Cleansing Cucumbers

I needed something healthy and invigorating. 

I'd recently stuffed myself to the brim, eating my way through a weekend in Portland. On Saturday I lunched on Bijou's salad Nicoise, perfectly and minimally dressed though the herbs lacked fragrance and I longed for a few capers. Dinner began with the flaky biscuits piled high in the bread basket at Mother's Bistro, continued with Mother's roasted beet and blood orange salad and ended with her crab cakes. The decor impressed though the service did not, and the food, though slightly flawed, was rich and flavorful. I would return for the biscuits alone. Sunday started with Morning Star's eggs benedict, necessary after the night's libations. 

Back in Seattle, I came home to quietude, flipped through my cookbooks and went on a sunny stroll through Cal Anderson park, running into several neighbors on the way. We chatted on park benches until the shadows crept over us, relegating the sun to slender stripes on the grass and gravel. Still mildly hung over, faintly tired, I craved something light and cleansing. Cucumbers.

I played with David Tanis' Vietnamese cucumber salad, trying out a bias cut on my vegetables, adding rice vinegar and extra ginger, reducing the sugar. The results were flavorful and just short of fiery. I preferred all of my improvisations except for the bias cut. Simply sliced cucumbers make a more manageable mouthful. I garnished the salad with thinly sliced sweet onions and, though pretty, they were more delicious when tossed and marinated with the rest of the salad. I suggest taste over aesthetics on this one. 

After salad came sleep. A new week. A date with a new boy, even. I laughed at myself as I shared camera-phone images of my recent concoctions, lovingly pointing out ingredients like a grandparent naming children in a wallet photo. "I want that," the boy said as he pointed at the cucumber salad with his chopsticks, his gorgeous gray eyes lighting up. I smiled, remembering how the sweet crunch contrasted with the tangy, slightly salty dressing, the bite of onions and peppers. Suffice it to say, I hope to make it again soon. 

Vietnamese Cucumber Salad

Adapted from "A Platter of Figs and other Recipes" by David Tanis

4 large cucumbers

salt and pepper

vietnamese (nuoc mamma) or thai (nam pla) fish sauce

rice vinegar
2-inch piece of ginger, peeled and cut into fine julienne

palm sugar

3 serranos or jalapenos

2-3 limes

mint sprigs

basil sprigs

thinly sliced sweet onion

Peel cucumbers, cut them lengthwise in half and slice into half-moons. Place in a large bowl, add salt and pepper to taste, a dash each of fish sauce and vinegar, the ginger and a tablespoon of palm sugar. Toss well and let sit for at least 5 minutes.

David suggests finely chopping the chiles and adding them to taste by the spoonful, but I prefer them thinly sliced and added with a bold liberality. Add the onions, douse with freshly-squeezed lime juice and toss again. Cover and refrigerate till serving.

Just before serving, add a fistful of mint and basil leaves, roughly chopped or perhaps stacked, rolled and sliced into a pretty chiffonade. Taste and adjust the seasoning, adding more lime juice, fish sauce or salt as necessary. Though I halved this and enjoyed it as a hefty meal for one, Tanis serves it as a side to wild salmon. 

Portland with Pops: Part 1

I took the train to Portland, eager to meet my father in the middle-ground city for a weekend. He looked surprisingly small in his fleece cap when he met me Friday night at the Amtrak station. He stood to the side, as I knew he would, out of the way of the pouring masses and the meeting people who clogged their path.

Every experience with my father, almost as far back as I remember, begins with a greeting in a place of public transportation. It's as if he met me at a bus stop when I was born, a small suitcase in my baby fist.

He looked small, as I said before. He'd lost weight, as well as the desire to throw it around. Our interactions are so different now that I'm an adult and he doesn't hold the power over me he once did. Nor does he want to. Trading small kindnesses, he gave me rye bread and blackberry honey, an amber comb suspended deliciously in the jar, in exchange for homemade apple sauce. On the drive into Portland, he picked up 60 pounds (plus a few higher quality pint jars) of honey for use in making mead. My father, Aleric, acts much as his name implies, which is to say he behaves as if accidentally and erroneously transported from a past era.

When I was young, from the ages of 9-11, and lived with him every other week, I had to become accustomed to an almost Amish method of living (at least for a child of the 80's). When the toothpaste ran out, we would go weeks sprinkling baking soda on our toothbrushes before he bought another tube. We had to whittle our pencils with kitchen knives. He taught my Girl Scout troop how to turn cream into butter, but I have distinct memories of pouring chunky milk on my cereal. When it got really bad, I would just switch to water. The worst part is, we really weren't poor. At all. He just thought things like toothpaste and pencil sharpeners and fresh milk were unnecessary luxuries. He still doesn't believe in hotel beds (always preferring a truck bed or a floor) and doesn't understand why the post office hasn't yet delivered any of his sweet moonshine to my doorstep.

Portland was kind of like a custody week, 13 years after such things existed for my father and I, but much more enjoyable. Of course we spent more time together and ate better than I ever used to on those old occasions. It was always odd to me that he thought he lost me, that he thought my mother took me away, when I spent so many nights in his supposed custody hungry and alone.

This time around, we stayed at his cousin's adorable house in southeast Portland, hiding inside as the rain and wind peaked in stormy delight. The sweet woman, who doesn't drink alcohol or caffeine or utter profanities, bought beer especially for our visit and seemed positively smitten with the resultingly boisterous conversation. The words and laughter and confidence of our companionship escalated and we stayed up chatting, our feet somehow tucked in together on the couch, until my father's bed time.

On Saturday the three of us ventured to Ocean City Seafood Restaurant on SE 82^nd. A review in The Mercury prompted me to go, and I ate the best dim sum of my short-lived life. We had to wait 15-20 minutes for a table at 12:30 on a rainy Saturday, a very worthwhile endeavor. Anxiously watching the carts pass by other tables, my father and I sipped our tea in expectation. The steam cart finally worked its way to our white-clothed table and the server displayed basket after basket as we pointed at random dishes, briefly conferred, and then stilled our grumbling stomachs with the winning fare.

First I dove into the tofu-wrapped veggies, juicy meatball-like mounds of bok choy, cabbage and other unidentifiable ingredients served with a soy-based dipping sauce. The pork shu mai disappeared so fast I barely remember that meaty moment of heaven, but we all made sure to savor the fantastic shrimp noodles. Rolling the fresh pasta around in my mouth, I delighted in their delicate taste and texture, the shrimp in no way rubbery. My father ate an inordinant amount of the pungently flavored rice, wrapped carefully in banana leaves. Hum bao melted in my mouth, the lightest, whitest dough hiding a sweet dollop of barbecue pork. My father interrupted my creamy scallops to blurt out "That's the most succulent potsticker I've ever had." Indeed, the large hearty dumpling hid a juicy interior behind the thick dough layer. I think it actually squirted at him. A salty sauce brought out the flavor.

For dessert, we dined on egg custard, superior to the runny versions I've had in Seattle, but slightly overcooked and served in too much phyllo dough. The real triumph was the sticky sweet sesame buns. I wish I could have sampled more dessert dishes, but there just wasn't room inside of me. On our way out, I longingly eyed the cart full of buns (so many buns!), some glazed, some with a crackly cover, wondering what delectables might burst forth upon biting.

Ocean City Seafood definitely won over our hearts and gullets. It's a pretty classy joint, decked out in chandeliers and nice fixtures, though you might not know it from the outside. From what I understand, dinner can get pricey, but we made out like bandits at $10 per person.

We digested over a wet walk through the neighborhood and picked persimmons from an inviting tree. Back in our weekend haven, we sipped on more tea with honey, relishing our sweet hot drinks together. Together and happy, I'm not sure why it took us so long to get here. Perhaps because we're both trying to make up for past mistakes.

CA Cemetery

I'm waiting for my big chance to man the emergency exit, but as many times as I've read the pamphlets and eyed the overhead roof where the oxygen mask pops down, I'm glad it won't be today. In my head I picture myself with a whistle, commanding women to cast off their heels (who wears heels to the airport anyway?) and reprimanding anyone trying to salvage overhead luggage. My inflatable vest's blinking light beams hope for the needy and underaged flyers, though our feet are secured on dry land, probably somewhere in Oregon's Willamette Valley. I'm sure the dream is better than reality. I'm sure my own oncoming emergencies aren't nearly as planned-for or well-executed. 

The plane touches down and I gear up, ready to fight my way through LAX to meet the Queen B curbside. Fighting, it turns out, isn't required. So I wait my place in line politely, containing myself until I'm safe inside the Queen B's hive of a car. Hugs, then driving, and finally, when reality sinks in and we can't contain our excitement, screaming and an impromptu stop at a Cuban restaurant for mojitos. Back at her place, B and I quickly fall into our old routine: horror movies, frozen yogurt, reading side by side with noses buried in books, talking excitedly over drinks, and more horror movies. 

Letting the hours drip slowly into languid days, we bask on the beach, getting sand between the pages of our paperback books. The late afternoon wind chills our arms and whips our hair, so we keep our bathing suits on and head back to her apartment for a soak in the jacuzzi. This is vacation. After 5 days, we drive south to Orange County.

Entering Irvine, I lose myself in the wasteland. I know these roads and stout 1-story businesses are some one's neighborhood spots, some one's salary, but it's someone else, and I can't see any beauty in this washed out, hazy concrete town. This is the real return, and always bittersweet. Years ago I used to fly in to John Wayne airport with my backpack, looking for my dad in the crowd, back when he was allowed past security. Mildly depressed, missing Seattle, but relieved to be away from school, I approached these trips tentatively. Yet here I am again, backpack in tow. 

"It's someone else's cemetery now," I think, driving down Beach Blvd. The said cemetery sits across the street from a Wienerschnitzel and a Walmart, and I remember wandering through its white stones and manicured grass when I was 16. I would actually prefer walking through it to driving past it, but the Queen B and I zoom toward PCH on a hunt for In-N-Out. Animal-style really is what a hamburger's all about, but that's not my cemetery either. 

In Seattle I can at least limit myself to eating Dicks only a few times a year, but I doubt I would have the same willpower if I lived walking distance from an In-N-Out. Wait, what am I talking about? Nothing in Southern California appears to be walking distance from anything else. Except the cemetery, from which the dead can cross the street to purchase 99¢ corn dogs and rolls of toilet paper. 

Saying good-bye to B is hard. 

I spend the next 3 nights on my brother's couch, the faux suede surprisingly comfortable. The birthday card I sent him hangs on his refrigerator, the door's single decoration held in place by its single magnet. I read my inscription several times before opening the fridge to look for salvageable food. Joy of Cooking sits open on his kitchen counter. He brags about owning an older edition, one with descriptions and drawings on how to skin and cook a squirrel. Don't ask me what a lawyer needs with a recipe for squirrel. His car is broken and we walk to the grocery store, over overpasses, under underpasses. I admire that he's the only person in Orange County who walks. But I'm still confused. 

"Why do you still live here?" 

"I doubt I'd find another place that has all the elements I'm looking for." It sounds too thought out, like something our father would say. 

"What elements?" I wonder, noting the lack of earth, wind, fire or water on the freeway. 

I don't get a response. 

I'm lost in Super Irvine, the over crowded but amazingly stocked Persian grocery store. Todd waits at the meat counter, a number in his hand and his eye on today's low low price of beef tongue. The lamb shanks and shoulders look good, I say. I have a great lamb recipe, I say. It may take four hours, but we can wait, eat late, pass the time. Todd nods, doesn't hear, orders the beef tongue. I've had beef tongue twice, both times at Quinn's, and had since sworn it off. The dry, frail, falling-apart meat required heaps of mustard, and I relished my side of cornichon pickles more than the main dish itself. 

Back home we unburden our backpacks of their low-cost bounty. Todd boils the tongue with halved lemons and onions, allowing the meat to tenderize and soak up some flavor and acidity. After an hour and a half he removes the skin (remind me to buy that boy a good paring knife) and chops it into manageable chunks.

Meanwhile, I caramelize two onions in a large skillet and we set up a board for a game of Stratego. Todd has a tendency to cry out "You've sunk my battleship!" whenever I successfully kill one of his army. Don't be fooled, but the box boldly states that Stratego is not a war game. The bombs, marshals, lieutenants and spies suggest otherwise. 

The onions salted and sweated, I remove the cover and up the heat, browning them with a little sugar. We add the beef, browning the tender meat before adding bell pepper and squash. In retrospect, I would have cooked the bell pepper with the onions, caramelizing them from the beginning. We worried that there wouldn't have been enough room in the pan to properly brown the meat, but we should have just removed the veggies when sweet and slightly burnt and then incorporated them again at the end. Ah well, the roughly chopped tomatoes hit the pan last and we use their acidic juices to scrape up the frond on the bottom of the pan. We scoop the hash into Todd's familiar, glazed ceramic bowls and eat while blowing up each other's scouts, detonating each other's bombs and capturing each other's flags. Actually, Todd captures my flag. Five times. 

The beef tongue exceeds all my expectations. The meat is tender and tastes of lemony-oniony brightness, the vegetables are soft and sweet, but the blackened bits, my favorite part, crackle with flavor. We settle into the couch, the generous guest bed, and watch TV with our feet on the coffee table, chatting through commercials and sometimes during shows. Our distant and recent pasts hang in the empty space between us, ominous, waiting to be spoken about in fits and starts. We begin in small, carefully spaced intervals. This is why I'm here, in my hometown. Otherwise the distance between our voices, far-reaching tentacles they may be, is never fully traveled. 

To Wine and To Wed

Entangled grape vines lined the entrance to their eternity. I had visited Areus Inn earlier in the day, before the wine tasting and lunch and the peak of the heat. We hung paper lanterns over the bar and strung tiny lights through the trees and filled glass vases with dried lavender, the bride, her sister, and I. I wasn't entirely needed, but desperately needed to be present and useful. In the morning, the empty hills seemed peaceful, like the pause between preparation and final action. Like the time between doings when we just seem to be. Now, 5 pm and five wineries in, the crowd of people pulsed with excitement and anticipation. The doing time had come.

I saw the groom briefly to hand off the Okanagan ice wine, carefully transported across the border and passed along a relay line of hands. Without it, my hands were empty. The bride, of course, hid inside until her moment. We milled about until finally, every person in place, we sat beneath the sun with shining faces and fidgeting hands. We, the audience of their affection, watched the bride walk the grassy aisle toward her bearded beloved.

Oh, how we ladies love those bearded men.

Like two pillars, the pastor said, they stood apart. I liked that. I liked the wheat field altar and the church of rolling hills, and the sanctity of the sun. After the simple ceremony, we stood under the light-strung trees, sipping Mountain Dome brut, or Argyle if we were lucky enough to be in the bridal party, waiting until the shade crept over our tables before sitting down to dinner. Once tucked into our meal, the wine kept pace with the plates.

The Okanagan ice wine proved a perfect complement to the wedding cake, certainly the best I've ever tasted. Satiated, we let the sun set behind our backs, we allowed the light to slip between the leaves, beam briefly between the tree trunks and disappear.

I had come to Walla Walla for their wedding, but a little wine tasting proved the perfect side dish to the weekend entree. Bugs and I visited once before, quite the to-do two months back. We stayed at Girasol Inn where the breakfasts were large and the beds soft, perfect complements to a whirlwind wine tour. Budget Inn was more my speed for this solo venture. Poor bugs had to slave away at the same wine shop that employs the groom.

Back then, the highlights of our stay were Abeja, Buty and Waters. Waters winery is an essential stop when visiting Walla Walla, and I'm always surprised how few people in Seattle are familiar with it. For this second trip, I joined forces with someone a little more capable of driving than myself. Revisiting Waters was a must, and I was blown away by their Loess. At Northstar, we agreed on the Columbia Valley Merlot as a favorite, though it was the cheapest of the three Merlots offered and grown in the least prestigious vineyards. One more winery, my companion said, and then he said it again. Time ticked toward the ceremony, and my planned hour to "do myself up" was whittling down to 15 or 20 minutes. But Tru was worth it.

Tucked away downtown, the odd little tasting room occupies the back of a retail store, the entire set-up clearly aimed at ladies such as myself. Chunky, candy-colored belts dressed up displays and draping dresses lined the racks. I was impressed with the selection of clothing, clearly chosen with a playful attitude. And what better companions to a shopping spree than blanc de blanc, viognier and gewurztraminer? The bubbly lit up my mouth with a shower of fine, delicate bubbles, and tasted deliciously of green apples, but I thought it was overpriced at around $35. The frangrantly floral viognier was a steal, and I snatched up a bottle along with the gewurz. Undecided if I liked it or not, I couldn't deny that it was interesting. Really, it was weird as shit, with a petroleum nose and palate that wasn't sweet in the least. I needed to give it a second, more focused tasting.

Later, back in the fields, after dark set in and the elders went to bed, a live band set up by the pool and the newly weds danced to Red Red Wine. While some joined them, others stripped off their finery to dive in. Such a relief, after the hot dry day, the hours of drinking and social pleasantry. They baptized themselves in youth and abandon. Emerging from the pool, shivering and wet, they just drank more wine for lack of a towel and danced and embraced people until the whole party was a little damp. The night nodded yes, and eventually even the bride soaked her polka dots and pearls.

The celebration continued long after I left. I think it's still going.