Be kind of a food blog, please

“We care about what you’re doing and trying to do,” you the public has said. “We want you to become your better person. But we want to know what you’re cooking these days, too, and whether you’re liking it or not. We want to remember that you still cook.”

I’ve been lucky enough to be involved in some whole animal butchery lately, which I hate to call trendy, since it’s been going on since before the caveman days, but really, has become quite trendy as of late. Nose-to-tail cooking and dining (usually pork and offal related) has become extraordinarily popular, and I won’t lie, even when I’m by myself I feel rather awesome after I’ve deboned a pig’s head, or unmold a particularly successful trotter terrine. None of it is exactly difficult, it’s more knowing what to do with the part and just rather time consuming.

So here we go then. My first fooding post. Piggy and other animal parts related. Some photos included. Oh, but wait. Someone else already beat me documenting the actual butchery of it, because I’m not the most on top of it kind of food blogger. Which is great. I’m just going to refer you over to his site: http://beerandnosh.com/2011/03/pig-breakdown-with-hapa-ramen/

In my defense though, I have taken some pictures of a couple of recent past projects, which we the hapa ramen team have deemed our modus operandi of "not quite traditional". Our current trend is what we like to call Japanese noodles and Italian charcuterie. In the back are a set of jowls curing nicely into guanciale, and that brown block in the front is an entire belly we turned into pancetta.

Next to pork, we deal with chicken the most. I'm a big fan of the livers and gizzards, the neck gets roasted for our soup stock, and the heart gets trashed. I'm not a fan of the heart. Can't quite seem to get it to a place where I'm happy with it, but if you have any suggestions, I'm all (crispy fried) ears. You know I hate throwing it out.

See more pictures of food projects here. If you actually click onto the flickr set, I've included some descriptions of the process used to make or create whatever using that ingredient. See? I am trying.

I never meant to be a cook

I am a first generation American of Asian descent. What that means is that I was supposed to be a doctor or a lawyer. Also admissable although not preferred would be some other very financially successful and stable profession. Preferably business related.

I never wanted to get into cooking, or working in restaurants professionally. It was always something I liked doing, a hobby, an interest, the fun thing you do in your free time, or with your friends. Or for your friends. I never wanted to do it as a job. They say never to do something you love as a job, otherwise you’ll end up hating it. I never wanted to hate cooking. And so I always tell people that I never chose cooking as a profession. It chose me.

I went to “normal” school, not culinary school. I studied Psychology, Anthropology, and Latin American language and literature. I went to a liberal arts college, and without a doubt got myself a liberal arts degree. I went to school to study and get a “real” job after I graduated, so I could go and make “real” money in the “real” world.

My senior year in college though, I began to worry about my lack of job direction. At that point, I knew I wasn't going to be a counselor, psychologist, or social worker. I thought I'd look into the restaurant thing and check out the fine dining place near campus. They weren't hiring at the time, but the chef liked something he saw during our meeting and opened up some dishwashing shifts for me. Soon after, I began to do minor prep work near the dish pit. That morphed into some line work, along with the dish shift after that. It was a tiny kitchen with strict French trained standards, but I really really got to do a lot in there. I eventually and very quickly took over the Sunday brunch chef position, which I think would have given most people an arrogant pride...but I had to dishwash the next evening. Pride smushed.

But I loved it. I loved it. I loved being in a professional kitchen. I loved the pace, and the ticket calling, and the shelves and shelves of ingredients and the cramped spaces and the tetris-like skills required to pack things away or take things out. I was also lucky that the sous chef of this restaurant was female, because as my first restaurant job, I never felt like the underrepresented gender in the kitchen. I never felt like being a girl mattered. I just really liked what I was doing, and I think it showed.

Until I decided to actually cook professionally. Like, for real chefs of real companies, who have real reputations to rely on. All of a sudden, I noticed that I was a girl. But I really really wanted to be in the kitchen. I liked it. I wasn't scared of the boys. And it showed. I think those around me noticed, and you can like me or not like me, but I did my job and did it pretty well. At least I hope I did. When you like what you do and are having fun doing it, sometimes it's just not work anymore. My family may not have approved of the job choice, and my parents definitely still think I should be doing something more financially stable at this point, but no one can tell me I'm not happy doing what I do. This all does really make me happy.

For a minute though, I experienced what it might be like to hate what you do. Hate is a really, really strong word. But I clearly remember the moment, and it kind of scared me. I had never felt this way before. Ever. I might’ve hated plating a really complicated dish, or prepping for yet another holiday banquet, or complained about some whiny customer…but never, ever hated the actual cooking part of it.

And I remember thinking, so this is why so many cooks don’t want to do this. It’s not fun. It’s not creative. It’s not yours. People tell you what to do. People don’t care how long you work. People don’t care how hard you work. You never make enough money. You never get a day off. You never get the credit for anything. You don’t have time for laundry. You try to pick out the most non-smelliest clothes out of the laundry. Wear it again. Go to work again. No one ever remembers your name. No one even knew your name in the first place. You get told to do this, then yelled at for doing that. Or not doing that. Do it again tomorrow. Don’t like it again tomorrow. Hate it again tomorrow.

That’s scary to me. And I’ve felt this way several times recently. And you know it’s not about the money. I’m not afraid of the long hours, or the hard work. I was practically born to be a leader amongst the slaves. I love what I do. You know I do. Or apparently, I usually do.

So I don’t like the way I’m feeling right now. I’m usually at my most natural when I’m cooking and feeding and dealing with food. Your job is not supposed to be your life, but for me (insert violin here), food is my life. I don’t (usually) consider it a job. But I don’t even cook for myself anymore, and these days, I cook even less for my friends. In fact, I don’t even have the time to go over to their houses so that they can cook for me.

I’m not sure what to do. The Professor tells me to back away for a bit until something comes to mind, that while I have the time, to not force anything now and enjoy something else in the meanwhile. Which is probably a good idea. I don’t want to hate what I do. If this is even a glimpse of what it’s like to be manic depressive or bipolar, I hope to never experience either on a diagnostic level. And I hope that I’m always sensitive to those who are, because it’s not a fun ride, and not one you can prevent, either.

I want to be happy doing this. I used to be happy doing this.

Haters Gonna Hate

Anyone who knew me senior year in high school knew that I didn’t really care where I went to college, as long as they gave me enough money to go there. With the possibility of financial aid, scholarships, loans, and Navy ROTC in hand, I applied to schools all over the nation…with one exception. California.

I didn’t even look at colleges in California. At all. Because everyone from Hawaii goes to college in California. I was not everyone. I didn’t want to go to school in another state with a bunch of people from my own state. Kind of goes against every reason why you’re supposed to go to college, right? Get away from the parents, become independent, make new friends, yaddi yaddi yah. That probably wasn’t going to happen at a school with other island folk. Us islanders can be quite clique-y. I decided to hate California.

Well, Sophia ended up at Stanford. Probably about half of my graduating class ended up somewhere in California. I flew out a couple of times to spend holidays or vacations somewhere with friends or to visit family. The first time I visited San Francisco, it was too city for me. The first time I stepped foot on campus in Palo Alto, it was too fake-palm-tree-lined-roads for me. The first time I went to some Hawaii Club function, I was ashamed by the exclusivity it radiated. I hated being in California. Too many Hawaiians.

Well, just goes to show you how close-mindedness nips you right back in the butt. Here I am, ironically, hitting the two month mark in California, kind of living and trying to work. Am I happy here? Well, I’m not unhappy here. I think that’s a start. So many of you want me to want to be here. So I’m trying, I really am. I’ve found people I like working and being with, and I’d go so far as to say they feel the same way about me. I’m giving it a few months to see if this all works out: San Francisco, the ramen business, making new friends, if I can afford to be here, and/or finding a place to live. If this is where I decide to live.

But that’s why I’m giving it a try first. That’s why I’m doing this year the way I’ve been doing it, to be open to the possibility of opportunities that might be waiting for me to show up and take it. I’m not afraid to take that opportunity and let it go if it ends up not working out. At least I tried. I don’t want to regret not having tried. And that’s why I’m still here right now.

I think the question most frequently asked of me right now is “Ramen?” Many of you question the ramen choice. Is this really what I want to be doing the rest of my life? And to that, silly people, comes the typical Buddhist answer – that nothing is forever. The only permanence is impermanence. I believe in that. I’m here because he trusts me enough to create my own side projects and post things on the menu and listens to what I have to say and the things I suggest. We know different things, but cook in almost similar ways. We spark ideas off each other. I’m honest and critical, and when he doesn’t agree, he’s honest right back. We don't really ever argue exactly, but often tend to discuss at length in fairly loud voices. Whereas I’m willing to zing out mildly unfocused, trying out anything semi-plausible (while retaining my characteristic resourcefulness, of course), he knows what he likes and wants and is able to mold an idea into something direct and tangible. I feel both equal and respected. We work well together. That, and you also know I have a smart mouth. I’d never be able to accept and stay stagnant.

Besides, I just want to make good tasting food. I don’t need to be the fanciest chef on the block. I just want you to come with friends, have a good time, and really enjoy what you just ate. I feel that right now, in this place, I might be doing just that. This past Tuesday, I personally fed both Daniel Patterson and René Redzepi at the Ferry Building Farmers’ Market. Plated their bowls, poured their soup, and walked it out to them. Made a little chit chat. From our outdoor ramen tent. Our little outdoor stand. We’re not even a real brick and mortar restaurant yet. But two of the world’s leading chefs stopped by our tent to eat our food in a city where they could eat anything anywhere. And they wanted our ramen. If that’s not doing something right, I don’t know what is.

So yes, I know. It’s just ramen. But if Chef and his buddies want to eat ramen, then that’s what I’m making for them. Food that people just want to eat.

2011 can begin, but not my year

Wow. 2010. End of the year already.

This year was a bit of a transition point for me. I knew I was officially going to say goodbye to Hawaii. I knew that I would be leaving the island in search for a new home. I knew I would be prepared to go forward and seek and struggle for a bit. I prepared myself and others around me for this, squirreling away money and slowly lessening responsibilities at my various jobs.

What I didn't know was how any of it would turn out. I still don't.

So my goals for 2011 are not quite New Year's Resolutions, because for me, my new year starts on April 28, a Year's Mark from when I started all this.

If you love something, let it go. As cheesy as this saying can be, I find it to be true. Because this year, I left a restaurant, a farm, an underground movement, and a man that loved me. I know this because they all let me go. I left at peace with my decision, and with no regrets. Anyone that has experienced hesitation at leaving will understand the power of this. When the people around you who are supposed to support you make you feel as if you're making a faulty decision, you question yourself and your decision becomes conflicted as well. Not everyone knows how to let go.

I've affectionately been called nomad, crazy, priviledged, inspirational, a great housewife, out of my mind, and risky, amongst other things. I met a guy who told me that even if we were never to speak again, he would've been lucky to have met me. I've had the opportunity to meet an extraordinary array of people and experience the love of old friends. I've said hello to a bunch of new children. Abby calls me the "baby whisperer" for the way I have with kids. I've travelled to different cities and countries, been frustrated many times, and brazenly attempted new things. I even thought I might've fallen in love. As hard as it is for me to express in words what it is I'm looking for, I've never been called stupid. That is what I consider true support of a journey.

As a traveller, you learn to open up faster and trust more freely. The limited amount of time you have to create an impact forces you to become a more complete person expressed in a shorter duration of interaction. All of these people still made me feel loved. All of these people still let me go.

My cooking friends have also been up to a lot this year. Some left their jobs. Some got fired. Some got married. Some had children. Some started new businesses: a pop-up ramen stand, custom wedding cakes, and a grilled cheese truck, to name a few. One is getting divorced. It's hard to be married to a chef if you're not one yourself. The hours never seem to be as long to us as they are to them. I was just talking to a friend today who said that everyone wants to be us, everyone wants to be like us, otherwise culinary schools wouldn't be filled to capacity. Without ever knowing or realizing the full impact of what all of the unspoken compromises really mean. Few ever really make it to become what we know as a "cook", but the dream of cooking lives on because it's "fun" and "so cool", and everyone wants to be one.

Including me. It's still fun, and cool, and so my dream lives on. Here's to 2011.

Back in SF, December 2010

I’ve thought about hapa ramen a lot since the day I left them and all the while I was travelling. I talked to the friends I was visiting in other states about them. I told people who were about to visit San Francisco to try them. I kept in touch with both the owner and his sous chef. I followed their events online. Even friends of friends started to follow them.

And so three months later, after having cruised the east coast and parts of Central America…I find myself back in San Francisco. With all the searching I’ve done in other places, I thought that maybe something that occupied so much of my thought should be given a chance.

So I came back to give it a chance.

Well, I’ve barely been back in San Francisco for a week and already I’ve been media-spotted with them in the Mission http://www.7x7.com/eat-drink/saturday-night-hapa-ramens-new-stand

Looks like we’re off to a good start :)

My $50 Tax-Deductible PSA for the Year

My good deed of the day...and just in time for the holidays!

ERSLA is doing their Water Filter Campaign for Safe Drinking Water, with a goal of 500 filters by Christmas…or at least the New Year. At the time of this posting, they were only at 105. Come on now. My cheap ass could only buy them one, so feel free to join my club, but by all means, also feel free to be as generous as you like. 'Tis the season.

Your donation of $50 pays for the filter, cleaning supplies, training, transportation, delivery, education, and follow-up visits on how to use them. ERSLA will make sure to send a note and photo to the gift donor as well.

Go to http://www.ersla.org/ and click the “Donate Now” button to send through PayPal or send a check to their sister organization at:

BFF/ERSLA c/o Bend Fire Department
Condega Project
1212 SW Simpson
Bend, OR 97702

For more information email info@ersla.org or call 478-787-4889.

Panama City, November 2010

Disclaimer: This post is strictly based on my experience in Panama City. I’ve been told that the rest of the country is much different, more agreeable, cheaper, relaxing, beautiful. And I’ve said it before, I’m not a city girl, but I’ve come to believe the city is where the heart beats. The soul you can find elsewhere, but if it doesn’t work in the city, how’s it supposed to work elsewhere?

I didn’t think I was being cocky, but maybe I was. To think I could just pick up and leave and land and live happily ever after without a plan in the world. I came to Panama so “it” would come find me. I came to Panama to fall in love. Do I love it here? Sometimes. Would I come back? Without a doubt. Could I live here? Still in deliberation.

I did not come prepared. I did not come to work with a particular restaurant in mind. I did not understand the distances I would need to cover on the primitive bus system I would come to rely on. I did not come with friends made, or contacts lined up. I did not know I was coming to live in a house full of older, white American men. I didn’t know I was going to hate what the general ex-patriate community has become. I didn’t know they would barely speak the language and defend what they do with “Well, that’s just Panama for ya”.

I don’t want to be that person.

Part of this is no doubt my fault. What I’ve always hated most about the general American is their sense of self-entitlement. That they deserve to be treated better, that they believe everyone should speak English, that they expect and demand courtesy and respect everywhere they go. And almost every older, white American man in Latin America? Living off their retirement and here for the young, beautiful, sassy yet subservient Latina woman, trained from birth to take care of their man and recognize white money. Most of them don’t speak English. I recognize I am painting a very general sort of picture.

I also recognize that it’s my fault that I ended up in a house full of this type of American. And so I recognize that all of the above is true. A lot of my experience here was undoubtedly affected by this.

Panama lacks a culinary culture. There’s no real roots anywhere. They love fast food or street food, and then for those who can afford it, really expensive food. Fine-dining level. I never went to those places. No one ever recommended them. Which means regular people don’t eat there. I am a regular person.

I don’t see an awareness of food, or farm, or land. If I had to survey a favorite vegetable, it might be the plantain. The city is developing at such an extraordinary rate, perhaps pure economics haven’t allowed for extracurricular thought. Much like the music program getting cut from schools, culinary thought is on the back burner. We’re surrounded on all sides by ocean, and even the seafood culture doesn’t seem to go beyond corvina (kind of their national fish) and a small Mercado de Mariscos.

"A donde el corazón se inclina, el pie camina."
A literal translation of this popular saying would go something like “Where the heart goes, the feet follow”. I like this interpretation because for me, it means that I’m allowed to settle in one place when I feel the time is right. But that I’m allowed to pick up and leave when it’s not. Very appropriate, as I think I’m approaching a moment which may count as one of those right times.

Although I spent a lot of time alone, I did meet quite a few people here, and the one thing I notice about all of them is that they’re very well versed in their country’s history. Like, a LOT. They can walk by any statue, park, or street and explain why it’s called this, when it was put there, or for what reason it happened. It’s something I’ve consistently noticed throughout all of Central America. Apparently every Latin American child took their national history class seriously, and to this day, can spit out volumes of information I couldn’t ever dream of doing about the US of A. I even took the AP course.

But then again, I don’t think I’ve ever said that I'm from the States. I tell them I’m from Hawaii. And then, I realize, that I too can drone on for days about the island I call my home, with our unique culture and distinct history. I’ve always been proud to be from Hawaii, to the point where I’ve been made fun of because I get mad when they call me gringa. Oh, helllllll no, I’m no gringa, I’m a hawaiiana. See this black hair and dark skin? Yeah. Hawaiiana.
A pretty famous chef I used to work for once (gulp, twice actually) told me that I needed to focus on forming an end goal, in order to give my life and career a direction. That even though I was a fast learner, got along with people, could adapt quickly and lead a team…if I wasn’t taking the right steps to get toward that goal, then I was just wasting time becoming the Jack of All Trades, but the King of None.

Back then, I wanted to be the Jack of All Trades. I thought it would make me a more valuable employee. But now...I think I finally understand.

"Caminante no hay camino, se hace camino al andar." see Panama slideshow here