Fried Egg Soup

Today I made “Fried Egg Soup” from A Platter of Figs by David Tanis. I’ll let you in on a secret… this is probably the third soup I have ever attempted to make. I love eating soup when I go out, but somehow, homemade soup (at least homemade by me) doesn’t quite appeal to me; however, I think this recipe has completely changed my position on the matter. It was so amazing, and so easy too!

I made a few very slight alterations to the recipe. Most notably, I quartered the original recipe since I was only cooking for myself today. Even quartering it made enough broth for me to have dinner tonight, breakfast tomorrow, and to freeze some broth for later. Maybe I don’t eat very much.

Below is the recipe as I made it, although I highly recommend you take a look at Mr. Tanis’ book for both the original recipe, and for other amazing recipes and techniques!

Fried Egg Soup with a round of toasted baguette, and white ginger-pear tea from Tea Forté.

This soup starts out with the light broth:

1.5 pounds raw chicken wings
1/2 onion, diced
1 carrot, diced
1/2 leak, slivered
1 thyme branch
1 bay leaf
cooking oil (I used canola)

Warm up a large saucepan to medium heat. Put a little bit of cooking oil into the saucepan, and then toss in the onions. Cook uncovered until they are see-through (about 2 minutes). Put in the chicken wings and let them cook until they are no longer pink (I think it took me about 15-20 minutes). Pour in 6 cups of cold water, throw in the carrot, leek, thyme, and bay leaf. Optionally, add some peppercorns. (If all that stuff doesn’t fit into your saucepan, just transfer the onions and chicken to a big pot and use that– I don’t happen to have a big pot right at the moment, and the saucepan was big enough.) Bring to a brief boil, then turn down to simmer. Simmer for 40 minutes.

Instead of straining and skimming the broth, I decided to leave it as-is for my soup. I don’t mind avoiding chicken and leeks to ladle my broth, and I like the extra flavor from the carrots and onions directly in my soup.

The next part is adding the aromatics:

2 cloves of garlic, sliced
1/2 inch ginger, finely chopped
1 cup of baby bok choy leaves, slivered (or use adult bok choy or spinach)
salt

Add garlic to your soup and simmer for five minutes. Then add ginger and simmer for five more minutes. Add salt to taste. Just before serving, add the slivered baby bok choy leaves. They will take a minute or two to wilt.

Next comes the fried egg:

1 fresh egg per bowl of soup
salt to taste
cayenne (or black pepper) to taste

When you put the garlic into your soup, while you’re waiting, begin frying an egg sunny-side up, leaving it mostly runny. Season it with salt and cayenne pepper to taste (or black pepper if you prefer). This is also the time to drizzle some baguette slices with olive oil and give them a good toast, as well as to start steeping some tea. A white tea will go well with this recipe.

This guy likes food even more than I do!

Place the fried egg into a shallow bowl. Ladle over the soup broth, making sure to pick up some of those carrots and bok choy leaves. Garnish with sliced green onions and serve immediately!

By the way, once the food was ready, I pulled my chair out onto the balcony, and ate it in the afternoon sunlight. Here is the view from my balcony….

Portland 400

Portland 400 miles.

I’m on the road, and over halfway there. The wide, straight freeway has changed into a crooked mountain pass, as sunny inland pastures have given way to snow-dusted pine woods. Maybe it’s the change in terrain that does it, or maybe just the thought of the distance I’ve traveled, but the music blaring on my radio can no longer drown out the confused mixture of emotions that I have been struggling to contain– I am moving far away from all I know.

Coming around a bend, black rows of pine studded hills suddenly split open ahead of me. The early morning sun illuminates the pure snow-clad face of a great mountain. Mount Shasta? Like the crater-pocked face of the moon, it seems to glow of its own light. Like the moon, it is at once comforting and cold.

I’ve moved other times, of course, even traveled to other countries, but this time is somehow different. Someone told me yesterday it’s because in the past, there was always the assumption of return, even if there was no set date– this time is forever. Beyond anxiety and uncertainty, the light of understanding shines as brilliantly as the morning sunlight on the mountain’s face. Sometimes, the truth is a source of comfort. Sometimes, it is a curse.

Weed 5 miles.

What kind of a deranged soul would name their town “Weed”? Perhaps an old, bow-backed hunter, clinging to his cabin hermitage, as he cleans his father’s rifle by candlelight. Damned be any man who attempts to uproot him from his ancestral home. We cling to what we know.

I grew up in a house of books. My parents clung to them like the hermit to his father’s rifle. Overstuffed shelves lined the walls, but there were not enough walls. Books lay in stacks on the floor, on nightstands, on the kitchen table, on the kitchen counters. Any available surface was covered in books. Sometimes there was more room in the house for books than for us trying to live there. Yet “home” is neither a house, nor a city, nor a book. Home is that feeling of comfort and security that comes from knowing you are cared for. In that sense, it was still home.

It’s hard leaving everything you know, but not as hard as clinging to an outlived past. If I were to be a weed, I would choose to be the dandelion. I would not wear down the path beneath my feet, but I would travel on the wind, each new breeze guiding me towards a new life.

Portland 300 miles.

Spicy Carrot-Egg Salad (no mayo)

I’ve never been a big fan of egg salad, mainly because of the mayo. So a few days ago, I decided to devise an easy egg salad recipe to destroy all other egg salad recipes! I find that the cooked carrots in this recipe blend well with the egg, while adding a little extra colour and texture to the salad. As usual, my measurements in this recipe are rough estimates, so please feel free to experiment and fine-tune it to your own tastes.

Great in sandwiches, on rye toast, or on its own!

6 eggs
1 large carrot
2-3 cloves garlic, grated or finely minced
1 sprig of green onions, chopped
1 teaspoon spicy mustard (Dijon, Chinese hot mustard, or similar)
1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper
1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil
a pinch of salt

Hard boil the eggs, peel, and chop them up into rough chunks. Boil the carrot until it is semi-soft, and chop it up into rough chunks. (You can boil the eggs and the carrot in the same pot.)

Mix the rest of the ingredients in a small mixing bowl using a fork to make a dressing. Feel free to adjust the levels of spice in the dressing to taste. When adjusting the spice levels, keep in mind that you don’t want to overpower the flavour of the carrots and eggs. Mix everything together in a bowl and serve on sandwiches, rye toast, or as a side to a main dish, garnished with a sprig of parsley.

If you are not a fan of egg yolks, this salad can also be made with egg-whites only. Carrots can be substituted with celery (or perhaps used as an addition to celery).

Enjoy, and let me know how yours turns out!

Plum and Lemon Preserves

Coming to Michigan has been a wonderful experience. It’s summertime and everything here is so green and vibrant… not at all similar to the dry, hot summers of Southern California. The people are just as lovely as the weather this season, and I’ve had the great fortune of meeting a great number of lovely people so far.

One of the benefits of summer in this area has been the availability of cheap, fresh produce. Finding myself in an adventurous mood today, I decided to make my grandmother’s plum and lemon preserves. It was my first time attempting preserves, and it was much easier than I expected. I am happy to report that the recipe was a delicious success!

I’ve done my best to reproduce the recipe below. My grandmother has a tendency (like many Russians, I think) to eyeball ingredients, so while I’ve done my best to put them into proper American measurements, if you want to reproduce this recipe, you will most likely have to improvise a little on the amounts. One pound of plums makes the amount of preserves in the picture below (i.e. one small jar).

Tangy… yum!

1 lb plums
2 cups sugar
1.5 cups water
1.5 fresh lemons
juice from half a lemon (optional)

Peel the lemons, and slice up their peels into thin, long strips. Cut the plums in half, pit them, and then cut each half up into thirds. Put plums, lemon peels, water, and sugar into the pot. If your plums are a bit sweet, or if you like your preserves extra tangy (as I do), then mix in the lemon juice as well. If you like your preserves a bit sweeter, forgo the lemon juice and add a little extra sugar instead. Set on low or medium-low heat.

Cook without any covering, stirring every 5-10 minutes to keep the preserves from sticking or burning, until the liquid is thick. One way to test for the liquid’s thickness is to drop a dab onto a plate. If it spreads out, then it’s not ready yet. Cooking should take around 1.5 or 2 hours. Allow to cool (preferably overnight) before serving, and store in the fridge if not using a canning method.

Serve with tea, on bread, on crêpes, or as you would any other preserve/jam.

Separation

There was one night recently when, knowing full well that our time together would once again be cut short by other obligations, Brian and I found it difficult to fall asleep. I told him the following bed-time story. He liked it, so I have reproduced it (with only a little extra embellishment) below. It’s a five minute story that I made up as I went, and I have left it mostly in the same state as I found it — like a rough hewn stone, not yet smoothed by waves of constant rewriting and editing — so please forgive its jagged edges.

Once upon a time, there lived a young man and woman, and they were in love. They were not rich, but neither were they extravagant in their lifestyle. Working hard at their respective crafts, they spent most of their time traveling from place to place, seeing the best and worst of what the world had to offer. The years passed quickly this way, but the two never tired of one another, and only fell more deeply in love.

One day amidst their many travels, the pair found themselves trekking across a wide grass plain. The air was hot and sticky, but there was also the feeling of coming rain. There was no shelter in sight from the rain, and they had only one red raincoat between the two of them, having lost the other years ago.

The man gave it to the woman with a smile.

“For you look much better in red than I, my love,” he insisted.

As they walked, they spoke about their plans in coming months: new destinations, slowly dwindling funds, where work could be found, and so on. Life was difficult, but it was also beautiful.

Perhaps the Heavens frowned upon their love, or perhaps they were simply jealous of it. In either case, that hot, wet day was the lovers’ last together.

It happened in a brief, sudden moment. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide — a sound like a freight train thundering by, a flash of blue lightning, a stab of white hot fire down the man’s arm, and then darkness.

Mere seconds had passed when the man awoke, flat on his back, blades of plains-grass raining slowly down around him, the black tendrils of a receding storm above him — with a single tiny red dot high up in the midst of its grasping fingers.

There was nothing left for him to do, but to run after that terrible storm, in chase of his red-clad love…. so he ran.

He chased the storm across those grassy plains, its grey tendrils dancing just out of reach. He chased it across bone dry deserts, as Death chased him. He wondered in those moments, when the heat burnt his skin and the sand clawed at his throat, if the sun ever tired of chasing the moon. Yet the sun continued on in its arcing path across the sky, even if it knew that it would never catch the moon. And so, the man continued on as well.

He climbed over mountains, stumbled through tundra, crawled through jungles, forever following the fading grey tendrils of the vanishing storm, until he reached the Eastern oceans. He wondered in that breath, as the ocean spray filled his nostrils and the crashing waves wiped out all other sounds, if the water ever tired of fighting the sand to reach the cliff’s rocks. Yet the water rose with each tide, continuing its endless struggle to reach the cliff. And so, the man continued his struggle.

He carved out a boat for himself from the fresh carcass of a fallen tree and set out across the waters.

That was the last I saw of him. I helped him build his boat, while he told me his tale. I  watched as he disappeared beyond the horizon, chasing the ghost of a fading storm. Perhaps the raging ocean waters will have swallowed him by now. Or, perhaps, the sun’s hot gaze has scorched the flesh from his bones, leaving the remainder for the buzzards. Or, perhaps, he is gaining on the storm, and its helpless red-clad hostage. Do the Heavens laugh at his desperate foolhardiness, or do they fear his unwavering determination?

Courage

They were opposites as black and white are opposites. One was fast, the other slow. One was lively, the other grave. One was young, the other old.

The child in the green baseball cap pulled on his grandfather’s sleeve, eagerly pointing towards the metal monolith at the center of the playground. But old men were rarely hurried, and this man was very old. His hair was the white of winter’s first snow, his frame long and thin like a stick bug. He walked with a stately confidence, like a warrior proud in his victories, or a king surveying his lands. In another life, he might have been a sprinter, quick and agile, or a marathon runner, lean and steady. Now, he was just an old man.

Giving up and letting go of his grandfather’s sleeve, the child ran ahead on his own, stopping as he reached the beautiful glinting gray object of his truest desires. No older than four, the boy was pudgy, and excitable. Along with his favorite green hat, he wore a wide, happy grin wherever he went, and tended to be the center of everyone’s attention and adoration.

The child waited impatiently for the old man to make his way down the brick path, across the sandbox, and finally, after what seemed like a lifetime of slow, careful footsteps, to that finest product of great and powerful metalworkers of the past– the slide. As his grandfather reached the slide, the child gestured to be picked up. Slowly, with creaking back and shuddering knees, the old man lifted the boy up in his arms and placed him at the top of the slide.

Inching forward along the top until he was positioned on the incline, the child gripped the handrails tightly, and glanced tentatively over the side of the slide at the staggering height. He hesitated. The old man spoke, his words coming slowly, patiently. The boy looked down uncertainly. He shook his head, and gestured to be taken down.  The man spoke again, his words as quiet as the wind. The child shook his head no, and gestured to be taken down. The old man sighed, and plucked the child from the metal monolith, placing him carefully down in the sand. The boy looked down ashamedly.

The old man gave the child a weary look, and turned away, beginning a slow trek towards the little copse of trees at the back of the park. The child caught up with him and reached up to take his hand. Hand-in-hand, they made their way across the huge park lawn, stopping every now and then to inspect a worm or rock hidden in the grass. Each time they stopped, the boy would bend down and point emphatically at his find. The old man would slowly bend his knees, folding in on himself like an origami crane, towards the boy’s short, pudgy frame, and add his own stately commentary on the boy’s newest treasure. Then, like an unfurling morning glory, he would rise up to his full height once more, and continue his solemn journey towards the trees.

Suddenly noticing something of interest up ahead, the child pulled once more on his grandfather’s arm, urging him onward. But old men were rarely hurried, and this man was very old. His knees creaked like rotting porch steps, and though he still walked straight and upright, his heart allowed him only a measured pace. In another life, he might have been a builder, strong and lively, or a hunter, sure-footed and keen-eyed. Now, he was just an old man.

Giving up and letting go of the old man’s hand, the child ran ahead, stopping as he reached the gnarled, leafy object of his truest desires, an old and hardy walnut tree. He circled his stationary quarry, rubbed his hands along its rough bark, marveled at its high branches, and proceeded to wait impatiently for his grandfather to appear once more.

As the old man reached the tree, the boy gestured again to be lifted up, this time onto the tree’s thick boughs. With back complaining and arms shaking, the old man lifted the child up, and placed him on top of the widest branch. The boy laughed and clapped his hands, and then, as he looked down at the staggering height, his eyes grew wide and round.

The old man gave his grandchild an expectant look. The child sternly shook his head no. The old man spoke, his words as patient as the mountains. The child shook his head again, and hugged the tree branch beneath him, wrapping his small, pudgy arms as far as they would go around its significant bulk. The old man shrugged, and turned away, beginning his slow walk back towards the grassy field, towards the slide, towards home.

The boy called out, looked down at the ground far beneath him, called out again. The old man turned back towards his grandson, and waited. Slowly, carefully, gingerly, the child positioned himself on the branch, bent his knees… and hesitated. The old man spoke once more, taking a step back towards the boy on the branch, offering his arms for the boy to grasp onto. The child shook his head once more, and without waiting for his grandfather to reach him, leapt off the branch towards the soft grass beneath the tree.

Two-bite Breakfast

Perfect for breakfasts on the go, or work lunches.

Today I tried a new breakfast recipe, the Two-bite Breakfast, and just wanted to share my success! These delicious bites of heart-attack are made with cheesy toast on the bottom, bacon strips wrapped around, and one wholesome egg in the middle.

To head in a slightly more healthwardly direction, I recommend low-fat, low sodium bacon (which I prefer anyway) and whole wheat bread. You can also scramble the eggs and add in some veggies for an omelette breakfast cup. The variations possible for this recipe are limitless.

To avoid wasting bread, use one slice per one cup and make bunny-in-a-holes the next day, or cut two holes out of each slice and use the bread scraps for bread pudding… or just feed the birds!

Since this was my first try at the recipe, I only made a few slight tweaks:

First of all, I didn’t bother separating the egg yolk from any of the egg white, because I like the egg whites as much as the yolks. As a result, my Two-bite breakfast was more like four or five bites.

Second of all, I let the eggs bake for a little bit longer, until the yolk was almost completely hard. This is, of course, a matter of preference. However, having a harder yolk also allows for easier transportation, and these little cups of heaven are just perfect for breakfast on the go, or lunches at work.

Finally, I had four rows of three breakfast cups, so I put four different herbs on top: oregano, tarragon, paprika, and none. I have to say that the tarragon probably tasted the best, with paprika coming in close second. I also used three different cheese combinations along the three rows. The result was that each breakfast cup was unique. =)

The credit for this recipe goes to Meseidy over at Nosherry, and a big thanks to her for posting it online! Mine don’t look as good as the picture on that post, but I think they were just as tasty.