By December. The holidays approach and the osechi preparations begin and the matcha shortbread goes into the oven and the kuromame starts soaking and the apartment enters its December mode: full production, every burner lit, every tradition activated. Miya handles the kuromame this year — start to finish, the soaking, the nail, the simmering, the two-day patience. She is nine. She makes kuromame. The sentence is both ordinary and extraordinary, the way all the best sentences are.
I have been building the subscriber base for the Dashi newsletter — sharing the concept on the blog, on the magazine column, in the cooking classes. The response is: immediate and enthusiastic. Two hundred people signed up in the first week of announcement. Two hundred people who want the raw version, the three-AM version, the "sounds like you talking" version that Miya identified. The two hundred is the seed. The seed will grow. The growth will be organic. The growth will be shiso: persistent, fragrant, filling the space available.
I visited Ken in Sacramento for the holidays. He is seventy-three, the Parkinson's progressing, the tremor now affecting both hands, the speech slightly slower, the word-finding pauses slightly longer. He is still Ken: silent, stubborn, gardening with Marco, making miso soup every morning with hands that shake but hold. The holding is the Ken-ness. The Ken-ness is the enduring. The enduring is the family. I cooked for him all weekend. The cooking was the visit. The visit was the cooking. The two are the same.
I gave Ken a preview of the Dashi newsletter — the first issue, printed, held in his trembling hands. He read it slowly. He said: "This is different from the book." I said: "Yes, it's rawer." He said: "Raw is good." Raw is good. Ken Nakamura said raw is good. The three words sat in the air like cherry blossoms that have not yet fallen, beautiful and temporary and significant. Raw is good. The raw is the Dashi. The Dashi is the next thing. The next thing is good.
Every December the apartment becomes what Miya calls “the production kitchen” — kuromame soaking, matcha shortbread cooling on the rack, and somewhere in the middle of all of it, these Mini Apple Strudels, which I started making years ago because they require the same quality the kuromame requires: small, deliberate patience. I brought them to Sacramento for Ken. He ate two. He did not say they were good. He took a third. That’s the Ken review system, and it is the only one that matters.
Mini Apple Strudels
Prep Time: 25 min | Cook Time: 18 min | Total Time: 43 min | Servings: 12
Ingredients
- 2 medium apples, peeled, cored, and finely diced
- 1/4 cup granulated sugar
- 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
- 1/8 teaspoon ground nutmeg
- 1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
- 1/4 cup golden raisins
- 2 tablespoons plain dry breadcrumbs
- 8 sheets phyllo dough, thawed
- 1/3 cup unsalted butter, melted
- Powdered sugar, for dusting
Instructions
- Preheat oven. Heat oven to 375°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.
- Make the filling. Combine diced apples, granulated sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, lemon juice, raisins, and breadcrumbs in a bowl. Stir until evenly coated and set aside.
- Prepare the phyllo. Lay one sheet of phyllo on a clean work surface and brush lightly with melted butter. Layer a second sheet on top and brush again. Keep remaining sheets covered with a damp towel to prevent drying.
- Fill and roll. Cut the buttered phyllo stack into thirds lengthwise. Place a rounded tablespoon of apple filling near the bottom of each strip. Fold the sides in slightly, then roll upward to form a compact bundle. Place seam-side down on the prepared baking sheet. Repeat with remaining phyllo and filling.
- Bake. Brush the tops of all strudels with remaining melted butter. Bake 16–18 minutes, until golden brown and crisp.
- Finish and serve. Let cool on the pan for 5 minutes, then dust generously with powdered sugar. Serve warm or at room temperature.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 118 | Protein: 1g | Fat: 6g | Carbs: 16g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 72mg