Recently, during another half-arsed attempt at getting rid of stuff I don't need, I came across some of my father's old journals and notebooks that he gave to me, including his notebooks of the recipes and cooking tricks he learned in Asia in the 1960s.
“A wok is not a democracy. While all the vegetables should all be chopped beforehand, it is not about chucking them in together; stirring them all about, doing the Hokey Cokey and shaking it all about.
"A wok is not a democracy."
“The wok is about gradation; nurturing the vegetables that have a high water content and need to be more thoroughly cooked —like mushrooms, quartered onions or green peppers — versus later adding those that need less cooking and should remain al dente, such as chopped spring onions, finely sliced cabbage or cashew nuts.
"I have learned that a wok is a society in which not all vegetables are equal but, instead, should be given the same care to ensure their optimum cooked state. It is not an art. It is a really busy little guy running around on a junk, flopping about in choppy waters, making sure the flavours come through. He will feed his family and everyone will enjoy what he makes. In Hong Kong, food is not a way of life, it is life.”
Perhaps I'm being overly assumptive, but when I read these words of my father from the early 1960s, sure, they make me tearful. But I also perceive a connection between how each of us writes in terms of "voice". Maybe I'm just projecting what I want to see. Nonetheless, his notes on the cooking skills he gained in Asia read like a novel (in difficult handwriting).
Watch this space. I will be sharing these recipes as I cook them myself.
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