East Asia - Kitsune Udon (Japan)

This post is dedicated to my dear friends at Sake Puppets, who, in between pretending what are clearly not moths are Mothra and hassling cats and giving me night terrors, have requested that I post something involving ingredients that exist in Japan, because apparently they live in a city of umpteen-million people and like seven grocery stores.  Or something.  So, of course, I went with the dish with the cutest name: kitsune udon.

Red (Source)

Kitsune means "fox" in Japanese, and foxes are a big part of Japanese folklore.  They are crafty and smart and magic and sometimes have multiple tails, which means they are the craftiest and smartest and magic-est foxes of all.  Foxes sometimes take the shape of pretty ladies, and also sometimes possess ladies, which is creepy, but they are so adorable, all is forgiven.  Kitsune udon gets its name from the tofu, called aburaage, which is both the color of fox fur and is a favorite food of kitsune.  It's also often cut into triangles, like wee little fox ears!  God, don't you just want to eat all this up?  (Yes, you do.  Because it is both tasty and squee.)

Fennec. (Source)

In its purest form, kitsune udon is just tofu, noodles, and broth, with a sprinkling of sliced green onions.  If you want a traditional kitsune udon, the kind offered to shape-shifting fox gods, then just ignore all the frippery I added to mine.  I like to think that the kitsune are OK with my desire to be more nutritionally balanced with my meals.  Also, traditional kitsune udon calls for aburaage, which is thinly-sliced deep-friend tofu, also called tofu pouches (atsuage is the same thing, only more robust in slice).  It's relatively easy to find in Asian groceries, but I wasn't about to hike it out to the suburbs to buy some, so I just used regular, extra-firm tofu that I fried up in a little oil.  Again, not exactly authentic, and it probably wouldn't appease any vengeful vulpines, but it did make my life a lot easier.

Bat-eared. (Source)

To start, you will need dashi broth.  Dashi is a common Japanese soup stock made by boiling together kombu (dried kelp) and bonito flakes (shavings from katsuobushi, a fermented tuna).  You can make a vegetarian version by omitting the fish scrapings.  I made mine by soaking a 6-inch piece of kombu with 6 c. of water, a few dried shiitake mushrooms, and a couple of slices of ginger together overnight.

Arctic. (Source)

If you are using aburaage/atsuage, you'll want to rinse the tofu with boiling water to remove any excess oil and allow to drain.  If you're making a rough approximation yourself, pan-fry slices of tofu in a little oil until golden brown.  Then, in a saucepan, mix together 1 c. dashi broth, 1 T. sugar, 1 T. mirin, and 2 t. soy sauce.  Bring to a boil, add the tofu, and simmer until the liquid is reduced by one-half.  While your tofu is a-simmerin', cook your udon noodles: boil some water, add the noodles, then add a cup of cold water when the water returns to a boil (this helps the noodle cook evenly).  Repeat until the noodles are done, then portion out into deep bowls.

Grey. (Source)

[If you're going the sort-of-authentic route, skip this part.]  In a saute pan, heat some oil and fry up a couple cloves of minced garlic until fragrant.  Add roughly chopped broccolini and cook until the stems are tender.  Toss in a handful of snow peas and stir.  Add some sliced bok choy and cook until everything is done to your liking, then add a dash (or two or three) of teriyaki sauce and let that cook down.  Remove from the heat and save until everything else is ready.

Mulder. (Source)

For your noodle broth, mix together 4 c. dashi, 2 T. soy sauce, 1 T. mirin, 1/2 t. salt, and 1 t. sugar.  Heat until warmed through, but do not let it boil.  When hot, ladle some over the noodles, then top with the tofu (and vegetables, if you are sacrilegious).  Add chopped green onions and shichimi togarashi (Japanese seven-spice powder) to taste.

Udon.

Enjoy while making a silent prayer to Inari, one of the main kami (spirits) of Shintoism who is a friend to all the foxes, for either fertility, rice, or worldly success, depending on what sort of thing you're into.

Oh, and Ang?  This is Mothra:

Even Godzilla's all, "Whoa, dude—I'm just hanging out by the greenhouse, hatching an egg.  IT'S COOL."

British Isles – Yorkshire Gingerbread (England)

Fall in the desert is a tricky proposition.  We don't really have any leaves to change color, and it can (and does) stay in the triple digits well into October.  The past couple of years, it seemed as though summer just blended into winter, and while winter in the desert is fantastically lovely, those of us raised in climes with actual seasonality end up feeling a little cheated with our paltry excuse for an autumn.  However, miracle of miracles, I am sitting here, in mid-September, with the windows open, and it's really quite pleasant.  However however, because I've become my grandmother, I check weather.com everyday (actually, I haven't really become my grandmother, because she has only a vague understanding of the existence of the Internet, and clearly has no idea what weather.com even is or how one would go about checking it, but I think you get the point) and I have seen that the triple-digit temperatures are creeping back, and soon.  So, to celebrate this briefest-of-brief respites from the intolerable heat, as well as our triumphant return home, and to welcome, if a little prematurely, what passes for autumn, I made gingerbread.

Specifically, I made Yorkshire gingerbread, and I nicked the recipe from an episode of Two Fat Ladies, who I adore, even if they would not adore me and my vegetarian leanings (also, one of them is dead, and so her adoration is a little out of my league, now).  I'm pretty sure that this is one of maybe a half-dozen recipes that I would even venture to make, my shady vegetarianism notwithstanding, because most of the things they make are terrifying.  Need a good Christmas dish?  Why not make the mousse of the egg, which is basically just hardboiled eggs and gelatin?  Or just whip up a batch of lettuce, onions, and peas, because boiling is really the best way to capture the nuances of romaine lettuce.  If you're feeling particularly fancy, stuff prunes with chickens' livers and cook them in hot sauce and butter.  (Or something.)

ANYWAY. 

The original recipe calls for black treacle, which is either similar to or the same thing as molasses, depending on who you ask.  Not knowing who to trust, I went out a bought what seemed to be an acceptable substitute:

This, as The Husband kindly told me, is proof that I'm not [redacted]ing around.

Ok, so first, preheat your oven to 325ºF.  Line with parchment paper and grease up an 8x8 or thereabouts baking tin.

Now, a quick word re:baking.  Some people (the Two Fat Ladies included) are of the opinion that baking is an exact science, and that anything other than precise measurements and faultless attention to detail will spell doom and destruction for your baked goods.  I am of the opinion that this opinion is a load of old collywobbles.  I am willing to concede that you may end up with a different product if you don't follow the instructions to a T, but I long ago abandoned any pretense to exactitude and I haven't yet ended up crying into any failed cupcakes.  The recipe I share here isn't exactly what the Two Fat Ladies suggested, and all measurements are approximate, but I was pleased with the results AND I finished a lot quicker than I would have if I did things like own a scale and weigh out ingredients and fret.

Alright, so in a large bowl, cream together 1/3 c. softened butter (I used vanilla butter, but any unsalted butter should do) and 1/3 c. dark brown sugar.  Beat in two eggs, then add 1 generous c. blackstrap molasses and mix well.  Slowly (to avoid making a mess) mix in 1 1/3 c. flour, 2 T. ground ginger (or more, if you want a supergingerbread), 1 T. ground allspice (which I didn't have, so used roughly a teaspoon each of cloves, cinnamon, and nutmeg), a couple of pinches of salt, and 1 t. baking powder.  When it's all properly mixed and luscious looking, pour into your prepared tin and bake for 25 minutes, or until the top springs back when pressed.  [Note:  the original recipe said 50–60 minutes, but I have never trusted my devious oven, so I check things pretty regularly and lo and behold, it was springy well before the halfway mark.  If your oven is of the more trustworthy sort, 25 minutes may not be enough.  The lesson here:  anthropomorphize your appliances and imagine traitorous dealings.]  Let cool completely in the tin, then remove and cut into squares.  They get better with time, so long as you keep them in an airtight container, and apparently are at their best between 48 and 96 hours post-baking.

This is what you should end up with.

Moist and cakey, with a good crumb; I was a little skeptical of the whole "let them sit for awhile and NO YOU CAN'T EAT THEM YET," but I do think their time in the (faux)tupperware was good for them.  Gave them a chance to sit and think about what they'd become.

What they've become, incidentally, is delicious.

Oh, and if you happen to have some fresh cream that you just happened to add the tiniest bit of vanilla sugar to and then whipped to put on top, you can almost forget that 103º days are forecast in less than a week.

Almost.