The garlic went in before the oil was ready — that low hiss instead of a proper spit — and the whole thing started slower than I wanted. Still, it came around.
I picked up a small bunch of dried chiles from Linh at the Asian grocery on Seventh, the ones she keeps in a paper bag near the register, no label. She called them khô something; I didn't catch the rest. I bought three, split one with my thumbnail on the walk home, and the heat off it was slow and resinous, climbing rather than landing. I tucked the other two into the spice jar for another week.
Tonight was a single shallot, those chiles, two cups of dashi I'd had in the fridge since Sunday, and a handful of kabocha — the first real kabocha of the season, from the Nguyen family stall at the Wednesday market. The rind had that faint waxy resistance when I ran a knife through it, and the flesh was dense, almost dry to the touch, the way good winter squash should be. It went into the broth still in its skin because I forgot to peel it and then decided not to bother.
The mistake was the heat. Left side of the burner, which runs hot. The shallots took on a little colour I wasn't aiming for — not burnt, but past translucent, catching at the edges. It made the broth darker and slightly bitter underneath the sweet. I added a splash of rice vinegar to pull it back, and it did, mostly. The aftertaste was more complicated than I'd planned for a Wednesday.
I ate it with short-grain rice, slightly wet on the bottom of the pot the way my grandmother's always was. She never bothered with a rice cooker. Neither do I, mostly.
The broth was quiet but stayed with me. Something in those chiles — that slow resinous heat — that I want to try again with clams, if the market has any next week.
#homecooking #seasonal #kitchenjournal #kabocha