As a culinary aficionado, I have developed certain idiosyncrasies. They are little rules I engage in with myself. It bothers me when they're broken--like wearing white shoes after Labor Day. Even though I've heard that now you can, I just wouldn't.
I wouldn't cut a sandwich any way but diagonally. It just looks better triangular. Don't you agree? See what I mean?
I wouldn't put anything on your plate that couldn't be eaten. A garnish should be edible. If it's not, what were you thinking? That bay leaf should've left before it hit the table. Those chilies too. What are you doing, placing fear and trepidation in front of your guest?!
I wouldn't put two or four of anything on a plate. There should be three or five. It's just the way it's done. Place two potatoes next to that steak. It looks so wrong. Too symmetric. Add another--oh yes! Much better!
Sauce gets draped across chicken, but not pork or beef. I know. I'm weird, but really, it's a rule.
In cooking school, there was a class for this: Color and Aesthetics. We studied the color wheel: families, opposites. We discussed plates, shapes, food arrangements, height. We learned (yes, I'm not kidding!) how to make squiggles, swirls, fantastic polka dots, beautiful chaos on a plate. We created towers, jenga structures, pictures on a plate.
There was the lesson on contrasting colors: red with green, the colors of hunger: diced tomatoes in a salad, sun-dried tomatoes with pesto, a palette of peppers. There was a lesson on color families: warm colors: yellows, oranges, and reds. I built a matchstick house of peppers and placed that chicken breast next to it; sprinkles of paprika and a red pepper coulis tied it all together. I discovered that the ubiquitous blue plate special was actually blue for a reason: blue does not appear in food. (Blueberries!?" you say? Not really. They're purple....)
We learned how to stack, how to drape. One of my chefs made an arrangement of flowers using candied fennel, over-dried tomato petals, and fried basil leaves. Another taught me that every salad should be a bouquet, and then he proceeded to make one! (It was delicious!)
The most important lesson from this class was "plating." You've got it all done, your creation is waiting on the plate, your fingerprints have been cleaned off the border. Wait! You've forgotten to sign your art! You need that garnish. A garnish is that last touch. It takes a dish from bistro to Restaurant. A garnish may be as simple as a sprinkling of freshly-cut herbs, an edible flower, a blooming onion. It's not the complexity that matters. At home, we tend to ignore this last hurrah. I suggest you try it. Yes, it's "one more thing," but it's the thing that changes your meatloaf and potatoes into Meatloaf and Potatoes. They will actually look at their plates. Savor the sight.
Squiggle that sauce. Sprinkle that parsley. Grab that little box of flowers and watch your salad become a bouquet. Turn a tomato into a rose! Spoon a little quenelle of tapenade next to that tuna. Snuggle a few raspberries between your ice cream scoops. Arrange a few long chives on top of that protein. Scatter some fried capers (yes! fried capers!) atop that fish, that steak. Sprinkle a little cheese over that soup. Some croutons.
Garnishing is a learned habit. Such a small gesture, but that's what people see! It shows your care, your attention. It can turn your weekday dinner into "What's the Occasion?" Just smile, pick a reason--or not-- and enjoy the ambiance you've created.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Turkey Red, Turkey Blue....
Thanksgiving is upon us: another reason to cook a great meal, gather friends and family, spend the day around the table. Thanksgiving allows us to get dressed up, slow down, wait for it.
The Thanksgiving I celebrate has no resemblance to the Turkey Day I was raised on. In my mother's home, nobody was busy but the women. My mother was stuffing her turkey with that Midwestern oyster dressing (oysters in Iowa: some things just cannot be explained...) while the rest of the house lazily gazed at the Macy's parade. She was layering yams, pineapple, and marshmallows while the rest of the house casually perused football. She was mixing green beans with that ubiquitous cream of mushroom soup, those French fried onions, while my brothers and I snickered at my father nodding off in his chair. She was sliding that cranberry gel onto a pretty dish so that it could be passed endlessly around the table later while my brothers started a whispered wrestling match.
My mother would assign us poetry--one for each place setting. "Turkey Notes," she called them. My brothers and I would sit amid cheese and crackers, Howard Cosell, intermittent snoring and compose: "Turkey Red, Turkey Blue, Turkey says, 'I love you.'" I think my mother always got that one. My oldest brother might scribble off: "Turkey Red, Turkey Pink, Turkey says, 'You stink!'" And slide it under my plate......
Those were the days.
There's no football in my house. (French guy!) I keep my family busy while I create Thanksgiving 2.0, humming along to "Fly Me To the Moon." My oldest knows how to set a table, down to the 3 glasses and 2 forks. My French man dutifully polishes the wine glasses, sets up the bar, vacuums the Everywhere. My little ones wash windows. Three times!
People tend to discuss food with me; they tell me their stories, their desires, their worries. Yes, they also tend to ask me for advice. What I hear is that Thanksgiving is a stressful food day: people have expectations. Some yearn for a meal from childhood. Others insist that ice cream should be on the menu. Vegetarians and vegans get to reinvent their meal, but so do we!
I left my mother's home 26 years ago. There is still a part of me, nudging me right about now, that whispers: "You're not serving marshmallowed yams?!?!?!" There is still a part of me that thinks I'm insulting my mother. I love her marshmallowed yams. I even love those green beans. It's that last tie we have, we women, with our mommies: the menus we grew up with, that daily display of affection.
I have abandoned my Mother's Thanksgiving. It took me a years to forgive myself. I have decided that my little family deserves its own traditions: a cheese course for my French man, a charcuterie plate for my little carnivore, roasted vegetables for my adolescent vegetarian, and pumpkin cheesecake with marshmallow topping to ease my conscience: I have found a place for marshmallows in my menu!
Yes, there will be turkey, butterflied and rolled. The only cranberries, juiced, appear with vodka. I prefer brussels sprouts to green beans, carrot flan to mashed potatoes, Tarte Tatin to pumpkin pie.
Maybe I'll even find the time to compose a Turkey Note! I'll keep you posted!
The Thanksgiving I celebrate has no resemblance to the Turkey Day I was raised on. In my mother's home, nobody was busy but the women. My mother was stuffing her turkey with that Midwestern oyster dressing (oysters in Iowa: some things just cannot be explained...) while the rest of the house lazily gazed at the Macy's parade. She was layering yams, pineapple, and marshmallows while the rest of the house casually perused football. She was mixing green beans with that ubiquitous cream of mushroom soup, those French fried onions, while my brothers and I snickered at my father nodding off in his chair. She was sliding that cranberry gel onto a pretty dish so that it could be passed endlessly around the table later while my brothers started a whispered wrestling match.
My mother would assign us poetry--one for each place setting. "Turkey Notes," she called them. My brothers and I would sit amid cheese and crackers, Howard Cosell, intermittent snoring and compose: "Turkey Red, Turkey Blue, Turkey says, 'I love you.'" I think my mother always got that one. My oldest brother might scribble off: "Turkey Red, Turkey Pink, Turkey says, 'You stink!'" And slide it under my plate......
Those were the days.
There's no football in my house. (French guy!) I keep my family busy while I create Thanksgiving 2.0, humming along to "Fly Me To the Moon." My oldest knows how to set a table, down to the 3 glasses and 2 forks. My French man dutifully polishes the wine glasses, sets up the bar, vacuums the Everywhere. My little ones wash windows. Three times!
People tend to discuss food with me; they tell me their stories, their desires, their worries. Yes, they also tend to ask me for advice. What I hear is that Thanksgiving is a stressful food day: people have expectations. Some yearn for a meal from childhood. Others insist that ice cream should be on the menu. Vegetarians and vegans get to reinvent their meal, but so do we!
I left my mother's home 26 years ago. There is still a part of me, nudging me right about now, that whispers: "You're not serving marshmallowed yams?!?!?!" There is still a part of me that thinks I'm insulting my mother. I love her marshmallowed yams. I even love those green beans. It's that last tie we have, we women, with our mommies: the menus we grew up with, that daily display of affection.
I have abandoned my Mother's Thanksgiving. It took me a years to forgive myself. I have decided that my little family deserves its own traditions: a cheese course for my French man, a charcuterie plate for my little carnivore, roasted vegetables for my adolescent vegetarian, and pumpkin cheesecake with marshmallow topping to ease my conscience: I have found a place for marshmallows in my menu!
Yes, there will be turkey, butterflied and rolled. The only cranberries, juiced, appear with vodka. I prefer brussels sprouts to green beans, carrot flan to mashed potatoes, Tarte Tatin to pumpkin pie.
Maybe I'll even find the time to compose a Turkey Note! I'll keep you posted!
Sunday, November 13, 2011
"Le Beaujolais Nouveau est Arrivé!"
I live a double life. I am an American woman. I sneak into French territory, physically when I'm lucky, spiritually on a daily basis. My family is full of French names and French passports. We kiss on both cheeks when we greet. We eat bread at every meal. We enjoy snails and frog legs, champagne and stinky cheese.
This double life of mine affords me a glimpse into a different culture, a refreshing lifestyle, a new way of thinking. I don't always agree with what my French man's culture brings to our table, but mostly, I have embraced this new country with...... well, they don't hug (isn't that a shame!)
I have gained insight into the leisurely French--so frustrating when you need paperwork done but so lovely when you sit down to eat. I have studied, quite devoutly, the French table: its food and drink, their hospitality, their joie de vivre, that standard three course meal. This is my favorite part of my French man's contribution to our family, our well-being, our "this is how we roll." We entertain. We have people over. We celebrate; we feast; we convene.
When I see a French holiday that inspires a get-together, I adopt it. We do Bastille Day, that "crepe day" in February called "Chandeleur." (Do we need a reason to eat crepes for dinner?!) And one of my favorites: Beaujolais Nouveau.
This "holiday" celebrates the first wine harvested and bottled from this year's harvest, but Beaujolais Nouveau is not a real holiday. It is a marketing ploy by a French wine region to sell more wine. Beaujolais is a wine region north of Lyon, France. It sits between the Burgundy region just north of it and the Rhone -Alps to the south. The Gamay grape typically used in the wine is a Pinot Noir, adding acidic taste, with a older grape varietal that gives Beaujolais that fruitiness it is known for. This grape varietal, Gamay, was kicked out of Burgundy twice in one century before settling in the granite soil in what is now known as Beaujolais Province. (This wine has a reputation. It is not a good one....)
Beaujolais isn't a nuanced wine, especially new. It's a meat and potatoes kind of wine. The only attempt at sophistication may be the pretty label! Georges DuBoeuf, the most well-known Beaujolais producer, often commissions labels from artists. This wine works best with stews, charcuterie, estouffades, boeuf bourguignon, even chili.
This new red wine isn't a keeper. It is a very, very, very young wine, only a month or two old. You may have to shake the bottle to release those tanins. (I'm serious! It will change a young wine for the better...) Beaujolais is one of the few red wines that needs to be served slightly chilled.
To me, Beaujolais is the first stop along the Feasting Route that runs through New Year's. This harvest celebration occurs the third Thursday in November, exactly one week prior to our Thanksgiving. How perfect: an occasion to try out a few bottles of red to put on your table next week!
I invite you to add this one to your annual calendar. It's not hard. Get your crockpot ready. Thursday, stop by the store and grab a few diverse bottles of Beaujolais Nouveau. (A good grocery store will have a display! They know!) Throw one or two cheeses in your cart. Add a baguette. Invite someone over to empty a few bottles with you. (You'll survive Friday just fine!) Play taste test. Expand that oenology vocabulary with phrases like "...deep floral notes of lilacs..," "flavors of dried berry and sour cherries," and maybe "the afternotes of crushed strawberries." Let me know how it went! Santé!
This double life of mine affords me a glimpse into a different culture, a refreshing lifestyle, a new way of thinking. I don't always agree with what my French man's culture brings to our table, but mostly, I have embraced this new country with...... well, they don't hug (isn't that a shame!)
I have gained insight into the leisurely French--so frustrating when you need paperwork done but so lovely when you sit down to eat. I have studied, quite devoutly, the French table: its food and drink, their hospitality, their joie de vivre, that standard three course meal. This is my favorite part of my French man's contribution to our family, our well-being, our "this is how we roll." We entertain. We have people over. We celebrate; we feast; we convene.
When I see a French holiday that inspires a get-together, I adopt it. We do Bastille Day, that "crepe day" in February called "Chandeleur." (Do we need a reason to eat crepes for dinner?!) And one of my favorites: Beaujolais Nouveau.
This "holiday" celebrates the first wine harvested and bottled from this year's harvest, but Beaujolais Nouveau is not a real holiday. It is a marketing ploy by a French wine region to sell more wine. Beaujolais is a wine region north of Lyon, France. It sits between the Burgundy region just north of it and the Rhone -Alps to the south. The Gamay grape typically used in the wine is a Pinot Noir, adding acidic taste, with a older grape varietal that gives Beaujolais that fruitiness it is known for. This grape varietal, Gamay, was kicked out of Burgundy twice in one century before settling in the granite soil in what is now known as Beaujolais Province. (This wine has a reputation. It is not a good one....)
Beaujolais isn't a nuanced wine, especially new. It's a meat and potatoes kind of wine. The only attempt at sophistication may be the pretty label! Georges DuBoeuf, the most well-known Beaujolais producer, often commissions labels from artists. This wine works best with stews, charcuterie, estouffades, boeuf bourguignon, even chili.
This new red wine isn't a keeper. It is a very, very, very young wine, only a month or two old. You may have to shake the bottle to release those tanins. (I'm serious! It will change a young wine for the better...) Beaujolais is one of the few red wines that needs to be served slightly chilled.
To me, Beaujolais is the first stop along the Feasting Route that runs through New Year's. This harvest celebration occurs the third Thursday in November, exactly one week prior to our Thanksgiving. How perfect: an occasion to try out a few bottles of red to put on your table next week!
I invite you to add this one to your annual calendar. It's not hard. Get your crockpot ready. Thursday, stop by the store and grab a few diverse bottles of Beaujolais Nouveau. (A good grocery store will have a display! They know!) Throw one or two cheeses in your cart. Add a baguette. Invite someone over to empty a few bottles with you. (You'll survive Friday just fine!) Play taste test. Expand that oenology vocabulary with phrases like "...deep floral notes of lilacs..," "flavors of dried berry and sour cherries," and maybe "the afternotes of crushed strawberries." Let me know how it went! Santé!
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Treats
"Would you give my kid some candy?" When would you ever say that? To a perfect stranger? While standing on their doorstep? I love Halloween--the costumes, the Jack o'lanterns, the visit to the pumpkin patch, the Monster Mash. Love it! Love it! Love it!
Really, though, what other holiday do we have that allows us to say hi to our neighbors in such an intimate way? When was the last time you knocked on your neighbor's door just to say hello? When was the last time you went out of your way to buy something for someone you DON'T EVEN KNOW?!
And yet, one day, every year, we Americans--isolated, solitary, independent though we are--rely on complete strangers for our good time.
I distinctly remember traipsing around in the dark with a gang of goblins, vampires, Tinkerbells, and Chewbaccas. It was so freeing to roam without restrictions, without worry, without care. Those were the days, you nod. I know. I'm nodding too.
Fourteen years ago, I experienced the other side of Halloween--the side where, every time some stranger opens their door and drops of piece of candy into your kid's bucket, you say a silent "thank you" to your Community, the Us that disappears every other day of the year. You walk the sidewalks searching for brilliant porchlights, glowing Jack o'lanterns, crossing the street randomly to check out that house over there...it really is awesome. Inspiring.
I send out a compelling thank you to my city, my community, my neighbors, my circle of friends and family who all ensured that my kids had a great time. The candy--we didn't manage to fill our bucket to the top--is secondary. This experience is not about the stash you come home with. (Okay, my four-year-old thinks so...) My daughter already gets it. That six-year-old knows that the wandering in the dark, the mystery of a mask, a moonlit night full of fellow conspirators, a little fear mixed with your fun, is the perfect antidote for our woes.
My teenager grasps this concept with two hands, and runs with it: you and your friends become a pack, you're not ever too cool for a Halloween costume, and no, it's not about the candy. My teenager wants to roam with her herd, howl at the moon, laugh like she's eight. For one night, she throws off the shackles of high school, peer pressure, adolscence. She is courageous. She is mysterious. She is wild. This is the beauty of Halloween.
I'm taking down my skeletons, putting my skulls away. The spiders get packed up with the cobwebs and the ghosts are wound up...but I'm thinking I may keep that candy bowl out. You might be knocking on my door!
Really, though, what other holiday do we have that allows us to say hi to our neighbors in such an intimate way? When was the last time you knocked on your neighbor's door just to say hello? When was the last time you went out of your way to buy something for someone you DON'T EVEN KNOW?!
And yet, one day, every year, we Americans--isolated, solitary, independent though we are--rely on complete strangers for our good time.
I distinctly remember traipsing around in the dark with a gang of goblins, vampires, Tinkerbells, and Chewbaccas. It was so freeing to roam without restrictions, without worry, without care. Those were the days, you nod. I know. I'm nodding too.
Fourteen years ago, I experienced the other side of Halloween--the side where, every time some stranger opens their door and drops of piece of candy into your kid's bucket, you say a silent "thank you" to your Community, the Us that disappears every other day of the year. You walk the sidewalks searching for brilliant porchlights, glowing Jack o'lanterns, crossing the street randomly to check out that house over there...it really is awesome. Inspiring.
I send out a compelling thank you to my city, my community, my neighbors, my circle of friends and family who all ensured that my kids had a great time. The candy--we didn't manage to fill our bucket to the top--is secondary. This experience is not about the stash you come home with. (Okay, my four-year-old thinks so...) My daughter already gets it. That six-year-old knows that the wandering in the dark, the mystery of a mask, a moonlit night full of fellow conspirators, a little fear mixed with your fun, is the perfect antidote for our woes.
My teenager grasps this concept with two hands, and runs with it: you and your friends become a pack, you're not ever too cool for a Halloween costume, and no, it's not about the candy. My teenager wants to roam with her herd, howl at the moon, laugh like she's eight. For one night, she throws off the shackles of high school, peer pressure, adolscence. She is courageous. She is mysterious. She is wild. This is the beauty of Halloween.
I'm taking down my skeletons, putting my skulls away. The spiders get packed up with the cobwebs and the ghosts are wound up...but I'm thinking I may keep that candy bowl out. You might be knocking on my door!
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