If you order it, it will come

I'm only on page 55, nearing the end of the a's in Shizuo Tsuji's alphabetical introduction, and already I've run upon azuki beans. I'm told this is the name of red beans, those that make up sweet red-bean paste and festive red rice, two of my favorite treats from Japan. Instructions for making sekihan (red rice) and an (the sweet paste) follow in the next few hundred pages. This, I think, is going to be fun.

Tsuji wrote "Japanese Cooking: A Simple Art" more than 25 years ago for a western audience who wouldn't have known agemono if it had bitten readers like me on our noses. Now, many of us know better and would gladly nibble as much tempura and other Japanese fried foods as our skinny jeans will allow.

Today, American weddings come with sushi stations and college students rely heartily on ramen. But back in 1980, Tsuji couldn't fathom the current popularity of raw fish in our red states, and frankly neither could many of us living there. I remember first seeing sushi in "The Breakfast Club." Watching Molly Ringwald eat slices of raw fish over rice -- stored in a box under her chair instead of in a refrigerator! -- made me long for a Capt. Crunch sandwich with a pixie stick chaser.

Tsuji knew better. His book was the first in English to describe Japanese food, and he wanted people like me to look beyond the unfamiliar and see the simplicity, seasonality, purpose, and delicacy of Japanese cooking. It was a daunting task, of both research and translation. Even M.F.K. Fisher, who wrote the introduction to the 1980 edition, worried that readers would fail to trust her recommendation. She was friends with Tsuji and had traveled to Japan to study with him. She fell in love with the food, and upon returning to the states found her meals too buttery, heavy and overflavored. She encouraged readers to look beyond the chopsticks and dashi and realize that Japanese food, like any food worth eating, starts with fresh ingredients and careful consideration by the cook.

Tsuji put it more simply: "Food is only good if you enjoy eating it." I can't wait to enjoy more.

An elephant's heart

When you go looking for a plum in the summer, occasionally you may come upon an elephant's heart. Then again, you could stumble on a methley. If you're like me you may never know for sure, though this is one of those instances when uncertainty feels like a good place to stop. Like many a myth, this story is so good I don't much care if it's true or not.

This much is certainly true. A man named Luther Burbank was born in Massachusetts in 1849, died in California in 1926, and in between he created more than 800 strains of plants. That freestone peach you like so much is all cause of Luther. Craving McDonald's fries? Tip your hat to the Burbank russet, cultivated by our gene-splicing hero. If you're trying to get a patent on that two-headed squash you've invented, thank the Luther-inspired plant patent act as you count your millions. And if daisies are your favorite flower, a fuzzy yellow center tipped with whiter-than-white spokes, smile and think of Luther.

At some point, apparently, he went to Japan. Or maybe not. I'm leaning toward not, as Japanese plum trees arrived in America in the 1870s, about the same time Luther went west after selling his secrets of the potato in exchange for train fare. By 1875 he had settled in Santa Rosa where he went to work on quinces, asparagus, almonds, grass, figs and hundreds of other things that now make us smile.

Then, with a little voodoo, three years after his death the elephant heart was born. Perhaps his wife had a hand in it, maybe the Stark Brothers can claim title. I'm not sure I care. What I do care about is that amazing plum I bit into a few weeks ago, and I'm almost certain it's an elephant heart. Though, at second glance, it could be a metheny. It's a tough call, given that I'm trying to deduce the answer from the infinite contradictions of the internet and a Japanese label that is beyond me.

So I've decided to flip a romantic coin and call it an elephant's heart. It seems to meet the description. It starts with a ruddy purple skin with shades of green and gold, almost bruise-like, not terribly appealing. But take the lesson from the blind men describing the elephant. One man's trunk is another man's leg, and this plum in its entirety has much more to offer. Inside is flesh, rosy red and sweet, almost cartoonish in the way it glows. It tastes plummier than anything I've ever had.

Luther died after complications of a heart attack. His flowers and fruits and French fries live on. Somehow an elephant doesn't seem big enough.

The OK in okra

When you need to know all about okra, go to all about okra. It seems obvious, I know, but you might be surprised. For all the wrinkling of noses that okra can cause, here are a few people celebrating this fingerling vegetable that, frankly, I too once booed. (You might consider viewing the site at a safe distance from meal time only because the author enthusiastically throws around words like mucilage and self-digesting enzymes, though in all fairness not right next to each other.) In fact, this site really is most generous about okra -- its history, etymology, nutrition and cultivation -- and has 56 okra recipes, which is about 56 more than I'd ever thought I'd need.

For many years I had the only recipe I needed -- fried okra. Yes, there was a time in my life when I ate okra like popcorn, a snack to munch on in front of a television that broadcast only four stations. You may think life was bleak, but you've apparently never watched a double-shot of The Love Boat and Fantasy Island with a bowlful of fried okra. I have, and I can tell you it was quite the treat.

Fried okra was one of the first things I made by myself: Wash the okra, cut it into fat half-inch pieces, dust it with equal parts flour and cornmeal, and fry in about a inch of hot vegetable oil. In a few minutes I'd have a chewy, crispy snack that, with salt and a glass of iced tea, made even network TV in the '70s palatable.

If, back then, you'd have offered me okra in any other form I'd have run, with good reason. Until a few years ago, I knew alternative okra only in its stewed and pickled forms. The pickled okra of my childhood tasted too much of bread-n-butter pickles, those frighteningly sweet-n-sticky things that come from the dark corners of somebody's grandmother's pantry and that, by the law of the southern kitchen, you must eat because they came from a mason jar that was opened for company. The stewed kind clearly need no description unless I'm to borrow from the omniscient okra website, and there's really no reason to bring up self-digesting enzymes more than once in an evening.*

This all brings me to about two years ago. Having long discovered that the law of the southern kitchen applies itself elsewhere, mason jar or no, I found myself at a lunch halfway 'round the world and staring deeply into a bowl of lamb, okra and tomato soup. Boiled okra, I thought, considered my hosts, took a deep breath, and swallowed.

Lucky I did. This tender, toothsome thing actually tasted like a vegetable and the soup, rich from the lamb and sharp from the tomatoes, was divine. The okra reminded me of my frying childhood, yet without the grease and crunch. Soon, it started showing up slowly but surely on my plate in salads, tempura, curries, stirfrys. I've even ordered it on purpose a few times.

And so, I brought home a pint of okra today and decided to try a five-minute meal, inspired by Mark Bittman's lengthy list that has gotten so much attention in recent weeks (and now has gotten expensive -- sorry!). I didn't time myself, cause it's dinner and not a swim meet. Still it was pretty quick. The sauce could use a little something extra, maybe fish sauce instead of soy. You could even get fancy and add shredded carrot or coconut milk (though I'd leave out the vinegar), or make a thicker sauce with a little stock and corn starch slurry. I mean really. If you've got five minutes to make dinner, chances are you have ten.

I settled for simple -- hot and garlicky. And then I settled into my new favorite okra television accompaniment. Weeds.

3 to 4 tablespoons canola oil
1/2 pound shelled and deveined shrimp
1 pint okra, cut into inch-long pieces
2 to 3 cloves of garlic, smashed into a paste with sea salt
1 dried Thai-like hot pepper (or your favorite hot pepper flavor)
1/2 teaspoon sesame oil
1 teaspoon mild rice vinegar
soy sauce
sesame seeds
fried garlic (comes in a resealable package from your Asian market)
steamed rice

Heat the oil in a cast iron skillet or wok until it shimmers; add okra and hot pepper and step back. It will pop and possibly leave a speckling of oil stains on your new favorite shirt. These things happen. After two or three minutes, add shrimp and garlic paste, stirring as you go. Keep the temperature hot enough so that the mixture sautes and doesn't begin to stew in its own juices. As the shrimp get pink, add sesame oil, vinegar, soy sauce (I usually add about 4 to 5 tablespoons, less if it's dark soy sauce), and stir. Serve over rice, and sprinkle sesame seeds and fried garlic on top.

*Okra also shows up often in gumbo, though not in mine. I believe in thickening with a good roux, and file (ground sassafras root) if need be, but not okra. It just gets too stewy for me.

Mandu Madness

This may sound improbable, but in recent weeks I'd forgotten just how good cheap food can be. Maybe it comes from being too excited to try as many restaurants as possible in Tokyo. Maybe it comes from forgetting that most good food starts from real hunger, the kind where you are willing to throw wet paste into boiling water and hope for the best.

From this primordial pot comes the dumpling. Nearly everybody's got one. Polish pirogi, Cantonese dim sum, German spaetzle, American chicken-'n'. In Japan, they are called gyoza, a turn on the Chinese jiaozi. No matter where you are, the basics remain the same: some form of processed grain, a pot with liquid, meat filling if you're lucky, and the obvious absence of an oven.

In Korea, they are called mandu. If they are fried they become yaki-mandu, a name built on the Japanese word for grilled. You say gnocchi (Italian) or buuz (Mongolian), I say yaki mandu is fun to say and a joy to eat. A plate of a dozen usually costs about $3.50 or less from a Korean ramyen shop. Better yet, somebody on the premises makes each of these little guys by hand. Those above, filled with spicy kimchi, are awaiting their fate of steaming or frying. I like them both ways, but had them steamed a couple of nights ago.

I also had a full helping of kimbap, the ultimate Korean snack food (only according to me; sorry if I got your hopes up). It may look like sushi, but look again. It's usually filled with carrot, cucumber, fake crab meat, yellow radish, egg and spam or ham. (I've had both and can't decide which works better.) I know, you're dying to go out and get some.

But I'm telling you, there's something about the combination of this sweet, salty, chewy, and ricy roll that gets to me. I think my kimbap crush comes from the stone soup theory. On their own, each ingredient ranges from meager to you've-got-to-be-kidding-me. Together, cut thinly and bolstered by rice, each bite becomes balanced and filling.

Plus, it's pretty to look at and usually only about $2 a roll. It beats the hell out of a Big Mac any day.

Cleaning my bowl

I spent a night at a Buddhist temple last weekend in South Korea. It was not everything I'd hoped for. The translation was poor, the temple's construction crews and streams of visitors made it less than relaxing, and the floors of our sleeping room sat atop an all-night fire. Yes, it was August in tropical, muggy Korea. No, I was not enlightened.

The food, however, wasn't bad. Spicy, simple and vegetarian -- a trio that's pretty high on my menu. For dinner the first night we ate cafeteria style. I grabbed my big, white bowl and scooped in steamed rice, sesame-flavored spinach, pickled cucumbers and tofu. There were few other things I tried, including some squiggly, thick threads closely resembling Styrofoam drenched in hot sauce. Those didn't go down so smoothly. But go down they did.

At a Buddhist meal, every morsel on the plate must be eaten. This is to save the life (or perhaps the afterlife?) of the hungry ghosts. These poor creatures are just one form on the evolutionary journey toward enlightenment. Leaving a speck of rice in your bowl would muddy the dish water, the ghosts' sole bit of nourishment. That, in turn, would cause the hungry ghosts with their parched but narrow throats to choke. I never quite got the cause and effect of this story. If the hungry ghost remains hungry, what's the point? Nevertheless, I would feel sad if my dirty bowl choked the ghoulish fellows. And, anyway, I'm always pretty partial to cleaning my plate.

It was the dining experience itself, that caused me to come away feeling hungry. This was especially punctuated during our breakfast, a traditional monk meal. Our four bowls came neatly stacked, tied up with linen and chopsticks. This I liked, and I wished they had sold them in the gift shop. (Yes, the temple had a gift shop. I suppose the Vatican does too.)

The meal was simple -- rice, broth with bean sprouts, a few side dishes. The service was elaborate. Members of the group silently spooned out rice and water and such to each diner, along with accompanying genuflections. No one was allowed to talk, to ask for a little more or a little less. No one smiled. Getting all the food in the proper order and in all the proper bowls took about half an hour. Eating took about five minutes. The no-talking rule continued as we tilted our bowls over our faces, using the chopsticks to shovel in rice behind a mask. The purpose is to bring solemnity and dignity to a sparse meal. That's nice, but I've felt more purpose peeling a banana. I peeked around the room to see people quickly eating in silence. I felt lonely and lost my appetite.

This was an especially hard lesson in light of just finishing "Heat," the hysterical and myopic story of a man's obsession with learning the ways of a professional kitchen and meat carving. I didn't miss the meat or the terribly graphic cleaving scenes. I missed the laughter, the yelling, the sizzle, the sounds of somebody working and living and -- gasp! -- savoring food. I spent our monastic breakfast wishing I could sneak back in the kitchen. I pictured a few strong women stirring pots, complaining about their kids, laughing with the rice-filled mouths. That would have been much more zen-ful for me.

Tea-time was a welcomed improvement. Although the translation was awful, I could tell people were enjoying themselves. The monk who kept our tea cups full had a permanent smile on his round face. He looked like a caricature, but a true and happy and comfortable one. He talked and smiled and answered questions about his life without any pretension or worry. A few cups of tea and a slice of watermelon took an hour to consume. My head hurt a little from the lack of translation, but I was very full at the end.

Next, of course, we were off to lunch. This time I was a little more timid about what I put on my plate, knowing I'd have to eat every bite. I was lucky to only take one piece of fried rice cake, a chewy concoction that tasted like an unsweetened marshmellow. Normally I like gooey, rice-flour desserts, but this one wasn't my thing. My friend was in worse shape. She had taken of bowl of what she thought was cucumber soup. She took one bite and died a little hungry ghost death. "I'm screwed." She thought it was too salty, and I tasted. It was actually sour and sweet and salty and spicy, a thin, pickled juice with floating bits of pear and daikon and red chilis. If you could turn the flavors of Thai cucumber salad into soup, that's what it was. I liked it fine. "You don't like pickles, do you?" I asked. Turns out she hates them. I pulled the bowl toward me.

Then I noticed a miraculous thing had happened. We were talking! So was everyone around us. The no-talking rule had lasted two meals, but it failed miserably at the third. The room had cracked open with conversation. Some things, like squeaky plastic bits, are an acquired taste. It's nice to know that a more important thing -- enjoying a meal with friends -- is universal.