
Chef Makoa
Baked ʻUala (Hawaiian Sweet Potato in the Embers)
Whole Hawaiian ʻuala baked in embers or a hot oven until the skins char and the flesh goes honey-soft, finished plain with paʻakai so the canoe crop tastes like itself.
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Steamed Hawaiian kalo pounded warm with water until it turns from stubborn pieces into smooth, living poi, fresh and sweet today, tangy tomorrow, always eaten like kin.
My kumu used to tap the papa kuʻi ʻai, the poi-pounding board, with his knuckles before he let me lift the pōhaku kuʻi ʻai, the stone pounder. Not for show. Just to remind me there was somebody there before me. This one is Hawaiʻi's dish, poi, made from kalo, taro, the body of Hāloa, our elder brother, and on the windward side of Oʻahu where I come from, the loʻi, the irrigated taro patch, teaches you patience before the kitchen ever does.
Across the Triangle the cousins know that same root and that same pounding under their own tongues: Sāmoan talo, taro; Marquesan popoi, pounded breadfruit or taro; Tahitian poʻe, starch cooked soft with coconut; and the breadfruit called ʻulu or ʻuru, carried in the same canoes. No plain Polynesian bowl here. This is Hawaiian poi, but it sits at the wide family table, one ocean, one canoe, one root.
You steam the kalo until it gives up every hard place, peel it warm, then pound it slow. First it fights. Then it shines. Thick, it is paʻiʻai, the firm pounded stage; with water worked in little by little, it becomes poi, one-finger or two-finger or three-finger, fresh and sweet today or left to turn sour-tangy for the people who love it that way.
If all you have is a sturdy bowl and a potato masher, eat what you have. Use clean water, warm hands, and time. What you don't do is rush and then blame the taro. No blame the taro. It's not the taro's fault. We don't make poi. We sit down with a relative.
By 1778, when Europeans first recorded sustained contact with Hawaiʻi, irrigated loʻi kalo, taro terraces, were already feeding dense communities, and poi sat at the center of daily ʻai, food. Hawaiian moʻokūʻauhau, genealogy, names Hāloa as the elder sibling who becomes kalo, and the old thickness terms, one-finger, two-finger, three-finger poi, show a food eaten by hand from the shared bowl. The same canoe-crop root traveled through the Triangle, where cousins pounded taro and breadfruit into foods like Marquesan popoi and Tahitian poʻe, one ocean, one canoe, one root.
Quantity
3 pounds
firm, heavy, and scrubbed
Quantity
1 to 2 cups
as needed for pounding and thinning
Quantity
as needed
for steaming
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| whole kalo (taro corms)firm, heavy, and scrubbed | 3 pounds |
| cool clean wateras needed for pounding and thinning | 1 to 2 cups |
| waterfor steaming | as needed |
Scrub the kalo under running water, trimming away muddy rootlets but leaving the skin on so the corm steams evenly. If the raw skin makes your hands itch, wear gloves and keep moving. That bite is the raw plant talking. The long cook is what quiets it.
Set the whole kalo in a large steamer over simmering water, cover tight, and steam 1 1/2 to 2 hours, adding more water below if the pot runs low. A skewer or fork should slide clean into the center with no chalky core and no hard spot hiding near the middle. Don't rush this part. Undercooked taro can bite the throat.
Let the kalo cool just until your hands can handle it, then peel away the skin with your fingers or the back of a spoon. Trim out any fibrous spots, dark bruises, or hard eyes. Break the warm flesh into rough chunks and keep them covered so they don't dry out before the pounding starts.
Wet the papa kuʻi ʻai and the pōhaku kuʻi ʻai, then pound the warm kalo a handful at a time, turning, folding, and scraping it back together as it spreads. First it looks dry and lumpy. Keep going. Then the pieces begin to hold, the surface turns satin-glossy, and the mass lifts as one heavy paste. That thick stage is paʻiʻai.
Dip your fingers or stone in cool clean water and work it into the paʻiʻai a little at a time. The water disappears before the poi loosens, so don't flood it. One-finger poi is thick and holds its shape, two-finger is soft and scoopable, three-finger is looser and smooth. Stop when it shines, flows slowly, and still tastes like kalo, not water.
Serve fresh poi the same day, sweet and gentle, in a shared bowl with fish, laulau, kālua puaʻa, stew, or whatever your table has. For sour poi, put it in a clean covered container and let it sit at cool room temperature 12 to 24 hours, then refrigerate. Stir in a little clean water before serving to bring back the gloss. If it grows mold or smells wrong instead of clean and tangy, let it go.
1 serving (about 120g)
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Chef Makoa
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