Smoke and Pickles
Page 16
Pickles are a lot like love stories. They both take time, and you worry that it’s not going to work out, but with patience, there is always a happy ending. Author Laurie Colwin once said, “The best way to feel at ease in the kitchen is to learn at someone’s knee.” I used to watch my grandmother make kimchi when I was a kid. It seemed like endless work, always salting cabbage or grating ginger or packing jars. As soon as the Napa cabbage was done, she’d start on the cucumbers and radishes and garlic chives and perilla leaves. And then she’d work with stranger things still, like dried cuttlefish and wood ear mushrooms and fern bracken. When it was my turn to cook, I mimicked her movements. That’s how I knew I was doing it right, even without recipes. I learned from my grandmother how to wipe the sweat off my brow using the back of my wrist, and that a finger is an instrument for dipping and tasting everything.
I loved my grandmother endlessly. And she loved me back, despite my faults. I once bought a duck from Chinatown and wanted to make a recipe I’d found in a Chinese cookbook. I used every pot and utensil we had in the kitchen, spilled grease and sauce in places no one would think to look (how do you get soy sauce on the ceiling?). The one thing I failed to realize was that ducks in Chinatown are sold undressed (i.e., with all the innards still in them). The cookbook assumed I would be using a dressed carcass (i.e., with the gross stuff removed). I followed every instruction in the recipe to a T. The bird came out shiny and glazed—and distended. I brought it out to the dinner table. Usually dinner was just my grandmother and me, since my parents were working, but we would pretend there was a roomful of guests gathered for a feast. She would fold paper napkins into triangles to look fancy and pour tea. When I punctured the skin of the duck, green intestinal juices squirted out onto my lap. We picked some meat off the other end of the bird and then my grandmother patiently cleaned up my mess while I read through the recipe again and again, wondering where I’d gone wrong.
She had a patience and love that only a widowed grandmother could have for her grandson. Until she met my Jewish girlfriend. Deborah was in the eighth grade, a year ahead of me in school. She wore pastel colors, and under her auburn bangs, she had freckles like sesame seeds that drove me crazy. She’d come over and we’d watch hours of TV while I worked up the nerve to make a move. Meanwhile, my grandmother would tighten the lids on her kimchi jars and hide the reconstituted anchovies; and no way in hell was Deborah getting any of her dried persimmon tea. When Deborah was gone, she’d sit me down and tell me that her only prayer each night was for me to meet a nice Korean girl. That she would be ready to die with joy and serenity once she knew I had made the right choice in a wife. She was not above invoking God. She’d make me touch a Bible when I told her I would. I was thirteen. But my grandmother was a persistent woman. She outlasted Deborah and Sarah and Laurie and . . . , and none of them ever got to her kimchi. Her Bible was worn out at the seams.
Before she died, my grandmother made me promise I’d choose a good wife. I said I would. I knew she meant a Korean wife, but neither of us wanted to say it. I also told her I had just found a great job that would make me rich. I lied. But it made her relax, which meant her pain would go away for a few hours. My grandmother died on New Year’s Day of 1997, the exact same day Townes Van Zandt died. I sometimes dream they are waiting in line next to each other at the heavenly gates. He plays her a song and she tells him how familiar it sounds. “My grandson listened to that song,” she’d say, “always trying to impress some white girl.” Then they’d laugh about it and walk peacefully into the next world.
When it was time for me to tell my mother that I was engaged to Dianne, I gathered my family at a Korean restaurant. She knew what was coming, because I’d never invited my parents to dinner. My mom is easier than most; she is progressive and funny and open-minded. But she is still a mother, and she is still Korean. She had a list somewhere of all the Korean girls I’d dated since high school, and she kept track of them. When she discovered Facebook, it was like it had been invented just for her. She noted my former girlfriends’ stats on index cards like she was recruiting a baseball team. Each time one of them got married, she threw the card away—and with it, another chance at happiness. That night she clutched her handbag extra tight, as if she didn’t want to lose the stray card or two that I knew were still swimming in there.
I told Dianne that whatever happened that night, just keep eating kimchi like there was no tomorrow. When I announced our engagement, all of a sudden everyone was talking in Korean, which we never did. Dianne was so brave and strong and beautiful and patient, and she ate about a pound of kimchi. My mom reacted bravely too. She even smiled. My dad hadn’t smiled at me in ten years, but that night he reached in grinning and hugged Dianne. My mom got quiet, and I could tell she was fighting her emotions. She wanted to find something to like about Dianne, something she could say to welcome her into the family. After a long silence, she looked up at me and said, “She likes kimchi, huh?” She said it in English. And that was how she gave us her blessing.
Now it was my turn to meet Dianne’s family. We drove up to Ferdinand, Indiana. Population: very small and very German-Catholic. I’d say it was a quaint town, but quaint implies cozy, and cozy implies imperfection, and Ferdinand is perfect. The lawns are configured in precise right angles, the modest houses are spotless, and the cars in the driveways seem like they’ve been detailed with a Q-tip. This was Dianne’s world—humble yet resourceful. There is nothing more resourceful than cabbage. What is more brilliant than sauerkraut, the marriage of cabbage and salt and ingenuity? For a town whose mailboxes read like a Bavarian phonebook, sauerkraut is the ultimate expression of pride.
Dianne’s sauerkraut is Kippenbrock sauerkraut, which means it comes from her mom’s side of the family. They have a secret cupboard full of it—how many jars, only her mom knows. The shelves are lined with identical 8-ounce Ball jars with a small circle of muslin just underneath each lid to protect the fermented, crunchy goodness underneath. When we visit Dianne’s family, it’s usually with all her sisters and brother and nieces and nephews. We dine on undersalted turkey, mashed potatoes, overcooked green beans, ham sandwiches, sausage links, and a curious aspic they call “salad,” which is lime Jell-O made with Sprite, with chunks of walnuts, pineapple, and cream cheese floating in it. But there’s never sauerkraut at the dinner table. As if it’s too precious to share. As if we haven’t earned it yet.
Dianne’s mom presides over these family dinners with a watchful eye. She allows the banter to go on around her, but every so often she will toss in a remark a few minutes delayed, just to make sure everyone is on their toes. Not a thing gets by her, not the gossip about the neighbor’s bad loans, not the inaccuracies in the Ferdinand News, not even the coded messages in the pamphlet of prayers printed by the local church.
The first time I tried her sauerkraut, I asked her if there was any juniper in it. I must have sounded like a rube. To me, it had anise notes and a garlicky must, followed by cider and yeast with a hint of clove. She looked at me with pity. Sauerkraut is cabbage and salt. But it’s not just any cabbage, it’s cabbage grown in the backyard by Dianne’s dad, tended to lovingly and in exactly the same manner for generations. I asked Dianne’s mom for the recipe once. I actually took out a pencil and paper. Let’s start with the amounts. She said, “It’s about as much as you can carry in your arms. Then you shred it thin.” “How much?” I asked. “A tubful or two.” “Salt?” I said. “As much as it needs and then you let it sit for a while until it’s ready, you see. Then the important part is you have to pack it and punch it down. Then after a while you see how much juice it makes. And then you’ll know when it’s ready.”
Smart lady.
Dinners with Dianne’s family are never long-winded affairs. They are condensed and scripted. There is no unnecessary lingering. As each family member leaves, Dianne’s mom carefully hands out jars of sauerkraut. It seems random—most get one jar, some get two, others get
none. No one ever makes a fuss about it; they take what she gives them and that’s that. I’ve never been able to figure out her system—I’ve stopped trying. Only she knows how many jars are left, and she controls the allocation. In different times, she would have been an empress.
When I made that important first visit to Ferdinand, I came with a letter I’d written to Dianne’s parents. I read it to them in their living room. I told them how much I loved their daughter and how I wanted to spend my life with her. I asked for their permission. They gave me their blessings, but, like my parents, they kept their emotions restrained. We had a pleasant dinner and gossiped about everyone in Ferdinand. At the end of the night, as we were leaving, Dianne’s mom gave us six jars of sauerkraut.
Four Seasons of Kimchi
For me, cabbage is kimchi and vice versa. Napa cabbage is the variety used for traditional kimchi—the spicy red version that accompanies every Korean meal. But the word “kimchi” is not the name of this one dish only. Rather, think of the word as a verb. You can kimchi anything: cabbage, cucumbers, radishes, oysters, even fruit. It is the method that matters here: It is the fermentation that makes it kimchi. I am constantly turning things into kimchi. In this chapter, I’ve given four of my favorite ways to make kimchi; they follow the seasons. Each recipe is separated into three sections: the cabbage, the paste, and the guts (which is all the other shredded vegetables and spices that add flavor and texture to the kimchi). Once you read through the recipes, you will understand that the process of kimchi is simply the combination of these three elements—a fourth being time. Once you have mastered that, you are free to go out and explore any kind of kimchi you want. The options really are limitless.
Red Cabbage–Bacon Kimchi (Winter)
The red cabbage gives this kimchi a brilliant color that is all the more attractive during the dark winter months when foods can get very monotone. Try it with bratwurst, Chicken-Fried Pork Steak (page 112), or T-bone Steak with Lemongrass-Habanero Marinade (page 67). Add some spinach or kale to this kimchi, and it’ll work as a first-course salad. The bacon adds depth and saltiness, but it’s just fine without it, if you want to keep this vegetarian. / Makes 1 tightly packed gallon jar
Cabbage
2 red cabbages (4 to 5 pounds total)
½ cup kosher salt
Paste
3 cups water
½ cup sweet rice flour (see note)
¼ cup sugar
Guts
2 small red onions, thinly sliced
12 ounces carrots, grated (use a box grater)
3 green apples, cored and thinly sliced
½ cup Korean chile flakes
½ cup fish sauce
3 garlic cloves, grated (use a Microplane)
A 2-ounce piece ginger, grated (use a Microplane)
3 strips bacon, fried until crisp, drained on paper towels, and crumbled
1Shred the red cabbage by hand or in a food processor and transfer to a large bowl. Sprinkle the salt over the cabbage and toss thoroughly. Let rest for 40 minutes. Drain, rinse, and return to the bowl.
2Meanwhile, make the paste: Combine the water, rice flour, and sugar in a medium saucepan and bring to a simmer, stirring constantly, until the mixture thickens, 1 to 2 minutes. Allow to cool.
3To make the guts: combine the red onions, carrots, green apples, chile flakes, fish sauce, garlic, and ginger in a large bowl with the red cabbage.
4Fold the guts into the cooled paste. Add the bacon and mix thoroughly. Wearing clean latex gloves, mix the guts mixture thoroughly into the red cabbage. Transfer the kimchi to a gallon glass jar or airtight plastic container with a tight-fitting lid. Let stand at room temperature for 24 hours, then refrigerate. The kimchi will be ready to eat in 4 or 5 days, and it will keep for another 2 weeks.
Rice flour, also called glutinous rice flour, is available in Asian markets.
Green Tomato Kimchi (Spring)
I’m always looking for new ways to use green tomatoes—we get so many of them in Kentucky. The green tomatoes give this kimchi a crunchy bite and a spring-like pale green color. The Brussels sprouts, which are a part of the cabbage family, add a delicate cabbage flavor and texture. This kimchi is insanely tasty on crab cakes, served as an accompaniment to pâtés or charcuterie, or paired with Adobo-Fried Chicken (page 82). / Makes 3½ quarts
Brussels sprouts
2 pounds Brussels sprouts, finely chopped
2 pounds green tomatoes, thinly sliced
¼ cup kosher salt
Paste
1½ cups water
¼ cup sweet rice flour
2 tablespoons sugar
Guts
6 ounces daikon radish, grated (use a box grater)
2 garlic cloves, grated (use a Microplane)
A 2-ounce piece ginger, grated (use a Microplane)
1 teaspoon Korean chile flakes
¼ cup fish sauce
¼ cup rice vinegar
½ cup chopped fresh cilantro
1In a large colander, toss the Brussels sprouts and green tomato slices with the salt. Let stand at room temperature for 30 minutes. Drain, rinse, and transfer to a large bowl.
2To make the paste: Combine the water, rice flour, and sugar in a medium saucepan and bring to a simmer, stirring constantly until the mixture thickens, 1 to 2 minutes. Allow to cool while you make the guts.
3To make the guts: Combine the daikon, garlic, ginger, chile flakes, fish sauce, and vinegar in a food processor and process to a chunky puree.
4Fold the guts into the cooled paste. Add the chopped cilantro.
5Wearing clean latex gloves, mix the guts mixture thoroughly into the Brussels sprouts. Transfer to a large glass jar or an airtight plastic container with a tight-fitting lid. Let stand at room temperature for 24 hours, then refrigerate. The kimchi will be ready to eat in 4 or 5 days, and it will keep for another 2 weeks.
White Pear Kimchi (Summer)
This kimchi is vegan-friendly and very mild, as it has neither fish sauce nor chile pepper flakes. It is traditionally served only in summer, and I tend to eat it with cold dishes like shrimp salad or chop it up and add it to a corned beef sandwich. This is also one kimchi that you can serve right out of the container as a salad course. / Makes 1 tightly packed gallon jar
Cabbage
1 large Napa cabbage (4 to 5 pounds)
6 quarts water
1 cup kosher salt
Paste
3 cups water
½ cup sweet rice flour
⅓ cup sugar
Guts
1 cup chopped onions
1 Asian pear (about 10 ounces), peeled, cored, and diced
8 ounces daikon radish, grated (use a box grater)
A 4-ounce piece ginger, grated (use a Microplane)
6 garlic cloves, grated (use a Microplane)
¼ cup kosher salt
2 teaspoons ground coriander
1½ teaspoons ground fennel
1 small head broccoli, trimmed and cut into bite-sized florets
2 red bell peppers, cored, seeded, and cut into ribbons
2 yellow bell peppers, cored, seeded, and cut into ribbons
4 serrano or jalapeño peppers, thinly sliced
½ cup pine nuts
1Slice the cabbage lengthwise into quarters. Cut out the core and discard it. Put the cabbage into a large container and add the water and salt. Let stand at room temperature for 2 hours; drain and rinse.
2Coarsely chop the cabbage into approximately 2-inch strips. Transfer to a large bowl.
3To make the paste: Combine the water, rice flour, and sugar in a medium saucepan and bring to a simmer, stirring constantly until the mixture thickens, 1 to 2 minutes. Allow to cool while you make the guts.
4To make the guts: Combine the onions, pe
ar, daikon, ginger, garlic, salt, coriander, and ground fennel in a food processor and process to a coarse puree.
5Fold the guts into the cooled paste. Add the broccoli, red and yellow peppers, serrano peppers, and pine nuts.
6Wearing clean latex gloves, mix the guts mixture thoroughly into the cabbage. Transfer to a gallon glass jar or airtight plastic container with a tight-fitting lid. Let stand at room temperature for 24 hours, then refrigerate. The kimchi will be ready to eat in 4 or 5 days, and it will keep for another 2 weeks.
Spicy Napa Kimchi (Fall)
You’ll probably recognize this kimchi—it’s the most popular version. Traditional recipes call for adding salted/fermented shrimp, but it’s too difficult to find a consistently good-quality brand; I find that high-quality fish sauce works just as well. The fermenting time is up to you. Some like to ferment kimchi longer to get that stinky, sour flavor—which I happen to love. Shorter fermentation times will give you fresher, crunchier results, though the flavors will seem a bit layered instead of harmonious.
This kimchi is great to eat with fatty meats—pork, beef short ribs, burgers, or hot dogs—and any meat that comes off a grill. / Makes 1 tightly packed gallon jar
Cabbage
1 large Napa cabbage (4 to 5 pounds)
6 quarts water
1 cup kosher salt
Paste
3 cups water
¾ cup sweet rice flour
¼ cup sugar
Guts
1 cup chopped onions
2½ cups Korean chile flakes
10 ounces daikon radish, grated (use a box grater)
A 4-ounce piece ginger, grated (use a Microplane)
6 garlic cloves, grated (use a Microplane)
⅓ cup fish sauce
2 cups chopped scallions
1Slice the cabbage lengthwise into quarters. Cut out the core and discard it. Put the cabbage in a large container and add the water and salt. Let stand at room temperature for 2 hours; drain and rinse.