Here’s what I do when I go to bookstores. I wander around the sci-fi section to see if there’s anything new out that I have any interest in reading. I meander down to the YA section to see what’s out, and usually jot down the names of a couple of books to look up at the library. Then I go over to the magazine section and collect the new editions of Bon Appétit, Gourmet, and Cook’s Illustrated and settle down with a silly coffee drink to peruse my stash. Read the rest of this entry ?
A couple of years ago a friend and I were out to dinner and ended up discussing how much we both love to cook, and how that always makes people ask us if we’ve considered doing it professionally. At which point we both recoil with varying degrees of horror depending on how recently we’ve spent eight hours in the kitchen doing nothing but cook.
About twice a year I spend all weekend in the kitchen making the kind of things that if I was married to the French Ambassador I would make all the time to serve at luncheons, but since I’m not, I don’t. This is another way of saying that the Oscars were this Sunday and the Oscars are a big deal in my house.
The complicated part about making dinner isn’t learning when chicken is done, or how to make rice, or even how to plan a balanced meal. The hard part is having everything be done at the same time.
Sautéed chicken
Corn pudding
Green beans
Salad
Most weeks I spend a little while on Monday evenings doing prep work for dinner on Wednesday. My roommate works late on Mondays so there’s no one home to distract me with things like conversation, and I find cooking in a quiet house is very soothing. Sometimes I listen to an NPR podcast, sometimes I dance around my kitchen while my cat looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, but most of the time I kind of let my brain go off line while I cook. Unless I’m trying to scale a recipe up or down, or do complex geometry to figure out how many individual tarts the recipe for a 9” quiche will make, cooking doesn’t demand much conscious thought. It’s not quite autopilot, but it’s different thinking skills than I use at work or in conversation. I can let my hands go on about the tasks of slicing and sautéing without much active thought being involved. It’s relaxing.
This Monday night I went out and had noodles and ginger cheesecake and saw a movie and that was relaxing too, but in an entirely different way. Since I knew I was going to go out and play on Monday night I planned a dinner that I have made so many times I could do it half asleep, and one that didn’t require any advance preparation. It doesn’t hurt that everyone loves corn pudding and I get greeted like a hero every time I make it.
I am amenable to a good guilt trip in the right cause. Barbara Kingsolver tipped me over the edge to shopping at farmer’s markets and buying (mostly) seasonal food. Al Gore got me to buy a water filter instead of bottled water, and use cloth napkins instead of paper. I object to neither result, although it’s probably not going to stop me complaining about the inconvenience from time to time.
I sat down to read Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life expecting to be guilted, but also expecting to be entertained. I like reading books about people going off and doing things that I find highly appealing in theory, but have no interest in actually doing (gardening, backpacking through Asia, refurbishing a house in a small French village . . . . ). I was predisposed to the particular brand of guilt trip that she was hawking. I believe in supporting small local farmers, and in food that tastes like food and not preservatives. On the other hand, she was occasionally so out of touch with reality that I found it hard to read, much less enjoy the book. Even supposing that I had the inclination to spend my summer canning tomatoes I bought at a farmer’s market, I don’t have space to store them. My pantry is full, and let’s not even talk about my freezer. Granted, I have no idea what it’s filled with half the time, but I know that I don’t have the space to freeze summer corn so that I can eat it in February.
I don’t like beets. There’s nothing inherently wrong with them. They are, in fact, admirably true to their essential selves and remain stubbornly beetlike no matter how you cook them. This is great if you like beets, and disappointing if you are less than enthused by them.
I keep wanting to like beets. I feel like I should like beets. When you read about beets they always sound enticing – earthy , soft, buttery, colorful, deep intense flavor. Doesn’t that sound like a vegetable you want to run out and try? And yet, upon cooking they remain unappealingly beetlike.
Lamb Stew with Lemon & Figs
Yogurt Mint Sauce
Salad
Bread
The reason I could never be vegan:
Cheese
Maybe I spent too much time in France as a child, but the thought of life without cheese is unfathomable. I live in fear of becoming lactose intolerant.
Reasons I could never be vegetarian:
Foie gras, bacon, fried chicken, hamburgers, lamb chops . . . .
Plus, I really hate tofu. Everyone says this is because I’ve never had good tofu, but at this point I’m going to go out on a limb and say I probably have. I’ve had it deep fried, marinated, grilled, sautéd, and cooked in sauce. I’ve eaten it in Indian food, Thai food, Chinese food and lasagna. And you know what? It still always tastes like tofu, which is to say like not much of anything but with texture issues. I’m sort of okay with silken tofu being substituted for cream cheese or plain yogurt in dips and smoothies, although absent a really compelling medical or religious reason I sort of fail to see the point. Read the rest of this entry ?
I once read a fantasy novel that, via various plot machinations, involved a 9th century woman from the Russian Steppes becoming the daughter-in-law of a 20th century Russian immigrant to Canada. The male protagonist was understandably somewhat concerned as to how these two women in his life would get along, but was immediately reassured when he came upon them in the kitchen.
“What surprised him was her instinctive grasp of what Mother needed her to do. She seemed to understand loading and unloading the dishwasher immediately, even though no one had explained to her what the dishwasher was or what it did. She seemed to know what tool Mother wanted and, most amazingly of all, where it was in the kitchen.
[ . . . . ] Katerina apparently recognized the tool when she saw it, because her hands already knew how to use it. Not only that, but she had got such a feel for the kitchen already that she knew where in the kitchen Mother would have put such a tool”
— Enchantment, Orson Scott Card –
I sometimes find myself watching late night infomercials with a kind of bemused fascination. Who are these people who can’t drain pasta without getting it all over the kitchen? Why do they have so much difficulty shelling an egg? How many people do you know who routinely feel the need to cut up old shoes with a kitchen knife? And would they really go from cutting a tin can to slicing a tomato without pausing? And frankly, the thing that makes omelets for you looks far more complicated than even the most temperamental frying pan.
I like reading cookbooks, particularly old cookbooks. Not because I’m particularly interested in making the recipes – I can flatly guarantee that there is no circumstance in which I am going to want to make anything in aspic – but because they’re little slices of social history.
The American Frugal Housewife from 1833 warns her readers that, “Economical people will seldom use preserves, except for sickness. They are unhealthy, expensive and useless to those who are well.” The Charlotte Cookbook from 1969 gives menu suggestions for everything from a Bridge Luncheon to a Debutante Supper Party which include such recipes as Florida Garden Salad with Whipped Cream Dressing, and Sherry Pie. Even the Joy of Cooking, which I tend to think of as a relentlessly practical source of information, is full of weird little pieces of advice if you actually sit down and read the chapter introductions.
I like them partly because they’re just bizarre – who knew you could do that many things with jello, or that you might want to – and partly because I was a history major. Women’s history isn’t written in treaties or filed in national archives, it’s found in cookbooks and letters and guides on how to be a good housewife. Old cookbooks are a walk through how much life has changed even in just the last 50 years. Now we have shows on the Food Network about how to combine two working parents and kids with multiple after school activities with a home cooked meal every night. 40 years ago cookbooks were explaining the subtle differences between hors d’oeuvres and appetizers and how to plan an economical luncheon menu (use leftovers from your dinner the night before).
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There are certain types of food that I really wish I liked because when people eat them they look like they’re having such an amazing time. Oysters fall into this category. People who eat oysters look like they’re really enjoying themselves, but I can’t quite get past the fact that they’re alive when you eat them. I have this horrible vision of them sliding down my throat screaming in silent oyster agony as they plunge to their doom. Possibly I’m over empathizing with my food but nonetheless, absent being very polite, oysters aren’t something that I willingly eat.
For years sushi was another thing that I wished I liked but that I had a hard time actually enjoying. Then I discovered the bastardized American version of sushi that involves vegetables and cooked shrimp and no raw fish. I reluctantly admit that the reason I have a hard time with sushi is because I’m squeamish about the raw fish. I feel bad about only liking the sanitized Western version of sushi, but not bad enough to eat raw fish. In fairness, I’m also squeamish about steak tartare and beef carpaccio. You cook that steak tartare and call it meatloaf and I’m a big fan, but raw it does nothing for me.
For my roommate’s birthday this year I gave her sushi accoutrements – a rolling mat, a cookbook, and serving plates. So for New Year’s this year we had a sushi making party. I provided rice and fillings and then left everyone to make their own meals. I also borrowed a deep fryer from friends who asked for and received one for their wedding, and we made tempura and fried wontons.
Monday Night Dinner 
