With Hime’s birthday approaching, and my bank account sad and empty and the threat of my looming move making me guilty about even my food purchases, I decided that her present would be a personalized cake.  Cake is a matter of course. Elaborately decorated cakes are for the very beloved or people who pay me, particularly since my decorating tools are stranded on the other side of the country. (Ahem, Face.)

I schlepped the limited tools I had over to J-ko’s to make the cake in secret.  I’d decided on a pumpkin spice cake with cinnamon buttercream frosting.  While I started mixing things together, J-ko got out the dark chocolate gelato and vanilla ice cream he’d made with his birthday present.  He set down a delectable bowl of soft melting ice cream beside me.  I continued with what I was doing at first, but with J-ko’s murmurs of ecstasy behind me and the vanilla melting beside me, I couldn’t resist. I paused what I was doing and dug into the ice cream.  The gelato was thick and dense and incredibly chocolatey, even leaving the same strange grainy feeling in my mouth that I get after eating a chocolate bar. The vanilla was fluffy and creamy and amazing.

While I shoveled spoonfuls into my mouth, I prepared my baking pans with oil and flour, poured the batter into the pans, and slipped them into the oven so that I was free to indulge without distraction.

Ice cream finished, I consulted to pastry cream recipe I was using as filling in the cake, which I was attempting to make pumpkin flavored. The recipe called for six eggs. As I read the line, over and over, it occurred to me that I hadn’t gotten eggs before I came, which I’d meant to do since I hadn’t wanted to use all J-ko’s (expensive cage-free) eggs. I didn’t buy eggs. What did I use in the cake?  Did I use J-ko’s eggs without thinking?  Did I…put in eggs? No, I don’t think I did. Did it not call for eggs? How could it not need eggs? Everything needs eggs. I went back to my cake recipe. Four eggs, it said.  Four eggs that I had forgotten to put in the batter. I’d made a cake and forgotten to add eggs.

The cakes had been in the oven for five to ten minutes by this point, far too long to pull out and fix. I stared at the oven door, wondering what would even happen to a cake with no eggs.  I stared at J-ko, flabbergasted and appalled and ashamed of my ridiculous oversight. How could it be fixed?

I waited for the cakes to come out of the oven before I decided. They were soft, squishy things, the centers sunken and undercooked.  I flipped them out of the pans and they immediately started to disintegrate, falling to bits.  J-ko started pressing on it with his fingertips, and the cake would squish like memory foam, only it wouldn’t pop back out.

Luckily, I’d had extra batter, and had put it in a square pan to be cooked later. I dumped the batter back into the bowl and threw in two eggs before re-prepping the pan and baking it.  This one came out fine — soft and fragrant and moist — but I’d used J-ko’s square reflective cake pan rather than my much higher quality pans; in spite of oil and flour, the cake stuck in the pan and ripped in half when I tried to get it out.  A second cake ruined.

While I’d had that cake in the oven, I’d worked on the pumpkin pastry cream. I’d done no research, having decided on it on a whim, but J-ko thought I could just add the pumpkin to the milk and the flavor would infuse the milk as it cooked. I could strain it at the end to remove the pumpkin pulp, he said. It sounded reasonable to me, so I set to work.  In the last stages of cooking the custard, it started to go wrong.  It thickened as it should have, but it wasn’t sticking to the spoon (custard is ready when it coats the back of a spoon).  How odd, I thought, and called J-ko over to inspect. He proclaimed that it looked done and brought me a strainer.  I poured it through the mesh, and got a mass of vomitous orange pulp while orange colored water dribbled from the strainer into the bowl below.  That’s a bad miss. 

Two failed cakes, and a spectacularly failed custard. Eight eggs wasted. I swore off pumpkin spice cake and puddled on the sofa, full of despair.

But. Regardless of my failure, Hime’s birthday still approached.  After a half hour of wallowing in despondency, I picked myself up and decided to make a classic yellow cake with chocolate frosting and white chocolate buttercream decorations.  I made J-ko confirm all the steps in the recipe to ensure no further catastrophes, and finally ended up with a cake success.

What really surprised me, though, was the content.  One of the first articles I came across extolled the virtues of a designer who had created the perfect pair of shorts: sitting low in the waist, with the perfect length and stylish colors. I had understood to some extent that GQ was a fashion magazine, but what I didn’t realize is that it is ultimately Cosmo for boys. Rather than lipsticks and sandals, it advised men on what dogs they should have, what shorts to wear, and how to wear their hair. It was shocking and thrilling to find “proof” that men could be as frivolous and vain as women.

One article that genuinely caught my interest though was about the ridiculous ice cream scene in New York City, where the new fad of high-end organic ice cream that drove the cost of a single cone into the double digits. Rather than shell out for exorbitantly priced cones, the author purchased an ice cream maker and made delicious gourmet ice cream at home.

The genius of it apparently lodged in my brain, because when J-ko’s birthday came a week later, I instantly decided that I wanted to get him an ice cream machine.  I was a little leery of purchasing it for him though because he frequently disagrees with me about the usefulness of certain kitchen gadgets (he refused to invest in a zester, insisting that it wasn’t necessary, but deemed a potato ricer — the use of which has yet to be explained to me satisfactorily — worthy of purchase).  He’s also the kind of person who secretly owns a food dehydrator, so it seemed entirely possible that he owned an ice cream maker without my knowledge. Ultimately, I got him an inferior gift and then asked him about it directly while we were at an electronic store and purchased it in front of him. Classy, I know.

As we left the store with it awkwardly under my arm, we started listing all the flavors of ice cream we would make. Chocolate mint and rum and all kinds of fruit and the chocolate basil I’d seen advertised at a custard shop in the U-district but hadn’t gotten to try. At his birthday dinner, J-ko announced himself currently enthralled with fennel, and I suggested that he make fennel ice cream. He scoffed, but not 10 minutes later our waiter brought out a plate of fennel ice cream for Hime, who’d gotten the tasting menu. It was light and smooth and delicately flavored. And also delicious. J-ko still hasn’t gotten behind my chocolate and basil idea, but if the fennel can work, I don’t see why the basil shouldn’t.

Also true to form, I didn’t decide on a menu until the night before, and therefore was completely unable to prepare anything in advance.  J-ko roused me at 11 this morning to go grocery shopping, which I had assumed would take no more than an hour, but after our trip to Costco (and a delicious, dirt cheap hot dog), Safeway failed us, and we had to drive to Whole Foods (free Jamba juice smoothie heck yeah!), which ultimately ended up being fruitless as well.  So I didn’t start cooking until late in the afternoon, and J-ko had his hands full trying to determine what was wrong with his scooter and how to fix it, so I was mostly on my own for a while.  I spent nearly an hour mincing a carton of mushrooms, followed by shallots and garlic.  I ended up only having barely finished all the prep work before Bwibwi arrived.

Once they arrived, I lost all ability to focus and started zooming around the kitchen, sliding across the tile in my socks, and spinning wildly trying to remember what I was supposed to be doing.  Luckily, Bwibwi pitched in, and J-ko reappeared, and I managed to get my head back on after a few swigs of wine, and we somehow finished dinner.

And what a meal it ended up being.

J-ko is a huge fan of Hell’s Kitchen, so I’ve recently been introduced to the show.  Ever since I started watching, our kitchen shenanigans have turned into Hell’s Kitchen homages;  ”HOW LONG ON THE BEEF??” we’ll shout at each other before proclaiming, “IT’S FUCKING RAW!” and pounding our fists indignantly on the counters.  It’s also influenced what we cook.  We’ve both been itching to make risotto and seared scallops, and I have to admit that it would never have occurred to me to make beef wellington if I hadn’t watched the show.

I showed the recipe I’d found to J-ko, thinking that it was a version simplified enough to be feasible.  ”You should definitely make it.  But you have to make the puff pastry from scratch, and this sauce is horrible. Make demi-glace,” he told me.  After researching what was involved, I put him in charge of the sauce.  Earlier today, he admitted that frozen puff pastry was probably ok as long as butter was listed as one of the ingredients.  Unfortunately, the brand at Safeway didn’t have it, and the stuff at Whole Foods was ridiculous expensive, so I ended up making it from scratch anyhow.  J-ko, on the other hand, opted for pre-made demi-glace stuff.  Tsk tsk.  No seriously though, making demi-glace seems like an incredibly involved process, and I don’t blame him a bit for not wanting to; I certainly didn’t.

The only hiccup in my menu was the dessert; having checked with J-ko about Bwi’s ridiculous pickiness, I decided on a white chocolate raspberry cheesecake.  He did not recall her disliking raspberry, but when I told her what it was as I was preparing to make it, her face said otherwise.  It was intended to be marbled with raspberry syrup, but I ended up leaving it out and having it as a garnish instead.

We ended the night stuffed and happy, lounging about as we chatted and opened presents.  From no Christmas to two.

Winter is a hazy concept for me.  I’ve never lived anywhere with particularly harsh winters, and in spite of the recent snow, Seattle winter is only slightly colder than winter in Florida.  So it honestly never occurred to me that winter weather might delay J-ko and R on their way back from the UK.  Hurricanes are what I’ve always worried about; perilous summer storms.  Snow, hail, ice?  These are things I know not of.

But snow fell in buckets on England apparently, grounding J-ko for nearly a week.  They were rescheduled to fly out on Christmas Day, making my decision not to go home for the holidays all the sadder.  With divorced parents, I’ve become accustomed to celebrating both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day equally, although Christmas Eve doesn’t seem to be as important to others.  With Bwibwi in Oklahoma and Hime with her mother, I spent Christmas Eve alone, mostly putting the finishing touches on my edible gifts.  I watched a movie and stared at the Christmas tree, feeling a little bit pathetic but not debilitatingly lonely.

Hime and I had led J-ko to believe that there would be no Christmas dinner, secretly planning to surprise him when he arrived, but sudden financial crisis made Christmas dinner impossible.  Luckily, a package arrived for me from home containing a hefty check; dinner was back on.  I ended up planning the menu on my own, assuming at that point that there would be only five of us.

It occurred to me at some point that J-ko and R might be further delayed, but a facebook check indicated that they’d left without a hitch. So I dove into preparations immediately after waking on Christmas Day.  Hime arrived around three, bringing unexpected guests with her.  Hime swooped into the kitchen and started helping, while her sister produced mashed potatoes and stuffing.  With everyone pitching in — M saving the day by taking over the construction of the pork tenderloin when I stared at it, bemused — preparation took far less time than I’d anticipated, and I ended up having enough time to make some extra pocky with Lindt chili chocolate — a gift for R.

And then there were games and singing and revelry until J-ko and R arrived, at which point we dug into the feast.

And there was merriment. And presents. And Christmas was a total success.

Oh! And there were cupcakes.

As for the edible presents I gave…

I recently went back again and foolishly decided to try something new.  Their gorditas were also fabulous, but I was craving quesadillas, and my stomach has not forgiven me for the lapse in judgement.  Quesadilla, damnit! it has screeched.  Since their quesadillas are a little pricey (though completely worth it) and because I didn’t want to go alone, I decided that instead of going back, I would attempt to recreate it at home.

I marinated some chicken in oil, lime juice, cayenne pepper, and cilantro, and separately cooked bell peppers, onions, garlic, tomato, lime juice and cilantro.  The result was amazing.

It’s not quite the same as what I had at Taco Truck, but it was delicious and finally satisfied my craving.

But I often find cooking in his kitchen odd; even jarring.  And not just because I’m no longer in charge.  J-ko has started to be more health-conscious.  He makes substitutions in his recipes: the whole wheat pastry flour was easy to find, but the all purpose was buried in a hallway closet behind jars of salsa and bottles of syrup; he eschews brown sugar for turbinado; he buys neufchatel instead of cream cheese and organic eggs from cage-free chickens.

But the worst insult of all is that he’s switched to metric.

I understand that the “American archaic unit of measure” is imprecise and that the metric system is far more reliable, but the fact of the matter is that I learned how to bake using volume.  My recipes are all in volume.  And, ultimately, I am imprecise when it comes to cooking.  I scoffed at the idea that I needed to level my measuring cup and have seldom even measured certain ingredients like vanilla.  Baking in Japan, with only a single liquid measuring cup, I eyeballed almost all my measurements, and still (mostly) ended up with tasty treats.

Having moved on to the “better” system, J-ko doesn’t even own measuring cups anymore.  He has only a single kitchen scale.  I honestly tried to get on board.  I diligently converted all my measurements, sifted them by spoon onto the scale, and ignored my suspicions that it looked like entirely too much.

And was met with failure.  I got hard, dry little scones and moist crumbly brownies that none of us could be bothered to eat.  Brownies. I’ve never failed at brownies.  Not even in Japan.  And with that sad plate of unappealing brownies sliding into the trash, I decided that the metric system just wasn’t for me.  Not with cookies on the line.  Weather, distance, weight — fine.  I’ll convert.  But metric has no place in my kitchen.

And having found a pack of measuring cups and spoons for 99 cents, I baked the perfect brownies; crisp, flaky exterior and thick, fudgey interior.

And then, flushed with victory, I whipped out a batch of cookies.

Delicious.  J-ko swears up and down that he’s had no issue using metric, that the recipe must have been at fault, but it just isn’t worth the risk.

When I made that first batch of kidney beans, I made them 100% with things we had on hand at the house, including a can of Goya kidney beans, which featured a recipe on the side of the can. Obviously, those are not things that you’re going to find lying around the house, or even readily accessible at the grocery store. Not in Japan.  But I still think it’s doable.

So we had a discussion recently about the difference between cilantro and coriander.  And yes, I’m aware that they’re the same thing, but I don’t think dried coriander is going to live up to fresh cilantro. Period. And J-ko strongly agrees with me. But since I’ve never seen fresh cilantro in any store in Japan (much less in Beartown) let’s just assume that it’s possible to get the same purity of flavor from the dried stuff.

I used Goya cilantro cooking base in my kidney beans instead of the Sofrito that the recipe suggests.  I looked at the ingredients and  if you cooked diced onions, green peppers, garlic, and coriander in some olive oil, you’d probably get something similar.  The substitution is 1 tsp dry herbs for 1 tbs fresh (1:3), by the way.  I’ve no idea how much coriander that would actually call for, since I just dumped about three heaping spoonfuls of the cooking base into the pot, but if you’re cooking one can of kidney beans, I would guess half an onion, either half or a whole pepper, a clove of garlic, salt, pepper, and maybe 2 tsps of coriander.  Then again, I have a heavy hand with cilantro, so maybe 1 tsp, and you can add more later if you feel the need.  The recipe also calls for sazon, which according to the label only includes garlic, cumin, and saffron, but according to this article also includes oregano and cayenne pepper.  I would definitely add cumin, and probably oregano and cayenne pepper as well, but I would probably leave out the saffron – I don’t have any on hand, and I know of no other uses for it.  If you don’t have oregano, I don’t think it’s going to kill the recipe, but it certainly won’t hurt either.  You could add chicken or beef dashi/bouillon as well.  I used beef this time.  Cook that down and add either diced tomatoes or tomato sauce or tomato paste and water.  I originally used tomato sauce, as the recipe suggested, but this time around I used paste since that’s what I had on hand.  It yielded a much thicker sauce, which I kind of prefer, but it’s really up to you.

At this point, give it a taste. I thought mine needed a little bit more of a kick, so I added some aji spice that I found at Pike Place Market, and I’m incredibly pleased.  I think you could add a tiny bit of red pepper to give it a spicy edge. Then you just cook it until the sauce has thickened to your liking.

I also decided to make carne asada with dinner.  I ended up seasoning a little too loosely and it ended up with a very strong lime taste, but it was delicious and smelled fantastic.

As it’s rising, you can prepare the sauce and the toppings.  We had a bunch of chicken so we decided to use that.  We marinated it for about an hour in olive oil, garlic, salt and pepper.  Maybe oregano too.  Then we just pan fried it. Obviously, you can use whatever you want.  Italian sausage would be easy enough, or pepperoni, which won’t require seasoning.  FYI: the usual Italian spices are: basil, oregano, garlic; sometimes sage and marjoram; fennel seeds.  Basil and oregano are probably the most common though, so if you wanted to make a simpler pizza sauce, for example, some tomato paste, water, oregano, basil, garlic, and onion would probably do the trick; although red pepper flakes add a nice little spicy kick. And then of course there’s cheese. Mozzarella of course.

Once it’s risen a second time, you sprinkle a surface with semolina.

Sprinkle the top of the dough as well to keep it from sticking to your hands.  Then you flatten it out a bit and use your fingertips to push out the crust around the edge. Then you go around the edge of the crust, pushing outwards with your hands and kind of spinning the dough.

I…sucked at this.  It didn’t really spin the way it did when J-ko did it, and it left weird smudgy finger marks in the dough.  J-ko said that rather than pushing outwards in one direction with both hands, you push apart with your hands towards opposite side of the crust. I only had once change to try it, so I didn’t get to experiment any more than that, but that’s what he said.

Once it was properly shaped, we slid the dough onto the semolina-floured peel and spread olive oil on the crust and topped it with sauce and toppings.  From there we slid the pizza onto the floured pizza stone in the oven.

And ten minutes later, we had deliciousness.

Cumin, I told her.  Always use cumin.

A few days after I arrived in Seattle, she sent me a message. Dear god I put some cumin on my pork and it was the best thing I EVER TASTED.

Now, I will teach her more.  I will show her the things she could be eating.

Hello BJ.  I hope you’re ready to dance, because it’s time for OUENDAN!!!

Now, I’m back with J-ko, the first to point out my shocking deficiencies.  He’s aware, of course, that I’ve changed.  We’ve had long discussions of the foods I’ve cooked and the food we wanted to cook once we were reunited.  I told him the horror stories of other people’s kitchens, kitchens far worse than mine had been.

And yet, here in his unfamiliar kitchen, when he’s decided on a dish and collected the ingredients, grabbing utensils from cabinets I’ve yet to explore, using oddly shaped knives and healthy substitute ingredients I’ve never heard of, I find that I’m suddenly an amateur.  While J-ko whizzes around his kitchen preparing things, I stand awkwardly to the side awaiting instructions.  I chop and dice and measure ingredients and wash dishes during lulls. From Queen of the Kitchen, I’ve been demoted to sous-chef.

But with hand tossed pizzas and homemade curry and giants slabs of ribs and creamy pasta with arugula and  ham being made daily, there’s hardly room for complaint.  Chop, measure, pour, slice, wash — and then there’s food in my mouth.