Go spelunking in my kitchen, and you'll find an arsenal of Chinese cooking tools: a cleaver; two woks; a clutch of bamboo steamers; and my latest purchase, a clay sandpot.

Peruse the wall-length former closet that houses my vast cookbook collection, and you'll find a substantial stack of Chinese entries from respected authors like Ken Hom ("The Taste of China"), Grace Young ("The Breath of a Wok"), Eileen Yin-Fei Lo ("The Chinese Kitchen") and Barbara Tropp ("The Modern Art of Chinese Cooking").

As for Chinese ingredients, if I want it, I've pretty much got it: from cloud ears to cassia bark, star anise to shaoxing wine, fermented black beans to black vinegar — here at my fingertips should I decide to whip up a quick Chinese meal. Gung Hay Fat Chance!

To live surrounded by a world of Chinese ingredients, cooking implements and cookbooks is one thing. To create the complex flavors and intriguing textures that put Chinese food high on my list of favorites is another reality entirely.

But this year I've vowed to incorporate more of this ancient cuisine into my home-cooking repertoire. I view it as a dual effort. One that has me expanding my culinary skills while lessening a proclivity for letting my fingers do the walking through my takeout menus.

Over the years I've found that, save for a few quick-hit noodle dishes, "whipping up" great Chinese food is as (cough!) effortless as preparing a Spanish paella, Persian khoresh, Sri Lankan curry or anything from "The French Laundry Cookbook."

But unlike those who equate cookery with drudgery, I consider my sporadic attempts to master the art of Chinese cooking a welcome challenge. It's also a good excuse to put on an apron, torque up some tunes and spend quality time in the kitchen.

Which is exactly where you would have found me on a recent weekday evening, glancing at the clock, deflecting (for the umpteenth time) my son's constant chorus, "Is dinner ready yet?" and wondering, "What was I thinking?" Actually, I was thinking the time had come to break in that clay sandpot.

Earlier that day I'd consulted several tasty-looking tomes before finding "Sandpot Casserole of Sweet, Sour, and Spicy Meatballs" — culled from Tropp's "China Moon Cookbook." This required a trip to the store for Chinese chives, enoki mushrooms, fresh water chestnuts and a pound of coarsely ground pork — among the 30 (you read that right) ingredients needed to get the dish from book to table.

Procuring the necessary items was easy enough, considering my kitchen's proximity to the Chinese food superstore, 99 Ranch Market in Edmonds. Once back in my kitchen, however, I noted that this recipe underscores a point I often make when offering cooking tips: Always read the recipe through, preferably twice, before setting out to re-create it. Take my advice, because I don't use it.

Had I used it, I might have realized I'd be eating dinner on the cusp of my kid's bedtime, having spent several hours chopping, blanching, draining, chilling, poaching, soaking, stir-frying, combining and simmering before sitting down to a meal. Had I read the recipe carefully, I would have heeded the following head-note hint: "To make life easy, you can poach the meatballs and prepare the other ingredients a full day ahead and then simmer the casserole to doneness just before serving."

Easy, schmeasy. Once I placed that sandpot in front of my family, lifted its lid and ladled a heady mix of garlic- and ginger-stoked meatballs, slippery glass noodles and brightly colored stir-fried vegetables into three big bowls, I knew I'd hit the jump-for-joy jackpot.

"Wow," said my husband.

"Wow," said my kid.

"Whew!" I replied.

Though my son was less than forgiving of the time it took to create such a sensational supper, my husband — no stranger to thrills encountered at the stove — was all too empathetic. How could he not be? He'd recently prepared us a stunner of a dish, lifted from "Wine & Spirits" magazine: Chinese fried and braised pork shank with brown glaze.

That glaze required a dozen ingredients, including rock sugar, fermented red dates and fermented red rice. Which, save for the rice (we used teensy dried red beans instead), I'd scored at the Chinese grocers. While my personal chef got busy with his epic effort, boiling, skimming, marinating, frying, saucing, simmering, straining and adjusting the shank for spice, I plied my cookbook closet in search of a worthy accompaniment. "Worthy" meaning one that was quick to prep, cook and serve, and did not require another trip to the store.

Delving into "China Moon," I found a lengthy yet deceptively simple recipe for "Pan-Fried Scallion-Chive Breads" (see related recipe) — a fancified version of the classic green-onion pancake that would be welcomed at any Chinese New Year party (The new year commences Sunday). May I brag and say these were better than any I've tasted in a Chinese restaurant? And may I insist that if you try this recipe yourself, those bragging rights will be yours to claim?

The dough is composed of flour, water, baking powder and salt. With no chives on hand — Chinese or otherwise — I made do with the other readily available ingredients, scallions (green onions) and coriander (cilantro), increasing the amount of each.

Though Tropp's recipe calls for brushing the rolled-out dough with homemade chili oil (a recipe well worth replicating, as my oil-stained "China Moon Hot Chili Oil" page will attest), I substituted store-bought. Any flavorful cooking oil would have done the trick. Speaking of tricks, the only problem I had was figuring out how to twist the breads into the right shape after they had been stuffed but before the final roll-out. Practice has since made (almost) perfect.

Using a Kitchen-Aid mixer outfitted with its paddle attachment — though a bowl and a pair of hands work well enough — I had the bread dough mixed, rested, rolled, stuffed and fried in the time it took to steam a pot of rice. And so can you.

Happy Chinese New Year!

Nancy Leson: 206-464-8838 or taste@seattletimes.com.

See more columns at seattletimes.com/nancyleson.

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