1 tablespoon light soy sauce
2 tablespoons Scallion Oil (page 16)
¼ teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon sugar
1½ teaspoons sesame oil
Pinch white pepper
1 teaspoon grated ginger
1 fresh 2-pound lobster
3 tablespoons shredded ginger
2 scallions, white portions only, cut into 1½-inch lengths, shredded
6 sprigs coriander
Mix all ingredients for marinade; set aside.
Prepare lobster: With a cleaver, cut the head and claws off the lobster. Cut tail section into bite-size pieces. Similarly, cut claws and head into pieces. Place lobster pieces in a bowl, pour marinade over, mix to coat and allow to rest 30 minutes.
Place lobster pieces in a steamproof dish and pour marinade over top. Sprinkle shredded ginger and scallions over lobster and steam 12 to 15 minutes, or until lobster shells turn red, meat turns white. (See steaming directions, page 30.) Do not oversteam or the lobster will be tough. When done, remove from steamer, garnish with coriander and serve with cooked rice.
SERVES 4
Wok-Baked Rice Wine Lobster
(HUA TIAO GUK LUNG HAR)
This recipe, which is quite old, is a true heirloom. Not only was the lobster a treat, but so was its flavor, that of a very special Shao-Hsing wine, Hua Tiao, which in my grandmother’s dialect was called Far Diu. The customary rice-based Shao-Shing wine is, in terms of aroma and taste, very much like a medium dry sherry. Hua Tiao, or Far Diu, is far more subtle. Its aroma is floral, and the taste is far more smooth and elegant. To be sure, both satisfy the cooking dictum once given me by my father, who said that when it came to wine, if it could not be drunk and enjoyed, it should not be used for cooking. These days Hua Tiao is widely available in Asian markets and wine shops that stock Chinese wines. This special Hua Tiao wine was, in my grandmother’s time, sold in brown crockery gourdlike jugs. These days it is brown glass bottles labeled usually “Shao-Hsing Hua Tiao Chiew,” which translates simply as “Shao-Hsing Hua Tiao Wine.” If it is unavailable, I suggest that Cognac be used instead, because of its elegance.
This preparation, in addition to its special flavor, illustrates the versatility of the wok, in its role as a temporary oven.
MARINADE
1 teaspoon ginger juice mixed with 2 tablespoons Hua Tiao wine, or
Cognac
1½ tablespoons light soy sauce
2 tablespoons oyster sauce
½ teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons sugar
Pinch white pepper
1 tablespoon sesame oil
1 2-pound lobster, split, inedible cavity portions removed
3 tablespoons peanut oil
2 tablespoons shredded ginger
2 scallions, trimmed, cut into ½-inch sections on the diagonal, white and
green portions separated
2 cloves garlic, minced
1½ tablespoons Hua Tiao wine, or Cognac
1 teaspoon cornstarch
Mix marinade ingredients together and reserve.
Prepare lobster: With a cleaver, cut off head and claws. Cut tail section into bite-size pieces. Similarly, cut claws and head into pieces. Place lobster pieces in a bowl, pour marinade over, mix to coat, allow to rest 20 minutes. Remove lobster from marinade, reserve. Reserve marinade.
Heat wok over high heat for 1 minute. Add peanut oil, coat wok with spatula. When a wisp of white smoke appears, add shredded ginger and white portions of scallions, stir 10 seconds. Add garlic. When garlic turns light brown, about 8 seconds, add lobster pieces. Spread in a single layer and cook for 1 minute. Stir all ingredients well for 2 minutes. Drizzle wine into wok along its edges and mix well, for 1 minute. Add green portions of scallions, stir briefly. Add half of reserved marinade, mix well.
Cover wok with a wok cover, cook for about 4 minutes, or until lobster shells turn red and meat whitens. Stir cornstarch into remaining marinade, pour into wok. Stir until sauce thickens. Turn off heat, transfer to a heated dish and serve immediately with cooked rice.
SERVES 4
Clams with Black Beans
(SEE JOP CHAU HIN)
To us, clams were continual reminders of a prosperous life. When they opened after boiling, they resembled vaguely the gold coins of past ages. Ah Paw, who loved steamed clams, would remind me as she ate that clams were one of those shellfish declared acceptable for Buddhist vegetarians. This classic recipe, which I cooked first in my grandmother’s kitchen, and which I now cook in my own, has not changed one bit.
SAUCE
2 tablespoons oyster sauce
1 teaspoon dark soy sauce
1 teaspoon sesame oil
1 tablespoon Shao-Hsing wine, or sherry
¾ teaspoon sugar
1 tablespoon cornstarch
Pinch white pepper
5 ounces Vegetable Stock (page 14)
8 cups water
30 medium-sized clams, scrubbed to remove dirt and sand
3 tablespoons peanut oil
1 tablespoon shredded ginger
1 tablespoon shredded garlic
2 teaspoons fermented black beans, washed and drained
2 tablespoons scallions, white portions, finely sliced
Mix all ingredients for sauce, reserve.
Bring 8 cups of water to a boil in a large pot. Add clams, bring back to a boil and cook, about 4 minutes. Move clams around with a wooden spoon as they boil. They will begin to open. As they do, remove with a slotted spoon to a waiting dish. This should be done promptly or they will toughen. Continue process until all clams open.
Heat wok over high heat for 40 seconds. Add peanut oil and coat wok with spatula. Add ginger, garlic and black beans, stir and mix until the garlic and black beans release their fragrances, 1 to 2 minutes. Add clams, stir and mix for 2 minutes. Make a well in the center of the clams, stir sauce, pour in. Stir continually until sauce thickens and clams are thoroughly coated, about 1 minute. Turn off heat, transfer to a heated serving dish, sprinkle scallions on top and serve immediately.
SERVES 4 TO 6
Mussel and Noodle Soup
(HOK HIN MAI FUN TONG)
Traditionally the mussels used in soups were dried. They were initially sold loose in market shops, later in packages. An advantage of dried mussels, when reconstituted by soaking in water, was an intense, assertive flavor. However, they also tended to be tough. As a young girl I made this soup with dried mussels and vegetables, without noodles. In my own kitchen today I prefer fresh, shelled mussels, with vegetables and noodles, for the richness and subtlety of their combined flavors.
2 quarts water
1 slice ginger, 1 inch thick, lightly smashed
1¼ teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon Chinese white rice vinegar, or distilled white vinegar
1½ pounds mussels in shells, scrubbed with a hard brush to remove
sand and beards, rinsed well
4 cups Vegetable Stock (page 14)
1 tablespoon soy sauce
2 tablespoons Shao-Hsing wine, or sherry
2 teaspoons Scallion Oil (page 16)
4 ounces snow peas, halved on the diagonal ends, strings removed
¼ cup scallions, white portions only, finely sliced
8 ounces dried rice noodles, ¼ inch wide (linguine), soaked in hot water
20 to 30 minutes, until pliable, drained and loosened with chopsticks
2 tablespoons coriander, finely sliced
In a large pot place water, ginger, 1 teaspoon salt and vinegar. Cover and bring to a boil over high heat for 1 minute. Add mussels. As they open, remove them from the pot to a bowl and reserve.
Place vegetable stock in a large pot. Add the remaining ¼ teaspoon salt, soy sauce, wine and scallion oil. Cover and bring to a boil over high heat. Add snow peas and scallions and allow to return to a boil. Add noodles, allow to return to a boil. Turn off heat immediately, add reserved mussels and stir well. Transfer to individu
al soup bowls, sprinkle with coriander and serve immediately.
SERVES 4 TO 6
NOTE If dried rice noodles are unavailable, use dried linguine pasta, and boil just until al dente.
MISADVENTURES OF A MUD GIRL
One of my favorite pastimes when I visited Ah Paw’s house was feeding her fish, and I came to regard some of them, as they grew, as pets. I would bring handfuls of fresh grasses and cups of dried peanut mash and throw them into the ponds, enjoying the fish spurting to the pond’s surface, their mouths opening and closing as they fed. I also liked to be with the Chans in October, when they would drain individual ponds, remove fully grown fish to be taken to the market or be eaten, and to transfer small fish to other ponds.
I became so confident around these ponds that one day I became careless. As the Chans were standing in the drained pond mud handing fish up and out, I tried to grab a grass carp that I thought I knew. I fell into the mud and found myself covered from my hair to my sandals. The Chan boys thought this was terribly funny and laughed as Mr. Chan lifted me out of the mud, telling me, “Nei gum yat sik jai,” “Today you will eat no fish, you are a vegetarian.”
I washed off as much mud as I could with water from the field buckets, then made my way to my grandmother’s house, tiptoed past her salon so she would not see or hear me and picked up a change of clothing. I went off to one of her empty houses, bathed the remainder of the mud off myself, then came back to Ah Paw’s house and into her salon to wish her a good afternoon. She looked at me steadily for a long moment, then said, “Ah Fei. Oh, Ah Fei. Next time catch a fish. Do not let the fish catch you. You have become a lai loi.” This translates as “mud girl.”
At the time, I confess I was not amazed, for I believed that my Ah Paw simply knew all things. I found out later that my misadventure had been reported to her by one of the Chan boys. Yet I still thought she knew everything. Nor did she report my afternoon misfortune to those around that night’s dinner table. When the steamed grass carp was served, Ah Paw smiled, sharing our secret. She said only, “This is Ah Fei’s fish.”
FIVE
INTO THE LUNAR NEW YEAR
THE LUNAR NEW YEAR WAS THE most glorious time of the year for me as a young girl. Traditionally regarded throughout China as a time of rebirth and renewal, it was surely that for me, as well as a time for all sorts of special activities and observances, and all manner of foods and sweets. I looked forward to the days just before the New Year when I knew that I would receive a new red dress, new hair ornaments, stockings, undergarments and shoes. Then, after my sixth birthday, I knew that my new New Year’s dress would no longer have to be red, but any color or pattern I fancied, because I was no longer considered to be a baby.
The occasion was twice as delicious for me because I helped celebrate in two houses, my own in Siu Lo Chun, and with Ah Paw in Sah Gau. In our house I would
help my mother clean and dust, hang our calligraphic good luck sayings above our doorways, and replace our old picture of Tsao Chun, the Kitchen God, with a new image. When I was finished I would hurry to my grandmother’s house, where the New Year preparations were far more elaborate.
It was, and still is, the most important time of the year in China for food. In my grandmother’s kitchen there was cooking for ancestor offerings, later shared by the family. There were New Year’s Eve banquets, and New Year’s Day banquets, with care taken to cook and serve dishes of symbolism and New Year’s significance. There was fashioning of special cakes to be served to visiting guests, and there were, of course, the regular meals to be cooked in the midst of this holiday, which lasts more than a month.
In Ah Paw’s house, the New Year began symbolically on any day in the twelfth month deemed propitious, as determined by Ah Paw after she consulted her Tung Sing. This was an astrological book that she consulted at various times of the year in search of the more advantageous days for various observances. In this particular case it was to determine the proper date for hoy yau wok, or “open oil wok” day, on which to begin cooking for the New Year. This was largely a symbolic day, and simply meant that some food had to be deep-fried in a wok to formally open the New Year’s cooking season. It was possible that no other cooking would be done for days, but the day had been set formally. Often, Ah Paw’s servants would fry some lotus root chips or nuts.
Several days later I would go with my number-two aunt and my grandmother’s servants to the Sah Gau community rice grinder to pulverize rice into the powder used for New Year’s dumplings. We ground more than sixty pounds of rice, more than thirty-five pounds of which were glutinous rice, in a big stone bowl, pounding it with the flat of a heavy board that we worked like a seesaw. As the rice was ground, we would put it into bamboo trays and allow it to dry in the sun. By the end of our day we had sufficient rice flour for an entire year, and my legs had been well-exercised. This rice grinding day was also determined by Ah Paw and her Tung Sing.
That same book dictated the next step toward our New Year’s celebration, the day of soh chun, or “brush dust,” when every corner of the house, every ceiling beam, every piece of furniture was dusted. The chimney was cleared of soot, and the kitchen stoves were cleaned. Knives and scissors were put out of sight to ensure that the promise of continued good luck would not be broken. Then, just about a week before the New Year, all of the papers in Ah Paw’s house with the slogans of good fortune and adages that she lived by, as well as the names and images of gods, were taken down and replaced with new ones.
One by one, the long red strips were taken down. Man Shu Yue Ee, “A Million Things Agreeable,” Sung Ee Hing Long, “Good Business,” Lung Mah Jing Sun, “Be As Healthy As a Dragon and a Horse” and Loh Siu Ping On, “The Aged and Young Should Be Safe” all came down to be replaced by identical, freshly written signs. Above the door leading into the living room, and above the doors to both bedrooms, was written Cheut Yap Ping On, “Be Safe As You Go In and Out.” In the living room that was my grandmother’s salon and dining room, was an altar, on which were displayed etched sticks with the names of her ancestors as well as a paper image of Guan Gung, the God of Protection. In front of the altar, on the floor, was the image of Dei Jueh, Landlord of the Spirits, who was asked to bless Ah Paw’s house. Opposite this altar, just outside the door, was another long strip of black on red calligraphy. Tin Gun Chi Fook, it read: “May the Goodness of Heaven Bring Wealth.”
These were what my grandmother surrounded herself with, what she quoted often, what she lived by and were as important to her as the proper behavior set down in the Analects of Confucius, or the Buddhism she observed. The images of the Entrance God, Wei Chung, were replaced as well, as were those of the Door Gods—Shen Shu to the left, Yu Lei, to the right. The last of these messages to the gods to be attached to the walls of Ah Paw’s house was always set above the front door jamb. It read Ng Fook Lam Moon, or “May the Five Gods of Fortune Arrive at Your Door.”
This was also the day when the new image of the Kitchen God, Tsao Chun, was replaced. All of the old calligraphy had been taken down, and all the old images of the gods were placed in a pile. Atop the pile went the image of Tsao Chun, with honey smeared on his lips. The papers would be set afire, and as they burned and their ashes went skyward it was said that Tsao Chun had gone to Heaven to report only good things about the family with whom he had lived for the past year.
On this Kitchen God day his new image above the kitchen stoves would be honored with a small and simple dinner of white cut chicken and pork, and fresh oranges, tangerines, pomegranates and stalks of sugarcane, these used as incense burned before his image. He was honored with the fruits of the kitchen, three cups of rice wine, three cups of tea, three bowls of rice, and three pairs of chopsticks. All of this preparation ended about four days before the New Year, and then cooking for the holiday began in earnest.
Before cooking for ourselves, we cooked for any guests who might come calling, and as gifts for relatives, friends and neighbors. We made spongy steamed ca
kes, called song goh, from our ground rice flour, sugar and water; rice flour dumplings, called yau kok, filled with crushed peanuts, shredded coconut and sesame seeds; and my favorite, jin dui. These were balls of puffed rice mixed with sugarcane syrup, which the servants and I covered with thin layers of glutinous rice dough. I took great delight in molding them into the shapes of baby chicks and pomegranates before
deep-frying them. These were especially earmarked for my young cousins and myself. The normal, round jin dui, about the size of a baseball, were reserved for elders. Also included in our annual New Year guest table was lin goh, a cake of steamed rice, yeast and water, sweetened with sugarcane sugar, which when sliced and served to a visitor was a wish that he or she who received it would experience a year better than the one before.
The Kitchen God, Tsao Chun, in our household and that of my grandmother, was regarded as a benign spy. All year; from one Lunar New Year to the next, his image, on the wall in back of our stove, would look upon us to see how we behaved in the kitchen. We knew that just before the New Year he would go to Heaven and report on our family to the Jade Emperor.
My Grandmother's Chinese Kitchen Page 9
