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.