Hollow Heart Vegetables

A hollow heart may sound like an atrocity when it comes to human beings, but it’s a great quality in a vegetable. Just ask any Chinese person. There is a Chinese vegetable (空心菜) with a name that literally translates into “hollow heart vegetable” because the stalks are hollow. It’s also called “water spinach.” Learn more about it here.

“Hollow heart vegetables” are one of my dad’s favorite foods.  He has told me on multiple occasions (usually while munching away on said vegetable) that he would gladly eat them every day without getting sick of them.

In addition to never failing to bring a smile to my dad’s face, this vegetable has another awesome quality:  It can be converted into two different dishes. I’m invariably pleased when a food serves more than one purpose in the kitchen. For example, lemons can offer juice and zest. Eggs are not just one ingredient but two — whites and yolks — which are wonderful together, but even more wonderful because they can be separated to serve completely different purposes.

My dad was the one who taught me how to make his favorite vegetable into two vastly different (but equally delicious) dishes: one dish from the sauteed leaves, and a second, very spicy dish made from the stalks.

To prepare the vegetable, pluck the leaves off the stems, put them into a bowl, and wash them thoroughly. Then rinse the stems and slice them; since they have “hollow hearts” they turn into little rings once sliced. After they’re cooked, the stems have a crunchy, not tough, texture. The stems make for a spicy concoction that is delicious on top of rice, served alongside their leafy counterpart.

Two-Part Recipe for Hollow Heart Vegetable
Part 1: The Leaves

The leaves from 1 bunch of hollow heart vegetables
1 clove garlic, minced
1 tsp sesame oil (or regular oil, if you don’t have any)
salt & pepper

Instructions: Separate the leaves from the stems using your hands. Wash and chop the stems, and set aside for part 2. Wash the leaves thoroughly in water and drain. Heat a skillet with the oil and garlic until the garlic is fragrant. Toss in the washed and drained leaves. Add salt and pepper to taste, and stir fry until the leaves wilt. Move on to part 2.

Part 2: The Stems
1 1/2 cups chopped stems
1 tsp soy sauce
1 tablespoon Sriracha chili sauce
dash of salt
a few turns of black pepper
1 garlic clove, minced
1 jalapeno, sliced
1 tsp sesame oil

Saute all ingredients together over medium high heat for about 3-5 minutes. The stems should still be crunchy and green; don’t overcook them. Serve with the stir fried leaves with a side of rice.


Genetically Modified Taste Buds

Do you ever wonder what makes a person love or hate a particular kind of food so much? Is it a strictly chemical reaction, our genes, a stigma attached to that food (i.e. insects or frog’s legs), or some combination of all of these?

I think our food preferences are a mixture of nature and nurture.  I have grown to love many of the foods I disliked as a child, but I don’t think I will never get over my aversion to coconut – something my mother says that I inherited from my dad. Actually, nobody on my dad’s side of the family likes coconut.

In November, I visited the aforementioned clan of coconut haters in Taiwan. My aunt was delighted to learn that many of my favorite foods were also her favorites. She exclaimed that it was proof that we were related; it was our blood that made us love red bean, black sesame, and cabbage so much.

Red bean is one of my favorite foods; I would gladly eat it by the spoonful. So would my aunt. And on this trip, I found out that my grandmother loves it, too. She can’t eat a lot of solid foods anymore, but I was happy to see that one of the few edible treats she can still enjoy (in moderation) is red bean mochi — a dessert made from sweet rice flour. It’s soft enough for her to mash between her gums, and she likes sucking on it like candy.

I won’t ever have the privilege of having a traditional, warm-fuzzies relationship with my grandma. I can’t even share a direct conversation with her, since we don’t speak the same language. But when my aunt told her how much I, too, love red bean, my grandma looked over at me with a sweet smile of recognition on her face. I felt closer to her in that moment than ever before.

I know it’s strange, but that day, I felt proud of myself for loving red bean; it was like my taste buds had passed some sort of genetic test with flying colors. Such is the power of food. Which leads us back to the original question: Are our culinary preferences passed down from one generation to the next? I don’t know. But does it really matter? Not really.

Still, if you like mochi, perhaps the chances are high that your family members will like it too. In Taiwan, it’s fairly easy to find street vendors who make mochi from scratch. However, here in America, I’ve noticed that packages of red bean mochi in Asian supermarkets often contain preservatives, since they were shipped from elsewhere.

Avoiding preservatives is always a plus. It’s actually fairly simple to make mochi from scratch. Traditionally, mochi is steamed, but I love the fact that you can make such a seemingly impressive dessert in the microwave.

Red bean mochi - from the microwave.

5-minute Microwavable Mochi

Ingredients
3/4 cup sweet rice flour (mochiko flour)
3/4 cup water
1 tsp vanilla extract (optional)
1/4 cup sugar (optional – feel free to omit if you’re going to fill the mochi with sweet red bean paste)
Corn starch, for rolling out the dough
a plastic knife

Directions
Combine all the ingredients except tapioca/corn starch in a microwavable bowl; stir until smooth. Cover the bowl tightly with plastic wrap and microwave for 5 minutes on high. While that’s happening, sprinkle a generous layer of corn starch on a cutting board or other clean surface. When the mochi is finished heating, it will be opaque and sticky. It shouldn’t be runny at all.

Remove the bowl from the microwave carefully with a towel or oven mitt, since it will be hot. Undo the plastic wrap, being careful to avoid the hot steam as it escapes.

Use a spoon to scoop the mochi onto the prepared cutting board. It will be extremely sticky. Don’t panic if you can’t get it off the spoon. Just do your best. Corn starch will be your new best friend for the next few minutes. Make sure to coat your fingers with it before attempting to handle the monstrously sticky mochi. Cut it into manageable chunks with a plastic knife (amazingly, the mochi doesn’t seem to stick to the plastic much, and it gives a clean cut). You can either eat it like this, on top of ice cream or frozen yogurt (a la Pinkberry), or you can make red bean mochi.

Sweetened red bean paste is basically made by cooking red beans until tender, and then mashing them with sugar into a smooth, thick paste that is similar to the texture of refried beans. You can buy it at the Japanese market, packaged either in a pouch or tin can. I prefer the pouch because if you don’t finish the package, you can store the rest in the fridge. (Hint: It’s surprisingly delicious in oatmeal.)

To make the red bean mochi, simply squeeze some red bean paste onto a flat disc of mochi dough (it’s OK if it’s coated with corn starch) and shape the dough around the filling to form an enclosed ball – kind of like wrapping a dumpling. Unfortunately, you may find that your fingers will get slightly scathed from handling the hot mochi, but it’s easier to shape the dough before it gets too cool. The mochi can be stored in an airtight container for up to 3 days.


Soup and the Simple Life

As a kid, I daydreamed about venturing out on my own and living like one of the Boxcar Children. Once in a while, I would even grab a handful of Cheerios and stow it in my room as an emergency food supply, just in case I ever needed to pack up and leave on a whim.

But deep down, I knew I didn’t really want to run away. For one, I was a wuss. Also, I had a wonderful childhood. Now that I think objectively about some parts of The Boxcar Children (for instance, that the children must comb through the dump for “treasures” like rusty spoons and cracked cups), it sounds like a pretty meager existence. But I was far too envious of their meals to feel sorry for them. Under the spell of Gertrude Chandler Warner’s pen, even the most basic of foods — brown stew, baked potatoes, bread and butter — sounded positively mouthwatering. For example:

“Onions!” Henry shouted, running up to the kettle. “I do like the smell of onions.”
“I like the turnips best,” said Violet.
Jessie took off the cover carefully and stirred in the salt, and Henry sniffed the brown stew. It was boiling and boiling.
“A ladle, of all things!” cried Henry. “Where did you get it?”
“I found a tin cup in the dump,” said Jessie. “We used a long stick for a handle and tied it to the cup with a piece of wire. It makes a fine ladle.”
She ladled out the stew into plates and bowls and put a spoon in each one.
“Oh, oh!” said Benny. “I am so hungry. I must eat my supper!”
The Boxcar Children, Gertrude Chandler Warner

I understand, Benny; I love soup too. One of my favorite soups would have been simple enough for the boxcar children to make, if their boxcar had been located nearby the sea.

You only need three ingredients (besides water and seasonings): fish fillets, dried seaweed, and eggs.

Fish and Seaweed Soup
Ingredients
2 or 3 fish fillets (a white fish like sole or tilapia works well)
2-3 eggs, beaten
1 package dried seaweed/nori
a pinch of instant dashi powder (optional) or salt

Directions
Bring a pot of water to a boil. Reduce the heat to medium. Add the fish fillets and swirl in a few beaten eggs. Once the eggs and fish look pretty much cooked, rip up a few sheets of nori/seaweed and drop them in until they wilt. Turn off the heat. Season with dashi powder or salt, to taste.

Ladle out a bowl for your supper, and reminisce about those childhood days of wanting nothing more complicated than to be living in a plain boxcar, with your siblings at your side.