The Fatal Fruit

My childhood home was always filled with children's voices. My aunts and uncles lived with my parents and grandparents in one house and entrusted me to watch over my younger brothers and cousins. I acted like the Mother Hen, protecting my siblings and cousins to make sure that unnecessary bruises and bumps were avoided. Characteristic of a close-knit family, we children shared everything together: toys, games, puzzles, illnesses and food. My grandmother was a fantastic, talented cook and my mother, her apprentice; my family was lucky in that scrumptious, creative dishes were always laid out on table for us, ready for savor and consumption. It's still very clear to me how my grandmother and mother would often spend 3 hours on preparing and cooking a meal just to suit the different tastes and preferences of each child.

When I started elementary school, I didn't speak a word of English. I hadn't even memorized the letters in the alphabet, let alone be able to able to discern the unique curves and lines that distinguished them. My parents decided to enroll me in private school, thinking that the one-on-one time would be beneficial for my academic progress. The first few weeks of school were incredibly daunting but like many other children parallel situations, I was able to cross language barriers and become friends with my peers.

My elementary school was located on a large, isolated field. The school had its own goats, chickens and garden. The school children reaped the delicious fare, often taking extra eggs home to our respective families. One night, I brought home a pomegranate.

My mother cracked it open while my brothers, cousins and I gathered around the kitchen counter on the tip of our toes, marveling at the bright red seeds that peeked out from underneath the apple-like shell. After realizing that it was a fruit, however, my brothers and cousins found it less appetizing than the Nintendo that was still laid out on the carpet and retreated back into the living room to resume their Duck-hunting game. I stayed, unsteady on my toes and wishing that I had the poise and balance of a ballerina. Finally, my mother handed me a blue and white bowl, filled with red, juicy, subtly-translucent arils. I grabbed a spoon.

I lightly scooped up a few arils and slowly raised the spoon to my mother, afraid that a sudden movement would cause the arils to take flight. My mother smiled at me, leaned down and took a bite from the spoon. I walked over to the living room.

I settled down onto the stained cream couch and watched my cousins jump around the TV, pointing at the flying disks on the television screen. I carefully portioned the amount of arils on my spoon and hesitatingly raised it to my lips, afraid that those arils will, for some reason, taste like the bland tofu that I despised so much. I closed my eyes and allowed the spoon access beyond my lips. I bit down.

My eyes flew open. The juice from the seeds were nothing like I had ever tasted before and having lived in Taiwan, I had been spoiled by the delicious juices and meats of tropical, exotic fruit.

I couldn't help myself. "Mmmmm!" I exclaimed to the other children while gazing down at the ruby red jewels balanced meticulously between my palms. My cousins and brothers, with their interests piqued, shuffled over to the couch to look into the bowl.

"What's that?"
"Are you eating it?"
"Isn't that a fruit?"
"How do you eat it?"
"Can I have a bite?"

I looked up at my four-year-old cousin in his matching yellow pajamas. I raised the spoon to his lips and instinctively, he leaned forward just as I carefully slid the spoon cradling the balanced arils into his mouth.

I waited for his response.

He chewed thoughtfully for a few seconds, then broke into a smile that reached all the way to the top of his ears. "Oh Pearlie. It's yummy!"

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I was so excited when Janny from POM Wonderful contacted me, asking if I would like to try out their pomegranate juice. I couldn't even type my "Yes, please!" quickly enough.

So far, I've incorporated the POM Wonderful juice in smoothies, pom-enades and salad dressings, but wanted to do something a little different yesterday.

When my parents came home from a long day's trip to LA yesterday, I greeted them with this:

Pomegranate Sorbet.

Morning

Her hair was a rich chestnut, long, in pigtails that hung in spiral curls to her shoulders.
Her lace dress, purchased from an impromptu trip to France two weeks ago, was white with pink ribbons that matched the billowing ones tied in her hair.
Her skin was smooth and velvety - softer than the abundance of cashmere itemized in my closet and creamier than the sea of silk that clothed each bare bed in the rooms.
Her eyelashes were long and thick, to the point that other mothers whispered to one another, absurdly accusing me of applying makeup to her perfect, four-year-old features.
Her off-white, pale-sand mary janes, scrubbed clean daily from grass and mud stains, were an audio clue to her wherebouts, the "clap-clap-clap" accompanying her every movement.
Her unmatched pink and white socks, the backdrop to those mary janes, were a symbol of her defiance and an indication of how I once used to be; I was secretly proud.
Her hazel eyes, the only physical attribute reminiscent of her father, were alive: smiling, laughing, feeling, in harmony with the rest of her body.

My days were usually quiet and happy. I had a large house to share with my daughter, who filled the empty rooms with reverberating laughter, squeals of delight and hushed whispers of admiration. I was blessed, each day, with ten hours of blue skies, sunshine and soft breezes, during which we spent picnicking, taking walks, picking flowers and visiting nearby markets. The hours that I used to spend in luxury boutiques, looking for another pair of imported cashmere gloves or silk gowns were instead passed in mirrored closets, from where I watched my daughter peek at her new polka-dot dress from underneath a too-large, wide-brimmed hat that she had picked up from the top of my bureau.
Meals were simple and experimental. Chilled, sweet fresh fruit and crisp vegetables were always the main stars of the dish, accompanied by an experimental entree created according to her favorite ingredients of the day; except for that one occasion when she attempted to make a dish by herself (which resulted in melted chocolate and microwaved broccoli "soup"), we were never apart in the kitchen. We were never apart anywhere.

So you must understand how difficult this is for me, now that she's gone. I can't find her anywhere.

Goodbye to the Hiatus

Hi everyone!

I'm back - well, sort of. I was too incredibly enthralled by your blog entries that I continued to read them... and never left. So, I guess the more appropriate introduction would be that I'm not lurking anymore! Which just made this post about 100x creepier.

Anyways, do you recall that I had received an ice cream attachment and was asking for ice cream recommendations? Well, I found a basic vanilla ice cream recipe (since I heard that it's safest to start with something simple), but couldn't resist and had to tweak it in a few ways.

So, what I actually printed out and held in my hand was an everyday vanilla ice cream base.

What I ended up with in the freezer was a Honey Vanilla Ice Cream w/ Roasted Peanuts.

Okay, the roasted peanuts weren't originally part of the plan. But you see, my neglected creative twin will occasionally rebel at around 4:00 in the afternoon, and this time, before I could stop her, she reached in and grabbed a handful of roasted peanuts and threw them into the churning mixture. I was shocked. My friend, Erin (who was with me earlier that day and had been helping me with pouring and mixing of the ice cream) gawked at the now-ruined mixture and glanced over at me. Being the take-charge person that I am, I stood by helplessly, watching my twin ferociously add more handfuls of peanuts, all the while glaring and barking at us to back off. I think I spotted foam at her mouth.

Anyways, with the damage done, I really couldn't do anything besides freeze it accordingly. But I was disheartened when I saw that the custard was too liquidy and the peanuts all floated to the top. I tried to ignore the texture and leave it alone in the freezer but I couldn't push the caramel colored honey sea with peanut islands out of my mind; after an hour or so, I took a look at my ice cream. To my surprise and genuine delight, it was actually firming up! There wasn't an excess amount of liquid as I first feared that there would be. I took the opportunity to swirl around the peanuts with my chopsticks (seriously... I don't think I ever use a whisk or even a spoon to mix anything anymore ever since my mother taught me how to mix/whip/stir more efficiently with chopsticks) so that they would be lodged in various areas of the ice cream. I stuck it back in the freezer.

I wish I had pretty photos to show, but I can't, since it's practically all gone. My brothers and mom all liked it, but all had differing opinions on what to add more of.

Mom: I couldn't taste the honey.

Brother #1: I couldn't taste the vanilla.

Brother #2: I can taste both.

The ice cream texture was one that resembled the soft-serve ice creams, so the crunchy peanuts added a nice contrast.

Anyways, here is the recipe for the Honey Vanilla Ice Cream):

Ingredients

• 2 cups milk
• 1 vanilla bean, split lengthwise (I didn't have a vanilla bean, so I used 1 Tbs. of vanilla extract)
• 7 egg yolks
• 1/4 cup brown sugar
• 3/4 cup honey
• 3/4 tsp. salt (I estimated this one)
• 2 cups cream

Process

1. Heat together milk and vanilla bean until simmering (do not boil). In a separate bowl, whisk together egg yolks, brown sugar, honey, salt until frothy. While whisking, slowly combine hot milk with mixture, then transfer back into the sauce pan. Cook until mixture becomes thick enough to coat the back of a spoon.
2. Remove vanilla bean from mixture (hold onto it). Strain the custard into a bowl then scrape the seeds from the vanilla bean back into the custard. Stir the heavy cream into the custard (Note: This is where I added in the vanilla extract, since I didn't have a vanilla bean).
3. Cover & chill for 4 hours, or until completely cold.
4. Freeze in ice cream maker according to manufacturer's directions. Note: If you also have a creative twin, wait until the last 2 minutes of the freezing/churning process before you let him/her loose.

And voila! You've got a honey vanilla ice cream that's gourmet enough to serve to guests but also homey and familiar enough that your picky teenage brother will also dig into.

Have a great day.

5 Minutes

I've spent the last 5 minutes trying to come up with a title.

Should it be lighthearted? Serious? Optimistic? Sad?

I couldn't come up with a good title. But then again, I've never been very smooth at goodbyes. No matter how hard I tried, my voice was always the first to break, and I was always the first to turn away so that no one would see that one teardrop that would inevitably release the floodgates.

I'm leaving this blog for a while for personal reasons. Hopefully, I will still be reading, but I don't think I'll be commenting as much.

You lovely ladies and gentlemen have kept me laughing, crying and furiously cooking/baking for the past few months, and it's been an experience that really just can't ever be replaced.

Thanks so much.

Girl's Day

When I was 17 years old, I strolled down the street in downtown Del Mar, marveling at the adorable boutiques and quaint little cafes. I could taste the salt in the ocean and hear the deep roars that stemmed from a mixture of wind and waves.

I reached the corner of the street. To my left, tanned surfers were either jogging out onto the warm beach or stripping off their wetsuits and gushing over the waves they rode that day. To my right, the scent of freshly-brewed coffee rushed into my soul, invigorating my senses and heightening my awareness of the bustling beauty around me.

I turned towards the cafe but before I could reach for the handle, the door opened. A man, dressed in the so-Cal uniform of a t-shirt, jeans and flip flops, held open the door and paused. I looked up, not noticing his face, but immediately likening his curly brown hair to the locks of Josh Groban. My gaze slowly fluttered from his jaw to his nose and finally settled on his eyes, where I realized that he was looking at me. I froze; he didn't move, either. After a few painfully long moments, he smiled and waved his free arm in the direction of the store, motioning for me to enter.

"Oh my gosh," I thought, "How embarrassing. He was holding the door open for me and I just stood there."

I said thanks and hurried into the cafe, as if the quickening of my strides would somehow make up for those embarrassing seconds. He left the cafe.

I stood in line, trying to decide what to order: It was 3 in the afternoon. Did I really want coffee now? No, I realized, I didn't want coffee right now. Okay then, how about some tea? It was 78 degrees. Why would I want hot tea? Did I want anything cold? No, cause I'd drink it way too fast and then end up shivering and cursing myself for a few minutes. Then what am I doing here?

I left my spot in the line. I walked outside onto the bustling street. I squinted my eyes, trying to adjust to the fiercely bright afternoon sun. I faced the beach and concentrated on the white foamy waves that skated along the baby blue waters. At that moment, while my eyesight was slowly adapting to the sudden change in light, my peripheral vision was nonexistant.

Which explains why I didn't notice that there was somebody standing to the side of me.

Which explains why I didn't really respond right after I heard the words, "Excuse me."

Which explains my genuine surprise and fluster when I realized that the man with the casually torn denim, fitted shirt, curly brown hair and green (or were they brown?) eyes who had moments before, held the door open for me while I pondered over his physical similarity to celebrities, was standing next to me, asking for my attention.

I looked up at him. "Hi."

He smiled. "Hello. My name is Kyle. I see you didn't get any coffee."

I looked at my empty hands. "No, I guess I didn't."

He lifted up his cup-less hands, then put them in his pockets. "I didn't either. I woke up this morning at 5:00, and if I have coffee now, I'll feel like a zombie."

I laughed politely. He laughed, too.

I started to walk towards the corner of the street, intending to push the crosswalk button that would allow me to step one block closer to the beach.

Before I even completed one stride, I heard his voice. "Would you like to go on a walk with me?"

I turned around and looked at him. I ran through the list of things that I needed to do that day: Go home and help my mom cook dinner, pick up my brother from his friend's house, draft that letter for my dad, help my other brother study for his exam, study for my own classes, write up that paper for English Lit, study for the math quiz...

"Sure." I responded, surprising myself. Why did I just say that?

We both turned to face the beach. And we started to walk.

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That walk ended 2 1/2 years later. He was my first love. I was 18 years old. I had never been in love before and never had a serious boyfriend before. He was funny, charming and irresistibly adorable.

The only reason I write this is not because I still have feelings for him but because I realized tonight that even on the very first day, I was already prioritizing my schedule around him.

That night, I was late for dinner. I didn't pick up my brother on time. I ended up drafting the letter later than my dad needed me to and didn't start my homework until hours after my original schedule. But to me, that night was worth it. He had kissed me, near my car, in such a sweet way that it left me weak.

Like I said - he was irresistible to me, then. And continued to be for the next 2.5 years, even when we just simply did not get along anymore.

I can be the first to admit this: I bailed out on a lot of my plans, missed a lot of my friends' various important moments, chose to see him over a good friend on many, many occasions - and that was when things between me and him were going fantastically! When conflicts arose and our relationship took a turn for the worse, my devotion, determination and time invested in the relationship tripled.

I mention this because today, I had the opportunity to hang out with a friend of mine whom I have not seen in over 2 years. She and I were friends in high school, and somehow, after my high school graduation, we completely lost touch. We were eachother's facebook friends, yet never ever talked. Isn't that funny, though? How many of the 200+ friends on facebook are actually your "friends?"

Anyways. It was so nice to see her today and to see the beautiful woman she's developed into. We talked a lot, and I admitted that I had shut out quite a few friends when I was so involved in my relationship. I told her that being single for this past year has been really good for me, as I re-developed my priorities and fell in love again with each person whom I had taken for granted.

It was a really lovely, insightful night. And I want to thank her for being my friend, even after a lapse of 2 years.

Has anyone also gone through the same lesson, where relationships were chosen over loving friends?

So, what did we do today?

After chatting and reminiscing for a little bit, we decided to go and catch a movie. We both decided immediately that we wanted to see He's Just Not That Into You, and oh my gosh, we are both so glad that we did. It's seriously one of the more adorable movies that I've seen in a while. Who knew Justin Long could be so charming and adorable outside of those "I'm a Mac, and I'm a PC" commercials?

We were going to bake cookies, but decided not to today. We're having another girl's date next week, where we'll either be making a batch of cookies or a dozen honey cupcakes. And we're going to go ice skating! Neither of us have ever been - does anyone have any suggestions on how to actually move on the ice for the first time?