I love owning a bamboo steamer, if for no other reason that to display around the kitchen. It's not only a conversation starter whenever new guests visit but also a handy tool for food photography. (Gotta play up the Asian theme sometimes.) Plus, a set of basket and lid usually costs less than $10 in Chinatown.

Of course, there are times when bamboo steamers are useful for actual cooking. Aside from har gow, siu mai is possibly the most requested dim sum standard in my family, with the reliable crinkly yellow wonton wrappers snugly encasing the pork-dominant filling. I haven't tackled har gow at home yet, possibly because even 95% of all restaurants I visit fail at the texture of the translucent wrapper. But siu mai I can do.

Yes, this is the same dim sum treat that's also spelled shumai, siew mai, and siu mai due to the lack of standard Cantonese Romanization. (In Mandarin it's just shao mai). Wrapping is not so complex. Folding siu mai is even easier than folding wontons and potstickers, which requires sealing. With siu mai you just need to form the wrapper into a cup and press the sides against the filling.

Try it the next time you're craving dim sum but the nearest good restaurant is too far of a drive. Or flight.

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Until the age of 6, I had never eaten raw unpickled cucumbers. Like everyone else in my Cantonese family, I ate cucumbers only in stir-fries, never imagining that they could be served any other way. So it was a shock in the elementary school cafeteria to find that Americans eat this thing called a salad, with itty bitty pieces of raw unseasoned cucumber, mixed with equally bland raw carrots and iceberg lettuce. I'll admit. It took me a few years to get used to raw cucumbers, especially when the accompaniment was Thousand Island dressing.

Lately I've rediscovered the joys of stir-fried cucumbers. They're sauce sponges, soaking up the best flavors of whatever meat or liquid they're cooked with. The best kind to use for stir-frying are Chinese cucumbers, also called Asian or Peking cucumbers, the long skinny ones with a bumpy outside. They tend to be more crisp, though other varieties would also work.

In this pork stir-fry, you just need to cook the meat, set it aside, and briefly stir-fry and steam the vegetables for a few minutes. If you have extra pieces left over, make a Sichuan cucumber salad.

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Other Chinese pork recipes:

Cantonese Roast Pork

Love black bean sauce? Head over to Rasa Malaysia, where I have a guest post recipe up for spicy black bean spare ribs. While you're there, check out Bee's other great recipes for Chinese and Southeast Asian food.

And if one black bean recipe isn't enough, try these others:

Eggplant, Cumin, and Black Bean Salad

Spicy Chicken in Black Bean Sauce

Twice-Cooked Pork (Huiguo rou)

Chinese Steamed Fish with Black Bean and Ginger Sauce

Along with wonton noodle soup, char siu is the Cantonese people's greatest contribution to mankind. Really, who can resist slices of half-fatty, half-lean roast pork, crisp and dripping with caramelized juices?

You know those enticing pieces of pork dangling in Chinatown restaurant windows? When you get char siu at a Cantonese restaurant, it will most likely be red from a little food dye, to attract customers. A small amount of dye isn't harmful (think of all those M&Ms and Skittles you've eaten). But sometimes a restaurant will go overboard. My mother still has nightmares of glowing magenta char siu from Boston's Chinatown.

The solution, if you want to avoid unnatural coloring altogether, is to make char siu at home. Char siu is often translated as Chinese barbecue pork, but these days hardly anyone skewers the pork and cooks it over an open fire. Rather, the name has stuck because the outside of char siu is blackened from roasting.

My method for making char siu is very easy, and still produces very succulent and drool-worthy meat. Rather than food coloring, you can get good color (not ghastly color) from a dark soy sauce, a little hoisin sauce, and honey. The key is marinating the meat for 2 to 3 hours to allow the flavors to seep in, and roasting the pork belly whole. Lean pork doesn't work as well, because the fat keeps the insides moist. 

Wonton noodle soup is one of the few dishes set very high standards for, almost to the point of obsession. Because of cravings for an ideal bowl of wonton noodle soup (and seeing my relatives), I have paid way too much for same day plane tickets to Hong Kong. When I get wontons that are all or mostly pork, I feel cheated. And I rarely visit wonton noodle stands outside of Hong Kong and Guangzhou, for fear of getting inferior versions.

Yes, it's rather compulsive behavior. But the behavior applies to any sort of a purist, whether the love is sushi, borscht, cocktails, or xiaolongbao. We all have certain foods we put on a pedestal.

If you can't get to Hong Kong, the next best cure for wonton lust is recreating the darn thing at home. After tinkering in the kitchen for over a year and a half, I have updated an older post on this very topic. For me, an ideal wonton noodle soup must include the following: fragrant broth consisting of pork and seafood umami flavor, springy al dente egg noodles, and wontons containing at least 50% shrimp.

Pork belly may be bad for politics, but it's terrific for a hearty meal.

Contrary to myth, the Chinese don't have magically low cholesterol. But they do know that it's okay to eat pork belly every week in moderation, as long as you also get a healthy dose of greens, and maybe bike regularly to the grocery store in your clunky steel cruiser.  Not long ago I posted a recipe for Hunan red-braised pork, which many of you seemed to love. Twice-cooked pork is another dish I recently started making at home. Called huiguo rou (回锅肉) in Chinese, which literally means "meat returned to the wok", this is an extremely popular Sichuan dish that uses the same cut of meat, but this time with a predominantly spicy and salty characteristics.

The "twice-cooked" part refers to the pork belly first being simmered in salted water for an hour until fully cooked, sliced, then stir-fried in its own juices. A home-style dish at heart, the pork is then coated with a hearty sauce of fermented black bean, chili bean sauce and yellow rice wine, and mixed with vegetables like cabbage and bell peppers.

I remember a time when pork belly was shunned in the U.S. as a fatty, undesirable cut of meat. But thanks to a few big-name chefs, this unctuous piece of hog is gracing some of the country's most popular dining spots. David Chang's Berkshire pork belly in a bun may have been the most lusted-after dish in New York in the past 5 years. 

Which is why I'm surprised red-braised pork is still not very popular outside of China. It's one of the least fiery dishes in the entirety of Hunan cuisine, and very easy to make at home. What omnivore can resist a dish of braised pork cooked with sugar, cinnamon, chilis, and star anise? The smells alone are intoxicating, and make me jittery with anticipation as I count down the minutes until braising is done.

I grew up with two kinds of sweet and sour pork. Like any American child living in close proximity to a Chinese take-out, I ate a good amount of Ping-pong ball-sized pork laced with red food coloring and accompanied by canned pineapple. At home, my mother would also prepare her version, using bone-in chunks of pork encased flavored with a subtler orange-vinegar sauce. 

In Beijing, I once took a home-style cooking class in which the teacher revealed that her  secret ingredient for sweet and sour pork, also what "the better restaurants in Beijing use", was a bottle of locally produced ketchup. Why not the American brand Heinz? Too sweet.

Sweet and sour pork is thought to have originated in Guangdong province. But now that the Cantonese have flung themselves afar, each place they have landed has its own local variation. I'm sure Canada, the UK, Austalia, and other immigration hot spots have slightly different sweet and sour composites. 

I have to admit that I have a strong bias towards jiaozi (饺子). Besides Shanghainese soup dumplings (xiaolongbao), my favorite Chinese dumplings are thin-skinned and pan-fried, the kind found mainly in Southern China or New York's $1-for-5 fried dumpling joints. Northern Chinese-style dumplings, which offer more thick doughy skin than filling, just can't compare.

What's better than anything a restaurant or dumpling stall can offer are homemade jiaozi, hot off the skillet. On my last day in Zhongshan my mother and I bought dumpling skins from a lady specializing in doughy things like wrappers and noodles, and spent an hour or two wrapping dumplings for dinner.

Since I have so many photos from that afternoon, I thought I would do a pictoral guide on jiaozi-making. (Often dumpling recipes fail to show the step-by-step process in folding.) Also included is my mother's fool-proof method for getting perfectly crisp pan-fried dumplings without burning them.

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Pan-fried Pork and Cabbage Jiaozi, a Recipe in Pictures
猪肉白菜饺子

Makes 50 to 60

Lightly dust your work surface with flour and keep some extra flour within hand's reach.

Dumpling wrappers: When I lived in the US, I always got my wrappers from Chinatown markets (the round kind, labeled for jiaozi（饺子) instead of for wontons (馄饨).). They are a hassle to make at home, but if you really want to give it a try, check out this post from Noodles and Rice.

For the filling, mix together: 1 lb ground pork, 1 cup shredded Napa cabbage, 2 tablespoons minced shallots, 1 tablespoon cornstarch, 2 teaspoons salt or 1 tablespoon soy sauce, a pinch of ground pepper.

Egg wash: Gently beat 1 or 2 eggs.

(The hands shown are Mom's. They are beautifully rough from decades of lovingly cooked meals.)

If I had to make a list of my top favorite comfort foods of all time, mapo doufu would be at the top along with lamb curry, roast chicken, and anything in a clay pot. I almost always order it at Sichuan restaurants, despite that voice in my head pushing me to try something new. But the craving is too hard to resist. Thinking about the mala taste, the thick sauce that wraps sublimely around white rice, and the silken-ness of the tofu contrasting with the slightly crispy pork all make me surrender to the tried-and-true.

Fortunately, mapo doufu also very easy to make at home. This recipe is adapted from Land of Plenty: A Treasury of Authentic Sichuan Cookingby Fuchsia Dunlop, one of the very few Western food writers to delve deeply into Sichuan cuisine. I highly recommend this book if you're looking for not only recipes but also great writing that brings the sights, smells, and tastes of Sichuan province to life.