Easy breakfast fried rice

I make a point of always bringing leftover rice home from just about whatever Chinese restaurant it is that we visit. I love those cartons of rice hanging around in my fridge for a day or two, as they make life so much easier. Made into congee, reheated in the microwave with some other dinner items on top, or tossed in a soup, this extra rice symbolizes lots of fast meal possibilities, as far as I’m concerned. So, I am always carting boxes extra rice back home with good ideas in mind.

Chopped onions & kimchi

Fried rice is one of my eternal go-to dishes for lots of reasons. First off, it’s simply delicious when done right. Second, it’s super speedy. And three, it’s always open to new additions. Everything depends upon my mood, the season, and what is hanging out in the refrigerator.

Today is one version that tends to show up regularly for breakfast when we have been eating lots of nonspicy foods for a couple of days. Like this morning, I desperately needed something to jumpstart my taste buds, and the thought of kimchi fried rice immediately made me very happy. A good friend had given me a quart of homemade Korean pickles, and what better way to honor them than in a steaming bowl of rice? So, out came the leftover grains, some organic eggs, and fresh bunches of green onions and cilantro. I was ready to go.

Fresh eggs are always loved here

Feel free to make this as spicy or mild as you like. This definitely is a template, not a recipe. Sub in some leftover meats for one or two of the eggs, if you like, or go vegan and use just vegetables or maybe some nuts. This is one very forgiving way with leftovers, and as far as I’m concerned, a great reason to order extra rice if given half a chance.

By the way, China’s Northeast – which includes Manchuria – has lots of ethnic Koreans, so this could probably be considered as a Northeast dish. But to be honest, this is more of a personal interpretation of Korean fried rice.

I. Love. Leftovers.

Kimchi fried rice

Hánguó pàocài chǎofàn 韓國泡菜炒飯

Northeast (kinda) and Korean

Serves 2 as a main dish, 4 as a side

2 to 3 cups cold cooked rice

4 tablespoons peanut or vegetable oil, divided in half

3 large eggs, lightly beaten

½ cup (or more) coarsely chopped kimchi, plus some of the pickling juice

2 green onions, chopped – white kept separate from the greens

Half a bunch of cilantro, coarsely chopped

Toast the rice for best flavor

1. Loosen up the cold rice so that there are no large clumps. Set your wok over high heat and when it is hot, swirl in 2 tablespoons oil. Sprinkle in the rice and let it brown lightly before tossing it. Repeat this a couple of times until the rice is toasty and heated through.

2. Make a well in the center of the rice, add the rest of the oil, and immediately pour in the eggs. Cook them, stirring the eggs now and then, until they have formed lumps, and then toss the eggs with the rice. Add the kimchi and onion whites, toss with the rice until lightly combined and heated through, and then adjust the seasoning as needed. Add the onion greens and cilantro, toss a final time, and serve hot.

  

Time to break out my favorite Chinese salad...

Summer Solstice was last week, and I don't know about you, but I always get sad on this day knowing that the days will start to grow shorter. I luxuriate in the long days and short nights of summer, feeling less lazy if I get up late since I know there will be plenty of sunlight throughout the evening. Perhaps I should grow wings and learn to migrate...

But autumn does have its definite good points, cooler weather being one. Until then, summer has finally hit the inland parts of our area with a blazing vengeance.  

Cool, crisp cucumbers

Last night the thought of actually cooking something seemed way beyond my abilities, so I dug around in the fridge and pantry and came up with the main ingredients for one of the best summer dishes around.  Its Chinese name is pretty prosaic and not really up to the challenge of stimulating a heat-ravaged appetite - shredded chicken with mung bean sheets - so I'll tell you what I usually call it: Manchurian chicken salad.

This is a popular appetizer in the northern provinces, with lots of places laying claim to inventing it, and who wouldn't want credit for something this tasty and easy? But from what I've been able to ferret out from following its sesame-scented trail, this is a native of China's far northeast, the New England - if you will - of China.

Fenpi from Tianjin

The only unusual ingredient is the dried mung bean sheets (fenpi), but you'll find this in just about any Chinese grocery, and it is quite happy to sit around on your shelf for ages. (Try it too in a No Excuses Tomato Casserole with Mung Bean Sheets.) The labels will have different translations of what it is, like "green beans starch sheet" in the photo on the right, but check out what the actual sheets look like down on the left. Also, there will often be something on the package that says it's from the port city of Tianjin, which tells you you're on the right track. If you don't have access to fenpi, whip up the basic ingredient in this super delicious summer recipe that calls for mung bean powder, and you'll be in business.

Tender little cucumbers bring a ray of cooling summer freshness to this dish, and I like to have leftover chicken on hand anyway whenever the heat takes off; in this case I bought a whole roasted chicken at a local farmers' market. However, if you don't have any chicken on hand, steam a couple of boneless breasts while the mung bean sheets are soaking, and they'll be ready in no time.

Dried fenpi

Mustard is a relative newcomer to Chinese cuisine, but it's entrenched itself firmly into many local dishes. Cantonese dim sum would be unthinkable to me without the sharp bite of Colman's mustard to cut the rich pork that adorns so many of its dishes. You can use Colman's here, too, by just mixing the powder with enough water to give it a creamy consistency. And that would be fine. But it wouldn't be great.

To really kick this dressing over the edge, use a nice Dijon-style mustard. It has a mellower edge that cozies up really well with the sesame paste. Bits of green onion and raw ginger give enough zip to entertain your taste buds, so the addition of a hot mustard here to my mind just ends up being startling instead of tasty.

The perfect dressing

Traditionally, this dressing is not cooked, but I've found that mixing it together in a small skillet brings the flavors together more and mellows them out. It also gives the sesame paste the chance to melt and smooth out, so you don't get any lumps.

This recipe makes twice the amount of dressing you'll need for an appetizer, but I am firm in recommending that you make this extra amount because it is a fabulous salad dressing. In fact, last night I whacked up a head of lettuce and divided it among two big dinner plates. Then, I layered this appetizer over each of the piles of lettuce and had an incredibly good salad. And the dressing was the exact amount needed.

You can make your own sesame paste, by the way, especially if you have a cup or so of Toasted Sesame Seeds.  Just whiz it away in a blender with some roasted sesame oil, and you're in business. It's really really cheap this way and tastes miles and away better than anything you can find in a store.

Manchurian chicken salad 

Jīsī lāpí  雞絲拉皮 

Northeast

Serves 6 to 8 as an appetizer, or 2 to 3 as an entree

Bean sheets:

3 sheets dried mung bean sheets (fenpi)

Boiling water to cover

1 tablespoon toasted sesame oil 

Chicken and cukes:

12 to 16 ounces cooked, boneless chicken

2 Persian (or other small seedless) cucumbers

Dressing:

1 inch fresh ginger, peeled

1 green onion, green part only

½ cup toasted sesame paste

½ cup toasted sesame oil 

2 tablespoons good dark vinegar (like balsamic)

3 tablespoons sugar

¼ cup light soy sauce

3 tablespoons prepared mustard (Dijon is great here)

¼ cup water

Garnish:

2 tablespoons Toasted Sesame Seeds

Small bunch of cilantro, optional

Soaking the fenpi

1. Place the dried mung bean sheets in a large work bowl and pour the boiling water over them to cover. The sheets will begin to soften in a few minutes, so if any areas are sticking above the water, use your tongs to jab them down under. Allow the sheets to soak and rehydrate for about half an hour while you prepare the rest of the meal. (If you are making this a couple hours ahead of time, soak the mung bean strips during the last hour so that they don't become an unmanageable tangle.)

2. Shred or cut the chicken into thin strips. (You can remove the skin, if you like, but I enjoy the added texture and flavor that skin can bring.) Trim the ends off of the cucumbers and split them lengthwise before cutting them in half across the middle; cut each piece into thin strips as shown on the right. Cover the chicken and cukes and chill them until it's time to serve this dish.

3. Finely grate the ginger and chop the green onion leaves into small pieces. Melt the sesame paste and sesame oil together in a small skillet, using a silicone spatula to scrape the bottom. Add the vinegar, sugar, soy sauce, and mustard, and then mix them together and take a taste, adjusting with more of anything so that it tastes really good. Stir in the ginger and onions, and then loosen up the dressing with the water; you should end up with a sauce that has the consistency of heavy cream. Let it cool down by pouring it into a wide bowl. (You can make the recipe ahead of time up to this point and chill everything.)

Silky sheets in the kitchen

4. Drain the mung bean sheets and pour cold water over them, but do this carefully; they will have turned completely clear at this point and are rather fragile. You probably won't have to cut them since they tend to fall apart into bite-sized pieces all by themselves. Gently toss them with the bit of sesame oil to keep them from sticking together.

5. Just before serving, layer the mung bean sheets on your serving platter, then the cucumbers and chicken, and pour half of the dressing over the top. Garnish with the sesame seeds and cilantro, and have the extra dressing on the side for anyone who cares for more.

The woods have ears in Manchuria

Manchuria in the northeast, like Yunnan in the southwest, is home to deep forests where mushrooms of every stripe grow. 

And, like Yunnan, these often are treated with a minimum of seasonings and preparation in order to turn them into wonderful dishes that are all about the character of that particular variety of mushroom.

Wood ears—a direct translation of their Chinese name—is a fairly bland fungus that smells mildly fishy when fresh and grows mainly on elder trees. Its allure, then, is not as much about its flavor as its delightful gelatinous texture. 

Collected mainly in the fall, which is why the Chinese name here is literally “autumn wood ear,” it is ascribed many helpful attributes in Chinese medicine, including lowering bad cholesterol levels.

Fresh is best if you can find it, and cultivated varieties are becoming more common in markets, at least near where I live in the Bay Area. But dried ones are good, too. They can easily be rehydrated by pouring boiling water over them. 

A specialty of the Northeast

Like dried black mushrooms, these plumped-up wood ears will not be as tender as fresh ones, and their flavor will be even a bit more subdued, but they are still very good.

Wood ears braised with green onions

Cōngshāo qīumù’ér 蔥燒秋木兒  

Northeast
Serves 4 to 6

1 medium leek (or 4 green onions), trimmed

4 cups (or so, lightly packed) fresh or completely plumped-up dehydrated wood ears

2 tablespoons oil

6 tablespoons rice wine

2 tablespoons oyster sauce

4 teaspoons regular soy sauce, or to taste

2 teaspoons sugar

1. Trim the dark green leaves off the leak, cut it in half through the root, and then wash between the leaves very carefully to remove all of the grit. Pat the leek dry. Cut the leek on the diagonal into thin shreds. (If using green onions, simply cut both the white and green parts into 2-inch lengths.) Carefully rinse the fresh or rehydrated wood ears and either shake or pat them dry.

Flash-fried leeks

2. Heat a wok over high heat until it starts to smoke, and then add the oil. Swirl it around and add all of the leek shreds or green onion. Quickly stir-fry them until they barely begin to brown, and toss in the wood ears. Stir-fry these together until the wood ears are almost cooked through. (Fresh ones will start to make little explosions when this happens.)

3. Add the rice wine, oyster sauce, soy sauce, and sugar to the wood ears and toss them thoroughly. Taste and adjust the seasoning. Serve hot.

Tips

Store raw wood ears like any other mushroom: without rinsing and in a paper bag, which will absorb any extra moisture and keep down both fungal invasions and rot.

Dry ones keep pretty much forever if stored in a sealed container in a dark cupboard.

Dog nipples dipped in syrup?! Why, yes please...

To help celebrate the Year of the Snake, which starts this Sunday (Feb. 10), I've been looking into the meaning of the name of sachima, the sweet pastry that is more like a Chinese Rice Krispies Treat than anything else I can think of. This is something that is as much a part of northern Chinese celebrations this time of year as peppermint cookies are to Christmas around my house.

"Why all this fuss about a name?" you ask. 

Exactly. You would think that a rose is a rose is a rose, right? But not when horses are sanded, dog nipples are dipped in syrup, and tall tales send you in twelve different directions all at once, most with dead ends and shaggy dog stories mucking up the trail.

You'll see what I mean when you read "A Chinese New Year Treat Wrapped in Mystery" in today's Zester Daily...

Sachima!

"During my eight years in Taiwan, I learned to adore Chinese food in all its permutations. One sweet snack I loved in particular would start showing up in the local pastry shops as Chinese New Year rolled around. This was the only time when squares of sachima could be eaten in a perfectly fresh state, the strips of fried dough collapsing at each bite, the syrup still gooey and luscious, the raisins sweet and tender.

"I had been told that these were traditional Beijing treats, and I took that as gospel for a long time. But the name always confused me, as it made no sense in Chinese. Most stores displayed signs that said 沙其馬 shāqímǎ, which literally means “sand his horse” -- hardly a mouthwatering image. So I started looking into this, and the more I looked, the weirder things got...."

(Read the rest here on Zester Daily. And this also includes a detailed recipe and slideshow on making your own New Year treats. Put on your sweatpants and celebrate the Year of the Snake in style and comfort!)

The best zhajiang noodles in the world. Period.

Popular throughout most of northeast China, zhajiang noodles are almost like pasta Bolognese: this is basically a rich meat sauce balanced on top of chewy strands of dough. But there the comparison pretty much ends.

Zhajiang mian means “deep-fried sauce noodles,” which has always confused me. When I have given Chinese cooks the third degree about this, the answer is always that the sauce is “deep fried” before it is mixed with the meat. And I've invariably retorted, “But the sauce is ‘pan fried’ [jian], so this should be jianjiang mian, right?” and the reply I get is always a shake of the head and a frown, because the name simply doesn't make any sense. (It’s sort of like when Chinese people ask me to break down the meaning of hot dogs [regou, literally “hot dogs” – nothing lost in translation there], and I have to tell them that we really and truly don’t dine on puppies in the States, despite all misleading names to the contrary.)

It wasn't until very recently that I figured out the solution. You see, most folks think of this as from Beijing, and zhajiang noodles is believed by most to be the name this dish was originally christened with. But actually, I discovered, it comes from Manchuria, where it is known by the name zajiang mian 雜醬麵, or “mixed sauce noodles.” Zha and za sound very much alike, and perhaps there was some confusion upstream. Who knows what happened... all I know is that I now can sleep well at night.

Pork plus the secret ingredient

We've enjoyed endless variations on this dish, but I have to say that the recipe below is the best I have ever tasted. But as with great simple foods elsewhere, perfection demands a couple of very important requirements:

First, the pasta should be handmade and fresh. No dried noodles here, please. In fact, you should use pulled noodles, not rolled ones, because the stretching of the dough creates little tears along the strands that grab onto the sauce and then convey it to your eagerly awaiting mouth. 

All of that pulling and bouncing that goes on in creating lamian means that the gluten has been excited into a state of near hysteria (or as close to hysteria that pasta can get), which makes it astoundingly chewy and vibrant. And another thing: make the pasta flat and wide, if you can, because you really want the noodles to make a boisterous presence against all of that powerfully seasoned sauce. (More on pulled noodles and how to make them in the very near future...)

Second, don’t drown the noodles with sauce. You want a good balance of sauce to pasta so that your tongue is initially hit with the salty/sweet/meaty taste of the zhajiang, and then this is complemented by the subtly sweet noodles that act sort of like palate cleansers. The cucumber garnish does much of the same thing, but it is raw and slightly tannic, which provides even more contrast. (The brilliant emerald color satisfies the eyes, too.) Some people like to sprinkle green onions on top, and I would not be opposed to a few shards per bite, but don’t overdo it.

Frying the sweet wheat paste

Third, add the secret ingredient of this recipe, eggplant, as this ends up as creamy bits of heaven that make the meat even meatier. 

The idea for this addition came from the wonderful Chinese writer Liang Shih-chiu, who recalled in an essay called “Noodles” (Miantiao) that “our family once was taught by a lofty personage to add cubed eggplant when the sauce was almost done… and the secret lay in doing one’s best to make the sauce on the noodles not too salty.”

He was right on the money.

Zhajiang or zajiang, Beijing or Manchuria, this is soul-satisfying stuff.

Zhajiang noodles  
Zhájiàng miàn 炸醬麵 
Manchuria, Beijing

Serves 2 to 3 as a lunch or snack

Noodles and eggplant:

1 pound fresh, wide noodles, preferably hand-pulled

8 cups boiling filtered water

2 small eggplants

¼ cup peanut or vegetable oil

Sauce:

1 tablespoon peanut or vegetable oil

8 ounces good quality ground pork

Gravelly meat and aromatics

½ medium onion peeled and cut into ½-inch dice

2 tablespoons minced fresh ginger

3 cloves garlic, finely minced

2 tablespoons plain rice wine (mijiu)

6 to 8 tablespoons toasted sesame oil

3 tablespoons sweet wheat paste (see Tips)

1 tablespoon regular soy sauce

2 teaspoons sugar

¼ cup hot filtered water

Garnish:

1 Japanese, Persian, or pickling cucumber, trimmed and julienned

1 green onion, trimmed and julienned, optional

1. Prepare your own noodles or use storebought fresh ones, preferably something wide and chewy like paparadelle. Shake the noodles out onto a tea towel and loosen the strands. Cover them with a clean tea towel to keep them from drying out. Have the unsalted water in a pot on the stove with the lid on to keep it hot.

2. Clean and trim the eggplants and then cut them into ½-inch dice (about 1 cup) without peeling. Heat the oil in a wok on medium-high and fry the eggplants until they are browned all over. Remove them to a dish.

3. To prepare the sauce, heat the oil in a wok over medium-high and add the ginger, pork, onion, and garlic. Lower the heat to medium and cook them – stirring occasionally – until the onions are translucent. Raise the heat to medium-high again and fry the mixture until it has some browned edges.

Korean sweet wheat paste

4. Pour the rice wine in and stir it around quickly to stop the caramelization. Scoop the mixture up one side of the wok. Raise the heat to high; pour in the sesame oil into the bottom of the wok and add the sweet wheat paste. Stir the paste around in the oil to break it up into a smooth layer and to fry out any raw flavors. Add the soy sauce and sugar. Mix the meat mixture into the sauce and toss these around on the heat. Add the hot water and stir the sauce around to incorporate the water. Lower the heat to a simmer and let the sauce gently cook for 10 to 15 minutes; add the eggplant, taste and adjust the seasoning, and cook the sauce for another 3 minutes.

5. Just before serving, cook the noodles until done but still nice and chewy. Use a Chinese spider or slotted spoon to remove them to noodle bowls, but don’t pour out the noodle water. Ladle the sauce on top of each mound of noodles and garnish with the cucumbers and the optional green onions. Serve a soup bowl of the hot noodle water on the side to each person. Your diners should toss the noodles with the sauce and garnish so that there is a nice balance of fresh, sweet, salty, chewy, and soft in each bite.

Tips

Look, Ma, no beans!

Zhajiang is traditionally made out of steamed breads (plain mantou) that have been allowed to mold. These are then mixed with seasonings and the resulting mush ferments into a thick, rich sauce of the deepest, darkest brown.

The problem is that zhajiang is often translated as “black bean sauce” (see the photo to the right) or “sweet bean sauce” or something on that order, but no beans were injured during the making of this sauce. It should be called “sweet wheat paste,” as it is gently sweet and nicely savory. Check the ingredient list as here: it should mainly be wheat, water, caramel, and salt. If any beans or bean powder or soy sauce are mentioned, it should be as an afterthought.

The best brands are made in Korea, for my money. Excellent quality, balanced flavor, good texture… what’s not to love? 

Watermelon soup from the cold north

For the longest time now, I have been trying to wrap my head around the fact that Manchuria seems to have a real passion for watermelon as an ingredient, not just simply as something cool and juicy to devour when the weather is hot. Maybe it's because summer is such a brief fling up there that this particular fruit has such dedicated followers. 

But still... this is the cold northeast, up there near Russia and North Korea. The fruits must be imported at great distance from Xinjiang, China's desert region that stretches out into Central Asia, so you see why my brain hurts. It's like saying lobster is beloved by folks in Des Moines, Iowa, or fresh corn is part of Alaskan cuisine. 

Oh well. I give up trying to reason why. All I know is that today's dish is nothing short of fabulous to look at and even more fabulous to eat. And the biggest secret of all is, this is really, really easy.

Zig-zag top and bottom

Before we get to the part about carving the watermelon -- a simple skill that will have you looking like a master in no time flat -- let's talk about the soup itself. 

Traditionally, this is an unadorned chicken soup with seasonings courtesy of little more than dried black mushrooms, Chinese ham, and dried shrimp. The chicken is just chopped up and cooked in the broth with the other ingredients, and that's that. No watermelon makes its way into the soup; the shell is there as a pretty container and nothing more.

It's good that way, but I wanted to take things a couple of steps further, so my apologies to any purists out there for messing with something that is already quite fine. I wanted to have the chicken meld with the flavors of mountain (mushroom), smokehouse (ham), and sea (dried shrimp), plus I am always looking for ways to make chicken turn out juicier when it's part of a soup, as it tends to surrender all its magic into the broth.

Meatballs in the raw

So, when I looked at some ground chicken meat and the round watermelon in my shopping basket, a light went off in my head. I could almost smell the ozone as synapses snapped and a plan took shape.

Once I got home, I first soaked some porcini mushrooms and dried scallops instead of the usual suspects (i.e., Chinese black mushrooms and dried shrimp). The porcini have a deep flavor and soft texture that really goes well with the chicken, and the scallops flake into tiny slivers that become an almost imperceptible marine layer of flavor in the broth. In fact, as you sip your bowl of broth later on, you should notice the aroma of the sea taking over that of the chicken and the ham as you work your way down to the bottom, which makes each mouthful a revelation.

The mushrooms were chopped and added to the ground chicken, along with a nice smattering of chopped fresh ginger to add the tiniest bit of crunch and heat, as well as a green onion and some seasonings. For the requisite ham, I used a bone from a piece of Chinese-style ham, along with some leftover ham rind, and this added both a gentle smokiness, as well as some nice mouthfeel courtesy of the fat.

Cutting off the lid

Now we get to the fun part: the carving of the watermelon. This is what turns this simple meatball soup into a showstopper. And like just about every Chinese dish I've introduced on this blog, it may look hard, but it's all smoke and mirrors.

The main thing you need to do is to cut off the stem end so that it acts as a lid. So, about a fifth of the way down from the stem, cut a zig-zag pattern (instead of the usual straight slice), all the way around the melon (see the picture on the right). The best way to do this is to use a short (4- to 5-inch) knife with a thick (1 inch), strong blade. This allows you to accomplish three things with ease: first, the teeth of the zig-zag will be an even inch long; second, the blade is just long to reach toward the center of that part of the melon; and third, the knife is strong enough to twist in the rind without bending or breaking.

The separated lid and base

That last explanation needs more of an explanation: Once you cut all the way around the lid, you will need to get the top loose. To do this, just gently twist the blade in the cuts, and the center of the watermelon lid will soon break loose. And then all you have to do is lift off the lid.

What you are left with is something like a big, red sunflower, as can be seen on the right; notice now the center of the melon has broken off, in contrast to the slice marks on the zig-zags. After that, use a melon-baller, if you like, to cut around 24 balls out of the flesh, and then use a large, thin spoon to scoop out the rest of the melon. You can use this part to make the cold watermelon soup in the previous post, or just enjoy it as is. As you scoop out the flesh, leave a small layer of the red melon in there so that it contrasts beautifully with the soup when you serve it. 

The next part is the best part of all: decorating the rind. You can be as fancy as you like here, carving dragons and phoenixes and peonies if you are really talented. I just went with a simple geometric design, using a paring knife to outline the teeth on the body, and then a little further knifework on the lid to dress it up.

Detail of the lid

And that's it. Set aside a half hour or so the first time you make this -- as long as you are not carving the Great Wall in your melon, that is -- and you will be surprised how fast the carving takes.

My final bit of advice is to tie some kitchen string around the melon in a cross pattern (sort of like tying ribbon around a gift) so that you can lift the melon out of your steamer. Why steam the melon? Well, you're going to be pouring hot soup in there, and if the melon is cold, the soup will immediately cool down. Besides, if you follow my advice and pour the soup into the melon bowl about 15 minutes before you serve it, the soup will stay very hot, and you will be nice and rested when it comes to the soup course; plus, the melon balls will have just enough time to absorb the savory soup while releasing some of their juices back into the broth.

So here it is, my own take on a Manchurian classic, just in time for melon season.  Read the recipe through a couple of times before you start to make sure that you know what utensils will be needed and to get the timing right. It's completely easy, but the magic is -- as always -- in the details.


Manchurian chicken and watermelon soup with ham 
Ji huo xiguazhong 雞火西瓜盅 
Northeast
Serves 6 to 8 as part of a multicourse meal

Melon and broth:
3 small dried scallops, or 3 tablespoons dried shrimp

½ cup dried sliced porcini or Chinese black mushrooms
Boiling water, as needed
1 ham bone (Chinese or Western), with a strip or two of the rind with fat attached
5 cups filtered water
One (10- to 11-pound) round, seedless watermelon, perfectly ripe

Meatballs:
½ pound ground chicken, preferably organic and free-range

1 tablespoon finely-chopped, peeled ginger

1 green onion, trimmed and finely chopped

Carve balls out of the flesh

1 tablespoon cornstarch

1 tablespoon Shaoxing or other rice wine 

2 tablespoons light soy sauce

Freshly ground black pepper to taste

3 or 4 tablespoons peanut or vegetable oil

Salt or soy sauce, if needed

1. Place the scallops and mushrooms in separate heatproof bowls. Cover the scallops with boiling water and cover with a plate. Cover the mushrooms with about a cup of boiling water. While they soak, prepare the broth by boiling the ham bone and rind in the water for a few minutes, and then reducing the heat to a gentle simmer. When the scallops and mushrooms are soft, remove them from the soaking water (pour the soaking water from both through a fine sieve into the broth). You can shred the scallops with your fingers into thin shards; add these to the broth. (Chop the shrimp finely if you are using those instead of the scallops.) Gently squeeze the mushrooms to remove most of the water, and then chop them finely; these will be added to the meatballs in step 3.

2. Wash the melon and dry it, then cut the lid off about a fifth of the way down from the stem end, using a zig-zag pattern as described above. Use the larger end of a melon-baller to cut 24 balls out of the center of the watermelon; reserve these melon balls and use a large, thin spoon to scoop out the rest of the flesh, which can be used for something else. Leave a thin layer of the red flesh inside the melon base and the lid. (If you don't have a melon-baller, cut the flesh into 1-inch cubes and then shape them with a paring knife.) 

3. Make the meatballs by mixing the ground chicken in a medium work bowl with the chopped mushrooms, ginger, green onion, cornstarch, rice wine, soy sauce, and as much black pepper as you like. (I like about half a teaspoon.) Stir the mixture with your fingers in one direction to make the meat bouncy and light. Then, divide the meat into 24 small balls. Wet your hands and rub each ball between your palms to smooth the surfaces.

4. Heat the oil in a large flat frying pan over medium-high heat and add the meatballs in one layer. Brown them all over. (You can prepare this soup ahead of time up to this point.) About 15 minutes before serving, remove the ham bone and rind from the broth and add the meatballs; poach them very gently without boiling the broth, as this will cause the meatballs to break apart. Taste the broth and adjust the seasoning with a bit more soy sauce or salt. About 5 minutes before serving, add the watermelon balls to the broth and continue to gently poach the broth.

Tie string around the melon

5. Prepare a large, deep pot with a steamer trivet on the bottom; this pot needs to be deep enough and wide enough to hold the melon base, and you will need a cover for the pot, as well. First tie kitchen twine around the base in a cross pattern (see picture on the right) and tie a knot at the top; this will make removing the melon from the steamer very, very easy. Pour an inch or two of boiling water into the pot and place the melon base on top of the trivet; cover the pot and steam the melon for no more than 5 or 6 minutes, just to heat it through. (The lid shouldn't be steamed so that you can handle it without getting burned.) 

6. Have a bowl ready that holds the melon base snugly, and transfer the melon base to the bowl; cut off the string and discard. Pour the broth, meatballs, and melon balls into the base, put the melon lid on top, and let the soup sit for about 15 minutes so that the melon balls become slightly seasoned and softened without turning mushy. When you are ready, serve the soup with a flourish. Ladle it out into individual soup bowls at the table.