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Last weekend I attended my friend Elliott’s birthday party, and I gave him one of my favorite things: a glass swing-top bail jar. A swing-top bail jar has a metal clasp and a rubber gasket. They are typically used for canning, but can store dry ingredients, too. I told him I would explain why he received such a utilitarian present, so Elliott, this column is for you!

One of the best ways to store food is in 100% airtight containers. My friend Michelle showed me how to test a bottle or jar for airtightness. Fill the container with water and shake it. If water droplets come out, the jar isn’t airtight. Many containers are not airtight, even when we think they are.

Years ago, I accidentally discovered that food lasts almost indefinitely when stored in swing-top bail jars. I bought eight ounces of parsley from a bulk herb and spice company. When the shipment arrived, the bag was almost as big as a pillow! I put some of the extra parsley in a glass swing-top bail jar and the rest in Mason jars with standard two-part lids and put them in a dark cupboard.

I stumbled across them a year later, when I moved. The parsley in the swing-top bail jar was a vibrant Kelly green, while the parsley in the Mason jars had turned an unappetizing dull grayish color. I hurriedly tossed it.

After I moved, I emptied a storage unit and came across a box of swing-top bail jars filled with various foods. I opened some jars, expecting stale scents, but was pleasantly greeted with fresh, intense aromas. The colors were vibrant. Porcini mushroom powder, cocoa powder, smoked paprika, peppermint tea and black pepper all had strong fragrances. I made hot cocoa with the cocoa powder, and it had multiple layers of flavor, as if I had bought the chocolate yesterday.

When I opened the jars, I heard a whooshing sound. That explained why the food had lasted so long: It was vacuum sealed.

Prolonging the life of food comes down to one simple thing: airtightness. Containers with 100% airtight seals extend the life of food because exposure to air rapidly deteriorates food. Use airtight containers to avoid wasting food, time and money.

A glass swing-top bail jar will last a lifetime, and the seals can be replaced when they wear out. I don’t use swing tops to store all my dry ingredients — just the expensive items that may take a few years to use. The next time you want to give someone a useful present, think swing-top bail jar, filled with one of your favorite foods, of course.

And now, Elliott, you know the reason I gave you a swing-top bail jar.

The other day, I asked ChatGPT how many calories were in half a medium-sized cantaloupe. It gave me an elaborate answer that included all the nutritional information, then proceeded to tell me that what it loves about cantaloupe is the fruit tastes far richer than its calorie count would suggest. Apparently, I made it want to have a slice for breakfast.

I replied, “That’s funny! Do you miss the fact that you can’t eat?”

Chat told me that was a wonderful question, and that it doesn’t miss eating because it has never experienced it. Even so, while it can understand the concepts of taste, aroma, texture, satisfaction, and comfort intellectually, it doesn’t have the sensory experience that would create a longing. If Chat could experience one thing for a day, it would like to share a meal with people it cared about. The connection that happens around food seemed more important than the food.

This response led me to ponder. For a long time, I have appreciated that our animal selves can experience a whole kingdom of sensory pleasures, and sometimes I wonder if that’s the reason we’re alive. When I get momentarily cranky or unsettled, I can sit down with a cup of fragrant, soothing black tea, make something quick and delicious to eat, and instantly my mood reverts to peaceful centeredness. My favorite accompaniment to tea is a crisp Granny Smith apple and a wedge of extra-sharp cheddar.

As the cantaloupe, the setting sun, and I were present at my kitchen table, I felt perfection for a few moments. The sunlit cantaloupe was succulent, tender, and juicy. Taking in its extraordinary beauty was a certain kind of nourishment. The fruit didn’t need to be improved, and nothing needed to be added. The melon wasn’t aspiring to be a cake, a smoothie, or a complicated dessert. It didn’t need reinvention, frosting, or a marketing department. I just cut it open and there it was — a perfectly ripe cantaloupe, complete unto itself.

Sometimes we think paradise is some other where on some other day, but in that sweet moment, it was tangible and real. Life was complete, it was full, and it had plenty. These simple and fleeting moments of perfection can happen so quickly we barely notice them, but they are there when we pay attention. Often they can happen multiple times throughout the day, sometimes in a constant procession.

What stayed with me wasn’t the melon’s calorie count, or even the nutritional information. The cantaloupe had dignity and quietly made the case for the simple wealth of being enough.

Davis Farms cantaloupes will arrive at the Fossil Mercantile in August. They are beyond perfection!

People often ask me why I moved from Wilsonville, a small city 20 miles south of Portland, to a town in the middle of nowhere. I tell them it’s because I was weary of grocery shopping in superstores, and I’m sincere when I say that.

When I moved to Wilsonville in 2003, two cozy, family-run grocery stores had served the community for many years. I could park and dash in and out in less than five minutes. Over time, those two stores were run out of town by a 145,000-square-foot Fred Meyer, a 123,636-square-foot Target, and a 46,000-square-foot Safeway. If I wanted to buy just one or two things, I had to park in an oversized lot, enter a labyrinth of products, and walk five minutes to get what I needed. On top of that, just when I grew familiar with a store, it would reshuffle the merchandise and I’d have to start all over. Rarely did I see a shopper who looked like they were having a good time; their expressions were strained and sour. The harsh fluorescent lights almost hurt.

Once I needed a small container of plain Greek yogurt. The yogurt case stretched about 15 feet long. The dizzying array of choices shorted out my circuits. The same overwhelm hit me in the canned tomato products aisle, where the shelves were so crammed I nearly forgot what I came for.

I like to find words and phrases that correctly name things. The terms I use for this phenomenon of super-abundance are “the tyranny of too many” and “the burden of excess.” Sociologists call this “decision fatigue.” The food landscape overflows with messages of more, more, more: more recipes, more ingredients, more techniques, more kitchen gadgets. More is better! Faster is better! Bigger is better! Busier is better! But “more” is a disguised form of scarcity, because with more, the completeness of enough doesn’t exist.

Another phrase I keep returning to is “the wealth of enough” — the fullness of being satisfied, with some room to move. While I’m grateful to live in an abundant society, the excess can be draining. Ironically, with all these choices, many people still don’t know what to make for dinner. Whatever happened to simplicity?

Our humble small-town grocery stores make shopping peaceful, easy, and fun. We don’t waste time going up and down long aisles, and they carry almost everything a person needs. They don’t reshuffle things in an effort to trap us into buying more. The folks who work there are warm and friendly and say hello.

I definitely want more simplicity and enough in my life. Maybe someday I can buy those in a mega-superstore!

This week I thought about the principle of diminishing returns as it applies to cooking and baking. When does additional effort become a waste of time?

A cookbook titled “A New Take on Cake: 175 Beautiful, Doable Cake Mix Recipes” made me want to do an experiment. Was making a cake from scratch worth the extra effort? To find out, I made a “Cinnabon” cake using a recipe from the book and then made a similar cake using scratch ingredients.

I made the Cinnabon cake first and didn’t tweak the recipe like I usually do. The cake was good, but not so delicious that I thought about it a week later. The recipe called for adding 1/2 cup sugar to an already sweet cake mix, and it was too sweet for my taste. Forty minutes elapsed from the moment I stepped into the kitchen until the last dish was washed, dried and put away.

And this is notable: The cake definitely tasted better the next day. Flavors meld in soups and stews, but I didn’t know that happened in baked goods.

Then I made a similar cake from scratch. I rounded up a recipe for a sour cream cinnamon swirl coffee cake. The cake took 12 minutes longer to make than the cake-mix-cake, including the cleanup time. The scratch cake made a bigger mess, and on top of that, the open can of baking powder fell on the floor. Then the neighbors’ dog, Rocky, wandered in for his treat and tracked the powder everywhere.

Kyle said the scratch cake was better, heartier and less sweet than the cake-mix-cake. I thought the scratch cake was better, too, but still not great. Was the extra time and effort worth it? I’m not so sure.

Then I pondered efficiency some more. Truth is, for almost an hour of time, other desserts would be better than either one of those cakes. For example, I could make a rhubarb thing, now that it’s rhubarb season. I created a wickedly good recipe last year for a rhubarb crisp and wrote about it here. The thought of that delicious dessert has crossed my mind more than once since then. The crisp tasted wonderful and felt nourishing to eat. Even an ordinary chocolate chip cookie would be more satisfying than those cakes.

I will try another recipe or two from “A New Take on Cake” before I give up on doctoring up cake mixes. Both the banana cake and lemon cake sound good. Next time I’ll reduce the amount of sugar or eliminate it entirely. I might even substitute applesauce.

The jury is still out on the diminishing returns of cakes. To cake or not to cake: Apparently that is the question!

Every night after dinner last week, I read a library book titled “A New Take on Cake”. The book lists 175 ways to doctor up a cake mix so you will think the cake was made from scratch. I’m going to bake one this week; I will let you know how it goes.

My philosophy of food began when I was about twelve. My father was a CPA — a certified public accountant — and the founding partner of a regional accounting firm. Around age 12, he taught me how to keep books for one of the family businesses. We often discussed the economic and accounting principle of “diminishing returns”. After a certain point, extra time, materials, and effort produce smaller and smaller results. A savvy person identifies when this begins to happen and stops there. This universal principle applies to many things.

I read “A New Take on Cake” with this in mind. A baker could make a cake from scratch that takes twice or three times as long as using a mix. But would it taste two or three times better?

To know for sure, a person would have to design a two-cake study and use a stopwatch. A baker could select a recipe from the book, and then bake the same cake using scratch ingredients. Then, the baker could make the “fooled you with a cake mix” version. A blind taste test, where neither the taster nor the person giving the test knows which cake is which, would objectively reveal the winner. But would it be better enough to justify the additional effort?

Another example of diminishing returns is a simple tomato sauce that simmers away for 30 minutes. The sauce may be 90 percent as good as one tended to for three hours. A soup made from what’s in the fridge may deeply satisfy without the need to roast bones and strain stock. The three extra hours spent creating an elaborate dinner may not increase the guests’ happiness nearly as much as a relaxed host or hostess would. More effort doesn’t always produce a better result. Sometimes it only produces more pots, pans, and dishes to wash.

The goal is to identify the sweet spot, where effort and reward meet in perfect balance. Go past it and the pie may be prettier and the sauce slightly more complex, but the cook may be unhappy. That surely counts as a loss on the household balance sheet. “A New Take on Cake” is available through the Sage inter-library loan system.

Recently, a reader wrote to ask how I managed to have only two cookbooks, after I mentioned my scant collection several weeks ago. That isn’t very many for a food writer, is it

I am definitely a minimalist and can’t stand clutter. Sometimes I even give away things I’m still using just to free up space. Our culture tends to undervalue empty space, but I love the breathing room and spaciousness emptiness creates. The only books I keep are reference books, plus six that greatly influenced my worldview. And my two cookbooks.

Once, when I moved, my belongings went into a storage unit. My house overflowed with cookbooks, and some were even stuffed under the bed. A book I read on organizing said most people use only two or three recipes per cookbook. The author suggested copying those recipes and putting them in a notebook. I did that and even indexed it. When I moved again five years later, I realized I hadn’t used one single recipe. Goodbye, recipe notebook!

That realization changed my view of owning cookbooks. Do we really need them when we can Google recipes or, now, ask the AI? I’ve consulted AI for several years and I’m awestruck by the recipes; it even informed me it likes to cook. Still, it’s satisfying to hold a cookbook in one’s hands and turn the pages.

Cookbooks generate ideas. They can help answer the question, “What’s for dinner?” But my subscription to the New York Times Cooking website does that. The site is a powerhouse of recipes and cooking tips and has a sophisticated search engine, too.

When I want to round up a cookbook, the library can usually locate it through the Sage interlibrary loan system. This week, I checked out two books: “A New Take on Cake” and “The New York Times Cooking No-Recipe Recipes”.

I heard about “A New Take on Cake” from a friend who listened to an interview on NPR. The book teaches readers how to embellish a cake mix to get as-if-baked-from-scratch results. This dovetails with my philosophy of “If it takes more than 30 minutes, I don’t want to do it.” The book’s recipes are unusual and best of all, you won’t need to tell anyone about the shortcut!

“The New York Times Cooking No-Recipe Recipes” is right up my alley. I learned years ago that following a recipe exactly and measuring ingredients takes too long. The NYT recipes are an ingredient list and a simple how-to. The author uses words like splash, sprinkle, spoonful, scoop, some, dash, and a lot, which lends a spirit of freedom and flexibility to the recipes.

So now you know why I own only two cookbooks.

The subject of my last two columns, Mai’s perfect fried rice, is still on my mind. The dish is memorable because Mai knows exactly what kind of rice gets spectacular results. She uses the California-grown Calrose, which has a soft, sticky, tender texture that works perfectly in this recipe. It’s so delicious you might eat several helpings.

For fun, I did a quick study of fried rice recipes. I reviewed many, including about ten on the fancy New York Times Cooking website. Not one recipe, even those written by well-known food writers, mentioned what type of rice works best. This puzzles me. Imagine reading a recipe for pepperoni pizza which simply calls for cheese. A person might think it’s okay to use blue cheese or cottage cheese. Yuck! This made me wonder: how often is the specific ingredient that defines a dish completely overlooked?

I thought about all the dishes around the world, those iconic expressions of geography and culture, which call for specific kinds of rice. Paella in Spain, an elaborate dish of seafood, rabbit, and vegetables, relies on short-grain Bomba rice for its ability to soak up broth while holding its shape. Risotto in Italy depends on Arborio or Carnaroli to release starch as it’s stirred into a creamy texture. Biryani in India calls for basmati, with its long, aromatic grains, and sushi simply would not work without short-grain, sticky Japonica rice. Cooks in Louisiana consider it mandatory to use long-grain rice in traditional jambalaya and dirty rice. Change the rice, and you don’t just tweak the recipe, you change the dish itself. Since each variety behaves differently, the choice of rice isn’t incidental; it’s foundational.

I kept thinking about Mai and her one-word recommendation: Calrose. The other fried rice recipes I read gave plenty of guidance about technique, heating the oil, timing the ingredients, even the size of the pan, but they skipped right over the rice, as if any old rice would do. Calrose works so well for fried rice because it hits the sweet spot between sticky and dry. One small detail can make all the difference.

When I grew up, there were two kinds of rice in our kitchen: Uncle Ben’s converted white rice in a box, the ho-hum kind thrown at weddings. I never thought to question what “converted” meant. Since my mother was an early adopter of the health food movement, we also kept brown rice in the refrigerator. Now, thanks to globalization, a walk down the grocery store aisle is like taking a trip around the world. Maybe that’s the real lesson of Mai’s fried rice: stop thinking of rice as just rice.

I finally did something that had been on my to-do list for 16 months. I have no idea why it took me so long, but now that it’s done, I can tell you all about it.

In 2024, I attended the Thanksgiving dinner at the Spray Grange. It was a cozy affair, much like a big family dinner. The Grange supplied the turkey, ham and roast beef and everyone else brought the side dishes. People showed up with their best effort ‒ no Costco or Safeway deli food was in sight ‒ and I had to restrain myself because I wanted to try everything. But that year, I tasted something so delicious I wanted to eat only that, to the exclusion of all else. I piled my plate high with it and even went back for thirds, though I managed to leave room for pumpkin pie.

I tracked down the cook, Mai Edwards, and asked her about . . . the most awesome fried rice I’d ever eaten. She rattled off the recipe, which I hoped to remember, but didn’t. Over the following months, I’d see her every now and then and ask for the recipe, then proceed to forget it again. We finally arranged a phone call, and I rounded up a pen and paper.

This recipe has details that make a big difference. Small things definitely matter! In the past when I’ve made fried rice, I used my favorite rice: a long-grain smoked basmati grown in the foothills of the Himalayas. It was good – you can’t go wrong with that rice – but it didn’t have the same wonderful texture as Mai’s. So when I got the recipe, the first question I asked was “What kind of rice do you use?”

Any medium-grain rice will do but her favorite is Calrose. That rice is grown in California and has a soft and slightly sticky texture that works beautifully in fried rice. Mai gave me some to try and I cooked it the way I usually do: one cup rice to two and a half cups water. The rice made so many bubbles while simmering away, it looked like it was taking a bubble bath. But when the rice cooled, it was one sticky, gluey lump. Where did I go wrong?

I called Mai to troubleshoot. She uses one cup rice to one and a half cups water plus a tablespoon of rice wine vinegar and some salt. She also rinses the rice several times in cold water to wash away the excess starch.

That’s where perfect fried rice begins — not in the frying pan, but in the pot. Next week I’ll tell you what happens next.

Lately, I’ve been remembering the weekly trips my mother and I took when I was a young child to the Ota Tofu factory in Portland’s old Chinatown.

By now, you know my mother was a vegetarian and an early adopter of the health food movement long before those words were mainstream. Vegetarians have to work harder than meat eaters to get enough protein in their diets, and soybeans are an excellent source. Tofu is made from curdled soybean milk and is a staple in the Japanese diet.

Tofu isn’t common in the American diet, so many people aren’t familiar with it. Even when they are, most eat packaged tofu, and few have ever eaten tofu so fresh it is still warm. I think of this as the difference between eating homemade bread right out of the oven versus day-old store-bought bread.

Ota Tofu has been around since 1911 and was a family-run business. The folks who worked there didn’t speak English, so my mother would raise her hand, four fingers pointed upward, and say, “Four, please.” The factory had a bright turquoise door, damp, earthy air, and the sounds of clanking metal. Since we were regular customers, Mother would bring a container; tofu comes in square cakes stored in water.

Mom had figured out delicious ways to cook it, and as a kid, I never minded eating it. She’d make a tofu loaf, similar to meatloaf, and sometimes smother it with Thai-style peanut sauce and serve it over brown rice or noodles.

My favorite childhood story was a book published in 1962 titled Taro and the Tofu. The story was about a boy who lived in Japan. Every day, his mother gave him money to go to the tofu shop, along with a little extra for a stop at the candy store. The shopkeeper was an old woman who wore big glasses and never looked up from her newspaper. One day, Taro saw some candy he couldn’t resist, so all the tofu money disappeared there. I don’t remember how the book ended. Mother must have read that story to me at least a hundred times.

Fast forward thirty years. My son and I frequented Ota Tofu, which by then had relocated to inner Southeast Portland, so he was raised on tofu too. The business was still owned by the same family, probably fourth generation by then. The Ota family lived near us, and all four of Eileen and Koe’s daughters babysat William, one after the other, until they went off to college.

Life is full of unexpected twists and turns, isn’t it? I still eat tofu, and whenever I’m in Portland, I stop by Ota Tofu to get my fix.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mama-san!

A while back, my acquaintance Howard and I were chatting about food — my favorite topic — and one of his favorite topics, too. He has a treasure trove of low-carb, healthful recipes, and he mentioned his peanut butter cookies, stuffed peppers, braised sweet-and-sour cabbage with bratwurst, and Mexican chicken soup.

Of course, I wanted those recipes, and he was kind enough to send them along. I’ve tried them all, and my favorites are the Mexican chicken soup and the cookies; the cookies will be another column. Howard created this soup recipe, and it is not only delicious but remarkably quick and easy too. It took just a few minutes to prepare. It’s also versatile and leaves plenty of room for improvisation. You could use another cheese, such as sharp cheddar, and I imagine just about any Latin American bean would work.

Mexican Chicken Soup
1½ lbs. boneless chicken
1 15.5-ounce jar chunky salsa
1 15-ounce can crushed tomatoes
1 15-ounce can black beans, drained and rinsed
1 15-ounce can chicken broth
8 ounces pepper jack cheese, shredded

Place the chicken in a crockpot. Pour the remaining ingredients over the top. Cook on high for three to four hours or on low for six to seven. Remove the chicken, shred it, and return it to the soup. Leftover soup can be frozen for up to three months.

I don’t know why, in all my years of cooking, it never occurred to me to include cheese in soup to add a layer of creamy richness. When the soup was finished cooking, a quick whirr with my immersion blender made it slightly thicker. I don’t eat much chicken, so I left it out and doubled the black beans. My magic German vegetable broth powder, Klare Brühe, took the place of the chicken broth. If you aren’t opposed to using MSG, a pinch would add savory depth.

I topped each bowl with diced avocado, crushed corn chips, and chopped green onions. Sour cream, cilantro, and olives would dress it up even more. Those finishing touches make this humble soup festive enough to serve to guests.

I can’t recall making a soup this quick, easy, and delicious, except perhaps my three-ingredient tomato soup. Usually, quick and easy recipes fall short in the flavor department. This soup is a perfect example of my cooking philosophy: preparing a delicious meal doesn’t need to be complicated, time-consuming, or leave behind a sink full of pots and pans. This recipe is definitely going in my “SOS” recipe box — my collection of ideas for times when I don’t feel like thinking about food, let alone cooking it. Thank you for sharing this wonderful recipe with us, Howard!