Washoku // Leek Miso & Butter

There are a lot of different ways to define balance and an equal number of ways to test it. Some ways are easier to define than others. Physically, for example: jumping a horse, walking a tightrope, holding the warrior pose in yoga without falling on your face. Those are clear to me. Other manifestations, less so--mental balance, for instance, is something I'm still figuring out. Some things I hope never to have to figure out, like the dichotomy of 'work and play,' because I hope to always have a playful approach to my work.

When it comes to food, the differences between notions of balance among cultures are striking. In France, the evening meal follows a fixed pattern--so hallowed it has become an item on the UNESCO World Heritage list. First la salade, then le(s) plat(s) principaux, all of it served with a generous glass of wine; after, fromage, a piece of fruit, and finally, a piece of chocolate or a dessert. In many Southeast Asian countries, most meals are served family style, with plates of raw vegetables, fresh herbs, sauces, and wedges of citrus put on the table so diners can season dishes to their liking. That's the reasoning behind the little dishes of bean sprouts, Thai basil, cilantro, and lime that come out with steaming bowls of phở, or the plates of iced mustard greens served alongside spicy dishes at Pok Pok here in Portland.

onwards »

/uncommons/

I've come to associate summer in Oregon not with heat, but with tempestuousness. This time last year I was building snowmen by the side of Crater Lake. While my parents were here last week, it was Maryland levels of hot. And this week, it's been nothing but showers and two sweater weather. I should probably be sacrificing more goats to the thunder gods.

Yesterday the storms cleared for a gorgeous afternoon of white-rice-plump clouds, the sun as bright as a golden quail yolk resting atop a bed of tobiko, with a slight breeze as crisp as the cool saké served at Bamboo. (I might still be dreaming of that sushi.) I went with a group of the lingering members of /uncommons/, the supper club I'm a part of at Reed, and the planning for our upcoming event menu was accomplished in twenty minutes--we four women were nothing if not efficient. The rest of the evening was an unbroken stream of magical conversation, interspersed with round after round of magical plates: river-fresh nigiri, sweet pork belly steam buns, wagyu brisket so soft it melted on the tongue, inari...the sauce from the 'potato killer' imo koroshi was so fingerlickin' good that we stubbornly kept a piece of yam on the plate so they wouldn't clear the dish and thus rob us of the sauce.

More than anything, though, the night was a reminder of why I'm so grateful to have met these girls in the first place. If I'd never joined /uncommons/--by mere chance, total coincidence, during an alumni event--my life would be so different right now. It seems weird, but it's been a total game-changer to have people around as--and even more--obsessed with cooking as I am; it makes me feel saner by comparison. These people are amazing individuals, and we never would have met were it not for food.

onwards »

Okonomiyaki, As You Like It

When I got back from Paris in January, I moved into a beautiful old Victorian replete with welcoming housemates, an overgrown garden, and two of the best cats in the universe. My attic room was tiny, but I scoured Craigslist for tiny furniture to make it work. I thought I was done, through with boxes and contorting long dressers through narrow doorframes--except last week's heatwave and some domestic musical chairs have sent me packing down a flight of stairs. As I sit in two sweaters in my unfinished new room, snacking on sugar snap peas scooped up in a sweltering daze, those ninety degrees seem a distant memory.

onwards »

Parents, Portland, Le Pigeon

The glorious part about having my parents come to town is that they feed me I can take them to all of these decadent extravagant delicious restaurants. They landed two Saturdays ago from three thousand miles away, delayed by an engine failure that allowed me to dally an extra hour at the Portland farmers market (to which I took them a week later; they were delirious with envy and, perhaps, the strain of lugging seven plants on the handlebars of their borrowed bicycles).

After introducing them to my housemates and my house--which my mother would proceed to spend the next seven days mentally renovating into a four-star establishment and physically restoring to something akin to the condition it was in before being abused by a rotating cast of college characters--I finally dragged them away from inspecting the smoking detectors and up to Lower Burnside for a bar-side meal at Le Pigeon, preceded by perhaps a few too many glasses of wine down the street at Kir. The sommelier was extraordinarily nice: my mother mentioned my never-ending quest to collect enough wine corks to create a board, and he bagged up the night's assortment for me without saying a word. Also, we sampled about a dozen wines and drank our way through six glasses. My favorite by far was Terra Novo, this feisty little biodynamic red wine from Spain.

onwards »