Joy Tienzo - Cook, Eat, Thrive: Vegan Recipes from Everyday to Exotic

Cook, Eat, Thrive: Vegan Recipes from Everyday to Exotic

by Joy Tienzo

2012 Joy Tienzo

This edition copyright 2012 PM Press All Rights Reserved

ISBN: 978-1-60486-509-7

Library of Congress Control Number: 2009901397

PM Press

PO Box 23912

Oakland, CA 94623

www.pmpress.org

Layout by Jonathan Rowland

Cover art by Tofu Hound and John Yates

Icons designed by Jess Deugan

Cover photos by Art Heffron

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Printed on recycled paper by the Employee Owners of Thomson-Shore in Dexter, Michigan.

www.thomsonshore.com

First, thanks to Bob and Jenna Torres at Tofu Hound Press, who have been so intentional in finding new talent and encouraging vegans to be activists in a variety of ways. Without their generosity and belief in me, this book would not exist.

My gratitude to Jean Labo, for making me your pastry cook at such a daring time, and allowing me to take creative risks daily. Your trust in the kitchen was the best teacher. And to Jeans late husband Jim, who is missed by so many of us.

To Debora Durant, for her encouragement first to become vegan, and then to write a cookbook. You saw these things before even I did, and pressed me to pursue them.

Big gratitude to Jonathan Rowland, Gregory Nipper, and everyone at PM Press, for your initiative and persistence in bringing Cook, Eat, Thrive to print. It has been a pleasure working with you and being part of PMs vision.

My gratitude to Jess Deugan for her excellent icon design and ever-inspiring friendship. And to Art Heffron for his keen eye and beautiful photos.

To Dreena Burton and Dino Sarma Weierman, who I sometimes imagine sharing a kitchen with. Dreena, youve long set the standard for being a mom and vegan author, and I aspire to your thoughtfulness and creativity. Dino, your brilliance and vulnerability in the kitchen are embedded in your words, and I love that. I am fortunate to have such gifted authors lend their kind endorsements to this book.

I am ever grateful for both my mom and my dad. Their seeing me as I amand with unwavering supportis such a remarkable thing, and has freed me to explore. And for my brother Jon, who is never without kind words for me or my food. You are all a continual source of encouragement.

For Ron, who just loves me so much and is behind everything I do. The fortune of our life together is the loveliest thing I know. And for our children, to whom I hope we leave a persistent legacy of compassion, freedom, and vibrant health. They are my best companions in the kitchen, and Im convinced their presence on a hip or a counter is my primary source of culinary inspiration.

Thanks to God, for countless ways to express grace for people, animals, and this amazing world we all live in. It is a joy for me to practice a bit of this compassion everyday.

And especially to those who tested my recipes and graciously provided their feedback on the Vegan Freak forums: Pamela B, Lelly, Heather Blake, Sabrina Butkera, Debora Durant, Ida Fong, Mindy Getch, Vincent Guihan, Gary Loewenthal, Sandie Longs, Rachel Mandel, Beth Morrow, Christopher Plumb, Constanze Reichardt, Amy Ryan, Maralee Sanders, Andrea Weaver, and the fantastic Dino Sarma Weierman. Special thanks to tester Cassandra Greenwald, for your invaluable editorial assistance.

I am full of gratitude for everyone who has made this book what it is. And to you, the reader, for now becoming part of it.

For Ron, G, and Z.
I could not
imagine better people
to live my life with.

Do you remember the first thing you ever cooked?

I do. It was peach pie. I stood in the kitchen, scrawny and eight years old, as my mother helped me tumble fresh peaches into a dough-lined glass plate and flute the edges just so. Thinking of it, I can practically feel the pastry beneath my hands. And years later, the smell of a peach pie evokes a little sigh, and an involuntary upturn at the corners of my mouth.

Cooking isnt simply about the finished product but the experience of putting it all together: finding perfectly round peas at a farmers market, kneading bread dough until it becomes stiff and elastic, and inhaling the deep fragrance of oven-fresh gingerbread. All of these things take time to learn.

My culinary education was quintessentially American: a jumble of steak-and-potatoes fundamentals, health food, junk food, and a sprinkle of international influence. (I grew up in Los Angeles, so the latter was particularly true.) As a child, my mother fed me homemade baby foods, pureed into velvety gold and green hues in the food processor. I remember eating yogurt pops mixed from aspartame and artificial chocolate flavoring, and cheese omelets made in the microwave. Cheerios and Kix were considered sugar cereals, so my brother and I once scaled the kitchen cabinets to lick the cloying shell from mysterious green prescription pills. Mom still cringes at the thought of this!

For celebrations, my mom was ace. Birthdays featured an assortment of themed food. My fathers poker games merited bowls of hearty guacamole and fantastically mixed drinks, and picnics were graced by the most perfect potato salad. And of course, my father, who was responsible for every spaghetti noodle, pancake, and sauted mushroom over the course of three presidential administrations.

For so many of us, these celebratory and everyday bits are an anchor. They allow us to be homemakers and international travelers, and give little rituals to display love. In the midst of such a common act, I learned what it meant to cooknot necessarily how to cookbut the simple significance of doing so.

Then I learned how to eat.

I remember my first visit to an Indian restaurant, my wide-eyed gaze fixed on every platter that floated by. I tilted my head back, inhaling tandoori smoke and spice, and eagerly sucking down a thick mango lassi. My sense of decorum had evaporated like the kitchens fragrant steam, and my slack-jawed awe must have really been a sight!

Ive since adopted a bit more restraint, although my otherwise demure countenance still turns giddy and starstruck in the face of new food. There is something powerful and lovely in recapturing a domestic side, and I feel it every time I eat: it is deliberate and calm, and evocative of mellow wine, honest polenta, good chocolate.

In Thailand I learned to recognize the smell of perfectly browned garlic, and to appreciate the pairing of crisp raw vegetables with cooked dishes. In Jerusalem, I eavesdropped around the corners of old city walls to discover which falafel vendor used the freshest oil. I developed habits of breakfast: biscuits in India, cherry compote in Turkey, fresh mango in Haiti.

Back home, I watched as a Turkish friend formed dough into thick rounds of ekmek, memorized her stippling the crust with a hundred indentations. As we sat down to bread and tea, I heard her stories of leaving home and felt again the deep connection of culture and food.

I baked wedding cakes four, five, six layers high, and learned how much sweeter the slices taste when celebrating a happy union. When I lived in a small apartment, I crammed guests into my kitchen for tea and chatter. In a mansion, I hosted brunches for forty. Whether we find ourselves living large or small, everyday or exotic, there are countless opportunities to come to the table.

Eating accompanies the stuff of life, whether significant or ordinary. And when that food is