Food & Drink

A cuisine of our own

Last week, I found myself dining with a group of restaurant critics and food writers in a small outdoor café along Duval Street in Key West. Breezy conversation over our candlelit table ranged through all topics food-related, from the definition of Southern barbecue to the merits of Hogfish. Eventually, heads turned toward my end of the table and someone asked me to define Alaska cuisine. I took a sip of wine and smiled, thankful the question wasn't about politics.

Kirsten Dixon's kimchi on salmon
Kirsten Dixon photo
Kimchi is a perfect metaphor for Alaska cuisine: Born out of self-sufficience and rife with creative possibilities.

It's a big question, really. What is Alaska cuisine? Can we describe it to ourselves and explain it to others? How do we look for inspiration and a sense of what local cuisine might be to those of us who live in the backdrop of millions of acres of wilderness?

My first thought on how I am influenced as a cook living in Alaska is by the legacy of Native food culture. Whenever I hot-smoke salmon over a smoldering alder wood fire, I am using an ancient technique repeated by generations of Alaskans. I, like others, look to the wild landscape that surrounds me for seasonal discoveries such as wild berries, herbs, mushrooms, and even seaweed that I dry and sprinkle over salads.

Early Russian fur traders and settlers brought potatoes, cabbages, and other northern crops that have never left the culinary landscape. Coulibiac, or Russian salmon pie, a kind of pastry layered with salmon, rice and eggs, is an example of one Russian dish that has become a tradition in my family.

Alaska's fishing history with Nordic communities, and our geographic nearness and similarities to Scandinavia, brings pickled foods, dense dark breads, anise-flavored broths, and dishes with the clean salty flavor of the sea to my kitchen.

And living in a place where pioneers struggled to find their dreams through the search for gold or homesteading land influences me. Through stories of hearty and determined pioneers, I keep sourdough, a well-stocked root cellar, and I preserve what summer bounty my garden might provide.

Many of us living in Alaska are first-generation immigrants, whether we are from Korea, Samoa, or Ohio. Like others, I've created a new family here in Alaska and we have invented our own food traditions. In my family, we celebrate the first salmon of the season, we have to have crab cakes on New Year's Eve for good luck, and so on.

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And now, in part due to a vibrant Korean community and incredible Asian markets in Alaska, I've added kimchi to the repertoire. Kimchi, in my mind, is a metaphor for modern Alaskan cooking. It is a dish born out of fierce independence, self-sufficiency, and frugality. It is also a creative palette that can infinitely change with the seasons. In summer, I add cooked minced spot shrimp to kimchi (I'm not a fan of the more traditional salted shrimp from Asia found in some recipes), and in the spring I might add in fresh herbs, garlic chives, or chives blossoms.

So, with apologies to any purists out there, here is my winter recipe for kimchi. I like to serve it as a side dish with simple pan-seared salmon and perhaps a little brown rice.

What are your Alaska food influences and traditions? I'd like to hear them. E-mail me at kirsten(at)alaskadispatch.com.

Turn the page for Kirsten's winter kimchi recipe.


Winter Kimchi

Store kimchi in a glass jar
Kirsten Dixon photo
Store kimchi in a glass jar; plastic containers can impart an artificial taste.

1 medium head Napa cabbage (about 1 ½ pounds)

1/4 cup kosher salt

1/4 cup Korean red chili powder or flakes

6-10 cloves of garlic, peeled and minced

1 knob of fresh ginger, peeled and minced

1/4 cup fish sauce (nam pla)

1/4 cup light soy sauce

4 green onions, coarsely chopped

1/2 cup julienned carrots

1 Granny Smith apple, grated

1/4 cup mandarin orange juice, freshly squeezed

Peel off any old or discolored cabbage leaves. Cut the cabbage lengthwise into quarters, remove the root-ends, and then cut the quarters crosswise into bite-size pieces. Dissolve the salt into a small amount of warm water and pour the liquid over the cabbage. Toss the cabbage and saltwater with your hands. Let this sit at room temperature for about four hours or more. The cabbage will shrink down a bit as it begins to brine. Rinse the cabbage with cool water and strain to remove any excess water or brine. Place the cabbage into a wide mixing bowl.

Combine the chili powder with about 1/4 cup of warm water to make a paste. Spoon this into the bowl of cabbage. Add in the minced garlic and minced ginger, the fish sauce, soy sauce, green onions, carrots, apple, and orange juice. Put on a pair of lightweight kitchen gloves so the red chili powder doesn't burn your hands. Toss and lightly rub the cabbage with all the ingredients together until the mixture is well blended.

Spoon the kimchi into a hot sterilized quart-sized glass jar. Depending on how big the head of cabbage was, there may be some kimchi left over that can just be stored covered in a bowl. I prefer to use glass jars rather than plastic. I think plastic can impart an artificial taste into the kimchi. Leave about a half-inch of headroom in filling the jar to allow for expansion as the kimchi ferments. Cover the jar with a piece of cheesecloth or clean kitchen towel and leave out at room temperature overnight.

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Cap the jar and place it into the refrigerator. Personally, I think you can use your kimchi immediately. It will change characteristics and continue to ferment over the next few weeks. Depending on how strong of a sour taste you prefer, find the optimal peak delicious time for your kimchi, probably within two weeks to a month. (If you know how to can and preserve, seal the jar in a boiling water bath to preserve the kimchi longer, for up to three months.)

Makes approximately 1 quart kimchi.

Kirsten Dixon is an award-winning chef who has cooked and lived the past 30 years in the backcountry of Alaska. To learn more about her, visit www.kirstendixon.com.

Kirsten Dixon

Kirsten has been cooking in the backcountry of Alaska for more than twenty years. She is a passionate culinary student, educator, and an avid gardener. Kirsten spends most of her time at Winterlake Lodge, where she frequently teaches cooking classes in the kitchen or gives tours of the herb garden. Kirsten attended culinary school at the Cordon Bleu in Paris, and she holds a master’s degree in gastronomy (food history) from Adelaide University in Australia.

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