What Are These?

Not quite edamame. Click here.

Easy Homemade Oat Bread

Please click here for the recipe.

Zongzi (糭子)

Please click here for its cultural history.

Coffee Pudding Cup w/ Almond Butter Crunch Topping

Click here for the recipe.

Trypophobia

When I was around thirteen years old, I was at a Petco in San Diego with my mother and brothers. They were buying fish; I was cooing over the magazine covers that featured adorable, perfectly-messy puppies. When my mother finished picking out the sparkly little fish, she motioned for me to stand in line behind her. I ambled slowly to the line, curiously touching and examining every little item on the way. Something caught my eye: it was an array of dog bones that were stacked up next to the conveyor belt, where candy bars would usually reside in supermarkets. I picked up a heavy, thick white bone, turned it to its side and peered in.

An intricate maze of spongy, porous bone coldly stared back at me.

A heavy, dull, grating chill suddenly pierced me and goosebumps popped up all over my arms. I felt sick; nauseous from the perplexity of the bone tissue and repulsed that such demented-looking things existed in nature. I rubbed my hands up and down my arms, rotated my shoulders, shifted from one foot to another in attempts to rid myself of that unlocatable itch that slithered from head to toe. I was so disturbed and yet couldn't explain why. I put the bone back on the shelf and decided to forget about it for the next few years.

A little while ago, I came across this urban legend, telling of holes that were formed in breasts due to unsanitary bras. The photo of the "proof," which I will not post here, was found to be photoshopped; someone had taken a photo of a lotus seed pod and layered it with a photo of a female breast. Even though I knew the photo was fake, it was enough for me to start shivering from repulsion and lose concentration on whatever task I was completing at the time; in fact, seeing that photo ruined the rest of my night and a good portion of my next day.

It was after that incident that I soon started noticing how my body reacted to images of holes. A glance at the honeycomb tripe at the supermarket could send me back to the car, fighting to suppress the waves of nausea. A close-up photo of a microwaved egg white, dotted with little air-pockets, could cause me to quickly turn away and, with an obvious conscious effort, struggle to push the image from my mind. The lotus seed pod photo, by itself, is something that I can't stomach to this day; if I see it, I will go into flee mode.

Of course, after telling a few friends, they tried their best to be sympathetic to the bizarre situation. They asked questions with tones of disbelief and searched me inquisitively for answers that I didn't have. I didn't blame them though; that fear did sound odd. I even thought it was simply a quirk or a phase that I was going through and that one day, I'd look back and think, "Why was I afraid of something so incapable of harm?"

After being light-heartedly teased by friends who observed that "I'd be a horrible lesbian," (at which my boyfriend pointed out, "Men have holes too, you know,") I had to explain that my reaction only arose whenever it was a close cluster of small, deep holes. If you show me a photo of cheese holes that are not deep (meaning that those holes are more like indentations), then I'm fine . But if you show me a close-up photo of cheese holes that penetrate to the other side, I experience a mild version of the reaction that I have with photos of lotus seed pods.

So while online tonight, I decided to google "fear of holes." A bunch of discussion forums pertaining to phobias jumped out at me, and after some reading, realized that I may suffer from Trypophobia. I'm putting this information out here because I never knew that my inability to digest images of holes was actually due to a phobia. Has anyone else ever experienced this?

MixMyGranola Review

When I was little, my mother restricted me to Kix Cereal. "No artificial colors," she'd recite, holding up that orange box while I sat at the kitchen table and drooled over the bright marshmallows that danced around Lucky the Leprechaun on my TV screen.

My mother picked up one little Kix ball and peered at it closely from beneath her curled bangs. "Isn't it cute?" she'd ask to herself. "Hao ke-ai."

I rolled my eyes. Crunching on a spoonfull of Kix cereal, I pointed to the TV screen and said, "Cocoa Puffs are in little balls, too. Why can't I have those?"

My mother looked at the TV, scrunched up her face in disgust and say, "Oh, you don't want chocolate for breakfast."

"Yes I dooooo. I don't want Kix anymore, everyone else at school has Cinnamon Toast Crunch and I have this bowl of plain, boring yellow balls. They taste like..." I racked my brains, trying to perfectly describe the bland, soggy mess of yellow mush drowning in white liquid before me. "...boring, yellow, dumb balls. It tastes bad."

The next day, my mother came home and announced that she had two presents for me. Excitedly, I sprinted downstairs and paced back and forth in the kitchen. "Oooh! What is it?" Maybe it was that puppy I wanted.

My mother, in her effortless grace and beauty, smiled quietly, took out two items and placed them before me.

One was a brand new box of Kashi's 7 Whole Grain Rice Puffs. The other was a thesaurus.



MixMyGranola was so sweet to send me a gift certificate to try out their customized granola. But when you give me:

• Four different bases that sound equally tempting (Organic Granola, French Vanilla Granola, 100% Organic Museli and Low-Fat Granola);
• 17 different dried fruit mix-ins (Goji Berries? Organic Dates? Really? In a granola?);
• 17 different seed/nut mix-ins (Chia Seeds? Hemp Seeds? This saves me a trip to Whole Foods);
• 20 different "indulgent" mix-ins (I was doing so well, choosing all the nutritious, wholesome options before you teased me with your Tiramisu Caramel and Peanut Butter Bites additions).

That makes for a very indecisive, 20 minutes of playing around with customization; My inner six-year-old resurfaced, trying to frantically select all of the indulgent options before Mother took away the computer.

Where were you, MixMyGranola, when my mother was fighting with me to choose Kix and Rice Puffs over Cookie Crisps and Reese's Puffs? I'd take your Organic Museli with dried blackberries, dried apples and sunflower seeds over Count Chocula anyday.

Today is...

Happy Mother's Day to all you beautiful, benevolent, brilliant mothers.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I love you.

Raw Prune Brownies

As I entered the kitchen through the formal dining room, I spotted my father at the kitchen table, hunched over his lunch. It was a plate containing steamed broccoli, baked fish and some rice. He sat there, watching my brother douse his plate of lettuce with Ranch dressing.
"Don't add too much," he advised, "It's not good for the heart."

My father underwent heart surgery at the age of 47. For a year or two before that, his doctor had been advising him to consume whole, nutritious foods and to eat out less often; due to his work, however, he was routinely absent from the family table during dinners, and even, as I later found out from my mother, during breakfast and lunch. Since my brothers and I were in school for the majority of the day, we noticed but didn't really agonize over his empty seat at the dinner table.

"He probably has another dinner he has to host tonight," I'd say to my two brothers.
"Yeah, work requires a lot of socializing and networking," they'd hurriedly agree.

And then we'd continue savoring the delicious spread of vegetables and pan-seared salmon that my mother had freshly prepared.

When I turned ninteen years old, I had my heart thoroughly broken. It was the first time that I experienced such bothersome sorrow, and in spite of my dear friends' attempts to launch me out of my heartache by introducing me to other men and reassuring me with, "You'll forget about him as soon as you find a rebound," I chose to stay home instead and alternate between studying, listening to music and sleeping. I'd come downstairs for meals, help set the table and take comfort in the presence of my mother; she understood how I felt.

It was during these three daily meals that I started to notice how my father was either absent for all three or elsewhere during lunch and dinner. He didn't have time for breakfast, either; as my mother and I calmly enjoyed our fresh fruits, teas, oatmeal, my father would hurry downstairs, dressed in his professional clothes, grab a coffee and run. He and my mother had spats over this, as she usually insisted on him having breakfast before leaving the house.

"You are not setting a good example for your children by skipping out on breakfast!" she'd call after my father, who was by now, backing his car out of the driveway, coffee mug in his left hand.

Since he didn't have meals at home, he'd inhale his food between meetings, usually grabbing something quick and portable from Burger King or McDonald's. Would my father grab a salad to eat with a fork in the car? Probably not. His choices were the usual: burgers, "healthy" sandwiches, etc. He was never really the type to pay attention to the ingredients, either; he didn't know the the white stuff glopped onto his "healthy" chicken sandwich was actually mayo, full of fat and cholestrol. He was surprised when I told him this, but his surprise soon turned into skepticism. For some reason, he believed that the mayo on his sandwich must not have been "made like traditional mayonnaise, because otherwise, they wouldn't have covered the entire piece of chicken in it. It's too unhealthy."

Around Spring of that year, my father returned to Taiwan. When he got off the plane, he made his routine phone call to us in San Diego. I was sitting on the kitchen island when my mother picked up the phone, and after a minute or two, she surprised me by hanging up. I looked over at her.
"Did Dad arrive safely?"

"Yes," she answered, staring intently at the receiver in her hand. "But he says that he can't really breathe and he's so tired... so he hung up."

I looked over at her in alarm. Needing consolation, I probed, "But he's okay, right?"

My mother didn't answer.

A couple of months later, my mother told me that my father had to have emergency heart surgery in Taiwan. As she threw clothes, shoes, vitamins into her suitcases, she asked me to take care of my middle brother and pay attention to finances and bills and letters mailed to the house. With that, she kissed me on the cheek, grabbed my youngest brother and waved frantically as the taxi sped out to the airport.

My father's heart surgery went well. My mother had called me right after to tell me that "everything was OK," although I later found out that there had been complications so severe that my father, with a steadily dropping blood pressure, had been hurried into the ICU.

When he returned home, he took a sudden interest in nutrition. He would say things like, "nuts are pretty high in fat," which to him, was completely new information. Because of his doctor's orders to avoid foods high in fat, he has been unable to taste a lot of the sweet items that he enjoyed when he was younger. He loves brownies and chocolates.

So when I entered the kitchen yesterday and spotted him talking to my brother about nutrition, I decided to try and make something that would be nutritious and healthier than a usual brownie. Since I didn't have dates on hand, I decided to use these delicious, creamy prunes from Newman's Own Organics instead; these prunes are the best ones I've ever tasted. They're so buttery, thick and silky smooth at the same time.

I took some prunes, chopped them up and threw them into my mini food processor. Afraid that they'd be a little too tangy, I chopped up some of Newman's Own Organics* dried apricots and threw that in, too. I whipped it into a paste, and the combination of apricots and prunes made it a perfect sweet and slightly tart base. I took a tiny baby spoon and put in a few spoonfuls of raw cacao powder and drizzled in some raw agave nectar. After further processing, it formed into this brownie-like batter. I took spoonfuls of batter, rolled them into little balls and then whirled them around on a bed of unsweetened shredded coconut. I dehydrated these at 105 overnight, until the balls were not sticky on the outside.

Inside was still gooey, so chocolatey and creamy, and it tasted like a wonderful fudge brownie. My brothers, who usually stick with dessert items such as chocolate chip cookies and ice creams, both really enjoyed this concoction; one liked the chocolate flavor, the other liked the coconut mixed in. My mother, who only likes desserts that she remembers from her childhood, called out to me, "This is really good." My dad was really surprised and loved it, since he can now get his chocolate fix. And I'm happy, because I now know that my father can occasionally indulge in sweets without risking his health.

The batter would've been fine if it weren't dehydrated. If refrigerated until firm, the brownie would be similar to fudge.

Enjoy.


* I am by no means sponsored by Newman's Own Organics. I just love their products. They really do have the best dried prunes, cranberries and apple rings that I've tasted. Their creamy prune texture is what makes this brownie so rich and decadent.

Purple Peanuts

My mother's friend gave her a package of these peanuts. As I was preparing dinner, I listened to my mother gush about this variety of nuts. "They're special because they're purple." Purple peanuts? I didn't quite believe her. I cracked one open.


Okay, now I believe her.
Addendum: These peanuts taste just like regular peanuts.

Dried Banana Slices

Along with the dried apple rings, I also sliced a banana into thin pieces and popped them onto the Excalibur trays. Hours later, they came out chewy and very sweet, with an intense banana flavor. My mother tasted one and immediately gushed, "Nature's candy."

Strawberry Roll-Ups

My fascination with fruit rolls ups started when my friend decided to share hers during lunch. Swinging my legs back and forth underneath the red, bird poop-stained cafeteria bench, I chewed thoughtfully on the sticky and sweet candy. When I saw my blue-stained lips and massively purple tongue, I was hooked.

I begged my mother to buy fruit roll ups for me. I was always eager to go to the grocery store with her, thinking, "Maybe today, she'll buy those fruit roll-ups for me."

It never worked. My mother, who read all ingredients on boxes and refused to let me have any artificially-colored cereals (I grew up eating Kix), took one look at the ingredients on the fruit roll ups and stashed it back onto the shelf.

When I let out my obligatory cry of protest, she explained, "It has fake colors."
Furrowing my eyebrows, I countered with the most effective attack my six-year-old mind could think of. "So?!"
My mother cooly pushed the cart ahead and murmured in her soothing voice, "It's not good for you."
I crossed my arms and sighed. "Defeated once again," I thought.
My mother turned and saw my crushed expression. "Oh, I know!" she exclaimed cheerfully, grabbing a package and holding it out to me. "How about another bag of celery? These are naturally green!"

Strawberry Roll-Ups

I made these strawberry roll ups with a blender and a dehydrator. Although it's berry season, I had a container of strawberries that weren't very sweet. I threw them in the blender, drizzled in a tiny bit of honey and whipped them up. I poured it onto the Paraflexx sheets, smoothed it out then placed the trays into the dehydrator. After several hours, I removed the trays and easily peeled the roll ups away from the sheets. These were my brothers' favorites; after tasting a piece, both loitered around the dehydrator, checking in to see if the other batch was done. My brothers loved the strawberry seeds, as it added a nice crunch to the chewy leather.

Later on that night, as I watched my brothers share the last remaining strawberry roll-up, I asked my mother, "Do you remember those?"

She looked over at my brothers tearing the red, shiny leather in half and responded, "Yes, you really wanted them but they were basically candies. Did you go and buy some for your brothers?"

Watching for her reaction, I answered, "No, I made those with the dehydrator. Just strawberries and a little bit of honey."

My mother looked at the dehydrator and then at me. "Oh, thank goodness," she giggled, "Cause I don't think offering vegetables will work on them, either."

Flax & Chia Seed Crackers

These Flax & Chia seed crackers are adapted from the Basic Chia Crackers recipe, found in Kristen Suzanne's Easy Raw Vegan Dehydrating "Cookbook". They were so simple and fun to make that it was almost unbelievable when they came out perfectly crisp and delicious. Chia seeds are healthful and versatile, as they can be sprinkled on top of salads, act as a crunchy, nutty dip for bananas, turn any nutritious smoothie into a pudding, and go directly from spoon-to-mouth. I substituted half of the chia seeds in the recipe for golden flax seeds, which added an aesthetically pleasing contrast to the dark chia seeds. These were dehydrated in the Excalibur for 1 hour at 140 degrees, then 15 hours at 105 degrees.



Does anyone else have any recipes or ideas using Chia seeds?

Dried Apples

The sweet, low hum of the dehydrator suddenly clicked to a stop. Throwing down The Bell Jar, I dashed over to my kitchen, where the Excalibur dehydrator perched regally upon the counter. I stood at its corner, my breath quickening in excitement, and marveled over the square, subtle black box.

"Don't be so surprised," it cooed, "I can do anything."

I rested my hands on top of the warm, sturdy plastic, savoring the heat that radiated through my body. "Go ahead," it urged, "Take a look."

Gently lifting up the lid, I peeked into its heart, where trays of carefully arranged sliced fruits had been placed hours before. I reached in and pulled out one tray, upon which I had earlier laid rings of cored granny smith apples. I nudged at one of the rings.

Soft? Check.

Pliable? Check.

Completely dry? Check.

I bit down and tore off a piece. The sweet and sour flesh combined together to form a perfectly tart, chewy, dried apple ring. I shifted my attention back to the dehydrator, meeting its cool, smug gaze. "Okay, you're right," I sighed in amazement. "Now, what else can you do?"