Some of you may be familiar with a Cantonese dish called yuk bang, which roughly translates into "pork pie." It's pretty much the Chinese version of meat loaf. But while meat loaf can be found on menus in both Southern and hipster diners, yuk bang is hardly ever served outside home. To call it rustic would be an overly generous. You mix ground pork with pickled mustard plant, splash on a bit of soy sauce, then press your ball of pork into a metal plate and steam it. As simple and unphotogenic as pork pie is, it tastes amazing mixed with white rice. 

In the absence of pickled mustard plant, and for leftovers that I wouldn't feel weird bringing to work, I turn to these minced pork and shiitake noodles.

If you have ever been to Hong Kong, Taiwan, mainland China, or Japan, you may be familiar with a dish of minced pork ladled over a bowl of boiled noodles. It's pure comfort food whenever you're exhausted and need nourishment, stat. Like, when traveling on foot in a subtropical Asian city, or even after staring at a computer screen all morning.

The simplest preparation involves just minced pork, onions or shallots, scallions, all simmered in sake or Chinese rice wine.  I throw in finely chopped shiitake mushrooms for extra flavor (lately, using these ugly shiitakes.)  You can really use any kind of noodles, but I prefer soba for their ability to not become saturated by sauces.

Have you ever seen these? They're "ugly shiitakes", which I found at the UN Plaza farmers market in San Francisco.

"They're actually pretty cute," I told the grungy musician-type manning the booth.

"Eh, yeah, people seem to like them better than the regular ones." He shrugged.

As if on cue, three different people came up behind me, each grabbing a carton of the uglies, and paid for them. They were the regulars with a purpose, it seemed. So I bought some too.

Back home, I had a mushroom epiphany. No, not that kind of mushroom epiphany. Rather, it was the realization that an ingredient that has been a staple in the foods I grew up with, that is so entrenched in Chinese cooking, can be improved upon. These uglies are about half the size of a regular Asian shiitake mushroom. They are twice as soft. There is no thick woody stem that you need to discard. You plop a bunch onto your chutting board and chop away.

And the aroma when cooking is more akin to that of cremini or portabello mushrooms, woodsy but without a tinge of musty like when using regular shiitakes. 

I'm sure there is a more scientific name for this shiitake variety. They have got to be sold elsewhere, right? Google doesn't help. If anyone has more info, I'd love to hear it. 

It will be hard to go back to regular fresh and dried shiitakes after these.

Also check out this radio segment from the Feb. 17th episode of The Takeaway (produced by WNYC, Public Radio International, and BBC World Service). I chatted with actor B.D. Wong about Chinese New Year foods and some picks from my list of 100 Chinese Foods to Try.

I just realized it has been a looong time since I did a recipe round-up on this site. Two and a half years, in fact. It's usually much more fun (for me and the reader) to have new content, but it seems fitting after this much time to gather up some of my favorite foods for Chinese New Year in this post. 

1. Chinese tea eggs - Everyone should make these.  They are one step harder than boiling an egg, taking only 5 minutes of hands-on time (not including boiling time). That marbly experior will impress all your guests who did not grow up eating tea eggs. If you want to get fancy, top them with caviar. 

2. Water chestnut cake - The Chinese eat all sorts of "cakes" for the new year because they symbolize growing taller. Eating them never worked for me. But the idea is still nice.

As much as i love to cook, I never have time to plan weekday lunches. After a frazzled morning at the desk, trying to get just one more bit of work done, I am ravenous by 1 or 2pm. My lame attempts at breakfast (usually Wheatables and fruit gummies) do not suffice.

I storm out of the building in a mad search for anything edible on the street. Unfortunately, other than mediocre $10 sandwiches and faux-Mexican, there is nothing except Safeway and Whole Foods. So I go for supermarket soup. Soup is filling. Soup is warming. Soup is cheap (well, not at Whole Foods). But sooner or later, you get sick of Chunky Chicken Noodle and Spicy Southwestern Bean. I still craved a piping hot bowl of broth-and-protein in the early afternoon, but needed a change.

This week I decided to add a Chinese take-out touch to chicken noodle soup. And make a big batch on Sunday night. While I still like the hot and sour soup I posted two year ago, this one is much, much more filling. And if you are low on Asian pantry staples like canned bamboo shoots and lily buds, you can still make this. I went to the market and bought chicken breast, mushrooms, and scallions, et voilà. 

For writers, there's no better feeling than seeing one's own name in glossy print. I know, we're a vain bunch. But it's a justifiable reward for hours spent hunched over at the desk, racking your brain endlessly for the perfect turn of phrase. Getting carpal tunnel and increased myopia. Missing out on fresh air, merry water cooler gossip, and a 401(k).

But I'm digressing. What I really want to tell you about is a book I contributed to last year called Food Journeys of a Lifetime: 500 Extraordinary Places to Eat Around the Globe, published by National Geographic. It came out last fall, without a lot of fanfare, but still managed to climb to #159 on the Amazon Best Sellers list before Christmas. A big pretty coffee table book, it's full of hunger-inducing pages on suckling pig in Segovia, street food in Singapore, dim sum in Hong Kong, feijoada in Rio, and 496 other journeys both abroad and stateside.

(I write about a certain hairy crustacean Shanghai is known for, and a festival of all cold foods that China is lesser known for. Other equally peripatetic and insatiable contributors include Robyn Eckhardt from Eating Asia, Karen Coates from Rambling Spoon, Cathy Danh from Gastronomy Blog, and Darra Goldstein from Gastronomica.)

In short, perfect reading material for the breakfast table.

Before I put together the results of my edamame wiki recipe, I wanted to share a dish appropriate for the joyous cholesterol-clogging spirit of Christmas.

There are few vegetable dishes better than roasted brussels sprouts. Drizzle olive oil over them, add some sea salt and pepper, roast them in the oven until the leaves are brown and barely crunchy, and I'm a happy girl. But for the holidays, any self-respecting dish should make you consider elastic pants, for just a second.

That's where Parmesan and bacon come in. Well, that and keeping all your bacon fat. The new year is still a week away, and there's still time to indulge in a little decadence before then.

***

The last few months have been incredibly busy and challenging for me. But in January I resolve to return to my regular posting in full force, and update you on all that has been going on. Thank you all for continuing to read these past two years. Have a very happy holidays.

It took a trip to Japan to realize I've been making edamame wrong all these years.

Well, not necessarily wrong wrong. But not the best way possible.

When I discovered the joys of edamame about 10 or 12 years ago, I would buy bags of the frozen stuff, microwave them, and sprinkle table salt on top. Then I progressed to boiling them in a pot. When I discovered fresh edamame in Chinatown, and replaced Morton with Malden, I thought this was as good as edamame could get. After all, it tasted the same as at all the Japanese restaurants in the US. 

Then I went to Japan. In Tokyo this past summer, I noticed something slightly different about the fuzzy little legume that was as good an accompaniment with omikase-style sushi as it was with beer at 2 a.m. My meals of tempura, sashimi, fugu, and yes, even fugu sashimi were all bookended by a dish of edamame that tasted, well, better. Was it just because my subconscious dictated that the Japanese food had to taste better in Japan?

One night when returning to the guest house, a traveler from the north of Japan was snacking on some edamame in front of the TV. He was watching game show contestants clad in knee pads and mud hurling themselves around an obstacle course. He offered me some edamame. 

These pumpkins are so oddly beautiful I just had to share. My friend Christa picked them up at Farmer John's pumpkin patch in Half Moon Bay, about 30 to 40 minutes from San Francisco. Having never seen them before, I spent the longest time trying to figure out how they developed to look like two different species squashed into one, with a warty belt around the middle.

These pumpkins have a handful of colorful names, including Turk's Turban, Turk's Squash, Scotchman's Purse,  Ladies' Eardrops, and (for the smaller ones) Aladdin's Turban.  Apparently, because the sun hits the top more directly, the pumpkins develop top heavy, like an upside-down hat.

Oh, and they don't taste very good, so it's best to just display them around the house, maybe near the punch bowl at your Halloween party. 

More pics of these odd- but fun-looking specimens.

_________________

Related posts:

Mulberries!

Lucky Nectarines

Dragonfruit

Vietnamese Pomelo Salad

Rambutan

When I was living in China, the kitchen was never without rice. Long grain, short grain, jasmine, or brown, a sack or bulk bin bag would slouch in the corner, just waiting to be cooked. I would steam it, fry it, or boil it to a pulp for congee. And one day, out of severe homesickness, I decided to make horchata.

A Chinese friend was over and watched me pull a plastic carton from the fridge, which I had filled the day before with pulvertized rice grains and water to soak overnight.

"What is that?" she asked. I explained that Mexicans make a really nice icy drink out of rice water.

"But that's just like waste water from washing rice," she said."We dump that stuff down the drain."

"Um, true," I paused. "But when you add tons of sugar and vanilla and cinnamon, it's a great drink to go with your tacos." 

"I'll stick with margaritas."

I couldn't convince her to try it, which makes sense. The Chinese think anything raw is for barbarians and marvel at how Westerners down large bowls of salad, so why would they go for milky water from soaking raw rice? Come to think of it, none of the Mexican restaurants in Shanghai (all operated by Chinese-Americans) served horchata either. The only time I encountered the drink in China was at a Mexican-run Mexican restaurant in Beijing, and its clientele was predominantly Mexican embassy workers.

This week the food world had its own Black Monday. To reduce costs, Condé Nast has decided to shut down Gourmet. I mourned on Twitter, along with a thousand other food writers and bloggers. It felt cathartic to be reassured that there were many others who will miss seeing the magazines in their mailboxes every month.

But then the insults started flying. Among the many criticisms the magazine received was that it was "elitist", "irrelevant", and that its "recipes took too long." In the most scathing piece published this morning, The Boston Globe called it a "symbol of bygone vision of gourmet life in America - and as sign that even upmarket niches can be too confining."(Disclosure: I used to write for the Globe, and still read it, and contributed a piece in August to Gourmet.)

It seems that most of these critics stopped reading Gourmet in the 1980s. Or they ignored the 90% of magazine that doesn't have to do France or fine dinnerware. What's so "elitist" about street food in Thailand or a mom-and-pop Chinese barbecue stand? Or a first-person account, not just some fluffy service piece, about living frugally? Or for that matter, in-depth coverage of sustainable food issues? If elitism is defined by reaching beyond the scope of soccer moms and trend-seekers or calling olive oil by its rightful name, then I must be elitist too.