Ganmodoki

IMG_0207Along the way toward conflating tofu with alabaster, the most interesting little concoction was found:  Ganmodoki.  Various sources state that it tastes like anything from goose to moose, though none are true – it tastes like tofu.  But, interesting tofu.

From Otaku Foods: Ganmodoki translates as “goose-like”. Why goose? Historically, when the dish was first made goose was a very expensive, luxury food. The story goes when it was first served to monks, the flavor was so good that they praised it as being as delicious as the most extravagant of geese. Does it taste like a goose?

No.

The Otaku recipe was the one leaned on the most, with eyes on some of the other additions from additional others.  If no yamaimo is available, it’s probably fine to use potato powder instead of trying to pulverized a raw potato – of course, one could also have used the blender, which would have facilitated things mightily…

Interesting little patties:  Still quite tofu-ey, but pretty good – texturally similar to frozen — flavors mild.  The dish as a whole was delicious, but that hangs on the marvelous sauce.

Also featured:  Delicious, garlicky broccoli in stir fry sauce:

IMG_0200Stir fry sauce is just stir fry sauce — see?IMG_0212Special thanks to Tibetan flat bread, funkified with potato flour as wheat had been mostly exhausted:

IMG_0206The texture was almost like funge, but not nearly as hideous — almost enticing, in fact.

Fervido cérebros torta com molho mole

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With Chihuahua — really, more of a sorta torta, Latin American roots only tenuously tied by the just acceptable sauce thereon applied.  Though that, too, is untrue to the tried and true, unless the definition is expanded to include anything on any sort of bread.

The fault for that, however — and possibly rambled on ad nauseum, previously, as the cognitively disfunctional tend to do — the fault lies with the very first torta ever tried, which was served on the appropriate roll, with fried avocado.  And mole.  It was such an amazing sandwich that it warranted driving half-way across the state for lunch — which was done once.

The return trip found that the mole had left the sandwich, served with no sauce of any kind!  However, the request for a bit of mole was gratefully acknowledged without a missed beat, then, ruefully dismayed when what came returned, was just a small shot of thin, oily, red liquid, with little for flavor and not nearly enough heat for a properly sopped sandwich.

Perhaps the gentleman — the same for both times — assessed he was in company with vapid, dumb gringo, one seeking torta ahogada:  More spice and more sauce, if that’s the case.  When questioned if it was indeed mole, he responded dismissively.  Perhaps he has acquiesced to local tastes.  Perhaps the first time was a mistake — perhaps, a special item.  We will return and sneak into the kitchen — to see if any mole remains.  Because it was the best mole ever tried, and no recipe, or amount of tweaking has been able to equal the perfected balance of sweet and savory, spice an bitter; Sister Rosa’s comes close:  Every drop was consumed.

One of the most beautiful people you could ever meet came in to the office earlier in the day — an older woman, who has lost a son, another that struggles mightily; her husband ran off to Florida long ago.  She carries the most wonderful, unmitigable cheer, always sharing the positive, always seeking solutions to the negative — always talking.  She hasn’t been able to drive for a while, but she still stops in every month, makes her daughters cart her around — she’s driving them nuts!  I always make sure there’s a little chocolate on my desk when she stops in at the beginning of the month — she only wants simple things:  The best for her children, a small treat here and there.  She’s had nothing but struggle in the twenty years of our acquaintance, but never complained.

She prides herself on looking much younger than her age — indeed! — and one of the things she loved to do, was, once a week, head to a little bar down the way, and dance a little bit with the fellows that she met.  If she — litterally — had a single extra dollar for the month, she’d buy herself a coke, as well.

Since she hasn’t been able to drive, that hasn’t been an option, though she aspires to drive again and return, maybe once…  Twice — maybe even go every month!  It’s a dive of a bar, one known only, because through the swinging doors from the bar, behind, once stood an incredibly, amazing Mexican restaurant.  Every time she starts talking about the bar, memories return — Speedy burrito, anyone?  The Don?  Or, how about, their incredible mole enchilada!

Lingering thoughts last week brought a rather uninspired, yet inevitable mushrooms and pasta.  Another night of fickle fancy eschewed dining out, carrying out and ended in a store.  First, targeting Middle Eastern — only hummus.  Then, frozen garbage: Eh…  We just grabbed chihuahua — the thoughts lingered, of mole enchilada and the fantastical torta.

And so, once again, after hours of frothy remonstration, we ate dinner at 10 o’clock at night, put together this sandwich:  Chihuahua — wonderful in certain applications.  Mole — better in application than drunk straight.  Seitan — deliciously salty with nice, bright, lemony impression.  All on a buttered roll, pan toasted:  Damn!  That was good…

ennui and mushrooms

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All in a hot and copper sky,
The bloody Sun, at noon,
Right up above the mast did stand,
No bigger than the Moon.

Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Bootsie asked, one time, “What’s with all the searching – what’s the scene?”

Meaning, was the given answer, and he darn near laughed his skin-tight leather pants off and started talking about a band called For Against that no one ever heard of, as if it was part of the same continuous conversation – though, he might have been a little high.

He pulled out Echelons – you had to be careful saying Bootsie pulled out anything, being the self-proclaimed Genius From The Waist Down, i.e., GFTWd.  You also might think twice on how to answer the seemingly benign, record store inquiry, “Whatta ya like?”

It wasn’t even a question of whether the purchase was taking place, it just happened.  He could be like that at times – and not just selling records.  It could be confusing, understanding what he was getting at, at times, but possibly the suggestion leant more to premonition, resonance and fear:  Like, reading back on word once wrote, thirty years before, and wondering why you didn’t pay them heed…

You’re a star

The big phonograph was reserved for that premier and was rewarded with milk on bread instead of the expected smashed glass jar of jelly on burnt toast, but it sort of lingered, and every once in a while still takes a turn:  A chronic earworm, on occasion – refreshed.

This is what led to sautéed mushrooms on pasta.

Mono recording
That’s where it’s at
You could make a million
Mono recording
That’s where it’s at
You could make a million
Well, imagine that
Use a lot of drugs
And don’t fight cause
Be on television

And forget who you are

You’re a star
You’re a star
You’re a star
You’re a star
You’re a star
You’re a star
Oh no

Stereo recording
That’s the new trend
Sorry, they forgot you
In the end
Now you’re out of drugs
And you don’t have a car
Stick to what’s said
to forget who you are

You were never a star
So go pawn your guitar
You were never a star
So go pawn your guitar
Oh no
Oh no

You’re a star
You’re a star
You’re a star
You’re a star
You’re a star
You’re a star
You’re a star
You’re a star
You’re a star
You’re a star
You’re a star
You’re a star
oh no
Forget Who You Are, For Against

Sopa de mani

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A very easy, subtle, stewy soup, good for a Michigan spring day that began with a thick coating of frost.  This nearly got leek souflee’d, but was rescued on a night lacking any inspiration on any front, with no hint of motivation.  Basically anything vegetable, often made with short ribs or chicken or not, boiled in broth with ground peanuts and roasted cumin seeds.  And a little rice.