life as I know it

Photos: me.myself.and i.

ash-ley — Sat, 15 Mar 2014 06:15:00 GMT

Photos: Passport & Plate - My Edible Story

ash-ley — Fri, 14 Mar 2014 12:57:00 GMT

Ingredients
I have grown up with a dish that my family refers to as “Kums” – a no doubt favorite among us all. Taking witness to our fight for the last bites will prove my above statement to be very true. My grandmother was never able to find a direct English translation for her coveted dish, so Kums may very well be a Persson family created word. Through research of my own, the best comparable dish I was able to find is called Kroppkakor, which is described as a Swedish potato dumpling and is very similar to our beloved version.

Filling:
4-5 Pound Pork Roast; cubed, salted and peppered
¼ Cup of Lard; add to the pork when frying

Main Dish:
10 Pound bag of large-medium white skinned Potatoes
1 Cup of Flour
2 ½ Tablespoons of Salt
1 ½ Tablespoons of Pepper

*You must have a grinder in order to prepare the potatoes.

Sauce:
¼ Cup of Lard
½ Cup of Flour; this is an estimate as you will add flour to the melted lard until a paste-like consistency is achieved
4 Cups of Milk
Salt, Pepper and Sugar to taste

*Amounts will make 14-16 Kums

How to prepare this recipe
Assemble everyone in sight because you will need all the help you can get. This recipe is definitely a team effort; while one stage of the recipe is in process, the next step must already be in the works. As kids we always made it seem like such a chore to help grandma in the kitchen, however the process of preparing Kums is a memory that is equally as grand as sharing the meal at the end of the day – both best to be experienced to be truly appreciated.

Pre-Work:
Slice the pork roast into small cubes and fry together with lard; set aside for later.

Preparation:
1. Peel the potatoes and slice into thin strips; feed these strips through the grinder
2. While the potatoes are being grinded, another person has taken the completed portion to begin squeezing out excess potato juice by hand. Transfer these potatoes into grandma’s big yellow bowl. Each layer of drained potato is accompanied by a generous layer of flour, salt, and pepper. This will go on for roughly 4 cycles of layering
3. Now mix! Add flour accordingly in order to get a consistency that allows you to shape the mixture into fist-sized balls
4. Ever so slightly flatten the ball you have created, grooving out a small dent; scoop about a half dozen pieces of fried pork into the dent and roll back into a ball
5. Gently place the ball into simmering water
6. Repeat until all of the potato mixture is used

*Leave to cook for 1 hour.

Sauce:
1. Melt lard in the pan previously used to fry the pork; add flour to create a loose paste
2. Add milk; continue to whisk
3. Add salt, pepper and sugar to taste

Serve:
Most enjoy Kums topped with the freshly made sauce. My personal preference? Cut the Kums into bite size pieces and sprinkle with sugar.

Any leftover pork not used as filling is to be served as a complement to the Kums. Grandpa’s cure for a healthy appetite is to enjoy a whole pork chop on the side.

Leftovers: just as good the second day. My family likes to slice each Kum into 3 cakes. Fry up the cakes in a pan and enjoy with drizzled syrup.

The story behind this recipe
There is an unspoken thrill that is shared through the passing of a recipe from one generation to the next. I have only ever been on the receiving end of the pass, looking forward to the day when I can share my edible story with children, and eventually grandchildren of my own. Until that time, I leave with you, the reader, my story of old-fashioned cooking that originated in Sweden, travelled through the decades, and landed on my plate.

I come from a Swedish influence on both my mom and my dad’s side of the family. They both grew up in the village of Stockholm, Saskatchewan, which is a small Swedish settlement. The Swedes who came over to Canada carried with them some comforts of home – recipes from ‘the old country’ playing an obvious part. In times when money was scarce and potatoes were plentiful, Kums were a saving grace for many large families. Something that was once prepared to merely settle hunger pains, have evolved into a popular item throughout Sweden and within the immigrated families who still enjoy them to this day. The dish has evolved through time but that is what makes each regional version and each family’s variation unique.

I relish over the stories of how my grandparents offered my first sample of Kums at a fresh young age of one. I am certain that this early introduction had a lot to do with pure excitement and pride on their part, anxious to share a piece of our family history with the upcoming tastebuds.

A Local Encounter that Changed my Perspective - The Nod of Approval

ash-ley — Fri, 19 Apr 2013 12:01:26 GMT

The men warily shuffle over making room for my backpacking butt to sit and enjoy the show. Why we are seated here, I’m not really sure, but looking out into the mass crowd of curious brown faces, I realize this is really the only spot left.

As everyone strains to gawk at us sitting amongst the band, I become instantly aware of my unwashed hair. Thankfully the sizzle of incense is wafting by and mixes in with my locks; I might look out of place but I’ll smell like I belong.

I turn to greet my neighbor. My smile returned by a judging “uhm” and a nod. Tough crowd. I hear the distinct sound of denim ripping as I slide across the rough bench in an attempt to get comfy.

I find it just as exhilarating to collect rips in my jeans as it is to add country flags onto my backpack. I settle myself with the fresh memory of the sounding rip.

The first note rings out as a queue to the show beginning. First sounding like plump raindrops falling into puddles, the music soon gathers momentum as each musician adds notes. I watch the dressed up characters spew exaggerated actions across the stage. Music and dance fill the nicks of time between costume changes and scenes.

The show before us is winding down with the beginning of the last song. The leathered man beside me catches my eye and holds it. With one swoop he picks up my empty hand and fills it with a padded piece of wood, throwing the pair against his instrument.

I later learn this traditional musical instrument is called angklung. The distinct “klung” sound that bellows out is definitely suitable to its name.

The next note I do alone, looking to the old eyes for approval. He isn’t a man of many words but I got the message. My questioning gaze is returned with another, yet less gruff sounding “uhm” and a nod. I can’t help but notice the small smile turning up at his lip. I wiggle my toes like him as I keep wailing on the bamboo pipes of his instrument.

I lean back and close my eyes. Each “klung” radiates from my palm and through my body. The woody swirl of incense floats up my nostrils and straight to my head, still masking my unwashed hair. The childlike cluster of instruments brings a gurgling laugh from the pit of my belly.

Opening my eyes back up to the moment, I catch the old man’s head now bobbling up and down in continuous approval.

I don’t speak Bahasa, nor he English. But we understand each other.

For this splash of time we both speak music.

My Scholarship entry - Seeing the world through other eyes

ash-ley — Mon, 23 Apr 2012 11:20:02 GMT

When every inch of gnarled floor and battered seat had already been claimed, my friend and I were stuffed into the engine room with 6 other people. We arranged ourselves between bags and gasoline cans, squeezed into vacant dirty corners. The roar of the engine rattled inside my head and chest, as if I had a 9 hour long cough. The fumes from the engine gave us a dull high. We kept rotating spots around the tiny wood framed window, craving a few breaths of clean air. Between gasps, I watched a scene of life unfold along the passing banks. Like watching an old-time filmstrip, everything in slow motion, the picture dulled by evening light. I was jealous of the brown bottomed children jumping naked into the water. I craved the stories to be told by the craggy old men hauling in their day’s catch. I wanted to know the exotic young women scrubbing their clothes. A life I could only imagine. My reflection shattered by a Laos tongue hollering orders in English. I couldn’t grasp every word, but the message was clear. The tide was too low for the boat to go on. I followed a mini parade of backpackers making our way through Laos villages passing out high-fives to the children, along blazed trails and to a beach; also known as our bed for the night. That evening, curious villagers came to finger our clothes and hair, examine our language and actions. We were all studying them too. Everything I had I wanted to give to them. Everything they did I wanted to understand. We experienced each other for the first time and through this two-way observation I became very self aware. It lent me an opportunity to view myself from the perspective of village elders. From the perspective of a 10 year-old girl towing her baby brother in the fabric tied over her shoulder. The way I examined them examining me: breathtaking. We’re all human. What an astounding raw exposure, to look into another’s eyes and see yourself. Perhaps we were watching a filmstrip of each other, characters of our own story.