Crazy for Korokke

キルラキル (Kill la Kill)’s ridiculousness crept into my korokke making.

Hi, fellow anime lovers! Elyse here, with the fourth installment of Notes From an Anime Noob. I’ll be honest: I watched this show a while ago, but I was craving one very specific dish last week and had to make it. So you’ll get some #tbt vibes with this post—but the same quality anime food content you come here for!

What I watched: キルラキル (Kill la Kill) 

So NOW you know why I had to explain myself, since this 2013 series already had its moment years ago. (I may be an anime noob, but I try to be a relevant one.) Still Kill la Kill is a classic because of all the fighting, high school girl angst, and campy joy. If you haven’t seen this show, well, I imagine we’ll all be spending a lot more time indoors soon and what better way to escape the drama of this world than parachuting into the highly stylized one of another? 

Kill la Kill follows Ryuko Matoi, an orphan girl who is on a mission to find her father’s murderer. This somehow coincides—sorry, I’m hazy on these details and too lazy to Google—with her attending Honnouji Academy, a ruthless high school controlled by the student council known as the Elite Four. (Side note: Is it common for student councils in Japan to have such an irresponsible amount of power? See: コードギアス 反逆のルルーシュ(Code Geass),  かぐや様は告らせたい ～天才たちの恋愛頭脳戦～ (Kaguya-sama: Love Is War), 賭ケグルイ (Kakeguri), THIS. Where are the adults?!) Anyways, the Elite Four is so dominating because each member has their own Goku Uniform, which gives the wearer superhuman strength and makes them look like a burlesque Transformer. Let’s pause here. These pieces of battle armor deserve their own Substack (free idea!). They are over-designed (lots of straps and harnesses, eyeball-shaped shoulder pads) and so revealing they border camp. 

This is why I love Kill la Kill. Everything about this series is over the top. There is a key organization in the series called Nudist Beach. Ryuko eventually gets her hands on a Goku Uniform and he is a sailor-inspired outfit that’s sentient and speaks to her. Then there is the actual storyline itself, which corkscrews with plot twists (you’ll see!). Kill la Kill is unrestrained and unapologetic in its ridiculousness. As its world becomes deeper, darker, and more complicated, the series doesn’t suddenly take itself more seriously but uses the shift to lean into its joyous weirdness. There’s something so fun, even freeing, about that.  

What I cooked: KOROKKE!

Naturally, the food in this show is bizarre. Ryuko lives with her friend Mako Mankanshoku and her family in the tiny, run-down apartment. Feeding the family on a shoestring budget means one big platter of korokke, Japanese-style croquettes, made with leftovers (thick fish heads, broccoli florets, even whole oranges). Korokke is a humble dish, yet here they are just as exciting and absurd as the show itself. Sometimes, the korokke is burnt-looking and alive, with worms wriggling out of them. Other times, they are almost angelic—they arrive with a sparkle on the caramel-hued crust, like a halo, and piled high on a platter, pure abundance. But no matter what they look like or what they’re made of, whenever the korokke hits the table, everyone, even the Mankanshoku family dog, goes crazy, shoving croquettes into their mouth. 

I decided to make a slightly less adventurous version of korroke, relying on the recipe for potato-based ones in Japanese Soul Cooking by Tadashi Ono and Harris Salat. And in true Kill la Kill fashion, it was dramatic. I had some slightly green potatoes in the fridge, so I threw them in the oven to roast for the fluffy korokke filling. Then I sweated the onions and cooked down the pork and was ready to mash it all together with the potatoes...when I realized the potatoes weren’t baked through. Instead of just popping them in the oven again, I decided to thinly cut them for some chaotic reason that now escapes me, and tossed them with the pork-onion mixture and the seasoning (heavy cream, soy sauce, sugar, and pepper). I then flattened the whole thing into a big rectangle on a baking sheet and popped it into the fridge for about an hour. 

While the korokke mix was firming up, I set up my dredging stations: one plate for flour, one plate for vigorously stirred eggs, one plate for panko. (I would suggest large bowls, NEVER PLATES, unless you love messes.) I had no idea if my korokke filling would hold together as fleshy pucks since it’s so chunky, but somehow it did. The magic of anime! As I heated up some peanut oil for frying, I began to assemble each korokke, dusting it in flour, haphazardly scooping egg over it (no sloped bowl sides to help me with this! Again, go with bowls!), and coating it with panko. I don’t have a candy thermometer; instead I drop a small amount of whatever I’m cooking in the oil and see what happens to gauge temperature. Once one fleck of panko sizzled to a deep brown, I knew the oil was ready. I nestled in a few korokke, cooking them for two to three minutes before turning it over to fry another two to three minutes. 

The first day I ate them with Bulldog Worcestershire sauce, hot rice, and kimchi on the side. Even though a few things went awry in the cooking process, I was very pleased with myself. The golden, craggy outside and perfect balance of sweet and salty for the filling more than made up for the strangely piece-y interior. The next day I ate it cold and sandwiched between two pieces of toasted milk bread that were shellacked with Kewpie and more Bulldog sauce. When I sliced my sandwich in half, I was surprised and delighted to see how much the korokke looked like a mosaic (do you see it?!). I guess I’m leaning into my own joyous weirdness these days.