On the ground floor of Ah Paw’s were five rooms, all off a wide entry watched over by three gods: the God of Entrances, Wei Chung; and the Door Gods, Shen Shu to the left and Yu Lei on the right—all there to keep evil or mischievous spirits from entering the house. All of the house’s first-floor rooms were off a center hall. My grandmother’s bedroom was first, off to the left, with a door connecting to a room that was Ah Paw’s salon, living room and dining room, dominated by her divan where she spent most of her days, and where we ate our meals. It also was the home of a shrine to my grandmother’s ancestors and to Guan Gung, the God of Fairness and Justice. This room in turn connected to another bedroom at the rear of the house. When I was small, I slept with Ah Paw in the front bedroom; when I grew older the rear bedroom was reserved for me.
To the right side of the long hall was a large room used to store clothing and furniture, and in the rear of the house was the large, always fragrant kitchen. Between the store rooms and kitchen was an open terrace, which Ah Paw called the room open to the heavens. The second floor of the house was devoted to a very long windowless room, where various dried and preserved foods were stored and where her servants slept, and to two tiled terraces overlooking the open space below. There was a hole, surrounded by a railing, in the floor of this great room, just above my grandmother’s ancestor, so that the altar would be respected and no one would walk on it.
The most important room of the house, to be sure, was the kitchen, quite large and filled with wonder. It contained five cooking stoves, all constructed of brick, with ceramic tile tops. One, to the right, was huge with a large round hole in its top, used for the largest of my grandmother’s iron woks. In front, on the side of the stove was another hole into which the firewood was fed to fuel the cooking fire. On the other side of the kitchen was a long stove, at least six feet in length, as I can recall. The four round holes in its top were of different sizes to accommodate woks and clay pots of different sizes. It also had four additional holes for adding wood to its fires. An enormous amount of food, as you can imagine, could be cooked in this kitchen. As in most of the rest of domestic China at that time, there were no home ovens. We could not roast or barbecue large slabs of pork or whole pigs. Nor could we roast ducks, geese or chickens. We were able to smoke, steam and long cook in woks, or stew in clay pots, but these were always on top of the stoves. We could, however, do small barbecues and roasts, such as loins of pork, on a small ceramic, charcoal-fed burner, which Ah Paw kept in an open area just outside of the kitchen door.
At the far end of this four-hole stove was a large wood cabinet, which held bowls, cups, serving dishes and platters, and steamers, spatulas and ladles, and beside this cabinet was a wall board. Attached was a long peg, on which hung the various covers for the woks. Beside the entrance to the kitchen, inside from that open area was a very big clay jar, which held fresh water, and on the wall above it was a holder for all of the family’s chopsticks. Next to the water jar stood a high pile of cut firewood that was continually replenished. On the other side of the entry to the kitchen was a large wood preparation table.
All of this comprised Ah Paw’s chi fong, literally her “kitchen room,” where, at my grandmother’s behest, my first cooking lesson was given to me by her servants Sau Lin and Ah Guk.
I was to learn to cook rice. Nothing was more important than rice, Ah Paw told me that morning, “Yut lop mai dai guor tin,” which means, “One grain of rice is bigger than the sky,” and implies that the sky, no matter how vast, could not feed one’s hunger, yet rice could. Rice was the center of most of our meals, with seafood, vegetables and meats arrayed around it. In our conversations, if a person was well off his rice bowl was said to be full; if poor, his bowl was said to be empty. It was important, my grandmother said, to learn to prepare rice perfectly.
Nor should this be troublesome. It has been said often, and incorrectly, that making fluffy cooked rice, with separated grains, is difficult. This is not so; it is, in fact, easy. Here is the recipe I learned in my grandmother’s kitchen decades ago. I make it exactly the same way today. Uncooked rice is called mai; after cooking it is called fan. This is perfect fan.
Perfect Cooked Rice
(FAN)
2 cups extra-long-grain rice (rices grown in the southern United States and jasmine rice from Thailand are preferred) 15 ounces cold water
Place rice in a pot with sufficient water to cover. Wash rice three times in the cold water in the pot by rubbing it between your hands. Drain well after washing. Add 15 ounces water to the rice and allow it to rest for 1 hour before cooking. I prefer that so-called old rice be used—rice that has been lying about in sacks for extended periods, for it will absorb water better and will cook easier. (It is often suggested that a ratio of 2 cups of rice to 2 cups of water be used. This is unsatisfactory because it will be too soft.)
Begin cooking the rice, uncovered, over high heat, by bringing the water to a boil. Stir the rice with a wooden spoon or chopsticks and cook about 4 minutes or until the water is absorbed, or evaporates. Even after the water is gone, the rice will continue to be quite hard. Cover the pot and cook over very low heat for about 8 minutes more, stirring the rice from time to time.
Turn off the heat and loosen the rice with the wooden spoon or chopsticks. This will help it retain its fluffiness. Cover tightly until ready to serve. Just before serving, stir and loosen the rice once again. Well-cooked rice will have absorbed the water but will not be lumpy, nor will the kernels stick together. They will be firm and separate. The rice may be kept hot in a warm oven for an hour without drying out.
MAKES 4½ TO 5 CUPS OF RICE
NOTE The older the rice the higher the yield. This is the rice I refer to throughout this book when I suggest eating dishes with cooked rice.
Just as rice was a kitchen necessity, so were stocks, upon which virtually all good recipes depend. My grandmother’s cooks regularly made stocks from chickens and their parts, and from vegetables. Since there was no refrigeration in these parts of rural China, these stocks would last, and be used, within days. These days, they will keep, refrigerated, for four to five days, and may be frozen for up to three months. These stock recipes may be cut in half.
Chicken Stock
(GAI SEUNG TONG)
1 gallon water
3 pounds chicken wings
2 whole chickens (8 pounds) including giblets, fat removed, each
chicken cut into 4 pieces
2 gallons cold water
½ pound fresh ginger, cut into 3 pieces, lightly smashed
6 garlic cloves, peeled
2 bunches scallions, trimmed, cut into thirds
4 medium onions, peeled and quartered
¼ pound (1 cup) fresh coriander, cut into thirds
½ cup fried onions (page 16)
¼ cup boxthorn seeds, soaked 10 minutes
3 to 4 tablespoons salt, to taste
In a large stockpot, bring 1 gallon of water to a boil. Add chicken, chicken wings and giblets, return to a boil for 1 minute. (This will bring the blood and juices to the top of the liquid.) Turn off heat. Pour off water and run cold water into the pot to rinse chicken. Drain.
Place chicken, chicken wings, and giblets back in pot. Add 2 gallons of cold water and all remaining ingredients except salt. Cover pot and bring to a boil over high heat. Reduce heat to a simmer, leaving lid open a crack. Simmer for 4½ hours. Stir stock from time to time, skimming off residue from the surface. Stir in salt about 30 minutes before end of cooking time. (The addition of salt is for preservation as well as for taste. The amount used depends, of course, upon individual taste.)
Turn off heat. Allow to cool for 10 to 15 minutes. Strain and pour into containers to store for later use.
YIELDS ABOUT 5 QUARTS
NOTE Boxthorn seeds (see page 247) come in ½-pound to 1-pound packages. After opening, store in a covered glass jar. They will keep for at least 6 months. There is no substitute for boxthorn seeds in this recipe. They provide some flavor and
have health properties, the Chinese believe. If unavailable, make recipe without.
Vegetable Stock
(JAI SEUNG TONG)
5 quarts cold water
1 pound carrots, peeled, cut into thirds
2 bunches scallions, trimmed, cut into thirds
3 pounds onions, quartered
1 pound fresh mushrooms, cut into thirds
8 stalks celery, halved
¼ pound (1 cup) fresh coriander, cut into thirds
½ cup Chinese preserved dates (or preserved figs), soaked in hot water
30 minutes, washed
¼ cup boxthorn seeds, soaked in hot water 10 minutes, washed (or 6
pitted sweet dates)
¼ pound fresh ginger, left in piece, lightly smashed
½ cup fried scallions (page 16)
2 to 3 tablespoons salt, to taste
Bring water to a boil in a large pot. Add all ingredients except salt. Reduce heat and simmer at a slow boil in a partially covered pot for 4 hours. Stir occasionally during simmering, skim if necessary. Stir in salt, return to a boil, reduce heat immediately, simmer for 20 minutes.
Turn off heat. When stock is cooled, remove from heat, strain. Discard solids. Store stock in containers until needed. The recipe may be cut in half.
MAKES 3½ TO 4 QUARTS STOCK
NOTE Preserved dates can be found in Asian groceries and come in 1-pound plastic packages labeled either “red dates” or “dates.” After opening the package, the dates should be placed in a covered glass jar and stored in a cool place. They will keep six months.
In this recipe, customary sweet dates, usually from the Middle East, may be used if boxthorn seeds are unavailable. The dates provide some color and sweetness, and enrich the stock.
Because there was no refrigeration in my grandmother’s kitchen, infused oils were made on almost a daily basis. Ah Paw preferred it that way. The oils below can be kept for a week at room temperature, or for as long as three months if refrigerated. They also provide a bonus, because you can use the fried onions as an ingredient in the Chicken Stock, and fried scallions in the Vegetable Stock.
Scallion Oil
(CHUNG YAU)
1½ cups peanut oil
3 to 4 bunches of scallions (1 pound), well dried, trimmed, each scallion
cut into 2-inch pieces, white portions lightly smashed
Heat wok over high heat for 30 seconds. Add oil and scallions, stir and mix well, make certain scallions are immersed in oil. Bring to a boil. Lower the heat, and simmer the oil and scallions for 20 minutes, stirring occasionally, until scallions brown. Turn off heat, strain oil through a fine strainer into a bowl and cool to room temperature. Pour into a glass jar, cover and refrigerate until needed.
MAKES 1¼ CUPS
Onion Oil
(YUNG CHUNG YAU)
1½ cups peanut oil
1 pound (4 cups) yellow onions, very thinly sliced
Heat wok over high heat for 30 seconds. Add peanut oil, then onions. Stir, making certain onions are coated. Cook for 7 minutes, stirring and turning often to prevent burnng. Lower heat to medium and cook for 15 minutes more, or until onions turn light brown. Strain oil into a bowl, using a spoon or a ladle to press onions as they drain. Alow to cool. Pour into a glass jar, cover and refrigerate until needed.
MAKES 1¼ CUPS
ANOTHER OF THE SIGNIFICANT FOODS THAT came from my grandmother’s kitchen was preserved salted pork, which, like the preceding stocks and oils, was a food of necessity and versatility, its preparation the result of the lack of refrigeration. In the traditional large Chinese larder meat is pork. When we say “meat” we mean pork. Historically there was lamb and mutton, as well as occasionally beef, in the north and west of China, but for most of the country, even to this day, when the subject is meat, the meaning is pork. It was preserved pork, alone or in combination with other foods and rice, that warmed us in winter, and in many smaller villages like mine, pigs were slaughtered annually and their meat distributed.
In my village of Siu Lo Chun this annual rite was called Tai Gung Fun Ji Yuk, which translates as “ancestor-distributed pork.” Land, considered community property, was administered by community officials, of which my father was one. Before each Lunar New Year the farming lands were leased to farmers who bid. The money from these bids was used to buy pigs, which were slaughtered, their meat cut up and boiled and then distributed. The distribution seems somewhat unfair since it was allotted only to the male members of the village families. The more males, the more pork. My family actually benefited from the practice, because with my father, brother, quite a few uncles and male cousins, we received quite a lot of pork. Once the pork had been given out it would be placed in crocks, heavily salted, and left to cure for at least a month, insuring that we would have ample pork to last us through the winter.
This custom did not exist in Ah Paw’s town of Sah Gau. It was less a community village than mine and there, pork was simply purchased from butchers and then salted in the traditional way. Usually, the pork to be salted was slabs of fresh belly meat, bacon, which consisted of a good deal of fat and skin. My version utilizes a good-sized pork loin, though I cure it exactly as it was done in my grandmother’s kitchen.
The salted pork was used in many ways. It was eaten in rice congees. It was steamed with fish and stir-fried with various vegetables. We made soups with it. My grandmother even steamed the salted pork with fresh pork.
Salted Pork
(HAM JI YUK)
4 pounds boneless pork loin
2 quarts cold water, or enough to cover pork
1 slice fresh ginger, 1 inch thick, lightly smashed
4 cloves garlic, peeled
6 scallions, white portions only
3½tablespoons salt
Place all ingredients, except salt, in a large pot. Cover and bring to a boil over high heat. Reduce heat, leave lid slightly open and simmer 45 minutes to 1 hour. Turn the pork halfway through simmer. Turn off heat. Remove pork from pot and place in a large bowl of ice water; allow pork loin to rest 5 minutes until it cools.
Remove pork from water. Place in a shallow dish and sprinkle salt over top, rubbing it well into the pork. Cover the pork and allow it to refrigerate untouched for 1 day. It is now ready for use. The salted pork will keep refrigerated for at least a week.
In China, as I have noted, the heavy salting permitted us to keep the pork for at least a month. It should not be frozen because its fiber will soften and defrosting will cause the salting to run off.
LEFTOVER RICE WAS A FAVORITE OF Ah Paw’s and mine as well, and was the rice eaten most often in her house. I make it to this day for my family and my granddaughter, Siu Siu. It is easy to make, is delicious and as a practical matter, illustrates the felicitous combining of all of the preceding basic recipes. The name for this leftover rice is chau lahng fan, which translates literally as “cold rice stir-fried.” There was always rice at Ah Paw’s table, and it was her explicit instruction that at lunch extra rice should be cooked so that we would have enough to make this special rice at dinner.
Leftover Rice
(CHAU LAHNG FAN)
3½ tablespoons Scallion Oil (page 16)
4 jumbo eggs, lightly beaten with ¼teaspoon salt and 1 tablespoon
Chicken Stock (page 13)
2 teaspoons minced ginger
1 cup onions, cut into ¼-inch dice
1½ cups Salted Pork (page 18), cut into ⅓-inch dice
5 cups cooked rice
3 scallions, thinly sliced across
Heat wok over high heat for 30 seconds. Add 1½ tablespoons oil, coat wok with spatula. When a wisp of white smoke appears, add beaten egg and scramble until firm. Remove, cut up coarsely and reserve.
Wipe wok and spatula with paper towels to remove egg residue. Reheat over high heat and add remaining oil to coat wok. Add ginger and stir. Add onions, stir and cook 2 minutes until onions soften. Add pork, stir to mix well, cook for 2 minutes more. Add rice. Stir to
mix all ingredients thoroughly. Cook 4 to 5 minutes, until mixture is very hot. If rice is dry and begins to stick to wok, add an additional tablespoon of oil. Add reserved eggs, mix and cook for 2 minutes more. Add ¼ to ½ teaspoon salt, if necessary, to taste. Mix well. Add scallions, turn off heat and toss until mixed. Serve immediately.
MAKES 4 TO 6 SERVINGS
ALMOST EVERY MORNING AT AH PAW’S house we ate congee, a rice soup made from two kinds of rice: glutinous, so-called sweet rice, and short-grained rice, identical to that used by Japanese sushi chefs. The Chinese believe congee is a dish that’s a thousand years old. The soup, closer to a porridge, consisted of small amounts of rice, larger amounts of water, and was, and is, considered to be a morning restorative, easily digestible and nourishing to infants as well as to the aged. I can tell you that my granddaughter loves her morning congee. It is said to reduce the body’s heat, and was the only food eaten when one was feverish.
Congee is one of those Chinese dishes with a long lineage. Where we lived in southern China, it was, and still is, made with two rices. In other parts of the country it has been made from wheat, barley, sorghum, millet, tapioca, even corn, occasionally in combination with rice, though most often without. Over the years it has been flavored with chrysanthemums, pears, ginseng, ginger, lotus root and mint.
My Grandmother's Chinese Kitchen Page 2
