Oof. It's been one of those.
I was planning to talk pleasantries today, fresh pillows and sewing strides and other soft squishy goodness. I'll get around to it. But number nineteen derailed my plans, and my mind. My nineteen—lower left molar, to the uninitiated—has been a bit kvetchy, so I stopped by the dentist for some reassuring words. And left with two I can only just whisper.
{Root canal}. Double oof.
On a tooth with no fillings, no less. No trouble, no trauma, no history, just ouch. There oughta be a law. I'll get around to that, too. But at the moment, I can't quite string two sentences together. And I'm sorely in need of some serious distraction. So can we talk about something else?
Like the way this glorious fall wouldn't quit, sidewalk chalk and short sleeves right up through last week? Even if mornings increasingly need mittens. The rains came down yesterday, the winds howled last night. It's nearly through, but it's been a humdinger. I'll not soon forget.
Or how about the oak leaf hydrangea's final hurrah, six colors, easy, all in one leaf? Or how the ginkos gave up the ghost last week, green-gold-gone (WHOOMP!) between Monday and Friday. The hold-out oaks and maples are dropping their last. We finally have a leaf pile. Jumping's next week or never.
(Or how it hasn't escaped my notice, Mother Nature, how the curb-side leaf heaps look surprisingly like drifts. You and your foreshadowing. Very witty.)
Or the way this little girl's love of all things little shows no signs of letting up. This week's love: itty-bitty books. About anything and everything. We make a good team: I bind, she writes. And carries them everywhere.
Or the way I think I will never tire of watching this boy's hands at work. They're like magic to me, those ten flashing fingers, able to give solid form to abstract ideas. Then again, I struggle to assemble flat-pack file boxes. Maybe magic is 'skill set' spelled backwards.
Or how sometimes a flower can bloom all the year round, and you never give it the time of day, until it's the only thing around. (Dear Calendula: Apologies, in arrears). Or how one single Japanese maple tree holds approximately 3,972 lessons on life's fleeting nature. I collected that plush saw-edged perfection this morning, found it withered and curled this afternoon. Or maybe it's doing crunches. Hmmm... note to self.
Or the clever way that there crab apple leaf landed and curled up around the twig, like an old forgotten newspaper, or a dollhouse cinnamon stick. That's a little loopy, isn't it? Like I said, I'm a little fried. Which isn't necessarily a bad thing, particularly if we're talking rice.
I'm not sure there is any other foodstuff that can be absolutely inedible or completely transcendant. If your only encounter with fried rice is the soggy bland side restaurants use as plate-filler, know that this bears no resemblance to that. This isn't in the same family. Or even the same tree. This rice is the rice Henry drew with Crayolas when his Kindergarten class was asked to illustrate their favorite meal. There, in a sea of steak and noodles, was a paper plate polka-dotted with Lap Cheong and green peas. I didn't know until then that it was his Number One. Though I completely understand his perspective.
I come from the Ken Hom school of fried rice cookery, which is to say I swear by three simple rules: the rice must be old and cold; the pan and oil, screaming hot; and never, ever, ever add any soy sauce. I've since realized there are many opinions on this last matter (and suspect China has as many fried rice recipes as people). I wish I could tell you the pros and cons of sauce. But after tasting sublime, I never saw reason in straying.
Well, at least as far as technique is concerned. I messed with Hom's ingredients mercilessly. We always include a good hit of Lap Cheong, those addictively chewy sweet-salty Chinese sausages. I begin by stir-frying a tumble of red coins, along with two handfuls of raw, sweet diced carrot. The sausages render their flavorful fat, which casts its spell over everything that follows. Once the carrots meet a knife with more firm give than crunch, I crumble in the cold rice (from last night, or last Tuesday). I break up the clumps with the wooden spoon's back, then use it to mix up each grain with porky goodness. And then—this is important, pay close attention—I do very nearly nothing at all.
I let those grains sit, single file in the pan, for minutes on end, before giving a quick stir. Two or three times, over five or six minutes. It looks like absolutely nothing is happening, but whatever you do, don't rush the nothing stage. Because, while you're busy twiddling your thumbs, your rice is becoming its highest and best self. It absorbs all the flavors from its colleagues, for one thing, the sweetness and savoriness and smokiness of the pan. And its texture transforms entirely. Each grain goes slowly, surely translucent, gold at the edges, terrifically toothsome, until around minute five some bits caramelize. Did you know fried rice could (should [must!]) caramelize? When you see burnished nubbins, you know happy is near.
But wait. We're not done. Though the rice nearly is. Your last step is to stir in sesame-oil spiked eggs, which cook within moments as they meet the hot rice. Think spaghetti carbonara, gone East, and outrageous. Again, our quantities aren't exactly authentic. I like my rice absolutely riddled with delicious. Mix-ins, if you must. (Blizzards probably corrupted me.) Just as soon as you see tender, feathery threads of egg, pull the whole jumble off the heat and toss through with sweet peas (straight from the freezer petit pois are just dandy). Fifteen minutes, start to finish, famished to chopsticks. We made it for lunch last Monday, and today. Although just as often, we call it dinner in a bowl.
I know Thanksgiving's right around the corner, and fried rice is not Norman Rockwell material. If you need some T-day inspiration, you could always caramelize a cauliflower, or roast some sweets (skip the beans), or braise some brussels sprouts with bacon. (Probably best not to ask after turkey. I roasted mine upside down, last year.) Besides, sometimes we just need a break from real life, whether its feast day must-do's or cruel twists of tooth fate. And fried rice, well, it always makes me smile. I'm telling you, it's powerful stuff.
Our Fried Rice
Adapted from Ken Hom, Chinese Cooking
I'm sure this is to classic fried rice what over-sauced pasta is to the Italian original: all out of whack in its starch:protein:veg proportions. So be it. It's fantastic. Know that this is more blueprint than recipe. Sometimes we have 2 cups of rice, sometimes 4. I simply dial up or down the add-ins, accordingly. Also, feel free to swap in what's on hand or in season. Asparagus is fantastic in the spring. I love the edamame, but Henry loathes them. I only somtimes stock pressed tofu in my fridge. You get the idea.
Many well-stocked supermarkets in the Northwest stock Lap Cheong; all Asian markets, everywhere, do also. I always keep several packs in my freezer, so we don't wind up with a fried rice emergency. Note that unlike many American sausages, it is not pre-cooked, so be sure to add it at the outset (see below).
4 cups cold, cooked rice (leftover)
2 tablespoons peanut oil
4-6 chinese sausages (Lap Cheong), sliced into 1/4" coins
3 carrots, peeled, diced to 1/4" (cut carrot into quarters lengthwise, then slice across sticks as if cutting coins)
1 1/2 cups frozen peas, unthawed (or substitute shelled edamame for half the peas)
1/2 cup pressed tofu, diced 1/4" (optional)
4 eggs
2 teaspoons toasted sesame oil
2 teaspoons salt
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground pepper
3 scallions, slivered, to garnish
Mix egg and sesame oil in a small bowl, and set aside.
Chop your carrots and sausages, and set aside. Have your pile of peas (and tofu and/or edamame, if using) ready.
Heat a wok or large skillet over high until very hot, then add peanut oil and heat until slightly smoking. Add sausages and carrots, turn heat down just a hair, and cook, stirring often, 4-5 minutes, until sausages are browning and fragrant, and carrots are bronzing and firm-tender. Return heat to its maximum, crumble in the cold rice, and add salt and pepper (and pressed tofu, if using). Break up clumps with a wooden spoon, stirring well to incorporate cold rice with hot sausage and veg and to coat each grain with the hot fat. Cook rice mixture on high for 5-6 minutes largely undisturbed, stirring every 2 minutes or so to allow new surfaces to caramelize. When the grains have gone from opaque to translucent, and the rice is golden in spots, add the egg/sesame mixture. Stir-fry 1 minute, until egg is just cooked. Add peas and scallions (and edamame, if using), and toss a few moments to heat through. Eat immediately.
