November 2005 Archives

The best gifts are often modest. Six orange-red persimmons, at peak ripeness, arrived in the hands of an old friend. "I thought you might like these."

I take my friends for granted.

These persimmons are perfect specimens, little round reminders that good friends are priceless. I need to do something worthwhile with them, more than just eating them one by one. Any tips for persimmons?

Don't be lulled by the simple appearance of these candy squares. Although modest in form, they are the unsung stars of the Christmas plate, quickly devoured while more ornate cookies sit neglected. If smooth were a flavor, it would want to be called penuche (pronounced peh-NOO-chee). This brown sugar fudge melts in your mouth, beating traditional chocolate fudge hands down for richness.

My great-grandmother Nana used to make penuche long, long ago. My only memories of her look suspiciously like faded polaroids. Are those real memories, or remembrances of pictures I've seen? Fortunately for all of us, Nana passed the recipe to my grandmother, who in turn taught my mother. This past week, I called mom and asked her for the recipe. "I don't know if I'll make it this year," she explained. "It takes a lot of stirring, so I need to make it when I've got help around... Everyone loves it though." The tone in her voice tells that she's reconsidering as we speak.

Anecdotal reports date the introduction of penuche to the turn of the 20th century, with a peak in popularity in the 1920's to 1940's. Home candy-making has steadily declined since World War II to the point where few people seem to have heard of it today Oh, if they only knew what they were missing.

Penuche

These directions are nearly verbatim from my mother, and must be followed exactly. While making this batch, I read up on candy making in On Food and Cooking: The Science and Lore of the Kitchen and discovered that every instruction from this family recipe is guided by clear scientific principles all leading towards the smoothest, most predictable penuche.. Who knew the matriarchs in my family were such precise chemists?

• 1 c. brown sugar
• 2 c. granulated sugar
• 12 oz. evaporated milk (1 can)
• 1/8 t. baking soda
• 1 t. vanilla
• 1 c. walnuts or pecans, chopped (optional)

Bring the sugars, milk and baking soda to a boil in a saucepan over medium high heat, stirring constantly. If you let your guard down for even the briefest moment, the penoche notices and promptly scorches. It's obstinate that way.

Continue heating until the temperature reaches 236 degrees on a candy thermometer. If you don't have a candy thermometer, you can heat to a "soft ball." A few drops of candy into a glass of cold water should result in a ball that feels spongy and malleable to the touch. Stir frequently while heating to soft ball, but you don't have to obsess as much as when heating to the initial boil. By my clock, it took 25 minutes of stirring from start to soft ball stage. I can understand my mother's pause-- that's a long time to stir in front of a steaming pot of candy.

Set the saucepan on a wire rack to cool and don't disturb it until the temperature has dropped to 110 degrees, or as my mom described it, "you can barely hold your hand to the bottom of the pan." Stirring it too soon causes a grainier candy. When the candy has cooled enough, beat in the vanilla and nuts. Beat like mad for at least five minutes, or until the mass holds shape. This beating is crucial for the silkyness. Don't beat too long though or the mixture will become too stiff.

Turn the candy out in to a buttered 8x8 pan and press it down with a buttered spatula. Cut into squares when completely cool. Savor.

For more information on the science of making penuche, please see the followup prompted by comments below.

This post was submitted to the Virtual Cookie Swap hosted by The Domestic Goddess and Il Forno.

The American version of Thanksgiving is something of an adopted tradition in the Hawaiian islands, not becoming an official holiday until the last century. Long before the Pilgrims celebrated their first Thanksgiving, Hawaiians were celebrating a harvest festival of their own called Makahiki, culminating with a feast that could last as long as a week. People in the islands understand how to throw a good party, then and now.

Without further ado, the top ten reasons Thanksgiving is better in Hawaii.

10. Poi - This paste made from pounded taro root is hardcore comfort food.

9. The Weather - While most of the country bundles up against the cold, it'll still be warm enough to wear shorts to dinner.

8. Poke - No occasion is complete without poke.

7. Easy Travel Regardless of whose house you're at for Thanksgiving, the drive home is a short one. (We live on an island!) No two or three hour treks back from Grandma's house.

6. Portuguese Sausage Stuffing - One word: yum.

5. After Dinner Walks - Take a stroll after the Big Meal... on the beach.

4. Evening Ukuleles - People are stuffed and lazy. Conversations are slowing down. Then out come the ukes for laidback sing-a-longs. Eventually, "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" gets played, and it sounds good every single time.

3. Mixed Plate - American, Japanese, Portuguese and Chinese foods sit on the table alongside local specialties, and no one really notices how unusual that would be in many parts of the country. That's just normal here. We're so blessed.

2. Extended `Ohana - Even in a place known for its aloha, Thanksgiving brings out the warmth of people. I've lost track of the number of different families that have invited us into their homes for Thanksgiving meal, treating us as if we were their own blood. With most of our own family far away, that means a lot.

1. Kalua Turkey - Rub a turkey down with Hawaiian salt, wrap it well in ti leaves then bake it in an imu. The result is all the flavor of smoked turkey, but with the juiciest bird you will ever taste. The meat melts in your mouth, and you can't help keep picking at the platter even after dessert has come and gone.

There you have it, ten reasons Thanksgiving here rocks. Anything I missed?

Despite the tongue-in-cheek list above, I do understand that there are fantastic Thanksgiving celebrations in other places besidse Hawaii. Consider it my own way of showing thankfulness more than a slight against your own home. Where ever we are, today is a day to spend with friends and family, recognizing all the little things for which we're grateful.

Hau'oli Lā Ho'omaika'i!

The exact ingredients for this recipe aren't vital, but the technique is a solid addition to your repertoire. The ti leaves trap the juices inside, steaming the fish as it bakes. When you cut them open at the end to reveal the whole fish, your guests are sure to be impressed.

• 1.5 lb whole `ehu, or whatever fish catches your eye
• Hawaiian salt or sea salt
• scant 1/4 c. mayonnaise
• 1/4 c. crab meat (optional)
• thumb-sized knob of ginger, cut into matchsticks
• 4-5 garlic chive flowers, or substitute scallions, cut into 1 inch lengths
• 4 ti leaves

The original inspiration for this recipe is "Baked Local Boy Mahimahi In Ti Leaves" found in Sam Choy: Cooking from the Heart. I've changed just about everything though, including many of the ingredients, the method of ti leaf wrapping and the fish itself. Feel free to improvise as well. The recipe above serves 2-3 people.

Let's get down to business. Clean and wash your fish thoroughly, then pat dry with paper towels. Rub the fish inside and out with the salt, then coat the outside of the fish with the mayonnaise. (This helps make it moist.)

Lay a single ti leaf down on your work surface, with the stem pointing to your right. Lay the mayo smeared fish on the leaf, then distribute the shredded crab across the top. Scatter the ginger and chives on top of the crab.

Take a second leaf and lay it over the fish in the opposite orientation, with the stem pointing to your left.

Take a third leaf and wrap it like a corkscrew around the fish, curling the first two leaves around the fish as you do, so that they trap any liquids as it cooks.

Take the final leaf and corkscrew it around in the opposite direction. You shouldn't see any gaps between the leaves. Use an additional leaf or two if your fish is large. Finally, use the stems to cinch the ends tight, wrapping them around and tying them off.

Place the ti leaf bundle on a cookie sheet and bake at 350 degrees for about 30 minutes, or until the fish has just barely lost its translucence. I realize that's impossible to check while the fish is wrapped, so start at thirty minutes and just verify that it's cooked when you pull it out.

To serve, cut open the ti leaves and allow your guests to pull directly from the whole fish. The ti leaf bundle looks great, and they make it easier to flip the fish when the top side has had most of the meat removed.

Let's say you've read up on the amazing utility and versatility of ti leaves and are now itching to get your hands on some for a recipe. That's when it strikes you--you've never seen ti leaves for sale at the local supermarket.

The best way to get ti leaves is local style: from a friend or "uncle." They grow in people's yards or--and you didn't hear this from me--along the sides of some public roads and parks. (Mālama the plants! Don't take too much.) Look for large, outer leaves, free from major blemishes and with a healthy green color. Grab the stem near where it joins the trunk and pull downwards. Never yank sideways or upwards as this can break the plant trunk.

Most florists will also have ti leaves on hand to sell, already cleaned and ready. It's not as satistfying to buy leaves from the florist, but sometimes convenience wins out. If you live in a different state, don't worry! Banana leaves can be substituted for ti leaves without adverse effects. Check the freezer case of larger Asian supermarkets for bundles of frozen banana leaves.

Now that you have a handful of ti leaves, we need to get them ready for use. It's easiest to wash them with the stem still intact. The stems tend to be dirty and often harbor ants. Once they're all clean, we're going to "de-bone" them to make them more pliable.

Pick up a leaf (lā`i) and hold it in front of you, tip (wēlau) towards the sky and shiny side facing away. Hold your fingers against the bone (`iwi) of the leaf about 1/3 of the way up from the stem (kumu), from the back of the leaf. This sounds confusing, but look at the position of my hands in the photo and imagine where the index fingers are pressing.

Holding the leaf

Bend the leaf forward towards you to crease the bone then bend it sharply away, pushing with your fingers against the bone to cause it to snap and separate from the leaf, trying not to break through the leaf. Run your fingers down the shiny side of the bone towards the stem to cause it to separate from the leaf. It's normal to ruin a few leaves as you practice, but you'll get the knack of it.

Removing the bone

Always prep a few more leaves than you need, because a few will inevitably split or tear along the way. If you don't need every single leaf for your recipe, use the remainders as table decorations or as bedding on a serving platter. If you're not going to use your leaves right away, you can freeze them for later.

Next up: recipes for laulau and baked fish wrapped in ti leaves.

This post is a continuation of my long-neglected Hawaiian luau series.

Thanks to Dylan at Eat, Drink & Be Merry for patiently sharing his mean Photoshop skillz to improve this image.

I've just upgraded the MovableType install running this site, and am running into minor wrinkles along the way. Hopefully the dust will settle soon and I'll be able to pay attention to writing rather than debugging. If you happen to notice any problems, please let me know by mailing alan at this domain. Thanks!

The Liliha area is a rare holdout against Honolulu's pervasive tourism and development. There are no tiki torches, no executive condominiums, no furikake seared ahi, just a neighorhood that has preserved some of its character from a previous generation. Liliha Bakery sits as an anchor right in the middle, serving up baked goods, diner food and their infamous coco puffs.

As you enter the glass doors, you are faced with a choice. To the left are the bakery cases, loaded with an impressive assortment of pastries and cakes. To the right is a long countertop with barstools facing a short order grill. I personally like coming to Liliha Bakery for breakfast at the counter, sidled up among the regulars, then grabbing something from the bakery cases "for the road." Just this morning, I ordered sweet bread french toast ($3.75), a side of bacon ($3.15) and a cup of coffee ($1.10) before picking up a coco puff ($1.15). It's not the best deal around, but the food is reliable and the service is friendly.

But I imagine you really want to hear more about the coco puffs ($1.15/ea or $11.40/dozen). Take a pastry shell, pump it full of chocolate pudding and top with a generous dollop of chantilly. Simple, but decadent and loved by many.

Here's where I ruffle your feathers: the coco puffs are almost too rich for my tastes.

Are you still with me? Please allow me to explain. The puffs are each about the size of a small guava, but with a supersaturation of chocolate-y goodness out of proportion to their size. The first bite is wonderful. The second is good. By the third, I'm wondering if I'm going to be able to finish it. The last bite is taken hastily before I have time to reconsider. I loved it, but it nearly defeated me. That's not to say that you won't be an instant coco puff addict-- most people are. If not, try the lighter haupia malassada, my personal favorite.

Either way, I have a growing conviction that everyone should pay a visit to the Liliha Bakery at some point, if for no other reason than to catch a glimpse of an older era in Hawaii. It's as if a thread strings back through history, connecting to people who were doing the same thing 55 years ago. Of course, it doesn't hurt to pick up a few pastries while you're there...

Other articles about Liliha Bakery you might like:
→ Hawaii's Big-time Bakeries - More information on the history of the bakery and the coco puffs in particular.
→ Liliha Bakery `Onokinegrindz visits Liliha Bakery for coco puffs.
→ Liliha Bakery Writeup at HawaiiStories about the appeal of Liliha.

Liliha Bakery
515 North Kuakini Street
Honolulu, HI 96817
(808) 531-1651
Open Tuesday 6am through Sunday 8pm (24 hours)
Closed Mondays

Used this recipe, letting them do the slow rise overnight in a refrigerator. In the morning, just popped them in the oven and then topped with icing. (The rolls are quite good without the added sugar on top, but I knew the tastes in this house run sweet.)

There is nothing, and I mean nothing, as good as a fresh, homemade cinnamon roll in the morning.

Update 11/16: This is the icing I used.

• 1/4 stick butter, melted
• 2 T milk
• 2 c. powdered sugar, approx.
• 1/4 t. vanilla

Beat ingredients together. Adjust consistency with milk or sugar as needed. Drizzle over still-warm rolls.

Update 11/21: Dylan from Eat, Drink & Be Merry helped finesse the photo to make a better image.

Photo courtesy of Rubber Slippers in Italy.

I made sweet potato and haupia pie for a friend's housewarming party last night, and it was so popular with everyone that the hostess asked me to share the recipe with her. Seriously, people were threatening each other over this pie, completely bypassing the main dinner to make sure they got a piece. I had no idea people would get so crazy over a pie. I'll share the recipe with you, but use it wisely and only under adult supervision.

"Beer is proof that God loves us, and wants us to be happy." - Benjamin Franklin

True, the theology is a bit questionable, but I've always liked that quote. I think Mr. Franklin was on to something...

After a two year hiatus from making beer, we finally started up a new batch last night. The recipe is straight from the home brewer's bible, an American style ale spiced with ginger for the holidays. Right now, the brew is fermenting away, bubbling merrily through the airlock. Next week sometime, we can bottle. Then comes the worst part: the waiting. An ale like this one needs to sit for at least three to four weeks in bottles before it'll be ready to quaff. Where's the happiness in that?!

It's been raining quite a bit on Oʻahu this past week, and few things put me in the mood for soup faster than damp, cool weather. It's hard to get excited about a boiling broth when the sun is beaming outside, but showers and gray clouds beg for me to make all those soups recipes I've been saving up "for a rainy day."

Back when I used to wait tables, our Chef would often prepare Sopa de Albóndigas as part of the staff meal. He was originally from Mexico and had worked his way up the culinary foodchain through hard work, strong management skills and a solid sense for what people want to eat. I think it was comfort food for him, reminding him of times back home. It became a favorite of us all.

My version of Sopa de Albóndigas uses more tomato than Chef's, but hopefully is similar in other respects. Other renditions I've seen use oregano and basil in place of the mint, but I think the mint/cilantro combo comes closest to the yerba buena that should appear in a truly authentic preparation.

• 1 lb. extra lean ground beef
• 1/2 yellow or white onion, minced
• 3 T. bread crumbs
• 1 t. dried mint
• 1 T. fresh cilantro, minced
• 1/4 t. cumin
• 1/2 t. salt
• 1 egg, beaten
• 2 T. rice, uncooked

• 1 T. olive oil
• 1/2 yellow or white onion, chopped
• 3 cloves garlic, minced
• 6 c. beef or chicken stock (I used turkey stock b/c I had it in the freezer)
• 28 oz. can whole tomatoes
• 2 carrots, sliced
• 2 zucchini, sliced
• salt to taste
• 1/4 c. chopped cilantro

• sour cream
• cilantro sprigs

Mix the meatball ingredients then form small (1 cm. diameter) meatballs, rolling them between your palms to shape them. Set aside. Meatballs: check!

For the broth, heat the oil in a stock pot over medium heat, then saute the onions and garlic until soft but not brown. Add the stock and bring to a gentle boil. While it gets there, open and drain the can of tomatoes, reserving the liquid. Coarsely chop the tomatoes and set aside.

Now that the stock is boiling, gently add the reserved meatballs and bring back to a simmer. Add the chopped tomatoes and reserved tomato juice. Let that simmer for 15 minutes. While it's doing its thing, slice the carrots and zucchini. After the 15 minutes have elapsed, add the carrots and zucchini and let the soup simmer for another half hour. Add salt to taste. Stir in the chopped cilantro right at the very end.

Serve garnished with a dollop of sour cream and a few sprigs of artfully placed cilantro. Some people also like salsa, but I don't think the soup needs it. This recipe feeds six to eight as a first course, or four to five as a meal. Thanks Chef, wherever you are!