A single perfectly browned latke slid onto his plate, leaving a trail of oil over the stoneware dish painted with faceless angels circling the rim. Grazina placed one on her own plate, the dropped the pan into the sink with a hush of steam.
…
She gestured at the bowl of raw carrots. “Those are for you. Eat up.”
Hai took a bite from a carrot, then picked up his fork, eager to try the latke.
“No, eat the carrot first. Please.” She leaned forward, knife and fork on each side of the plate, a paper towel tucked in her collar. “It’s important.”
He finished the carrot, then picked another from the bowl and put the whole thing in his mouth.
“They’re good for you, believe me.” She cut into her latke like it was a steak.
“For the eyes, right?”
“That’s a lie the army old in World War Two to hide the fact that they used top-notch radar. Carrots,” she paused for effect, “give you the will to live.”
He took a bite of the latke, which was perfectly made, crispy at the edges and delicately salted with a ouch of herbs he couldn’t name.
“What do you mean?” he said, chewing.
“It’s a root. And roots prevent you from getting the blues.” She picked one from the bowl; it gleamed under the kitchen light. “You see, carrots become bright orange because it’s so dark in the ground. They make their own light because the sun never reaches that far—like those fish in the ocean who glow from nothing? So when you eat it, you take in the carrot’s will to go upward. To heaven.”
For Crying Out Loud
Thailand is a vegan paradise any day of the year. The word “jay” (เจ) is the key that will unlock centuries of Buddhist tradition, built on the principles of compassion towards all creatures. Splashed across yellow flags, restaurant signs, market stalls, and food packages, it’s as common as seeing an “open” sign on establishments elsewhere.
During Thailand’s annual Vegetarian Festival, it’s the only game in town, transforming even the most meat-centric dishes with plant-based makeovers. Experiencing firsthand how incredible the food scene was on a random visit in January, I can’t begin to imagine such superabundance on display. It’s a dream of mine to return in time for the festivities, though I may truly eat myself to ruin, given half a chance.
Much of the attraction is the opportunity to eat traditional Thai foods that usually don’t come with a naturally vegan or vegetarian option. Something like Crying Tiger (เสือร้องไห้; Suea Rong Hai) is exactly what I would make a beeline for. As meat-centric as main dishes come, it’s essentially just grilled beef served with Nam Jim Jaew (น้ำจิ้มแจ่ว). Bold yet balanced, a riot of intense flavors, it’s a deceptively simple dish that packs a serious punch. Despite how central the beef is to the whole concept, it’s just as simple to make it meatless.
While I remain firmly grounded for this year’s Vegetarian Festival, the distance won’t stop me from getting a taste of the celebration at home. Lion’s mane mushrooms are truly the beef of the earth, capable of being compressed into outrageously decadent steaks, the likes of which could satiate the most ravenous omnivore. A hard sear and heavy weight develops a smoky, charred crust encasing a succulent and tender interior, ideal for dousing in that fiery dipping sauce for a final kiss of heat.
The name “Crying Tiger” is considerably more contested than its ingredient list. There are plenty of theories about what exactly brought those tears to the tiger’s eyes. My favorite is the most folkloric, imagining that people would come across the remains of cattle hunted by tigers, with the brisket left behind. They would take this particularly rich cut for themselves, imagining the tiger looking back in regret at the delicious morsel it had abandoned. Hopefully it’s some consolation to our tiger that there was no kill necessary to make this particular prize.
Even if you skip the entree, don’t pass on the jaew. Even if you make the entree, you’re best advised to double the jaew. This potent mixture of dried chiles, lime juice, toasted rice powder, and shallot is the sort of condiment that makes itself indispensable, bringing enough heat, acidity, and depth to transform whatever happens to be within dipping distance. Though it usually contains fish sauce, I find that a combination of soy sauce and tamarind fills the gap with all the salty, tangy, pungent umami you could ask for.
Crying Tiger is served without fanfare or pretension, alongside a mound of sticky rice and fresh vegetables or herbs to temper the intensity. I like keeping that same spirit here. Let the lion’s mane take center stage, supported by a cooling, gently contrasting cast of characters. A few slices of crisp cucumbers, juicy tomato wedges, or fresh lettuce is all you really need, though you could always add a side of papaya salad or a light vegetable soup to stretch your entree into more servings.
Thailand will have to wait. Until then, homemade sliced lion’s mane mushroom steak, glossy with with fiery jaew, is hardly suffering. When you eat enough hot chilies to bring tears to your own eyes, you can almost imagine the tiger’s face when it realizes the best part of the meal has escaped its paws yet again.
Wordless Wednesday: Ni Viện Huê Lâm
Rice Pudding Paradox
How do you make rice pudding without rice? No, that’s not a pun, but a genuine question that Justice Thurgood Marshall asked himself before creating Farmers Rice Pudding (Rice Not Included). A gem of Depression era cooking, making the most of meager rations, I can’t help but respect such reckless creativity.
It’s hard to imagine a time when rice, renowned for being abundant and affordable, would be subject to such shortages. In the early 1900’s, however, most American farmers focused their efforts on wheat and corn, leaving rice production concentrated in a relatively small number of regions along the Gulf Coast and in parts of California. Domestic production alone wasn’t enough to meet growing demand and imports were out of the question on rapidly shrinking budgets.
The technique itself, of cutting an egg into flour until it resembles tiny grains, is much older than the Depression. It’s a traditional Central and Eastern European method used to make tiny dumplings or noodles, such as Hungarian tarhonya, nokedli, or German spaetzle. These dishes are usually savory, rather than sweet, saying more about the American proclivity for sugar than anything else. Even in tough times, we must have our desserts.
While my pantry will never be without rice, the same can be said of flour. And oh, so many types of flour at that! Driven now by innovation rather than scarcity, this recipe presents a unique opportunity for customization. Personally, I adore all-purpose einkorn flour and will always use it over conventional white wheat, which is exactly what I did here. It adds an uncanny buttery flavor and flaxen color, to say nothing of all the vitamins, minerals, fiber, and protein, especially compared to long grain white rice. Studded with tiny dumplings, chewy but yielding, I might like it even better than the conventional whole grain custard.
Justice Marshall was clearly ahead of his time. Riceless pudding never garnered the same acclaim as mock apple pie or wacky cake, which is a real shame. Maybe rice pudding was just never as popular as other desserts, too homely to share, even in a time before social media. It may sound like a novelty, but I’m shocked to find myself making it as a regular treat now. For such humble fare, it really tastes stunningly decadent.
Happy Snacking, Don’t Die!
Food is all around us, if we’re patient and perceptive enough to look. For me, it’s something of a personal mantra. My passion for foraging took root in childhood, when I first discovered wild raspberries along the side of the road with my dad. In San Francisco, it truly blossomed, where Golden Gate Park became a veritable salad buffet, helping augment my meager college student’s budget.
Foraging, once a necessity for survival, is now an endangered skill. Whether it’s a lack of awareness or a lack of access, fewer people than ever are feeding themselves with the incredible abundance found right in our backyards. Happy Snacking, Don’t Die! by Alexis Nikole Nelson, better known as @blackforager to the online world, is a cookbook and a guidebook all in one, set on introducing the open-minded to the wonders of wild edibles.
Alexis is the ideal teacher for her inviting, disarmingly gentle, and encouraging approach, while taking the laws of the land seriously. As one could surmise from the title, she doesn’t romanticize foraging or gloss over its inherent dangers. Instead, she repeatedly emphasizes proper identification, ethical harvesting, and knowing when to simply leave a plant alone. That grounding makes the book feel trustworthy, even as its playful tone keeps things light.
Photo by JB Douglas
What elevates Happy Snacking, Don’t Die! beyond a field guide with recipes is Alexis herself. Her curiosity is infectious, her humor lands naturally, and her passion for reconnecting people with the landscape around them shines through on every page. The educational sections are approachable without talking down to the reader, making even unfamiliar botanical concepts feel accessible.
The recipes are similarly welcoming. Rather than treating wild ingredients as exotic novelties, Alexis incorporates them into dishes that feel both achievable and genuinely worth making. Some recipes inevitably depend on access to specific plants that not every reader will encounter, but that’s less a flaw of the book than a reality of regional foraging. More importantly, they illustrate the culinary potential of ingredients that most of us have spent our lives overlooking.
Candied Violets
Edible flowers have always been a favorite find of mine, since store-bought blossoms pale in comparison, if not outright wilt and rot in their packages. Candied Violets (page 53) preserve the harvest in aquafaba and sugar, using the same time-honored techniques that pastry chefs have practiced for centuries. Delicate and fragile as butterfly wings, they take on a crystalline sheen as they dry. Made for adorning equally precious sweet treats, even the broken petals can serve as beautiful natural sprinkles.
Lambsquarters & Artichoke Dip
Lambsquarters are also known as “wild spinach,” so it makes sense that they can seamlessly slip into the role of the conventional supermarket staple. Lambsquarters & Artichoke Dip (page 139), they blend right into a crowd-pleasing appetizer that no one would ever suspect started with a common backyard weed. Carried by the creamy, cheesy base, I can see any type of green vegetable working here, depending on what you can find in season.
Oyster Mushroom Chowda
Though I personally prefer a thick chowder, full of vegetables and herbs, the more brothy Oyster Mushroom Chowda (page 242) is no less comforting, especially on a chilly day. My mushrooms weren’t exactly foraged, but at least they were homegrown, thanks to a neighbor whose enthusiasm for cultivating oyster mushrooms has benefited my kitchen as well. Kombu and dulse lend a distinctly oceanic flavor, evocative of the mollusks that inspired the stew. It’s a restrained combination of ingredients that simply works, allowing the mushrooms’ natural umami to shine while scratching the same itch as a classic seafood chowder.
Juniper-Cured Carrot Lox
I’ve made a lot of lox in my lifetime; carrot, beet, tomato, konjac, eggplant. Juniper-Cured Carrot Lox (page 257) adds a new dimension to the typical formula, infusing the familiar smoky, salty profile with bright, piney, resinous notes. Peeled into long ribbons, the carrots soften almost instantly as the flax oil and curing mixture infuse through each strand. Draping easily over a bagel with cream cheese in a silky garland, additional garnishes are nice, but unnecessary when there’s already so much flavor packed into each bite.
Black Walnut Ice Cream
I may be a cheat in this case, but I’m not a liar. I’ll tell you right up front that I foraged for nothing to make the Maple Black Walnut Ice Cream (page 196). For shame, I did purchase the walnuts and maple syrup, and used cornstarch instead of Acorn Starch (page 176), too. What’s remarkable here is how many components of this recipe could be made from scratch if you were inclined to take things further. Even the vanilla extract has an optional upgrade path, with homemade Nocino (page 199) standing in for a deeper, walnut-inflected alternative. More sweet than nutty, I wish there was more emphasis placed on the nuts, though the high sugar content does keep the texture perfectly soft and scoopable straight from the freezer.
We spend so much of our lives filtering out the plants around us that they become little more than green background noise. Through equal parts natural history, personal storytelling, and practical instruction, Happy Snacking, Don’t Die! teaches readers to see again. Even if you’re never lucky enough to harvest morels from your local forest, you’ll likely come away looking at what does grow in your neighborhood with newfound appreciation.