Kolache

(Clockwise from top right: Savoury kolache fresh from the oven; sweet kolache with 2 toppings -- cottage cheese and strawberry; savoury kolache exposed; sweet kolache with 3 toppings -- far right has a prune filling)

My baking and cooking days haven't ceased -- if you are wondering about the lack of food posts of late. No Siree, I love food too much to have my work life quash my addiction for the sublime textures and tastes that good food offers. Plus, the era of google searches has brought food recipes (that I would otherwise have no access to) within a quick tip-tap on the keyboard.

Every now and again, I remember bits from my days in Houston where good food wasn't hard to find. I was hankering for savoury kolache in the style of the breakfast ones I used to have at a bakery called "The Kolache factory". A colleague/friend had introduced it to me in my early Houston living days these delightful  baby soft buns stuffed with scrambled eggs, jalapeno cheese and smokey sausage. The pillow-like pastries were worth the additional miles tagged onto my drive en route to work. I doubt if these are authentic stuffing found in a Czech Kolache but the person who infused Tex-Mex flavours to popularize these Eastern European pastries in the Southwest was genius.

So, I had to bake some Czechoslovakian-inspired kolache. I say 'inspired' only because I've never had the real McCoy in the country where it hails from, and if my Czech friend stumbled on this, she might think I was smoking some sort of herbal weed if my version differed greatly from hers. So, I protect my reporting integrity by saying that the recipe used yields kolache like the ones I've eaten plenty times in Houston.

They weren't difficult to make but like all good food, you can't rush through each step. The prunes had to soak, the fresh strawberries had to cook down into a jam all while waiting for the buttery yeast dough to rise. The filling and the dough were prepared and laid on baking trays the night before so that the following morning, all that had to be done was to spoon filling into each wide-mouthed dough parcels and leave them to bake for 25 minutes.

That Monday morning, my little people were the first to try the freshly baked sweet kolache which they tucked in between mouthfuls of cold milk. And the still warm savoury kolache stuffed with cheesy bratwurst, pickled jalapenos and hash brown were lovingly wrapped and placed in three lunch bags.

Lucky little buggers!

6 and 8

I don’t remember being 8 years old, much less being 6. I don’t have old photos of myself here in NY to remind me of scenes frozen from yesteryear. There weren’t many of me anyway by the time I was born because my parents were probably far too busy to record our lives the way they did when my eldest sister was little where upon every breath she took, a Polaroid picture emerged.

My memories are less pictorial but more illusive like the one where I’d been feeding the back corner floor of the school bus my stale and limp buttered raisin bread to avoid the wrath of my eagle-eyed mother who would check my lunch box daily; or the night where I’d literally dry retched because I caught my parents kissing. Mostly, I remembered racing my older sisters to independence and longing the same privileges I’d assumed they were handed (which weren’t many on hindsight) with each passing year.

Chosen artwork (2nd down from top) displayed at the Corning Museum of Glass (11 May, 2011)

Birthdays marked my gradual pull away from my mother’s cautious grip. I wanted to hear more,"Yes, you may," rather than "No, you are too young!" Plus it got increasingly annoying being mistaken for being younger than my actual age. I couldn't understand my mother's glee over "looking young" when I felt it  was more of a scourge back then having to politely refuse the kids' in-flight party pack at 22 years old on board Quantas airlines.

Daddy's girl (19 May, 2011)

My babies have been asserting their independence from the first cry and those independent roots dig deeper like stubborn taunts.  So, I understand if Aidan’s dreams of world domination propels him to the moon and back in one breath but the 6-year old in him still makes him pause to steal another hug from me. Or the way Monique assumes the role of boss lady but is still vulnerable and sensitive to her friends’ unrelenting questions about her seaweed wrapped lunch. Eventually (and hopefully), their self-assuredness will rely less on the hubs and myself and like the proverbial 3 little pigs, they will set forth on their own.

Astro boy and his sidekick (28 April,2011)

They both turned 6 and 8 in April and May. Their joint ages probably marks the number of white hairs sprouting on my head but eventually, I will lose count of these numbers the same way I’m starting to lose count of the rapidly graying strands.

The reigning undefeated puzzle Master in our house (April, 2011). 

But, I don’t want to forget them at this age. I want to remember them just as they are today -- the scent of child-sweat mingled with grass and mud -- an endearing combination just shy of an adult stink. I want to remember the way they shine in their element because it will help me forget the nag they bring out in me and help me gloss over my struggles to keep patient when their back-chats niggle at my nerves.

Perhaps one day, they'll forget being 6 or 8, the way I did. That is fine. But, they will always be mine and when all else goes south and I'm cushioned in adult diaper, I want to be able to look through this blog and be reminded of scenes locked in time. I know it will put a gummy smile on my weathered face.

Salsera pequeña (8 May, 2011)

This one is for me when I’m an old woman.

The Birthday boy and his numerous expressions

Monique's rite of passage (1 May, 2011)

Monday

My hubs was wheeled into the ER Monday morning when the weekend irregular heartbeats he’d experienced worsened to dizziness, chest and left-side body pains minutes upon arriving at work. He’d at least the good sense to call the company nurse where then 5 company paramedics rushed to his aide, administered nitroglycerin and made him dry crunch aspirin. Vials of blood work were drawn from him and by then, Corning Hospital’s paramedics were already at the scene to speed him off to the ER.

I was nowhere at his side.

In fact, when I arrived work at 11.30am -- after having taken the 2 little-lies and myself to a dentist appointment that morning-- my work colleagues’ ashen faces were the only indication that something was not right.

While my hubs was hooked up to wires and cords --that prodded his chest and arms-- with ends that snaked to machines, he was still in denial that he needed medical attention. I stayed no longer than ½ hour by his side before he shooed me off explaining that he was getting stressed knowing that my being with him was hampering me from meeting my work deadline.

He was asked to stay Monday night for further observation. The medical results collected over 1.5 days showed no indications of heart damage or signs of something remediable (or not). I don’t know what could be worse than leaving a hospital knowing that the medical professionals had no clue what went wrong.

Actually it could be worse.

Later that Tuesday evening, I drove over to the kids’ school to pick them up and ran into Sean’s Grade 1 teacher. She related sad news that one of the parent of her students passed away. He was 36 and his 2 children were no older than Aidan and Monique. He’d slumped to the ground whilst playing ice hockey and was pronounced dead by the time paramedics arrived at the scene.

We knew him only by affiliation. He worked at the same company, friends and colleagues at work knew him, he lived along the busy road that we drove past everyday commuting to places, he had a letterbox with his last name visible to the daily passing traffic, and his kids schooled with ours. My heart pained when I thought about his widow and young children.

Death has never been taboo. I recognize that we will all pass one day. I’d even gone ahead to instruct my hubs that should I be handicapped from an illness or accident, it would be the right thing for him to see that they pulled the plug. I don’t want my children burdened; I don’t want my spouse guilt-ridden into caring for my vegetative state. I don’t plan on having anyone see me at my most pathetic. Dying would be my freedom.

But Monday’s incident and the sudden death of Mr. 36-yr old made me fear death. I thought about the “what ifs” and how my children would cease having a father; my thoughts returned to the 2 young children of Mr. 36-yr old and realized that death was too cruelly random.

My hubs is now recognizing that he needs to take a breather. His vegan lifestyle might have helped with his cholesterol levels and blood profile but a continued stressful work lifestyle could still trigger a heart attack. Age isn’t on his side either.

And, we only have one heart and this life.

Balloon Girl

Balloon girl is uncomplicated.

To her, the promise of spring + frog rain boots + a balloon = Joy.

She showed me the spring in her bounce.

And tried to embrace the teasing beams.

But armed with a coat, she can better march into Spring.

"Are you still with me?"

"Come! Take my hand."

"We'll have so much fun..."

"... zooming about carefree."

"Right past Winter, just like this."

Steadfast Japan

News of Japan’s 9.0 magnitude earthquake shook my world. I was glued to news updates; I watched amateur videos online of tsunami ravages and widespread damages; I was sucked into following nearly every news and images captured. They differed but the content was always the same – Northeast Japan was in a sorry state; the Japanese people suffered; the damages were beyond imaginable.

That day, the scenes of rows of bobbing cars, ships and homes tossed around like they were bath toys gnawed into me. I felt sick to the stomach and reached out to friends in Japan on Facebook by typing out empty words of comfort. I needed to bond with them for reasons I couldn’t fathom.

Even as we mourned the insurmountable losses the affected faced, we’d all privately sighed a relief that Kobe was spared this time. Kobe had paid too dearly in 1995 when the 6.9 magnitude earthquake hit. Kobe folks -- as if acting on old memories -- reacted this time by buying toilet rolls by the dozens that resulted in storewide shortages.

Granted that I’d only lived in Kobe for a year and hadn’t fully assimilated into Japanese life well enough for me to converse in fluent Japanese, I’d fallen in love with Japan. From their well-preserved heritage and culture to their deliciously simple meals, Japan captivated me. And what I gained most was by observing and having contact with the locals that changed my life’s perspectives.

The Japanese taught me the importance of attention to details. Like in gift-giving, it was much less the “thought that counts” which in my culture, was an excuse to explain a haphazardly thrown-together present. To them, the thoughtful act started from the perfect home baked biscuits to the way they were presented in a cutesy basket, right down to the handing over the gift in their partial head-bent manner. They took pride in seeing their task from start to finish.

It is hard to compete with the Japanese on that account. The hubs once described to me a 50-ish year old Japanese man whose sole job was to direct cars in the company car park. With little more than a cloth flag and whistle and under the scorching summer sun in his smart uniform, he took on the seemingly mundane task with great fervor and not once did the cloth flag nor whistle rested. It was as good a job as any and some one had to do it, and he did --with pride.

Our cultural orientation guide told us about how harmony was an important concept in Japan when we first arrived in our host country. It didn’t mean anything to me at the time but days into Japanese living, I learnt that it was carried out unobtrusively in every Japanese breath. If you have a cold or cough, you put on the face mask, never mind how ridiculous you look. That is harmony; it is being considerate to others. One afternoon, my kids played in our apartment courtyard and the next day, the apartment superintendent came over and told me in his most polite way that they shouldn’t ride their bikes because the plastic wheels made a grating noise loud enough to offend neighbours in another building. I was annoyed but that was my kids’ and my lesson in harmony -- learning to make sacrifices for others.

I read in the recent Times magazine how one Japanese farmer, who had grains that were soiled from the tsunami floods had, inspite of, offered his neighbour his unblemished grains from his share. Such self-less sharing were more common reports than opportunistic looting in this period of food rationing. It is chaos in Honshu but the Japanese make up for it by being harmonious.

It makes me sad that the tsunami and earthquake have caused extensive damages and taken numerous lives. But Japanese values are universally about order, beauty and preservation; and the people are possibly one of the few industrious and stoic lot. Perhaps another country dealt with the same hand might falter at rebuilding attempts but not my beloved Japan. They will weather this stoically and few years from now, the tears on the land would only be but beauty marks.

Winter Blues

"Hello, Old Man Winter."

Next to Autumn, Winter seems colourless.

It is bleak and harsh, stamping out life.

At times, it gets mind numbingly cold.

And the only colours on the ground are the plastic monstrosity forgotten at the first snowfall.

The kids don't care, they love crotchety Winter all the same.

Sure, there is shoveling but we like to call that "character building" and focus on how it'll help build "big muscles"!

But after a storm, beauty envelopes the landscape making postcard pictures of winter wonderland possible.

I love peering through the windows when everything is covered in either flaky, fluffy snow or the dense blanket that shroud branches.

But it also means that there is sweaty hard work on the other side that needs immediate attention. It is times like this I appreciate my 'man-shovel'.

It isn't very often that we get sunny blue skies after a snow storm but one morning, Winter had a change of heart and indulged me with a scene from wonderland.

That day, the kids were on a 2-hour school delay because of the storm. I waited with them and enjoyed the few moments capturing the glow the morning sun had cast over our backyard.

As you can tell, I have a fascination for snow covered trees.

Something about stark layers and gnarled still branches get me every time.

Snow dressed Christmas trees are eye candies especially when sunlight hits them at the right angle.

Otherwise, there is grave harmony when the sky is overcast.

Do not be deceived at the sight of these berries -- this isn't a hint of spring but evidence that Winter hasn't blanketed all colours.

It is end-February, and the snow pile keeps building. The groundhog's forecast for a long winter seems ominous.

But the kids are determined to gleefully ride out the rest of the season.

Kaya made easy

Bottled homemade kaya jam for the special friend. 

My Dad used to proudly tell us the time he’d overheard my sister, then a primary school kid, yelling across the fence to our neighbour that her father was “the best cooker in the world”. He used to say it with such a glow in his voice, and half-chuckled because although grammatically incorrect, he knew what she’d meant and he cherished the compliment for it was never uttered again as her tastes got fussier and/or more discerning.

Ingredients for kaya jam

This isn’t to say that my Dad’s cooking was tragic, he did cook a few memorable dishes like the homemade ‘char kway teow’ which he never made again because his healthy sensibilities changed his whole perception of what we should be eating. Our foods took on a strict minimalist approach – steamed or lightly poached and without seasoning.

I think we were reared to be Buddhist monks without the saffron attire, shaven heads nor prayerful disposition

Any thing is possible with eggs and sugar

The other day, my 5-year old said those exact words between mouthfuls of freshly made kaya on crackers. Like my Dad, I chuckled under my breath and explained to him the difference between "a cook” and “a cooker” and pointed to the slow cooker that was quietly perched on my counter-top.

Stir it up.

I then realized that those words used weren’t entirely wrong. He’d said it whilst enjoying homemade kaya and that kaya was made in the slow cooker. I didn’t make it per se. In the traditional sense of making kaya, I would have had to slave over the stove, stirred the egg custard under watchful eyes, and curbed any bodily calls for rest or potty breaks. That was my previous method of cooking kaya.

Forget that! These days, I make the lazy ass version of kaya – my slow cooker does it for me. It is true. My slow cooker is the ‘best cooker’!

Place lid on and come back in an hour to check.

I’ve only had my slow cooker for a year, driven by necessity when our kitchen was being remodeled and knowing that our small town had little good food to offer. I bought a moderately priced (about US$30/) slow cooker with only 3 functions – low, high and warm. Other versions had timers which might have been nice to have but I assumed that I would only use the slow cooker for the duration of our kitchen remodeling.

I was wrong.

Lumpy, and a little crusting but don't you worry your pretty head over this. A simple sieve will do magic. 

I’ve cooked many pots of warm glossy kaya; made many tender stews, curries and soups and more so now that I’ve returned to work. My slow cooker would wait bubbling and triumphant as I walk through the doors at 6.10pm smelling dinner in the air; I would immediately know that little tummies would be promptly fed and my night would already be less daunting.

I told you it will glisten sweetly! 

So, if you want kaya in the style of Singapore’s famous Chin Mee Chin in Katong but without having to put up with the grumpy geriatric stalwarts, who ladle kaya with Nazi zeal, do yourself a favour and make your own. It is so easy you’ll have to kick yourself for not trying.

Can't get any more Singaporean than kaya on a Khong Guan cracker.

And by request, here is the recipe for lazy ass kaya (a.k.a ‘slow cooker kaya’) in under 2 hours. Your life is about to be changed – forever.

Lazy ass Kaya recipe in 2 hours

- 400ml thick coconut cream

(I used ‘Goya’ brand of coconut cream)

- 150ml fresh coconut cream

(I used 150 ml of canned coconut cream since I don’t have access to fresh coconut cream)

- 10 eggs, lightly beaten

- 450g regular fine sugar
(adjust if you don’t want it too sweet.)

- 10 pandan leaves washed and tied into a knot
(and if you don't have access to fresh leaves, I use the frozen ones all the time. I might consider pandan paste which is just a bottle of chemicals if my Asian grocery ever runs out of pandan leaves)


Yields about 900g of kaya or about 2 ½ jam jars of kaya.

Method
1. Mix coconut cream, sugar and eggs in a bowl.


2. Turn slow cooker on High and pour mixture in. Stir until all sugar is dissolved.
* It is important that the sugar is dissolved or you’ll have a burnt or brown layer at the bottom of the slow cooker. Some crusting does take place around the edges but that is easily rectified after being processed. 


3. Occasionally stir and check mixture.
I checked it after the first hour and then one more time around the 1.5 hr mark.


4. When the custard thickens and becomes lumpy, turn heat off and take pandan leaves out.


5. Either with a sieve or hand processor, take out lumps.
I used my Bamix hand processor and whisked the lumps out until the jam glistened smooth.


6. Bottle jam or serve out on buttered toast. Be warned, it will not last.

Moments before the words "You are the best cooker" were uttered.