure black sesame seeds than the one I bought, which to my dismay had far too many pale seeds that did not impart enough color to the milk and cream even when steeped overnight.  And just how much ground black sesame does it take to give the panna cotta the right shade of dark graphite?  A hell of a lot!

After all the experimentation, I got the seal of approval.  Mom loved it.  Now of course it could be that she had a hand in it’s creation.  But then again, I couldn’t have done it without her.

If there is one single dessert I can make to get me into an autumn state of mind, it’s Sticky Toffee Pudding.  Yeah, I know the English eat it all year round.  In fact, I think it might actually be the national dessert of Great Britain, sort of the way the pavlova is to the Aussies.  But to me, it has always represented the fall, with all it’s wonderful rich, dark flavors.  My version–or I should say one of my many versions–includes not only the traditional sticky dates, but crystallized ginger, espresso, and Guinness.  I bake mine in a water bath to insure the proper degree of gooey goodness. This is what I want to tuck into on a chilly day…or night.  Once I make the first batch, I’m on a roll.  Then it’s maple pumpkin cupcakes, sweet potato pie, pear bread pudding, Halloween sugar cookies…..Let the autumn carb loading begin!

Truth be told, I had very few memorable birthday cakes until I was an adult.  Now part of the reason had to to do with the fact that up until probably the age of nine or ten, all my birthday cakes were of the bland spongy, fluffy cream and fruit variety found in Chinese bakeries. Chocolate didn’t even enter the picture until I was twelve and I think that was courtesy of Duncan Hines.

I guess that’s why I take cake very seriously, both as a baker and as a dessert lover.  Once you’ve had something made with love by someone who shares your passion for cake, anything else pales by comparison.  The best and most memorable ones I’ve had:  my friend Z, who’s really not a baker but spent hours making her mom’s chocolate cake for me–a little lopsided, but wonderful nevertheless; a classmate from culinary school who introduced me to red velvet cake; my friend Cecilia, who made me a lovely cheesecake because layer cakes weren’t really her forte but that cheesecake was; my friend Nicole who made me an awesome giant pink snowball for my fortieth.  Whether it’s for a special occasion, like a birthday or wedding, cake should be a joyous sensory experience.  Your taste buds should be doing the “happy dance.”

I think my friend Carrie had the right idea when she said, after seeing a picture of the big blue cake, which was actually a devil’s food cake with banana cream and dulce de leche, that when she was reincarnated she wanted that cake for her first birthday.  We should all be allowed a do-over, to have our cake and eat it too!

So they say change is good—whether instigated by oneself or others. Though we don’t always embrace it, change ultimately challenges us to grow. Happily, Mi2Sweets has grown over the last year and this is reflected in the launching of the new Mi2Sweets website. I’m very excited about the fresh look, courtesy of my wonderful web designer Rena B. New products, the latest photos, and updates on upcoming projects will be readily available. And as always, you can follow me on my Mi2Sweets Facebook Page where you can find a photo archive of my sweet creations.

Now, one of my favorite kitchen appliances, aside from my Kitchen Aid mixer, is the microwave.  I consider it essential.  Yeah, I know most people use it primarily for reheating, defrosting, and popcorn.  Such was my scope of usage in the beginning, when mom brought home that first behemoth nuke box with it’s jumbo manual dials.  I foolishly attempted to “bake” in it–zucchini bread.  UGH!  My poor dad practically lost his dentures trying to chew into that anemic rubbery loaf.  Needless to say I suspended further culinary experimentation–that is until I became a chef.

While I did learn how to do everything the “classic” way cooking school–melting chocolate over a bain marie– in the my real world the microwave rules.  Unless I have to melt 10 lbs. of chocolate in one shot, I prefer to just do in the microwave on low setting.  Ditto for gelatin, especially when I’m making marshmallows.  Instead of standing over a stove stirring a pot of lemon curd for 10 minutes, I zap it.  No, it’s not a travesty.  Done properly, it works just well as the old school method.

I had to duke it out with one of my chefs at one point over the necessity of ever having a microwave in the kitchen.  He was a purest who was totally dead set against it.  I think he had visions of the cooks nuking steaks to oblivion–not exactly outside the realm of possibility.  But given my lack of stove space and need to multitask I finally convinced him to let me buy a cheap Costco microwave, which I’m proud say is still working fine after four years of constant use.  Hey, I figured if famed pastry chef Jacques Torres can use one so can I–and apparently so can my mom.

My mom the gadget queen makes sweet mochi (Japanese sweet glutinous rice cakes) in the microwave.  At first I was skeptical, but I have to admit it’s pretty genius.  Take some sweet glutinous rice flour, whisk in sugar and warm water, zap in the microwave for 2 1/2 minutes, and voila you’ve go the makings for mochi.  Pan roast some sweet rice flour until just golden, dust your hands with it and you’re ready to fill the mochi “dough” with whatever your heart’s desire.  I’m thinking I’d like to try some sweet black sesame paste.

Ahh, (almost) instant gratification.

Wouldn’t it be great if there really was a recipe for love?  Some fool-proof magic formula that yielded the most gratifying, warm, intoxicating feelings of joy and passion that lasted a lifetime?  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not talking about concocting some kind of “love potion”–that stuff resides squarely in the cheesy realm of  the movies (remember Love Potion No.9?).  Besides they always ends up biting the user in the ass anyways.

We all have a mental shopping list of things we want in the ideal partner.  Some of those things can be seen as primary ingredients, like intelligence, sense of humor, or kindness.  Other things are variable, such as seasonings or as a friend of mine likes to say “your flava”–tall, dark, blond, athletic, built, lean, vanilla, chocolate, artistic, etc.   What if you could come up with a relationship recipe of just the right combination of ingredients, measured and mixed under the right conditions, that would always yield the perfect outcome?  What if it were just as easy as creating the perfect chocolate cake or the best pie crust?

Crazy idea, I know.  I was in the midst of perusing the latest issue of Cook’s Illustrated–waiting for my Valentine’s Day cookies to bake no less–when I came across an article about unlocking the mystery of the baking the best chewiest brownie.  I won’t go into the details of how the writer went about his investigation.  Suffice it to say it involved a hell of a lot of scientific research and experimentation, not to mention seemingly endless pans of brownies.  It got me thinking about whether or not one could apply the same principles to finding the right person and creating the perfect relationship–if you had all the basic ingredients in front of you.

Well, first of all, as great as a recipe may seem, ultimately it is the skill of the baker or cook that determines the outcome of the dish.  Some people are really adept at following directions and can usually produce a decent dish.  Whether it is exceptional is pretty subjective.  Does it make them happy?  Some people may follow the general idea of the recipe but like to improvise as they go along, throwing in a pinch of salt or a dash of cinnamon.  It may not seem to go with the dish, but then happy accidents do happen–the problem is if you don’t pay attention to the process you may not remember how to recreate the magic.  And then there are those who are impatient for the dish to cook, turning up the heat to hurry things along only to ruin it–I’ve been guilty of that.

Yes, a recipe is a nice idea.  But human beings, unlike a butter, eggs, and chocolate, are volatile, wonderfully unpredictable substances.  We are always changing, adjusting to the environment around us.  We can’t be measured, mixed, or manipulated, though we frequently try–often to unsavory results.  Better to leave that for the chocolate cake.

I was too young to really appreciate just how far my grandmother had traveled, how much she evolved both as a food lover and a cook in the span of just under a decade–from the time she and my grandfather decided to emigrate to the U.S. from Hong Kong to when they moved in with my family to basically oversee my daily care.  I don’t ever remember her not cooking, not experimenting with new dishes when I was a kid, but then I was probably only about three when my grandparents moved to San Francisco, leaving behind their old life of servants and lively social circles.  It never occurred to me until much later that grandma wasn’t exactly bred to do any of the things she eventually mastered–purely out of sheer determination to succeed.  I’m sure my older brother Sam, who along with my dad emigrated with my grandparents first, served as captive guinea pig to her early endeavors.  She must have learned fast because he doesn’t seem to have too many bad memories of her cooking.  I, luckily enough, never felt like a guinea pig because by the time I got arrived here she was well on her way to exceptional cookery.

So how the hell did she do it?  It’s not as if she took a class or watched alot of cooking shows on television–I mean this was 1968.  From what I gather from my aunt and from my own personal experience, grandma just asked alot of questions and went with her gut instincts.  She already knew what great food was supposed to be, both in terms of taste and texture.  She knew exactly what to look for in produce, meat and fish–apparently having paid attention to what the servants were doing.  And, because as a woman of a certain social class, she knew how to get the “good” stuff–the best dried mushrooms, dried scallops, shark’s fin, etc.  Grandma was just plain fearless in her quest to conquer the kitchen.  There may have been more than a few duds here and there, but she never caved in under the pressure–especially given my grandfather’s highly refined taste buds and predilection for brutal criticism. She bravely trusted her instincts and cooked by feel.

I remember asking her how she knew when the wheat starch dough for her steamed dumplings was ready to be used.  She simply replied, “When it starts to make loud popping sounds.”  That was the reason why she refused to use a mixer to knead the dough.  “You have to be able to feel it snap and pop as you knead it by hand,” she said.    She never gave me a recipe for the dough itself.  You just get a feel for how much boiling hot water to add to the wheat starch to form a dough.  According to her, it was all in the kneading.  Same goes for the filling.  She could give you a list of ingredients but, well, the seasoning you had to do by taste.

As a pastry chef, I do have to use recipes and adhere to certain rules.  But I do go with my gut quite often–which kind of goes against all that I’ve been taught at school (at least relating to baking and pastry).  Sometimes my experiments come out great and other times they fail miserably.  And when they do fall flat, I try to remember what my grandmother taught me.  No guts, no glory.

Now if only I can put that in the recipe.

For instance, she’ll call me up to inform me that she just happened to buy a bunch of chestnuts from Chinatown and spent an inordinate amount of time patiently boiling, roasting, then peeling them.  I don’t bother asking her if they were tasty, because I know damn well she hasn’t really eaten any of them.  No, the sole purpose of her call, even if she doesn’t come right out and request it, is to have me turn her handy work into a lovely vanilla chiffon cake layered with chestnut creme.  So, I tell her to put the chestnuts in the freezer and I’ll make her the cake when I see her next.  Now, if she’s really impatient (which she usually is), Mom won’t even bother letting me get that far into the conversation.  She’ll just tell me that she’s taking the bus (two of them no less) to drop off the said chestnuts at my doorstep.  Way to work the guilt!

Mom and I don’t really talk much.  Sadly, we’ve never had a particularly close relationship, and I don’t think it is so much to do with the language barrier–I’m woefully inept at conversational Cantonese.  My late father spoke less English but we somehow managed to bridge that gap and forged a special bond that only fathers and their little girls share.  So food is how my mom and I communicate, how we let each other know we care about each other.  She makes fabulous bbq pork jerky and sticky rice in lotus leaf, among other traditional delicacies.  I make chestnut creme cake, banana bread, and chocolate chip cookies.  It’s the way we’ve learn to connect with each other, and also to others.

I suppose you can say it is the reason why I do what I do for a living.  More than anything else I’ve ever done, cooking and baking has been the most professionally and emotionally gratifying because the response is immediate, visceral–it goes straight from the taste buds and stomach straight to the brain and heart of the recipient.  Whenever I’m at a lost for words or want to go beyond words, I always fall back on food.  This was definitely the case when I was younger and much too insecure about my ability to interact well in social situations (chalk it up to a really long geeky adolescence).  My way to impress, to break the ice was cook or bake something–a fruit tart for the office, churros for the neighbors, fresh apple pie for potential in-laws (great folks, wrong guy), over-the-top assortment of Christmas cookies for boyfriend’s family (again, great folks, dead-end guy).  Okay, so I may not have been the life of the party, but my chocolate graduation cake made me feel less of a fourteen-year-old wallflower with a bad perm and uncool clothes.

I have more or less outgrown alot of my insecurities.  God knows I’ve had over forty some odd years to accept and embrace my inner geek.  I still, however, find it comforting to use food as a means of bridging gaps, because after all it is the common language we all speak.