HELLO DUMPLING!

I have a thing for dumplings. No matter how long I reflect upon a restaurant menu, I end up ordering wonton, gyoza, samosa, empanada, ravioli, pierogi (of course) or any other kind. I am always curious about the ingredients used in the filling, cooking techniques—was it steamed, boiled, fried or baked?—the sauce that sometimes accompanies my order and the look of pleats that seal their edges. Yes, I like to analyze them perhaps even more than I want to admit. 

Making pierogi was the second kitchen task given to me by my mother when I was about five. My first task, which almost completely discouraged me from cooking, consisted of beating the egg whites. It turned out that because of my food allergy, when tiny particles of egg foam landed on my skin they triggered an itchy red “polka dot” rash and big tears. My mother soon reassigned me. Making pierogi was easy on my skin but technically way more difficult and time consuming than whipping up meringue for an apple pie.

In our tiny kitchen, where two people wouldn’t pass without bumping into each other, my mother, my father and I stood side by side working in a dumpling production line. My mother was in charge. After mixing flour with yolk, salt and water, she rolled out a thin layer of what would soon become dumplings’ soft shell. When a piece of elastic dough started looking like a large irregularly shaped lake covered by flour dust, my father equipped with a teacup quickly cut out the circles. Those perfectly round discs of dough had to be filled and sealed by my inexperienced little hands. 

My first pierogi had too much filling and would’t fold in half. Whether it was ground beef and spice, mushroom with sauerkraut or farmer’s cheese and potato mush, no more than a small spoon of it could fit inside. Once I got the right amount of filling, pinching the edges of the dough in even intervals was my new challenge and it was a tough one. “They look a little off,” my father used to laugh about my pierogi’s style. He lovingly helped me figure out the water resistant twist of dough that would disable dumplings from splitting open in their boiling water bath. He even tried to imitate my uneven pleats that differed from my mother’s orderly ones. At the table, when our dinner was already garnished with browned bits of onion and golden butter drops, my father and I played a game of guessing which pierogi were his, my mom’s and mine. 

I still admire the perfectly shaped half moons, pea pods and big hugs, but only the less perfect kind brings my childhood memories back to life.

HAWAIIAN PAELLA

photo by Daniel Lane/Pono Photo

I asked my fellow writer and namesake Marta Lane whom I met during a food writers workshop to share on The Ethnik Plate one of her festive fish recipes. She conjured up a Hawaiian paella and a personal story behind this exotic dish. Here is her post:

My mother was born and raised in Barcelona, Spain, where paella is the National Dish. Each paella is made in a large paella pan and starts with a base called sofrito. My aunt begins by buying the freshest ingredients possible and, in her 4-foot diameter pan, cooks meat and shellfish. Setting those aside, she adds onions, tomatoes and garlic and simmers until the mixture is transformed into a sweet and unctuous paste. At this point, she stirs the rice through and tops it with water. It bubbles, uncovered and untouched, until most of the water is absorbed, about 15 minutes. Five minutes before serving, she adds the meat and shellfish, covers the pan with a dishcloth, and lets the steam rewarm, but not overcook, the shellfish.

While I was growing up in Colorado, my mother made her version of this classic dish at least once a month. Mom left out the seafood because dad didn’t like it. Instead, see filled it with chicken and vegetables. Sometimes, she’d add rabbit if she found it in the frozen section of the grocery store.

Today, I live in Hawaii, so my version has fresh Hawaiian fish and local shrimp. To give it a Hawaiian twist, I add fresh pineapple, which plays well with Spanish olives. Kauai Shrimp come with their shells and heads still attached, which is how the Spanish eat them. You can of course remove them to make eating easier, but you’ll lose a lot of flavor. In addition, I believe getting your hands dirty while eating is fun and adds to the enjoyment of a meal.