The Perfect Fried Shallots

Aunt Yanti, my mom's direct two-years younger sister, is a very good cook, considering the amount of time she has spent in the kitchen for more than twenty-five years, without another full-time job as my mom did. She is known to be the best cook in the family, as far as I remember, especially with variety of sambal she made for all of us when we went to a family vacation several years ago. Other than our fun six cousins, she was also one of the reasons why my siblings and I loved to spend summer vacation in her house when we were younger.

The last time I was home, she made me this very crips deep fried shallots as rice topping for every meal, for me to take all the way here. It was the closest taste that reminds me of home, a seducing taste of sweet with a dip of bitter, brown and crips and fragile. I finished them all in a week.

"What's this," the only comment David made when he doesn't have a clue of a thing. Similar comment he made when I made sambal tempe, crushed fried tempeh (fermented soy bean) with thai-basil and fresno chillies, he looked at the food as if it was some alien's food, with the same look that sort of questioning why in the world we eat those food.

"Deep fried shallots, put it on top of your rice,"

"Is it spicy,"

"I thought you're the spicy king; no, it's not hot at all,"

That's when David fell in love with my fried shallots, later he demands shallots with everything I cook. Not as many other American friend's I have, David craves for hot food, his favorite is sambal potato I created, although I rarely cook the food any longer, since freshno developed a sparky smells, I only made it in summer when I can leave the windows wide open.

Making fried shallots are not easy. It requires certain distance to slice it since it made my eyes watered after slicing a bunch of them. It also requires a slow heat but I have to make sure it is hot enough for the shallots. Never leave the stove when frying shallots even though it takes time to brown, because even when they lightly burned, they have to go to the garbage can. That's why I appreciate Tante (aunt) Yanti's patience in the kitchen. Fried shallots is just a sample of many good dishes she cooks.

There is a BockFest parade today, Cincinnati's tradition to celebrate the coming of Spring with a breaking of beer drum. Beer is a big deal in Cincinnati years ago, where the City hosted several brewing companies, and when there's a salon in every corner that even open on Sundays! Ironically, the City is also a home for conservatives religious German/Lutheran and Catholic citizens. The nature of drinking beer and going to church at the same time is common, with "drinking in moderation" as the key. Although some of the church goers I've known totally object drinking habit, not beer, not even wine.

"I think that's just an excuse to drink beer," I mentioned to David, a one-hundred percent Cincinnatian, "It's not even close to Spring, we still have twenty one days to go, right. I like to think St. Patrick's Day is the day to celebrate Spring," David did not agree with me. He insisted to celebrate BockFest on our own before we go to Final Friday, another excuse to celebrate weekend at the last friday of the month, where most likely I would have to choose where to go since I wouldn't have that many times to walk around. And David's excuse to celebrate BockFest is to have a party at my new apartment, and made me cook! Which is okay since I love to cook, and I won't forget his fried shallots.

Every BockFest, there's a parade that started at Arnold's, a restaurant and bar right in front of David's house, through Main Street where I would have the best spot to take pictures. The parade consists of the Bag Pipe band, Christian Morlein's bockfest band, several people who dress like Scottish priests in brown ropes, and many other people who would dress as they wanted to. Last year when I stood near the street, I could see a "monster" dressed like Japanese cartoon's monster right in front of me. I thought it was funny but the five-year old Gorgy, my boss' son who stood next to me did not think so, he held my hand tight and grinned as if the creature was an ugly leprechaun.

I didn't have a chance to look closer this year, since we're on the third floor, my best view is from my view-finder of my camera. David agreed to take pictures with the crappy digital camera, while I took it with my Nikon F2.