The Song of the Coqui

sing. The first night that my sister Laura was here, we sat out on the back deck having an after dinner nightcap, listening to the coqui frogs sing. A pretty, rising two-note song, not unlike some imagined tropical bird. (It sounds like ko-KEE, hence the frog’s name.) Delicate and lilting.

web photo [source]

Until you drive down to the jungles of Puna where the nightly chorus becomes thunderous. Deafening, almost.

The coqui frog was a stowaway to Hawai‘i from Puerto Rico some ten(?) years ago, and the rainy east side of the Big Island has proved to be the ideal habitat for this tiny water-loving creature. And so they have flourished.

In Puerto Rico the coqui are much beloved. But here in Hawai‘i the inhabitants are furious that the coqui’s song is rapidly drowning out that of the birds, as well as anything else one might otherwise hear at night. So the government has declared out-and-out war against the little frog.

Only the males sing, but they go all night long—and sometimes in the daytime too, if it’s been raining. Here’s a short video I took in my back yard, in which you can see the waxing moon peeking through the clouds, and hear the coqui’s song:




There are some locals who want to preserve the coqui. (See here, for example.) And many, even if they don’t like them, have thrown up their hands in despair. I have to agree that it seems unlikely that the attempts to eradicate the coqui from the Islands will prove successful. After all, how do you seek out and destroy—at night, in the rain—hundreds of thousands of quarter-size frogs nestled in the depths of banana and ginger leaves, spread over hundreds of square miles of tropical jungle?

web photo [source]

The evening Laura and I sat outside listening to the coqui, we were laughing about one particular frog that always hangs out in the roof of the garage and has a particularly loud song. Laura—an accomplished jazz singer with a great ear for pitch—cocked her head a moment, and then remarked: “He’s singing a minor seventh.” (She then produced her iPod, onto which she had downloaded a keyboard app, and added: “The first note is an F#.”)

That got us listening more closely to the rising, two-pitch song. “They’re not all a minor seventh,” Laura observed. “Some get almost all the way to an octave.”

“I wonder if the intervals have anything to do with how sexy they are to the females,” I said. “Some only make it to a major sixth; maybe they’re the juveniles.”

But most of the coqui songs seemed pretty darn close to a minor seventh. I looked on line to see if there was anything about the pitches that the coqui sing, but the only reference I found was a poem that includes the lines:

Somewhere a coquí
Coquís its minor 7th

We listened a little while longer, sipping our drinks, and then I said: “Hey, the minor seventh is the ‘There’s a Place’ interval.” (Chorus singers are all taught that you can recognize different intervals by matching them to famous songs. The first two notes of “My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean,” for instance, is a major sixth. See here for a list of them.)

Laura and I both laughed at this fact. As you may know, “There’s a Place For Us” is from West Side Story, which concerns Puerto Ricans now living in New York City. So maybe the coqui, who are also from Puerto Rico, are hoping there’s a place for them here in Hawai‘i.

tiny as your thumb
web photo [source]

Last night we listened to the frogs again. “I wonder if they have perfect pitch—if they always start their song on an F#,” Laura wondered aloud. So I took out my laptop and played the little movie (above) while the coqui sang outside.

Yep. Exactly the same—all started on perfect F sharps. And once again, almost all were singing minor sevenths. Quite the musicians.

I’d say there is indeed a place for you here, Señor Coquí.

Saimin Says...

...eat.your noodles.

Big, fat, chewy noodles. With bonito stock, and crunchy vegetables for contrast. And maybe a bit of meat or fish for extra umami flavor.


Saimin is basically just noodle soup, in essence a form of ramen. But the name is peculiar to Hawai‘i. As explained on the Saimin Boy website,

no one can say definitively that saimin originated in this culture or that culture. Linguistically, some people may note that the word “min” in “saimin” can be interpreted as a variation of the Cantonese word “mein” meaning noodle and the word “sai,” meaning small. Yet this is speculation....

“Saimin is a term peculiar to Hawaii. We do not know when or how it was coined. Local Chinese think saimin is a Japanese dish; local Japanese think it's a Chinese dish.” - Dr. Shunzo Sakamaki, Asian history professor at UH-Manoa...

(More on saimin, plus a recipe, here.)

Being in Hawai‘i—and because my mom adores it—I decided to make some saimin. The base for a lot of Japanese soups is bonito stock, called “dashi.” Rather than make their own from actual fish, most folks buy it in powdered form:


Powdered dashi is surprisingly unsalty, and not too fishy either (it is, however, high in MSG). The box I got here in Hilo (picture above) has directions for miso soup (add miso and salt to the dashi); chige (add soy sauce and red pepper); and hot noodle soup (add soy sauce and salt [I omitted the salt, as the shoyu is plenty salty on its own]).

To make my saimin, I added the dashi (more that the recipe called for, as it tasted too weak) to water and got it simmering.


Next I chopped up some Napa cabbage and put it in our bowls, chopped up some green onion for garnish, and got the noodles and salmon I would be using reading for simmering.


I poached the salmon filets in the stock, and then drained them and let them cool.


Next I put the noodles into the dashi stock to cook:


When the salmon was cool enough to handle, I pulled off the skin.


The noodles—being fresh (though previously frozen)—didn’t take long to cook. I divided them up between the bowls, and placed a piece of salmon on top of each pile.


Then I ladled broth into each bowl, and topped them with green onions (see photo at top of post).

I put shoyu and rooster sauce (Sriracha) on the table for those who wanted them, and we dug in with our chopsticks and spoons. Slurping is encouraged.

* * *

My parents went back home to Santa Monica yesterday (aloha; it was fun!), but my sister Laura arrived for a five-day visit. We had BBQ pork rib tips and lots of Mehana beer last night for dinner.

I leave you with a photo I took at lunch during Japanese week at the Hilo Community College culinary arts student-run restaurant. Panda sushi—so cute!

Crack Seed

eat. For years I’ve seen shops around the Big Island selling goods such as “Seeds ’n Things” and “Crack Seed.” I never knew exactly what they were, but was fascinated by the names. Last week we had lunch at a restaurant in Waimea (the northern, cattle-ranching region of the island), and next door was this shop:


So my mom and I went in. I felt like I’d stepped back in time. The rows and rows of glass jars were like an old-fashioned apothecary’s shop.


Except instead of medicine, it was all snack foods, Chinese/Hawai‘ian-style.

I had always assumed that crack seed was something like sunflower seeds, or sesame candy, or some other kind of seed that you eat. Not so. Turns out it’s preserved fruit, so called (according to one web site) because you crack open the fruit of the cherry or whatever you are preserving, to expose the seed. (Though it seems just as likely to me that the name also comes from those unfortunates who crack their teeth on the seed as they eat.)

close-up of the crack seed in the Waimea store

Here’s what a 1991 article in Sunset magazine had to say about this traditional Hawai‘ian snack food:

Sampling a Hawaiian delicacy(?) . . . crack seed It's sweet, it's sour, it's salty, and it looks like something your mother wouldn't let you put in your mouth. It's crack seed, and generations of Hawaii children have grown up sucking, smacking, and savoring this pungent confection. If you're in Hawaii, you owe yourself a sample....

Crack seed's ancestor was a dried, salted plum Chinese travelers carried for sustenance. The original crack seed was a variation of this and was, truly, cracked seed--plums soaked in brine, sun-dried, washed, and smashed to release extra flavor from their pulverized red seed, then soaked again in a sauce of water, licorics, sweetener, and spices.

As for the snack's arrival in Hawaii, the facts are cloudy. But most authorities believe that the first cracked seed was probably imported commercially around 1900 by Yee Sheong, who sold it from his Yick Lung ("profitable enterprise") store in Honolulu. As business picked up, he began preserving local fruits such as mango in the same traditional fashion....

Original crack seed still sells, but its shrapnel-like consistency has cost it partisans who favor varieties with seeds intact (you don't eat the whole seeds). Visit a larger shop these days and you'll see dozens of varieties, from plum to lemon to cherry. All are dried, then soaked in sweet, sweet-sour, or salty sauce.

Powerfully flavored, often very sticky (a stack of paper napkins is a de rigueur accompaniment to any crack seed session), crack seed may be an acquired taste for most people. Still, on a hot and humid tropical afternoon, a nibble here and there can refresh.

You can read more about crack seed here.

The woman in the store told us that she gets all her crack seed from China. But she does add her own additional flavors to some of the fruit. She let us sample the cherries she was mixing with salt, sugar and other piquant ingredients:


It was my first taste of crack seed—delicious! Sweet, salty, and savory all at once. I can see why they’re an island treat. We felt like kids in a candy store.


I regret to say that I didn’t buy any crack seed that day (though we did buy some saimin bowls from her). I guess I was just too overwhelmed by all the choices. But after I left I thought what a dork I was; I should have just had her pick out a sampling of different types for me. Next time.

My New Favorite Brew

eat. A year ago January when we left Hilo after our last stay, we decided to rent the house out for a year until we returned. Robin posted a listing on Craigslist which was answered by a guy named John, in Kawai‘i. He was about to move to the Big Island, he said, to become the head brewer for the Mehana Brewing Company, located in Hilo. His wife Jessica and golden retriever Berkley would be joining him soon.


We ended up renting to them, and John actually moved in with Robin and me for the last two weeks we were here. Two of the rainiest weeks, I should point out, that we’ve ever experienced here. (I know John had some second thoughts about his decision to move to Hilo during that time.)

Robin and John on a soggy New Years Eve at Coconut Island

My folks and I returned to the Hilo house this last January. John and Jessica had moved out (they were terrific tenants, by the way), and we arrived to find the fridge clean and empty, except for this welcome back gift:

I told you they were swell tenants!

We’ve now become friends, and have had John and Jess (and Berkley) over for dinner a couple of times.

Last week, John invited us to the brewery for a tour. My parents and I were thrilled about this, as we’ve become devotees of the Mehana beers, which—thanks to John’s talent and craftsmanship as brewmeister—are truly delicious and unique.

Mehana (the word means "warmth of the sun" in Hawai‘ian) is actually now a part of the Hawai‘i Nui Brewing Company, which makes beer under both those labels, and has also recently started brewing Primo.

I should also point out that Mehana and Hawai‘i Nui are the only bottled beers brewed on the Big Island; the Kona Brewing Company’s bottled beer is all produced on the mainland (though it does brew draft beer at its Kona facilities).

When we arrived for our tour, John was outside, loading canisters of grain and mash which had been used for beer onto a truck to be taken to a pig farm:


John took us inside, and we immediately gawked at the enormous beer tanks. This one is the last resting spot for the brew before it’s decanted into either kegs or bottles (they do about half kegs and half bottles).


I’m not going to give you a long treatise on beer-making, because (a) it would be tedious and likely boring; and (b) I don’t remember what John said well enough to not come across as a complete idiot. In short, however, the process is as follows (this is a quote from a website I found by John Palmer about brewing beer):

1. Malted barley is soaked in hot water to release the malt sugars.

2. The malt sugar solution is boiled with hops for seasoning.

3. The solution is cooled and yeast is added to begin fermentation.

4. The yeast ferments the sugars, releasing CO2 and ethyl alcohol.

5. When the main fermentation is complete, the beer is bottled with a little bit of added sugar to provide the carbonation.

Here’s John in the main room of the brewery, explaining to us (that’s my folks on the left, and Jessica on the right) the finer points of brewing.

sorry about the sucky picture quality
(if you want to see some good photos of the brewery, go here)

He showed us the hops they use, which are made into pellets for ease of transport and use. (I ate one, which was kinda dumb, as it was very bitter. I am not a fan of hoppy beers like IPA.)


I liked the sign in pidgin on this stack of cases for shipment to the Mauna Kea Beach Hotel, on the Kona side of the island:


The tour was thirsty work, and we were rewarded afterwards with a tasting of seven of the beers brewed on the premises. First up was the Hawai‘i Lager, a light beer with a hint of citrus and a crisp finish.

Next we tried the Humpback Blue, which is also on the light side, but more full-bodied than the lager. This is my mom’s favorite. It reminds me a bit of a Japanese beer, but with notes of tropical fruit. John created the Humpback Blue after he came to the brewery, and told us that the yeast he uses for it is a Belgian strain.

Dad liked the Sunset Amber Ale the best, which was next in our tasting. It has a rich, nutty flavor. My personal fav is the Volcano Red Ale, which is similar to the Sunset, but to my mind maltier and smoother.

The next brew we had was a seasonal beer, the Southern Cross, which is reminiscent of one of those sweet, dark German beers, but a lot lighter. It was a bit too sweet for me, I must admit. (But hey, if I raved about all of the beers, you wouldn’t believe me about how good they were, right?)

Last up for the Hawai‘i Nui/Mehana beers was the ’alala Hawai‘ian Crow Porter, which was similar to other porters I’ve had, but not as thick—to match the local taste, John said, since it’s hotter here than in most places where you drink porter.

Jessica pulling us our porter

We thought we were done, but then John brought in a pitcher of Primo to sample. I know I had this iconic beer long ago—probably as a teenager—but I didn’t remember what it tasted like. John said that the family has long guarded the recipe, even after the beer stopped being made. I gather that Pabst bought the company some years back, and has since been brewing the beer for bottles. The Primo that Hawai‘i Nui produces is only for kegs, for sale on the Islands. It was very light—almost like the Mexican beer Sol. Not too much to my taste (especially after all those complex beers we had tasted right before), but I could see how it would be the perfect brew to have icy cold on a blistering hot day.

Here are the beers we tasted, clockwise from the top: Humpback Blue, Hawai‘i Lager, Primo, Southern Cross, ‘alala Porter, Sunset Ale, Volcano Red (in the center, since it’s my favorite).


I’m not sure how easy it is to get Mehana or Hawai‘i Nui beer on the mainland, but it’s readily available all over Hawai‘i. And if you’re ever in Hilo, be sure to stop by the brewery tasting room! (275 E. Kawili St, Hilo, (808) 934-8211)

Mahalo John! You da bomb, and your beers rock!!

Sulfur Dioxide and Jim Beam

eat. Last night we went up to the Volcano National Park for drinks, dinner, and an “After Dark in the Park” talk by a volcanologist about the status of the current eruptions.

The first thing we did when we got to the Park was stop by the observatory, to see how Halema‘uma‘u was faring. This week marks the two-year anniversary of the current eruption at this small crater within the larger Kilauea caldera. (See USGS summary of eruption from one year ago, here.) For two years, Halema‘uma‘u has been pumping out steam, sulfur dioxide, ash, smoke, and the occasional lava bomb, pretty much nonstop. Here are my mom and dad yesterday afternoon, with the steam vent behind them.


And here’s a shot I took at night of the same vent about a year ago:


Next, we drove a half mile to the Kilauea Military Camp (KMC), home to the Lava Lounge bar, for cocktails.

from inside the bar, looking out at the old barracks

KMC is an old military resort and training ground dating back to 1916, located on the Volcano National Park grounds. The KMC facilities are technically only open to active and retired military and their guests. However, our friend Bud—always good at smelling out a new watering hole—discovered some years back that the cocktail lounge and restaurant don’t ask folks for their military ID. So he and my parents started going there for drinks and a meal before the “After Dark in the Park” talks.

Bud and my dad at the Lava Lounge,
with my Jim Beam/rocks in the foreground

Our drinks finished, we retired next door to the Crater Rim Cafe, where we all ordered the salad bar and baked potato (a great deal, at $6 each). In honor of the occasion, my mom created a volcanic peak out of her soft-serve ice cream:


The lecture at the Park Headquarters was terrific. Here’s the blurb about it:

Kilauea’s Summit Eruption:
What’s Up and What’s Next?

On March 19, 2008, an explosion within Halema`ma`u Crater heralded the start of a new eruption, the first at Kilauea’s summit since 1982. Surprisingly, this eruption was not preceded by traditional indicators, such as earthquakes and ground swelling. Also unusual, Kilauea’s new summit eruption occurred without interrupting activity on the volcano’s east rift zone, which has been erupting nearly nonstop since 1983. Although lava is frequently visible deep within the summit vent, it has not erupted significant amounts of ash or spatter. Instead, it has emitted great quantities of volcanic gas, creating a major impact on Hawai`i Island’s air quality. On the second anniversary of this unique eruption, Hawaiian Volcano Observatory volcanologist Mike Poland explores its possible causes, and discusses how Kilauea’s summit eruption might evolve in the months and years to come.

The lecturer said he thinks that the release of so much sulfur dioxide from the Halema‘uma‘u eruption may be depriving the other eruption—on the east rift zone (Pu‘u O‘o)—of its SO2 . As he explained it, the Halema‘uma‘u vent could be causing the east rift zone eruption “to run out of gas” (har, har), which would explain why that lava flow has been slowing down. (Which is a bummer, as Robin and I like to hike out and see the lava flow. Robin, I hate to tell you this, but it’s pretty much shut down as of right now.)

lava flowing into the sea from the east rift zone over a year ago

The good news—at least for volcano junkies like Robin and me, as well as the volcanologist who spoke last night—is that if this is true, and the east rift zone does shut down entirely, the Halema‘uma‘u eruption could become much more active (after all, that magma’s gotta go somewhere), and the Kilauea caldera could come alive again with molten lava, as when Mark Twain saw it in 1866 (read Twain’s report here). Which would be totally bitchin’.

Kimchee and Me

eat. Yes, I really should be blogging about pies today, since it’s pi Day (3.14). But I haven’t made any pastry in some time, so you’re getting kimchee instead.


Kimchee (also spelled kim chi or gimchi) is a spicy, fermented Korean vegetable dish, used as a side or garnish. It’s eaten with most meals in Korea, and I gather that when deprived of it for more than a few days, Koreans—and others who have gotten the kimchee bug—will suffer serious cravings and withdrawal.

So much so, that when the first Korean went into space two years ago, the government resolved to send up some kimchee with him. Here is an excerpt from the New York Times article about the difficulties of creating “space kimchi”:

“If a Korean goes to space, kimchi must go there, too,” said Kim Sung Soo, a Korea Food Research Institute scientist...

After millions of dollars and years of research, South Korean scientists successfully engineered kimchi... for space travel...

we Yanks prefer chocolate in space

“The key was how to make a bacteria-free kimchi while retaining its unique taste, color and texture,” said Lee Ju Woon at the Korean Atomic Energy Research Institute, who began working on the newfangled kimchi in 2003 with samples provided by his mother.

Ordinary kimchi is teeming with microbes, like lactic acid bacteria, which help fermentation. On Earth they are harmless, but scientists fear they could turn dangerous in space if cosmic rays cause them to mutate. Another problem is that kimchi has a short shelf life, especially when temperatures fluctuate rapidly, as they do in space.

“Imagine if a bag of kimchi starts fermenting and bubbling out of control and bursts all over the sensitive equipment of the spaceship,” Lee said.

Lee’s team found a way to kill the bacteria with radiation while retaining 90 percent of the original taste.

Now, I don’t have any particular craving for kimchee, but I do quite enjoy it. So a couple weeks ago while at the grocery store, I decided to buy some. I was delighted to see that there was an entire refrigerated shelf in the produce department dedicated to the briny delicacy. But when I looked at the prices—five bucks for a mere pint?!—I balked.

I should just make my own, I decided, noting that Napa cabbage (called Chinese cabbage here in Hawai‘i) was just 99 cents a pound. So I came home and looked up recipes on the internet. I read through a bunch, and ended up combining a few. Here’s what I did (recipe at end of post):

I cut up a half a head of Napa cabbage into one-inch squares, sprinkled it with salt, put it into a large bowl, and covered it with cold water.


Next, I add two thinly sliced two carrots,


and then weighted down the veg with a plate and heavy bowl, and put this in the fridge overnight.


The next day, I rinsed off the cabbage and carrots, and put them back in the bowl.


Now for the other flavor-ingredients: Chop up garlic, ginger and green onions.


In addition, you add red pepper flakes or hot chili sauce (I used Shriracha, which we call “rooster sauce”) and sugar:


These get mixed into the vegetables,


and then the whole thing is transferred into a glass jar (in this case, a large pickle jar).


Press down the vegetables with your hand, and add enough cold water to cover them:

I should have used the whole head of cabbage,
as there wasn’t enough to fill my huge jar

Let the jar sit out on the counter for two or three days, to ferment. I let mine go for three days, and tasted it this morning. Not bad; it actually tasted like real live kimchee. Cool.

But I thought it needed more sugar, so I added about two more tablespoons, mixed it up, and put the jar in the fridge. Refrigeration slows the fermentation process, but as the kimchee is still alive, it will continue to ferment.

The additional sugar helped, but I must admit it’s not the most flavorful kimchee I’ve ever had. It needs more umami. So perhaps next time I’ll tweak the recipe a bit—maybe add some fish sauce, which some of the recipes call for? (Do leave a comment if you have any ideas!)


We’re going to have it tonight with the kalua pork that’s slow-roasting right now in the oven.


Kimchee

½ large head Napa/Chinese cabbage, cut into 1” pieces
2 carrots, thinly sliced
4 T salt
enough water to cover the veg

2 T garlic, finely chopped
2 T fresh ginger, finely chopped
2 green onions, coarsely chopped
4 T sugar
1 T hot chili sauce, or 1 t red pepper flakes (use more or less, depending on how spicy you like your food)
1 T fish sauce (optional)


Place the cabbage and carrots in a bowl, and sprinkle with the salt. Add water to cover, and mix well. Weigh the veg down with a plate or bowl, and put in fridge overnight.

The next day, rinse the cabbage and carrots with cold water, and put them back in the bowl. Add all the other ingredients, and mix well.

Transfer it all to a large glass jar, press it down with your hands, and then add enough cold water to cover the vegetables. (Make sure to leave an inch or two of space at the top of the jar, to allow room for the gas that will be created during fermentation.) Let the jar sit at room temperature for two to three days.

Once fermented, store it in the fridge. It will continue to ferment slowly in the refrigerator, becoming increasingly sour and flavorful. As long as you use clean utensils to take out small portions, it should keep for up to a month in the fridge.

Lunch at the Bamboo Hale

eat. When I learned that the community college in Hilo had a restaurant run by the culinary arts department, I resolved to check it out. I was a culinary arts student in Santa Cruz some fifteen years ago, and know that the food served by the advanced-class students—though occasionally disappointing—is generally exceptionally delicious at these restaurants, and always beautifully presented. And, the meals tend to be a great deal.

We went to the Bamboo Hale (hale—pronounced “hah-leh”—means “house” in Hawai‘ian) last week, for Turkey week—the country, not the bird.

my dad in the foreground, with instructor/chef Sandy Barr
in the background, chatting with a customer

An amuse-bouche was presented to us within moments of being seated: a sort of ceviche made with opelu (mackerel scad), diced vegetables and parsley oil. Yum!


Next up was the appetizer: herb and cheese börek, with spicy roasted red pepper sauce. These phyllo-filled pastries were crisp and flaky, and the smoky pepper sauce was a perfect accompaniment.


The börek was followed by the ubiquitous Greek—I mean Turkish (they’re clearly the same, according to the Hilo cooking students)—salad. It was colorful and crunchy and acted as a refreshing palate-cleanser, but not terribly exciting. The flat bread “with za’atar-infused olive oil,” however, was superb. (The ingredients for the spice mixture za’atar are ground sumac berries, roasted sesame seeds, and green herbs.)

check out that groovy bread plate

For the main course, we had the choice between saffron-marinated chicken kabobs or sautéed swordfish* marinated in lemon-tomato butter sauce. The chicken was a bit dry, the baba ghanoush had way too much fresh garlic, and the red onions were so hot as to be almost inedible.


The swordfish, however, was one of the best dishes I’ve ever tasted. This is what happens at student-run restaurants: you can swing from dismal to delectable within moments. The fish was perfectly cooked—moist and tender—and the butter sauce heavenly. And just look how pretty it looks:


I didn’t get a shot of the dessert, because I was in the bathroom when it came, and it had already been divided up onto plates (we were sharing) by the time I came back, ruining the presentation. But it was yummy: citrus-poached “cookies” (more like a moist cake) served with apricot swirl ice cream.

Although the food was on the whole excellent (and the price right—$20 each for four courses, including tax and tip), one of the best parts of the experience was getting to interact with the kids in the program. The students take turns at each of the restaurant stations, which means they have to wait tables for part of the year. Which they hate. But they were all adorable—if not always perfect—and very, very earnest and eager to please.


Next week we’re going back for Japanese week.

(If you’re ever in Hilo and want to check out the restaurant, call (808) 933-9988 for reservations. They’re open only for lunch, Wed. through Fri. during the school term.)


* After the lunch, concerned that I might have committed a no-no, I looked up swordfish on the Seafood Watch list. I was happy to see that the Hawai‘ian-caught variety is considered a “best choice.”