With its lightly crunchy stalks, tender leaves and nuances of nut in the flavor, vibrant kankung is a vegetable worth pursuing.

My most recent culinary entanglement began in Indonesia.

It started innocently enough, amid a typical street scene in the capital city of Jakarta: Diners overflowing into the sidewalks of open-air restaurants, the hiss of gas burners melding with the din of conversation and traffic. Cooks tossing tangled verdant webs of veggies in scorching woks.

On the table lands a plate piled high with steaming greens, perfumed with shallots and garlic, spiced with chilies and dotted with tender shrimp.

"What is it?" I ask Dian, my Indonesian friend. "Kankung cah," she replies, and we dig in.

My affection for this choice green, its tender leaves, slightly crunchy stems and nuanced nutty flavor blossomed as I made my way through Southeast Asia. Indonesia alone has a number of renditions. I made a point of trying each one: kankung mixed with bits of squid or chicken, or regional variations, such as the Sulawesi version, punctuated with large, juicy kernels of corn.

In Malaysia, I hit the point of no return over a plate of kankung belacan. Complex in flavor and slightly pungent, this tangy version sends out a scent I learned to sniff out a block away. Kankung belacan and a little plate of barbecued duck — now that's what I call a "happy meal."

I stalked kankung as I worked my way north to Thailand, adding more entries to the catalogue of confusing aliases: water spinach, ong choy and water convolulous.

The moment I checked my baggage for my return flight to Seattle, I knew I would have to face it: For me, kankung was no longer a casual fling. It was a habit. But, for the first time, a healthy one. So I was determined not to let distance come between us.

Barely unpacked, I set out with the single-minded zeal of a special prosecutor. I was prepared to weed through the produce sections of each market in the International District, scout out menus of every dim-lit dive, even question people on the street. I would stop at nothing to be reunited with my kankung.

The drama of what I had come to call the "great green hunt" lasted all of four minutes. The obvious starting point was Uwajimaya, where the produce section is a mind-boggling stretch of the familiar and exotic. Nested between the baby pea vines and the red-tinged amaranth, there it was. I found my kankung: long, slender, arrowhead-shaped leaves sprouting from thin, hollow stems.

Yet when I looked up to read the sign, the visions of steaming platefuls of freshly sautéed kankung decorating my table wilted: Swamp Cabbage $3.99/pound.

Swamp cabbage?

It was the most regrettable name of all, and certainly didn't provoke a Pavlovian response. Now I was really confused. It was time to get some help.

First I turned to Alan Kimura, produce manager at Uwajimaya. He was quick to clear up the multiple mistaken-identity issue. The object of my affection, kankung is not spinach, nor is it a cabbage, but Impomoea aquatica, a relative of the morning glory family.

He also reassured me that my fondness for the stuff wasn't unfounded.

"It's really catching on," he said comfortingly. "More people are trying different kinds of foods," Alan explained, "and we are moving more kankung."

But I had a burning desire in the bottom of my stomach, and it was growing. A question of increasing concern was, "Who could I get to cook it for me? Properly."

Off I went on another hunt, this time through restaurants of the ID to the counter of Tai Tung.

I asked Milton Wan about ong choy, as it is known in these circles. "It's a special dish for Asians," he explained. "Authentic Chinese food." Tai Tung serves it stir-fried various ways: with garlic, preserved bean curd or shrimp paste. But it is served only when seasonal prices are good. This meant I would be waiting for my order until the summer months when the harvest was more abundant in the warmer climes of California, from where it is shipped.

Fortunately for me, and my mounting cravings, my old haunt, Malay Satay Hut, understands the value of immediate gratification. At their new branch just on the periphery of the Microsoft main campus, kankung belacan is on the menu regardless of the season. Owner Sam Yoo unveiled the secrets behind the dish's enigmatic appeal. "It's mixed with fermented shrimp paste, and we add some chilies and soy sauce."

Thrilling as these encounters were, I had reached the point where, as in most promising relationships, I was ready to commit. This meant bringing kankung home, making it part of my daily life, a staple of my diet here as it had been in Southeast Asia. So I splurged on the whopping out-of-season price of $3.99 a pound and gingerly carried my bunch of tender stems across the threshold and into the kitchen. With a basic recipe for kankung cah e-mailed from a supportive friend in Indonesia to guide me, I got to work. I dragged out my wok, cut up the kankung stems so they would fit. Once shallots, garlic and chilies were sliced and diced, I tossed them into the hot oil. The greens followed with a few tosses and a prayer. Within minutes, I finally had it: a vibrant dish of kankung cah.

Feasting beside the heater and watching the rain hit my window, I concede this is certainly a Northwest spin on my Southeast Asian obsession. Still, should one of my Indonesian friends sample my dish, they would probably recognize it as kankung cah. I continue to perfect the recipe. But in the meantime, I reason kankung at home is better than no kankung at all.

Jacqueline Koch is a writer and photographer living on Whidbey Island. Barry Wong is a Pacific Northwest magazine staff photographer.