cooking

Late Ambitions

When I turned forty, my friend Sharon told me it would be a good idea to stop acting like Chris Farley. I don’t know if those were her exact words, but I know what she meant. It was time to act less fratty, and to join a local cover band so I wouldn’t have so much time for shenanigans.

Chris Farley died when he was thirty-three, but I would like to think if he were alive today, that like me, he would be working on his mise en place, so that dinner guests wouldn’t have to watch him stumble around in tipsy confusion trying to reestablish the Sonos connection while they waited for a burned crab cake at 10:45.

Sharon’s dinner parties always begin on time, without a hint of chaos, and if they sometimes end in debauchery, I can only say I’ve seen that sort of thing happen at The French Laundry, where the food is less refined.

Sharon does not approve of this blog.

Storyboarding, Old-timey War, Legacy

Hmm. I hope I haven’t been confusing having strong opinions with saying everything I’m thinking, because according to “friends” I do a lot of the second thing. I do have some extremely strong opinions for a housewife, so after a month or so of reflection, meditation, and storyboarding Rosamunde Portsmouth—when you know you have a franchise on your hands you need to have a solid understanding of a character’s trajectory before you begin—I’ve decided to start writing down my thoughts again. And because it’s not the 70’s anymore, except in women’s denim, I’m doing it publicly.

I don’t want to say I’m a loose cannon, because I don’t want my mom to text me to correct my grammar and admonish me not to use the language of (old-timey) war. Funny I get so much advice from her now, because when I was trying to grow up, most of the guidance I got from my parents was probably too subtle. Certainly, there was plenty of theatrical gesturing across the dinner table whenever I slurped or slumped or used an index finger to push aspic onto my runcible spoon. And I think my bedtime stories were often parables, but there were so many names to keep track of that it could be hard to follow the subtext. I feel like I could have used a really practical directive now and then—something like “don’t shave your eyebrows” or “cutting bangs isn’t going to help.”

Is worldliness a good thing, or is that Weltschmerz? Anyway, I know I have those things now, but I still don’t feel the need to go advising everyone I meet, except when it comes to oven drying un-flavorful (or overripe) tomatoes, because there’s almost no tomato that can’t be rescued by seasoning it and putting it in a low oven with a little olive oil. I guess I also say things to my children that might come off as advice, but I think that’s because I want to be sure they will be able to form an outline of me in their memories after they have moved 5 hours away by car and our only communication is Words With Friends. I want to be sure they will be able to tell their spouses or live-in pets what their mom always used to say–for instance: “you realize that doesn’t match.”

Actually, kids—if you ever read this—and you ever read The Great Santini, I can only hope you’ll think of me as part Bull Meechum and part Maria Von Trapp, since I also taught you to sing in harmony.

Rick Bayless, Eating Matches, (More) Feelings

It turns out Rick Bayless isn’t singularly responsible for my impression that a perfect mole should make everyone cry. It was the film version of Like Water for Chocolate. Apparently it made a lot of sense to me that you would [contains spoiler] wind up eating matches and bursting into flames because the guy who loved but would never run off with you has died in your bed after years of being married to your flatulent sister. I cried and cried when I first watched it in 1992, and I cried and cried when I re-watched it recently, probably only because I was overtired from being out extremely late the night before. Why does everyone else go to bed before I do?

Years later, I watched Rick Bayless make a mole on Top Chef Masters that made the judges cry, or maybe he was the only one crying? It’s possible he too was crying from being overtired–he had spent a very long day trying to recreate a 70-ingredient mole without a recipe under the stress of competitive TV cooking. But I’d like to imagine it otherwise. I would like to imagine it was the closest he could have come in a reality television setting to Tita’s mole in Like Water for Chocolate, which was prepared not only bra-less, but with so much passion that it sent an entire wedding party into fits of tears—or diarrhea, or lovemaking, or, shoot—it’s been a couple of weeks now and details of the plot are getting a little hazy. I haven’t been cooking very much this summer but maybe I will pull it together and prepare a bra-less mole of my own. I think Laura Esquivel’s book contains some recipes, and if I tried to track that down, I could probably even figure out in advance which effect I might expect in order to tip off any dinner guests with sensitive stomachs or emotions. But wouldn’t that ruin it? Blessed are the match eaters. I think that’s right, but I’m only half Catholic.

Nützliche Ausdrucke, Yotam, Sentient Food

Frau Holmes used to say, “Wenn Gott wolte, dass ich koche, warum hat er dann Restaurants geschaffen?” It was one of the only nützliche Ausdrucke I never really liked, although I think she meant it more as a feminist than as a creationist. She also used to tell us once you see a new word, you will keep seeing it. How true that has felt lately, when the word Ottolenghi first started popping up all over my Twitter and podcast feeds. Actually, I’d like to know how it’s possible I’ve been missing a fantastic word like Ottolenghi. Christopher Kimball says that’s where everyone is going now in food—and he would certainly know, but I’m not sure I would have said he would know first. Then again, I think the whole living on a farm in Vermont thing, like the bow tie, is a bit of a put-on. Also, maybe I did know about Yotam Ottolenghi and I just forgot. I tripped or was tripped while running in White Clay Creek over the weekend and may have hit my head—there was very little blood, unless I was bleeding from my nose again and no one told me.

A little less recently, but still not soon enough, I came across David Leite (rhymes with eat—apparently not German). Lynne Rosetto Kasper is a fan so it might have happened sooner, except that I had to stop listening to The Splendid Table because it aired back to back with You Bet Your Garden, which I think was hosted by Gilbert Gottfried. Sometimes I would accidentally hear a little bit of that show and later that day, through some sort of transference, all my plants would die. I try not to take a point from anything I read, but I hope we’re not going any one place in food. I like to make a wheat berry salad sometimes, or an #ottolenghi cauliflower cake that was very difficult not to Instagram*, but I also want to make the bacon bourbon butterscotch popcorn from Leite’s Culinaria. If Christopher Kimball or Yotam Ottolenghi or David Leite has some ideas for things for me to cook, I am very open-minded. But I do also like restaurants. So Gott sei Dank, I suppose.

*But I did text it to my brother. He said it looked sentient. He has read a lot of Hermann Hesse.

Paleo Babies, Essence of Isabella, Eggs on Everything

I never got around to trying the Paleo Diet. I’ve been focused on savory crusts this winter and I’ve just learned I can order Atora Suet online. Anyway if it’s true Pete Evans is trying to use the Paleo Diet to kill babies, I’m not sure it sounds as appealing even as a complement to my intended boulder-rolling regimen. Unless… could Pete Evans’ Paleo-baby cookbook have been an Onion news story mistakenly picked up by the major outlets and the joke is on me, like the one about certain states legalizing powdered alcohol? Either way, if you’re still running Moveable Feast, PBS, I’m interested in any hosting jobs that may be opening up*.

Maybe my problem with Pete Evans is that I’ve never really wanted anyone to make me a carrot salad, though Zatinya might have a pretty good one—do they? I always fill up on fava beans. Nevertheless Mike Isabella was responsible for the seminal taste of my DC girls’ weekend—indirectly(!) by way of the earthy Countryman Pizza at Graffiato, which I added to our order at the last minute, grazie a Dio, because they never brought us our gnocchi. I wouldn’t say this was a throwaway reservation (Saturdays are for Mintwood Place, which is our new Rasika), but on Friday night there’s always the chance someone will be stuck in traffic on 95 till eleven o’clock, and we’ll end up having minibar tequila and Mauna Loa nuts for dinner. So Graffiato had been on my DC list on the strength of Zatinya and the novelty of prosecco on tap. Since I know I will want to recreate it, I’ve searched for mentions of the Countryman pizza online, and I wouldn’t say it’s been appropriately raved about, but I suppose it’s too subtle for a lot of people. It has, though, been adequately described, so I’ll just say it has a soft cooked egg on it, and like the one on the Gus Burger, it is just the right addition.

*And even if it does exist, I promise not to use powdered alcohol, however creatively, until at least halfway through taping.

Japanese Vending, Jethro Tull, Special Peanuts

When I was very young and knew more about the world (or however Bob Dylan said it), I decided it would be a good idea to work in the travel agency at UVA, mentoring students who didn’t realize they could play beer pong in Europe or that Japanese vending machines dispensed pornography. One excuse I would like to offer for persuading one of my best friends to come work there with me for what seemed like about a year (do you care, LinkedIn?) sitting in a basement office listening to Jethro Tull, was that I believed we were going to end up doing a lot of jetsetting as soon as our IATA cards were approved by Head Office. I didn’t yet realize that being a travel agent wasn’t anywhere near as good as having an American Express Platinum Card for getting hotel room upgrades or imagining strangers admire you. It was all wasted on John anyway. I think he has always gotten things for free. Why is that?

It seems awfully linear to mention this, but only in the sense that I’m picking up a thread from my last post–it has nothing at all to do with the last paragraph, except insofar as the parties have met: It’s starting to look like I might not make it back to Concord Mall for hats before the weekend, when I have my next two birthday celebrations. If you are Katie or Stevie, and you love a surprise, you might want to stop reading this.
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So the good news is, even though, thanks to the snow, I will likely not be able to buy trucker hats for either of the above from Spencer Gifts–and I was kind of wanting to boycott anyway, because last time they were out of “I ❤️ the old Latin mass”–I was able to make each one a cupcake today. They are an homage to Christine’s birthday cupcakes from last week, with the same dark chocolate cake, chocolate ganache center, marshmallow buttercream frosting, and salted caramel drizzle (perfect for those avoiding sugar). I added candied peanuts this time, to commemorate the very special milestone birthdays we’re celebrating this weekend. Can peanuts be said to be wizened? No, no–I’m sure that’s not the word I meant to use.

Malibu Stacy, Almost-Contest II, A Milestone

Dear E.S.B., (identity protected,) I was kind of floored when you chose to go into statistics professionally, instead of lifeguarding, which seemed like such a natural fit for someone so pretty, with an unusual talent for not squinting. It must be the long, thick Swenson lashes. Oops! Anyway, I was thinking about you, because I have finally seen the appeal of statistical data, at least as it applies to my own blog analytics. I have nothing like the intimacy with my readership that, say, Facebook has with all of us, but I do know that I’m about to cross the 1600-view threshold. Real blogs–the kind with photographs, ads, and sincerity–get this kind of traffic in a week. Still, it thrills me, though I would never admit it. I wanted to get a 1600 on my SATs, once upon a time, only I didn’t care about statistics yet, and that was a problem, or several, maybe, and the answer wasn’t always B.

I was thinking about holding another blog-wide contest, to commemorate the 1600th view. Two problems: 1.) WordPress will not tell me with enough specificity who’s reading it. 2.) What if the winning viewer turned out to be someone I didn’t know in real life, and the prize, cookies? Would that person even want to eat them? Maybe the prize should have been something inedible—I mean–not a food prize. A chance to be mentioned on the blog? Wow, who is getting a big head?

Misspent Youth, Pour-a-Quiche, Introducing Rosamunde Portsmouth

When I was busy misspending my youth–by which I mean everything from the day I quit piano lessons, through the summer I lived in the “International House” in Freiburg learning [card games] instead of German, up until I realized all my options had become limited–I often heard myself telling people I thought maybe I would write a book one day. I can’t imagine now when I supposed I’d accomplish it–while my children were playing out of doors or building dioramas out of found objects? It turns out what I tend to do, after I have finished doing their chores, while they are definitely not watching Austin and Ally, is an elaborate cooking project. Recently, however, like all responsible husbands, mine has set some limits for me—among them, a three-hour time limit for preparing dinner. “Not every meal is Thanksgiving,” adds a cheeky eleven year-old.

In the plus column, now that I’m limited to potted meats and Pour-a-Quiche, I’ll have plenty of time for Rosamunde Portsmouth, the heroine of my forthcoming series of novels. I haven’t decided what she does, besides a lot of unapologetic staying out late and then working in an office, where she often arrives rumpled. Very glam. She does NOT like to be called Roz!

Your Microbiome, Yusuf Islam, Not Learning

I try not to worry about all the antibiotics I’ve taken over the years having killed off my microbiome. After all, what can I do about it now, except take lots of probiotics, and, of course, eat very little, because the antibiotics have also killed off my metabolism. Don’t take my word for this–I have a terrible memory, and even if that is exactly what I read, heard or saw somewhere, you probably shouldn’t listen to me, particularly about eating lightly, because the latest recipe I tried for homemade marshmallows—it’s from Epicurious, so you can look it up–is very manageable, and, especially roasted, they melt beautifully in full cream hot chocolate. (¼ c Dutch processed cocoa, ½ c sugar, 1 c cream, 3 c whole milk; then if you have any leftover shards of Callebaut from your Christmas cookies, stir that in, and ¼ c of spirits to make Downton more fun, or a candy cane for Christine).

I was right to review The Accursed when I did. If I had waited until I knew the ending, it might have taken some of the joy out of, well, let’s say the journey of reading the book. If there is a parallel here to life, or to running, or to attempting a croquembouche, I hope you will ignore it. I try not to deal in morals. Do you hear me J.C.O.? In fact, I’m guessing it will be even better if I review the book I’m about to start, before it has been soured for me in any way.

Besides my indifference, at age five, to the Booker Prize, I can only explain never having read Midnight’s Children by admitting that back when I had nothing but time to read, and complain to my parents that I didn’t want to leave the car to look at paintings or state parks, I didn’t realize Salman Rushdie was interesting, and I was confused about whether he wanted to kill Cat Stevens, or was it the other way around? I understood Natalie Merchant had an opinion since she took “Peace Train” off In My Tribe, but my young adult life was full of so many preoccupations* that I didn’t give Salman Rushdie another thought until two of my favorite female role models, Padma Lakshmi and Terry Gross, rediscovered him—each in her own way. Review: I expect a bit of playfulness out of Midnight’s Children, because in his Fresh Air interview, Rushdie admitted an addiction to Angry Birds. Padma can’t have put up with much of that, though, so what was the attraction during their three-year marriage? I can only surmise that I am also in for a richly detailed history of post-colonial India, with a touch of Kaffir lime juice for balance.

*e.g. Garp got a fish hook stuck in his mouth, outside of normal vet hours, and was returned in a cardboard box (alive).

I Advise, Bitters, Spritz Optional

A recipe: Take all the citrus you have leftover from the holidays—lemons, limes, and darlin’ clementines that would otherwise get lost under something in your crisper while you were “cooking” apologetic non-meals on the coattails of your holiday labors—and add them to the leftover tart cherry juice you bought because you read it would help you sleep, or run faster, or remember things. Then pour those things into a much larger vessel and add as much bourbon as you have left after eggnog season, and/or fill the vessel to capacity. Serve over crushed ice. Add a spritzer, if you have the energy. Oh! Bitters would also be good. Add these to the mix before you stir, and certainly before you spritz. Did I say to stir it? For this preparation, I’m sure it won’t matter what kind of bitters you use, but if anyone is watching, do use the sort that come in a mysterious-looking bottle.