Food for my father

When we were growing up, my mother spent afternoons in the kitchen making traditional Chinese dumplings and pastries. Determined not to let us forget who we were, she poached chicken and steamed fish. She simmered pots of soup. She stuck with the familiar.

But my father liked to experiment. Having been in California long enough to taste other foods, he wanted to introduce us to all sorts of things. He asked my mother to serve asparagus the way many Americans did - with hollandaise sauce. He showed her how to bake russet potatoes in the oven. He fed us sour cream.

He allowed my sibling and me departures from Chinese food, rescuing us from what would become our mother's predictability. He injected new flavors into our weekly menus, bringing home burgers from a restaurant near his store in San Francisco, patties so thick they dripped with each bite, and deep-dish pizzas. He had these with glasses of beer, a practice I have long since adopted.

He took us to the grocery store. My mother shopped mostly in Chinatown. But my father preferred the American supermarkets. We went with him on Saturdays for staples such as milk and bread.

My sisters, brothers and I wandered the aisles and filled the cart with cookies while our father stayed in the meat department comparing packages of beef. We never asked permission for the items we chose. He never denied us the foods we liked.

So it is disheartening to learn now that my father, as he gets older, sometimes fails to eat, that he sleeps late and skips meals, that he's uninterested in the things my mother cooks. That his weight has begun to fall.


Nutritionists and psychologists talk often about the connections between age and health, mood and appetite. In articles and on Web sites, they write about the benefits of a balanced diet, offering suggestions for seniors to stay well.

Eat more whole grains, they say. Eat more fruits and vegetables, beans and nuts. Eat less fat, cholesterol and sodium. They tell me nothing new.

They look at the possible effects of treatment and medication on appetite. One influences the other, they say. But my father isn't on treatment. He isn't on heavy medication. He takes a pill a day and a couple of calcium supplements.

They look also at environment. Seniors who live alone sometimes find it discouraging to eat alone. They don't like to sit by themselves. But my father does not live alone. My mother is next to him, cooking morning, noon and night. How could he not be hungry?


Watching my father in the kitchen, I recall a time years ago when he ate heartily, when sumptuous Saturday evening meals, for example, were rewards for weeks of hard work, when holidays, both Chinese and American, were occasions for serious family feasts.

My mother would fill the table with my father's favorites: cellophane noodles, shrimp and vegetable stir-fry, sweet and sour pork, as well as crab or lobster when they were available. She'd top the menu with refreshing slices of oranges or sweet, ripened mangoes.

Eager to watch television, my siblings and I tried to tear through the food. But our father disapproved. Slow down, he'd say. Enjoy your meal.

He'd pick up a mouthful of noodles with his chopsticks, touch it to his lips and taste. The seasonings were perfect. He'd lick the sauce off a piece of pork or wok-fried crab, savoring its juices.

Half an hour later, my father would wipe his lips, push his chair from the edge of the table and gently pat his stomach. Good, he'd say, smiling discreetly. I'm full.

I wonder if that might happen again, if my father would find such peace and satisfaction in the things he ate.


One afternoon, aiming to give him a respite from Chinese food, the way he had done for my sisters, brothers and me when we were children, I set out to make a pot of chili for my father.

I select a recipe from my eclectic collection and cook ground turkey instead of ground beef. I want the dish to be heart healthy. I include tons of vegetables: diced bell peppers, portobello mushrooms, corn, zucchini and tomatoes. I want it to be nutritious. I throw in chili powder and red pepper flakes. I want it to have a significant kick.

At my parents' house that night, I serve the chili with steamed white rice, something my mother cannot refuse. I note the ingredients and encourage them to help themselves.

My mother thanks me for cooking, saving her time and energy. It is not a big deal, I reply, before turning to my father, who scoops a small portion.

I want him to like the food. I want him to have seconds. Thirds even. I do. He doesn't. In the end, I impress only myself.


Perhaps the nutritionists and psychologists were right. Maybe my father - like others his age - isn't thinking much about eating. At 80, he has different concerns. But does his decreasing appetite for food in particular mirror a decreasing appetite for life in general?

Does he believe, 15 years into retirement, that he has tasted all there is? It would be a shame. I want to convince my father there are tons of foods he has not tried.

So I will continue to encourage my father to eat today and tomorrow. He is the one who introduced us years ago to American favorites, who did not deny us the snacks we craved, who pushed his chair from the edge of the table after an especially satisfying meal.

I will help my mother keep their kitchen stocked with all sorts of good food - the chicken and fresh fish she likes, the cereals and bananas he likes - and provide them occasional departures from the usual.

And on mornings when my mother visits friends in the neighborhood, I will stop by the house to spend time with my father.

I will boil eggs for his breakfast. Twelve minutes, no more, no less, the way I learned to in college. They will come out perfect. He can have them with a bowl of oatmeal and a cup of coffee.

It might not be the biggest or most extravagant meal in the world. It might not be fancy or expensive. But it will be a decent start.


(A version of this essay appeared originally in The Oakland Tribune.)

The Lunar New Year

Among foods prepared during the Lunar New Year, jai seems to me the most complicated. It is also perhaps the most fascinating.

Known alternatively as Vegetarian's Delight or Buddhist's Delight, the traditional dish incorporates a selection of dried and fresh ingredients, all of which symbolize luck and success. Eaten on the first day of the new year, it should bring fortune in the weeks and months ahead.

Ingredients such as fat choy, a form of black seaweed, and ho see, or dried oysters, signify wealth and happiness. The words fat choy, for example, sound like the Chinese words for "prosperity"; the words ho see sound like the ones for "good news." To eat these items, then, is to be particularly blessed.

Though its origins remain unclear - some peg jai as an ancient, annual offering to Buddha - the healthful, meatless dish can be cooked an infinite number of ways. Recipes and preferences vary by region and differ inevitably among households. Technically a stir-fry combined in either a wok or a large pan, the mixture won't be crisp, however. It will instead turn out quite soft.

Ellen Leong Blonder, who, with Annabel Low, penned "Every Grain of Rice: A Taste of Our Chinese Childhood in America," uses about 15 dried and fresh noodles, fungi, nuts and vegetables in her jai. She also provides illustrations of items such as fresh water chestnuts and arrowheads, handy to have when wandering unfamiliar aisles of an Asian market.

Admittedly, her recipe appears time-consuming. Most of the prep work, though, can be done at least a day in advance. For instance, soak, drain and chop bean-thread noodles and dried black mushrooms the night before.

Veteran chef and cooking instructor Ken Hom strips his jai down to eight or nine essential ingredients. In "Ken Hom's Chinese Kitchen," he simplifies the process by forgoing items such as fat choy and ho see.

His less-expensive version is the one more commonly found in Chinese restaurants around the United States. It reminds me in some ways of chap chae, a popular Korean dish with noodles and vegetables.

Like Blonder and Low, my mother adheres strongly to custom. Growing up, we celebrated with an elaborate jai. In the kitchen New Year's Eve, my sisters, brothers and I found items such as cloud ears, tiger lily buds and jujubes soaking in small bowls of water.

We watched our mother peel fresh water chestnuts and arrowheads, and rinse fat choy. We went to sleep as she continued to work.

Early the next morning, we discovered platters of jai on the dining table, as if by magic. Our mother had awakened before us.

In our bright, new clothes, with our faces freshly scrubbed, my siblings and I ate jai for breakfast. We had it with bowls of steamed white rice and dabs of preserved olives. We ate it sometimes for lunch and dinner, too - a fortuitous start, we said, to our Lunar New Year.

(A version of this essay appeared originally in The Oakland Tribune.)


Jai (Vegetarian Monks' Dish)
adapted from Ellen Leong Blonder and Annabel Low's "Every Grain of Rice: A Taste of Our Chinese Childhood in America"

1 3 1/2-ounce package bean-thread noodles
20 small dried black mushrooms
1/2 ounce cloud ears
1/2 cup tiger lily buds
20 small dried jujubes (Chinese red dates)
1/2 ounce fat choy (black seaweed)
1/4 cup dried lotus seeds
1/2 tsp. salt
1 tsp. plus 1 Tbsp. vegetable or peanut oil
1 1/2-inch piece ginger
8 to 12 dried oysters, soaked overnight in water to cover
3/4 cup shelled ginkgo nuts
2 ounces dried bean curd sticks (also called dried bean flour skins)
4 ounces snow peas, strings removed
8 to 10 ounces tofu, cut into 3/4-inch dice
8 fresh or canned water chestnuts, peeled and sliced
1/4 cup sliced bamboo shoots, rinsed and drained
4 to 8 fresh arrowheads, lightly scraped with stems intact
12 pieces dao pok (fried wheat gluten)
2 cups finely shredded Napa cabbage
1 Tbsp. red bean curd
1 Tbsp. fermented bean curd

seasoning mixture:

3 cups water
1 Tbsp. sugar
4 tsp. oyster sauce
1 Tbsp. soy sauce

Soak the bean-thread noodles in water for 2 hours. Put the mushrooms in a small bowl with hot water. Let stand 30 to 45 minutes to soften. Cut and discard the stems. Rinse the caps, squeeze dry and cut into quarter-inch-thick slices.

Put the cloud ears, tiger lily buds, jujubes, fat choy and lotus seeds in separate bowls, add hot water to cover and soak for 30 minutes.

Rinse the cloud ears well, drain, cut and discard any hard parts. Rinse and drain the tiger lily buds, cut the hard ends. Drain the jujubes.

Rinse the fat choy and put it in a small saucepan with the salt, 1 tsp. of the oil, the ginger and water to cover. Bring to a boil, turn off the heat and let stand 10 minutes. Drain the fat choy and gently squeeze out the water.

Open the lotus seeds and discard the bitter green parts inside. Put the lotus seeds in a small saucepan with water to cover, bring to a boil, lower the heat and simmer until tender, about 20 minutes. Drain.

Rinse the soaked oysters to remove any sand. Trim off any tough parts. Steam the oysters in a small dish for 10 minutes over medium heat until soft.

Put the ginkgo nuts in a small saucepan with enough water to cover. Bring to a boil, lower the heat and simmer five minutes. Drain, then skin.

Break the bean curd sticks into 2- to 3-inch pieces. Soak for 30 minutes in a small saucepan with water to cover, simmer about 10 minutes to soften, then drain. Drain the bean-thread noodles, then cut into 6-inch lengths.

(You can prepare the recipe to this point one day in advance. Cover the individual ingredients separately and refrigerate.)

Blanch the snow peas in boiling water for 30 seconds. Rinse them under cold water and drain.

Combine ingredients for the seasoning mixture in a medium bowl and set aside.

Put the mushrooms, cloud ears, tiger lily buds, fat choy, lotus seeds, oysters, ginkgo nuts, tofu, water chestnuts, bamboo shoots, arrowheads and dao pok (fried wheat gluten) in a large bowl.

Put the bean-thread noodles and bean curd sticks in a second bowl, and the jujubes, Napa cabbage and snow peas in a third bowl.

Heat a wok over high heat, then heat 1 Tbsp. of oil.

Add the red and fermented bean curd, lower the heat to medium-high and cook 15 seconds, breaking it up with a spatula.

Stir in the seasoning mixture, bring to a boil, and cook for two to three minutes.

Add the mushroom mixture and cook for 10 minutes, stirring occasionally. Add the bean-thread noodles and bean curd sticks and cook 4 minutes longer, stirring occasionally.

Add the remaining ingredients and cook 2 minutes longer, tossing gently to distribute the Napa cabbage evenly. Makes 8 servings.


Vegetarian Delight
from "Ken Hom's Chinese Kitchen: With a Consumer's Guide to Essential Ingredients"

6 eggs, beaten
1 tsp. salt
4 tsp. sesame oil
1 ounce Chinese dried black mushrooms, re-hydrated
1/2-ounce cloud ears, re-hydrated
2 ounces bean-thread noodles
4 ounces pressed seasoned bean curd, re-hydrated
8 ounces cucumber
3 Tbsp. peanut oil
1 small onion, sliced
2 Tbsp. finely chopped fresh ginger
2 Tbsp. finely chopped garlic
3 Tbsp. light soy sauce
2 Tbsp. whole bean sauce
3 Tbsp. Shaoxing rice wine or dry sherry
1 Tbsp. hoisin sauce

In a small bowl, combine the egg, salt and 2 tsp. sesame oil, and set aside.

Remove and discard the mushroom stems and finely shred the caps into thin strips.

Remove and discard any hard stems from the cloud ears. Set aside.

Soak the bean-thread noodles in warm water for 15 minutes. Drain well and set aside. Cut the pressed bean curd into thin strips.

Peel and seed the cucumbers, and cut them into thin strips.

Heat a wok or large frying pan over high heat until it is hot. Add 1 1/2 Tbsp. of the oil and, when it is very hot and slightly smoking, turn the heat down to moderate.

Add the egg mixture and stir-fry for a few minutes or until the egg has barely scrambled. Remove the egg from the wok and drain on paper towels.

Wipe the wok clean and reheat it. When it is hot, add the remaining 1 1/2 Tbsp. of oil.

When it is very hot and slightly smoking, quickly add the onion, ginger and garlic, and stir-fry for 2 minutes. Then add the mushrooms, cloud ears, pressed bean curd, bean-thread noodles and cucumbers, and stir-fry for 2 more minutes.

Add the soy sauce, bean sauce, Shaoxing rice wine or dry sherry, hoisin sauce and remaining sesame oil, and continue to stir-fry for 3 minutes. Finally, add the cooked eggs and stir-fry for one minute. Turn onto a platter. Makes 4 servings.

An apple a day

In an effort to stay healthy through the fall and winter, I eat an apple a day every day. I peel and slice an apple in the late afternoon for a wholesome tide-me-over, or in the evening for a guilt-free finish to dinner. The nutrients should do me good.

The challenge: To transition from the summer produce I'd gotten used to, to go beyond the Red Delicious and Golden Delicious eaten in the past without a second thought and seek varieties I had not tasted, to satisfy a curiosity about other apples currently available.

At the neighborhood market, I collect enough fruit to last a week. They go into the refrigerator. The Jonagold, its skin yellow and green with tinges of red, crosses a Jonathan and a Golden Delicious. It is sweet and crunchy, an auspicious start to my apple adventure.

But the Fuji I try next is a tad tart. The Gala is also slightly tart. Are they supposed to be? I wonder. Is that typical?

The Braeburn, on the other hand, resembling a Golden Delicious, reminds me again how terrific apples can be - like candy, only better. The Rome Beauty is smooth and round, too; its skin is a rich, gorgeous red, its flesh yellow with bits of pink. On looks alone, I am smitten.


On a slow afternoon, I think to bake. In Joie Warner's "Apple Desserts: America's Favorite Fruit," I find instructions for dumplings and tarts, cookies and cakes, pies and crumbles, but settle, as I often do, on Apple Oat Squares. They sandwich thin slices of fruit between layers of oatmeal.

When I visited a friend in London years ago, I baked a batch to bring along, storing the squares in plastic containers to carry onto the plane. At her door the first night, I showed up with Apple Oat Squares. She seemed happy to see me. She seemed happier to see the food.

In my kitchen that afternoon, I combine quick oats, flour, baking soda, salt, brown sugar and melted butter to form the so-called crust. For the filling, I scatter cinnamon and sugar over slivers of Granny Smith apple. I press half the oatmeal mixture into the bottom of a glass pan, and top it with fruit and the rest of the oatmeal.

Nearly an hour later, the Apple Oat Squares come out of the oven golden brown, crumbly and slightly crunchy. Eaten warm with a scoop of vanilla ice cream or a dollop of Cool Whip, they are delectable.


In the produce section of the Berkeley Bowl, among the largest in the Bay Area, I come across apple varieties I have not even heard of.

The Pink Lady is a little tart. One bite and I shiver. Its skin, yellow and green with a soft red hue, blushes without meaning to. It smiles discreetly.

The Sierra Beauty tastes like a mildly tart Golden Delicious. Its appearance, though, is like no apple I have seen before. Yellow, pink and orange, it recalls a luscious sunrise over distant mountains, an establishing scene in a movie.

Looking like a Fuji, the Christmas apple seems to suit its seasonal moniker. Its sweet, crunchy texture can be a gift in and of itself. Also somewhat resembling a Fuji, the Pacific Rose proves especially crisp. Any crisper and it could be mistaken for an Asian pear, the kind my mother used to buy in Chinatown.


I contemplate a road trip to Apple Hill, east of Sacramento and Placerville. Vague on details of a visit years ago, I have been hoping to return.

At applehill.com, I discover buckets of information. Formed in 1964 as a marketing vehicle for a group of 16 ranches in Camino, the Apple Hill Growers Association consists of roughly 50 orchards, wineries, a microbrewery, Christmas tree farms and a spa.

It sponsors local events and fundraisers. It runs complimentary shuttle buses to nearby farms. It publishes guides, maps and community cookbooks, too.

I locate facts on Larsen Apple Barn, apparently the oldest continuously family-owned and operated farm in El Dorado County. I come across mentions of Mill View Ranch on Cable Road and its apple cider doughnuts, and Mother Lode Orchards.

I learn of Denver Dan's on Bumblebee Lane, which grows varieties such as Pippin, Gravenstein, Crispin and McIntosh, apples about which I have been curious. I learn also of Honey Bear Ranch, whose bakeshop, like many of its neighbors, puts out an impressive array of desserts.

Perhaps I'll collect food along the way as I venture from one farm to the next. When I need a break, I can claim a picnic spot at Abel's Apple Acres or High Hill Ranch, amid acres of trees and meandering walkways, and think about how far I've come.


When a younger brother started high school years ago, I packed him lunches that included a ham or turkey sandwich, a serving of cookies, a box of juice and a small apple. When he returned home in the late afternoon, the sandwich had been eaten. The cookies and juice were gone, too. But the apple remained.

There wasn't time, he said, to finish all his food. Day after day, week by week, the same thing happened. Eventually I realized it was an excuse.

Working full-time, commuting thrice weekly in the early evenings to a college 30 miles away for her master's, an older sister reached for something nutritious before class, something she could eat with one hand on the steering wheel. She decided, of course, on apples.

After long days in the office and hard nights in the classroom, she had little energy to spare. The stress and fatigue were immense, she said. The weekend she graduated, she stopped eating apples.


In time, I, too, grow tired of my apples, of searching for different varieties, whether down the street or up the highway; of having to peel and slice them at the kitchen counter, tossing scraps into the compost bin; of eating them at the table, feeling delighted yet slightly deprived.

I've had Jonagolds and Braeburns, Rome Beauties and Pink Ladies. But I have yet to try Winesaps, Jonathans, Cortlands and York Imperials, varieties about which I remain curious. I've had crisp apples and tart apples, crunchy apples and sweet apples. But they make up just a fraction of all the apples out there.

What I need then is a breather, I say, and a pledge to taste more in the future. I will revisit the apples I met recently and keep my eyes open for those I've not had - Empire, Honey Crisp, Jazz and Arkansas Black.

Meanwhile, I can begin to shift my attention to citrus. I had forgotten how much I liked oranges - navel oranges and Valencia oranges. I will snack on them. I will collect tangerines, mandarins and tangelos, too. They should be sweet and juicy. The Vitamin C will do me good. The change should suit me fine.

(A version of this essay appeared originally in The Oakland Tribune.)


Apple Oat Squares
from Joie Warner's "Apple Desserts: America's Favorite Fruit"

1 1/2 cups quick-cooking rolled oats
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1/4 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. salt
1 cup packed brown sugar
3/4 cup (1 1/2 sticks) butter, melted
3 cups peeled, cored, thinly sliced Granny Smith apples
1/2 tsp. ground cinnamon
1/4 cup sugar
2 Tbsp. butter

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.

Stir oats, flour, baking soda, salt, brown sugar and melted butter in a large bowl until thoroughly combined. Press half the mixture evenly into bottom of a 9-inch square baking pan.

Toss apples, cinnamon and sugar in a bowl, then spread evenly in pan; dot with butter. Sprinkle with remaining oat mixture and bake for 45 minutes or until golden. Cool and cut into squares. Makes 9 to 10 servings.

"Monsoon Diary"

Shoba Narayan reflects on youth with reverence and awe. She reminisces about school yards and road trips. She describes her family and talks about food.

In "Monsoon Diary: A Memoir with Recipes," she recalls key moments and significant phases in her South Indian childhood. She details her introduction as a young adult to American habits and manners. Through it all, she speaks with a voice that is confident and lyrical.

Narayan divides her discussion into two parts. The first half deals primarily with her experiences in Madras, India, in a household surrounded by family and food. The second half focuses on her adventures as a college student - and, a few years later, as a newlywed - in the United States.

In chapters such as "Sun-Dried Vegetables on the Roof" and "Vaikom House," all of which conclude with at least one or two recipes, Narayan writes about the role food played in her upbringing, the way people connected in the kitchen and celebrated at the table.

She writes about the school lunches her mother packed - okra curry, for instance, or idlis, rice-and-lentil dumplings - and the bartering rituals she and her classmates devised over time. On good days, she got bite-sized pieces of everyone's lunch.

She remembers the zesty vegetable stew her friend Amina's mother made, and the mango relish her friend Sheela's mother prepared. Seasoned with sesame oil, mustard-seed powder, asafetida and chili powder, it was "a juicy, spicy, lip-smacking condiment that we never tired of."

Narayan writes about the fruit trees and flowers her father planted on land he would eventually develop. In addition to six coconut trees, there were neem, banana, guava and mango trees as well as jasmine, hibiscus, chrysanthemum and bougainvillea bushes.

When her father hired an architect to design a house on the property, he told the man he could not remove any vegetation on the small lot. He extolled the health benefits of the neem leaves and the beauty of the mango leaves, directing the architect to build around it all. "The resulting construction," Narayan says, "was odd-shaped and rambling, with rooms ducking in and out between trees and shrubs."

She writes also about her maternal grandmother, Nalla-ma, a cheerful and affectionate woman. The days she spent with her, Narayan says, were some of the best days of her childhood. In the mornings, she sat in her grandmother's kitchen, sipped Ovaltine and watched her skillfully mix vegetables and spices.

"Carrots with ghee for growth, potatoes with ginger to soothe, beans with garlic to rejuvenate, onions or asafetida to balance," Narayan says. "Meals were a pageant of colors and flavors, all combed together with an array of spices. Cumin and coriander were the backbone, supported by black mustard seeds and fenugreek, while fennel provided the top note."

In the afternoons, she relaxed with Nalla-ma and listened attentively to her tales. "She had a phenomenal memory that stored colors, textures, sounds and smells," the author says, "and a gift for shaping them into spellbinding narratives."

Nalla-ma was an umbilical cord to her past, a connection to her family history. Years later, after Narayan had married and settled in the United States, she and her husband invited her grandmother to join them on a two-week vacation across the country, traveling from New York City to Los Angeles.

She documents her grandmother's roadside impressions, her insistence on Indian food and her slow acclimation to American tastes, in the chapter "Descent of the Relatives."

In New York City, Nalla-ma would eat only Indian foods, the vegetable curries, rice, rasam, pongal and pickles she prepared herself. On the road, however, her options quickly diminished. She would need to relent.

"In Du Bois, Pennsylvania," Narayan says, "Nalla-ma accompanied me to a grocery store. After much deliberation, she picked out a carton of 2 percent milk and some fruits. In Cleveland she tasted strawberry yogurt for the first time and decided that she liked it.

"In South Bend, Indiana, Nalla-ma declared that Dunkin' Donuts coffee tasted just like the filter coffee back home. For the rest of the trip we (stopped) every time we saw a Dunkin' Donuts so Nalla-ma could have a large coffee accompanied by a French cruller, which, according to her, tasted just like jilebi."

By the time they arrived in Los Angeles, Nalla-ma had made several concessions. "She would take salad without the dressing," Narayan says, "pasta without the garlic, Mexican food without the cheese, and Thai food without the lemongrass. We had come a long way."

Stories such as these, coupled with descriptions of Indian foods such as rasam, a lentil broth with tomatoes and cilantro, and vada-pav, a deep-fried potato pancake spiced with ginger, garlic, green chiles and cumin, give "Monsoon Diary: A Memoir with Recipes" an interesting bite and enticing flavors.

Whether discussing members of her extended South Indian family or detailing the things she grew up eating and continues to eat, Narayan keeps us entertained. Her writing is honest, evocative and engaging, her passages on food nothing short of mouth-watering.

(A version of this review appeared originally in The Oakland Tribune.)

Vegetable Stew

2 tsp. olive or canola oil
1 small onion, thinly sliced
2 green chiles, Thai or serrano, slit in half lengthwise
4 1/4-inch slices ginger
4 garlic cloves, diced
2 medium potatoes, cubed
1 small carrot, chopped into 1/2-inch pieces
10 green beans, sliced into 1/2-inch pieces
1 tsp. salt
2 cups coconut milk (available in cans at Asian markets)
10 curry leaves

Heat the oil in a medium-sized stainless steel vessel and saute the onion, chiles, ginger and garlic until the onions turn golden. Add the chopped vegetables, salt and 1 cup water. Cover and cook over a low flame until the vegetables are soft. Stir in the coconut milk and heat until it just starts to boil. Remove from heat. Garnish with curry leaves. Makes 4 servings.

The hole truth

John T. Edge pays attention to familiar foods. In "Donuts: An American Passion," he charts our often guilt-ridden love affair with these deep-fried classics.

Digging into the folklore and history of the doughnut, he visits mom-and-pop businesses as well as franchises such as Krispy Kreme and Dunkin' Donuts. He feeds our incessant sugar cravings. Director of the Southern Foodways Alliance at the University of Mississippi in Oxford, Miss., he provides both useful facts and intriguing trivia.

Among our favorite bites:

- In the mid-1820s, the term "dough nuts" showed up regularly in American cookbooks. By the early 1870s, "doughnuts" became standard. Hoping to venture into international markets, and to "obviate difficulty in pronouncing 'doughnuts' in foreign languages," the New York-based (though ironically named) Doughnut Machine Corporation began to popularize the word "donuts" in the 1920s.

- At Moto restaurant in Chicago, innovative chef Homaro Cantu likes to play with his food. On his dessert menu at one point: doughnut soup.

- Maybe it was an American Indian who accidentally pierced a fry cake with a bow and arrow. Or a sea captain in Maine, caught in a turbulent swell, who "impaled his fry cake on the ship's wheel to save the goodie for later." Or...

To settle "The Great Donut Debate," the one about the hole, celebrity judges entertained arguments in a New York City hotel ballroom in 1941. The story they eventually selected: That same sea captain, in 1847, watching his mother in the kitchen make fry cakes when he was a boy, "asked her why the centers were so soggy." She told him she didn't know; for some reason, they never got cooked. So he poked out the centers with a fork, creating "the first 'ring' doughnuts."

- Tres Shannon and Kenneth "Cat Daddy" Pogson cater primarily to night owls at Voodoo Doughnut in Portland, Ore. Their neighborhood shop gets going when many of us have settled down for the evening. They dish out items such as Grape Apes, doughnuts "sprinkled with powdered grape drink mix," and Dirty Snowballs, cream-filled chocolate cake donuts "slathered with pink marshmallow frosting." The two of them work with an ordained minister, too, should the marital bug bite customers in the pre-dawn hours.

- Dusted liberally with confectioners' sugar, beignets are classic New Orleans fare. Also good, but often overshadowed in Southern food lore, calas are "roundish fritters of rice and yeast, eggs and sugar and spices." Creole women originally sold them on the streets in the early 1900s.

- At the Donut Man in Glendora, east of Los Angeles, Jim Nakano offers the ultimate fruit filling. When California strawberries are in season, he takes five or six of them, dips them in a glaze and piles them onto "(clamshells) of fresh fried dough." In the middle of summer, he does the same with big slices of juicy peaches.

Scattering items such as these into the narrative, Edge gives us substantial food for thought. In this entertaining title in what has become a successful publishing series, he lets us eat without worry of empty calories or expanding waistlines. Bless his heart, he lets us indulge.

(A version of this article appears in The Oakland Tribune.)