The Real Green Rice

My cooking activities for the last few weeks have been full of marrying Japanese and French cuisines together in a desperate struggle to arrive at more acceptable fusion dishes. While I slouch at the steel table holding my twelve- inch knife mirroring myself on the stainless thing (this is a personal habit, by the way, to check my lipstick on my knives), my thoughts wander from one thing Japanese to another thing French. Bouillabaisse laced with dashi stock? Salad Niçoise with…what? How do we Japanize crepes suzette?

So as I rest my head on my arm stretched out on the kitchen table, I started to think of food curiosities- why wasabi is that neon green, and why, the green tea tiramisu I tried from a hotel café a few weeks ago was… that neon green. I haven’t done my research yet, but are there still other things (food to be exact) in nature- besides leaves, honey dew melon and insect blood- that are really naturally stark green?

I confess that in the kitchen I am not a big fan of artificial food coloring, nor MSG nor pre- mixed sauces. Therefore, as I stumble upon this curious ‘green rice’ at an organic market… I had to look closely. There’s brown rice, red rice, black rice, immaculate white rice – but this green rice, sold by a lady from a faraway province, is something not usually encountered in the daily supermarkets.

Now, my food intuition dictates (not yet 100% sure) that this green rice happens to be a pre- harvested rice: before the rice grain ripens and turns gold, it is naturally green first. Then, that rice is hulled, and the emerging germ is not the white we know but green. It is then cooked giving off a very fragrant rice-y scent. Drizzle a little sugar, some toasted – or freshly- grated coconut and reach over that tempting brewed cup of coffee. When I indulge over mouthfuls of green rice, there hardly flashes a thought of creating a fusion dish or masking the food’s natural taste with foreign whatnots. Leave the green rice alone! (Chomp, chomp, chomp…)

By the way, ah… has Pablo Neruda ever written an Ode to Rice?

Of Hunters and Giants

As I have always believed, there are gnomes and witches and fairies and giants out there in the wilderness. That's me on an Asian Food Expo with a true giant who seemed to have walked out from a basketball court to party on a Mardi Gras event - and- ended up with food people. I have following this fellow around in between eating bratwurst and sipping miracle teas. Drat! And with all due honesty, I do feel a little uneasy walking around in my cooking jacket because people keep staring at my breast pocket reading whatever is embroidered there. But this giant, you see, he doesn't care. He didn't bend down to read titles and positions but with that swipe of a hand, gestures, "The world is wide enough for you to enjoy."

Found this somewhere in the wilderness...

Nobody seems more obsessed by diet than our anti-materialistic, otherworldly, New Age spiritual types. But if the material world is merely illusion, an honest guru should be as content with Budweiser and bratwurst as with raw carrot juice, tofu and seaweed slime. ~Edward Abbey

Chunky Style Peanut Butter and a Dash of Gunpowder

I must confess that besides real good food, both fancy and rustic, still some of my gastronomic weaknesses are those little packets of food we find anywhere: sandwich from the airplane, teabags from hotel rooms, little butters, cream cheese and marmalade packs from café breakfasts, even little packets of sugar and creamer from McDonald’s on a road trip– pass! I don’t know, but you see, I like that feeling that when I rummage through my bag, I find such little stuff that I was talking about. I really like it.

Now this food feature is not precisely in praise of the little food stuff, but… can you really shove in your bag , without deforming nor spilling them, real gourmet food that could keep forever- Thai chicken, penne pasta, dried cranberries, crackers, peanut butter, pineapple upside- down cake, and even Tabasco sauce bottle? And having all these in your backpack, hike up the mountains for an eternity? Yes, you can! Impossible is nothing, isn’t it?

When my sister went home bringing these MRE’s from the war zone, I couldn’t contain my joy. I was clutching at the brown bag like a school kid eager to wrestle with any bully who’d lay a finger on my lunch. Why, what’s in that precious little brown bag? Thai chicken, penne pasta, dried cranberries, crackers, peanut butter, pineapple upside- down cake, and even Tabasco sauce bottle. And more! Like wet wipes and silica.

Seriously, these MRE’s are what the American troops have to offer to the local soldiers. The Philippines’ love affair with the United States is I-hate-you-I-love-you / Go-away-Can’t-live-without-you crap that I still wonder sometimes what truly are the American troops doing here in the Philippines. And while American soldiers have the tendency to think that they are the saviors of the world (Don’t they??) and though they have this penchant to do armament business with us (which I hate), the American government is such a looming giant we cannot ignore. My sister has been married to an American but that 6’4” officer would worry- more than being killed at war- if his wife’s youngest sister doesn’t like him. Oh well!

Therein lies the ultimate difference between the Philippine and American troops and the reason why they are in a constant passionate love- hate friction: their food. A Philippine soldier would risk his life getting hit with a shrapnel while catching chicken in the mountains while the American would be content munching on a calorie- loaded- laboratory- engineered crackers under the shade of a tree. Inside their backpacks? Ten kilos of goods- rice and sardines and a kaldero for the local soldier while four kilos of microwave for the foreigner, plus megatons of MRE packs. And while the Philippine soldier fans his little campfire as his rice simmers, the American most probably spends the whole night looking for a socket to plug his microwave in. The MRE says, “Microwavable”. Follow instructions. Or you’re fired.

*************

Hey, it’s really good- the MRE pack. The perfect peanut butter (which I sucked right from the tube), a Tabas-quito (little Tabasco sauce), sliced cranberries…. Ah, God bless Americans!

TV shoots, Halo- Halo and Double Visions

What I am starting to observe in this blog is that it is no longer a 100% food blog as it should be- but more of a personal diary. I have been keeping diaries since I was twelve years old and I confess that the last one I had was a dilapidated Starbucks planner where I wrote April notes on the November pages. And that last diary has been flavored with scribbled notes on the perfect mashed potatoes, the perfect pesto, Jaime Oliver's perfect French side salad (is there really a 'perfect' recipe for anything?)... and daydreamings of a very handsome lover.

And better yet- this blogging - apart from talking, is an ultimate release of my thoughts of this cooking profession.

The past few weeks have been some of the most mobile days of my little existence. Used to the sweltering heat of the kitchen, my earlier cooking years were most quiet and nonchalant and, as a Food Huntress who ate chicken intestines in the vast wilderness, I believed that the television lights should be the last thing to ever glare at my face. It was only recently that by some strange phenomenon, I have been dragged around for TV interviews- whether to be asked about the secrets of the perfect sinigang and to be featured yet again about the secrets of the perfect barbecue. Wait, is there really a 'perfect' recipe for anything? So went my few minutes of Tee Vee. No, I didn't emanate the aura of a sexy Giada nor a smart Rachel, but more of a dumb hybrid of Beavis and Butthead doing America. Why, I am a cook, not a celebrity!

There is something about TV shoots that stirs my wonder, though, and which, as a matter of fact, I seem to enjoy. First, I did enjoy the magical hands of the makeup artist who turned a rat into an empress. Then there's this lights- camera- action thing, and where, at the slightest mistake of your move, the director would cringe silently at the corner. Hahaha. And then, at the diffused lights of the studio, I almost had this urge to play act - forgetting that I was in fact wearing a cook's jacket- and try on different poses, from that Iron Chef cross- armed- serious- look to a kitchen god's paramour, to imitating my sister's playful stares at a dessert restaurant.

In between tossing vegetables in a wok and thinking of something to write about, I realize that my philosophy for sanity these days has been likened to that of a favorite dessert- the halo- halo. There's no perfect recipe for halo- halo, I'm telling you. No standard measures either. A heterogeneous mix of beans, tapioca pearls, candied fruits, custard, milky ice... etc, you are actually free to put anything into it- boiled squash, if you like. Whatever makes you feel good, everything would end fairly in you gut. Next to a precious glass of water, it is the perfect panacea to boredom, heat, and double visions brought by the bright studio lights. You'll get that delicious high and at last, in spite of the director's instructions, you are free to speak. No scripts required.

Shut up and eat!

My girl, my girl, don’t lie to me, tell me where did you eat last night?
In the plants, in the pines where the sun don’t ever shine
I’d shiver with hunger the whole night through…..

When you’re a bachelorette middle child and your older sisters have ridden away with their knights in shining armor, how would you handle your fate taking charge of a little sister who’s got a tongue pierce, is an ex- skateboarder, a hard- liquor drinker, a college student forever and, having disappeared at night, would knock on your apartment door the following morning just in time when you’re up sweetly recalling dreams that you were flying over a poppy field and broken glass? You put on your robe and open the door and… just give thanks that she is alive. You figure out what power this little nag has got over you because she was the reason why two years ago you declined the invitation of your ex to shack in with him because you had said: ”I can’t leave my sister… like this.”

Is this little snip worth the tears when your lover didn’t come back?

Without saying a word, you bun your hair, heat water and start cooking. Before you knew it, you came up with the signature apartment breakfast: fried rice, gooey egg yolks, some beef and mushroom stew leftover from last night, and a vegetable dish- from a shiitake stir fry to a hopeless ratatouille without the courgettes. Never mind if there aren’t courgettes- you just have to have the breakfast veggies no matter what. Then thanks to the little pots of herbs at your verandah, you were able to make the dish more fragrant and tasty. Laid out on the table, you notice that your breakfast is not a toast and a cup of coffee but like a portion of some feast. Bring on some bread and butter, hot coffee or chocolate, and a whole slab of gigantic fruit like pineapple or papaya.

You sit down on the floor and eat. You remember, once over a McDonald’s breakfast, you and your old lover were discussing (arguing) breakfast. You innocently confessed that you actually have vegetables for breakfast at home. Boiled squash- on your rice. Spinach on your omelet. Stir- fried bean sprouts.

No wonder, why restaurants don’t serve your rabbit food for breakfast because, honey, they just don’t sell!

-Oh, shut up and eat.

Your sister starts telling you where she was last night. You tell her to… just shut up and eat. This is breakfast, darling, not confrontation time.

Somewhere during the day over coffee at the backdoor, you get your sister’s whole story where she had been last night. Down to the last detail. Apparently, you realize that you can give up your lover - but not breakfast veggies -whether it has a missing ingredient or not. And neither your sister, whether she’s got a tongue pierce, ex- skateboarder, a hard- liquor drinker, a college student forever… By choosing not to leave her, that choice actually saved you from a lot of trouble.

The Chowder or the Tank

One thing not so good about occupying a high post in an organization is that people tend to think you have a lot of money. As far as I’m concerned, however, I tell people right on the face that I don’t personally drive my own car. People believe chefs make big money but I still would be the first to admit that I am a commuter. I know my city. If you live in a city like Manila where you can get stuck in the traffic for hours (I mean, hours) and there’s a lot of corrupt road officials who earn more than you do from extorted money, you’d think twice about owning your vehicle. Then there’s Greenpeace. In addition, I don’t have an iPOD (I don’t know how to operate it), or laptop, and my personal phone is already a little ancient- messaging and calling, nothing more. Next, my waiting staff and my cooks have even more sophisticated cell phones than their executive chef. I never whined about not having my own gadgets though. I don’t know. Probably living in the Dark Ages? But I do freak out when there’s a lot of plastic things in the kitchen and, please, don’t serve my food on a plastic plate…

Anyway, the family has benefited from the vehicles we used over the years, my sister has bought her own car and now my brother is using it. I drove my sister’s car a few times, the experience a little laced with worries knowing that it wasn’t mine. What if I scratched it? Or bumped it?

While I still consider buying a car (primarily due to the nature of my job), the rising prices of fuel kicks in sixty percent of the time… Among the things in the news today is about the craze on biofuels. I don’t really have the expertise to go into the intricacies of biofuels, but what I notice is that coconut oil, originally used for food and cosmetics, is now feeding car tanks. There’s even a ‘gasoline’ station in our city where they sell this oil for fuel. And now, corn is no longer exclusive to taco shells, breakfast cereals, chips and chowders (or livestock feeds)… but… car tanks too! I am still wondering if the next time I make tempura, I would be reminded that the oil I use for frying is of the same nature that runs the car on the road.

Going home from the kitchen at night, tired, I get a little too sleepy. I confess to just give the driver the instructions to our street and… doze off in the cab. Going to work, the same thing happens. I leave to the driver all worries in the road- about getting overtaken, or getting tickets for whatever violation- while I powder my face on the passenger’s seat or think of recipes. Besides, it’s much better to think of nice coconut or corn recipes… than thinking about how much I’d spend for them when they work on the engine.

Busy, busy, busy....zzzzz...

(On blog vacation).