Mamita's Recipes: Fantastic Ginger Sauce

Fantastic Ginger Sauce
Get ready with:
Ginger
Spring Onion
Peanut Oil
Salt
Sugar














Taken from: http://farm1.static.flickr.com/101/289355336_08621019c3.jpg?v=0

Not mine. Sauce didn't last long enough to have it's picture taken despite being made from 20 pieces of hand-sized ginger.

1. Peel enough ginger to become adept at it; pound then finely chop to smithereens. Do not discard any ginger juice.
Alternatively you may cheat by using a food processor or stick blender. In my case, what happened was Mamita walked in on me while I was industriously iron cheffing the pounded ginger. She said, "What could be faster than using this (Holding out a stick blender)?"

2. Finely chop a handful of young spring onion, discarding tips and roots. I was surprised about the tips, Mamita pointed out "Cut the ends off." Hmm.

3. Fold spring onion into ginger in a large bowl. Toss in salt and sugar (less salt, more sugar). Mamita says it is a must to use salt in everything (very, very little though).

4. Heat a good quantity of peanut oil to smoking point.

5. Carefully pour smoking hot oil over ginger. Then just as carefully, mix the oil into ginger. Carefully. That was smoking hot peanut oil remember.

NOTE: Known for use with Hainanese Chicken and Chinese Chicken Cold Cuts (that's a lot of C's) but may be eaten with everything else. My favorite vegetarian tried it on couscous and exclaimed, "It's fantastic!" Heirloom recipe: Do not flog or use for profit.

Mamita's Recipes: A Good Friday Puttanesca Recipe And Story

Good Friday Cooking
Thought I would share this with you. This is from my mother. She left this handwritten recipe for me to cook Good Friday lunch with while she stepped out for a bit. As you can see--the recipe doesn't mince words and assumes a bare minimum of competence from the user.

Mamita's Puttanesca
Get ready with:
Garlic
Chopped Olives
Coarsely cut Capers
Tomato Paste
Olive Oil
1/4 Tsp. Salt
Pepper
1 Glass of Water

1. Olive oil. Fry garlic. Add chopped olives and capers. Then tomato paste. Fry for a few minutes.
2. Add 1 glass of water. Then salt and pepper.
3. Cooked when sticky.
Note: Cook pasta while cooking this. Heirloom recipe: Do not flog or use for profit..

Before starting: yes, I'm sure you do know what Puttanesca translates to in English.

A Story Comes Along With The Recipe
This recipe also comes with a story. Mamita is currently in Manila. She's left instructions like this for me recently to learn some of her recipes. Terse cooking notes, lists, and recipes written on sheets and scraps of her trademarked brown recycled paper. Knowledge transfer in process.

About A Living Legend
For those of you who do know of her--then you will acknowledge that she is the Doyen (not the Doyenne, that would be akin to saying 'Chefette'). Mamita does not need a toque--Iron Chefs fear Mamita. Chuck Norris once offered Mamita a toque improbably made from the round-housed skins of a thousand gourmands out of appreciation for her cooking. Her polite declining at the time has been proven to correlate with the decline of his cinematic career and transition into meme-dom. It is known that Muramasa once forged a Chinese style cleaver for her in admiration. After respectfully declining (Mamita does not require fancy hand forged blades--produce will gratefully self-julienne and dice without need for prompting), Muramasa's blades lost their luster shortly thereafter and that particular smith descended into madness.

Anyway.

The Story
Achtung! So I cook it while she is away.

I cook it with trepidation. I prep carefully and with a great deal of attention. My fingers curl professionally away from the German steel. The blade of which I had determinedly sharpened like a depraved rabbit meeting a carrot for the first time. The resulting prepared ingredients are shiny and bright--they are cut to perfection--delightfully rustic but not overbearingly so. The salty-as-the-sea pasta water is roiling happily.

I cook. I cook like there's no tomorrow.

The resulting pasta has been given a whiff of the pasta water (a professional secret I'll have you know). I eschew adding more Puttanesca sauce on top to finish knowing that such frivolity will only be noticed like a sore thumb or a dove carved out of tomato and carrot with peppercorns for eyes. It rests mounded in our gargantuan heirloom Anchor Hocking Pasta bowl. It is as shiny as Cooking Master Boy's Egg fried rice.

It rests beautifully. Waiting, glistening, like the pasta of legends. Unfortunately, it rests for half an hour too long. Mamita arrives 30 minutes after it has been reverently ensconced at the center of the kitchen dining table. She sits down.

"Your pasta is overcooked," she notices.

"It's been sitting too long Mommy," I say. Oh no! La Pasta é scotta! But it was Al Dente awhile ago!


"Mommy, shouldn't your recipe have anchovies by the way?" I counter; gained with 'booksmarts' gained from countless wee hours of Wikipedia-ing.

"It's Puttanesca, why would it have anchovies? Have you eaten?"

I decide not to mention that I had put anchovies in it in a burst of passion.

I dissemble. I cover up by saying, "Uh yes, you took so long and I was hungry," despite not having eaten. I think to myself silently--might as well do that fast for real today. I repeatedly bow my way out of the kitchen and Her Doyen's presence.

30 Minutes Later
My curiosity and clinically proven need for recognition gets the better of me. I step out of my room and ask her nonchalantly while pretending to get a glass of water, "so how was it Mommy?"

She answers without looking, "It's Puttanesca, it's always good."

I decide to break my fast.