I have a collection of appliances. Of course I do! The enthusiasm of cooking is equal to the amount of electrical outlets you need in your kitchen. I have a kick-ass blender, that Kitchenaid mixer (in red, no less), a waffle maker, a juicer, two ice cream makers (yes, I do need them both!). I'm almost there.
My French Man looks at me, exasperated. "What else is there?"
Seriously? "Well..." I fidget. I look away. I mumble quietly. It's one of the last things on my list. What I'm missing---it's that DEEP FAT FRYER!
I know! I know! There's nothing good about a fryer, you say. I know! You can stomp your feet and insist that I stay the course. I know! I like healthy. I like the TASTE of food. But...really? Sometimes, fried is what you want. Food is not always about need.
It's not something I would use daily. Not even weekly. I don't like that "Fried Regret" that sits in your stomach--no, it pulls you down--so it's not that I want to make my own fries. I just keep imagining that I'm missing out.
Imagine...come on, come with me! Imagine triangular wontons with a little chocolate and a little banana, sealed and slid into that bubbling oil. Okay. Don't imagine the oil. Think about that crunchy wonton, melty chocolate, soft banana. Oh! Now dip it in some mango puree. OH!
Imagine piping little choux pastries into kisses. Now imagine them crunchy on the outside, airy and soft on the inside. Dust them with cinnamon and sugar: French donuts! (Actually, they call them Nun's Farts. Those French! How gauche!) Pop these in your mouth between sips of coffee. Mmmmm.
Still with me? Hungry? {deep fryer}
Imagine sweet little hush puppies, a simple corn meal mush. Slide these off a spoon into bubbling oil and--transformation!--you've got a corn dog without the dog. Dip these into a tomato chutney while you finish that glass of rosé!
I picture my own chicken fingers, dipped in buttermilk, panko, my own spices. Custom KFC! Crispy golden. Just the right crunch. Not dry. Not soggy. There I am making coconut shrimp! Tempura! Oh! Sweet potato! Zucchini! Carrot!
Deep Fat Fryer.
There's a part of me that really wants that machine. Yes, I can do without. I have that thermometer. I have a deep stainless steel pot. I know how to survey and adjust the flame to try to maintain that perfect temperature. Too hot and you get that burnt aftertaste. Too cool and you get a mouthful of oil. A machine would maintain that temperature for me. A machine would keep my kitchen from smelling like McDonald's.
So I dream of my own onion rings. I think of the day when I can wrap a meatball around a handmade crust and get that perfect browned exterior. I conjure cooled polenta--buttery, even cheesy-- cut into two-bite wedges, fried and dipped in my best marinara. Delicate zucchini blossoms stuffed with herbed ricotta or creamy goat cheese, then battered. Hmmm. I'd be The Hostess With the Mostest!
And then off I go again. Forget frozen fish sticks! Do it yourself: Fish and chips.... Fish tacos! Catfish, dusted with cornmeal. Ravioli. Yes! Ravioli! Just thrown in and then out--one more way to love your pasta! Pasilla chiles, stuffed and fried, Mexican-style. Take a chunk of that string cheese you feed your kids. Bread it and fry it, and you are there...oh my!
I won't think about cholesterol. Or fat. Or calories. I manage to eat sanely ninety-nine percent of my time here on Earth. Nothing should be forever banned. Fried food gives you instant gratification. It also, in the end, reminds you how good the rest of your diet feels for your body. But the Fryer, that's not for my body. It's not even for my mind. It's for that child in me. The one who dreams up new things just because.
I'm dreaming. I'm saving them up the day I make room for one more machine on my counter. Got one for me?
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Tools of My Trade
A chef without a knife can't do much. I've made the mistake of arriving to help prep someone's party and getting stuck with a dull knife. The wrong tool can double your prep time. It can suck all the joy out of your task, and who wants that?!
My first day at cooking school, I received a shiny suitcase full of tools: mostly knives that I didn't know what to do with, a peeler, a pair of shears. By the time I finished school two years later, my suitcase was stuffed with even more knives, gadgets, and that microplane grater that everyone eyed with envy.
I have a knife just for slicing bacon! There exists a knife (it's in my box) for the sole purpose of slicing smoked salmon paper thin. I gained a knife for shaping a potato into the classic 7-sided chateau potato. I have a cleaver! Don't argue with me when that one's in my hand!
But really, most people only need 2 or 3 knives. A serrated bread knife, a chef's knife, a paring knife. If you have more than that, you probably just need to sharpen your old knife. Really. Unless maybe you bone your chickens yourself...? Do you...?
I shun most gadgets. They're usually expensive replacements for a spoon and a little finesse. But there are certain tools I'm thankful for. Tools that save time, save clean-up, save the day: my mandoline, an Asian tool designed to thinly slice anything, even coconut. (Yes, I speak from experience!) Add a small blade and those slices will turn into matchsticks. Watch your carrots become perfect for coleslaw. Watch those potatoes become shoestrings. Watch your thumb! (Yes, I speak from experience!)
A great whisk, NOT a balloon whisk, is essential, not just for eggs, but the perfect tool for mashing avocados, turning hard-boiled eggs into egg salad, thickening that salad dressing.
That rubber spatula gets the last bit of whatever out of any bowl. It folds your egg whites gently into your soufflé base, your waffle mix, your meringue. It artfully fills your pastry bag, smoothes frosting in a pinch, moves your scrambled eggs around, and matches your kitchen at the same time! Personally, every kitchen deserves some red.
I've lost my nutmeg grater, and my zester, but replaced them both joyfully with an awesome microplane grater. This thing perfectly zests my citrus--and fast!--, fixes the nutmeg problem (fresh nutmeg, totally worth it!), grates cheese and chocolate, and takes up almost no space in my drawer. A microplane takes my lemon curd to a new level in half the time, not to mention what it does to a handmade granita!
My mother, trying to identify with a daughter who cooks, sends me little things: a grapefruit knife, a cherry pitter, that avocado peeler we talked about, even an egg slicer. All cool. I've been offered a kiwi spoon--from New Zealand!--an apple corer, and spatulas, spoons and tea balls. They have their place; they work for me too. There's nothing in that drawer that I don't use.
I have best friends: that mandoline, my knives, that don't even go in the drawer. They stick close to me. I use them daily. I have acquaintances that hover in a coffee cup near my prep area: my scissors, peeler, a pair of tongs, corkscrew! They come out to play regularly. Then I have my facebook friends: that tea ball that works not just for tea but for infusing my creme anglaise with spices, a bouquet garni in my stock, a handful of pineapple and ginger in my water. The candy thermometer I rely on for perfectly soft marshmallows, crunchy praline, homemade caramel sauce. I don't use these daily, or even weekly, but I'd be lost without them.
The right tool for the right job is half the lesson. A saucepan has sloped sides for a reason. If you're peeling 40 pears, you really do want a Y-shaped peeler. Just try to slice that bread with a chef's knife. Not happening! If you are "one of those" who just can't stand all that prep work that comes with cooking, take a serious look at your toolbox. Check your knives. (Are they even sharp anymore?) You may suddenly find yourself with time to spare for that apperitif once you give yourself a break and invest in your dinner.
My first day at cooking school, I received a shiny suitcase full of tools: mostly knives that I didn't know what to do with, a peeler, a pair of shears. By the time I finished school two years later, my suitcase was stuffed with even more knives, gadgets, and that microplane grater that everyone eyed with envy.
I have a knife just for slicing bacon! There exists a knife (it's in my box) for the sole purpose of slicing smoked salmon paper thin. I gained a knife for shaping a potato into the classic 7-sided chateau potato. I have a cleaver! Don't argue with me when that one's in my hand!
But really, most people only need 2 or 3 knives. A serrated bread knife, a chef's knife, a paring knife. If you have more than that, you probably just need to sharpen your old knife. Really. Unless maybe you bone your chickens yourself...? Do you...?
I shun most gadgets. They're usually expensive replacements for a spoon and a little finesse. But there are certain tools I'm thankful for. Tools that save time, save clean-up, save the day: my mandoline, an Asian tool designed to thinly slice anything, even coconut. (Yes, I speak from experience!) Add a small blade and those slices will turn into matchsticks. Watch your carrots become perfect for coleslaw. Watch those potatoes become shoestrings. Watch your thumb! (Yes, I speak from experience!)
A great whisk, NOT a balloon whisk, is essential, not just for eggs, but the perfect tool for mashing avocados, turning hard-boiled eggs into egg salad, thickening that salad dressing.
That rubber spatula gets the last bit of whatever out of any bowl. It folds your egg whites gently into your soufflé base, your waffle mix, your meringue. It artfully fills your pastry bag, smoothes frosting in a pinch, moves your scrambled eggs around, and matches your kitchen at the same time! Personally, every kitchen deserves some red.
I've lost my nutmeg grater, and my zester, but replaced them both joyfully with an awesome microplane grater. This thing perfectly zests my citrus--and fast!--, fixes the nutmeg problem (fresh nutmeg, totally worth it!), grates cheese and chocolate, and takes up almost no space in my drawer. A microplane takes my lemon curd to a new level in half the time, not to mention what it does to a handmade granita!
My mother, trying to identify with a daughter who cooks, sends me little things: a grapefruit knife, a cherry pitter, that avocado peeler we talked about, even an egg slicer. All cool. I've been offered a kiwi spoon--from New Zealand!--an apple corer, and spatulas, spoons and tea balls. They have their place; they work for me too. There's nothing in that drawer that I don't use.
I have best friends: that mandoline, my knives, that don't even go in the drawer. They stick close to me. I use them daily. I have acquaintances that hover in a coffee cup near my prep area: my scissors, peeler, a pair of tongs, corkscrew! They come out to play regularly. Then I have my facebook friends: that tea ball that works not just for tea but for infusing my creme anglaise with spices, a bouquet garni in my stock, a handful of pineapple and ginger in my water. The candy thermometer I rely on for perfectly soft marshmallows, crunchy praline, homemade caramel sauce. I don't use these daily, or even weekly, but I'd be lost without them.
The right tool for the right job is half the lesson. A saucepan has sloped sides for a reason. If you're peeling 40 pears, you really do want a Y-shaped peeler. Just try to slice that bread with a chef's knife. Not happening! If you are "one of those" who just can't stand all that prep work that comes with cooking, take a serious look at your toolbox. Check your knives. (Are they even sharp anymore?) You may suddenly find yourself with time to spare for that apperitif once you give yourself a break and invest in your dinner.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
A Reed in the Wind
I exercise. I try to devote time each week to the Trinity: strength, cardio, stretching. Each part of this threesome satisfies me. I love them all. I give and they give back to me, like my children, each in a unique way.
My French man and I leave the house, clandestine, once a week for our personal R & R. We call it yoga. We don't do high-brow yoga, hot yoga, or even cult yoga. Just a little together time where we don't talk, but there we are, side by side.
I love this hour-long warm-up. I stretch and my body sighs. I look longingly at my toes and find that within fifteen minutes, I can tickle them with my fingers. My back elongates and my shoulders drop. Ahhhhh.... Our instructor speaks softly, filling our quiet time with simple instructions and little philosophical something-somethings to direct our bodies, our minds, our hearts--tiny suggestions that follow us out of the room and throughout the week.
This week, she crouched and subtlely suggested: "Flexibility requires a strong base."Flexibility integrates range of motion with balance at its core. (Falling off your mat, you know, is never the goal...) So I listened, because, even at 44, I can't help but be studious, and spent the next hour--the next week-- contemplating the idea of flexibility: Downward-facing dog. Camel. Dolphin. Warrior! I cemented my base. I flexed and stretched. Flexibility: the extent to which a person can cope with changes. I performed and practiced mental yoga simultaneously: what is Psychological Flexibility, and do I own it?
I carry my screeching four-year-old across the parking lot and find a lesson in patience. I let that car swerve in front of me and keep belting out Neil Diamond. I see risk and potential catastrophe careening toward my family, my loves, and I cradle them with dancing, kisses and soft voices.
This flexibility can only happen if, according to Maslow, I have safely climbed that mountain of needs. This is my most important job--a consistent reach for the summit of Me. This, according to so many philosophies and religions, is Everyone's Work. Buddha did it. Gandhi sure tried. We are all on this journey, and the most beautiful aspect of this reach for our personal summit is that we are travelling together!
I may be on my slow way to enlightenmnent, trudging along, but it's not a race. It's a group effort. These people surrounding me, day after day, form my base. My relationships must be strong, supportive, constant. Otherwise, I may stumble off my mat. These people help me deal. No matter what. My base gives me the courage and confidence to smile at adversity, shrug off that black cloud, ignore the cold pricklies, walk with confidence into any room, even a mental one.
And vice-versa. This makes me responsible not only for my children and the beginning of their trek but my husband's as well. And my friends'. And people that cross my path. How I respond, my perceptions of people, of the world, begins and finally ends with Us.
My yoga instructor reminds us that our hour of stretching is considered preparation for the final pose: corpse pose. I lie on my mat in a darkened room and relax only because I've spent the last 55 minutes getting my body to this place. It is, in Yoga World, the journey that matters as much as the destination. It is our curiosity, our strength of character, our optimism that allows us to stretch backward and reach, find, grasp that which we deem--not impossible! We are doing it!--but miraculous.
I pondered this: Am I a reed in the wind? Do I bend and stretch, following the flow of my life, even whistling during life's most trying moments? Or do I break? Do I respect and admire each aspect of life as an opportunity? Or do I label them according to the damage I foresee? Do I scream with delight during this metaphysical roller coaster ride, or hurl and cry?
I've got an army of positive on my side. Family. Friends. An ardent outlook to give any enemy pause. The optimism and good nature necessary to pass that obstacle and keep looking up. Namaste!
My French man and I leave the house, clandestine, once a week for our personal R & R. We call it yoga. We don't do high-brow yoga, hot yoga, or even cult yoga. Just a little together time where we don't talk, but there we are, side by side.
I love this hour-long warm-up. I stretch and my body sighs. I look longingly at my toes and find that within fifteen minutes, I can tickle them with my fingers. My back elongates and my shoulders drop. Ahhhhh.... Our instructor speaks softly, filling our quiet time with simple instructions and little philosophical something-somethings to direct our bodies, our minds, our hearts--tiny suggestions that follow us out of the room and throughout the week.
This week, she crouched and subtlely suggested: "Flexibility requires a strong base."Flexibility integrates range of motion with balance at its core. (Falling off your mat, you know, is never the goal...) So I listened, because, even at 44, I can't help but be studious, and spent the next hour--the next week-- contemplating the idea of flexibility: Downward-facing dog. Camel. Dolphin. Warrior! I cemented my base. I flexed and stretched. Flexibility: the extent to which a person can cope with changes. I performed and practiced mental yoga simultaneously: what is Psychological Flexibility, and do I own it?
I carry my screeching four-year-old across the parking lot and find a lesson in patience. I let that car swerve in front of me and keep belting out Neil Diamond. I see risk and potential catastrophe careening toward my family, my loves, and I cradle them with dancing, kisses and soft voices.
This flexibility can only happen if, according to Maslow, I have safely climbed that mountain of needs. This is my most important job--a consistent reach for the summit of Me. This, according to so many philosophies and religions, is Everyone's Work. Buddha did it. Gandhi sure tried. We are all on this journey, and the most beautiful aspect of this reach for our personal summit is that we are travelling together!
I may be on my slow way to enlightenmnent, trudging along, but it's not a race. It's a group effort. These people surrounding me, day after day, form my base. My relationships must be strong, supportive, constant. Otherwise, I may stumble off my mat. These people help me deal. No matter what. My base gives me the courage and confidence to smile at adversity, shrug off that black cloud, ignore the cold pricklies, walk with confidence into any room, even a mental one.
And vice-versa. This makes me responsible not only for my children and the beginning of their trek but my husband's as well. And my friends'. And people that cross my path. How I respond, my perceptions of people, of the world, begins and finally ends with Us.
My yoga instructor reminds us that our hour of stretching is considered preparation for the final pose: corpse pose. I lie on my mat in a darkened room and relax only because I've spent the last 55 minutes getting my body to this place. It is, in Yoga World, the journey that matters as much as the destination. It is our curiosity, our strength of character, our optimism that allows us to stretch backward and reach, find, grasp that which we deem--not impossible! We are doing it!--but miraculous.
I pondered this: Am I a reed in the wind? Do I bend and stretch, following the flow of my life, even whistling during life's most trying moments? Or do I break? Do I respect and admire each aspect of life as an opportunity? Or do I label them according to the damage I foresee? Do I scream with delight during this metaphysical roller coaster ride, or hurl and cry?
I've got an army of positive on my side. Family. Friends. An ardent outlook to give any enemy pause. The optimism and good nature necessary to pass that obstacle and keep looking up. Namaste!
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Life Through Rosé-Colored Wine Glasses
The Aperitif. Cocktail Hour. The "After-Work-Dinner's-Not-Done-Yet Get-Together." It's a mingling warm-up for dinner table conversation. I first noticed this ritual in Mary Poppins and other cultural icons: The Man comes home and pours a drink. Even my Midwestern parents practiced this ritual: cheese and crackers, herring!, sardines, and a cold beer while catching the 6 o'clock news.
It hit me personally while visiting my mother-in-law. Individuals would convene without summons in the living room. Last to appear was my French man's mom: svelte, shining, a smile bursting from her sun-kissed face and champagne glasses on a tray. "Champagne?" she asked innocently. I am not the kind of person who says no....Later, my father-in-law would school me in pastis--that Green Fairy that I forever associate with the South of France, hot, dry summers, and older French men with kind, knowing smiles.
My family practices this with vigor. Sometimes it's me, my Frenchman, and beer after our weekday run. Sometimes it's white wine and cassis (think French wine coolers!) with a bowl of pistachios. We may come across perfectly ripe avocados, and --what's a girl to do?--I am suddenly squeezing lemons and limes for my margarita. (I may have two, and then dinner gets downgraded to quesadillas....) My kids may pull me outside for the sunset and a game of petanque. I am presented with a glass of pastis, milky white and icy. I sip and lose with dignity.
My favorite aperitif is a chilled glass of rosé. Blush wine. So feminine. So coy. So misunderstood. What better way to spend that soft limbo than with a pink drink. In the US, they call it "white zinfandel". In the US, they cheat and mix a little white and red together to create a Frankenstein beverage that's too sugary and not at all refeshing at the end of the day. In the US, this wine is neglected, ostracized, relegated to two brands in the grocery store, a lower class bottle.
I beg to differ. A great rosé, whether it's pale palette is sunset pink, barely peach, or stained watermelon red, has a place at your table, especially before it's set. Rosé is a perfect foil for salty tapenade, garlicy bruschetta, spicy nuts. Serving a salad first? Keep that glass, refill it and hit that dressing head on. Serving Mexican? Indian? Thai? Caribean? Go PINK! Having cheese pizza? A nice little glass of rosé, even a Grenache, will cut through that stringy layer of melty yum and present your mouth with the perfect contrast. Pour a rosé instead of white with your chicken, your pork chop!, your crab, your scallops or shrimp...
Some will stare. Some will smirk. "Pink wine!" The guys may chuckle. Let them--more for us! Smile and blink and pour yourself another. Now THAT'S Happy Hour.
It hit me personally while visiting my mother-in-law. Individuals would convene without summons in the living room. Last to appear was my French man's mom: svelte, shining, a smile bursting from her sun-kissed face and champagne glasses on a tray. "Champagne?" she asked innocently. I am not the kind of person who says no....Later, my father-in-law would school me in pastis--that Green Fairy that I forever associate with the South of France, hot, dry summers, and older French men with kind, knowing smiles.
My family practices this with vigor. Sometimes it's me, my Frenchman, and beer after our weekday run. Sometimes it's white wine and cassis (think French wine coolers!) with a bowl of pistachios. We may come across perfectly ripe avocados, and --what's a girl to do?--I am suddenly squeezing lemons and limes for my margarita. (I may have two, and then dinner gets downgraded to quesadillas....) My kids may pull me outside for the sunset and a game of petanque. I am presented with a glass of pastis, milky white and icy. I sip and lose with dignity.
My favorite aperitif is a chilled glass of rosé. Blush wine. So feminine. So coy. So misunderstood. What better way to spend that soft limbo than with a pink drink. In the US, they call it "white zinfandel". In the US, they cheat and mix a little white and red together to create a Frankenstein beverage that's too sugary and not at all refeshing at the end of the day. In the US, this wine is neglected, ostracized, relegated to two brands in the grocery store, a lower class bottle.
I beg to differ. A great rosé, whether it's pale palette is sunset pink, barely peach, or stained watermelon red, has a place at your table, especially before it's set. Rosé is a perfect foil for salty tapenade, garlicy bruschetta, spicy nuts. Serving a salad first? Keep that glass, refill it and hit that dressing head on. Serving Mexican? Indian? Thai? Caribean? Go PINK! Having cheese pizza? A nice little glass of rosé, even a Grenache, will cut through that stringy layer of melty yum and present your mouth with the perfect contrast. Pour a rosé instead of white with your chicken, your pork chop!, your crab, your scallops or shrimp...
Some will stare. Some will smirk. "Pink wine!" The guys may chuckle. Let them--more for us! Smile and blink and pour yourself another. Now THAT'S Happy Hour.
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