Sushi

Dave’s Christmas present this year was an ultra-romantic sushi-making press called a Sushezi. If I were shopping for myself, I would have gone for the authentic bamboo mat and happily struggled with it, eating my broken rolls with pride. I probably would have also worn a kimono and had dreamy Travel Channel fantasies set in a rural village on the side of Mt. Kilimanjaro. I was, however, shopping for Dave and the Sushezi was the top rated result on Amazon for the keywords “sushi making kit.”  I put it in my cart.

And then, after much anticipation, we made sushi. We went to an Asian grocery store to pick up spicy pickled radish, cucumbers, and sushi rice. We got some pickled ginger and sesame seeds because details are important. Then we went to work.

Sushi stuffing.

We made a veggie roll for me and a Philadelphia roll for Dave. When I look at sushi at this stage of the process, I think sushi is not unlike a sandwich. Only it is infinitely better than a sandwich. That's why we've grafted it into our own cultural palate. The first American to eat sushi probably felt just like Marco Polo eating his first plate of pasta.

In the end, we had a bunch of very pretty looking rolls, and some awkward end bits that were eaten with fingers. Last week I insisted on making pierogi from scratch as well. I'm working my way through the continents.