There are times when I think maybe Michael might be an alien.

Sometimes I just can’t figure him out; what his motivations are, what his thought processes are, where his road is taking him. By this, I mean that he often does and says things that I simply cannot reason out.

A few weekends ago he and his mom were working in the front yard, watering plants. Each time he got wet, even slightly, he deemed it necessary to do a complete wardrobe change. Because God forbid he should ever have to endure moisture of any sort.

Couple this with the fact that in just one short summer he’s become a swimming lessons champ, moving from the A class to the C class in record time. He took to water like he’s part seal, showing no fear and gladly holding his head under water from day one.

He will fairly regularly attempt front flips and pratfalls off the couch in the immediate vicinity of the very hard and corner-profuse brick fireplace hearth, showing no concern that his head might actually meet up with unyielding stone in a violent manner. The lessons from previous episodes resulting in contact with bricks seem to have been forgotten.

Just a couple of days ago we were driving along in the car and I noticed a large pile of dirt at a construction site. “Wouldn’t that be fun to play on?” I asked.
“Well, yes… but it’s too high to be safe for children, and you’d get all dirty,” he replied after careful consideration of my suggestion. I have some fond memories of playing on such a dirty pile as a child, and I do not recall even considering the notion of “dirty”.

Some kids are happy to receive a toy in a large box, and will play with that toy as it is intended. Most other kids would be more happy with the box itself. Michael would ask a parent to cut holes in the box and draw pictures on it with Sharpie markers, and while that was going on he’d crawl after the cat and see if he could antagonize her into scratching him.

Now, I remember my own childhood and a billion goofy things I did as a kid: terrorizing my brother’s models by throwing them out the window (I told him they were bombs); putting toys in the piano keyboard cover and playing “mailbox”, closing the cover and being amazed that the toys would be gone when I opened it again; climbing up in the tree in the back yard and painting the limbs with shoe polish; good times… goooood times…

So I have some understanding about being goofy. My daughters did some goofy stuff as little children too (by the way – happy 17th birthday to sister B!), but it was all stuff I could relate to.

Michael, I haven’t figured out yet.

Not long ago I tried buying old junk at Goodwill that we could take apart. He was happy to watch me take stuff apart, for a little while, but he’d soon lose interest and start shoving pennies in the cracks of the kitchen table or poking holes in the placemat.

Once in a while he’ll ask to play with the walkie talkies, but one of the first things he’ll do with them is start pushing buttons and changing the frequency so that they can’t communicate. If not that, he’ll continually press the “call” button so the other walkie talkie just rings without end.

Occasionally I’ll sit down with him and we’ll use letter tiles to spell things out. Either I’ll ask him to spell something, or I’ll spell something and ask him to sound it out. This quickly dissolves into his inventing new words and asking me what they spell, and then him becoming tearful in frustration that he can’t make a word.

The things that motivated me, that interested me, that kept me occupied throughout my childhood are not the things that keep Michael interested.

I have to accept that fact, because he’s not me. He’s Michael, and he has his own style and speed.

My prayer is that I can learn how to meet him where he is, and help him channel his energy into something more productive than bothering the cat.

Michael and his sisters and cousin are back from vacation at Grandma’s.

I drove 173 miles to pick them up, 3+ hours of driving along the mighty Columbia river through alternately verdant and barren countryside, to reach a small town whose main claim to fame is being home to one of the few remaining coal-fired power plants in the state of Oregon. It’s also a convenient midway point between our house and Grandma’s house. It has a big park, where Michael can burn off some pent-up energy and stretch his little legs before getting strapped in for the second half of his journey home.

It had been a grand week.

Michael, two sisters and a cousin were all in eastern Oregon, enjoying the relaxed pace and small-town atmosphere of the Wallowa Lake area, along with the diversions afforded by its rugged mountain features and glacier-forged landscape. One of Michael’s favorite activities was to chase crickets, of which there are plenty. His other favorite activities apparently centered around keeping his sisters in a state of high annoyance, at least by their account. With the low horizon and clear skies, his days began at the very crack of dawn, as the crimson sunrise flooded the loft room where he and his sisters bunked.

His grandmother made sure to keep him well occupied, providing trips to the lake and trips to town, adventures in the parks and up the mountains and of course plenty of busy-work to keep his little hands engaged and out of mischief. His sisters and cousins pitched in, taking shifts to ensure that grandma didn’t get overwhelmed. The daily reports his mom and I got back were quite colorful; text messages from the girls, phone conversations from Michael and his grandmother.

to wit: “Why is it that michael always wakes up at 5 AM and then chooses the LOUDEST toy in the room to play with? X(” (this from sister L)

And from his grandmother, a report about Michael at the lake: “He told me he had to go to the bathroom really bad, but said he couldn’t make it back up the hill to the potty so I told him he’d just have to use the lake. So he comes out of the water, stands up on the shore and starts pulling down his shorts…”

Meanwhile, at home, Michael’s mom and I spent a week in a quiet house. The only noise came from the cat, who was VERY CONCERNED that all of her people were disappearing, and wanted to BE SURE WE UNDERSTOOD HER CONCERN. Repeatedly, every ten minutes or so.

We did a whole lot of nothing, which was wonderful. We didn’t paint anyone’s room, we didn’t re-work the garden or re-decorate the house, and we didn’t travel.

Well… not much. We did go to the beach for one day, spending the night at a bed-and-breakfast inn along the coast. This place was magical on all counts, and we’ll be back one day. For one thing, they had a guests-only wine social the afternoon we checked in. They handed us a couple of glasses of wine and pointed out a couple of forest trails behind the inn, encouraging us to explore, which we did. Never before had either of us hiked through the forest holding a glass of wine.

The dinner we had that night was truly amazing. Neither of us had ever had an “amuse bouche” before either, the sort of pre-appetizer course they served. To say dinner was good would be to say the ocean is deep.

But time marched onward, and she and I both had to get back to our normal occupations.

Thus on Sunday, while she was at work, I drove alone to the middle of Oregon to pick up children.

After transferring bags and blankets and assorted gear from Grandma’s car to ours, and a few hugs goodbye, we were on our way back to Portland.

And even though I’d had a week to recuperate, any vestige of parental patience I’d gained was quite deftly erased after fifteen minutes in the car.

I can’t wait for school to start.

Here we are back in Hawaii again for another dish that was borrowed from another Pacific Rim culture. Poke (pronounced “poh-KAY”) is raw fish that has been marinated in an acid, such as lime juice and/or vinegar.

The acid basically “cooks” the fish. Both heat and acid denature proteins, so in a sense, this is a cooking method. Since it doesn’t kill bacteria, though, it’s important to start with clean fish. And you’d never do this with chicken. No way!

Oh – and there’s a mainland version of this dish. I tweeted that I was going to be serving raw fish cooked in lime juice for dinner, and a blog friend reminded me that around here it’s called “Ceviche”. So if you’ve had that and liked it, you’ll like this too.

Technically poke is an appetizer or a side, not a main course. Thus I had a few other goodies to serve along with it: coconut shrimp, fried plantains and ginger chicken.

It was a pretty ambitious menu.

The chicken was my back-up protein to appeal to the kids in case they turned their noses up at the shrimp or tuna. This was pretty simple: marinate 2” cubes of chicken breast meat in seasoned rice wine vinegar and salt for one hour, sear, reduce heat to low and stir in some green onions and grated ginger to finish. This I served with a pineapple rum sauce I’d made a few days earlier, one that was actually intended to complement the shrimp.

To make the tuna, I started off with a 1 lb tuna steak. I couldn’t find Ahi at the store I chose, so I went with whatever tuna they had. It looked good: vibrant pink in color, reasonably firm and not a lot of sinew. I washed it thoroughly and cut it up into ½ inch cubes, then put it in a bowl along with the juice of three limes, two green onions and two tablespoons of grated ginger.

The coconut shrimp was prepared by following a recipe by Alton Brown. I’d made it before and it turned out really good, though this time I skipped the peanut sauce that goes with it since peanuts aren’t a Polynesian thing.

The fried plantains I have done before, just a few weeks back.

All in all, a decent meal, though it would have been nice to have some vegetables in there aside from the starchy plantains.

The Poke turned out to be great, aside from all of the poking in the side I received by Michael’s mommy during its preparation. While the flavor of lime all but drowned out the taste of the tuna entirely, the fish was edible and quite good: not tough and not mushy either. The flavor of the ginger and the onion came through just slightly. Checking a few other recipes online, I discovered one that I believe I’ll stick with from now on: instead of using four ounces of lime juice, just use two tablespoons, along with a tablespoon of seasoned rice wine vinegar. And blend in some cubed mango to balance the tartness of the lime and vinegar. The dish should be light and flavorful without being overpowering. It goes well when served as an appetizer along with chips of some kind. I’m thinking taro chips will be good with that.

The shrimp was okay, though I’d forgotten to season them first so they came out rather bland. The pineapple rum sauce didn’t help them much.

The real surprise was the ginger chicken. My wife discovered that drizzling the chicken with the pineapple rum sauce made the flavor of the ginger pop out (I hate using that term, but it actually applies here) and made for a very pleasing finish. I was amazed just how well that pair teamed up, so I’ll be keeping that recipe on hand for future dinners.

The pineapple rum sauce is sort of a throw-together, so in order to relate it in an actual recipe form I’ll need to experiment with it to get it consistent.

Michael is now employing the “truth hurts so I’ll lie” method to handling new and different foods.

He says “I love it,” meaning “that was vile, but I get in trouble for being brutally honest about how disgusting certain foods are so I’ll say what I think you want to hear so you’ll leave me alone.”

For instance, last week his mom picked up some rice bread for him to try. This was the only bread she could find that didn’t have milk and/or soy in it.

After lovingly crafting a PB&J sandwich from this new bread, she handed it to Michael, who took an exploratory bite.

He made that face: the one that looks like he just licked something he thought was chocolate but it turned out to be a moray eel, but he’s too cool to allow a genuine emotion to spread across his visage.

“Well?” his mom asked, expectantly. “How is it?”

“I love it,” he said, on his fiftieth chew of the one bite, his nose wrinkled ever so slightly while he strained to hold his breath and to keep his tongue from actually contacting the masticated wad, lest he taste it.

“Great!” his mom said. “Finish that up then and we can go on our errands.”

“Uh, I’m done with it. I’ll just save it for later,” he said, putting it down. The “later” of which he speaks is no doubt coincident with the end of the Mayan calendar.

For several weeks now Michael had been pestering me to get Brussels sprouts for him to try. He happily eats broccoli and many other vegetables, so this wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. It’s just that Brussels sprouts are infamous as the nemesis of children’s palettes everywhere, throughout all recorded history. Legends have sprung up over tales of stubborn children sitting for days, staring at their plate of uneaten Brussels sprouts until their parents finally cave in or grow too old to fight.

So for him to actually request them was nothing short of a miracle in my mind. And I couldn’t help but be a little proud, since I actually like them myself.

However, I resisted the first few requests, having previous experience with children and their unusual culinary requests (miniature bananas, edible flowers, Mexican hot chocolate, etc.) that ended up shoved to the back of the refrigerator to become fungal substrates.

On his continued insistence, I eventually broke down and bought some.

I made eight of them. A simple recipe: clean them, boil them in salt water, serve warm.

He was so delighted to pack into this “little cabbage” the way he chows down on the “little trees” of broccoli.

I knew things weren’t going well when I saw him take an exploratory nibble and make that staring-straight-ahead, corners-of-the-mouth-curled-down-slightly sort of chewing face.

“Hmm… not so much?” I said.

“It’s good,” he said, unconvincingly.

“I don’t believe you,” I said, unconvinced.

“I love it,” he said, still chewing the microgram of Brussels sprout he had in his mouth.

“Michael, you don’t need to lie to me. If you love it, eat it all and have more.”

He cut the sprout in half and forked half into his mouth.

He chewed on it for the better part of 45 minutes.

“Well? Do you still love it?”

“Yes,” he said, finally swallowing. “But I’m full.”

“Mmmkay. I’ll eat the other seven,” I said.

“Okay. They’re really good.”

“Maybe we can get more tomorrow!” I said, brightly.

“No, that’s okay,” he said. “We can try something else.”

“But you love it, right?”

“Oh, yes. I love it. Can I have a treat now?”

“I thought you said you were full.”

“Well I am full of Brussels sprouts, but…”

“Yeah. Eat your dinner.”

If nothing else, I do admire his adherence to the maxim: “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say nothin’ at all.”

“Everybodeeeeeee loves the Hukilau,
Where the lau lau is the kau kau
At the big luau!”

Ekomomai!

You all know the song, right? Right? Of course you do. Well, according to this song, the “lau lau” is the food at the luau. Whatever else there is, you gotta have lau lau.

So what is it? It’s basically a variety of meats steamed inside a wrapper of taro leaves. Traditionally, it’s butterfish, chicken and pork. For my foray into this particular little delight, I opted against the butterfish and chose to stick with pork alone. But you could use chicken or fish (or beef, though I doubt it would be as yummy).

First, I hacked up a pork butt roast into little chunks. This was by far the most difficult part of the entire venture, as I worked to section out small chunks of actual meat, when in fact it turns out that pork butt is thickly marbled with fat and connective tissue. I spent quite a bit of time just trying to free the few little pockets of meat from their lard prisons. Next time, I’m using chicken.

I marinated the meat chunks in a blend of teriyaki sauce, pineapple juice, passion fruit syrup, liquid smoke and salt for about two hours.

For each lau lau, I laid out two ti leaves, then four or five taro leaves on top of that. Into the center of this I placed five or six meat chunks, then sprinkled a little shredded coconut on top. Here’s where you can get creative and throw in other things like coconut cream, fruit, onions or whatever you like.

Then I folded up the taro leaves to enclose the meat and wrapped it securely with the ti leaves. If done right, the ti leaves serve as the “foil” wrapper and can be tied up like a parcel. I used actual aluminum foil for those of mine where I failed the ti leaf wrap job, but it’s okay to use string as well (like the kind you truss a tenderloin roast with).

To steam these, I had to find a new piece of hardware: a 20 quart stock pot with a steamer basket built in. Once the water got to boiling I just laid these little meaty leaf bundles inside and let them get cooking for four hours.

The poi was another matter. Poi is taro root that has been steamed and mashed. That’s all.

I took a large taro root, peeled the outside, and diced the meat into 1/2 inch chunks. I steamed the chunks of taro for 25 minutes until they were tender, and then stuck as much of it as I could into a blender with a cup of water. I pressed the “puree” button, and the blender just groaned; it toiled not, neither did it spin. My wife took one look at the non-blending blender and said “That’s not going to work. It’s too much.”

I sort of got that notion myself.

However, since I didn’t have a mortar and pestle like the islanders do, I got a wooden spoon and started smushing it up myself right there in the blender. Eventually I did get it mashed to the point where the blender could take over, but even after repeated whirls through the blender it wasn’t quite the right consistency. I poured the glop out into a glass bowl and used a stick blender to finish the job, which it did nicely.

I seasoned the poi with my turmeric-ginger salt and set it aside for later serving.

I made some white rice and grilled pineapple to go along with everything.

So… the lau laus were excellent! I needn’t have bothered trying so hard to get the fat off the pork, since the cooking time was long enough that it pretty much rendered off anyway. The meat was tender and moist and succulent. The seasoning was just right – a smoky and slightly fruity flavor with the depth and warmth of the taro leaves coming through. I cautioned my kids not to try to eat the ti leaves, just the taro – but of course two of them had to try, and found out why you don’t eat ti leaves. It’s like eating a package of dental floss: nothing but thin, unyielding fibers.

The poi, was… probably exactly as it was supposed to be. Bland, gloppy, paste-like. It reminded me of a blank canvas: a perfect substrate just waiting for artistic expression.

I’ve heard it said that poi is an acquired taste, and I can vouch for that. Not to put it down, though – poi is an excellent starch to go along with the meal, providing a great source of fiber and nutrients without a lot of calories. It’s one of the few foods the body can readily digest even if you’re allergic to everything or are otherwise having trouble keeping food down. Some hospitals use it as resource for keeping people fed if nothing else is working.

My wife said she’d like to see a variety of poi flavors presented at the next feast, served in such a way as to be a condiment for dipping meat, shrimp or vegetables in. Banana poi, passion fruit poi, savory poi… the possibilities are endless with this food. One of my work buddies, my local expert on all things Hawaiian, says he has to put sugar on his poi to make it palatable. Maybe it’s like grits: everyone has their own way of eating it.

Anyway, we’ll definitely be revisiting this little treat.

Next time: Ahi Poke!

It’s been well over a month, and Kyron is still missing. Have you all seen the story? It hits us particularly hard, as it is unfolding only a few miles from where we live. His father works where I work. It involves us all.

We had hopes that Kyron might be found and returned safely by now, but no.

And since the story changed from a simple one of “I dropped him off at school and he never came home,” into a far darker tale involving lies, cover-ups and criminal activity, many of us in the area have considered the possibility that Kyron may have been taken to another state.

For the complete story, check out the local news coverage.

He might be anywhere, living with someone who’s keeping him safely out of the public’s eye, someone who isn’t his mom or dad, someone who’s obviously got a stake in a very bad situation. My hope in posting this is that maybe by chance someone reading this will recognize this face and call.

I know if it were one of my children missing, I wouldn’t be able to sleep, eat or function in any sense of normalcy. I can only imagine what phenomenal pain Kyron’s family is in, and how scared and confused Kyron must be.

These people need answers. Kyron needs to come home.

Please pray for him, and for them.

In my wild and crazy youth, at about the age of eight or nine, I decided I wanted to make cupcakes. My mother was away (working to keep her little family afloat) and grandma was left to tend to the beasties at home. When questioned, I assured my grandmother that my mother did indeed permit me make cupcakes, and yes of course I knew what I was doing.

Lies. I had neither permission nor knowledge of process. I had a vague idea that flour was involved, eggs, perhaps some milk, maybe some vanilla and sugar, and a few other things that must be close up in the spice rack. By my standard magical thinking, I figured the ingredients would probably know what to do and would get together to make something wonderful even without my guidance.

As you have no doubt guessed, the cupcakes did not come out good. They were stout, dense, doughy, salty, speckled grenades, fit for nothing other than composting or weaponry.

My intentions were good. I wanted something yummy, and I had half of a good idea going on. But good intentions and half a brain are not enough when it comes to things like cooking.

For this weekend’s Polynesian fare, my intention was to produce a delicious marinated chicken dish including coconut and macadamia nuts as a broiler finish. I also wanted to serve taro root and sweet potatoes, as these are staples of the islands as well and would make a great side dish. And for a vegetable I would again turn to taro leaves since that turned out pretty good last time.

Marinating has not always worked well for me. The point with marinating is to introduce some flavor into the target meat. I’ve not had a lot of success with this, particularly with chicken. This time, I wanted to be SURE the meat got some flavor. So, after cutting the chicken breasts into quarters I pounded them with the pokey end of a meat tenderizer. Then, I let them sit in a Ziploc bag with a blend of fresh shredded ginger and fresh-squeezed lime juice, for three hours.

Once marinated, I seared the chicken on both sides and let it simmer in coconut milk for two hours. Finally I topped it with a rum-pineapple sauce, coated it with crushed macadamia nuts and shredded coconut, and broiled it until golden brown.

The result was, unfortunately, rather intense. It was like getting shot in the mouth with a lime bazooka. Flavor infused: check.

The other problem was that I had too many flavors competing for attention. Rather than a symphony I had a cacophony: ginger, lime, coconut, macadamia, rum, pineapple and a couple other assorted notes all screamed at once, with lime out-shouting them all. Lesson learned: tone down the marinade. And stick to just a few key flavors, balanced to be harmonious.

Next time I’ll dilute the marinade by about two thirds, not bother with the initial sear or the coconut milk braise, and will coat with macadamia and coconut before baking in the oven until cooked through. Then after a quick broil for color I’ll introduce a light drizzle of the rum-pineapple topping. If I get it right, it will be a tangy and lightly sweet dish with an interesting texture.

As for the taro root and sweet potatoes: The lesson I learned here is that they do NOT bake well on a metal cookie sheet. The taro interacts with the metal and turns this ugly grey color. Rather than cube them and bake them, better to julienne and pan-fry them in canola oil.

My sincerest thank-yous to my wife and mother-in-law, who were very kind and gentle with their comments. My wife always provides truly constructive criticism, gently and helpfully pointing out where a dish took a wrong turn and proposing a better alternative to seasoning and cooking method. My mother-in-law, after graciously working through the entire meal, said: “Well, at least we won’t get scurvy.” This is true, grandma K.

I’ll probably revisit this dish before the summer is up, making the suggested changes of course.

Wife: “Honey? The vacuum cleaner won’t turn on. I’ve tried three different plug-ins and it won’t work!”

Husband: “Okay, sweetheart. Let me take a look at it.”

Husband disassembles and performs tests on aforementioned vacuum cleaner, strokes non-existent beard thoughtfully while making various murmurs of concentration.

Husband: “Ah ha! Here’s the problem. The cord retractor has an intermittent wiper connection. I can fix that.”

Wife: “The retractor?”

Husband, while skillfully removing the retractor unit: “Yes. This thing. See? It has this huge steel coil spring that pulls the cord back inside.”

Wife: “What spring?”

Husband: “This -”

Husband: “-was the spring.”

Wife, dialing phone: “Hello, Stark’s Vacuums? Uh, my husband tried to…”

Maybe I should stick with plumbing.

My wife and I have noticed recently that Michael has taken to questioning our driving abilities.

Just about anywhere we go, seconds after we’ve left our neighborhood, Michael will begin loudly casting doubts upon our course:
“Are you sure you know where you’re going?”
“I don’t think this is the right way.”
“We’re getting lost.”
“You’re definitely going the wrong way.”

It doesn’t matter that in every instance we actually arrive where we intended to.

It doesn’t matter that we take the same routes to the same place, every time, and that the landmarks don’t change.

It doesn’t matter that he himself still struggles with getting his shoes on the right feet.

In his mind, we’re all clueless.

And aside from the gloom report, he’s started to become a nagging alarm as well:

“Don’t hit that dog!” (when passing a dog that is thirty yards away, on the other side of a concrete barrier)
“Watch out for that cone!” (while slowly negotiating a turn around an orange pylon that is a good ten feet from the side of the car)
“You’re too close to the edge of the road!” (from the middle lane)
“Don’t forget to stop at the light.” (because Lord knows I love running them)
“You can go now. What are you waiting for?” (light just turned green, but there are twelve cars ahead of me)

I’m not sure where this comes from, aside from perhaps his listening to my own tirades against other drivers, or maybe even as the result of some experience he had while we were in the car in which I got us lost (which, to my memory, has never happened).

In any case, I’ve decided that since I cannot stop it, I’ll bend like a reed in the wind and just play along:

Michael: “Are you going the right way?”
Me: “No. I’m just driving around aimlessly.”

or

and

Michael: “Are you sure this is the right direction?”
Me: “Hmmm… I don’t know. Do you know which way is the right direction?”
Michael: “No…”
Me: “Then I guess it doesn’t matter which way we go.”

He doesn’t like it much, but it makes me feel better.

What I’m really looking forward to is when his older sisters start learning to drive. If they give me any trouble I’ll just threaten to make them drive with Michael behind them.

Okay, so “American Independence Day” AKA “The Fourth Of July” was this last weekend, and tradition demands the grilling of meat over a heat source while standing outside wearing Bermuda shorts, black socks and sandals.

However, I made a commitment to experimentation with Polynesian Culinary Inspiration, and I mean to stick to it. And I don’t wear black socks.

The solution to this apparent dilemma? Cross-cultural foodie fusion!

I decided that what I need to do is to see how I could spice up the old standard hamburger with a Polynesian bite.

So I created a new spice blend out of ingredients from my Polynesian Culinary Pallet:

3 teaspoons sea salt
1 teaspoon turmeric
1 teaspoon ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon fresh ground nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon fresh ground white pepper

The other addition is a simple and painfully predictable one: grilled pineapple. But it has to be fresh pineapple! There’s no comparison to canned pineapple. They’re not hard to carve; slice off the top and bottom, then slice downward on all sides to remove the bumpy skin. They sell pineapple corers if you want a quicker job, but I used a long, thin knife to cut out and remove the core. Slice into 1/4 inch rings and grill over high heat for four minutes on a side. Set them aside.

Roll out about a pound of hamburger to about a quarter inch thick sheet and cut it up into 2″ squares, then season with the spice mixture. Grill these for two or three minutes on a side and serve with a ring of grilled pineapple on a toasted slider bun (we like the slider size because you can eat more of them without feeling guilty).

It’s the turmeric and ginger that really bring the island taste to the party. The two spices together, along with the undertones of nutmeg and cinnamon add a sweetness and tang that cannot be described. Coupled with the pineapple, you have a deliciously different burger. They’re best enjoyed in the flickering light of tiki torches and the sweet strains of slack-key guitar music, maybe accompanied by a fruity drink (umbrella optional).

Turmeric, by the way, is widely hailed by many in the health food sciences as a “miracle spice” for its anti-cancer, anti-inflammatory and pro-metabolism properties. I won’t go into a lot of detail here, but suffice it to say that I’m going to find a way to put turmeric in more of my cooking from here on.

It was only after serving these delightful burgers that I had the inspiration of putting Taro and Sweet Potato chips on the side. On one of my recent Polynesian ingredients junkets I discovered these potato chip alternatives along with other Hawaiian foods. Since both taro and sweet potatoes are starchy, tuberous root plants like the regular old American Russet tater, it goes without saying that they can be sliced up and fried the same way – but being staples of the islands, they fit right in with the other Polynesian food groups. And they’re really good; crunchy and salty and a bit spicy. Next time I’ll remember to have these handy.

Oh – and my choice of garb? Blue jeans with a red & white Hawaiian shirt. Once again, a cross-cultural win. Hope everyone had a great fourth!