Sesame Tofu Noodles, For Introverts

Happy New Year, everybody! Or, as I like to say, Thank Gosh The Party Season Is (Almost) Over For Another Year.

Right there, folks, is a clanging admission of my introversion. I wish I could be one of those people who party hops with gay abandon, getting high on the smell of Jatz, buzzing from witty repartee with charming strangers.

Problem is, I’m just not that particular flavour of fudge sundae.

While nice to see so many of y’all, I’m kind of exhausted by January. I’ve a strong desire to curl up with a book, a bowl of something cool and delicious to eat, and a blasting air conditioner, in the interests of restoring both mind and body from one too many brushed with festive cheer.

The book of the moment, and the reason why I’ve resolved to be more honest about my introversion, is ‘Quiet’, by Susan Cain. If anything about the above paragraphs resonates, you need to read this book. Reading it, I’ve been wondering if SC has been secretly following me around, peering inside my head, my entire life. She’s even written about some silly little introvert behaviours - behaviours which I hitherto believed to be Peggy-exclusive - which are actually quite common in the 50% of the population who are introverts. Apparently, a lot of other introverts frequent the loo multiple times a day, not to answer nature’s call, but for a bit of peace and quiet. And I thought I was the only one! The things you read…

The bowl-food of the moment, and the principal subject of this post, is Sesame Tofu Noodles. I’ve been making this for a while, but feel that it is a recipe particularly suited to these hot, depleted, post-festive weeks. The best thing about this recipe is that it’s spectacularly easy, and makes just enough for one hungry introvert to slurp while reading.

Sesame Tofu Noodles

Ingredients

150g silken tofu, cubed
1 clove garlic, whole but bashed with the flat of a knife
1 spring onion, finely sliced
1 tablespoon sesame seeds (you could toast them, if you liked)
1 tablespoon mirin
1 tablespoon soy sauce (plus extra, to taste)
1 heaped tablespoon tahini
1 teaspoon rice wine vinegar
Chilli flakes (only if you want them, this is fine without)
1 head bock choi, sliced
A couple of stems of Chinese broccoli, sliced
A good handful of green beans and/or snow peas, sliced
90g soba noodles
Chopped coriander, and/or Vietnamese mint, and/or Thai basil

1. Place tofu, garlic clove, sliced spring onion, sesame seeds, mirin, soy sauce, tahini, rice wine vinegar, and chilli flakes in the bowl that you intend to eat from (less washing up). Mix. Place in fridge to chill until you are just about ready to eat.
2. Boil a pot of salted water. While it comes to the boil, rinse your greens thoroughly.
3. Cook your soba noodles in the boiling salted water for about 3 minutes, or until almost done.
4. When your noodles are almost cooked, add in your washed greens to the pot. Cook for a further minute.
5. Drain noodles and vegies in a colander. Rinse under cold running water.
6. Remove the garlic clove from the tofu/dressing mixture. Add the noodle/vegetable mixture to the tofu/dressing mixture, and stir to thoroughly coat – tongs are the best for this. Taste test and adjust with extra soy sauce, salt, pepper or chilli.
7. Sprinkle with chopped herbs, and eat on the couch.

PS: you could easily make this gluten free, by substituting a cake of rice vermicelli for the soba noodles. If that’s your thing, just cook the rice noodles as per the packet instructions and blanch your vegies separately.

‘East of Eden’ and Lived in Books

Summer just passed, I set myself the challenge of (re)reading all of John Steinbeck. An ambitious and pleasurable exercise, I’m still going with my great Summer of Steinbeck, even though, as I wrote last week, it’s now the depths of winter.

I haven’t been entirely dedicated to this challenge, and, like the contradictory gen-y-er I am, I’ve been reading other authors in and around Steinbeck. Having said that, reading Steinbeck, like all life enhancing things, is worth taking time over.

This is particularly true of my favourite novel of his, ‘East of Eden’, which I finished re-reading last week. ‘East’ encapsulates every reason why you should read Steinbeck at some point in your life. And, if you have read him before, ‘East’ is a persuasive argument for regular revisits.

Recommending ‘East’ is tricky, as I can’t quite put my finger on what it’s about. Read it and you’ll understand what I mean - a plot summary is impossible. What I can say with hand-on-heart confidence, though, is it's the kind of book that makes you feel big and small, all at the same time. If the idea of literature that can do that appeals, then ‘East’ is the novel for you.

I first read ‘East’ when I was sixteen, and, if I’m honest, a lot of it went over my head. I recall liking particular characters (Lee, Samuel Hamilton, Adam Trask) but not understanding them, and, consequentially, feeling a bit disconnected from the novel. Almost ten years later, I now have enough of that horrible phrase – ‘life experience’ - to properly understand those characters I liked as a sixteen year old, and to begin to understand some of Steinbeck’s more unlikable characters, of which ‘East’ has plenty.

It’s tempting, here, to spoil the ending for you, but I won’t, because ‘East’ is the kind of novel that you need read, right the way through, before the last page makes any sense. As someone who likes to read the last pages of novels before the end of the first chapter, a book with a last page like ‘East’'s presents a prospect both tantalising and maddening. When you get to that last page, though, you’ll see why I was so tempted here to share it with you. It is wonderful.

One further word of advice: if you do read ‘East’, buy yourself a copy, rather than borrow one from a friend or from the library. The reason being? This is the sort of book with so much of life in it that it needs – rather, deserves – to be dog-eared, coffee-spilt, bath-dropped, handbag-mangled, and lived-in.

Or, perhaps I’m trying to find some esoteric excuse for the fact that I dropped this book in the bath at least three times while reading it. Whatever your interpretation, my copy of ‘East’ is properly lived in, something for which I am glad.

Milk, Cookies, and Temporal Fractures

SPOLIER ALERT: in Men In Black 3 (completely awesome, I cried, go watch it), Agent O diagnoses a temporal fracture in the fabric of the universe via Agent J’s chocolate milk craving.

This is a tweak of what we all know elementally – that when adult life seems like a temporal fracture and we want to turn the clock back and be kids again, milk and cookies are exactly what we crave.

Don’t pity me and imagine that I had a culinarily deprived childhood, but milk and cookies together were not something I was fed as an after school snack by my domestic goddess of a mother. Cookies and tea, yes. Apple slices and cheese, yes. Rice pudding with jam, absolutely. But not milk and cookies, cool from the fridge and warm from the oven respectively.

I think it’s a testament to the power of our collective notions of childhood foodstuffs that even I, who cannot recall having milk and cookies as a child, feel the nostalgic pull of this particular combination. It’s in this spirit of embracing the platonic ideal-ness of milk and cookies that I offer you a recipe for the most perfect cookies to go with a glass of milk.

Fittingly for a post about childhood nostalgia - of the real and culturally imagined kind - this recipe is based on a recipe my grandmother passed to my mother, who passed to me. I have modified this recipe over the years to ramp up the chocolate chips and vanilla extract, because when I think about that platonic ideal of milk and cookies, the cookies are nubbly with chocolate bits and smell sweetly of vanilla. Comfort on steroids, after all, is the best thing for temporal fractures.

Choc Chip Cookies

Makes 25

125g melted butter
1 egg
¾ cup sugar
1 ½ cups SR flour
115g (half a packet) dark chocolate baking chips
125g (half a packet) white chocolate melting buttons, roughly chopped
2 tablespoons (yep, go with it) natural vanilla extract
Pinch of salt

1. Preheat oven to 180 degrees and line 2-3 baking trays, depending on size, with baking paper.
2. Mix all ingredients together in a large bowl with a wooden spoon. The mixture should be the consistency of the cookie dough culinary amateurs buy at Coles – i.e., it should roll into a ball that holds its shape but is still pliable and moist.
3. Roll into ping-pong size balls and place on baking sheets, leaving enough room to for the cookies to spread.
4. Bake in preheated oven for 10-15 minutes, or until evenly golden.
5. Serve, warm from the oven, with a glass of icy cold milk, and, optimally, a quiet moment getting reacquainted with some childhood classics - Ann of Green Gables, anyone?

Summer of Steinbeck, Or, Why I Miss My English Major

Summer 2011-12 is the Summer of Steinbeck. There, I’ve declared it. Five days and two books in, it’s proving to be a most enjoyable venture.

In my hazy undergraduate days, I was both an English and a Sociology major at the ANU. If we’re judging purely by pleasure, I think I enjoyed my English courses slightly more than my Sociology courses, although I think that had something to do with the exceptionally good company offered by my English classmates (hello Clementine Kemp and Kitty Gilfeather). As I’ve gone on to do Honors and a PhD in Sociology, I clearly enjoy the challenge that Sociology presents, but English was, and remains, my first academic love. Whilst Sociology and I are happily, contentedly, farting-in-front-of-each-other married, I can’t help but miss my first tortured love, and yearn for the simpler days of reading big books and thinking big thoughts.

(In my darker PhD moments, I wonder what my life would have been like if I’d broken the mould of bright, bookish, sensitive girl and studied something wild and crazy like dentistry. I could be brining oral hygiene to the masses right now. A tempting thought, as I’m oral hygiene’s biggest cheerleader …but I digress.)

The thing I specifically miss about my English major is the discipline of reading, not just for fun, but with purpose and with a desire to understand something beyond just the story. Although I am a voracious reader (it’s the best way to pass the extra hours that insomnia gives you), I have allowed myself to become soft and slack over the last few years, when I’ve been reading solely for fast pleasure and not the deep satisfaction of reading a text that demands more from you.

So it’s in this spirit of wanting a more deeply satisfying reading experience that I’ve set myself the challenge of reading or re-reading all of Steinbeck this summer. John Steinbeck is one of my favorite authors, and, fittingly, one of the first ‘serious’ writers I fell hard for. Steinbeck wrote a lot, which is partly why I’ve chosen him for this summer’s project – I needed a writer with a big enough titles list to keep me amused all summer long, and prevent my attention from straying to other, simpler, literary pleasures.

I began with The Grapes of Wrath, arguably Steinbeck’s most famous novel, and well worth a read. I won’t spoil for those of you who haven’t yet read it, but the ending makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Last night, I finished The Wayward Bus, which I hadn’t heard of until Veronica Silver suggested it and kindly loaned me her copy. I loved it, and was highly impressed by Steinbeck’s descriptions of clothing and make up in The Wayward Bus – I’d never had Johnny boy pegged as a writer of women and women’s secret mirror rituals. Today, on the bus to work, I began Travels With Charley, another loan from Veronica Silver, and am planning on tracking down In Dubois Battle later this week. Already, I’m taken back to those first heady days of my English major, deeply satisfied yet yearning for more.

Recipes that Keep On Giving: Honey Baked Lentils.

Too much of too-muchness is glorious, isn’t it?

Except for the day afterwards.

Returning to my humble abode after a lovely few days of camping out at the parents, I’ve decided to make good use of a much anticipated Christmas present and cook a dinner that, whilst richly flavoured and a pleasure to eat, is low-fat, low-sugar, low-GI, high fibre, gluten and dairy free, and vegetarian – even vegan, if you’re flexible.

Normally I don’t restrict what I eat in light of any of those particular dietary requirements. After Christmas, however, a meal that fits all of those bills is not so much of an act of restrictive discipline, but more of a compassionate gesture to my system, in the hopes that it will forgive me, for I know what I have done, and it was BAD.

As for the much anticipated present? Well, let me tell you – or rather, let me show you…




It’s a Le Creuset! Those of you who are serious cooks, or those of you who’ve just watched Julie and Julia, will know that Le Creuset is the Alpha Romeo of kitchen brands. And mine is red.



Along with kindness towards my body, taking this baby out for a test drive is a further compelling reason why tonight’s dinner needed to be Le Creusefied.

So, here is my recipe for Honey Baked Lentils, served with steamed snow peas and soft polenta. I hope that your tummy appreciates your compassion as much as I hope mine will.

Honey Baked Lentils with Steamed Snow Peas and Soft Polenta

Honey Baked Lentils – serves 4, and freezes beautifully.

1 cup black, brown, or green lentils
½ an onion, chopped
2 ½ cups water
2 teaspoons vegetable stock powder (ensure this is a vegan, dairy and gluten free brand if these are core values for you)
2 tablespoons soy sauce
2 tablespoons honey (Here’s where the veganism of this dish is called into question. I personally think that bees are pretty darn happy buzzing around and making abundant rivers of honey, but I may just be an unenlightened philistine when it comes to bee rights. How about we all just do what we know is right in our hearts, m-kay?)
2 tablespoons oil (I use 1 tablespoon sesame oil, 1 tablespoon extra virgin)
2 garlic cloves, crushed
A large knob (about 4cm) ginger, grated. (As a side note, who decided that anything measuring 4cm merited the descriptor ‘a large knob’? Every recipe I read seems to use 4cm as the benchmark for large. In most other contexts a 4cm knob would warrant a completely different descriptor regarding size – ‘small’, ‘miniscule’, or ‘medically interesting’ are all adjectives I would use. Perhaps I should henceforth refer to all 4cm knobs of ginger as size challenged but lovely once you get to know it? But I digress…)
2 bay leaves
2 teaspoons ground cumin
3 teaspoons chilli flakes (more or less, depending on how hot you like it)

1. Preheat oven to 100 Celcius.
2. In your Le Creuset…




or, if you’re still waiting on Santa to make you a member of the Kitchen Equipment Elite, in a medium sized casserole dish with lid, combine all ingredients.
3. Place casserole dish or Le Creuset in your preheated oven for 2 and a half hours, or until lentils are soft and most if the liquid has been absorbed. You can shorten the cooking time by increasing your oven temperature to about 160 Celsius, which means you only have to wait an hour and a half for dinner. The resultant lentils are still amazingly tasty, but will probably be even better the next day, as the flavours will have had more of a chance to get to know one another. Whereas if you let them mingle in a very slow oven for three hours, the resultant flavours have had time to work out their differences and harmonise into a beautiful marriage without the need for a period in the cold wasteland of the refrigerator.

Soft Polenta and Steamed Snow Peas – this makes enough for just me, so adjust to suit yourself and the number you are feeding accordingly. It’s also a nifty way to kill two birds with one stone – you cook the snow peas in the steam emitted by the water you have to heat for the polenta.

Approx. 250g super fresh snow peas, topped and tailed, and cut into largish chunks.
1/3 of a cup instant polenta (you can get this at most supermarkets – it’s in the isle with the flours and other baking goods).
Water
Salt, pepper, olive oil, and/or butter (again, depending on taste, dietary requirements, and how much cheese you ate at Christmas).

1. Place about a cup and a half of water in the bottom of a saucepan which can be fitted with your steamer. Set over a high heat.
2. Pop the snow peas into the steamer, arrange your steamer over your pot of water, which should be heating up nicely now, and cover with a lid, so as not to loose any precious steam.
3. Give the snow peas between one and three minutes, until they are done as you like. Remove from steamer, replacing the saucepan lid. If you’re the kind of person who likes to blanche things, then blanche your peas. I just think it wastes ice cubes and makes your peas cold, but if you like cold soggy vegetables I’ll only judge you a little.
4. Set the table, even if it’s just you, with a cheerful tablecloth, soft fabric napkins, pretty bowls (another Christmas present from my lovely big little brother and his lovely girlfriend) and nice cutlery.




Don’t argue with me, just do it, it’s a very important step in this recipe.




5. Select a dining companion from your bookshelf. Tonight, I’m dining with Paul Kelly.




Paul and I go way back, and his ‘mongrel memoir’, his words not mine, was a welcome addition to my Christmas stocking. It’s the perfect reading for a dinner as soothing and compassionate as this one.
6. By the time you’ve faffed around with the peas, the table, and the bookshelf, the water should be at a good boil (there is method to my madness, as mama-K often says). Add in your polenta. The packet says ‘in a slow, steady, stream’, but I throw it in the pot and stir like hell.
7. Continue to stir until your polenta thickens – this shouldn’t be much longer than a couple of minutes. As the title implies, I like my polenta relatively soft, so I can tell that it’s done because it’s about the consistency of thick porridge. It also has the propensity to spit boiling hot dollops of polenta out of the pot and onto the stovetop, or an unsuspecting forearm, when it’s at this stage.
8. When it’s all getting a bit too difficult, remove polenta from heat, and add in your salt, pepper, oil and/or butter.
9. Pile the polenta into a bowl, top with a spoonful of the lentils, and the snow peas.




10. Eat, read, and drink some sparkling mineral water. Fell your inner equilibrium mercifully restored.