How NOT to make steamed dumplings in 10 easy steps

Posted Friday, January 13, 2006 2:21 PM

If you want to make an at-home version of take-out, here's exactly how you shouldn't go about doing it:

Step 1: Vastly over-estimate your capabilites. Pick something delicious, pretty to look at and wrapped in a delicate and artfully arranged skin of dough. Say, steamed pork dumplings. Give yourself a fraction of the time required to make a feast, say an hour to make said dumplings, along with sauteed cabbage and chicken fried rice. Scorn pre-chopped pork, and decide instead to buy whole pork chops, debone and trim them yourself. This process will consume your next 45 minutes.

Step 2: Consult the experts. Older, wiser sister (from here on out, “OWS“) is perfect. Ask OWS how she would approach this meal. Considering she's the epitome all things domestic, take her word when she says, “Whatever you do, don't use the chopping blade on your food proccessor to grind the meat. It'll liquify it in seconds. Shred it.“ Listen to her sage advice and reach the appropriate level of intimidation.

Step 3: Assemble your mise en place. That's fancy for “get your stuff together.” This includes spending 20 minutes tearing through your pantry looking for your food processor, its blades and various mystery parts that you have yet to familiarize yourself with. (Hint: It's located in a crock pot box, underneith the box holding a cake pedistal and dome and 10 boxes of your new flatware, which you have yet to wash and store in the appropriate drawer in the kitchen.)

Step 4: Nearly remove several key digits to your left hand while trying to attach “shredding” blade to the crooked plastic stick it seems to want to hook onto, but won't. Call OWS for instructions. Ignore her taunts and cry out into the receiver, “I was clicking the button!” when she tells you the button on the crooked plastic stick needs to be clicked in order to attach frighteningly sharp blade to machine. End convo with a promise chat in the morning.

Step 5: Run for cover. Once assembeled, your food processor becomes a missle launcher with the potential to decapitate even the most well-meaning newlywed. Start up machine and drop in your first slice of pork, cut to 1-inch-wide strips. When the pork jams between the blade - moving at the speed and velocity of a meteorite - and the plastic lid, scream in the decible of your choice and smash machine in the control panel. Try it again, just for good measure. Repeat smashing.

Step 6: Call OWS. She will suggest you cube the meat, freeze it and shred it while frozen, when it will be more firm and less likely to jam. Think this is good advice. Cube your meat, toss in a freezer bag, and place in freezer. Pour yourself a glass of wine, because girl, you are going to need it.

Step 7: After 40 minutes of rice cooking, chicken grilling and various other tasks to prepare the rest of the meal, pull pork from freezer. Loudly, vehamently, lustily curse aloud your OWS for not telling you to make sure each cube of pork was individually placed in freezer bag, untouched by any other piece of pork. Look at your frozen pork-cicle in dismay. See if it will fit down the tube of your food processor. Smash it against the counter a few times. Begin chiseling pork pieces apart with a butter knife.

Step 8: Test shredder with a pork cube. Test integrity of plastic food processor, after pork cube throttles around inside processor, once again finally becoming wedged between the blade and the top of the processor. Smash machine again soundly with the palm of your hand. Survey your kitchen and consider calling the state department. You have found a weapon of mass distruction. It was hiding in your pantry.

Step 9: Rethink advice from OWS. Insert chopping blade, leaving the shredding blade, now known as the Chinese Throwing Star, in the sink to handle later. Chop garlic and 1 celery stalk in processor to make sure you haven't burned out the motor. Add pork cubes to processor and hold your breath. Turn on machine. Again shout, this time triumphantly, “Frig you, Cuisinart. Who's your mommy?”

Step 10: Collapse, exhausted, onto the couch, being sure to bring your glass and the bottle of wine with you to the living room. Wait for husband to get home. Tell him it's burgers or nothing. You'll finish the fight with the pork tomorrow.

Your husband will then pack the rice, the cabbage and the pork into tupperware containers 5 times bigger than necessary, but don't say anything about it. He'll pick the Chinese Thowing Star out of the sink, look at you covertly and silently wash it, leaving it on the drying rack, easily accessable to any Ninjas who may inhabit your house. He'll fumble around with the pack of ground beef (which you wisely bought already ground) until you come to his rescue. Burgers you can handle.