Wontons

My father taught me how to make wontons as a child. I may have learned as young as five or six. We sat at the kitchen table with ground pork (mixed with oyster sauce, salt and corn starch), square wonton wrappers and a bowl of water. He held a wrapper in his left palm with one corner pointing to the wrist. After dolloping pork in the center, he wet the border of two perpendicular sides with his right hand's index finger. He folded the wet borders on to the dry ones to create a triangle, pressing edges together, the pork safely enveloped. Then he tucked the right corner underneath the left one to complete the parcel. The simple yet elegant process infatuated me.

I started making wontons myself in my post-secondary years. In the first summer of my 20s, I made a turkey version for friends because one, as a Hindu, ate no meat except poultry. My buddies devoured the turkey dumplings. In fourth-year university when I lived on my own, a classmate requested I prepare the original recipe with him because, I think, it reminded him of his mother who passed away. More recently, I taught the man I love how to wrap wontons for one of the first dinners we shared at home together. Just two weekends ago, my eldest sister served me her wontons for dinner. About her five-year-old son, she remarked, "You know Raja helped me make some?"

Singapore's Airport Food (and a little family history)

I spent a lot of time in airports backpacking through Southeast Asia last year. But the first time I visited Singapore Changi International Airport was when my Uncle Edward and I picked up my cousin Sue Ann and her husband from a short trip to Bali, Indonesia. (I arrived in Singapore from Malaysia by train.)

I never met Sue Ann before and knew little about her. You see, my Uncle Edward is my father's first cousin but we didn't know any of them until just under 10 years ago when they found us in Toronto through the Internet—before Facebook or Twitter was ever an idea in any university techgeek's mind.

My grandmother's youngest sister was given away as a child (they grew up in Calcutta, India, which is another story to tell another day because I'm of Chinese descent) and apparently wound up being raised and getting married in Singapore. Her family and ours always knew of each other's existence but just had no idea where in the world we were. When we did discover our families, we had a big reunion in Toronto, considering most of my father's cousins live here. Ever since then, we've been family. Most of my aunts and dad have visited and stayed with my Uncle Edward in Singapore, and vice versa; and Sue Ann travelled to Toronto for the first time in her life this past Christmas.

It may seem unusual to be estranged for so many years then suddenly welcome each other in our homes but that's the power of family sometimes.

I was nervous to meet Sue Ann, as I would be with any new person in any setting. But it's a particularly curious feeling when you're thousands of kilometres away from home and asking near-strangers to give up their time to show you around. Luckily, my aunt from Toronto informed me that Sue Ann and I had two brilliant things in common—an insatiable love for food and a high metabolism to keep us tiny.

My first meal with Sue Ann didn't turn out to be at the airport—that will come later—but the brilliant thing about most, if not all Singaporeans is they love food.

That is why their version of airport food would of course be this:

This is referred to as "dry noodles," though to me the distinction between wet and dry noodles was not obvious at first. In my mind, dry noodles doesn't come with anything "wet," such as a sauce. But in Singapore, wet noodles means soupy noodles and dry noodles are indeed saucy. It's inspiring how simple and elegant noodles can be presented at an airport.

 

I was also introduced to tea with sweetened condensed milk that day. I've yet to recreate the concoction since returning home (it's almost been a year now!) but as I read on a younger cousin's Facebook profile, "Condensed milk makes everything better. I think it's the secret to world peace."

Undoubtedly it very well may be—and the hospitality of loved ones doesn't hurt either.

Homemade Chinese Steamed Buns

...by my daddy! A rare treat. The bun itself is so fluffy. Look at all those air pockets. And the filling is sauteed ground pork, red onions, diced carrots, mushrooms.

My dad used to make homemade steamed buns all the time when my siblings and I were kids. Sometimes my childhood food memories taste better than the modern recreations. But this matched the memory.

***UPDATE***

Due to popular demand, I asked my father for this "secret" family recipe and revealing it for all. These are just estimates off of the top of my dad's head, hence the weird yield (17 buns?). I'm not a recipe writer and even though baking is more scientific than cooking, this is technically steaming not baking.

The Buns
8 cups of all-purpose flour
3 to 4 cups of water
3 to 4 tbsp sugar
1/2 tsp salt
2 whole eggs, beaten - if you want a whiter colour, just use egg whites

Active yeast (1 tsp; follow the instructions for proofing)
1/4 tsp of sugar in the yeast

Filling
The Li Family filling is ground pork, and diced carrots, white onions and white mushrooms, sauteed in a pan with oyster sauce, salt, pepper and a little soy sauce. But as my dad says, filling is easy. Make whatever you like. There are some classics but I'm all for experimentation. For a vegetarian substitution, he suggested diced carrots, white onions, white mushrooms, bamboo shoots and chives.

(Okay, the following instructions I know are a major fail because I'm not sure how to write it out, as I just watch my dad do it and know from experience.)

Combine wet and dry ingredients till it forms a soft dough. Let rise two hours.

Knead dough. Form into even-sized "balls" (they won't really be balls because the dough is very soft). Place filling in center of flattened ball, and pinch sides to top to fold in and close. Pat in hands to form back into a "ball." Let rise for another 10 minutes. Cook in steamer for 10 minutes if you sauteed the filling beforehand. Cook for 20 minutes for uncooked meat; and 12 minutes for a veggie filling.

And report back with how it went... 

Chicken tikka at Casa Lina

My aunt can whip up the most delicious food from Italian to Indian to Chinese at a moment's notice. I never go hungry at her house.

Spanish tapas and paella: La Sala Rosa in Montreal

Tapas is a "fancy" Spanish word for appetizers, but it's not, really. What I love about tapas is it's everything food should be -- sharing lots of little meals between friends and family, so you can experience a range of foods and flavours with the people you love and enjoy being around. It is what I love about food the most.

My 17-year-old cousin Rochelle from Tampa, Florida is visiting Montreal this summer. Her family comes up to Toronto every other year, and this is their "off" year, so when I found out she would be in Montreal on her own, staying with my sister, I decided a weekend road trip was in order.

She's a budding foodie. Reading about food, cooking new recipes, trying new places, as much as a 17-year-old can try. So when she mentioned that she read about this place called Casa del Popolo in Montreal, after looking at the website, and spotting paella, I decided we should go for dinner when I came.

But Casa del Popolo is the casual sandwiches and soups-type eatery. It's La Sala Rosa that is the dinner venue. I went with Ro, my 18-year-old cousin Michelle from Toronto who road-tripped with me, and of course, my sister and her husband. It was a really simple meal but reasonably priced and not your typical restaurant. Very unassuming from the front, but a warm, Spanish feel in the actual dining space. (Or maybe faux Spanish? I can't really make a true comparison because I've never been to Spain before.)

The server was extremely accommodating, even bringing us the paella plate when I asked how big the portion would be. For tapas, we had warm asparagus "salad" with roasted mushrooms; a marlin brochette on rice; fried potatoes with rosemary; mussels in a white wine sauce; and grilled calamari. We had a chicken, chorizo and shrimp paella. I had a glass of wine, my brother-in-law had a beer, and we also ordered two iced teas.

The music was a bit strange: high-pitched opera-ish (but not really) folksy music that made my younger cousins laugh somewhat uncontrollably at times.

It wasn't the most outstanding meal of my life, but the mix of atmosphere, company, value of food and super congenial service definitely made it one of the most memorable.

Fried potatoes with rosemary; seafood, chicken and chorizo paella. Photos courtesy of my cousin Rochelle.

Sisterly Love (Part 2 of 2)

The dining room is narrow and long, in the shades of ebony-coloured woods and deep blood reds, and large windows to let the light of the world inside.

My sister Marie, her husband Georges and I sit at a table in the far corner. Privacy with a view.
"OK. Everyone figure out what they want," says Georges, hands splayed on the table at both sides of the menu. "I call the octopus... Ooo, and the bison looks good." The way Georges talks can instantly lighten the mood, even though for probably 80 per cent of the time, he doesn't mean to. His voice goes through different pitches; his eyes bulge; his smile goes corner to corner; and he does a sharp inhale of breath to indicate excitement. It's odd sometimes to think at this point, I've known Georges for half my life now.

"Tell me the real story about how you guys met," I ask them.
"What's there to tell?" says Marie in her usual brisk tone. "It's not like a movie, you know?" She gives me her Duh! look.
"I know it's not like a movie," I shoot back. "But I still want to know."
"I will tell the story," replies Georges.

It goes like this: Marie and Georges were in first-year engineering at the University of Toronto. They had class together and noticed each other, but didn't say anything until Marie "happened" to be sitting in front of Georges in a lecture, and she turned around and introduced herself.

"Tell her about the only friend you had," Marie interjects.
I die laughing: "You had one friend? So basically the story goes, Marie was cool and had lots of friends. And you had no friends till you met Marie." It's been over ten years since they met, and some things never change. I know Marie is like how her and Georges describe the story: happy, sociable, confident, smart, loud. Trademark signs of her personality. Her husband, on the other hand, is a little more shy, quiet and takes some time to get warmed up. I forget this about him often enough because once he does warm up, he is one of the best people you could ever meet in your life.

We sip on a California Merlot that is intoxicating for other reasons than just its alcohol content. There is a balance of sweet, spicy and dry--kind of like us. Nothing extraordinary occurred from that meal. No life-revealing moment. No terrific or terrificly bad news. But there was something about the night that made me pause and reflect on a relationship with a sister for over 21 years, and a person who has become a brother within 10.

There are many more years to come of ordinary dinners, naps in each other's houses, fights about the same old things, laughter over jokes only we understand, and a growing up where ties of family bond will forever bind you. The love of a sister, a brother, a family is sufficiently extraordinary enough.

Sisterly Love (Part 1 of 2)

In downtown Toronto, it's a strolling 20-minute walk from Richmond and John to Yonge and Wellington. The heels of my red pumps clack on the sidewalk, and my ivory white dress bounces lightly in the cool crisp air. My sister Marie and her husband Georges are next to me, lazily hand-in-hand. "That's it!" my brother-in-law exclaims. "You two go without me and I'm going home." It's our typical bickering. Marie and I fight. Marie and Georges fight. Georges and I fight. I don't think we ever take one another too seriously though. Yelling just seems to make life more interesting.

Marie, nine years my senior, always used to say, "One day, when we're older, we'll be on the same level and can talk with one another. It won't matter that we're so far apart in age." I always believed her. Even at 10-years-old, it made sense to me. As the night progresses, it hits me we've transitioned into that phase now. And we've been in that phase for awhile, but it still gives me a small thrill whenever she asks for my opinion or advice. I feel proud to have someone I look up to see me as a person for guidance and learning.

The letters "CIEN" appear in the distance. "I see it! It's Lucien!" I squeal in childish delight. It's where we're eating fine-dining for the first time together.

I attribute a lot of who I am to Marie. She's influenced me in innumerable ways. One of her biggest influences is probably my love for food. She introduced me to the magazine Toronto Life when I was about 16. And that's when I started to learn about the city's culinary scene. A year-and-a-half ago, I started to actually indulge in fine dining. I put my money woes aside and decided I should treat myself to a nice meal, something that gives me deep, deep pleasure. I don't care that much for clothes or concerts or cars or computers, so it only makes sense that my wily hobby is cuisine.

At the same time I started to collect the experiences of Thuet, Scaramouche, North 44 and more, my sister and her husband (also a food aficionado) were scaling back their luxury budget in place of their newborn son. They claimed they had to live vicariously through me even though my sister had still gone to Globe Bistro, Tutti Matti, Canoe and Jamie Kennedy's Wine Bar. So it was just Georges who was losing out.

That is probably why Georges recently proposed the idea that him, Marie and I start trying out new restaurants once a month. Once a month is a little too rich for me--and them--so we've adjusted it to once about every three months. And so here we are at Lucien, one of Toronto Life's top ten new restaurants of 2008.

"Your sister's going crazy," Georges remarks to Marie. I'm easily excitable. I don't know if it's them or me, but even though they've both given me my love for food, I think it may have developed differently from theirs.