Making Gluten Free Stove-Top Pizza in a Small Seoul Apartment

This post begins much like the how to make gluten free brownies in a small apartment in Seoul post did: Call a friend, act sad and deprived of the goodness of gluten free products and have said friend send a care package including GF pizza mix (Bob's Red Mill is a fave here). Once it arrives, prepare it according to the directions.

I prefer sautéed veggies on my pizza, usually bell peppers, onions and mushrooms will do the trick. I also like to add fresh tomato sliced thin. We use tomato sauce instead of pizza sauce, since pizza sauce is more difficult to find here. I add dried basil and garlic to the sauce when I spread it on the crust--but hey! I am getting well ahead of myself. Simply prepare the toppings and set them aside for a moment. Cheese is important, of course. We get mozzarella from Costco. What we typically find in Korean grocery stores simply will not do!

Once toppings are prepared and set aside, it is time to get down to business. You'll need a fry pan of at least 12 inches in diameter. Put it on medium/high heat and add about 2 tablespoons of oil (I use olive oil for pizzas). Typically you'll have enough dough from a mix to do this twice, so split the dough in half and work the first half into the shape of a pizza pie. When the pan is hot, place the dough in the pan and press it with the back side of an oiled spoon to make it as thin as you can, and to get the edges of the dough to the edges of the pan. Helpful Hint: the pan should not be so hot as to scorch or fry the dough. You are cooking it like you would the perfect golden brown pancake.

Allow the pie to cook until you've reached the state of golden brownness on the pan side; this takes about five minutes. Once browned, flip the pizza crust to the other side (yes, again, like a pancake). Here is where you add toppings: sauce and basil, tomatoes, sauteed veggies, cheese, etc.
Once you've topped your pie with cheese, you'll need to put a lid on it. My pan is too large for a lid, so I use an aluminum bowl. This allows the toppings to warm and flavor one another, but, most importantly, it causes the cheese to melt! Allow to cook another five minutes or so.
(I suggest checking in more often the first time through!)

Quit the pizza of the heated pan and place it on a plate to set for ten minutes. Finally, cut and devour. Congratulations on your first stove-top pizza pie!

By the way, this works for Gluten-Full pizzas as well:)

Yak Butter

Photo: Sasha Friedman

When I was a Chicago Girl Scout we went to a farm and made butter. We learned all about the process of milking the cow and then churning the butter. We were shown the old fashioned butter churner in order to better understand what our foremothers went through to make the yellow patties we, at the age of ten, took for granted on our dinner tables. And then we made our own butter.

Each Girl Scout got an empty Gerber baby food jar with a small amount of raw cow's milk inside. We were told to shake it until it became butter. The event stands out for me because I know I shook it and shook it and shook it. My arm became butter, but I kept shaking. I remember that I and other girls stopped several times to ask "Is this butter?" knowing that the sloopy slop inside the jar was not quite butter. We resumed our shaking.

Finally--and my memory is torn by the fact that you as a reader cannot possibly comprehend how long this seemed to take because it cannot be properly written as my ten year old self experienced it--my milk became soft, creamy colored butter. I opened my jar and put the butter on bread (or crackers?) and tasted. It was softer and creamier than any butter I had ever tasted, and I think I was, perhaps actually tasting butter for the very first time. This was no condiment, but rather the main event. This was my turkey on Thanksgiving.

Fast forward 20 years: I can't believe I am old enough to write what I just wrote--this is non-fiction. I like butter. I haven't substituted with margarine since I left my mother's house and, while I avoid butter in some instances, I do not shrimp on adding it to baked goods or corn on the cob. I like cheese, too. I don't know if there is a relation.

I recently traveled to Mongolia, and I knew I would have an opportunity to consume meat and dairy products, as these are staple menu items to the region. Our food was highly westernized, presumably due to the tourist industry's experience with, well, tourists. We had plenty of beef, but only once were we served goat meat barbecued in the traditional Mongolian art (and I am not referring to Mongolian Barbecue's art, which is more closely related to Japanese style Teppanyaki than anything traditionally Mongolian). We were given a taste of fermented mare's milk only after requesting it and we came across yak butter in the truest traveler's fashion possible. Aaah, yak butter.

Photo: Sasha Friedman

Yaks are officially among the most beautiful animals in the world in my book. In Mongolia they roam free through the forest and across the plains. Just look at their shiny, long coats. Passing them on the road we heard them ripping grass from the roots and munching it continuously. They do not low like cows do; they are rather quiet. They won't eat grains, only grass, and so their milk is guaranteed to be free-range. They are big and I was a little nervous to pass within 10 feet of them at the outset. After four days in their neighborhood, though, I became rather comfortable with their presence. They didn't seem to care one bit about mine.

It was by chance that I tasted yak butter, and it was not because I became so comfortable as to walk up and milk one of the roaming lady yaks myself, closing my winnings into a glass jar and shaking it forever and a day. We had gone horseback riding--this was included in our tour package--and the horse herder who guided us invited us back to his ger for tea. We met his two young boys, whose heads were clean shaven like their daddy's and who, at a stature half of my own, handled our horses like they were puppies, and his wife served us cow's milk tea, home baked bread (because that is all there is so far from town) and yak butter.

Aaah, yak butter.

Our tour guide explained to us that yak butter is made in a large pot over the stove. You warm the raw yak milk to a boil and, with a large wooden spoon, you stir, then lift the milk above the pot and allow it to fall back into itself. You do this again and again and again. Finally (long after your arm has fallen off if you choose to shake the pot like I shook my Gerber baby jar) the milk forms zillions of tiny bubbles and it becomes apparent that a thick layer of butter has developed on the surface of the milk. You take the milk off the stove and allow it to cool, usually overnight. When the milk has cooled sufficiently, you cut the butter free from the edges of the pot with a knife and lift it out. It usually folds itself in half and what you end up with is a plate full of yak butter about one and a half inches think. Thicker than cow's milk. Thicker than goat's milk. And oh so rich and delicious. The milk is pasteurized for drinking to boot!

The tea served to us was intriguing: milk with a bit of salt added made for a flavor entirely new to me. I would never have thought to add salt to my warm milk, but I add salt after buttering my corn on the cob, so why not?

The bread I could not eat, as I am allergic to gluten and didn't want a tummy ache on the last stretch of our journey on horseback.

A dinner plate was covered by the cake of yak butter and I took an amount equal to what one might put on a piece of bread in my fingers. I ate it straight. I have never put something so celestial in my mouth. The memory of my Girl Scout butter is faint, but the memory of yak butter in a nomad's ger in Mongolia remains ever strong. I hope the memory is at least as heavy as the yak butter itself, because it suggests that it will remain with me for at least as long as it takes for me to find more yak butter.

Most people I know are privileged enough to carry in their minds the list of "things I will do before I die". On my list for many years has been milk a cow, and it is still there, but added to the list is make yak butter. I by no means feel I have to milk the yak myself, but I have to make yak butter. Then I can share it with you and tell you a story that will stay with you at least as long as the taste of yak butter stays with you. And, if you're like me, that will be a long, long time.

When Rendered Helpless

We had finished drinks at the German pub a few blocks from our hostel and started back to pack our bags and be ready to fly early in the morning. It was dark. The light turned and we crossed the street. I was being defensive, I thought, when I strutted into the road. A local crossing next to us didn't walk, but rather jogged. We jogged, too--if the locals do it, there may be a reason. A car flew around the corner, not breaking, just as we reached the curb on the other side of the street. I don't think it had headlights on. Had we walked, we would have been hit. We continued in the same direction as the car and as our hostel while reflecting on the car that didn't just hit us in the crazy streets of UB.

And then, a bang was heard, traffic stopped, and I had enough time to see a body fall in front of a car ahead of us. The sound was a thud, really, or a crack. I can still hear it and see this person fall, his face for a moment lit up by the headlight as it passed toward the ground. I became alert and tried to pull forward. My first instinct was to get closer. I was going to help. This person needed help, after all.

Everyone stood, looking at the car and the man on the ground. The people waiting for the bus continued to wait for the bus. The men gathered on the street side remained on the street side. People looked, but nobody did a thing for several seconds, which felt like awfully long seconds to me. The driver got out and reached for the man, shaking him. I saw his unconscious head bounce back and forth on his limp neck and said in a small voice "No, no, don't, you're doing it wrong.." Sasha held my hand tighter. That is when I, too, stopped. The driver dragged the man to his car and put him inside. He drove away. I can only assume he got him to the hospital and that the best was done for him.

I had a hard time not shouting and intervening to check the man's vitals, support him until more help arrived, and direct others to do the same: "you, call the police and the emergency response team." What? Does a response team exist in UB? Will the ambulance ever come? Is it faster, albeit more dangerous, for the man to be packed into the backseat and shuttled to help? What does a foreigner know? Surely, what does a foreigner do? I can't even say 'hello' properly in Mongolian, much less 'let's get help.'

All of the training, the CPR, the First Response, the Life Guard, the First Aid, the take action, the empowerment: you CAN make a difference made, me feel like I let someone down on the street in Ulaan Baator. I don't know if the man survived and I don't know what would have happened had I--or someone--stepped in to keep his neck stable... I do know that hesitation would be easier were I sure I didn't know how to help, instead of it being the other way around.

At Long Last: Mongolia

Our trip to Mongolia lasted only one week, but the break from Seoul was a much anticipated one. We flew through Beijing on our way to Ulaan Baator, which was a riot in its own sense. I'll break this trip up with subheadings, so you can scan for what looks interesting. The trip was lovely in its entirety and each little part was a treat on its own as well.

Getting There:
We had booked the flights through Asiana Airlines, so we went to their check-in desk upon arrival at Incheon airport. They had, for some reason, booked us on a China Air flight, so they sent us from the Asiana desk to the China Air desk. We had a moment of perturbed wonder when we arrived at said desk and couldn't make out China Air from their airline neighbors, nor to which airline the long line of travelers belonged. I approached a desk that looked hopeful and asked the gentleman if he could help me.

Ironically, at the moment I reached the desk, Sasha later informed me, all of the signs for China Air flipped to "CLOSED." I had made my decision to approach in the nick of time!

I rummaged through my money belt first for the paper on which our flight information was stated, assuming that the man at the desk would want to see our confirmation number. He didn't. Instead he wanted my passport, for which he asked, but which was not in the money belt lying on the counter. It was in the purse slung across my shoulder. I directed my attention toward the purse in order to retrieve my passport and not a moment passed before the man had his hand IN my money belt. He had, mind you, no intention of stealing the cash or credit cards now readily available to his nosy fingers, but rather to help me get him what he wanted. "It isn't in there." was my most stern response with a hand just as sternly placed over the top of the belt on the counter. "Oh, sorry," he responded bashfully, pulling his hand back to his side of the desk.

This is the impatience I am vacationing from, I thought to myself. Then, keep your hands out of other people's places! Harrumph!

He issued our tickets to Beijing and told us we would have to check in again when we got there because Ulaan Baator opsaiyo (doesn't exist). He meant that because we were flying another airline from Beijing to Mongolia, he was unable to issue the tickets straight through. I include the literal translation from the Korean here because I like the implications.

Beijing:
Outside of the Beijing airport, I can not say that I have ever been to China. I do think, however, that I may include that country in the count the next time someone asks me how many countries I have been to (people don't ask too often, anyhow). Swine flew is a concern here, so before we were let off the plane, a man in a bright onesie and a face mask had to peer into the plane to clear us. I think e was supposed to be looking for people who looked unhealthy in some way, but really he just peaked in and left again. We were free to be in China.

The man at Incheon had told us to go directly to the transfer check-in desk, which was easy to find. It was right after the health check where censored cameras looked for people of more- or less-than-average temperatures. Sasha was asked to step aside and had his temperature taken. He runs low and they let him pass.

Two women sat at the transfer desk. One woman checked our passports and connection information and the other chatted at her. We were given hand-written boarding passes (that turned out to be more like hall passes for the airport) and the chatty woman stopped chatting and asked us to follow her. I assumed, for whatever reason, that we would be led around the corner and directed to go "down this hall, through the doors, turn left and up the stairs..." but she personally led us down the hall, to the right and around a corner, through an immigration point, where our passports were checked and stamped (see, I have been there!), down some stairs and through a security station, to the left, I think through another check point, through some doors and put on a bus. The lady left us once we were on the bus. Good thing she stuck around that long, too, because I have no idea how we would have gotten there on our own. And, dear readers, I believe that was the point.

We were the only passengers on this bus and we were not sure where it was going to leave us. We began to get this idea that Ulaan Baator was a far off place. Maybe the plane is really small, we thought. We are going to end up in a dingy old terminal built 70 years ago and kept up only for occasional puddle jumper flights to Mongolia, we imagined. The bus took off around one corner, then another, then out into the open. The open? Hey, at least the driver stopped to look both ways before crossing the tarmac. Every time. We were driven across runways as planes came in for landing and took off. As we crossed I looked down the runway, knowing the plane I saw was hundreds of yards away, but also moving toward us at a fast pace.

We believed we were definitely off the beaten path. Sasha is fond of recalling that the X Files were playing on the television in the bus. It was the episode where a little girl is talking to a baby doll that tells her to do horrible things to her loved ones--or something of equal creepiness. We swung by an army base of some sort, passing soldiers marching down the road and a truck with soldiers sitting on all flat surfaces available for sitting. I get it, I finally said, he's driving us to Mongolia.

Not so. We soon stopped at a door and were signaled to deboard. A man was waiting for us and calls us into this place that is almost what the last place was (did we drive in a big circle?). He inspected our passports, stapled our hall passes to perfectly modern boarding passes for an Air Mongolian flight and sent us up a staircase. Alas, we were in an up to date airport terminal complete with Duty Free and Starbucks.

At the gate we noted strangers socializing with one another, striking up conversations and such, like we haven't seen in Korea in our many months here. We would reflect on this often while away. The flight to Ulaan Baator was not a vacant puddle jumper, but rather a full 747 (or some big number). The turbulence was rough enough to have me practicing meditative breathing to save my sanity for a good part of the flight, but we arrived safely.

My first word upon exiting the airport in U.B. was "Grass." I hadn't smelled grass since being in Maui in May. Even then the ocean was so overpowering that I think it had been close to a year since I had smelled fresh, live, green grass. Welcome to Mongolia!

Ulaan Baator:
It was late and very dark when we arrived. The hostel van picked us up and we traveled with another couple the short distance from the airport into the city. The following morning we set out for the western part of the country, so we had very little time in the city before continuing on to Lake Huvsgal. However, after five days on the lake, we returned to the city for another two days. I will share our impressions here.

Having lived in Seoul for the past six months, we were looking for a break from the rush of the city and the masses of people. We are still very much entangled in the emotions and frustrations that come along with inter-cultural living (culture shock?), and so our impressions of any place other than Seoul may have been biased on these grounds alone. To give credit where credit is due, however, vacation experiences are always different from living experiences, our understanding of a place remaining trivial at best, perhaps superficial.

Ulaan Baator is not excluded from this rule. I loved the city with its rush and its many people. I appreciated its chaos as charming and its dirt and dilapidation as rawness, suggesting a life somehow realer than my own.

We set out by foot in the morning, thankful that our hostel was within walking distance to most sites. Taxis are unidentified in UB and most every car can serve as a taxi. Negotiating price and destination can be difficult to outsiders, and we were not up for trying it.

The first thing I noticed was how people interact in space. In Korea, most people walk on the left side of the walkway, but often stop erratically and shift sides without warning. Many months in the thick of it has allowed me the time and experience necessary to negotiate my way in crowds into and out of the subway, but I am still very aware of the difference in my sense of space in walking and passing and crossing streets than that of the Korean's. In UB it was different again. Walking was perfectly comfortable for me, perhaps due to the fact that there was simply more space on the sidewalks (i.e. fewer people!), but I had to force myself to initiate the crossing of any street. Cars drove in every direction at any given time, to the point that many larger streets had three-foot-high fences down the center line to keep cars from pulling u-turns in the middle of the street. They were also meant to keep pedestrians from crossing the street in the middle of a block, I was told.

This can be related to the situation we encountered outside of the city, where all roads are dirt tracks. When one track gets too difficult to travel, a driver simply pulls aside and begins to cut a new trail. From the sky the earth looks like a broad grassland laced with brown ribbons, all running in the same direction and meeting at the same destination. I thought of Mongolia's nomadic history in which the horses just ran, no pavement necessary, and my mind found logic in assuming the traffic was based on a culture unaccustomed to confinement. In my two days in the town, my vacationer's ignorance was happy to believe this to be the case. I haven't spent much time thinking of it since leaving.

Toward the end of our second day in the city, I felt like I was getting a hang of my surroundings. Wouldn't it be wonderful to stay a while, learn the language, get to know this beautiful country and its beautiful people? We praised the food, the friendliness, the differences and the similarities, and we smiled at each other when one of us said the words we had both thought many times: that is it far easier to appreciate everything about a place that you don't have to involve yourself in than a place on which your basic comfort and survival depend.

We had finished drinks at the German pub a few blocks from our hostel and started back to pack our bags and be ready to fly early in the morning. It was dark. The light turned and we crossed the street. I was being offensive, I thought, when I strutted into the road. A Mongolian crossing next to us didn't walk, but rather jogged. We jogged, too--if the locals do it, there may be a reason. A car flew around the corner, not breaking. I don't know if it had headlights on. Had we walked, we would have been hit.

An early morning at the parliament building. Chingis Khan sits proudly atop the center stairs.

UB resembles other Soviet satellite states that I have visited. Imposing statues and crumbling buildings are found throughout the city. Much is in need of repair. Much is disorganized to the foreigner's eye (again, a symptom of the vacationer). The effort to increase tourism is seen in the many souvenir shops present as well as in the fact that ethnic restaurants abound. We ate better Latin food in UB than we have found in all of Seoul.

This sculpture--not imposing, but rather playful--was my favorite overall.

The tour books advise foreigners to carry important documents in money belts, and this message, coupled with the run-down atmosphere, made UB feel like a raw place. We protected our valuables. We had no troubles. We found a Korean grocery store and felt relieved that we could understand what was what.

At Lake Huvsgal:
From UB, we flew to Murun, as small city in the north west part of Mongolia, and met our tour guide, Gamba. We had lunch and climbed into the Land Cruiser that would carry us the 100 kilometers north to Lake Huvsgal. The Toyota included a driver, whose name I do not remember. He spoke no English and did his best not to speak Mongolian either. Very quiet gentleman, he was.

When we arrived at the lake, we had been in the vehicle, bouncing to and fro, for three hours. We were relieved to reach our final destination. For the next four nights, we would sleep in a world silent except for the sounds of ger doors shutting tight, wood fires cracking and thunderstorms passing through the wide country.

We went for a boat ride one day and rode horses another day.

Outside of these fun enough activities, we relaxed an enjoyed the black pines surrounding our camp.

Our ger was not so small in reality. The angle of this shot makes Mongolia look much smaller than it really is.

A perfect shot of nature's colors.

How to make gluten-free brownies in a small apartment in South Korea

Step One: ask a friend to send a care package and include in it on package of gluten-free brownie mix (if you want to make your brownies from scratch, ask your friend to send gluten-free flour instead).

Step Two: when the package arrives, open it and mix the powdery contents with water, oil and and egg (or follow the directions on the package) in a large bowl. Add as much good chipped or chunked chocolate as you wish (NOTE: this will have to be care packaged into the country as well). When well mixed, pour half of the batter into an oiled dolsot bowl and the other half into another oiled dolsot bowl and let sit.

Step Three: Remove your winter socks from the microwave and move the microwave from the bottom of your closet into the kitchen.

Step Four: Move the pots that rest on the stove burners because there is no room for them in the cabinet to the top of the shoe closet, where you usually store bottles of wine and fruit (move the wine and fruit over until everything fits).

Step Five: After putting away any dry dishes, move the dish rack from between the stove burners and the sink to the chair in the other room.

Step Six: Put the microwave on the stove burners and the space that used to be occupied by the dish rack and plug it in.

Step Seven: Insert the first dolsot bowl and microwave for five minutes.

Step Eight: Take out the first dolsot bowl and set it aside (on the ledge in front of the sink is most convenient, but be careful not to knock the bowl into the sink or onto the floor!). Then put the second dolsot bowl into the microwave on high for five minutes.

Step Nine: Take out the second dolsot bowl and set it next to the first.

Step Ten: Unplug the microwave and set it on the floor where it can cool off for several minutes before moving it back to the closet. You will want to let it air out well before storing your socks inside it again.

Step Eleven: Move the dish rack from the chair to the space between the stove and the sink and return the pots to the stove top. This will allow to do the brownie dishes!

Step Twelve: Move the brownies to cool on the shoe closet (of course, this should be done before you do the dishes!)

Step Thirteen: Enjoy! (...and send for more brownies and chocolate!)

Back in the saddle

I had an opportunity to pack up our bike frames in Portland and bring them back to Korea with me, so I took advantage of it. We had discussed a variety of options for getting ourselves back in the saddle in Seoul, and after pricing bikes new and used and learning that there really is a dearth of cycles we would consider reasonable for riding in Korea, bringing frames over and having them built as fixies seemed to be the most efficient way to go about it. We were interested in fixed gears because the ultimate goal is to round up others and play a few games of bike polo. First things first.

Sasha brought our frames in to a bike shop that specializes in Seoul fixed gears. He got price quotes for both bikes; we put 50% down and were on our way! Or so we thought. As it turns out, we may have been going about the entire situation in an all too North American way, and our learning curve regarding Korean business culture was about to be put to the test.

We had expected to get our bikes within a couple of weeks. Unfortunately, the bicycle shop experience lasted about 8 weeks from the day Sasha dropped off our frames to the day I picked mine up and paid the difference owed. Interestingly, my frame had been sent to a machine shop to remove an old bottom bracket, and the drill used to do the work left hefty scorch marks, destroying the paint on my Bianchi. Yes, for those of you who know her, she looked as if she was hurting.
I had the shop send the frame to be repainted (while I wasn't surprised that the original BB was rusted in place, they hadn't informed me that they would be machining the bottom bracket out). Conveniently, it was raining on the day I went to the shop and saw the damage. This only helped to emphasize the fact (I think) that the naked frame was unacceptable.

So you'll see the new ride is sheik as can be and I don't think the Bianchi minds the transformation. I miss the gears and the open road, but I'm confident that I'll be prepared to invest in the necessary machine when I'm able to access the open roads again. And with this ride, I just may fit in on the west coast when we return.

Taxi to the Maxi...

I am a public transportation hound, particularly here in Seoul. The subway is straight forward and I've been learning how to catch a bus to get me where I need to go. All the same, I sometimes prefer to grab a taxi. It helps me on the days that I feel like I just can't get away from all of the people, but it poses its own challenges to my spatial intelligence as well as makes me wonder how much entertainment we need in the work place.

While some believe the leading cause of death in South Korea is sudden fan death, the truth of the matter is that deaths involving car accidents are far more common. I have not actual seen evidence of this (for which I am thankful) but the sheer numbers of vehicles on the road at any given time make the point inevitable.

Taxis here drive faster and more chaotically than I have experienced before. To be fair in my judgment, I have never been a regular taxi patron. A few times in Germany, Chicago, and the collectivos in Chile wrap up my global taxi time quite neatly. I have never had to close my eyes in those places.

When I am in a taxi here, I often have to cover my eyes. I never plan on doing this, but it occurs as an involuntary reaction to the things I see around me. Drivers drive too fast for my comfort, so when another vehicle merges in front of us, all I see are visions of broad siding. This has happened at such a basic level that I have literally felt us being broadsided. My nerves jumped and my heart sank. My mind went directly to that place it goes when it knows all anyone can do is wait and see what is meant to come next... and it sometimes threw my hands over my eyes. All in all, the taxis in Seoul have challenged my abilities to put the future and the past aside and to simply exist in the now. Meditation has never come so readily.

Thus far I have adapted quite well, I think. I don't pay as much attention to the traffic around us and I actually enjoy some of the scenery the city offers. What I have come to realize is that ALL of the traffic drives too fast for my comfort, which is good because it ensures fewer accidents. If Portlanders were driving in Seoul, they would surely cause more accidents than Seoulites cause on their own. It is simply a matter of understanding the space around you and respecting the unwritten rules of how things work.

In fact, many taxi drivers are so comfortable maneuvering through their element that they watch their favorite soap operas as they drive. I have seen this in the last few taxis I have been in. The satellite navigation system can be used to help you find your way or it can be used to watch the latest in daytime/prime time love stories. Apparently, I live in a common enough area that the navigation system is not necessary. I, too, am drawn to the screen when scenes grow heated: women scream and men cry. Who could turn away from such raw human emotion?

**The phone rings** The taxi driver picks up--and now we have a taxi driver chatting on the phone, while watching soaps, while driving. Aah, the safety of the back seat. Perhaps I will take the subway next time.

Vacation

We traveled to Maui for a week of relaxation and sunshine and we got just that. The island boasts far more than I would have expected as a first-time Hawaii visiter. Truly, I was assuming the 50th State may be overrated based on the fact that everybody loves it. Well, I love it, too.

A drive to the summit of Haleakala proved the island of Maui to be among the most enchanted places I have ever been. The tropical coast boasts natural colors I have only ever experienced muted expressions of. The eucalyptus of the upcountry is a treat for the eyes and aroma-therapy drive-thru style for the remaining senses. The scrub and the red and black cones in the 'dormant' crater are as equally spectacular to view from the mountain's apex as is the world in every direction. Feast your eyes on some amateur photos and know that they do nothing justice.

Above you can hardly make out the big island, seen from Haleakala. Below is a view of the ocean from a beach of black basalt.


Above: Haleakala's debris--literally a hardened river made up of tons of rock; Below: a view of foliage with the 'Iao Needle in the background at 'Iao Valley State Park


Above: craters, beautiful craters...; Below: Maui's observatory on a day that proved to be followed by a lovely, clear night


Above: sunset; Below: tourists enjoying the beautiful day

The Latest Home Video

We've made the place quite cozy.
Please check out the latest home video on Sasha's Blog!

The Quietest Place on Earth

Springtime is slowly bringing green into Seoul. Blossoms are softening the stark cityscape of dull cement, plastic and glass. I am told that outside of Seoul is the place to be this time of year, but powers beyond our control keep us here for the time being, and so we must make do with the nature around us.

Nature around us? Upon arrival we wouldn't have believed it, but having been here for three months we recognize more and more nature everyday. A sprig of grass in the median, a tree wedged in between two tall buildings, birds twittering about and hopping from gutter to tree branch to retaining wall: each reminding us that we are still a part of the greater universe.

As in Portland, warmer weather and pretty, springtime natural attractions bring out the population en mass. I appreciate this about Portland. Springtime offers the opportunity to stretch out those rainy-day-cramped muscles and to catch up with the neighbors you only caught glimpses of all winter. It's as if the rebirth of a year brings the rebirth of a city. And in Seoul, I imagine it is the same--the markets are bigger every weekend, with more vendors and more customers. The narrow streets are narrower and the smells are becoming more pungent.

My concern, however, is that the coming of spring and the increase in folks who are out on the town only makes the city's some 44,000 people per square mile feel, well, closer. (Note evening subway entrance to the left.)

The tighter the city feels to me, the more I seek a respite. And as you can imagine, the city parks and hiking trails are teaming with people on the weekends. Koreans enjoy the outdoors and they use their city-sponsored spaces well. I've found that when I just need to get away, there is only one place to do it: the roof.
My office is on the tenth (and top) floor of a building near Gangnam Station and access to the roof is always available. I'm not sure why this is, other than to allow smokers a legal place to get their fix, but I've taken advantage of the space during lunch time on several occasions simply to be alone. It only became apparent to me last week that this elevated veranda, complete with evergreens and grasses in a raised bed, will become a place of solace to a foreigner who sometimes wants to feel alone.

The truth is, the smokers only go up there to smoke, and the roof is quite large enough for all of us to have our needs met. The textures of Seoul are so great that they can be quite overwhelming to the newcomer. It's nice to have a quiet place to be, if only for a short lunch-time moment.

So let them (me) eat cake!

I was fortunate to have to return to the United States for a week last month. The trip was unexpected and somewhat unwanted, due to the pressures of being away from work (i.e. having to return to a session in progress after a week of being away) and to the fact that I didn't feel I was ready to go back. Yes, I know, Boo-hoo...

The short of it is that I went back, got the business I needed to get done done, saw friends and had a great time. What's more, I was able to stock up on a few favorite snacks, the lack of which often leaves me wanting in Seoul. I am allergic to gluten, so pastas and breads, crackers and cookies are usually on my "no list." Most Korean street food is questionable and Korean cafe snacks such as pastries are never edible.

My first afternoon in Seattle, I was fighting falling asleep and decided I needed to get out of the hotel in order to make it until a reasonable sleeping hour--I am not a great fan of jet lag and I try my best to get into a groove as soon as I arrive. I googled gluten free bakeries in the city and came up with the Flying Apron Bakery, a few miles from where I was staying. Naturally, I put on my walking shoes and got moving!

I hadn't had a piece of cake in months. What I returned to the hotel with was this:
This chocolate cake was good. It was dense, but not dry and included macadamia nuts and a cinnamon frosting in between the cake layers that was a splendid touch. This treat was a welcoming homecoming, but I have to admit I still longed for Portland's gluten free scene. Of course, I know it better and so can find just what I've been craving.

While Flying Apron is good, it is also both gluten free and vegan, which means the tasty morsel pictured above includes no butter, milk, etc. I'm going to be frank here: I'm not vegan, and although I appreciate those who are, I also appreciate gluten free snacks that give me everything the real-deal gives me, which sometimes means animal fat.

When I reached Portland, I stopped at New Cascadia Traditional for a cupcake and a loaf of sourdough. A sample photo of each is to be found to the left, but I must admit that these are stock photos from their website. I wasn't as active with the camera back home as I have been in Korea, and my main purpose in buying these items was to eat them.

And that I did. They were perfect - I won't say more. Whether you're gluten free or not, you are doing yourself a disservice if you happen through Portland and miss this bakery! (And I'm not saying this only because I am back in Seoul and aching for a loaf of crispy on the outside, perfect on the inside bread to chew on.) Everyone deserves a cupcake now and again.

A Night to Remember

The evening was dry and the light of day still to be had. Gangnam was beginning to come alive, as it does in the nine-to-fivers' after-work hours, with friends and roamers milling about and street vendors staking out their share of the sidewalk for the nighttime rush.

Four of us crossed the street to hail a taxi moving in the right direction. A friend, Il Han, was taking a few of us out for sushi. The invite was preceded by the questions "Do you like sushi?" and "Really? You like sushi?" This shouldn't suggest that he didn't believe my response, but rather that he was concerned that our definitions of sushi may be different. In the pacific northwest of the United States, we have our share of sushi restaurants. Sushi has also made its way across the country and into such out-of-the-way nooks as Traverse City, Michigan and Crested Butte, Colorado. With that said, sushi can come in all shapes and sizes (and rolls), and who can know if my sushi is your sushi. After all, English has made its way around the world and is a bit different in every port: You say california roll, I say una-ju.

The taxi zipped us up the busy road, around a couple of corners, and after a short time, we landed in the parking lot of Lee Myung Whan's Japanese Restaurant. Upon entering, Il Han suggested we take seats at the bar. It's more interesting than taking a private room, because we can see what's going on.

I'll tell you now that I had no idea what I was in for. The restaurant was quiet. One gentleman sat at the bar as we came in and I don't know when he left. We noted evidence of other guests in trays of sushi being taken from the counter and disappearing down a narrow halls, but the place was otherwise empty. The benches, tables and bar were of wood. Our stools were as well. The shelves behind the bar-those supporting bottles of sake, soju, and wine, among other house specialties-were dark and robust; they rose to the ceiling.

We were in luck, Il Han told us. The owner is in tonight and he'll be preparing our sushi for us. Christine, Sasha and I were delivered small wooden trays with wasabi, and pickled radish and ginger set to one side. The trays were put far enough in front of us that Mr. Lee could reach over the display case on the bar and place a piece of sushi on them every now and then. He began to do just that after Il Han was given a tray with a glimmering stack of bean noodles wound upon it. He would not be eating sushi this evening. Il Han prefers sashimi.

Beer was ordered for the gluten tolerant and a bottle of red wine was delivered to me. (I am well aware that people don't drink red wine with fish, much less sushi, but I think I've mentioned in earlier posts that I'm not the most cultured of beverage consumers. And I like red wine.) It was clear that wine was not a popular drink in this establishment, as I was offered a wine glass with enough dust in it to fluff up my nostrils. I took it as a sign that this place was genuine.

A piece of tuna laid over a firm pile of rice was the first piece of sushi placed on our wooden boards and the first to be eaten as well. I have never tasted tuna so richly. Its cold and firm texture filling my mouth from tongue to palate and cheek to cheek, I chewed and didn't want to stop.

I had mentioned to Sasha only a night or two earlier that I didn't think I had the ability to taste raw fish so much as feel it. I've always enjoyed the texture of sushi, but I really can't say that I've tasted the difference between tuna and white fish and white fish and salmon.

That has changed.

The heavenly tuna (that tasted like tuna) was followed by white fish (which tasted like white fish), the white fish followed by more fish. I don't have a list and I couldn't recap the entire menu, but the things I was served were of a world unknown to me. Il Han's sushi redefined food for me.

The white fish was a special kind of tenuous, but not stringy by any means. One tuna, which is meant to be eaten frozen, was a patchwork of brilliant red flesh bound together by melty white strips of connective tissue. We were served Korea's musky miso soup and welcomed occasional deliveries of tempura, scallion pizza, yam chips, and other things I cannot recall as an individual moment. Sake arrived, toasts were made, I drank more wine, the owner and the chef offered their glasses, which we dutifully filled, and more toasts were made.

Several pieces were brand new to me that evening. And I gather several pieces I may never feel cross my pallet again, although that remains to be seen. The sea urchin was served on rice and wrapped in seaweed paper. The bright orange sacks looked soft enough to pet from where I sat and I had little idea of what to expect when they reached my mouth. The word sea urchin evokes the image of The Little Mermaid's evil octopus witch--and I don't know why, so if I were doubtful about anything that evening, it was the sea urchin.

To be honest, I can't say I've been dreaming of consuming more of it, but what I remember of the sea urchin that night is its cold creaminess. The moment it hit my tongue, its softness melted into the edges of my mouth where the cheeks meet the gums. My teeth were bathed in it, my tongue had no way of knowing what to do with it. It couldn't be pushed, nor could it be tossed aside, nor chewed, nor spat, nor gargled. It only melted in good time. And for that alone, it was delicious.

Abalone was the urchin's polar opposite. Raw as well as sauteed, this piece is delicious. The raw abalone must be chewed gracefully. It seems to fall into sheets of dissolving cartilage. The type of creature from which it was cut rested in the display case directly before me, and I could see the bony mollusk breathing at times.

The eel, which is a favorite of mine back home, ruined me for eel back home.

Somewhat early on in the evening, Il Han told us the owner was expressing amazement at our rate of eating. He would put something in front of us, we would eat it, he would feel it his duty to put something in front of us, we would feel it our duty to eat it, his position defined it as his role to put something in front of us, our cultural background would direct us to eat it immediately. He felt we ate too fast, we felt he fed us too fast. Thank goodness Il Han was there to translate. We slowed down.

Eventually we were served a divine piece of sushi. I can't tell you what it looked like or how it felt or tasted. We were then served a piece of the fish's skin after it had been seared. It was curled up and thick but oh-so tender, warm and sweet. This was puffer fish, we were told, and the owner held up a fish-shaped skin with round holes missing where the Fugu's big eyes had been and we recognized the all too well-known coloring of the grey and white fish. Mr. Lee is certified to serve the fish.

He is also certified to serve the intestine of this fish, which, after being toasted for a short time, looked like a perfectly roasted marshmallow. In my mouth it even felt a little like a marshmallow, with the skin just taught enough to create some tension on my teeth, and the warm center flowing out, coating my tongue, teeth, and cheeks, and exiting by way of my throat.

I admit that is when the camera came out. This already unbelievable night reached its apex with a puffer fish feast. I exclaimed that I couldn't pass up a photo opp. with the Fugu skin, and as I turned to get my camera, the owner turned to get his puffer fish--the live one.

The evening continued with photos and drinks and sushi and soup and laughter and talk. Sea cucumber joined the menu, also a treat with a crunch that didn't exactly crunch, though it resisted as if it might.

I cannot remember anymore where the evening began. Was it in the taxi, where we chatted about the school and the nearing completion of our program? Was it when we arrived at the restaurant and took seats at the bar? Was it that first bite of tuna or the last slurp of soup? Or was it some time much earlier, when I was asked if I like sushi, when I tasted my first bite of sushi, when I didn't think I'd ever eat sushi?

The night ended with a dessert of fruit and small glasses of raspberry wine and several more photos of everyone together. We learned from Il Han about sushi etiquette and Korean traditions, as well as about him and his own experience in the city and country in which we all now live. The owner came around to sit with us. He showed us some baseball memorabilia. I showed off my Korean by (surely) offending Korean-speaking parties when I asked to be served cat. What I MEANT to say was I like cats (as in to cuddle with, not to eat). Ah, the intricacies of linguistics.

We climbed into a taxi that would take us back to our apartment building and thanked Il Han again as the doors closed and the car began to roll. This was one of those nights that will never happen in this way again, but simply knowing that such people exist for company and that such food exists for nourishment is enough for my senses tonight.

Tea Time

A few weeks ago, Sasha and I were visiting one of many department stores in the Seoul area on a search for anything familiar. Our main purpose was to scour the basement grocery department for imported goods that we could stock our cabinets with. We did pretty well as we found curry paste, salsa and nacho chips, dark chocolate, and Sriracha hot sauce -- all items not found in our neighborhood market.

We were also intrigued by the coffee and tea sections on the first floor. I had been looking for something-other-than-Lipton black tea since we arrived, and the local market only sells a variety of green teas and some fruit teas, all of which are sold by the bag (or jar) en mass. I set out to find a familiar box of Earl Grey. (I'm okay with bags, but they shouldn't be Lipton.)

I'm beginning to sound a bit snooty about tea. I should clarify that I don't really know bunk about tea other than the fact that I like to drink Earl Grey with a bit of honey and milk. I've preferred this to coffee for some years and here in Seoul I was missing both dark tea and dark coffee. I found the tea displays and looked longingly at signs I didn't understand for about twenty seconds before two women approached to help me.

Department stores seem to hire hoards of people to sell their goods. In every corner of every department, a uniformed woman waits to assist you in any way she can. From a western perspective this can be overwhelming to the point of annoying, because there is a sense of pressure to buy when an employee follows your every move. On the other hand, if you are looking for information or even to buy a product, a friendly assistant is no more than two feet away. (I've quickly come to accept this cultural difference, even though it takes some level of mind over body to remember the woman following me isn't assuming I'm a thief, nor is she trying to pressure me into buying and leaving her store. Minimum wage is about 4,000 won--or $3--in Korea and jobs at all levels are competitive. The attentive service brings job security to an employee, if not additional commission.)

The women helped me choose a Korean tea--one not stored in teabags, but rather in caps of tightly pressed dried tealeaves wrapped in tissue paper. Each cap brews 2 liters of tea. This tea is fermented, they told me (like so much else in Korea, I thought happily), and has purifying qualities for good health. I was trying something new! But I also included a box of familiar Earl Grey tea in my final order.

At home I brewed my fermented tea and drank it. A lovely tea indeed; my unsophisticated pallet believing it to be much like a black tea. I couldn't tell you what was fermented about this tea. I'm not sure what I had expected, but I found it not unusual in the least. I welcomed a break from the green tea that is as lovely, but somehow slightly tiresome in its unfamiliarity. In the west we hear so much about green tea and its antioxidants, its purifying nature. It's the best tea, the healthiest, and the trendiest, too. This has always made me feel a bit bad about preferring black tea. Could I really be doing my body so badly? Alas, it makes no difference as I now had fermented tea, which purifies AND tastes like what I want to drink.

Fast forward several weeks and I am introduced to tea from a different perspective, a Korean perspective.
I attended a tea workshop in which a tea maker explained her work and shared her tea. "The tea tree," she said, "is where tea leaves come from." With this imagined in my mind as many types of tea tree as there are types of tea - green tea trees, Oolong tea trees, white and black tea trees...

She continued: "Green tea, white tea, Oolong tea, black tea, they all come from the same plant. The difference between these teas is the level of fermentation the leaves are exposed to. Green tea is not fermented at all and, therefore, maintains high levels of vitamin C. Fermented teas lose much of their vitamin C in the process, but maintain their purifying qualities."

This information was so new for me that I had to research it online when I got home. Indeed, green tea and black tea are one in the same and the term fermentation is quite misleading as tea leaves are not treated with vinegar and left to steep for weeks or months, but rather oxidized. Alas, the Camellia sinensis made my evening. My fermented tea is black tea and it is no less beneficial to my body than green tea (so long as I find enough vitamin C elsewhere).

The most rewarding event of the evening (outside of drinking lovely teas, of course) was peering into the tea-maker's large ceramic bowl of lotus tea. This was an infused green tea and I'll tell you, when it is done right, green tea is not tiresome.

Bird brained...

My mother refers to pigeons as something like rats of the sky---even if they don't spend all that much time in the sky.

What she means by this is that they are dirty and gross and, well, horrifying. In addition they are found in every major city in this world (as well as some minor ones, I'm quite sure), just like rats are. Luckily they do not grow to be the size of raccoons, as some urban rodents are known to do. I'm sure that would only make them that much more horrifying. My mom may never travel to another urban local again if she knew she could expect turkey-sized pigeons swooping from the eaves to chance partaking in her morning croissant or afternoon snack.

But that brings me to the real issue at hand when pigeons are being discussed. They are scavengers at best and flock to the places where they know there is food. In some towns pigeons wait patiently (I am anthropomorphizing; perhaps the pigeons would not call it patience?) for scraps to be left behind and then dive in to clean up. In other places, certain parts of Seoul being in this category, there is no waiting, the pigeons move right in as you eat.

This would gross my mother out. In fact, if she reads this, she may think twice about visiting. (Don't worry, ma. We'll do our best to avoid these areas.)

The real message here isn't about the pushiness of the birds (they're hardly unique---they are pigeons, after all); I don't need to tell you about how they turned their heads so one sharp, bright, amber eye could keep us in view as Sasha munched on a pancake; I won't go into their efforts at pouncing this way and plunging that way to position themselves most strategically for the moment a morsel fell from the paper wrapping in his hands to the stone walkway below his feet.

I would rather like to tell you about how the pigeons contribute to the textures of Seoul. For these pigeons are not smooth, feathered beings. These pigeons are waxy and crusty. They are missing legs or parts of feet and some have string tangled around those parts that remain. Their shiny black heads are dull, sticky and grayish. Some look as if they dunked their heads in wet cement, then stood to let it dry in clumps above their beaks and through chunks of top feathers. More than anything they look un-groomed and unkempt. Their appearance makes you wonder where (how) they live and how they missed the lesson about keeping oneself reasonably clean.

Other birds hide their crust and gunk with molt. Perhaps the molted feathers can't be released to fall away due to the general stickiness of the rest of the bird, or perhaps the feathers are hanging on at their roots like loose teeth do in children's mouths. In either case the downy hangers-on only add to the general disorder of the creatures as they scavenge.

These birds are like zombie birds, hobbling and wobbling to and fro as they eye you with one eye and then bounce and turn in order to eye you with the other. With missing feet parts, crusty heads, crooked wings, and dirt-caked beaks, one may wonder if there is anything worth noticing about these creatures. But there is. There is something that is perfect in each of them twice.

Their sharp, amber eyes never miss a beat. Pitch-black pupils so perfectly absent of color see every morsel fall, they see every anxious human arm wave them away, they see every competitor approach. And it's those perfect eyes wrapped up in an imperfect package that makes pigeons a texture of Seoul.

Feeling Home

It was late by the time we arrived at the building that was to be our home in Seoul. We were led up one level to apartment number 204. My tired eyes looked around at what seemed a rather cramped, small space. Our luggage flopped onto the middle of the floor and the room was instantly full--as it happened, the middle was the edges and they met the walls directly.

We slept a roasting hot sleep, the dry air cracking our throats throughout the night, and awoke several hours later when day had broken. We sorted our belongings into the drawers, cabinets, and closet that made up our new surroundings. The floor that had been hidden under our luggage was warm and felt nice under our feet. It looked of wood but didn't really feel like wood, although the telltale grain of lumber was there to be seen, and even felt. Still today, weeks after this first encounter with the space, my eyes follow grain lines across the floor and to the walls, where the texture changes from not quite wooden wood to intricately pressed paper.

The walls are wrapped in texture as well. One wall is fancy with red circles on a cream background. Ribbons of subtle gold run from the floor to the ceiling, sometimes transecting the circles, both large and small. The other walls are decorated in a subtler paper--all off-white color and only diamonds pressed into it at regular intervals. The walls are touchable.

It took me a week to realize it, but everything in this apartment is touchable.

The floor is warm and grained but won't splinter,

The walls are a color that changes with light.

The desk drawers and closet have a laminate luster,
That kind's hard to find but sure out of sight!

There are tiles in the kitchen that I like to touch, too.
Then the glass in the doorway is partly opaque,
Which makes it all rough and hard to see through.
The list could go on, but I'll stop for your sake!

The phrase goes "feel at home," but I didn't feel at home until I felt home. It's all here. Every little bit of it.

...smooth mirrors; small, rough bathroom floor tiles; lampshades of canvas; a glass table top; the bright metal runners that are our cabinet handles; the soft and speckled pink marble that would hold in our thresh; the porcelain of our bathroom; the brand new metal fixtures; more tiles, more paper, more fake wood window sills...