W
hile I was growing up on the Big Island of Hawaiʻi, a common complaint made by visitors and
family members from the mainland about poi was that it "tasted like library paste." While I can't
vouch for the taste of library paste, I can't imagine eating it. In fact, I can't imagine many uses
for library paste in today's world. Even though it is made with starch, I will always advise
against eating it.
After an awful argument with my girlfriend, Lori, I was on vacation on the Big Island; she
remained on Oʻahu. We reconciled over the phone, and I invited Lori to join me. She flew one of
the local airlines into Kona International Airport at Keāhole. I drove to the airport in my rental
car and picked her up.
I drove up through Waimea then down to the Hāmākua Coast, all while pointing out sites
of interest to Lori, who had grown up on Oʻahu and had lived on Kauaʻi.
In Honoka'a, I was disappointed to see that the drive-in, world famous for its hot
malasadas dipped in sugar, was closed for the day.
We stopped at an antique shop in Honokaʻa. Somehow, the person running the shop and I
got into a discussion of the best way to eat poi. She said, "Fresh is best." I replied, "No, slightly
fermented or sour is best." We went back and forth for several minutes while Lori grinned about
her haole boyfriend talking about the best way to eat poi.
When I write about the art of eating poi, I'm writing about preferences.
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I'll eat fresh poi. I prefer poi that is slightly sour. While I was growing up in Dad's house
in Volcano, Dad was the cook. He rarely relinquished control over his kitchen. Hawaiian food
was one of my favorites. I knew we would be having Hawaiian food for dinner soon if I saw a
plastic bag of poi on the kitchen counter. Dad purchased poi from Hongo Store, set it on his red
Formica kitchen counter, and periodically kneaded it to see the bubbles indicating the progress of fermentation.
Dad served slightly sour poi because he preferred it that way, and because it was even
more flavorful than fresh. In 1944, during World War II, Dad's ship was in port at Nawiliwili
Harbor, Kaua'i. He was befriended by Native Hawaiian fishermen who may have shared sour poi
with him at mealtime.
Lori and I resumed our journey to Hilo. Well outside of Hilo, from the broad shoulder of the
Māmalahoa Highway, the driver of a parked car swung his vehicle slowly onto the road right in
front of us.
"Hold on!" I told Lori, swerved into the oncoming lane past the startled driver. If a
car had been coming from the other direction, it would have been a disaster. My adrenaline was
pumping. I was unnerved by our near accident.
We made it to Hilo. There, we stopped for
comfort food: Hawaiian plates of laulau, kālua pig, lomi lomi salmon, and poi. Haupia for
dessert.
When I write about the art of eating poi, I'm writing about the necessity of comfort food
to help us recover from near disaster or disaster. The art of eating poi is about eating to make
ourselves feel better. Eating comfort food returns us to an earlier, safer time.
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I should have asked the antique shopkeeper if there was a restaurant in Honoka'a where
we could have Hawaiian food. I was dead set on eating in Hilo before we drove up the mountain
to Volcano, where we would be staying for the night. If I were to talk with that shopkeeper again, I would tell her, "Auw! We aren't arguing; we're talking about our preferences. Please don't get me wrong. I'll eat fresh poi!"
Poi is delicious. Eat it with a utensil or no utensil— spoon or the first two fingers of your
dominant hand. I'm not against eating poi with my fingers, but I eat poi with a spoon so that I get every last tasty drop.
On the Big Island, we used the Hawaiian word ʻono to describe delicious food. After I
moved to Oʻahu for college, I learned the phrase "broke the mouth" to describe food so flavorful it was "broke the mouth" good.
The art and secret of eating poi is to eat it with salty foods. Poi moderates the salt and
carries the flavor; the mouthfeel of poi intensifies with salty foods. Eat poi with bites of laulau or
kālua pig. ʻOno! Eat poi with lomi lomi salmon. Delicious! If you have no meat, eat poi with
Hawaiian red rock salt or plain rock salt. Broke the mouth good! If you only have a raw onion,
cut the onion into chunks, salt the chunks with rock salt, and alternate between bites of onion and bites of poi. In island pidgin, 'ono-licious! If you have nīoi, or hot pepper water, eat that with
poi. So good!
I wouldn't be surprised if search engines reported a surge in searches on "poi" after people read
the profile of Jason Momoa in the December 2020 issue of
Men's Health. In a sidebar, Momoa
described his "cheat meal" as "Hawaiian food: Kalua pig, laulau, rice, poi, poke, and Portuguese
sausage...."
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After we returned to Oʻahu, Lori and I eventually got married and moved into a rental house in
Mililani with our cat Eugene. We argued, but we never argued about Hawaiian food. We loved it.
I often brought home take-out Hawaiian plates from a diner in 'Aiea.
Our marriage wasn't a
success; it lasted less than four years.
In 1999, I moved out of our house and filed for divorce. I continued to eat Hawaiian food
at the diner. I ordered a side of pastele, ate part of that and took the rest home to have later. I
thought pasteles were originally from Portugal; I read now that they are from Puerto Rico. I do
an internet search on the diner, and am happy to see it's still open, twenty-five years after I left
Hawaiʻi. I do an internet search on the Honoka'a drive in, and am happy to see it's still open too.
I moved to Washington State in 2000. I miss Hawaiʻi and the wonderful variety of foods served
there: poi, laulau, kālua pig, lomi lomi salmon, poke. Pasteles. Malasadas. Kalbi, bulgogi,
kimchi. Sashimi and sushi, nishime and nattō. Egg foo young and red lup chong (or lap cheong)
sausages. Portuguese bean soup. For breakfast: eggs, Portuguese sausage, and rice. I doused eggs
with hot sauce and rice with shoyu. Real comfort food, like Hawaiian food for dinner. I'm
talking about preferences.
In Volcano, in our largest greenhouse, we grew several varieties of wetland and dryland taros. I
loved lūʻau, the tasty green leaves of the kalo, or taro, plant. One of my chores was to water the
plants in our greenhouses. The deep green cordate leaves of kalo could hold drops of water in
their heart-shaped basins.
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One of my favorite dishes Dad made was chicken lūʻau, chicken and lūʻau tops baked in
coconut cream. Some recipes called for chopping chicken bones and adding them for the flavor
from marrow. I didn't like the splinters of bone.
Occasionally, Dad harvested a corm of kalo, sliced and fried it in olive oil. 'Ono! The
next day we would replant the uppermost portion of corm with remnant of stalk for kalo and
lūʻau in the future, so we wouldn't go without.
I'd like to put to rest the idea of poi as tasting like library paste. Poi is a rich gray color, and
tasty—especially when eaten with salty foods. Library paste is pasty white. Don't eat it. Use it as
an adhesive if you have to.
The art of eating poi is like the art of eating any food we find comfort in, any food that
nourishes us, helps us remember home and makes us feel better.
