Mi2Sweets – I’m just sayin’

Sweet Topic: I’m just sayin’

02/13: Yours heart’s desire

So far February has brought unexpected sunshine, a plethora of award shows, and that undeniable feeling of anticipation, or for some anxiety, over the most sacred of all Hallmark holidays–Valentine’s Day. Heck, there’s even a movie about it. And if you are to believe in all the hype Valentine’s Day is “the” day to declare your love to your significant (or potentially significant) other with some grand gesture–be it a fabulous piece of bling, a romantic getaway, or night out on the town. The latter usually involves procuring dinner reservations at an appropriately fancy or at least nice restaurant, which like all fine eateries in town feature some sort of “special” offering for the big event.

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.”

Red Velvet Baked Alaska 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.

Posted February 13th, 2011 | Leave a Comment

10/11: Autumn State of Mind

Every time I walk into a store these days, whether it’s Target or Costco, I’m forcefully reminded that Halloween is just right around the corner. Time to load up on those jumbo bags of candy corn and mini Snickers. But it hard for me to get a sense of the autumn when it’s 70 degrees and sunny outside. The neighborhood produce market still has nectarines and plums on sale for crying out loud! Of course some of it probably tastes crappy. It’s their mere presence at the fruit stand, intruding upon the first crop of pomegranates and persimmons that throws me off. I need to get my fall groove on! It’s time for me shift gears and think pears, apples, pumpkins…

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!

Posted October 11th, 2010 | Leave a Comment

09/14: Having your cake

It was big. It was blue. It was a thing of beauty. It was a birthday cake for a one year old. Will he remember it? I doubt it. Certainly there will be more than enough documentation of it’s existence so that when he is older he can look back on those photos and hopefully appreciate the artistry that went into making his cake. His parents could tell him how great it tasted and tease him about looking like a smurf on his first chocolate buzz. But let’s face it, the cake was really more for the grown-ups’ enjoyment than for kids’–at least those under the age of three.

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!

Posted September 14th, 2010 | 2 Comments

01/30: Getting a feel for it

There are alot I things I wished I had asked my grandma before she passed away. How did she, for instance, transform herself from a somewhat privileged lady who mah-jonged and never really cooked or cleaned a majority of adult life to a pretty damn efficient housekeeper and kick-ass cook in her sixties? I mean I’ve heard stories about her incredible journey told second hand by my aunt. But nothing can live up to hearing it straight from the horse’s mouth and, more importantly, nothing beats learning how to do something from the master herself.

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.

Posted January 30th, 2010 | Leave a Comment

01/23: Unspoken connections

For my brother Ken, it’s always the lemon meringue pie. Not that he doesn’t like other desserts in my repertoire–he’ll dig a flourless chocolate torte–but when it comes to his birthday, it has to be that pie. Ask my nephew Justin and he’ll probably say his favorite was the pie-plate sized butterscotch creme brulee. Mom? Well that’s a toss up between chestnut creme cake and banana bread. And, she has a curious way of letting me know when she has a hankerin’ for either one.

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.

Posted January 23rd, 2010 | Leave a Comment

01/06: Saying goodbye to Mom & Pop

I wasn’t really all that surprised to hear that a restaurant I worked at long ago was finally closing its doors. It had been hobbling along for the last few years and with the down turn in the economy ( and other more personal factors) the once favorite neighborhood eatery called it quits. A local food critic lamented its passing and confessed to having abandoned it for more modern bright, shiny, hip places that served trendier “comfort” food. Yes, he is fickle, not unlike many foodies in this town who obsessively tweet about finding the next great thing. However, I have to say in his defense, it is his JOB to ferret out the yet to be discovered, to write about the hottest new restaurant. Still, if he really cared about the sustainability of these treasured “Mom & Pop” institutions, he’d have devoted a little more print to praising their virtues while they were still alive, instead of giving a guilt-ridden eulogy.

While it was not always easy working in that cozy little space, filled with creaky lop-sided office chairs, leaking pipes, computers from the dark ages (we were STILL using Wordstar for God’s sake!), file cabinets stuffed to the brim with a decade of catering orders, and questionable ventilation, I can say that I learned practically everything I know about catering (not to mention Italian cuisine) from my time there. I also honed in my talent for multi-tasking and thinking on my feet, because when you’re on a historical ship with no kitchen, a dwindling buffet with an endless line of hungry drunk wedding guests, and a sizeable chunk hacked off the wedding cake (no doubt from one of the drunken hungry guests), you pretty much have do a few “Hail Mary” moves to advert disaster.

Like many of the wonderful people I worked with, who to this day are great friends, I outgrew the place but I never really left it behind. We, in fact, get together a couple times a year for mini reunions to catch up on the new and talk about the old. Some of us are still in the food biz, some not. What binds us together is not just the experience of working together but the shared memory of the place itself–everything from the storeroom filled with bottles of imported olive oils, balsamic vinegars, pasta, and ceramics, to the smell of chicken fat dripping off the rotisserie in the morning, piping hot plates of pasta alla norma coming off the line, and hazelnut meringue cake layered with fluffy whipped cream and apricot paste–all which is just that, a memory. A very warm, tasty memory.

Posted January 6th, 2010 | Leave a Comment

05/08: Sweet Hi’s and Low’s

I have always prided myself in my ability to offer sweet comfort to friends and loved ones. It’s what I do best. A freshly baked warm batch of scones brought a big smile to my friend Laura’s face–well that and her beautiful little baby girl born after 72 hours of labor! I swear even little Buttercup–that’s what we’re calling her even though her legal name is Viviana–perked up her tiny nose to take in the luscious scent when I paraded into the hospital room with that box of sweet buttery goodness. Ah…I like to get them early.

My sick aunt? Well, that’s a whole other story. When I heard that my aunt Christina wasn’t doing so well after several rounds of chemo had all but decimated her appetite, all I wanted to do was make her something to cheer her up. But when someone really can’t eat–her enlarged liver having hogged all the available space normally occupied by her stomach–a batch of scones or her once favorite Russian tea cakes just isn’t going to cut it. My aunt now eats like a bird–a very TINY bird. Even a small, light sponge cake–her sister’s suggestion–would take her a week to finish.

So now I have to think of other things, maybe not even food, to offer comfort. As my aunt Anna says, “its the thought that counts”–though I’d be thrill to help boost my frail aunt’s caloric intake by a few thousand. In the end, whether aunt Christina actually finishes whatever I decide to make for her isn’t the point. Its the love that’s baked inside that counts–a little sweet comfort to chase away the blues.

Posted May 8th, 2009 | Leave a Comment

01/27: Smooth or Chunky?

When the “three amigas” get together it doesn’t really matter where the conversation begins–the price of beer at the Giants game, whether or not one can actually consider escargot and frog’s legs as “to go” food, the gastro-intestinal effects of eating too much takeout–we invariably end up talking dessert. Today the topic was ice cream. Who makes the best? What makes a good ice cream? Do you prefer smooth or chunky? The three of us are pastry chefs so there’s plenty to dissect and analyze.

Well first of all, who makes the best? I think we came to the concensus that no one really makes “the best” though plenty of places make some really good stuff. It just depends on what you’re in the mood for at any given moment. Are you feeling adventurous and want to try something a little more esoteric? Or are you just looking to satisfy your craving for “chewy chocolate” ice cream (yay Swenson’s)? We went to Mitchell’s today and each of us, after having studied their new menu board for about 5 minutes decided, independent of each other, to choose something “tropical” and exotic. Though the “sweet and salty peanut” ice cream grabbed my attention at first, I opted for the mango ice cream because I was feeling a bit nostalgic and wanted something that reminded me of my childhood. Nicole was intrigued by the yummy possibilities of the exotic Peruvian lucuma, which turned out to be a strangely delicious concoction that was slightly starchy (kinda like a sweet potato) with deep caramel undertones. Irene chose the young coconut over the sweet coconut–where else in SF do you get to do that?

As for the question of what makes a good ice cream, aside from the requisite creamy rich texture, I’d have to say–and my cohorts would probably agree with me–a balance of flavors, regardless of whether or not it is of the “chunky” variety. Smooth ice creams (meaning no additional textural components) are deceptively straightforward, but I think are really hard to get right precisely because there are no textural distractions. For example, when I wanted to make a Guinness ice cream, it took more than a few tries to get the flavor just right–how much straight Guinness should I put in the base, should I reduce some of it to get a richer molasses undertone, what other flavors can I add to give the ice cream complexity without confusing the tastebuds?

I love “stuff” in my ice cream as much as the next “Chubby Hubby” afficionado, but again it has to work with the ice cream. Case in point–cherry almond ice cream that was really neither. My tastebuds were expecting a burst of cherry or almond flavor. Instead I got an ok vanilla ice cream with some chunks of cherry (slightly icey) and soggy pieces of sliced almond. Had the ice cream base been infused with, say, toasted almonds or puree of roasted cherries, it might have tasted like something. Or had the cherries been more intense in flavor and the almonds toasted whole and rough chopped, the “chunks” could have taken the plain base out of the ordinary.

After much deliberation, we’ve decided the best ice cream is one that lives up to its name–whether it’s smooth or chunky.

Posted January 27th, 2009 | 1 comment

01/18: Proof is in the puddin’

I was watching the mildly entertaining film “New in Town” the other night–I say mildly because while I love all the actors in the film (big J.K. Simmons fan) the film itself wasn’t up to par–and had to chuckle at a scene in a Minnesota shopping mall where Lucy (Renee Zellweger) and Blanche (Siobhan Falon) are testing marketing their latest creation. It’s a tapioca pudding cup made from Blanche’s secret recipe which they’re trying to pass off a healthy “energy” snack. As Blanche, in all that gosh darn Minnesotan earnest, proclaims the creamy sweet concoction as being chockful of vitamins and minerals, the kids greedily lap it up, completely oblivious to its health benefits. Soon the pudding is flying off the shelves and the town’s only manufacturing plant is saved.

Yes, the story is silly. But I love the idea of pudding saving the day. A good pudding has certain made my day on countless occasions. I don’t use the term loosely. When I say pudding, I mean the rich and creamy variety–sort like Blanche’s tapioca. I made the mistake when I was in England a long time ago of ordering the “pudding” special at a restaurant and getting a dense cake-like substance. In England pretty much all desserts are referred to as a “pudding” regardless of texture. When I was little my mom would do her version of pudding, which was more like a very thick sweet soup, made with everything from very finely ground almonds (sieved several times for extra smoothness) or black sesame, to red bean. It was very tasty, but it lacked the mouthfeel, the heavy silken quality of chocolate pudding, something I discovered when I was about seven. Mom had decided to give Jello instant pudding a whirl. I was hooked.

It took years before I ventured into the homemade variety. But once I did, it was hard to go back to the packaged stuff. At first it was only the smooth stuff, with the occasional foray into tapioca. Then, I got into rice pudding–though my version is more like a risotto (made with Carnaroli or Arborio) baked in a custard, then cooled and folded with whipped cream. At last I moved onto bread pudding, something I really didn’t get into until I discovered that bread pudding didn’t have to resemble a dense baked french toast, which had been the case with most of the bread puddings I’d thus eaten. My feeling is, if you’re gonna call something a pudding, there had damn well better be plenty of it. One of the biggest pet peeve of mine, relating to desserts, is when there is more “bread” than pudding. Such was the case recently with a flavorful yet awfully dense “cornbread pudding” I had at a popular Italian restaurant. I almost felt like screaming, like the lady in the infamous Wendy’s “where’s the beef?” commercial, “where’s my pudding!?”

A well-made pudding is a thing to behold. It can save the day…or in my case save the meal.

Posted January 18th, 2009 | Leave a Comment

01/16: Small Bites

A few years ago, it was decided that the time had come for my feisty ninety-two year old grandma, who had been living on her own for more than fifteen years, to move back in with my mom. There had been one too many close calls involving incinerated congee, burnt stew and a near-stroke episode involving the ninety pound grandma dragging a twenty pound sandbag across her doorway to prevent the rain from flooding in her apartment. My mom and aunts took on the task of clearing out her pantry when moving day finally came. What they discovered was a staggering number of recycled Mary Ellen jam jars–at least forty alone filled with rice. The total jar count hovered around seventy.

Mom just shook her head and mumbled something about my grandmother being a pack rat, which is kinda like the pot called the kettle black considering the decades old collection of toiletries in her bathroom (yeah mom they haven’t made that mouthwash since 1983). My aunt, however, attributed grandma’s jam jar fixation to her need to not be wasteful, to save every last bit in case of an emergency. Maybe she’d transfer the last half cup of rice from her rice bin into a jar, buy a new bag, and forget to finish the rice in the jar first? Or, as I suspect, she had what I term that “Chinese hoarding instinct.” It comes partly from living through hard times (in her case I suppose WWII) and also a need to be “prepared.” You never know when you’ll need that last bit of rice or that recycled jam jar for that matter.

As frivolous as I can be–and these days I can’t afford it–I have quite a bit of that “hoarding instinct” in me. I don’t, like my grandmother, have a plethora of recycled jam jars filled with various dry goods. I do, however, seem to collect alot of snack foods–storing them in zip loc bags or securing them close with tiny bull clips. What can I say, I like variety. I’ve never been the type of person who could just eat an entire bag of say potato chips in one or two sittings. Like my grandmother, who incidentally also used those jam jars to display a seemingly endless selection of snacks, I’m a nibbler. I have been since kindergarten, when she’d plunk down that daily little plate of assorted treats for me to savor while I watched an afternoon of cartoons.

Now, I suppose I could just buy a snack size of something, maybe in a variety pack, but then I like to choose my own variety. I never know when I’ll have a hankering for those cheese crunchies from Trader Joe’s, followed by an English chocolate-dipped digestive biscuit. And those things don’t come in small packages.

When I was studying in England my American cohorts and I would head into the village Sainsbury market to stock up on packaged “bickies” or cookies for those long study sessions. Invariably, after about a day or two, my friends would be pounding on my door to tap into my stash of bickies because they knew I was “hoarding” them. I never could get them to understand that it really wasn’t so much about saving the bickies for a rainy day (and we had a lot of those) as it was about me wanting to have a variety on hand so I could nibble at will. Sure it was a kind of portion control, but I think it’s more about my taste buds getting bored with eating too much on one thing. And since I hated wasting food, I just saved it.

I can fully appreciate the appeal of “minis,” especially desserts. Why eat just one big one when you can have a bunch of little ones? I find myself thinking in those terms more and more lately, which is a little ironic since I’ve spent the better part of my years as a pastry chef in restaurants making huge batches of stuff. When someone asked me for a recipe, I usually had to force myself to scale it down.

I wouldn’t turn down a big sloppy hot fudge sundae or a fat slice of hot apple pie a la mode, but sometimes eating a few mini versions is the best way to have your cake and eat it too. In my case it saves me from both flabby taste buds…and flabby thighs. Hmm…maybe that’s how grandma kept her girlish figure?

Posted January 16th, 2009 | Leave a Comment