My Here, 2

Here is a powerful word/concept — a place, a space, a moment, a time, an indicator, a state of being, or even an experience of all of those. Here is also an implicit connection. What is my here? What do I do here? How do I value here? Why here? What connection do I have with here? And so I connect and explore.

Food is a personal epitome of here. I’m almost as fond of the preparation as the consumption, but together they are unbeatable. Many times I make something by the pure whim of desire or the conservative realization of limiting factors. Like available ingredients. But after one has prepared, or even consumed, for so long, you begin to realize there are so many possibilities from the simplest of ingredients.

Today was marked by cold rains and after a quick scamper in the nearby woods, the desired of Udon beseeched me. Flour, water and salt. Check. I weigh out the ingredients. Stir, mix, scrape, fold, press. Soon I have a simple and firm dough.

A memory flashes to one of those childhood moments. I was always good with my hands. Play-Doh and I were soul mates. Dinosaurs were my forte.

The dough is set aside to rest. I ponder for a moment. Wet or dry? Stupid question. Dashi it is. Bonito and kombu. Phew, check. Wait a moment, what’s this. Dried black chanterelles. It’s good to have good friends.

The first time I went mushroom hunting, it sucked. Everything I IDed meant a slow, painful death. The second time some experienced friends took us on the coast. Hedgehogs and golden chanterelles were in abundance. And then, in the deep ravine flanked by redwoods and ferns. On the shadowed slopes we came across the black chanterelle. Black as squid ink and the weird fleshy ear lobe look that all the young chanterelles are wearing these days. They are called the poor man’s truffle. But as we seared them with butter and savored their own right of rich, earthy umami, all I experienced was wealth.

The kombu has soaked and I bring it to boil. Sift out those satisfyingly tough rubber sheets and pour in the flaked dry fish. It swirls for a moment and slowly sashays to the pans bottom. More moments pass and then the fish is sifted too. Finally I throw in the chanterelles. Their aroma lilts out upon the steam. Pity I’m too big for that pan. No time to play, it’s dough time.

I gather up my rested dough and place it in a thick plastic bag and then wrap it in a towel. I place it gently on the rug and step on it with one foot. I slowly descend as it gives way to it’s superior. My other foot swings in to catch my balance and I apply a smooth inner foot roll. I get into the motions of my step-knead dance. I can still shake out a good ole udon-knead. Ichi, ni, udon udon! Every so often I have to hop of the dance floor, re-roll my dough and repeat my moves. I break a slight sweat, but the dough is now smooth and soft as the prerequisite ear lobe. More rest for you dough— I just danced all over you.

Back to my dashi, I drain the mushrooms. More pondering. I could keep this simple, but I know me. I never do. So I dive into the fridge and scuttle out a few eggs and carrots. I peer magnanimously over my overburdened concoction shelf. Maple syrup, adzuki bean miso and go chu chang. I set some dashi aside and give it a treatment of maple, followed by some soy sauce and a splash of rice vinegar and mirin to make my mentsuyu. And I smile as I do.

My sister and I had a tradition called warrior broth. We would rummage out the left over packages of random ramen broth power, dump the whole thing in the mug. Add hot water. Sometimes we’d just do it straight up, but more often than not, we would get into the spice cabinet or fridge. A dash of this and a dash of that. Then we would grunt in agreement. One would take healthy swig and exclaim,”Warrior broth!” The mug would be passed and we would repeat until empty. I swear that’s one reason why I’m so resilient today.

I setup my chopping station and peer out into the rain. Oh well, what the heck. I know I at least have some green scallions in the garden. It’s a risk, but laziness is a risky business. So I don my flip flops with my socks and lightly skip across the drive. I nimbly leap to areas that I hope are as firm as they look and lean over into my very sad garden. In my here, I unfortunately have not cultivated a green thumb. None the less, wetness is building so I snip two scallion tubes and head back. Seriously scallions, what’s with the snot?

My santakou makes short work of the carrots and scallions. I create some larger squares of seaweed and some small shavings too. I turn my attention back to the black chanterelles. Flames lick out from below the cast iron, butter begins sizzling and I throw the aromatic bodies in. I slight swirl to coat, but otherwise I let them sit. I close my eyes and listen. And smell. There’s a moment when the chanterelles will soften up and make popping sounds. One moment past that the caramelization of butter occurs. And one more moment past that is perfection. The mushrooms will have crispy edges, but a satisfying tooth. I quickly remove them and scrape them into a side dish.

I’m a sensual cook. I’m too lazy for most recipes, because I can’t follow instructions. So though I’ve had my share of failure, I’ve gotten a good mental catalog of what things look, taste, feel and sound. Options for preparing and what they best compliment. Top that with new techniques that I picked up from a friend here or a blog post there, there whole concept of preparing food is just a giant tasty palette. My worst failures occur from distraction and my yearning for a certain texture/flavor combination drives me to try-try-again. Still, not many share this lifestyle and I’m always happy to share what I make.

My dough baby is ready for reckoning. We wrestle for a while, but it becomes compliant. The trick for udon is getting the noodles just the right thickness. The signature for me has always been that plump chewiness, but if your noodles are too big, the centers don’t cook as well and you end up with a mochi-like experience. I realize I don’t measure. I just roll, it feels right. So I lightly dust with rice flour, fold and slice.

Somewhere along the way, I had wisely begun boiling salted water. I dunk the noodles in. Pick around with chopsticks to make sure they’ve separated. Put on the timer for 10 minutes.

Time to deal with the eggs. Small pan of water comes to a simmer. A splash of vinegar. I crack the shell and lower the egg into the water slowly spreading the shell. The vinegar helps the white to coagulate and the egg mostly stays in one clump. I tilt the pan so it’s hanging off the burner at an angle to make the water deeper in a different corner of the pot. Repeat the egg process. I put the lid on and slowly gyrate the pan over the flame. Flame out, pan down with lid on for a few moments.

The final moments are the blur of battle. My troops are aligned, yet war is always chaos. Noodles are drained and immediately go into bowls. Seaweed square in. Dashi ladled. Egg plopped on noodles. Carrots stacked. Miso. Go chu chang. Bonito. Mentsuyu. Crap! That was supposed to be before the bonito. More bonito. Sesame. Seaweed flakes. Repeat.

Serve.

Pause.

Breathe.

Slurpppp! And it’s perfect.

Perhaps there’s some romanticism in this whole process. But I don’t care, I’m a romantic. I recognize the privileges I have in their many ways. But this was also a snack that was under $10 in ingredients and took 3.5 hours to make. That’s just the way I roll in my here.