Poi (Hawaiian Pounded Taro)

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.