Lovelihood

I like to cook. And eat. And watch other people cook and eat. I spent a fair chunk of time, back before there were kids, mesmerized by the tv chefs flipping and saucing and tempering and presenting. I've built up a pretty solid repertoire of culinary done-its, not so much as to be fancy, but enough to not be stymied by complex-sounding recipes. I've braised, seared, parcooked, deglazed, caramelized, whipped an egg into a meringue tizzy. I do a pretty convincing risotto. I've seared scallops to accompany a pistachio pesto, reduced balsamic to an oozy glaze, en croute-d brie injected with healthy dollops of fig preserve, en papillote-d fish to serve with herbed couscous. I'm convinced that salmon is best when raw, and I eschew green-canistered cheese toppings.

But I am, by no means, a food elitist. I like what I like. Hot dogs, nuked until they burst and develop crusty burnt parts. Ramen, as cheap as I can find it, with or without the flavor packet, cooked or simply cracked open for a snack. (I've long been fond of referring to durable goods in terms of how many ramens they cost, and harbor secret hopes that some newspaper will one day publish a "ramen index", but this is a wild digression, even by my standards.) Banana pancakes every Sunday morning, occasionally dotted with Boy-safe chocolate chips on the nights that I trot them out for dinner. Vienna sausages, chopped up into small chunks and thrown into box mac and cheese, stuck in the oven for half an hour or so, a dish I would make all the freakin' time were it not for The Boy's damned dairy allergy. Meat loaf.

So when such a dish as Spam musubi is laid out before me, I don't scoff. I don't hesitate. I dig in.

This is, of course, a Hawaiian contribution to American cuisine. Luckily for us, there was, strangely, a large expat Hawaiian contingent in the Seattle area. Attend a potluck, and if you're with the right crowd, you might just find some musubi arranged in a casserole dish. Between potlucks, I could always schlep the handful of blocks from my office to my favorite Asian food superstore/bookstore, where they had Spam musubi perennially stocked in the deli case.

Here in Houston, it's been a little more difficult to find. And after a year and a half living here I developed the most intense craving for it. We located one restaurant that served it. And it was fine. But the hour long dinnertime trek to get there and the cockroach rearing at us in the restroom were pretty strong deterrents for a return-trip. We had heard of a second, slightly less distant, restaurant serving it, but the down-turned economy got to it before we could. 

It had been one of those things so cheap and readily available, I hadn't considered making it myself. We'd tried our hand at sushi-making before, and found we just enjoyed it more prepared by a proper chef, or dispensed on a conveyor belt. But these were desperate times, and a musubi mold made its way to our kitchen. Yes, there's special equipment to make Spam musubi, which makes it all the better. Such a simple device, such satisfying results. I've been putting these awesomely vague directions through their paces, and we've come to this conclusion: paired with a bowlful of warm edamame (that's soybeans to the uninitiated), it's practically the perfect meal. Sweet, salty, hand-fed gooey. Just plain good.