Kabocha mon amour

Marcel Proust famously wrote, in Remembrance of Things Past, “I feel that there is much to be said for the Celtic belief that the souls of those whom we have lost are held captive in some inferior being, in an animal, in a plant, in some inanimate object, and so effectively lost to us until the day when we happen to pass by the tree or to obtain possession of the object which forms their prison. Then they start and tremble, they call us by our name, and as soon as we have recognised their voice the spell is broken. We have delivered them: they have overcome death and return to share our life.”

So it was, on rare excursion to the Great Canadian Superstore last week, I came across a bin of kabocha squash and, to my great surprise, memories of my life 20 years ago as an ESL teacher in rural Japan came tumbling out right there in the crowded produce section on a Saturday morning in early spring.

I’m not sure the great French author had vegetables in mind when he penned his renowned passage. He was particularly fixated on a certain madeleine at the time. He definitely was not thinking about a knobby, squat green Japanese squash but, for me, kabocha resurrects my Japanese life in a way that ubiquitous foods like sushi just can’t.

Japan was where I had my culinary awakening of sorts. Its food, like its culture, was completely unfamiliar and mysterious. Like the Celts, the people on small island where I lived were completely on board with the idea of souls being held captive in natural or inanimate objects. The only difference was they believed it was the souls of living people, if badly shaken or shocked in things like car accidents, that ran away into nearby rocks and trees where they could only be coaxed back into the body with a little help from a local priestess.

Kabocha, for me, conjures up chilly winter nights at home under the comfy kotatsu sipping tea and eating tender sweet squash that had been gently simmered in a therapeutic broth of fish stock, soy sauce, sugar and salt. I also have fond memories of downing it deep-fried in tempura batter, along with copious pints of Orion beer, in the company of good friends in noisy Izakaya pubs, and also coming home from work to the family I stayed with, where my Japanese “mom” would cook a rich chicken and kabocha stir-fry using produce and poultry fresh from her family’s farm, served proudly with steaming bowls of glistening white rice straight off the black market. Only the best for her family - and the foreigner!

I still remember the first time I saw a kabocha. It was for sale on a bench outside the corner store down the street from my apartment. I thought it was a pumpkin that hadn’t turned orange. I brought it home and carved it into a jack-o-lantern. In the spirit of international exchange, some of the other foreign teachers and I were throwing a Halloween party for our Japanese colleagues and, as everyone knows, you can’t properly celebrate Halloween without Jack. I hated that it wasn’t orange. I wanted everything to be so authentic.

When my Japanese guests arrived and a saw the kabocha hacked-up and grinning maniacally on the buffet table, they all giggled, hands over their mouths, curious and scandalized at the same time which made me feel like I’d committed some cross-cultural gaffe. Turns out my offence was more culinary in nature. My colleagues couldn’t believe I’d thrown the “meat” out because a kabocha, unlike the pumpkins we typically seek out for October 31, are a delicious, versatile veggie that I eventually learned, with help from my Japanese friends, to prepare, skin and all, many different ways.

Kabochas aren’t pretty. Nor do they grow to the impressive planet-like dimensions of their orange-hued cousins. But what they lack in looks, they make up for in flavour and texture. Kabochas have a smooth, sweet, nutty taste and a moist, fluffy consistency – a bit like chestnuts or sweet potato – when cooked. And when you cut one open, the deep tangerine-coloured meat is an unexpectedly intense surprise.

After cooking – and eating – kabocha in Japan for many years, when I got back to Canada in the mid-1990s, I was disappointed not to find it in produce sections on this side of the Pacific. I would sometimes come across it – like an old flame -- in one of Vancouver’s many small Asian grocery stores but our meetings were few and far between. Then, when I moved to the culinary hinterlands of Calgary, I pretty much gave up hope of ever cooking with kabocha again until last week when I stumbled across them in the bin at the Great Canadian Superstore.

I left the Superstore with one perfect, small squash in hand, transported back to an earlier time and trying to remember the many kabocha recipes I’d learned almost two decades ago.

Given that I hadn’t cooked with kabocha in years, I felt a celebration was in order. But I also felt that simply using the kabocha to re-create remembrances of things past would feel too stale. I decided to use my long lost love as the filling base for gyoza dumplings, another classic Japanese treat I learned to make when I lived there. Gyoza are usually packed with a heady mixture of pork, onions and garlic but, thinking back to my first kabocha, Jack, and the horrified reaction it got from my colleagues, I thought I’d honour the memory of that party with a big party-worthy batch of kabocha gyoza served with an east-west fusion-type ginger-balsamic vinegar dipping sauce. I can hear my former colleagues giggling nervously now. I think they'd be scandalized and thrilled at the same time, not to mention impressed by how much I’ve remembered -- and grown -- since that time.

Kabocha Gyoza
(makes approximately 30-50 gyozas)

3 lb kabocha squash

1 Tablespoon flaxseed oil
1/2 cup walnuts or pecans or chestnuts, finely chopped (optional)
1 teaspoon ground sage

1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon pepper

Pre-made gyoza wrappers *

1 – 1 ½ Tablespoons olive oil

*You can find pre-prepared wrappers in most Asian supermarkets and in some regular supermarkets in bigger cities. In a pinch, you can also use wonton wrappers.

For the gyoza, preheat the oven to 400F (200C). To prepare the kabocha, cut it in quarters and remove the seeds. On a non-stick or foil-lined baking tray or roasting pan, bake the squash, cut side down for approximately 20 – 30 minutes or until the skin is tender. Remove kabocha from oven to cool.

When the kabocha is cool enough to handle, peel the skin off the squash meat and discard. Put the meat in a large bowl and mash it well. Add the flaxseed oil, sage, salt and pepper and nuts if using. Mix well.To assemble the gyoza, spoon 1 teaspoon of kabocha mixture into each gyoza wrapper, and fold up to form a half moon shape. Seal the wrapper with a 4-5 folds along the edge to form a shell-like pattern (this takes practice!)

To steam-fry the gyoza (the traditional preparation method), heat a nonstick pan (with a lid) over medium high heat. Add olive oil to coat the bottom of the pan. When the oil is hot, put in enough gyoza to cover the bottom of the pan (they should touch each other but not overlap). Add approximately ½ a cup of water (The water should cover the bottom of the pan). Cover the pan tightly with the lid and cook until liquid has evaporated and bottoms of dumplings are crisp and golden on the bottom but slippery, smooth on top, about 7 to 10 minutes. Add 2 tablespoons more water if pan dries out before bottoms are browned. Remove lid and cook about 1 minute more, shaking skillet to loosen the gyozas. You can freeze uncooked dumplings to use later.

Ginger-Balsamic Vinegar Dipping Sauce

1 cup soy sauce
1/4 cup sugar

3 Tbsp balsamic vinegar

1-inch piece ginger, minced

½ to 1 Tbsp truffle oil (optional)

1-3 tablespoons water (optional)

In a small bowl, mix soy sauce, sugar, vinegar and ginger together, add truffle oil if using and water if mixture seems too thick or tastes too salty. You can also prepare this by zapping it in the microwave until the mixture boils. If you prepare it this way, leave the ginger in slices and strain these out, after zapping, and before serving.

The Big Cheese, Bra, Italy

Cook a man a fish. . .

For lunch today, I poked my head into the fridge and brought out some poached salmon, a few cooked potatoes, olives, tomatoes, a stalk of celery, half a red onion and a wee Japanese cucumber. While mulling over what to do with all these lovely ingredients, I was reminded of the old Chinese proverb: give a man a fish and you feed him for a day; teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime.

As someone who has enjoyed cooking -- and eating -- for most of my life, that proverb has become a kind of Zen koan to me, at least when I think about it in the culinary sense.

Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Hmm. Notice how the proverb doesn't specify how the fish was presented. Was it lightly battered, fried and served up with a big side of fries and tartar sauce? Or bathed in a silky rich sauce of lemon, butter and almonds? Grilled over an open-air fire on cedarwood? Devoured, raw, atop a sticky, sweet mound of white rice?

Now before writing me off as some wingnut alone in the kitchen with too many sharp, pointy knives, as far as I'm concerned, until you know exactly how the fish was prepared, it's hard to imagine that giving a man a fish, so to speak, is a bad thing.

One of my great joys is cooking fish, not to mention just about anything else, for other people. At the same time, there's nothing quite so enjoyable as eating something that someone else has made for me, especially if it has been done with skill, thoughtfulness and love. I guess that means I want to be given my fish and taught how to make it, too.

See what I mean? If you can figure out this culinary koan, let me know. In the meantime, back to the beautiful little Japanese cuke. How did I ever survive before these appeared in Canadian produce sections? Those monster English cukes are always too long to fit in the veggie drawer and usually start to go mushy at one end while I work my way through one over the course of a week. Japanese cucumbers, on the other hand, are perfect miniatures of their Anglo cousins and just the right size for snacking on or throwing into a salad.But enough about the mini-cuke.

Today, at least, it didn't take me long to decide what I was going to do with the proverbial fish. In this case salmon. I realized I had everything in front of me to make a Salade Nicoise - except the tuna or the anchovies, or the green beans or eggs. Oh, and I was out of fresh basil or green pepper, too. Is a Salade Nicoise really a Salade Nicoise if you don't have all the required ingredients on hand? That sounds like another Zen puzzler, but I like to think of it as an opportunity.

It's precisely when you have to improvise that cooking starts to get interesting and fun. So, ta-da! Today, cooking for myself and nobody else, I created a dish that I like to call Salade BC-coise. The BC, of course, is a nod to the West Coast and all the yummy salmon that comes from there. I made enough to keep myself fed for at least two days!

Salade BC-coise
Serves 1-2 people

For the salad:
6 grape tomatoes, cut in half
1 mini cucumber, diced
1 medium celery stalk, diced
2 Tbsp. red onion, finely diced
6-8 black olives
4-6 oz. poached wild salmon
2-4 baby potatoes, cooked and quartered
1 Tbsp chopped fresh parsley
1 tsp. fresh-dried basil (or 1 Tbsp fresh basil, chopped)
Lettuce

For the vinaigrette:
3 Tbsp olive oil
1 Tbsp red wine vinegar
Salt and pepper

For the salad, in a large bowl, mix together all the ingredients except the parsley and lettuce.

For the vinaigrette: in a small bowl, combine the vinegar, salt and fresh ground pepper. Gradually add in the olive oil, whisking to emulsify.

To assemble the salad, add the vinaigrette to the salmon & veggie mixture. Add parsley and basil and toss everything to combine. Serve on top of the lettuce.