Read - The Kelly Yang Project

T a s t y
Memoirs
T h e Ke l l y Ya n g P r o j e c t
T a s t y
M e m o i r s
Written by:
Alexandra Tsai, Alyssa Yoon, Amanda Fang, Andrew
Kim, Bernard Chung, Charlton Leung, Charmaine Ng,
Chris Lee, Christina Zau, Deanna Yiu, Henrik Liu, Jessie
Yeung, Judy Kim, Justin Cheong, Maggie DeLessio, Michael Li, Michelle Fang, Nicole Cheong, Phoebe Chan,
Rachel Xiao, Scarlet Cheung, Sean McCarthy, Sophie
Haik, Tedford Hsia, Yi-Ling Liu, and Yi-Wei Liu
Illustrated by:
Christina Zau
Photos by:
Tiffany Zau
Julie Qiu (www.julieqiu.com)
The idea behind Tasty Memoirs came to us two years ago.
We wanted to do a writing project in which all of our students
could participate. So we thought long and hard about writing.
The best part of writing is that it can transport. It can take you
through time with a single sentence. It can stir up cherished
memories, emotions you never even thought you had, and
dreams that make you wonder.
When you think about it, the connection between food and
writing is a very strong and natural one. After all, food, just
as much as writing, is also a powerful, poignant transporter.
Often, when we think back to our childhood, the sweet aroma
of baking cookies fills our mind. With that, we asked our students to write about their lives in the form of food memoirs.
The result was amazing, beautiful stories about food but more
importantly, about people, lives, and experiences.
Some of the stories you will read in this book are bittersweet.
Others are heartwarming. But all the recipes featured are delicious. We hope you enjoy reading this book as much as we
have enjoyed putting it together. We wish to thank the student
writers whose ages at the time of writing the pieces range from
9 to 16 years old.
In particular, we want to thank Christina Zau, who helped edit,
illustrate, and layout the book. We also wish to thank our student photographer Tiffany Zau and esteemed food photographer Julie Qiu (www.julieqiu.com), whose beautiful pictures
make the book as much a feast for the eyes as it is a feast for
the mind. We could not have done it without you!
The Kelly Yang Project
www.kellyyang.com
Hong Kong
May 2011
Spicy
One Kuai Heaven
By Amanda Fang, age 13
What is heaven? Heaven to me is the tremble in the old man’s
fingers as he stirs the oil slowly in the wok. Heaven to me is the
cheap plastic bag that I’ve waited for all day. Heaven is the sound
of fattening oil and dough as they crack and sizzle together in the
wok. Heaven is the pork and cabbage (zhu rou bai cai) ‘bing’ that
I buy at the corner shop next to my school. Yes, that is heaven.
There are a few precious minutes after class is dismissed and
before the school buses leave, during which most students pack
their bags or shoot a few hoops. However, I am a different story.
With a crumpled one kuai note clutched in my hand, I stop at a
small and unnoticeable stand, the ones you see littered across
Beijing pavements all the time. An old man stirs a big cooking pot
while keeping an eye on the small plastic box where pedestrians
can have a glimpse at the different types of ‘bing’ they can buy.
My order of ‘bing’ is always the same. Cabbage with a small
amount of pork flecked here and there, wrapped in golden brown
dough. I never ventured out to experiment with the other fillings
displayed. Who needs anything when you can have heaven?
The warmth of the ‘bing’ seeps through the thin plastic bag. Its unmistakable scent of oil and dough still makes me salivate. ‘Bing’
may be eaten by anyone, from waitresses to bus drivers. Caviar?
Steak? All these delicacies could be thousands of times more expensive, yet they don’t appeal to me the way a simple cabbage
pork wrap does.
The first day I tasted ‘bing’ was the day I coined the phrase ‘One
Kuai Heaven’. My friend had bought it and was eyeing it skeptically. We all had stereotyped it as a typical Chinese snack – oily,
fattening and unsavory. How wrong we were! The first few nibbles
were met with surprised murmurs and soon we were fighting to
finish it. Each time I hold a freshly made ‘bing’ , the saying ‘Don’t
judge a book by its cover’ seems to take on a new meaning.
My ‘bing’ is cheap, common and the underdog of all foods. It isn’t
made from expensive ingredients, and no celebrity Michelin star
chef created it, yet it is still heaven. Heaven can come in all shapes
and sizes. Mine comes in the form of ‘One kuai heaven.’
RECIPE
Jian Bing
3/4 cup + 1 Tbsp. flour
2 Tbsp. semolina flour
1 cup water
4 eggs
Salt
Chili sauce
Scallions, thinly sliced
Sausages (Optional)
Cabbage (Optional)
Whisk the flour, two eggs, and water together until the mixture is lump
free. After spraying with cooking
spray and applying a little vegetable
oil, heat a skillet to medium-low heat.
Pour 3-4 tablespoons of batter into
skillet and spread and coat the pan
evenly. Crack open an egg over the
crepe and spread evenly. Sprinkle
with scallions and some salt. Cook
the crepe until the egg is set, then flip
the crepe. Brush with chili sauce and
cook for about 30 seconds. Add a sausage and some cabbage if desired.
Fold crepe into quarters and serve!
Yassa Au Poulet
By Sean McCarthy, age 12
When I was doing my “Africa project” for school, I had to get into
a group and decide who was going to do the song, game, map,
dance, and recipe sections of the project. I decided to do a recipe
called Yassa Au Poulet from the country of Senegal. My group and
I decided to make posters showing what we were doing. For the
recipe, I wanted to invite my group members over to my house and
make the dish with me. We all decided that the 9th of March would
be the special day. We all agreed except for one classmate who
couldn’t come, so we just had to go on without him.
On the 9th of March, my group finally came and I had all the ingredients out so we all started to cook. After a while a boy named Robert
(who was very childish and girly) was splashed by boiling oil and
started to cry. The other boy, whose name was Eliot, yelled at Robert, telling him there was nothing to worry about. I did the same, but
he just kept crying. Eventually, Eliot and I told him if he was going
to cry he should go to the bathroom. Finally, Robert got over it but
every time he heard oil pop out of the pan, he’d go running around
the kitchen as if the oil were chasing him!
Eventually, Eliot and I were so fed up with his distractions we exiled
him out of my apartment.
RECIPE
Yassa au Poulet
5 lbs chicken pieces, skinned and
washed (chicken fillet is better)
1 1/4 cup of lemon juice
1/2 cup white wine vinegar
1/2 cup peanut oil
3 onions, sliced
2 sprigs of thyme
red pepper, to taste
2 cups water
4 bay leaves
This is a delicious Senegalese
Dish. To eat it in the traditional
way, put the chicken and the
sauce over rice in a large pot.
Have you and your guests sit
around it. Each person should
dig into the part of the pot closest to them and take a mouthful
of rice and chicken, using only
his/her right hand. The left hand
should never be put inside the
pot. Sometimes you need to ask
someone else for help to break a
part of the chicken; that’s part of
the fun. The middle section of the
pot is open to all.
Instructions
Mix the lemon juice, the vinegar, half the oil, the onions and pour on the chicken pieces in a bowl. Marinate overnight or longer. Remove the chicken and
the onions from the marinade. Brown the chicken on both sides. Fry the onions in the remaining oil for a few minutes. Add the marinade, thyme, hot pepper, water and bay leaves. Simmer on medium heat for about 10 minutes.
Return the chicken to the sauce and cook until done, about half an hour.
Once we settled back into cooking our recipe, we finished it in
30 minutes. When it was done, we happily ate the food and Eliot
brought some food back for his family.
At the end of the day, I was happy since I managed to finish the recipe and had a taster. It tasted really good and was also really filling.
Coconut Rice
By Justin Cheong, age 14
My grandfather makes excellent coconut rice. Every time he came
to Hong Kong from Malaysia, he would cook a plate of coconut rice
for each of us. While it was still cooking, the fragrant smell filled
every corner of the house. The chili used cannot be found in Hong
Kong, as it was very spicy, so we could only eat it when my grandfather brought it. The plate was always nicely arranged, with the rice
in the center, chili on the side and served with a piece of fried fish or
chicken. Eventually, my grandfather taught me how to make it after
a lot of pleading.
The day he taught me how to make it was definitely a day that
stayed in my mind. The minute I entered the kitchen, I could smell
the coconut milk and hear the grounding of the chili. He taught me
that the chili must always be grounded into a paste, then a few dried
shrimps were added to it to increase the flavor. The coconut had to
be shredded then grounded to produce the coconut milk. The coconut milk must be mixed together with the rice and then steamed for
half an hour. The chicken or fish was fried with a few spices added
in order to add flavor. Besides all of these ingredients, there were
two important items to complete the coconut rice. They were sun
dried peanuts and small dried fish that were soaked in chili oil.
Grandmother’s Lamb
Chops
By Michael Li, age 12
I can still smell the aroma of my grandmother’s baked lamb chop.
But every time I try to find where it comes from, it disappears again.
It has already been three years since my grandmother died. She
was a really good cook and she made the best baked lamb chop
in the world. Every time I visited, she would make us her delicious
baked lamb chops. The lamb she chose was always shiny, red and
with fat evenly distributed, so the meat stayed soft and juicy after it
was baked. When you put it in your mouth, you would feel that it was
melting on your tongue. After you ate the first one, you would want a
second one. Then a third, fourth...
One day, my brother and I went to our grandmother’s house by ourselves. No one knew, not even our parents .Why? Because we were
having a secret meeting with grandmother. Grandmother was going
to teach us how to make baked lamb chops!
When we arrived, she had already prepared all the ingredients and
marinade. There was a plate of frozen lamb chops, ten mint leaves
(finely chopped), two tablespoons of finely chopped shallot, two tablespoons of mixed herbs, and mustard.
The smell was overwhelming, More than five different scents penetrated my nostrils and filled my mind with images of nicely steamed
rice and juicy fried meat. The different spices used would tingle
your taste buds and give off a sweet scent that would make anyone
drool. My grandfather would sometimes use brown rice or add a
bit of lamb curry to it, but you couldn’t compare it with the original
recipe.
Grandmother taught us that we must first wash the lamp chops.
Then, we marinated the lamb with herbs, mint leaves and shallot for
one hour. The second step was to heat the oil and fry the lamb until
golden brown. Then, we transferred it to a baking tray. We baked it
at 200 degrees celsius for twenty minutes. Then we turned up the
temperature a bit higher and baked it for another three minutes.
When it was done, we garnished it with mustard. This was the first
time I made food by myself. I also ate all the lamb chops by myself!
Nowadays, my grandfather rarely cooks this dish due to the lack of
resources. It is getting increasingly hard to find the authentic ingredients. However, the taste of the coconut and the spiciness of the
chili used will always stay with me on the tip of my tongue.
But a year after, we heard the bad news. Grandmother had passed
away. I could never taste the baked lamb chops made by her again.
Even though I have the recipe now, it is still not the same. If I can, I
wish I can try my grandmother’s lamb chops once more.
Desperate Food for Desperate ByTimes
Kelly Yang
Food. It was my main concern in law school. I
thought about it constantly. What to eat? How to
get it? How to get it for cheap? Ideally, how to get
it for free?
While everyone else was worried about their careers and securing that coveted
offer from the top law firm, I was worried about securing my lunch. A hamburger
or a sandwich? And if I chose a sandwich, should I go with turkey on rye or tuna
on white? Salad or no salad? Drink? The choices boggled my mind. I sat in class
daydreaming of what I would eat for my next meal and then the meal after that, etc,
etc, until class finally ended and I happily marched on over to the cafeteria.
Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that the only thing I did in graduate school
was eat. This is Harvard Law School we’re talking about. For the record, I did
study. I did take notes in class. I did think about law. But in between all that, I ate. I
ate like there was no tomorrow.
I ate because I was hungry. You’d be amazed how many calories you burn just by
studying all the time. I needed to rejuvenate. I need to keep up my energy levels. I
needed to do something—anything—to stay awake while reading this boring stuff.
I needed that second scone, darn it.
I also ate because I was cold. The bitter Boston winter really took a toll on my sunny California disposition. I was lured east by the dean of Harvard admissions who
said to me, “Oh, Boston is great in the winter. Just imagine the snow falling while
you sip a hot chocolate!” What she didn’t tell me was it’s too cold to go anywhere.
You can’t even go outside. You have to walk through underground tunnels most of
the time just to get from the library to your dorm. It’s freezing. And so, I needed that
third muffin to stay warm.
I ate because I was lonely. For the first year or so, I missed my family and friends
back home so much and despised just about everything Bostonian. For the most
part, my classmates were all a bit too competitive, too serious, and too obsessed
with getting ahead. ‘Where are the nice people?’ I thought. Sadly, friends came
slowly for me in law school. Waiting for them to come along was like waiting for my
hair to grow. While I waited, I thought, I might as well have that second helping of
mashed potatoes…
I ate because I was excited. I was finally out on my own and could make or try
whatever food I want, no matter how weird or how odd the circumstances. I figured
out early on that one way to get free food at Harvard was to attend events. So I attended events. All events. I went to the Jewish Law Students Association Welcome
Dinner. I went to the Black Law Students Association Breakfast. Did anyone say
the Muslim Law Students Association is hosting a lunch? I’m there! At one point, I
stuffed mazo balls, collard greens, chimichangas, and hummas into my mouth—
all in the course of one day! Hey, as long as it’s free, I’ll eat it. While some of the
people at these events looked at me oddly, most tolerated my presence. When I
showed up to the Harvard Law Students For Israeli Rights lunch and the next day
went to the Harvard Law Students for Palestine dinner, eyebrows were raised.
I ate because I could. There was nobody there to stop me! I didn’t have a roommate. My parents were 3000 miles away. So, if I wanted to ruin my appetite by
eating a tray full of cookies right before dinner, I could go right ahead! It was also
at this time that I tried out some odd recipes. Having never really cooked before,
I attempted to cook in graduate school out of boredom and curiosity. Being a
natural klutz at most things, I didn’t have very high expectations of my cooking.
I played it safe—sticking to ingredients that did not involve chopping or slicing.
The result was ridiculously tasteless food. Looking back, even I have to wonder
how I was able to eat what I made that year. I mean, soy sauce with frozen vegetables—come on! Yet, somehow, I placed spoonful after spoonful of my creations
into my mouth and tried not to gag.
When I met my husband in my third year of law school, I lied and said I was
a great cook. He was surprised. I told him that during my time at law school, I
worked on many fabulous recipes and dishes. I figured it was a very casual relationship and he’d probably go away after a couple of months, so what’s the harm
in exaggerating my culinary skills. Well, he didn’t go away. And shortly after our
engagement, it became increasingly difficult to avoid cooking something for him.
Here he thought he was marrying an amazing chef and all I knew how to make
was frozen vegetables with soy sauce! I didn’t know what to do! Finally, I called
upon a friend from law school who agreed to show me the art of making perfect
scrambled eggs. I practiced and practiced until I perfected it. When I tasted the
eggs melting in my mouth, I glowed with pride. Armed with my knowledge of how
to make the perfect eggs, I returned to my fiancé hoping he was the type of guy
who enjoyed breakfast at all times.
RECIPE
Kelly’s Desperate Times Veggies
with Soy Sauce
One bag of frozen vegetables
1 cup rice
Vegetable oil
Light soy sauce
Optional: Frozen shrimp
Take one bag of frozen vegetables
and steam them. Make one cup
of rice. When ready, mix the veggies and rice together in a pot with
some oil. Stir fry with light soy sauce.
Kelly’s Runny Scrambled Eggs
Two eggs
Milk
Butter
Take two eggs and beat with milk
in a small bowl. Turn stove on low
heat and put butter in a saucepan.
Stir in the eggs. Stir, stir, stir... and
don’t stop stirring! When they look
ready, turn off the heat and serve.
Roses, Olives, Potatoes
By Alyssa Yoon, age 11
My maternal grandparent’s apartment building houses the most
beautiful plants ever seen. The twelve-floor building has a little
thin strip of garden going around it. Although it is no Huntington
Garden, there are still persimmon trees, hibiscus plants, roses, petunias, and all sorts of vegetables. From the kitchen window I can
see the hibiscus that covers the grave of my three dead goldfish.
My grandmother and grandfather have planted some gourds on
the roof of the small guard house. My grandmother has the biggest
green thumb you ever saw. She can grow potatoes in little tofu
containers. When the sweet potatoes have grown, my sister and I
cut the little sprouts off for growing before my mother uses them for
her fabulous rosemary potatoes. We would snip off the little potato
sprouts with a small safe knife. Then my grandmother, Lauren (my
little sister), and I would put the sprouts back into the tofu containers after we changed the water. I don’t know how my grandmother
does it, but she seems to have some sort of a magic power to make
plants grow as easy as breathing!
My mother also seems to have some sort of way with potatoes.
She didn’t inherit my grandmother’ s magical “power”, but she has
the potato-cooking ability just as my grandmother has her green
thumb. Her potato isn’t just “cook it and you’re done”. It involves
soaking the potatoes in olive oil, cutting them up into pieces, and
sprinkling them with rosemary. When you taste just one piece, your
taste buds go to heaven with a side trip to paradise. The olive oil
seems to make the slice melt in your mouth. The rosemary gives
it just the extra something it needs. Although potatoes may seem
plain, my mother can make the most out of the ordinary food.
The first time I tried these rosemary potatoes was on some Friday
or other. I was sitting at the table waiting for dinner. A new scent
was wafting out the kitchen door. I inhaled, I exhaled. The smell
was making my stomach ache for food. Then right about when I
was about to die of hunger, the food was swept on to the white table.
“Mmm!!!”I sighed with delight. After I finished my helping, I gobbled
up some more. “Don’t be so greedy!” my sister complained. It was
obvious that the magic of the potatoes had bewitched her as well.
At the end of that dinner, when I was eating my favorite mangoes,
even the mangoes seemed to have lost their taste. All I wanted
was rosemary potatoes!
RECIPE
Baked Rosemary Potatoes
1 3/4 pounds small red potatoes,
quartered
1 small onion, quartered
1/4 cup olive oil
1 1/2 teaspoons dried rosemary,
crushed
2 garlic cloves, minced
1/4 teaspoon garlic salt
Combine and toss the potatoes,
onions, rosemary, garlic, and garlic
salt. Bake, on a foil-lined baking pan,
at 425 degrees F for 20-30 minutes.
Salty
Noodles of Longevity
By Yi-Wei Liu, age 15
Th first time I remember eating a bowl of brown sauce Zhajiang
The
no
noodles was when I was five. In Chinese culture, noodles are a
symbol
of longevity. Thus, during Chinese New Year, every memsym
ber
be of my family would eat bowls of noodles of exactly equal quantity.
tity These noodles were completely homemade, from the flour of
the noodles to the pork of the meat sauce, and represented family
tradition. Everyone ate them seriously. But I did not care in the
tra
slightest for family tradition and complained furiously when I was
slig
presented with the noodles, as I found the brown meat sauce slimy
pre
and vile. I am told that I would have dumped the bowl of noodles on
an
the floor had my grandmother not stopped me at the last moment.
Several years later, I had matured slightly in preparation for the
Se
Chinese New Year dinner. That year, I did not refuse my bowl, and
Ch
tried not to disappoint anyone by grudgingly eating the noodles. In
trie
this, I realized later, I failed. Since noodles represent longevity, it is
this
considered very unlucky to cut a strand, a superstition of which I
co
was unaware. So as everyone took care to eat their noodles whole,
wa
bit as violently into every strand of noodle as possible, believing
Ib
this showed my appreciation for the noodle’s taste. Fortunately,
thi
no one saw but my father, who looked me straight in the eye and
shook his head softly.
sh
And just last year, I ate a bowl of brown sauce noodles for ChiAn
nese New Year again. That night my family, sitting closely around
ne
the table, was particularly lively, happily engaged in conversation
about hopes for the coming year. When the equal bowls of noodles
ab
arrived, probably no one remembered or even cared about the inarr
cidents a long time ago. Had I, that very instant, dumped my bowl
cid
of noodles on my plate and chopped every strand into dozens of
pieces, they would hardly have cared. I was seriously considering
pie
doing just that; to this day, I still frankly do not enjoy eating those
do
noodles. The noodles, while deliciously thick, are less savoury than
no
rice; the stir-fried pork soybean paste, while homemade and tasty,
ric
cannot compare to other sauces in Chinese cuisine. Nonetheless,
ca
at that very instant, the noodles transcended all taste. With foods
losing their traditional roots and people from different cultures
los
blending quicker than ever before, the noodles were more than
ble
food: they symbolized the importance of family. Most certainly, the
foo
noodles will not bring me any form of longevity, and I could cut evno
ery single strand thousands of times and that would hardly affect
my lifespan. But, by holding onto family tradition, the noodles have
brought me the realization that family, unity, and equality are the
dearest things on earth, and the taste of that realization, no matter
what sauce you use, is priceless.
RECIPE
Zhajiang Noodles
Noodles
1 cup cucumber, diced
1 cup bean paste
1 lb minced pork
16 oz sweet bean sauce
1 big onion, diced
1 tablespoon sesame oil
Boil water and cook the noodles. Meanwhile, brown the diced onions in a pan
with oil. Add in the minced pork and stir
until it is cooked. Add cucumbers, sweet
bean sauce, and bean paste. Simmer, on
medium heat for approximately 10 minutes, or until the sauce becomes thick.
Once the noodles are ready, strain them,
and serve with a healthy serving of sauce!
Dumplings
By Rachel Xiao, age 12
When Chinese New Year rolled around every year, my small kitchen
was always fit to burst with people and bustle. As a traditional Chinese family, it was a custom to have plates and plates of steaming
dumplings cluttering tables and filling rooms with their fragrance,
and everyone in the family worked hard to uphold this tradition.
My mother organized everyone into groups. First there was my ayi
and grandmother by the kitchen sink, kneading and rolling the floury
dough into small, thin circles. They worked traditionally, without a
rolling pin, their hands spinning the dough circles around as if they
were discs. Their speed never ceased to amaze me; by the time I
had finished one lopsided circle with the help of a rolling pin, they
had completed a whole stack of small pancakes with their flickering
fingers.
Then there were my aunts and my older sister, Janet, at the kitchen
counter, filling each pancake carefully with xian. The xian was made
of finely chopped pieces of meat and spinach, usually prepared before the entire dumpling-making process began. As much as I hated
spinach, I always loved it when it was crammed with pork inside a
steaming dumpling. My sister and aunts would fill each dumpling
precisely, measuring each spoonful of xian carefully - not too little,
or the dumpling would be too doughy, and not too much, lest the
dumpling burst in the pot.
Each dumpling would then be carefully prodded into position as the
ends of the pancakes were pinched together carefully, forming pretty creases. This was the hardest part of the process to me - making
the dumpling look presentable. “Food is all about presentation,” my
aunt told me, as she cupped my hand in hers and showed me how
to pinch a dumpling together.
Once a tray was filled with these delicious-looking dumplings, the
tray would be pushed across the counter to where my mother stood
by a stove and several boiling pots, sweating profusely, holding a
pair of oversized chopsticks. She’d dunk the dumplings into the
pots until the water began to spit and bubble, and the dumplings
would bob to the top, looking like small fluffy white pillows. Then
she’d expertly jab at them with the chopsticks, and in two seconds
all the dumplings would be steaming in large china plates, ready for
the dinner table.
Then there was my brother and I, running around. My mother
tried stationing us at the various stations in her “assembly line”,
but our dough pancakes were oval and too thick, our xian-filled
dumplings too fat and ugly, and we were too short to see over the
pots on the stove. When she tried to shoo us out of the kitchen,
our dismayed faces showed her our immense desire to “help”.
My mother’s ingenious idea was to set my brother and me up in
a corner of the kitchen, with our own set of pancakes and small
bowl of xian. There, we happily filled up lopsided dumplings with
ugly creases, with flour streaked in our hair and on our cheeks.
My mother caringly kept a separate small pot for our unattractive dumplings, which looked nothing like white pillows when they
bobbed to the top of the water but like pieces of crumpled paper,
with the occasional trail of spinach and pork leaking out.
Next to the plates and plates of beautiful dumplings, my brother’s
and my pathetic attempts at dumpling-making looked miserable.
However, when dinnertime came, I always proudly picked my grotesque-looking dumplings off my plate. The other dumplings may
look prettier, with nice creases and just the right amount of dough
and xian, but the dumplings I made always tasted the most savory, with the softest dough skin and the tastiest filling. My dumplings tasted of the happiness of the New Year.
RECIPE
Dumpling Filling
•1 cup ground pork or beef
•1 TB soy sauce
•1 teaspoon salt
•1 TB Chinese rice wine
•1/4 teaspoon white pepper
•3 TB sesame oil
•1/2 green onion, finely minced
•1 1/2 cups shredded cabbage
•4 TB bamboo shoots
•2 slices fresh minced ginger
•1 clove minced garlic
Add the soy sauce, salt, rice wine
and white pepper to the meat, stirring in only one direction. Add the
remaining ingredients, stirring in
the same direction, and mix well.
Buy or make
dumpling wrappers and fill each wrapper with the
dumpling filling. Boil and serve or
pan-fry and serve as potstickers.
The Soggy Seaweed
By Sophie Haik, age 9
When I was around the age of six, I would bring fruits and cookies
to school for snacks. We all ate quietly as we didn’t want to disturb
the teacher while she was working. All of the children just enjoyed
their snacks. We were also hungry.
A few weeks later, we started trading snacks. Everyone would ask,
“I’ll trade this for that” or “Oh, do you want to trade?” We always
did it so silently, the teacher didn’t notice at all. I ate my fruits and
then would trade my cookies with other children. The other kids
would have the koala cookies with chocolate, crackers, cupcakes,
sandwiches and other things. Natasha Fok always had the best
snacks. She had Pretz, those koala cookies, brownies and other
things. I didn’t always have the best snack but most of the time I
had yummy snacks.
A year later, we kept on trading and that was when I started eating
seaweed and rice that made a small sushi roll. At home, my mom
would make it for me. Then my helper started packing it into my
snack box. At first, I thought it was going to be great but when it
was snack time, the seaweed was all soggy. I would try to put rice
in the seaweed but it kept on slipping off. Other children started to
tease me. I forgot to ask my helper to pack something else. She
continued to pack seaweed and rice. I couldn’t trade! Finally, I remembered to tell my helper not to pack it for me anymore. Then
the teasing stopped and I could once again trade with my friends.
And till now, the trading is still going on.
Best Bolognese
By Alexandra Tsai, age 10
When I was 3, my mother and father took me to a nice restaurant.
While I was waiting for my mom to order, she gave me a teething
biscuit. I gobbled it and asked for more. My mother quietly said
“No. It’ll spoil your appetite. I ordered a special pasta for you.”
I waited about 5 minutes and a heaping plate of spaghetti was
served. Little did I know that that plate of spaghetti was going to
change my life.
I stared down at my plate and studied it. It had an appetizing smell,
drawing me towards it. I couldn’t resist picking my plastic fork and
banging on the table. My mother asked me if I wanted to eat and
I said, “Yaaa!”(This was my way for saying yes.) I watched as she
twirled the spaghetti onto the fork. She carefully put the spaghetti
into my mouth, careful not to drip the sauce on my frilly red dress.
I closed my eyes, not knowing what it would taste like. Almost
immediately, my taste buds’ arms reached up, calling for more.
Pretty soon, I devoured the whole heap of spaghetti.
That experience was unforgettable. When I was 6, I asked my
mother, “What kind of spaghetti did I have when I was 3?” “Well, I
think you had spaghetti bolognese,” she answered. I thought and
said, “I want it for dinner tomorrow.” My mom looked surprised,
but she agreed.
The next day, I was anticipating dinner. I hurriedly got dressed and
as a result, tripped over my compendium of books. I was the first
one at the table and said “Dash, (my brother) can you call mom
and dad to come?” They came and we started eating. There was
roast beef, fried rice, salad and many other things I couldn’t name.
Obviously, mom had prepared a feast. I couldn’t identify which
one was the bolognese so I sheepishly asked, “Which one is the
bolognese?” My mom pointed to a plate nearby. I quickly scooped
some onto my plate and tasted it. If I were a food critic, I’d give my
mom’s bolognese 5 stars out of 5! I ate so much, I didn’t have the
urge to eat my favorite dessert, caramel crunch cake.
I went to bed dreaming about bolognese, which, from then on,
was my favorite food in the whole entire world.
RECIPE
Spaghetti Bolognese
Sauce:
3 tablespoons olive oil
½ medium onion, minced
1 ¼ lbs ground beef
2 tablespoons tomato sauce
2 ripe tomatoes
Seasoning:
Dried or fresh basil
Salt and pepper
Italian seasoning or dried herbs
Spaghetti, cooked according to instructions on package.
1. Heat olive oil in a saucepan over medium low heat.
2. Add the onion until translucent.
3. Add the ground beef until it turns brown.
4. Stir in tomatoes and tomato sauce.
5. Add the seasonings.
6. Add some water if needed.
7. Cook until the meat is ready.
Pour the sauce over the spaghetti.
The Delectable Taste of Italy
By Tedford Hsia, age 14
Ever since the departure of simple baby food, pasta (especially
bolognaise) has been my favorite food in my life. Every bite I take,
it feels like a party in my mouth is about to start. Drips of tomato,
onions (cooked onions are my favorite kind of vegetables) and
meat draw a smile on my face with delight, penetrating my depression.
I come from an international family as my sister and I were born
in the USA but raised in Hong Kong. My mom is Cantonese, Malaysian and Chinese while my dad is Shanghainese. At home we
eat nasi goreng, satay, tacos, sweet & sour pork, shepherd’s pie,
fishermen’s pie and xiao long bao. But overall I will always love
eating pasta.
I learned about other kinds of pasta such as linguine, the flat pasta as long as spaghetti; fusilli, the spiral shaped pasta; and penne,
the medium-shaped tubes with ridges and diagonally cut at the
ends, kind of shaped like straws. Sauce is also what I learned
about such as Carbonara, the creamy and rich sauce with a variety of ingredients like bacon, cheese and egg; the pesto sauce, a
vegetarian sauce which is made from a combination of fresh basil
leaves, crushed garlic, grated parmesan cheese, pine nuts and a
little olive oil; and the tomato/pomodoro sauce, which is basically
cooked tomatoes, tomato paste with an optional touch of basil
leaves or other spices.
Besides the spaghetti bolognaise, there is lasgna al forno (ovencooked lasagna), with layers of pasta sheets, cheese and meat/
tomato sauce. There are also many variations of the pasta-layering dish, substituting other ingredients such as vegetables and
seafood instead of the usual meat sauce.
When I was in year eight, in the first term of school, the first project we did for Food Technology was to cook pasta. First, we had
to cook ravioli in groups; however, the ravioli pieces weren’t stuck
together so all the fillings escaped and scattered around in the
pot of hot water. We also learned to cook and make the linguine
pasta (but the pasta were stuck together) and how to cook tomato
sauce and ‘white sauce’. A variety of spices and herbs such as
oregano and paprika were added too. Cheese was also added.
The ravioli recipe was to make the dough, cut it with a ravioli cut-
ter, stuff it with cheese, herbs, and pieces of meat, stick it together
with water, dunk it in a pot of hot water and prepare the sauce by
cooking it in a frying pan. For the linguine, you use the same dough
method, flattening it with the ‘pasta roller’ and slicing it with a cutter
and then putting it in a pot of hot water. Now at home, we always
put a few drops of olive oil in the hot water to prevent the pasta from
sticking together.
When I was in primary school, and I had to do a research on Marco
Polo the Italian Explorer, I learned that spaghetti is actually Chinese
noodles with Italian sauces on it, but I will always love eating it no
matter what.
Buono Appetito!
Sour
I’m Not Different
By Judy Kim, age 15
I was a weird kid from the start. When my friends dressed up in
cute pink dresses playing with their beautiful blond Barbie dolls, I
dressed up in a black shirt and loose pants, holding onto my Pikachu doll in my left hand and an Ultra man doll in the other. Fellow
girls would gossip about a girl they didn’t like or tell each other
whom they were madly in love with. I wasn’t interested in any of
that - as I’ve said before, I was an unusual kid, and that is probably why some people called me a “creep” or even thought I was
a boy.
However unusual I was, no one really cared. They would say to
me: “There are lots of different kinds of people in this world, and
there’s nothing bad about you not liking Barbie dolls or not liking to
gossip. You just have a very unique personality, and that’s good.”
But there was one thing people thought was bizarre about me - the
fact that I couldn’t stand eating sweets, such as candies, popsicles,
chocolates, jelly beans, gummy bears, Jell-O, even ice cream. I
couldn’t stand eating things with sugar as the main ingredient.
Even the sound of the word “sugar” made my fingers tremble. The
stickiness of the fructose sliding down your throat and the mysterious, distasteful smell of the sweets would make me dizzy and
throw up. I honestly didn’t understand how people could bear eating those chunks of chemicals. All the bright colors of the sweets
just seemed like the beautiful colors of a poisonous frog - alluring
kids with their beauty, then making children feel pain they cannot
ever imagine. For this reason, I would always be the witch at Hal-
loween, trick or treating without a basket full of candies.
It was my fifth birthday. The table was full of colorful, sugary foods.
There was a giant chocolate cake which had “Happy Birthday Andrew” on it, a basket full of Jell-O and gummy bears, and yellow and
green puddings decorating the edge of the table. All these made
me sick. The atmosphere in the room was happy and harmonious. I
was the only gloomy girl since I was hungry but there was nothing I
wanted to eat. At first my mom thought I was being picky and moody,
but she soon realized that I literally hated sweets. Considering a
young girl disliking sweet things to be abnormal, my mom forced me
to eat a bag of gummy bears. When I refused to eat them, she ended
up stuffing it in my mouth, and I ended up in a pool of tears. Seriously worried about her daughter, she took me to a doctor. But there
we heard the most inhumane thing we’d ever heard in our lives. Although I was only five back then, I vividly remember the exact words
the doctor spat out of his dirty mouth.
“Of course she’s not used to the taste of sweets; she’s Korean! Korean people are too poor, they barely get the chance to eat sweets!
That’s why Korean people are not used to sweets. They’re used to
stuff like kim chi. It’s totally normal for Koreans, so don’t worry.”
He emphasized the word “Korean” every time.
My mom shot out of her seat, and started yelling at the doctor at the
top of her lungs. She started saying how racist the doctor was and
how we were very proud of our country and that people from our
country were certainly not so poor as to not even be able to purchase a bag of sweets. Then she grabbed me by my wrist, kicked
the door open and ran out the door. I think it’s really strange how
people can be racist about other people’s preferences. I have lots
of Korean friends around me, and they all like to eat candies and
chocolates. It’s just me. Thinking about the doctor, if I get to see him
again, I’ll give him a whole lecture on how rude and racist he was 11
years ago, and how proud I am of my country and heritage.
I’m just a little different from the other kids. It’s just like how some
people like the color blue more than pink or like the crust of the bread
more than the inside. It’s not bad or good; it’s just my personality. I
don’t think people who like to eat sweets are strange. I hope people
give more respect to me and my choice of taste.
...But don’t ask me why I’m not skinny and beautiful like a super
model now - just because I don’t like to eat sweet things does not
mean I don’t like to eat!!
Celery Blues
By Yi-Ling Liu, age 14
I eyed the dish warily when it first appeared on the dining table. I
had hastily washed my hands without soap and plopped into my
seat with an eager grin plastered on my face, only to encounter a
new dish - a small plate of stir-fried celery and mince pork clad in
a thin coat of garlic sauce. It looked fairly attractive, with its crisp
exterior and bottle green hue. It was not my beloved fried chicken
wings but it surpassed my picky childhood standards, so, gingerly,
I picked one strand of celery with my stubby fingers and tried it.
I cringed. Immediately, it was spat back out, embraced by a wad
of tissue. I hated it. I hated the tart, metallic taste that lingered
on my tongue and the gag that followed. The celery, my unknown
visitor, became an enemy. Unfortunately, the rest of my family did
not share this hostility. This dish was praised, the refrigerator was
stocked with supplies and the recipe was tucked firmly into the
kitchen drawer. The celery suited their palette and appeared on
the dinner table frequently, sparking the beginning of our long term
estrangement.
As a child, I thought eating vegetables was a chore, a necessity
force-fed into our unwilling mouths. Avoiding celery became an art
for me, a sport. When Mom loaded a mound of bitter strands on my
plate, I would furtively sneak them under the table, into a napkin
and into the garbage bin - eventually, every nook and cranny of
the dining room held a little piece of celery. If caught, I would stay
on my chair for hours and sulk, glaring at the little mound of horror, hoping that my superhuman pupils could possibly produce a
flame and burn the celery to crisp. When my pupils did not work, I
would throw a tantrum, and, as I was equipped with a sharp set of
incisors, Mom gave up on prying my mouth open and let me eat
broccoli instead.
As I grew, I stopped making a fuss, but simply ignored the dish,
in typical hormone-fuelled teenager fashion. The celery began to
blend in with the rest of the dishes. It sat on the table, poised and
quiet. But then, it stopped appearing. After a week or so, I felt the
lack of its presence. My garlic-clad acquaintance was absent, a
pattern on the table mat distorted. I was unnerved. I would look at
its empty place on the dinner table, frown and squirm in my seat. I
missed it. It turned out that the celery was only out of stock at the
supermarket and returned in a few weeks, but when it was gone I
was genuinely worried about where it went.
Perhaps, I thought, I did not hate celery anymore. Perhaps I was
growing up, maturing into an adult. Perhaps my taste buds had developed and I was now able to appreciate celery the sophisticated
way, the grown-up way, like how Dad didn’t recoil at the pungent
tang of alcohol. And so, last week, I decided to try stir-fried celery
and minced pork once again.
That night, I maneuvered my chopsticks to the dish and picked
up a long, green strand paired with a piece of pork. Nonchalantly,
I shrugged and brought it to my mouth. I cringed. A tart, metallic
taste lingered on my tongue. I gagged, spat it back out and furtively
jammed it into a wad of tissue. Mom raised an eyebrow inquiringly
and my brother ogled at me, disgusted by the scene of his younger
sister regurgitating vegetables. And me? I bit off a piece of fried
chicken wing and smiled.
RECIPE
Stir-Fried Celery and Minced Pork
1 stalk celery
1 block tofu (optional)
1 tablespoon light soy sauce
100g minced pork
Salt
Vegetable oil
Cut the tofu and celery into fine pieces. Fry minced pork in 1 tablespoon of
vegetable oil. When almost cooked,
add 1 tablespoon of soy sauce and stir.
Add celery, stir, and cook for another
minute. Add tofu and season with salt.
A Pillow of Tomatoes
By Scarlet Cheung, age 14
“Oh here we go again,” I thought. It was another Monday morning
at school, and the boys were verbally bullying me again. “Aaaaggh!
Scarlet Radiation!” All the boys laughed as they ran away from me
while I was walking upstairs to the classrooms. When I stumbled
into the classroom, one of the boys said something on purpose so
that I could hear, “Hey, look! There’s Scarlet. I wonder what she’s
going to have for lunch today. What do you think? Taipei 101 or
the World Trade Center?” I tried to laugh along with them but it
didn’t work. Later, they were outside on the basketball court. They
all screamed, “Aaaaaagh! Scarlet Radiation. Run away or her radiation will kill you.” I was so frustrated that I tried to throw a shoe
at them, but I failed.
After a whole day of “Scarlet Radiation”, I came home extremely
depressed and irritated. As the day passed, a few more people
joined in, and some of those people were girls! During recess I
had to go somewhere more isolated so I wouldn’t have to bear the
pain of listening to the words “Scarlet Radiation” again. While I was
thinking about this, I almost sliced part of my finger off because I
was making some tomato teppas to put on brown toast.
First, you slice half a tomato into Skittle-sized pieces. Then, you get
one eighth of a purple onion and chop it into smaller pieces. Then
you take some basil, chop it up smaller than Skittles and sprinkle it
onto the tomato and onion. After that, you mix everything together.
If you want it to taste even better, add some olive oil. Now all you
need to do is to put this mixture on crunchy pieces of bread or crackers. As I ate the tomatoes on bread, I felt a lot better, as though my
depression was washed down into the subconscious part of my
brain. Eating this was as comforting as resting on a pillow because
a pillow can be any size or any color you want, it can be soft or hard
if you want it to be. In other words, you can always trust
your pillow and sleep soundly
on
it.
After half of the
school year had
passed, nothing
much changed. The
bullying was harsh but it didn’t
extend for such a long period of time. I thought
it would stop, but I was wrong. It continued again; then one day I
snapped and reported all the main boys who were bullying me to
the teacher. After that, the bullying stopped. Even though the boys
were still giving me the evil eye, it was better than being scared of
coming to school because you know you will be sad there. It seems
that without my wonderful tomato on bread, I would have snapped
too early, so the tomatoes on bread really helped, for the food was
as comforting as a pillow.
RECIPE
Bruschetta
Sourdough or Italian bread
4 very ripe tomatoes
1/2 of a lemon
2 cloves of garlic
1 sprig of parsley
1/4 of a red onion
Olive oil
Salt and pepper
Toast the bread, cut into thick slices.
Cut, peel, and seed the tomatoes. Chop
the tomatoes and season with salt and
pepper. Chop the onions. Rub one
side of the bread with garlic and drizzle
with olive oil. Top the bread with tomatoes, onions, and parsley. Squeeze the
lemon over the bread for extra taste!
Disgusting Durian
By Nicole Cheong, age 16
Durians. Disgusting horrible durians. Durians have been my family’s most beloved fruit ever since they discovered it. Every summer
holiday, my family and I would go back to Singapore or Malaysia
to visit my relatives. However, there was one time when eating a
durian scarred me for life.
When we stepped through the front door of my relative’s home, the
first things that caught our eyes were the piles of freshly cut durians
surrounding the dining table. Before our arrival, my relatives would
buy at least ten of them in advance to celebrate. It soon became
a tradition, except it wasn’t famous. Eating durians was actually a
common action people did every day. However, my family viewed
it as something sacred and special. My relatives signaled an invitation to us to come sit around the table and enjoy the ‘delicious’
fruit they had prepared. Disgusted as usual, I raced up the stairs,
into my room and shut the door. I switched on the television and
increased its volume, hoping it would drown out the sounds of them
screaming my name. This usually worked without fail, but this time
around, I was actually dragged into the kitchen.
Just looking at my mum’s happiness when she took the first bite of
the fruit made my stomach queasy. Before I even had the chance
to cover my nose, its repulsive stench had already blown straight at
me, surrounding my nostrils with its toxic gases. Although my aunt
continuously lectured me about the sensation that flowed through
your veins when you sunk your teeth into one, I still bluntly refused.
My obedient mouth obliged the order my mind sent which was very
simple—no chunk of durian must ever reach my stomach or else.
Unfortunately, regardless of what I did, they still insisted on me trying it. So I gave up.
My own mother forced me to take a bite by putting one just inches
from my face. Shocked, I clasped my hands and tucked them into
the pockets of my jeans. With all her might, she frantically tried to
pull them out, but I refused to let go. There was no way my fingers
were ever going to touch that slimy durian. Thinking she had given
up, I slowly walked away, only to be stopped by my aunt, who tickled me. Being the ticklish sort of person I was, I had no choice but to
surrender. At this very moment, she dumped the durians in between
my fingers and warned me not to drop it.
As I was holding it, I could feel its creamy and slimy texture wrap
around my fingers, almost as if the durian were about to eat my
hands. The stench was worst when it was up close to my face as
it reeked of bitter Chinese medicine. After tossing and turning it for
about a minute or so, I decided that I might as well get it over with.
I brought the durian closer to my mouth. My mouth formed a little
gap. Then, I ate it.
The taste of durian swept through my taste buds like those vigorous chemical reactions we dealt with in science class every week.
Except this time, it was poisonous. Before I was able to swallow it, I
spat it back out on to the plate and ran towards the bathroom while
my family laughed at my reaction.
That night, I remembered brushing my teeth with huge slobs of
toothpaste countless of times because the taste stubbornly refused
to leave. From that moment onwards, I vowed to never be forced
into eating foods my gut knew I wouldn’t like.
Buttery
Brownies and Shoes
By Jessie Yeung, age 12
I screeched. I gasped. I oohed. I aahed. I bit into the
most delicious chocolate brownie I had ever tasted. My friend, Ingrid, sat next to me on the couch,
watching anxiously. I turned to her, beaming.
My face was glowing, and rainbows arced
around me as I exclaimed, “INGRID! These
are amazing!” She blushed, and muttered,
“It’s too salty…” but I wasn’t listening. The
brownies had transported me to a different
place, a different time. I remembered…
“Give. It. Back!” I bellowed as I chased after my friend
Mae. My other friend, Angela, lay on the bed, hysterical
with laughter as I attempted to get my shoes back. I
leaped in the air like an Olympic jumper and snatched a
shoe from her hand. Landing with a grunt, I stood up and
stuck my tongue out at her triumphantly. Then, I froze with
my tongue still out. Dangling from Mae’s hand was my
other shoe! “Confound it!” I groaned. With a mischievous grin, Mae disappeared out the door. Shoving my
one shoe on my foot, I raced after her.
No. No. Oh. No. “Don’t!” I begged as Mae held the
shoe over the balcony. She was laughing wickedly.
Taking a deep breath, I launched myself at her.
She yelped in surprise…and let go. The shoe
fell and fell…finally landing on the porch
of a neighbor’s house. I gasped. Mae
gabbled, “I wasn’t going to do it! Really!”
I knew she didn’t mean to throw it. She
just wanted to see me rip my hair apart.
I looked back down at the neighbor’s
big porch frantically. Oh no. Not dogs.
Yes. The neighbor had dogs! Pity. I liked
dogs, just not when they were CHEWING ON MY SHOE! I fretted,
my heart pounding as I gazed down. How was I supposed to get
my shoe back now? Just then, the occupant of the house came
out. He looked fairly confused. I didn’t blame him. I would also
be surprised if my dogs were playing and drooling on a shoe that
had seemingly come out of nowhere. Waving my arms, I shouted,
“That’s mine!” Looking up, the man spotted me. He gently tugged
my shoe from the gaping jaws of the dogs, who looked very disappointed to have their new chew toy taken away. The man threw my
shoe up, but it fell short. After a few more tries, I leaned over the
balcony and caught it!
Shouting a goodbye-and-thank-you to the man, I headed back inside,
glaring at Mae. “What was that for?” I roared. She cowered, trying –
and failing – to stifle a laugh and look guilty. Angela stepped between
us quickly. “Hey, calm down! Um…anyone for chocolate brownies? I
made some before you guys came…” Glaring at the shoe-thief Mae, I
followed Angela into the kitchen. A platter of freshly baked, soft chocolate brownies sat on the marble table. My eyes widened. Licking
my lips with anticipation, I reached for the plate and bit into the most
delicious chocolate brownie I had ever tasted…
I blinked. The memory had been so vivid. I thought back to the mischievous, daredevil Mae. She had moved to Beijing, and I rarely saw
her anymore. I had often teased her of being an “angel on the outside,
devil on the inside”. I smiled slightly, shaking my head at the thought
of the irresistible Mae. Next to me, Ingrid mumbled, “Too much salt…
maybe some chocolate sauce…” I punched her lightly on the arm.
Grinning, I told her, “I think they’re just right.”
Sugary Cookies
By Deanna Yiu, age 11
I have the most remarkable grandfather in the universe.
He gives me whatever I want, except toys that are really
big and heavy. He does not buy me pets either. He buys
me anything small, like an NDS game that costs $399, a
book, etc. You can call me “spoiled” but I’m not. Most of
all, I love him because he’s not selfish. He always comes
to my house and plays with me even though his leg hurts.
He spends time with me even when he has loads of work
to finish and he brings me to the park every day. We’re
just inseparable. He is too nice. I wish he’ll be immortal
and live until I’m old like him. I would rather have this wish
come true than to be rich.
One time, I went to his house and I bought a new book
using his money. It was a recipe book. All of the recipes
had various flavors and styles. When I went through the
book, even though I was flipping through it quickly, I saw a
recipe, better than all the other ones. It was called Jewel
Cookies.
The title “Jewel Cookies” might sound a bit girly but it was
the only one that I had the ingredients for.
An egg
500 grams of sugar (that’s why I called it Sugary
Cookies!)
300 grams of butter
600 grams of flour
This all makes a lot of cookies, about 30 to 50. These cookies have so much sugar that in one bite, the sugar just races down your throat. It’s golden and soft, but it makes me
sick! That’s because if I eat three cookies, I’m already full!
Everyone at my school loves them! I bring them to school
and most of the people only get half a piece of cookie. The
cookies are as big as your four fingers closed together. Of
course, the baker gets the most.
Every Sunday, I try to make the cookies if I have time, and
nearly half of them are for my dearest grandfather.
Food for Thought
By Henrik Liu, age 11
I went to school every day waiting for lunch to arrive. I often
rush through classes, glance at my watch every minute or
two just to make sure lunch time was getting closer. The
lunch line would serve a Hungarian dish called the palacsinta. A palacsinta is a thin pancake that can be filled with
different types of filling. The classical palacsinta usually has
strawberry or apricot filling, but you can find ones with apple
sauce or chocolate filling almost anywhere in Hungary. I still
remember when I had my first palacsinta. It was about five
years ago, when I was still six. My mom had taken me to a
museum. We found a restaurant to have lunch. I was flipping through the dessert section menu when I spied a colorful little picture of a pastry with red jam oozing out of it.
After school one day, I decided to do something other than
homework. I rummaged through some cabinets and gathered some materials for an authentic palacsinta. I invited a
few of my friends over. They were pretty enthusiastic about
our little “cooking party” too. We started by getting out a
cook book and looking at different fillings for our palacsinta. Most of the flavors weren’t that tasty, but eventually we
settled for a chocolate and caramel filling. We followed the
cooking guidelines and made the pancake and filling, but
we didn’t have enough cooking materials left for the sauce
(we wasted most of the ingredients). We each got a piece
of our ‘creation’. The first impression it gave all of us was
‘AMAZING’. We all craved for more, but since the ingredients were just piles of mess on the floor, I decided to postpone making palacsinta’s until after my mom went shopping
for more cooking materials.
After my first try with cooking, I started bringing my own
home made palacsintas. The few friends I invited did the
same. I bet we made a lot of people very jealous!
Crêpes (French Pancakes)
By Charlton Leung, age 11
Every Christmas, my French teacher would teach the class to make
a classic French dish. Crêpes was one of my favorite. It was thin,
sweet and tasty. Also, it could be paired with any sweet sauce you
wanted or even fruit to make it more healthy.
First, we mixed 2 eggs, 1 cup of flour, 2 cups of milk, 2 tablespoons
of sugar, and a pinch of salt. It depended on what kind of sauce
you wanted. I loved the chocolate sauce; it tasted so rich and had
a very sweet smell to it. A scoop of ice cream would be a perfect
combination with banana and chocolate sauce. The hardest job was
the mixing part. I finally knew how hard cooking was. It took a lot of
patience, endurance, and strength, but afterward, you knew it was
worth it. The next part of the process was to put it onto the frying
pan. I put half of the mixture into the pan, to make sure it was not
too thick, nor too thin. If it was too thick, it would be like an American
pancake, but if it was too thin it would rip into pieces when flipped.
The last part was to flip it around or throw it into the air. It was fun,
but make sure you don’t fail at flipping, just like I did.
Once, I flipped it up, but my pan wasn’t ready for it, so it went
STRAIGHT into the stove. Ewwww. It got burnt and caused a disaster. The second time was better, but I failed again because my timing
wasn’t good enough and my pancake ripped into millions of pieces.
During my last attempt, I threw it up, and I caught it, but I was too
excited and I threw the pan backwards and my crêpe landed straight
onto my uncle’s face!! That was embarrassing. At least the pancake
was perfect in thickness. I was very proud of myself. I spread the
sauce and put a scoop of ice cream on top and took it into the dining
table. Although the pancake didn’t look good, I was very proud and
happy to finally succeed in my campaign of flying pancakes!
RECIPE Crepes
1 cup all-purpose flour
2 eggs
1/2 cup milk
1/2 cup water
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons butter
In a large mixing bowl, whisk together the flour and the eggs.
Gradually add in the milk and water. Beat in the salt and butter. Heat
an oiled griddle over medium high
heat. Pour or scoop the batter onto
the griddle, using approximately
1/4 cup for each crepe. Cook the
crepe for about 2 minutes, until the
bottom is lightly brown. Serve hot.
My Favorite Chinese
Muffin
By Chris Lee, age 14
Everyone has their favorite dishes and food. It’s really hard for people to find a food that they liked when they were young but still enjoy
it as they age. Although I study in an international school, I don’t
consider myself as a “Chinese-Westerner”. I am not a big fan of
brownies or cookies and I don’t get why a lot of people are obsessed
with baking. For me, local Hong Kong food is probably the best food
you can get anywhere.
When Hong Kong was ruled under Britain for the last century, the
English people introduced British cuisine into Hong Kong. The
“guai-lo” (foreigners) couldn’t stand Chinese food, so they asked
the British government to send them supplies of English tea, muffins, crumpets and other English delicacies. So at that time, Hong
Kong cuisine was grouped up into two major categories. You have
“Cha-liu” (Chinese restaurants) and you have the English tea house
where the British governors gathered together to eat crumpets and
drink tea. As time passed, some Hong Kong people realized they
should try something new. Thus, the Chinese people started trying
English food. A lot of them fell in love with the British cuisine and
decided they should try to make some themselves. Unfortunately,
as anyone would expect, they failed tremendously. At least, that was
what some English people believed. The Chinese people seemed to
be very proud of what they had created. Most of these half-Chinese
half-English recipes have been passed down and a lot of them are
now very popular. The best example of these “Failed English Food”
is probably the Egg Tart.
I love egg tarts. I am not sure if I can survive if all the egg tarts in
the world suddenly disappeared. Sometimes, I even prefer eating
egg tarts over dinner. Every time my mom brings home a box of
egg tarts, I will start dominating them. Egg tarts totally changed my
perspective over food. Inexpensive food can also be awesome; a
normal egg tart in a Chinese bakery costs $2.50 HK dollars. They
are so cheap and they also taste great. I prefer these simple food
over any steak or seafood with a $500 dollar price tag. Egg tart is
the food of the century. Everyone from little two-years-old kids to my
87-year-old grandpa loves them. Surely, I will still like egg tarts when
I am 80 years old (if I can live until 80). Egg tart is now the most important food in my life and, hopefully, I can still taste these delicious
egg tarts in many years to come.
RECIPE
Hong Kong Egg Tarts
1 cup confectioners’ sugar
3 cups all-purpose flour
1 cup butter
1 egg, beaten
1 dash vanilla extract
2/3 cup white sugar
1 1/2 cups water
9 eggs, beaten
1 dash vanilla extract
1 cup evaporated milk
In a medium bowl, mix together the
confectioners’ sugar and flour. Mix
in butter. Stir in the egg and vanilla.
Shape dough into 1 1/2 inch balls
and press the balls into tart molds
so that it covers the bottom.
Preheat the oven to 450 degrees
F (230 degrees C). Combine the
white sugar and water in a medium
saucepan, and bring to a boil. Remove from heat and cool. Strain
the eggs through a sieve, and
whisk into the sugar mixture. Stir in the evaporated milk and vanilla. Fill the tart
shells. Bake for 15 to 20 minutes.
Kelly’s Spiced Pumpkin
Pie
By Kelly Yang
Every year at Thanksgiving, we have a huge feast at our house.
Some years we will have a full house of friends and family over.
Other years it will just be me, my husband, and our son Eliot. But
no matter how many or how few come over, the feast is always
the same—a gigantic roasted turkey, homemade cranberry sauce,
mounds of stuffing, candied sweet potatoes, and my famous spiced
pumpkin pie.
Of all these fabulous things, only one creation is mine. The rest
are prepared by my husband, the restless gourmand. Initially, I
picked the task of making pumpkin pie because I love dessert and
I thought this dessert would be relatively simple to make. All I had
to do was slap some pumpkin puree, sugar and cream together—
what could be harder than that? However, my husband quickly
raised the stakes for me. He said that since he was in charge of
the turkey, the stuffing, the potatoes, and the cranberries, my one
item—pumpkin pie—had to be really, really good. And so, over the
years, I started experimenting with various techniques in search of
the perfect pumpkin pie.
Pumpkin pie is very heavy. One slice and you feel content. Two
slices and you feel like a pumpkin yourself. ‘Not to worry,’ I thought,
‘all the more reason to make that first slice unforgettable.’ As I happily mixed pumpkin with sugar, little did I know I was in for quite a
challenge. Pumpkin is not the most amazing flavor in the world.
On its own, it is a dull flavor, full of starch and much like a potato.
Even packed with sugar, pumpkin can be bland and nondescript. It
doesn’t have the mouth watering textures of chocolate or the tangy
qualities of fruit. As a dessert, it just doesn’t deliver—that is, until I
realized how to pack it full of spice.
The pumpkin craved the attention of cinnamon. It devoured the zest
of the cloves and ginger. It hung on to the strong scent of the molasses. My pumpkin pie couldn’t have been happier—it was getting a
makeover! The result is the most scrumptious, titillating, heavenly
pumpkin pie ever!
Now, whenever I walk by the canned food aisle in the grocery store,
I look fondly at the can of pumpkin puree. I beam with pride for I
can honestly say that my one item—pumpkin pie—is indeed really,
really good.
RECIPE
Kelly’s Spiced Pumpkin Pie
2/3 cup (packed) golden brown sugar
1/2 cup sugar
2 tablespoons all purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground allspice
1/8 teaspoon ground cloves
1/8 teaspoon ground ginger
1 1/2 cups canned solid pack pumpkin
2 tablespoons mild-flavored (light) molasses
3 large eggs
1 cup whipping cream
1 9-inch pie crust
Place baking sheet in oven and preheat to 450°F. Whisk first 8 ingredients
together in large bowl to blend. Whisk in pumpkin, molasses and eggs,
then cream. Pour mixture onto crust. Place pie on preheated baking sheet
in oven. Bake 10 minutes. Reduce heat to 325°F and bake until sides puff
and center is just set, about 40 minutes. Cool and serve!
Sweet
Korean Sensation
By Bernard Chung, age 10
I opened my eyes to find that the television was still on. Scrambling
to find the remote, I crashed into the sofa, causing Justin to wake
up.
“Ouch,” I mumbled.
“What time is it?” Justin asked, yawning.
“Let’s see…,” I glanced at the digital clock on the other side of the
living room.
“It’s seven a.m.,” I said, shortly before tripping over a candy wrapper and crashing into the sofa again. Good thing Justin was in the
bathroom and not on the sofa anymore, or I would have fallen on
him.
“Okay, listen up guys. It is time for the Orion Pie Breakfast Special.”
Otherwise known as O.P.B.S., Orion Pie is like a mini pie.
Terrence, Justin, and I each grabbed an Orion Pie (It was more
like a cake, though) and started eating the delicious, chocolaty,
scrumptious cake with marshmallow stuffing. The pie was such a
delicacy that I would always finish it in three bites.
We all oohed and ahhhed as we devoured the breakfast special.
“I’m still hungry,” Terrence whined. I looked in the candy drawer.
There were just enough pies to go around once more. Before we
knew it, the super sensational cake with marshmallow fillings and
chocolate coating was in our stomachs. Just thinking of having another Orion Pie made my mouth drool like Niagara Falls.
A thought suddenly came to mind, “What if my mom finds out I had
the pie for breakfast?”
Then, another thought poofed in my mind, “What she doesn’t know
won’t hurt her,” I decided not to think about the possibility of getting
in trouble. And so, Orion Pie is the best food to have at a sleepover
on your birthday with your best friends.
RECIPE
Orion Pie a la mode
1 Orion Pie (purchased from any supermarket)
Vanilla ice cream
Chocolate fudge or strawberry syrup
Cherries
Serve the Orion Pie with vanilla ice cream. If you like it extra sweet, drizzle
chocolate fudge or strawberry syrup and add a cherry on top!
Once Here, Now ByGone
Charmaine Ng, age 15
I searched. ‘Hey, let’s have mango sago!’ I kept on searching. ‘Nah.
Let’s have ice cream instead’ I still searched. Bingo. Jackpot. My
eyes zeroed on a single dessert. ‘I’M HAVING THIS.’ As I waited for
it to be prepared, I drummed my fingers relentlessly on the glasstopped table...tap tap. Tap tap. At last, the waitress reached our
table with my savory order. Tang yuan. As I bit into the gluttonous
rice balls, the sweetness of mango filled my mouth while I chomped
on the chewy dessert. Yet, something was wrong. It’s always been
like that. Sure enough, it’s great. It’s yummy. It’s sweet and savory,
making me beg for more. But, no matter which shop I go to, the tang
yuans that they serve always lack a certain something.
It goes like this. A long time ago, when I still lived in one of the less
developed urban areas of Hong Kong, life was simple. Maybe a
dish or two with some plain white rice and perhaps a packet of
chips from the store downstairs. Cooking? Apart from the helper
from the Philippines we hired, it was my dad who made those savory dishes once in a while. ‘BABY, DINNER’S READY.’ Bang bang
bang. ‘MAKE WAY. I’M STARVING. MAKE WAY FOR THE STARVING KID.’ Ravenous and hunger-driven, I would storm into the living
room, welcomed by the wafting aroma of whatever was just cooked.
Chicken, fish, mince meat, pork, beef. Whatever was served on the
table, I was ready to consume it in the record time of five minutes.
But this story isn’t about these meals. It’s about tang yuan.
Once in a while, my dad and I would make the tang yuan that for
weeks I had craved. While resisting the temptation to dig my fingers
into the large packet of fluffy white flour, I waited as my father prepared the ingredients. Yet what made our rice balls special, what
made our rice balls the best, was the melted gooey brown sugar.
To be honest, brown sugar isn’t exactly what you would think as a
‘secret filling’. Yet no matter what small dessert shop in mainland
China or posh restaurant in the secluded parts of a hotel I went to, I
could never find the tang yuan that my father and I made. I watched
as my father kneaded the water and flour into a watery solution,
which then evolved into a paste, eventually into a snowy dough of
flour. ‘YESSSSSSSS. I can FINALLY do something!’ I thought. My
father would then have to herd me into the bathroom, pestering me
to wash my hands and to tie up my hair. And the process would
begin. Using my small, untrained hands, I would grab a little bit of
the dough from the large plastic bowl and punch it into a small circle.
Then, I would place a large fragment of brown sugar. The maroon
crystals would sparkle in the dining room lights as I tucked the crystals away under the blankets of the dough. Somehow, I always ended
up putting too much sugar in my tang yuans, making them sometimes
unbearably sweet. This was an activity that only my dad and I did. I
and he. He and I.
But now, there’s no more digging fingers into the soft white dough.
No more smashing blocks of brown sugar into little bits. No more
wiping white flour off my face, only to smear a handful more. There
is no time. The ‘me’ right now isn’t like that anymore. The ‘me’ of today hides in my bedroom, buried in the never-ending piles of various
projects, coursework and homework my teachers give me, while my
father becomes laden with the economic crisis, business issues and
stocks. But once in a while, when my mind is blank or when I eat the
commercially produced gluttonous rice dumplings, I would remember
the time when I was with my dad in the kitchen. I and he. He and I,
making our special brown sugar tang yuans.
RECIPE
Black Sesame Tang Yuan
8 oz. glutinous rice (sticky rice) flour
180 ml water (3/4 cup water)
1/4 cup black sesame seeds
1/4 cup sugar
1/2 stick unsalted butter (1/4 cup or 4 tablespoons)
Lightly toast the black sesame seeds over medium fire. Use a mini food processor
to grind the black sesame seeds until they become fine. Transfer the ground black
sesame into a wok, add sugar and butter and stir well to form a thick paste. Dish out
and let cool in the fridge. In a big bowl, mix the glutinous rice flour with water until it
forms a smooth paste. Divide it equally into 18-20 balls. Flatten each ball in your palm,
and then use a pair of chopsticks to pick up some black sesame paste and lay it in the
middle of the flatten ball. Fold the edge to seal the dumpling. Lightly roll it into a ball
shape using both palms. Boil water and drop dumplings into the hot water. As soon as
they float, they’re done!
I Strive To Be A Fruit Basket
By Michelle Fang, age 13
“Food served in food” was a colorful cookbook that caught my seven-year-old eyes at “Dymocks”. I was looking for something pink,
but the salmon color was close enough. Soon after I bought it, the
cookbook was tossed to the back of the bookshelf and the back of
my mind.
One day, while my sister and I were packing some of our books for
a charity, the neon salmon color once again caught my eye. I picked
up the book and couldn’t put it down.
I immediately showed it to my “Ah yi” (term for nanny), who refused
to make any of the foods because they were too “messy”. I was then
turned down by my kindergarten teacher, who said that she had no
time for such “spontaneous” activities. I turned to my last shred of
hope, my mom. My mom seldom cooked; she mainly helped us with
our homework, lectured us on our social life, etc. After all, she was
more of a smart, working mom than the cooking, sewing, and making the bed type of mom. I showed the cookbook to mom, ready to
get turned down. But a few minutes later, I ended up in the kitchen
with an apron tied around my waist.
My mom had decided to try the simplest recipe - “Fruits served in
a watermelon”. I watched as she cut a watermelon in half, carefully
and slowly. After all, she was just as much a neophyte at cooking
as I was. She carved the “meat” out of the watermelon and placed it
on a plate. Then she cut the apples into cubes as I chattered loudly
about the new “Archie” comic and my dreams of opening a restaurant that only served fruit baskets. She listened patiently, sometimes laughing softly. Soon, the apple cubes, watermelon cubes,
pineapple cubes, grapes and pomegranate pieces were ready. I
helped scoop the fruits into the watermelon basket. The fruits felt
cool against my fingers……
When I look back at that “spontaneous” event now, I am even
more grateful. At the time, I was merely grateful for the fruit basket,
but as I look back I realize that I should be thankful for much more.
The fruit basket isn’t just a basket; the apples symbolize my mom’s
patience, the grapes symbolize my mom’s time, and the pineapples
symbolize love. Put them together, you not only get a fruit basket,
but also the most perfect mother and daughter relationship that I
could hope for.
RECIPE
Fruit Salad
6 peeled and chopped peaches
Dressing:
1 lb sliced strawberries
juice of one lime
1/2 pound seedless green grapes
1/2 cup pineapple juice
1/2 pound seedless red grapes
3 sliced bananas
½ cup sugar
Mix all of the fruits into a large serving bowl. Sprinkle with sugar. Whisk together remaining ingredients into a small bowl. Pour dressing over fruit and
toss gently to mix. Cover and chill the fruit salad before serving.
Ube Jam Cream Sandwich
By Phoebe Chan, age 9
RECIPE
Chocolate Covered Strawberries
24-30 perfectly ripened strawberries, green stem intact
6 oz semi-sweet chocolate chips
1 large sheet of wax paper
When I eat the Filipino Ube Jam Cream Sandwich, I think about my
friend Elizabeth Yeung. She recommended this Ube Jam Cream
Sandwich to me. I really liked it when I first ate it. She said that if I
wanted to make this Cream Sandwich, all I had to do was to buy the
Ube Jam in the Worldwide Shopping Mall. But I don’t really need to
make the Cream Sandwich since I can also buy ready-made ones in
that shopping mall.
The cream is very smooth and its texture is much like silk. Sometimes, the Ube Jam can be smooth too, depending on the type of Ube
Jam you buy. You can use different kinds of crackers to make it. And
when you make it, be sure to get the ingredients ready.
If you know Elizabeth Yeung, you can ask her more information about
the Ube Jam Cream Sandwich.
Put chocolate in a bowl over gently simmering water. Be careful not to burn
the chocolate. Allow the chocolate to melt and remove from heat.
Take each strawberry and make sure the strawberries are DRY. Then dip
the strawberries to the tip in the melted chocolate.
Place the strawberries to dry on the wax paper. Keep at cool room temperature so they can harden. Do not refrigerate as they will lose their sheen.
Ube Jam
Cream/Icing
4 pieces of crackers
Chocolate spread
Sprinkles, M&M’s
RECIPE
Ice Cream Sandwich
1. Open the can of Ube Jam and spread it onto each of the crackers.
2. Wash your knife and then spread the cream/icing onto each cracker.
3. If you want, spread a bit of chocolate spread onto two crackers.
4. Now, put the crackers together. The chocolate spread needs to be
on top of the cracker that is facing
up.
5. Sprinkle the M&M’s and sprinkles onto the chocolate spread.
You are finished! Enjoy your
Cream Sandwich!
An Ice Cream Blast
By Maggie DeLessio, age 11
Every kid dreams of the perfect birthday party: a party with lots of
cake, whether colorful of plain, vanilla or chocolate flavored, frosted
or non-frosted. Everyone at my birthday party fell head over heels
with the delicious Oreo Ice Cream cake we had. At least I did.
It was a wonderful occasion; we had just finished our dinner and
were looking forward to the rest of the night. My sister convinced
almost everyone to literally stuff their faces into the cake. I thought
it was a fun idea. So when my mom brought out the cake, we
were bouncing in our seats. We knew we were seconds away
from tasting the sugary chill on our taste buds. The plates clicked
and clacked as they were placed on the table and …Wham! We
smashed our faces into the rich, creamy cake. My mouth was filled
with the streaming cookie flavor. I’ll never forget the excitement
that overtook the room in just one moment, and all because of an
ice cream cake.
Everyone has a special memory of a time when they were goofing
around with their friends. It may be from their childhood, or it may be
from later in life. It’s these memories that comfort people in times of
need and these experiences that stay with them forever. I can still
vividly taste the rich flavor of my birthday cake. It might have been
the sugar, or it might have been the friendship that was shared
amongst everybody in that room that night. The happy memory will
stay with me forever.
Oreo Ice Cream Cake
1 quart ice cream
1 package Oreo or Hydrox cookies
1 jar hot fudge or chocolate sauce
Soften ice cream. Crush cookies in a bowl and pour over the bottom of a casserole
pan. Spread softened ice cream over the top of crushed Oreo cookies. Pour sauce
on top. Freeze and serve. This serves 12 to 16 people.
The Pavlova
By Andrew Kim, age 11
Our class was special. Our teacher was nice, but she was cheeky
and sometimes even rude. But nobody cared much, since she was
a fun teacher who did things that other class teachers would NEVER do, such as throwing a class party, taking breaks early, and
even making food!
Around October or November of 2008, we were learning about
bases and acid, as well as solids, liquids, and gas in our Chemistry
class. Our class decided to secretly make some food, so we got to
make different treats while learning at the same time. If the principal
saw us, she’d explode!
We made loads of food, such as ice cream and cookies with golden
syrup. They were all delicious. Students from other classes were
staring at us, and they were green with envy. They seemed to want
to shout out something like, “Hey, how dare you do fun stuff! I’m
telling the principal!” But of course they didn’t, because they had to
work.
A few days later, our class was making the biggest dish we had
made yet; the Pavlova! I’d never even seen a Pavlova in my life,
since my parents hated making western desserts (my family’s
Asian), and other parents/adults never made it because it was too
time consuming. When the teacher showed us the picture of a Pavlova from Google, everybody yearned for it. I was not amused, because it looked like a cake, and it was easy to buy cakes. But that
was because I’d never tried a Pavlova yet.
First, the teacher put in lots of eggs, I think around 10, but I don’t remember exactly how many. She told us to put only the egg whites,
not the yolk. We made scrambled eggs with the egg yolk, which
was tasty, but it needed salt.
Next, our teacher got a whisking machine and whisked the egg
whites, slowly adding the cream and sugar. Our teacher told us to
watch as the mixture slowly turned from liquid to solid. (So we were
still learning, at least!) When the mixture was firm enough to stick
together, the teacher allowed us to taste a little bit of it, and that was
when I began to taste the great flavor of a Pavlova.
After the tasting, our teacher pressed on the mixture until it looked
like a cake. Then she baked it in an oven at roughly 180 degrees
celsius for about 2 hours.
The smell of Pavlova wafted through the whole floor when it was
done. Everyone could smell the sweetness of the Pavlova, and they
took deep breaths through their noses. We decorated the dessert
with cream, bananas, mangoes, strawberries, blueberries, etc, and
we each got a generous amount of Pavlova. When I took my first big
bite, my heart skipped a beat. I had NEVER, ever in my life, tasted
anything like this scrumptious treat. It was sweet, but it didn’t taste
like candy or cake. Instead, it had a special taste of its own. It looked
like cake, but it was different. Cake has a bread texture, but when you
eat Pavlova, the texture is very smooth and it melts in your mouth.
There were also chewy bits, and those tasted better than marshmallows! All in all, Pavlova tasted like heaven. I just wished I had another
piece.
Horror Food
By Christina Zau, age 13
‘Ewww! That’s disgusting!’ My friend, Mia, screamed. My other friend,
Manny, had gotten icing all over my friend’s leg. As usual, Pascale
just couldn’t stop laughing. We sat on the bed, giggling, and watched
Mia’s face go from extremely annoyed about the icing to a great big
smile, laughing with us.
It was the last day of school before Easter, and my three friends had
come over for a sleepover to watch horror movies. Our ‘Horror Movie
Night’ consisted of us watching movies while eating my homemade
icing and some brownies. By then, we had finished our movies and
started to watch ‘The Sisterhood of The Traveling Pants 2’, just to get
the horror out of our heads.
Mia grabbed the box of tissues and frantically wiped away the icing
from her leg. It was so typical of her to go crazy over something so
little. We all sat on my bed, half-watching our movie whilst eating
brownies and the bowl of creamy, white icing. We didn’t even bother
using spoons for the icing. So we simply used our fingers, running
them through the smooth butter cream frosting.
It was only hours ago since we watched ‘The Eye’ and ‘Prom Night’
and had bowls of gummy bears, Maltesers, M&Ms and ordered pizza
for dinner, but we had already finished all of that. We had also rented
‘The Poltergeist’ and ‘The Blair Witch Project’, but just couldn’t take
the horror and chose the less scary ones.
My whole room was filled with the scent of sugar and brownies. It was
sickening. Even though we were all so full, when my parents arrived
and offered to drive us to Yo Mama for some frozen yoghurt, we immediately accepted. We didn’t even bother changing and ended up
walking into the store in our pajamas.
We never finished the brownies, so they were left in my room, covered with sheets of tissues overnight whilst we slept. In the morning,
Pascale got hungry but she couldn’t be bothered to go to the kitchen,
so she started eating the brownies! It was so gross and to even think
about eating brownies in the morning is just nauseating. At least now
I know to never underestimate the amount of food my friends can
hold.
RECIPE
Buttercream Frosting
2 cups of icing sugar
½ cup of room-temperature butter
1 teaspoon of vanilla extract
2 tablespoons of milk
Use an electric mixer and smoothen out the butter in a mixing bowl. Slowly
add in the icing sugar, spoon by spoon, and then finally add in the vanilla
extract and milk. Mix until smooth.
T a s t y
M e m o i r s
© Copyright 2011 The Kelly Yang Project and various authors. ALL
RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage
and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.
THE KELLY YANG PROJECT IS HONG KONG’S PREMIER WRITING
PROGRAM FOR STUDENTS AGES 2-17. OUR CLASSES INCLUDE
CRITICAL REASONING, CREATIVE WRITING, PUBLIC SPEAKING,
AND TEST PREP CLASSES. FOR MORE INFORMATION, PLEASE
VISIT WWW.KELLYYANG.COM.
The Kelly Yang Project
3/F Winbase Centre, 208 Queen’s Road Central
Hong Kong
Tel: +852 2810-4822, Fax: +852 2810-4855
[email protected]
www.kellyyang.com