Saturday, November 7, 2009
Saturday, November 7, 2009
My husband and I are remodeling the kitchen in my grandparent's home, which we now occupy. Both of us are Moku Hawai`i kids, though he is of a Kohala `ohana, and my `ohana is from Hilo. Both of our `ohana are noted for fine cooks, and both of us grew up spending a lot of time in the kitchen. This means that many of our suppertime conversations revolve around food, food preparation, growing food, hunting food, buying food, storing, preserving, and presenting food, and around kitchen and dining room design.
The other night, when I brought the poi to the table, he commented that I had used a very large bowl for a relatively small amount of poi. Well, I had to defend my poi bowl's honor! "This is my grandmother's poi bow!"
You see, my entire childhood, this blue bowl sat, filled with poi, on the yellow table in the kitchen. Nana would put a thin layer of water over the poi and set a plate on top of the bowl to keep bugs from flying in. On the plate would be a smaller plate with pa`a kai, and sometimes nīoi. Next to the bowl was an old Lea and Perrins bottle filled with chili pepper water. As supper time approached, some green onions would be laid on the plate next to the salt. As I told my husband about this, he laughed, and said, "That's Hawaiian 101!"
When it was almost time to eat, I would carry these items to the glass-topped table in the dinette. It was a wrought iron table, painted white, with matching chairs. the cross-pieces between the legs had a loop, inside of which sat a terracotta pot filled with artificial begonias. These matched the artificial begonias tucked into the scraggly philodendron which were kept captive in a pair of yellow ceramic sconce-like vases on each side of the kitchen window.
If we were having a large supper, for instance my grandfather, father, and uncle were in the house, the poi would be joined by a pot of rice, and perhaps some fried kalo or boiled sweet potatoes, as well as a main dish such as chop suey, fish, or whatever my grandmother had decided to cook.
Nana's Table
But if it was just my grandmother and myself, then supper was more likely to be poi and dried `ōpleu. All of our suppers were wonderful, but there was something extra special about just Nana and me sitting down on a stormy night, the smell of the pūlehu `ōpleu filling the kitchen with its salty tang. The sharp salt taste of the fish was perfectly balanced by the mild poi. Onions and nīoi provided the right amount of heat. If there was thunder, we would light a kerosene lamp just in case the power went out.
My Tutu Man was a physician. It is a commonly held belief that both cows and countesses choose the worst, most stormy nights to give birth. As we also raised beef, and had many friends who did the same, you can imagine that any stormy night either my Tutu was out delivering a baby, or my father was helping someone with a calf - or both! And so, it was those kinds of nights on which my Nana and I sat huddled beside the kerosene lamp, nibbling `ōpleu and eating poi.
We bought our poi in one pound bags, and added water. The poi and water were mixed together in the blue bowl until they were the proper consistency. And No Lumps! This was more difficult to accomplish forty years ago than it is today, as the bagged poi was much thicker, so the water had to be worked in slowly and thoroughly. It was really a sensuous delight for a child to slowly squeeze the purple-grey poi, watching the shapes ooze out from between the fingers, trapping stray lumps and smoothing them into palatability. Then, one bag of poi, when mixed, filled the bowl to the tip of my thumb. I was very familiar with this, as part of mixing the poi is to properly kahi the bowl. The hand is dampened with water, and the bowl is grasped tightly with the thumb inside. the bowl is then spun, and the thumb scrapes off the poi which clings to the rim, pushing it all down into the purple mass. If the thumb is angled properly, in one spin, the kahi is complete. Properly mixed, the poi ended up just at the tip of my child-sized thumb. My thumb is much longer now, and two bags mixed do not reach the tip!
On these evenings of just we two, my grandmother would tell me wonderful stories. In one, she related how when my grandfather was in medical school, in St. Louis, Missouri, the Hawai`i boys would be so `ono for Hawaiian food that they would go to great lengths to try and recreate the tastes of home. They would go to the fish market and try to find fresh salt-water fish for poke and salt fish. They would slice cabbage and lettuce very fine and sauté it lightly to make it seem like limu. And they would make poi palaoa. This was an act of desperation.
Poi is the Hawaiian Staff of Life. No Hawaiian meal is truly complete without poi. And so, to meet this cultural imperative, these young men, so far from home, did the best they could.
Poi palaoa is made by mixing boiled water, which has been allowed to cool slightly, with flour. Water is slowly added and the blend is stirred until it approximates the consistency of poi. Sometimes, it is allowed to ferment into something like a sourdough sponge. The poi palaoa is eaten with the other ersatz Hawaiian foods.
When "The Boys" would get a package from home, bulging and smelling of carefully wrapped salt fish, `ai pa`a, pipi kaula, and seasonings from home it was like Christmas, no matter what time of year. The `ai pa`a would be carefully mixed with water and savored for a few days. Then, the thrifty young men would add poi palaoa to stretch out the real thing. My Nana, understanding my need to experience things for myself, let me make some. I decided that it had the virtue of being able to sustain life, and that was about it.
Blossom of wild taro
Poi
Poi is made from kalo and occasionally `ulu. Other foods prepared in a similar way are generally termed "pa`i," as in pa`i mai`a or pa`i `uala. Poi, being made from kalo, is a very special food, because kalo is the elder brother of humans.
Kalo is the first child of Wākea, the Sky Father, and his daughter Ho`ohokukalani. Named Hāloanakalaukapalili - long stalk with fluttering leaf - he was born as a shapeless mass and buried at the north end of the hale, where he was daily tended by his weeping mother. Eventually, he grew as a taro plant. The `umeke `ai for poi became a symbol of Hāloanaka, and so out of respect, business, new ventures, and unpleasantness are not discussed when the poi calabash is uncovered.
There is an ancient saying: I ka `ōlelo no ke ola, i ka `ōlelo no ka make. "In the word is life, in the word is death." Thus, we do not bandy about, disrespect, or make light of poi by abusing its name and applying it to things which are not poi. Instead, we honor poi as the special sustenance of the Hawaiian people. Poi is never wasted or thrown away. If it becomes too sour to eat, or contaminated by something inedible falling inside, it should be buried back into the land.
Hāloa, our good elder brother, teaches us many things, especially how to live as a family. He keeps his children carefully at his side. He shelters them with his broad leaves. When they grow strong enough to break away he remains at the center of his family as the keiki continue to grow.
Poi is made by steaming or boiling kalo until it is soft all the way through. I like to boil it with the skin on. Then, let it cool until it can be handled. Peel off the skin and put it in your compost. Keoki Kahumoku then runs the kalo through a juicer to make poi. I tried that with my juicer, but it did not taste as good as Keoki's. For now, I will stick to beating on it with a poi pounder. It is good exercise, anyway. Perhaps in another ten years or so of practice, my poi will have a nice even consistency. Until then, I expect my `ohana will continue to prefer the store-bought bags!
Poi is a good baby food. My grandfather prescribed it for babies with food allergies, and who were unable to keep food down, or who were not gaining sufficient weight. Just use boiled and cooled water to mix it, and very clean containers.
I have found that some of the Asian taros are not suitable for poi. Rather than a nice paste, they produce a viscous slime. The large-root Hawaiian taros seem to work best. Lehua is a popular kalo for poi, and is beautiful in the garden as well.
Today, most poi is made from the entire corm. In ancient times, attendants to the ali`i, after removing the skin, would lovingly cut away the poi `ili, the outer bulk, and reserve the poi hē, the center portion, farthest from the dirt, for ka lani - the heavenly one.
Pa`i Mai`a / Poi Mai`a
The Hawaiian mai`a, actually more like a plantain, also was and is pounded into a kind of poi. The bananas should be ripe, but still firm. A fork works well for small quantities. For larger amounts, a potato masher works well. Just add a little water at a time until the desired consistency is reached. For pa`i mai`a you can also use coconut milk instead of water, but poi mai`a uses only water.
Pa`i `Uala / Poi `Uala
A poi-like pounded food made from sweet potatoes. Boil, bake, or steam the `uala and pound with a little water or coconut milk.
Poi `Ulu
Breadfruit poi. Bake, boil or steam a solid but ripe `ulu until it is tender. Peel and cut into chunks. Pound as for poi, adding water as needed.
Poi Cocktail
A modern invention dating, probably from around WWII, this is a refreshing drink which is also soothing when you are ill. I grew up considering a poi cocktail as good as a milkshake. Now I think they are better! My grandmother made it for me when I was a little girl and had to have my tonsils removed.
| 1 cup milk |
Simply beat the mix with a fork and serve!
Kalo was such an important part of Hawaiian life that the vocabulary of the taro farmer is very detailed and precise. Click here to learn some kalo terms.
