For those who enjoyed my first video — which recapped my cooking demo debut at Macy’s Union Square San Francisco on June 11, 2011 — here’s an “extras” reel to kick back with.
In this second video, you’ll get to know me a little better, as I tell you about my family, how I got my start in food writing, and how I became known as the Food Gal.
The Aussies may love their shrimp on the barbie.
But we Americans can’t get enough of chicken on the grill.
After all, it’s economical, versatile and always a crowd-pleaser.
Especially when it’s tender, moist and flavored with a fragrant Thai paste like this one from “Steven Raichlen’s Planet Barbecue!” (Workman Publishing) by that master of the grill, Steven Raichlen. This book, of which I received a review copy, is sure to whet your appetite with its more than 300 recipes inspired by the cuisines of six continents.
You marinate a quartered chicken (we used chicken thighs) with a paste of garlic, fresh ginger, lenongrass, cilantro, sugar, pepper, soy sauce and curry powder. Raichlen says to use a mortar and pestle, but a food processor will make easy work of it even quicker. Let the paste do its magic on the chicken for at least four hours in the fridge or overnight.
The southern Thailand-style chicken grills up with nicely charred skin that takes on a golden hue from the curry powder. You can really taste the lemongrass and ginger, plus a warm earthiness from the curry powder.
The other day, I found myself with an extra daikon lying around the house.
Don’t you just hate it when that happens?
Oh, it’s not like I temporarily lost it in the wash or found it underneath a sofa pillow. It’s just that I had bought a couple of these white, carrot-shaped, 14-inch-long Japanese radishes for a braised dish, and was left with one remaining one that didn’t quite have a purpose yet.
The mild radish, which also comes in Chinese and Korean versions, can be enjoyed raw or cooked. My Japanese-American husband fondly remembers his late-Mom grating it and mixing it with shoyu for an easy dipping sauce. And anyone who’s ever eaten sashimi at at Japanese restaurant will recognize it immediately as the crisp, white strands that so often brace fanned slices of raw fish on a plate.
I was hankering to use it as an easy side dish of some sort when I found just what I was looking for in the cookbook, “At the Japanese Table” (Chronicle Books) by Lesley Downer, a cooking teacher and journalist fluent in Japanese who splits her time between London and Tokyo.
It was an unbelievable standing room-only crowd a couple of Saturday afternoons ago at Macy’s Union Square San Francisco, when I did my first cooking demo ever.
Chef Earl Shaddix of All-Clad was on hand to act as host and assistant, when I demonstrated how to make my late-Mom’s one and only tomato beef chow mein.
The event was crazy fun. It was a blast. And it was downright exhausting. I was so pooped that I joked to some of my cookbook-author friends afterward that I don’t know how they do these all the time without keeling over.
The day was a total whirlwind. The event started at 2 p.m., but I got there two hours earlier in order to make two batches of the dish ahead of time to ensure there was plenty for samples and to prep for the third batch, which I would make in front of the audience. From the second I got there, it was non-stop chopping, peeling, stirring and talking — until I finally left the store at 4 p.m. to go back home. Whew!
On their wedding day, brides usually share a first dance with their father.
I did not.
It’s not that I didn’t want to. It’s just that when it comes to elderly Asian-American parents, you know you’re treading dangerously if you dare bring up any idea that involves them making even the slightest spectacle of themselves.
Oh, my shy, reserved Mom made it perfectly clear that if I made her get up and dance in front of everyone, she wouldn’t come to my wedding. I kid you not.
On top of that, my husband was quite sure his own father wouldn’t want to be two-stepping anytime soon. No, siree. My husband’s mother also was bedridden and couldn’t attend our nuptials. So, in the end, we decided to do away with that whole parental tradition and just share only the one dance with each other as man and wife.
I sometimes wonder, though, if I still should have taken my Dad’s hand and led him through one father-daughter twirl.
You see, my late-Dad actually liked to dance.