My Bird's Nest Soup

Chris and Aslan, two of the very capable guys from Flying Colors Painting Company came by our house recently to pressure wash and paint the exterior. We shut all of our windows, as (sensibly) instructed. Then the wet, noisy process began.  

I have to admit, it was exciting, especially for our family's younger set, who stood patiently by each window watching, moving to the next suitable viewing point as the areas of washing shifted and water cascaded down around us.  

Since our house is adjacent to the woods, we end up with a lot of dampness and dirt, moss and leaves over the whole structure. Because of where it sits, our house (and yard) is the perfect receptacle for catching all the stuff that gets blown about and out of the woods. After many years of going without, the washing was much needed.

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The other thing that happens due to our location is that certain animals, birds especially, seem to view our house as an extension of the woods. This means that in the Spring, all sorts of interesting activities start up around us.

This year, a pileated woodpecker appeared (again), hammering away at a metal vent high on the east side of our house. The noise echoed loudly enough to set my back teeth on edge. This went on for what seemed like weeks. Bunnies hopped out past the rhododendron and onto our lawn. The deer -- well, if you've been reading this blog, you've already heard plenty about them.

For me, though, the most interesting visitors this year were the pair of robins who settled under one of the eaves out front. We watched them every day after they first arrived. They were so busy gathering twigs and bits of soft, sphagnum moss from the lawn that they didn't even notice us at first. 

I admired their work ethic and drive to protect the nest. My son and I would quietly lean over the edge of the porch together to examine its changes each day. The nest was beautiful in a fecund sort of way and surprisingly large, with wisps of light green hanging down from it.  It looked like something out of a children's book.

The hatchlings arrived and quickly became strong enough to fly off. Thankfully, the robins were done with the nest before the painters came.

After the pressure washing was done, the nest, which had been knocked out of the eave lay sideways and empty on the ground. Everything does have its time and season.

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My Bird's Nest Soup
When I was growing up in Chinatown, we would enjoy traditional bird's nest soup at wedding banquets. The authentic Chinese version is made from the spit of swallows, which lends the soup a viscous quality. Even as a child, I never found it (or the idea of it) either weird or disgusting. It was always just utterly delicious. This clean, simple and completely non-traditional version is my ode to Spring and our robin visitors. It makes a perfect light lunch or supper.

Serves 2.

Ingredients
1-8.8 ounce package of angel hair nests
6 cups good-quality chicken or vegetable broth, preferably homemade
1/3 of a bunch of fresh spinach, leaves wash and torn into pieces
2 very fresh, large eggs
1 teaspoon vinegar

Sesame oil for drizzling
Cilantro, parsley, basil or other soft-stemmed herbs, chopped
Fresh pepper and salt

Instructions
Place broth in a medium pot over medium heat. Once the broth comes to a simmer, turn to low to keep it hot. Taste for seasoning. If the broth is homemade you may need to adjust for salt.

Split the torn leaves between two wide soup bowls, placing them at the bottom. Set aside.

Bring a medium pot of water to boil. Salt water generously. Add two angel hair nests and cook according to package directions (mine were Delverde brand and took 3 minutes). Don't break up the nest shapes. They will cook through even undisturbed.

Bring another medium pot of water to boil. Add vinegar. Crack one egg at a time, placing eggs into separate ramekins or small cups. Using a wooden spoon, stir the water to create a vortex motion and slip one egg at a time into the water whites first.  Cook for three minutes. With a large metal spoon, scoop each egg out one at a time, cutting off loose strands of white with the edge of the spoon. Place one egg on top of each angel's hair nest.

Ladle hot broth along the sides of the bowl, making sure to cover the spinach and part of the pasta nest. The heat of the broth is sufficient to wilt the leaves.

Drizzle with sesame oil and garnish with fresh herbs and pepper.

Griddled Asparagus with Peri-Peri (Berbere)

Each morning, I pull aside the dining room curtains, glancing quickly into the woods. It's a habit, part of the routine of starting the day. Usually there's not much there other than the cottonwoods, rhododendrons, and cedar trees, but it's Spring, so at the moment, the occasional deer or bunny can be found next to our fence in a flattened outcropping just at the edge of the woods.

From this same window yesterday, I watched a doe who couldn't see or smell me. I'd had my eye on it earlier in the week, but it was hard to know, unless the creature had unusual markings or perhaps an injury, if it was the same deer from one day to the next. The last time I saw her -- my doe, a Columbian black-tailed deer -- she'd spent a long time lying on the one flattened spot, a deer bed by the fence.

Then, she was gone.

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When I saw her again the following morning, she stepped into the sunlight, this time with a fawn whose tan coat was dappled with white. It was the approximate size of my neighbor's barky, fou-fou shelter dog, Chloe. The fawn stood so close to the doe that it appeared to be leaning against her. Was this the same deer, only now with a newborn? The doe lowered her head and began licking the fawn. Slowly, carefully.

I was held there by the tenderness she showed the fawn. It was so normal, basic and touching. Of course a mother has to clean her young. I was still gripping an edge of the window curtain when my three-year-old came up behind me. In his small voice, he began asking me a series of questions.

"Why they here? What they doing? Where they going? What they eat? Where they sleep at night?"

Ah, deer existentialism via a toddler. All before 7 a.m.

I thought of what the British child development and parenting authority, Penelope Leach, writes in her ever-sensible classic, Your Baby and Child:

“Several hundred ‘why’ questions per day... can be very wearing. But remember that the child is asking because he needs to know. He is adding to his store of knowledge and understanding...’Why’s’ are a clear sign of growing up.”

Growing up or not, at the moment, I wasn't sure how to answer his questions, so I deflected them. I asked him if he remembered being a baby like the fawn. A different set of questions then ensued about his infancy, questions I was certainly qualified to answer.

Once all that was settled, Kingston and I continued to watch the woods. The two animals remained in our view, silent in their interactions. The doe began to turn. She took a few steps without looking back. The fawn followed, wobbling on its spindly new legs. It stepped behind her and into the shadow of the cottonwoods.

When I later visited the Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife website to be better prepared for the inevitable moment in the future when I would have to answer more questions about deer, the information I found included this:

“Deer often become very habitual in their activities. They show up at the same time and follow the same trails, taking paths of least resistance. Although deer may be active at any time of day, they are most active near dawn and dusk (a pattern of activity called “crepuscular”). Typically, deer feed in open habitats such as meadows and clearcuts, retreating to more secure areas, such as thickets and closed canopy forests, to rest and chew their cud.

To observe deer, position yourself at dawn or dusk near cover in a good deer-feeding area. Remain absolutely still, because deer are alert for any movement.”

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Tenderness. A doe cleaning her fawn. Shoots of baby lettuces popping up in wild disarray. Thin strands of deep green grass taking over a lawn suddenly bordering on overgrown. Stalks of asparagus pushing through the cool, loamy soil. To me, that's what Spring is all about: beginnings, the quiet moments before the inevitable hurtling toward growth and growing up. 

Asparagus in particular signals the start of all things crisp and green, sweet and bright to come in the warmer months. In recent weeks, the dull green and purple bundles have been making their appearance at our local farmer's market and our family has been happily devouring as much as we can.

You can prepare asparagus any way you want -- on the grill, chopped up and sautéed, even pickled -- and they will taste good. The tender stalks don't need much, a little acid, spice and some fat. Fat adds the requisite richness to the asparagus' lean, grassy flavor, helping it reach its full potential.

My favorite way to make asparagus is to coat the stalks with a flavor bomb of zingy heat and richness, which I then cook on a stovetop grill pan. It's a quick process leaving behind both savory charred bits and a hint of the vegetable's just-cooked freshness.

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Grilled Asparagus with Peri-Peri (Berbere)

This makes enough for two greedy eaters as a vegetarian lunch when served with some crusty bread and cheese or a salad. This is also great inside a brioche bun alone or with some other grilled vegetables and eaten as a sandwich. Peri-peri, also known as Berbere, is an aromatic North African spice mixture that usually includes cayenne, fenugreek, cumin, allspice and coriander. When combined with fat, the flavors somersault around in your mouth and you can't stop eating!

Another thing. Depending on whether you make the peri-peri yourself or use a store-bought version, you'll have more or less salt and heat. Adjust this to suit your own tastes. My peri-peri is from our local co-op and already contains salt.

Ingredients
1 pound fresh asparagus, washed and patted dry
4 tablespoons mayonnaise, good store-bought or homemade
2 teaspoons peri-peri, adding more if desired
salt, as needed
black pepper, a few grinds
squeeze of lemon juice to finish

Instructions
For thin asparagus stalks, break off tough ends. For thicker stalks, cut the tough ends off. Set aside in a large bowl. (Don't forget to pat your asparagus dry. If it is wet, the spice mixture will slide right off and that will be just sad.)

Mix together mayonnaise, peri-peri, salt (if needed) and pepper. Spoon mixture over the asparagus then use your hands to toss so that all stalks are coated with the mayonnaise mixture. Use your fingers to rub the mayo mixture into the tips of the stalks. You want flavor in every nooks and crannies.

Heat grill pan on high on a stove. Once pan is piping hot, place stalks on the pan, allowing the stalks to cook and char for 2-3 minutes before shaking the pan to move the asaparagus around. Cook for an additional 2 minutes, continuing to turn and move the asparagus. Place on a serving platter and finish with a squeeze of lemon if desired.

The asparagus can be served hot, warm, or at room temperature. It's all delicious.

Smokey Sweet Potato, Collard and Cheddar Pancakes

April is an iffy month around here. For a few days at a time sun and warmth appears, fanning our hopes for the ultimate end of winter-like weather. Then, rain and coolness show up again, underscoring the basic changeable nature of our existence. 

That was the case a couple of weeks ago when I was driving down to Seattle with my husband and son. About 30 miles south, as we entered Skagit County, we headed straight into a storm. Ice pounded the top of our truck. Our windshield vibrated as it repelled angry chunks of hail. We watched cars in front of us skidding off the ice-covered road, a State patrol officer standing just beyond his vehicle to the side, as if waiting for the inevitable.

When we arrived in the Emerald City, the sky was almost cloudless, blue. The city was warm, filled with sunlight.

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Strange, but the person who popped into my head in the middle of that ice storm wasn't my mother, my brother, or any of my good friends. It wasn't a version of what one might call God. Instead, it was a teenaged girl from South Central.

I met Della about an eon ago, at my first paying job out of grad school, when I was just emerging from a dark time in my personal life. The job I got was as a mental health therapist in a Level-12 residential facility for pregnant and parenting teens in the middle of Los Angeles. At any given time, there were 60 adolescent girls and 30 babies and infants. The girls were monitored 24 hours a day.

As you might imagine, this was a recipe for frequent chaos, including nightly "incidents" forming a long list that was read to us by the Mental Health Director each morning. Sometimes girls would barricade themselves in their rooms, threatening to smash any remaining furniture not already pushed against the door. Or, they declared that they were planning to hurt themselves, maybe with a razor blade, a knife, whatever it took.

Other times, the disturbances were more along the lines of teenage pranks, such as when two of the residents collected enough packets of ketchup and mustard from the cafeteria to spell out "FUCK YOU" in huge letters across the door and window of the Facility Director's office.

I got to hear the girls' stories, either directly from them, reading their case files or talking to their social workers. Unsurprisingly, most of them had been abused, sexually and otherwise, sometimes by people they should have been able to trust, other times by strangers.

No matter what they had been through, they mostly acted tough as Teflon, even as they begged us to take them for walks off campus (they could only leave with a staff member) to the closest shopping destination, Smart & Final. There, still dressed in their usual pajama pants and slippers, they would buy oversized packages of Hot Cheetos and massive tubs of Red Vines. No matter what they'd been through, in some basic ways, they were still just teens.

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Della was a lot like the other girls. She had landed in foster care when her grandmother, who had been her caregiver, went to prison for shooting her husband after he'd beaten her for years. When Della became pregnant at the age of fifteen, she was placed in our facility. 

As her assigned therapist, I would go to see Della in her room, which she shared with her daughter, Soraya. Sometimes we folded clothes together, picked things up off the floor, and listened to music. For much of the time at the beginning of our relationship though, we hardly spoke at all. I would show up several times a week, rapping lightly on her door. She put up with my presence, even if it was one of silence. That was part of the deal with living there; they all had to tolerate such visits.

I kept showing up because it was my job, but in time I also grew to respect the gentle way Della spoke to her daughter, the patience with which she would work a small comb through Soraya's hair, even when she squirmed and squirmed. One day, while quietly dabbing Vaseline onto Soraya's scalp, Della suddenly turned and asked me if I wanted to learn how to braid hair. She meant black hair. I said yes and settled in next to them. From that day on, the bouts of silence between us began to lessen.

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During each of the Director's morning recitations of the previous night's chaotic events, Della's name rarely came up. She tended to stick to herself and focus on taking care of her daughter.

Then one morning I walked into our morning meeting to hear Della being discussed. She had been passing a petition around to demand a change in the cafeteria's food. We all happened to eat there, since it was difficult to leave the grounds for lunch. Our work days also typically ran well past dinnertime, so we usually just ate dinner with the girls in the cafeteria.

Della had spoken to the others. Her petition argued that the food being served was "too white" and that change was necessary. Most of the girls in the residence were either African-American or Hispanic and Della believed the food should reflect that. The menu should include things such as the sweet potatoes and collard greens her grandmother cooked for her and burritos, tacos and other more familiar items for the Hispanic residents.

We therapists were impressed by Della's efforts and in the end, the cafeteria menu was changed to reflect the demands of the petition (signed by nearly all of the girls). 

Della's petition might seem like a small thing. It wasn't. For someone who was used to being treated as less than, making a demand such as this took courage and some understanding that food provides us with much more than physical sustenance. It can also be a forceful signifier of who we are, where we come from and where we have been.

I'm still not entirely sure why I thought of Della that day, but I am glad that I did. She taught me a lot about what it takes to be a mother, especially under extremely difficult circumstances. Perhaps an image of her was etched long ago, deep within my brain, as a symbol of what it means to survive and continue on. 

I don't know where Della is anymore. But, I made this dish just for her.

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Smoked Sweet Potato, Collard and Cheddar Pancakes (for Della)

Makes about 10 3-inch pancakes

Ingredients
1 small sweet potato, cut into ribbons with a peeler or on a mandolin
1 bunch collard greens, tough stems removed, leaves rolled up and sliced into thin ribbons
1/4 head of a small green cabbage, core removed finely shredded
2 scallions, thinly sliced on the diagonal
1/2 cup flour (all-purpose or brown rice flour, for a gluten-free product)
1/2 cup aged cheddar, grated
1 teaspoon smoked paprika
1/2 teaspoon (regular) paprika
1/2 teaspoon sea salt
1/8 teaspoon cayenne
1 large egg
1/4 cup water
Olive oil, for cooking the pancakes

To finish:
Additional salt, to taste
Pepper, to taste
Crème fraiche
Finely chopped chives or scallions

Instructions
Combine prepped sweet potato, collard greens, cabbage, scallions and cheddar in a large bowl. Set aside. In another bowl, combine flour, both types of paprika, salt and cayenne. Add flour mixture to the vegetables, and combine gently with your hands or a pair of tongs. You want to work the mixture through all of the vegetables. Beat eggs in a small bowl then add water. Add egg mixture to the vegetables and mix gently but well. Again, hands or tongs work well for this task. Allow mixture to sit for 5 or 10 minutes.

In the meantime, heat a skillet over medium heat (if you're in a hurry, or just more efficient than I am, use two skillets, dividing the veggie mixture). Add a teaspoon of oil to the heated pan and swirl. Add spoonfuls of the vegetable mixture to the pan, forming approximately 3-inch pancakes. Don't overcrowd them. Cook the first side for 6 minutes, flip and cook the other side an additional 6 minutes. Each side should be well browned. Continue doing this with the remaining veggie mixture until you have cooked it all.

Serve pancakes with any additional salt (if you feel it needs it), pepper, and if you like, a dollop of crème fraiche followed by an enthusiastic sprinkling of chives or scallions.

*Note: These pancakes do not crisp up all the way through, but remain (pleasingly) soft-ish in center.

Adapted from Marc Masumoto's Okonomiyaki recipe.

Shitake and Chard Dumplings

Mushrooms, Dumplings, Asian

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Last September, our mother flew up with my brother, Warren, on a budget airline -- the only one that offers direct flights between LAX and our little town up here in Western Washington.

Our mom is the wonton lady. Whenever she shows up anywhere, she pulls out a foil-wrapped package of thawed wonton wrappers from the best dumpling place in Chinatown. Then, she'll ask if you have any pork, ginger, garlic and scallions (which of course you do, having prepared for her arrival) and gets going like a productive elf until the dining room table is covered with cornstarch-dusted trays of dumplings.

Flo is what we call our mom, mostly behind her back because even though she has an "American" name (Florence), she has always hated it. As her evil spawn, we get a (juvenile) kick out of freely throwing about the name she always complains about people using -- even though when people ask, she tells them, with a smile, that her name is Florence.

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Dumplings: edible clouds.

"How was the trip with Flo?" I asked Warren.

He rolled his eyes then explained what had happened.

In her suitcase, Flo had packed frozen homemade wontons -- not just the frozen skins, but the actual dumplings, pork filling and all. Being oblivious during the check-in process since after over forty years in this country, her grasp of the English language is barely functional at best, she had allowed Warren to do the talking while she stood off to the side.

Warren and I long ago agreed, after seeing a photo of Nelson Mandela, the South African leader and icon, that our mother bore a striking resemblance to him -- only more Chinese. We thought it was probably the similar haircut, the close-cropped, graying frizz perched on the top of her head. I pictured her now at the airline ticketing counter staring dreamily away with her Nelson Mandela hairdo, her small hands pushed into the pockets of the nubby maroon sweater she wears almost every day.

After Warren thunked Flo's black bag onto the scale, the airline agent immediately declared it overweight. He stated that there would be an additional charge of $50. My brother is the perfect example of the good Chinese son. Rather than make his mother remove some of the clumps of frozen meat and dough from her bag, he paid the fee. Filial duty reigned.

“Fifty dollars?” I was appalled for him. “Why didn’t you make her take it out?”

He let out what resembled a half groan, half laugh.

See, not to sound disrespectful, but our mother was never much of a cook. Our childhood memories of her efforts in the kitchen lean toward images of soggy food and things with burnt edges. Maybe it had something to do with her being a single mom who worked as a sweatshop seamstress twelve hours a day. It didn't leave much time for her to think about cooking.

She only turned into the wonton lady once we became grownups and moved away from home. She began traveling to us for extended visits that would inevitably turn into wonton making extravaganzas. Even though we now eat her wontons, which are certainly good, we still approach them with remnants of our childhood skepticism.

For the rest of the trip, Warren and I referred to the foil-wrapped lumps as “the fifty-dollar wontons.” As in, “Do you want to eat some fifty-dollar wontons?” Then, we would laugh.

We didn’t tell our mother about it. She would not have found any of it amusing, especially since she has a belief that if you wrap something in foil and shove it into your luggage, no one will know it is there; it won’t even show up on the airport X-ray machine. She explained this to me once with utter conviction. I didn't argue. We all need to have things to believe in. 

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Wontons are not supposed to weigh you down. With a small piece of filling surrounded generously by paper thin dumpling skin, a wonton is meant to float in a bowl of broth as weightlessly as a cloud. When you eat a wonton, you are as the name itself explains, swallowing a cloud.

Won, cloud. Ton, to swallow.

These shitake and chard dumplings float ethereally while offering flavors that are entirely of the earth. If our mother's wontons provide us children with a solid reminder of who we are and where we come from, perhaps my dumplings speak more of what we have moved toward, or even become. We may seem a little lighter, but our burdens are different: we are the next generation.

I'll make these for Flo the next time she is here.

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The next generation eating dumplings...

Shitake and Chard Dumplings

Makes about 40.

Ingredients
12 ounces shitake (or a mix of shitake and button) mushrooms, cleaned, stems removed, caps minced
1 bunch chard, stems removed and leaves thinly sliced
1-2 tablespoons of neutral oil, such as sunflower
Handful of sun-dried tomatoes
3 green onions
1 garlic clove
1 teaspoon soy sauce
1 1/2 teaspoon sesame oil, plus more to finish the dish
Salt and white pepper, to taste

Store-bought square wonton wrappers, the thinner the better

1 1/2 quarts of homemade or store-bought vegetable or chicken broth

Instructions
Cover tomatoes with hot water while prepping mushrooms, chard, onions, garlic. Meanwhile, heat oil over medium heat in a large pan. Add chard and saute until wilted. Remove from pan and press chard with the back of a wooden spoon, draining away the liquid. Allow chard to cool.

Remove softened tomatoes from water and squeeze lightly then dice. In a large bowl combine mushroom mince, tomatoes, onions, garlic, chard, soy sauce, sesame oil, salt and pepper.

Prepare a baking tray: dust lightly with cornstarch. Add a small amount of water to a bowl for dipping your fingers in while folding the dumplings.

Place a teaspoon or so of filling in the center of a wonton wrapper. Wet fingertip and run a long two edges and then fold skin over to form a triangle. Press to seal tightly to prevent filling from spilling out into your broth. Again, it's very important that you have a good, tight seal.

From here, dumplings may be placed on prepped sheets so that they do not touch, dusted with an additional bit of cornstarch, and placed in the freezer. Freeze for at least 2 hours, then place in freezer bags to store.

For cooking: Bring pot of water to boil. Heat broth in a separate pot. Place dumplings in boiling water for 1-2 minutes. Gently remove with a slotted spoon, placing them into heated broth for another minute. Serve in bowls with chopped green onions or cilantro. Drizzle with sesame oil.