Potstickers

My heritage is pretty much as Western European as it gets.  If my blonde hair and blue eyes don’t give away my Scandinavian and Hessian roots, my translucent white skin is sure to do the trick.  On numerous occasions, I’ve been stopped by European immigrants, who are all convinced they’ve picked out one of the citizens of their homeland.  In high school, I reduced a lonely Swedish woman to tears when she realized I was, in fact, very American and would not be able to converse with her in her native tongue.  Last week in Trader Joe’s, a man said to me, with a twinkle in his eye, “You… speak a language different from English, yes? You’re from Europe?”  No, aside from the rudimentary French I picked up in high school, I don’t speak a language other than English. I am a California girl through and through.

Thus, it comes as a shock to most to discover the food often cooked in my home growing up was inspired by the cuisine of Asia.  I like to think that my mother’s interest and mastery of many dishes takes root in my parents’ love story, which I am prepared to share with you…right now.

My parents met in San Francisco in the fall of 1979.  My father was working as an executive director at Rescue Now, an organization that was sending doctors and nurses to refugee camps on the border of Thailand and Cambodia after Pol Pot’s regime had begun to eviscerate the Cambodian population in the late seventies.  He was in charge of selecting the staff that would be sent over, and my mom was one of the nurses attempting to volunteer.  Two weeks before they were set to leave, the organization changed the rules, and my parents could no longer go.  As fate would have it, however, they both traveled to the airport to bid adieu to those that were taking off for the East.  My dad will never forget that my mom looked like Annie Hall, waving to fellow nurses and doctors in a pork-pie hat, rolled up jeans and long socks. While this outfit seems questionable to me at best, apparently it made my dad swoon.  When my mother offered him a ride back into San Francisco, he jumped at the chance.  A whirlwind romance ensued, and a month into their relationship, my father decided he was going to fly over to Thailand on his own dime and look for work; my mother said she would follow.  Upon arrival, my father claims he stowed himself in a Red Cross bus by donning a pair of my mother’s scrubs in order to sneak into one of the camps.  He swears by this detail; she is rather dubious of it.  Either way, a job was secured, a phone call was made, and a marital proposal was put on the table (one which was quickly accepted).  My mom arrived a few weeks later, and three months after offering a ride to a mustached man at the airport, she found herself married and living in a refugee camp.

My parents lived in Thailand for a year before moving back to California, and it’s during this time I like to envision my mother picking up all sorts of wonderful cooking techniques from the women in the village where they were living.  Granted, much of the food I ate growing up was Chinese, but utensils and methods can translate to a variety of cuisines. Her wonton soup, shrimp spring rolls, and rice noodle stir fry recipes are all worth mentioning, but none of these is as satisfying as her potstickers.           

When I set out to write about potstickers, I assumed my mother would share a rich story of not only how she acquired the recipe, but learned the techniques (from a small villager with a cute, little face and a huge heart, no doubt).  I could not have been further from the truth.  “Heck no,” exclaimed my mom, “I got the original recipe from a book I picked up at the Macy’s in Union Square called  ‘Madame Wu’s Art of Chinese Cooking.’ It’s fabulous and manages to teach Americans about Chinese cooking without dumbing down the lessons or flavor.”  My imagination is always getting the better of me.

Over the years, my mom tweaked the recipe to her liking, which is what I’m sharing with you today.  Crisp around the edges, soft on the outside, tender on the inside, these potstickers are delectable, but are only made better by the dipping sauce that goes with them.  The ground pork filling and sauce are both seasoned with hits of garlic, ginger and soy sauce, but the combination truly makes for a simple and satisfying dish. 

Not quite as satisfying as unnecessarily having to read my parents’ love story, though, right?  

Happy Eating,  
Elizabeth

Potstickers

1 pound ground pork (ground turkey makes a great substitute)
2 squeezed cloves of garlic (use a garlic press)
1 square inch of fresh pressed ginger (use a garlic press)
1 teaspoon soy sauce
Vegetable oil
Water 
Gyoza/Potsticker wrappers*

Potsticker Sauce (recipe follows)

Mix first four ingredients together until combined.  Take one gyoza wrapper from package, setting on a dry, flat surface.  Place teaspoon of meat filling in center of wrapper. Dip two fingers into a bowl of water and lightly wet the edge of half the gyoza wrapper.  Fold dry edge of gyoza wrapper to wet and pinch edges together.  Lightly press the bottom of the dumpling into flat surface so potsticker can stand up on its own accord. Continue with remaining gyoza, until potstickers are set aside and made.

In a large, nonstick pan**, heat 2 TBSP vegetable oil on medium-high heat.  Place enough potstickers in pan to cover the majority of the bottom, but leave room to flip dumplings. Fry until crispy, flipping to crisp other side halfway through (they should be a dark brown color).  Add a cup of water and quickly cover pan with lid or foil.  Allow to steam for 10 minutes. Remove lid and allow excess water to evaporate before placing on plate.

If you're looking for a crispier outside on the potsticker, boil them first, for about 5 minutes, then fry them in oil to get a crispy, brown outside.

 

Potstickers taste best if eaten immediately, but can be kept warm in the oven. Dip them in potsticker sauce and enjoy!

Potsticker Sauce

2 tablespoons red wine vinegar
6 tablespoons soy sauce
2 teaspoons sugar
1 tablespoon fresh ginger, minced
2 cloves garlic, minced

Combine ingredients. Taste ahead of time and doctor to your liking. Serve with potstickers. Devour.

* Gyoza/potsticker wrappers can be found in most grocery stores, in the refrigerated, ethnic foods section. Please note that gyoza/potsticker and wonton wrappers are not the same thing (even though they look very similar), and this recipe does work best with gyoza wrappers. I tried to prove my mom wrong by using wonton wrappers one time; I was not successful.

** I know.  I hate nonstick, too. However, it makes a huge difference in keeping the potstickers from sticking to the pan and tearing the wrapper.  Another Mama Sue tip I've tried to dispel and failed miserably in the process.

*** Fast variations:  You may have seen bags of frozen prepared potstickers at your local store (my favorites are Trader Joe’s version, but theirs don’t even come close in tastiness).  If you want an easy go-to potsticker, simply make them, place them on a baking sheet in rows (make sure they are not touching; see above image), and freeze!   Once frozen, put them in a gallon size freezer bag and they’re there to fry at your leisure.  Also, these dumplings make a great wonton soup.  Make a simple broth of chicken stock, a little sesame oil and scallions, toss in the potstickers, allow them to cook for about 10-15 minutes, and voila! A hearty and satisfying soup in minutes.