Quinoa With Corn, Mint, And Scallions, Or, Think of The Peasants Linda!
Medically reviewed by Christiana George Updated Date: June 8, 2023
I pride myself on how cleanly I can eat corn on the cob. In one miraculous maneuver (if I do say so myself), my head moving left to right like a typewriter, I consume the entire thing without leaving a single kernel behind. They are so detached so neatly that all that remains are long, empty furrows.
It’s a strange thing to be proud of, no? I learned this skill from my mom, the Queen of Economy, who never wasted so much as a single kernel of corn. She instilled this mindset in my sister and me to an almost obsessive degree. Case in point: at the end of dinner, a quick examination of the bowls would reveal three—mine, my mom’s, and my sister’s—to be completely spotless. Not a single grain of rice, a single grain of rice, left to speak of. My dad’s, on the other hand, is usually coated with a thin layer of the stuff, stained with residue from the meal. Oh Dad.
Like the children in Africa, us Chinese have our nongming, peasant class, to think of: every grain of rice left behind represents wasted toil on the part of the rice farmer. Of course, my dad comes from a family of rice farmers and he clearly isn’t heartbroken over the squandered rice. My mom has a retort to that though—his family had pigs to feed.
Anyway, whenever I use corn in recipes, I think about how my mom would have a fit seeing how much of the cob I waste when sawing off the kernels. All that wasted sustenance, Linda!
It’s a good thing I keep my cooking to a minimum when I’m visiting.
Today’s recipe is healthy and delicious, and comes with a huge serving of corn, which, when in season, glows, lovely and diffuse. I love eating it raw, and I think you will too, especially if you can get it fresh. While quinoa isn’t the most dazzling base for a summer side, this quinoa is light and fluffy, effervescent even, AND comes dressed in lemony butter. I’m sure you can imagine just what an effect lemony butter can have. Finally, the fresh mint and fresh scallion insert themselves—in their own unique ways—quite winningly, adding refreshing and ever-so-pungent notes (respectively) to the dish. All in all, I highly recommend making this as a counterbalance to a hefty platterful of meat.
QUINOA WITH CORN, MINT, AND SCALLIONS
Adapted from Gourmet
Serves 8
Ingredients:
4 ears corn, shucked
Zest from 1 lemon
Juice from 1 lemon
1/2 stick butter (1/4 cup), melted
1 Tbsp mild honey
Salt & pepper to taste
2 cups quinoa
4 scallions, chopped
1/2 cup chopped fresh mint
Directions:
Since it’s the season, simply cut the corn kernels off the cob with a heavy knife. Otherwise, put corn in a 5- to 6-quart wide pot, add water to cover, and bring to a boil, covered. Remove from heat and let stand, still covered, for 5 minutes. Transfer corn with tongs to a cutting board. When cool enough to handle, cut kernels off cobs with a knife.
In a (very) large bowl, whisk the lemon juice and zest, butter, honey, and salt/pepper until combined.
Cook the quinoa in a 4- to 5-quart pot of boiling salted water, uncovered, until almost tender, about 10 minutes. Drain in sieve, then set sieve over same pot with 1 inch of simmering water (water should not touch bottom of sieve). Cover quinoa with a folded kitchen towel, then cover sieve with a lid and steam until quinoa is tender, fluffy, and dry, about 5 minutes. Remove from heat and let stand (still covered) 5 minutes.
Add quinoa to dressing and toss until dressing is absorbed. Then toss in scallions, mint, and more salt and pepper if needed.
Note: Unless you’re planning on feeding a crowd, I would highly recommend halving this recipe. It makes a lot more than you’d think.
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Shrimp And Pork Dumplings, And How to Make Them
Few foods are as personal to me as dumplings, nor as satisfying. A few scenes in my life where this humble dish has played a role:
One.
Growing up, packages of frozen dumplings sat in the freezer, for an easy dinner, or a quick lunch before Chinese school (typing those words sends a shiver down my spine). The perfect dipping sauce was soy sauce mixed with my parents’ homemade chili sauce.
Two.
When it comes to dumplings, siblings always seem to have a system worked out. Usually one likes the meaty interior; the other likes the dough-y exterior. In our case, I liked the meat and my sister liked the skin. Or so I thought. I found out years later that my sister doesn’t actually like dumplings.
Three.
My mom’s friend makes dumpling wrappers from scratch, and when our families got together to make dumplings, I was in awe of how expertly she could manipulate the dough. She was a master roller, creating perfect little rounds as fast as we could fill them. We were kids, so it seemed natural that our dumplings would come out looking a little mangy—but you couldn’t tell once they were in your mouth, now could you?
Four.
An annual gathering of friends. For a few years, a group of high school friends and I would meet over the summer for a meal of homemade dumplings. Making dumplings is a social activity, where everyone pulls up a chair around the kitchen table, grabs a peel, and, you know, hangs out. This dumpling-making extravaganza always took place at my friend’s house, and his parents were so delighted to have us over (engaging in such wholesome activity, you understand), that his mom would blend us fruit juices and his dad would prepare us his extra special dipping sauce. We’d fold and we’d fold and only stopped when the filling ran out. And the meal would be all the sweeter because it was homemade (although the fruit juices and the dipping sauce helped).
Few foods are as personal to me as dumplings, nor as satisfying. A few scenes in my life where this humble dish has played a role:
One.
Growing up, packages of frozen dumplings sat in the freezer, for an easy dinner, or a quick lunch before Chinese school (typing those words sends a shiver down my spine). The perfect dipping sauce was soy sauce mixed with my parents’ homemade chili sauce.
Two.
When it comes to dumplings, siblings always seem to have a system worked out. Usually one likes the meaty interior; the other likes the dough-y exterior. In our case, I liked the meat and my sister liked the skin. Or so I thought. I found out years later that my sister doesn’t actually like dumplings.
Three.
My mom’s friend makes dumpling wrappers from scratch, and when our families got together to make dumplings, I was in awe of how expertly she could manipulate the dough. She was a master roller, creating perfect little rounds as fast as we could fill them. We were kids, so it seemed natural that our dumplings would come out looking a little mangy—but you couldn’t tell once they were in your mouth, now could you?
Four.
An annual gathering of friends. For a few years, a group of high school friends and I would meet over the summer for a meal of homemade dumplings. Making dumplings is a social activity, where everyone pulls up a chair around the kitchen table, grabs a peel, and, you know, hangs out. This dumpling-making extravaganza always took place at my friend’s house, and his parents were so delighted to have us over (engaging in such wholesome activity, you understand), that his mom would blend us fruit juices and his dad would prepare us his extra special dipping sauce. We’d fold and we’d fold and only stopped when the filling ran out. And the meal would be all the sweeter because it was homemade (although the fruit juices and the dipping sauce helped).
Recently, I had my first dumplings on the East Coast, at a quiet little Upper West Side establishment. I ordered an extra large portion of shrimp and pork dumplings… now you see where I’m going.
In short, they were good. And it was the memory of those dumplings that inspired me to pick up ground pork and shrimp at the market the other day. Along with some dumpling wrappers and a little oblong head of Napa cabbage.
Dumplings are inherently easy to make, because you can fill them with anything. Chicken and corn, pork and mushroom, beef and lotus root. I judge by the smell. A splash of rice wine, a few dollops of corn starch, minced ginger in mounds, and a long drizzle of soy sauce.
Of course, I tend to add ingredients indiscriminately, zealously even. Anything faintly Chinese goes in the mix. I might’ve tossed in some garlic, some sesame oil, but I was referring to a recipe for once, and it didn’t call for these things. And thank goodness too, because the dumplings came out perfectly. They were wonderful. And Chris enthusiastically agreed.
SHRIMP AND PORK DUMPLINGS
Recipe from Steamy Kitchen
Makes about 3 dozen
Ingredients:
A handful (about 1 cup) of Napa cabbage
1 tsp salt
3/4 lb shrimp, peeled and deveined
1/2 lb ground pork
3 stalks of green onion, green and white parts, finely chopped
1 tsp fresh ginger, minced
2 Tbsp soy sauce
2 Tbsp corn starch
1 Tbsp rice wine
1/2 tsp salt
pepper to taste
About 3 dozen dumpling wrappers, which are round and can be found in Asian markets
Directions:
For the filling:
Chop the cabbage into thin slivers. In a small bowl, mix the cabbage with about 1 tsp of salt and leave it alone for about 15 minutes. Doing this draws out the liquid from the cabbage—otherwise, your dumplings will be soggy. Afterwards, take all the cabbage in your hands and squeeze out all the liquid. Then, finely chop the cabbage.
Cut the shrimp into small bits. You can use the food processor for this, but I don’t have one, so I just take a chef’s knife to the pile. Cut them into small pieces, but not so small that they becomes a paste.
In a large bowl, thoroughly mix the chopped shrimp, ground pork, chopped green onion, chopped cabbage, ginger, soy sauce, corn starch, rice wine, 1/2 tsp of salt, and pepper to taste.
Making the dumpling:
(Refer to the images above.) Pile a heaping Tbsp of the filling into the center of the skin. Have a little bowl of water ready. Dip a finger into the water and brush a ring along the outer rim of the skin. Fold it in half like a taco and squeeze. You want your dumplings to seal, tight. Otherwise, they’ll break when you’re cooking them. When pleating, you’re only going to pleat one side. With each pleat, press hard to seal it. As you pleat, the dumpling should start curling in the opposite direction. Pleat three times on each side of the center. When you’re finished, give the dumpling one last firm squeeze.
Note: If you’re going to step away from making the dumplings for awhile, you can prevent the skin from drying out by gently covering the skins with a damp (but not wet) paper towel.
Cooking:
You can now freeze them (indefinitely—I have tested this out many times) or cook them. I prefer to boil them.
Boil a pot of water big enough so the dumplings aren’t crowded together in the pot. Once the water’s boiling, slide in the dumplings and let the water come to a boil again. Cook for another few minutes. At this point, you can cut one open. Make sure the skin’s fully cooked through.
Other serving suggestions: pan-frying (to make potstickers) and steaming (line the bottom of the steamer with cabbage leaves or parchment paper with holes cut into it so the dumplings don’t stick to the steamer).
I usually eat around 8; Chris eats around 10; my friend Emily can eat, like, 3. Honestly, how many you eat depends on your hunger level.
And finally, dipping sauces can vary. Generally, I like to mix soy sauce with my parents’ homemade chili sauce and maybe a pinch of cilantro. A traditional dipping sauce consists of soy sauce and black rice vinegar. Basically, with soy sauce as a base, you can add minced garlic, minced ginger, sesame oil, chili oil, etc.
Finally, the black and white photos are courtesy of Chris. Thanks very much for helping me document the process, and nicely done!
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