Japan. Part 1.

Skip to my loo.

There is so much more to Japan than the just their amazing toilets, but I have to dedicate some of my blog to them for they continually made me smile throughout the trip. For those of you who think that a toilet is just a toilet, is just a toilet, I have some news for you.

Yes, there were plenty of bathrooms that utilized the ‘Japanese’ style of toilet..which really is not much more than a hole in the ground, with a rail in front of it to hold onto. For this, I learned the hard way, the first few times, when I didn’t roll up the bottom of my pant legs, and they fell to the ground..which usually isn’t the squeakiest of clean surfaces. (keep in mind, it is harder for women to aim..)

But, walk into a stall with a ‘western’ style toilet, and the experience is almost like a trip to the spa. First, I ventured to sit on a few of these toilets, (with the liner of course) because I couldn’t resist the heated seat. You can actually adjust the controls with just how heated you want your seat…and your toilet seat.

Then, for a little more privacy for those embarrassing public restroom moments, you have the option to cover up those noises, with the sound of running water and birds chirping. Some toilets do this automatically when you sit down, so a lot of times, when you walk into a full bathroom, you hear the sounds of nature and a rushing river…not the sounds that you might expect to hear. Just like a trip to the spa…How relaxing is that?

Then, there are the bidet and washing options which I never partook in, but I was curious about, so one night at the hotel while standing over the toilet, I pressed a button with a spray logo on it. Some sort of spigot came out and literally sprayed me in the face with water, as I stood peering into the toilet like an idiot. It then proceeding to spray the ceiling and the mirror across the room. Quite the cleanse, I would think, if you were actually sitting on the toilet. I certainly hope it wasn’t water from the toilet bowl..

Many of these toilets gave me the sense that I was operating some pretty complex machinery. Most have a control panel on the side with many buttons to push…almost as if I could push a button and buy a can of milk tea, or push a button and a hand would extend out and massage my back. I imagine for the Japanese, the masters of invention, that this is just a matter of time.

My Feet in Japan.

While I repair myself from our travels home, I will begin my Japan coverage with some photos....


In Tokyo.

On top of a beautiful sewer grate. Each city had their own special pattern.

Soaked. The wettest day, in Kyoto.

In Hakone.

Stay Tuned......


soon to come...Tales from Japan:

how much I love Japanese toilets
how I am mortified at trying on clothing after a day of walking in stinky shoes..and more!!

Bubble Tea is SO yesterday. Today, it is all about the Iced Matcha Latte..



I was heartbroken the other day when I decided to walk 2 miles to the U district to treat myself to a Bubble Tea at my favorite place. I had a frequent drinker card, and they even knew me there. During my last visit, I think that they actually perfected my drink. My usual was the black milk tea, and last time I told them to make it a little less sweet but to give me more tapioca. It was so perfect.
Unfortunately, my perfect bubble tea experience would be my last..at least for a while until I get over the shock of walking up to the doorway of "Gossip Tea" and seeing a hand scrawled sign on the door. "Closed-Sorry"

Closed? Sorry? That's it?

I peered into the windows to see my boba haven in complete disarray with the chairs piled up in a corner, the counters pulled out and signs in the windows claiming that the next best thing (a Chinese bakery) would be "coming soon."

So, in my shock, I did what I had to do. I went to the next best bubble tea place, up the street. I dont know, my drink was so sweet, the pearls not quite perfect, and hardly any ice. All in all, just not the boba experience that I had grown to love.

SO boba, I am moving on. Officially, you and I are through. (for now at least)

I have a new love. Certainly not as sweet nor as chewy. I have entered the milk tea phase of the matcha tea lattes. So far, I have only ventured with the iced version, but so far, I have been quite pleased. I am even somewhat impressed with Starbucks version, minus the nasty melon syrup they add. I am not quite sure why they would tamper with something that is good on its own.
Less is more, right? Although, I guess if they had tapioca pearls, that might be a different story..

To New York City, we go.

Oh, New York City.. you fed me well. I think I am still full. And. I think I love you. I love your endless energy, your endless noise, and your endless options for a good meal. I love your people too. People who, unlike Seattlelites, actually stop to ask why we are standing on the sidewalk outside of the James Beard House at 11:30 pm, looking happy, relieved and exhausted, with our 6 humongous igloo coolers, waiting for 3 separate cabs to transport us back to our hotel.

“Is there any beer in there?”

“Wow, you have been here all day. We saw you arrive at 8:30 this morning. What’s with all the igloos? ”

Contrary to what I always thought about New Yorkers, they actually do notice you, and contrary to many Seattlelites, they actually do care. This is shocking to see, in a city that moves a mile a minute.

We arrived early on Thursday morning, via the red eye and upon our arrival to the hotel, only one room was available, the smaller of the two. So, the four of us: my boss, her 3 year old son and my coworker, plunked down our 6 igloos, our 6 suitcases and ourselves, squeezed into 2 tiny beds and ordered room service. Then, we slept. I could already tell that we would bond this weekend, given that we were so cozily cramped and napping together in this tiny NYC hotel room.

In Seattle at the airport, our trip began with quite the excitement, so we were somewhat relieved to have actually arrived with all our things in one piece, minus the box of chicken stock that was haphazardly stuffed into the outer pouch of my checked bag, now burst and dripping all over my unmentionables as I heaved it off the baggage carousel in Newark.

It turns out; the airline has a policy that you can’t check anything over 70 pounds, at all. And so, our igloos that were packed so tightly and with such forethought, had to be all rearranged. We were “those people,” the ones that cause all the congestion in the check in lines. The ones you huff and roll your eyes at. Frantically, we had to unbungee and rearrange our items so that each of the 6 coolers weighed less than 70 pounds. This meant, pulling that tin of olive oil out, putting it in Stu’s bag, pulling that bottle of Barolo out, and putting it in my suitcase. It meant switching around the bags that we were going to check. So much was going on, that we lost track of what was in our checked luggage and what had been transferred to our carry ons. So, it wasn’t at all shocking when we walked through the security line, two of us without incident and the third sparking a haz-mat emergency call and a crowd of 10 TSA officials, gathering around the x-ray screen. It dawned on me that I had stuffed a bag of flour into Stu’s bag, so I thought for certain that that was what the hubbub was about. Upon searching, they unveiled our 10 pound tin of olive oil, and whoops…all of Stu’s kitchen knives. This must have been the highlight of the day for TSA. One official even told us so. I can imagine that it gets boring there, repeatedly busting people for having 4 oz of lotion instead of 2.5.
So, ours was quite the find. I mean, who else would try to get through security so blatantly, with a gallon of liquid and a bag of knives?

And so we napped, and then we ate a nice meal at 11 Madison Park, and then we napped again. That night we ordered room service and planned our attack for the next days prep in the James Beard kitchen. I was nervous because I was the one that had the most work to do the next day. I was to make all the bread and crackers, two kinds of hand dipped truffles and an extra large batch of Panna Cotta. I do this most days at the restaurant, but usually, I make it in batches of 12, not batches of 65. with all that gelatin to contend with, I was a little nervous that something would glitch, and that my dessert, my whole reason for being invited to cook with at the Beard house with my boss and coworker, would either be a puddle of sweet cream, or a jello brick. So, the next day, I was sure to have some coffee. Then, I was careful, so so careful. Prepping was such a breeze that we even had time to break for a nice leisurely lunch at the Fatty Crab. http://www.fattycrab.com/ Who couldn’t love a place that serves a beer called “Porkslap” with a photo of two pigs slapping their belly’s together? We reconvened back in the kitchen after lunch and began getting ready for our dinner. The evening went so smoothly, and the guests seemed rather pleased with all the food, and my dessert turned out well too. Phew! I have the admit that I was a little worried when I pulled the tray from the fridge and H. let me know that she was worried the Panna Cottas weren’t set up enough. But she did say that she wanted them very softly set, and that is exactly how they jiggled on the plate. Ah Relief.

Celebration was in order, so we cleaned up at the hotel and headed back out to Momofuku Ssam Bar. http://www.momofuku.com/ Oh man, this place was so delicious. It is such an experience to eat out with someone who really knows food and knows just what to order. Who would have thought that pig’s head would be so delicious that we would order a second helping? Really, it was that good. We ate and toasted with some sake, and I sank happily into my chair.

The next morning, we had an 11:30 reservation at Per Se. I think that I went to bed around 3:30, so time to get up came a bit early and I wasn’t quite sure I was ready to start the day off with more wine. But, my worries diminished pretty quickly after the first glass of bubbly and a toast. It was here where we spent the next 5 hours. Eating. At this table. Oh man. So so wonderful. So much food. So many courses. I think that I counted about 20. After the first 5 courses, I knew that I might be in trouble when I was already starting to fill up and the server told us that ‘now the real meal begins..’ so much great food and wine was had that day, but a few standouts included the signature “oysters and pearls” which consisted of tapioca pearls (my fave and a recurring thing in my meals in NY) and oysters in a buttery, custardy union with caviar on top. Oh man, it was so very good. I think that the most interesting dish was the foie gras and peanut butter and jelly terrine. This was something served to the men at the table while the women enjoyed a less whimsical preparation served with a selection of about 15 different salts. The desserts consisted of the signature “coffee and doughnuts” which was a coffee semifreddo, with milk foam and doughnuts on the side. I remember doing this dessert in culinary school, along with a few others in the French Laundry cookbook. My teacher for the plated desserts portion of our course was the thinking behind that dessert, for he was the pastry chef at French Laundry back in those days. This dessert was quite delicious, the semifreddo had the creamiest texture…one I hope to duplicate on a menu someday soon. After the multiple dessert courses, they had the nerve to bring out more. Truffles, 15 different kinds for us to choose from. And, then, more. Nougat, cookies, caramels…oh stop. Now.

As the sun was beginning to slightly dim in the sky, we exited Per Se. So full. So grateful for this experience, the whole of it. Being here in NYC and experiencing all the great food and representing my restaurant at the James Beard House was so amazing. I was actually moved to tears when I called my parents to leave a message about the trip. Everything about the weekend was so memorable. NYC is so memorable.

Kauai Dreamin'

me and Min lookin' good, circa 1987.....

(I am the one that looks like a boy, in pink shades...)

It is hard to believe that my first family trip to Kauai was more than 20 years ago. I remember that my sisters and I competed daily to see who could out tan the other, sun worshipping for 8 hours a day, and at that time only wearing SPF 6 sunscreen..(which my parents were still using up until a few years ago :)) I remember thinking how much I would impress my schoolmates when I returned home to the new school year, donning my new bronzed look. I remember bringing along my grandparents, who nearly burned down our hotel room when they put a rice cake in the toaster, and I remember learning how “Barking Sands” beach got that name, when my sisters and I had to cross a mile of hot sand back to the car without our shoes. I remember my parents taking us down sugar cane lined roads to show us their 'secret beach', which is Shipwreck Beach, now on the Hyatt Kauai grounds. And, I will never forget the time when I got myself and my sisters in trouble. Then, just an impressionable 15, lured by the ultra-coolness of the local surfers and their lascivious ways.

Since then, I have been back numerous times; Kauai is like a second home to me. I have gone alone, tried to surf the “good” waves and gotten pummeled by the coral and called names by the locals. Alone, I have explored the quiet side of the island and gotten my Land Cruiser stuck in the sand. I have seen my older sister marry there, and I invited my husband along, a couple of times, when we were newly dating. Some say that I was jumping the gun. 3 years later we would return to the same place, and he would propose to me, down on one knee in the sand. A year ago this week, T and I returned again with family and friends in tow, to exchange our own vows. This year, I went back, this time with my sisters, mom and nephew. A girls trip, with boy. I love that he is only 2 years old, but like his mom, grandma and aunties, he is drawn to the pounding waves and the waters edge. He too, is lured by the ocean.

When I think of Kauai, I mimic the same sentiment as my mom, as we drive down the road from town to shore, with the perfumed breeze, the rainbow trees and the blue sparkling waters near. She says with an inhale and a sigh, “I love this place.”

I too, love this place.

Time is a changing.





If you were to ask me what the most valuable tool for my use in the kitchen is, you might be surprised at my answer. It’s not the whisk, the namesake of my blog, the mixer or the cuisinart..nor is it the zester, the rubber spatula or my candy thermometer. Don’t get me wrong, these things are pretty handy day to day…and, really, I couldn’t live without any one of them, but the one thing that really keeps me ticking..literally, is my handy timer. I actually have a pretty good internal clock. One that, every morning, wakes me at 6:09, a minute before my alarm clock goes off. In the kitchen, it comes in handy though, to have that back up nagging voice. I admit, at times, when I hear the beeping, I think to myself before I go searching each oven, “now what did I set that for again?” My trusty timer has saved many cookies from the brink, and it has reminded me when I have crumbles bubbling and crème brulee’s cooking slow and low. So, yesterday, when I stood in the kitchen and the timer starting beeping at me and counting upwards at a large clip, I was a little alarmed. (I hadn’t set it to do that or even touched it for that matter) At first I figured it was the resident restaurant ghost playing tricks on me, but when I thought about it, I realized that my timer was trying to tell me something else. He was tired and he was full of grime and oil from being dropped into the fryer (his trusty magnets have worn..thank goodness the fryer wasn’t on.) He had nagged me for 6 long years, with only 1 battery change, and, he wasn’t going to take it anymore, even if I gave him a fresh battery and wiped his parts free of oil and grime. That was it.
So, today, I retired Taylor Timer, and I reminisced about the good times and bad, through the kitchens of Greystone, Ithaca and back to Seattle. I think of all the millions of things we produced, me and him, together.