My daughter is taking chemistry. Sophomore year. She's into science, which I admire and envy at the same time. Her English-major Mother avoided chemistry. Even now, I prefer to call those tried-and-true reactions "Magic."
We enjoyed science experiments after school. That little brain and I changed the liquid from red to blue: Ooooh! We created static electricity on a balloon and watched the salt leap up to attach itself: cool! We made our own playdough, silly putty, papier-mache. We got the egg into the bottle. We even transformed an oval egg into a square! (vinager...)
But that Table of Elements. Yawn. There it is, on our kitchen wall. We glance at it over ice cream. We discuss. We quiz ourselves. Mostly I listen. Make jokes...about myself.
My daughter's chemistry teacher had the audacity to give me homework last week. I have to write, my teenager claimed, then nagged, how chemistry appears in our everyday lives. Hmmm.. You mean it's my job to explain why she's learning this?
As that Liberal Arts Joke goes, I know nothing about chemistry. I could write a poem for you...about chemistry...and what I don't know.
But I've got another profession up my sleeve: Chef. It's still slightly artsy, but there's science in there. I get it.
I start with Yeast. It's ALIVE! Already this chemistry thing is cool! In cooking school, I had the pleasure of waking up at four in the morning, trudging to school to make the bread. Boulangerie. Breadmaking. This art/science has more chemistry than any other culinary art, alcohol aside! Not only do we measure precisely when making bread, we also take temperature: the flour, the water. If your water is too warm, you will kill the yeast. If it is too cold, the yeast will not wake up. Yeast creates a reaction in the mixture of flour, water, and salt that creates gluten. Stretchy, gluten needs to rest after its creation. The yeast, like The Blob, grows and oozes. If you keep this reaction too cold, the process will stop. If you keep this mess too warm, it really does become the Blob.
This chemistry lesson gives you wonderful yeasty holes in your baguette. Splash some water in your oven just before you slide in that baguette and the steam it creates will leave you with a shiny, crunchy crust. (You know, the one you can't find to save your life at the grocery store...) Eat a slice of this baguette while it's hot, and the gases created by the yeast will work on you, too. You've been warned!
We make some quick bread. Why is it quick? No yeast. No waiting around for the Blob. Instead of yeast, we use Baking Powder. Just a little. It works like yeast: leavening for Impatient People. What happens if we forget our baking powder? You get quick brick. No fluff. No air in there. No rising. Chew it. and chew it. and chew it. It's actually hard to eat. It actually kind of hurts to swallow. What happens if we beat our baking powder too hard? Too much? Tough bread. Dry. Crumbly. You're eating dust. You've killed the chemistry.
We make some brownies. We praise the Judaic community for their anti-leavening stance. No baking powder. No baking soda. No chemistry. Just sugar, flour, butter, chocolate. Why people think they need a box in order to make these I'll never understand.
Transformation! Transformation! I can turn raw, sliced onions--onions that make you cry, attack your taste buds, make you burp--into sweet, caramelized jam with a little fat, a little heat, a long, long time. I can chop some shallots, boil them in white wine until I have a millimeter at the bottom of my pan, add some vinager and do it again, and then, whisking like a madwoman, add knob after knob of butter until I have what some have deemed the best sauce in the world: beurre blanc. Thick, creamy, smooth. Weird? No! Chemistry! What is mayonnaise but egg yolks, mustard, and oil? It's all in the technique. And what is technique but chemistry, step by step. Creme anglaise is not creamy at all until you've heated your milk to transform the lactose.
Chemistry. No, you can't live without it. You could live in ignorance, but chemistry is cool. It is magic, explained. Even then, it still feels like Christmas morning when your sauce suddenly thickens, your souffle poufs, your angelfood cake rises and rises!
There's chemisty happening every second in our bodies. Exchanges at the atomic level. Firing of neurons. Eat some chocolate. Feel happy? Chemistry! Have a good cry! Feel better? Chemistry! Spoon in that comfort food! Those carbs--they make you feel better: chemistry. We are, after all, Stardust. Every interaction we have with another person creates a chemical exchange at the atomic level! Yes! The people in your life truly do change and influence you! Chemistry! Knowing the Why doesn't take anything away from this experience. It leaves you in awe of this World. This Universe. Ourselves.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Winter on a Spoon
Ice Cream. This frozen treat is an obsession for some--not only a favorite dessert but a snack. Marco Polo, it is said, observed the Chinese enjoying "ice cream" as early as the 1300s, but there are records dating back to the T'ang Period (618-907) of an ice milk product at court.
"Ices" didn't reach Europe--via the Moors-- until the early 1600s, and this was simply sorbet. The idea of egg custard as an ice cream base didn't take off until the 18th century. And then it went, divisively, into gelato, kulfi, sherbet, granita, and spooms, depending on egg, cream, milk, and cultural tastes.
Ice cream: a puzzlement. You must cook it in order to freeze it. A simple creme anglaise with your favorite fruit (cooked!) becomes an airy, glacial surprise: the cream coaxes out the sugary fruit, the acidity tamed by eggs and milk.
My ice cream maker was one of the first major appliances that I bought. I saved and saved, returning to stare longingly at the machine in the Williams & Sonoma window. I felt the urge to go beyond the grocery store offerings. I had never heard of Cold Stone. Ben and Jerry were just taking off. I had had a Haagen Daas Pear Sorbet with a fudge ripple that I couldn't find in the States. I couldn't get it out of my head, so I made it. ( I still do!)
I've learned a lot about ice cream making since I churned my first strawberry. I strongly believe that cream cheese doesn't belong anywhere near my machine. I know that there's a balance between milk and heavy cream for a reason. I know that inverted sugar --honey, or glucose--will keep that apple cider sorbet from getting hard and grainy, and that granitas usually benefit from a little alcohol. I believe that coconut ice cream kicks butt, but coconut sorbet lacks...and that coconut anything surely is better when coupled with pineapple, mango, banana, papaya...
I've done some experimenting, because I, like Ben, can't help myself. There are certain flavors that stand alone. Others need help. White chocolate ice cream, yes, is good, but becomes Queen with strawberries, blueberries, cherries, raspberries! Caramel makes anything better. Fudge rippling through your ice cream does too. Chocolate ice cream is awesome, but really hard to perfect. A little chili powder or sea salt changes everything. Milk chocolate ice cream with malt...oh my! Chocolate sorbet is that fudgesicle we used to enjoy as kids, but if you use premium dark dark dark chocolate, it is over the top! Rocky Road is Classic. Creme fraiche ice cream pairs magically with a scoop of strawberry. A deep, ripe tomato sorbet is the perfect foil for pan-seared tuna. I've had the occassion, in the mazes of Old Nice, to try lavender ice cream: unforgettable. Seriously, that pastel violet hue, the subtle perfume. I've smeared my face black enjoying licorice ice cream. (Thank you, Baskin Robbins!) I've celebrated St. Patrick's Day with my own Guiness ice cream. Nutty, chocolatey, yum! I've bravely spooned Dijon ice cream--yes! it works!--and the list goes on. I am one of those who never wants the same flavor twice.
This "winter on a spoon" makes my children literally jump for joy. It brings a smile to my French man's face. He reverts to childhood and I get to witness him as a little boy, licking his bowl. Ice cream is a celebration without reason: the ultimate "just because." We make ice cream soup, we whine between gulps about our "ice cream headache," we linger at the table: maybe just one more scoop....
I Scream! You Scream! We all Scream for Ice Cream!
"Ices" didn't reach Europe--via the Moors-- until the early 1600s, and this was simply sorbet. The idea of egg custard as an ice cream base didn't take off until the 18th century. And then it went, divisively, into gelato, kulfi, sherbet, granita, and spooms, depending on egg, cream, milk, and cultural tastes.
Ice cream: a puzzlement. You must cook it in order to freeze it. A simple creme anglaise with your favorite fruit (cooked!) becomes an airy, glacial surprise: the cream coaxes out the sugary fruit, the acidity tamed by eggs and milk.
My ice cream maker was one of the first major appliances that I bought. I saved and saved, returning to stare longingly at the machine in the Williams & Sonoma window. I felt the urge to go beyond the grocery store offerings. I had never heard of Cold Stone. Ben and Jerry were just taking off. I had had a Haagen Daas Pear Sorbet with a fudge ripple that I couldn't find in the States. I couldn't get it out of my head, so I made it. ( I still do!)
I've learned a lot about ice cream making since I churned my first strawberry. I strongly believe that cream cheese doesn't belong anywhere near my machine. I know that there's a balance between milk and heavy cream for a reason. I know that inverted sugar --honey, or glucose--will keep that apple cider sorbet from getting hard and grainy, and that granitas usually benefit from a little alcohol. I believe that coconut ice cream kicks butt, but coconut sorbet lacks...and that coconut anything surely is better when coupled with pineapple, mango, banana, papaya...
I've done some experimenting, because I, like Ben, can't help myself. There are certain flavors that stand alone. Others need help. White chocolate ice cream, yes, is good, but becomes Queen with strawberries, blueberries, cherries, raspberries! Caramel makes anything better. Fudge rippling through your ice cream does too. Chocolate ice cream is awesome, but really hard to perfect. A little chili powder or sea salt changes everything. Milk chocolate ice cream with malt...oh my! Chocolate sorbet is that fudgesicle we used to enjoy as kids, but if you use premium dark dark dark chocolate, it is over the top! Rocky Road is Classic. Creme fraiche ice cream pairs magically with a scoop of strawberry. A deep, ripe tomato sorbet is the perfect foil for pan-seared tuna. I've had the occassion, in the mazes of Old Nice, to try lavender ice cream: unforgettable. Seriously, that pastel violet hue, the subtle perfume. I've smeared my face black enjoying licorice ice cream. (Thank you, Baskin Robbins!) I've celebrated St. Patrick's Day with my own Guiness ice cream. Nutty, chocolatey, yum! I've bravely spooned Dijon ice cream--yes! it works!--and the list goes on. I am one of those who never wants the same flavor twice.
This "winter on a spoon" makes my children literally jump for joy. It brings a smile to my French man's face. He reverts to childhood and I get to witness him as a little boy, licking his bowl. Ice cream is a celebration without reason: the ultimate "just because." We make ice cream soup, we whine between gulps about our "ice cream headache," we linger at the table: maybe just one more scoop....
I Scream! You Scream! We all Scream for Ice Cream!
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Think Outside the Lunch Box
It's that time of year. Cool mornings blossom into hot afternoons. My mind turns to the coming onslaught of holidays, and my alarm gets set again. I awaken in the dark, start the coffee like a thief in my own house. It's Back to School. New pencils. Clean shoes. The optimism of a fresh start. "We're all in our places With bright shiny faces!" I begin making breakfast and lunch. I am Short-Order Cook!
I've got half a cup in me, my babies gather focused on waking up around my scratch- and -dent table, each with breakfast their first of many tasks for the day. Boxes of Batman, Hello Kitty, and a sorry brown bag line up in front of me. I am Sysiphus! Each day a new conundrum.
Batman is easy. He'll eat anything. He gets a banana, an awesome PB&J, some Laughing Cow and crackers, those ubiquitous baby carrots. This one eats with concentration. His brow is scrunched. He doesn't have time to chat. I put a napkin in knowing he'll use his shirt.
Hello Kitty has a list of things NOT ALLOWED. No fresh fruit...(what will people say?) "Applesauce?" No thank you. "Cheese?" Only string cheese. "String cheese tastes like plastic," I say. "How about a sharp cheddar?" She shakes her head adamantly. "A nice triangle of Brie?" She stomps her foot and frowns. String cheese. I throw it in, frowning slightly.
She'll eat PB&J. Sometimes she allows Ham and Swiss. I've got her hooked on leftover quiche, but only if I remind her that it's Egg Pie. I've sneaked in cold tortellini. Miss Picky gets a steady rotation of graham crackers, veggie sticks, organic Goldfish substitute. She may allow a hard-boiled egg; it may or may not get eaten.
She's pretty sure she deserves a dessert every day. "Really?" I regard Little Miss shoveling Lucky Charms while I finish her lunch. "Figs are Nature's Candy. Wouldn't you like some?" She nods enthusiastically until she sees me packing them. Tears well in those stormy blue eyes. My drama queen has vetoed the dried figs. I pop one in my mouth and mumble "More for me..."
All of this drama may turn to dust during lunch. She may choose to giggle and conspire at the lunch table, abandoning her precious Hello Kitty for the jungle gym. This social butterfly may traipse out of her classroom without it at all and follow her friend to the school lunch line! I close the box and move on down the line.
My Brown-Bag-It Girl grunts from the breakfast table as I pack her lunch. She's turned vegetarian on me, this teenager who adores bacon, orders escargot with glee whenever she can, puts proscuitto on her grilled cheese. I fill a tupperware with mesclun. I layer thick slices of juicy heirloom tomatoes with soft buffala mozzarella. I mumble something about proscuitto...She glares from above her smoothie. I pop in my balsamic vinaigrette and a fork. She may eat this standing up, sitting on the grass surrounded by friends and the Top 40 glaring across the Quad. She may eat this during a game of D&D, or while practicing for Academic League. But she'll eat it! She may even smile, but I won't see that...
It's the only meal My Pack eats separately, the only Table where my Young are on their own. I send them out with a box, a reminder of Home, Mommy, Us. I watch them trudge toward School, the Great Corruptor, and hope. I just hope.
I've got half a cup in me, my babies gather focused on waking up around my scratch- and -dent table, each with breakfast their first of many tasks for the day. Boxes of Batman, Hello Kitty, and a sorry brown bag line up in front of me. I am Sysiphus! Each day a new conundrum.
Batman is easy. He'll eat anything. He gets a banana, an awesome PB&J, some Laughing Cow and crackers, those ubiquitous baby carrots. This one eats with concentration. His brow is scrunched. He doesn't have time to chat. I put a napkin in knowing he'll use his shirt.
Hello Kitty has a list of things NOT ALLOWED. No fresh fruit...(what will people say?) "Applesauce?" No thank you. "Cheese?" Only string cheese. "String cheese tastes like plastic," I say. "How about a sharp cheddar?" She shakes her head adamantly. "A nice triangle of Brie?" She stomps her foot and frowns. String cheese. I throw it in, frowning slightly.
She'll eat PB&J. Sometimes she allows Ham and Swiss. I've got her hooked on leftover quiche, but only if I remind her that it's Egg Pie. I've sneaked in cold tortellini. Miss Picky gets a steady rotation of graham crackers, veggie sticks, organic Goldfish substitute. She may allow a hard-boiled egg; it may or may not get eaten.
She's pretty sure she deserves a dessert every day. "Really?" I regard Little Miss shoveling Lucky Charms while I finish her lunch. "Figs are Nature's Candy. Wouldn't you like some?" She nods enthusiastically until she sees me packing them. Tears well in those stormy blue eyes. My drama queen has vetoed the dried figs. I pop one in my mouth and mumble "More for me..."
All of this drama may turn to dust during lunch. She may choose to giggle and conspire at the lunch table, abandoning her precious Hello Kitty for the jungle gym. This social butterfly may traipse out of her classroom without it at all and follow her friend to the school lunch line! I close the box and move on down the line.
My Brown-Bag-It Girl grunts from the breakfast table as I pack her lunch. She's turned vegetarian on me, this teenager who adores bacon, orders escargot with glee whenever she can, puts proscuitto on her grilled cheese. I fill a tupperware with mesclun. I layer thick slices of juicy heirloom tomatoes with soft buffala mozzarella. I mumble something about proscuitto...She glares from above her smoothie. I pop in my balsamic vinaigrette and a fork. She may eat this standing up, sitting on the grass surrounded by friends and the Top 40 glaring across the Quad. She may eat this during a game of D&D, or while practicing for Academic League. But she'll eat it! She may even smile, but I won't see that...
It's the only meal My Pack eats separately, the only Table where my Young are on their own. I send them out with a box, a reminder of Home, Mommy, Us. I watch them trudge toward School, the Great Corruptor, and hope. I just hope.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Fruit of my Labors
My oven is officially off. No more gratins, not one baking sheet of cookies, quiche is over. It's summer and my kitchen has changed guards: the comfort food has gone, the meat banished to the grill, and dessert, like everything else I place on the table, becomes simpler.
I don't cook dinner anymore. I make. I assemble. It's my three-month vacation: the season of California's best. I visit the markets and stores to whiff those aromatic peaches as I saunter by, gaze at the bounty of berries, and, for sure, grab the cherries and figs while I can.
Fuzzy peaches and nectarines barely have time to hit the fruit bowl before the sandbox hands take them out. Watermelon chunks and halved strawberries cool in rosewater. Dulcinea melons become a casual bowl for berries, or port and proscuitto, or sea salt and pink peppercorns. Apricots get devoured in twos and threes.
My spice drawer gets busy this time of year: Fruits get dressed up in simple syrups: blueberries and nectarines swim in a bath infused with star anise, lemon peel and ginger. Plums and pluots with cardamom. Pineapple and papaya spears loll in white ginger. Lemongrass, kaffir lime leaves, and tamarind all perfume fruit salads. I pluck mint and toss it with reduced balsamic vinegar to mingle with chopped strawberries and crystallized ginger.
By mid-August, I start getting frantic. I see the end of the season and wonder who thought Thanksgiving belonged in November. I imagine this American holiday smack in the middle of summer when this cornucopia of nature's candy collides with a plethora of fresh vegetables.
Tomatoes, zucchini, peppers, ramps and green onions meld with red, pink, and white radishes, mache, watercress. This plethora of greens and reds feels like culinary Christmas in July. I introduce juicy pineapple and mango to my arugula; I sprinkle my mesclun with julienned radishes, red peppers, baby beets; I present a coupling of melons and figs to proscuitto-laced red and green lettuce, their sturdy leaves supporting a cool port vinaigrette.
Classic ratatouille gets redressed inside peppers and giant sweet onions. Sliced into a layered pie (a tian, they call it over there...) Stacked into a tower of summer and pesto, shimmering on that cool white plate with a teaspoon of tapenade surveying the table. Served rustic in a thrown-together crust (that's a galette!) Even wrapped in a tortilla with tuna, chicken, or rice.
The best part of summer, however, is my French man's morning gift to me: a green smoothie. In the summer time, this thick liquid might contain pineapple, peaches, watermelon, mango, or a handful of grapes, topping off that blender stuffed full of kale, radish greens, swiss chard and romaine. I get my 5 a day along with my coffee, knowing that everything else I eat is bonus.
Whatever gets me through the day? Yes! But summer is the best time to give yourself this ritual: a green smoothie gives you more than just an awesome breakfast. It turns you into Energizer Bunny. And yes, that liquid goes down so much easier sweetened with juicy peaches, sweet, sweet pineapple, dripping mango to offset the bitter leaves that give me the energy to chase my kids around the house after work, cook dinner, and still have some Me left for post night-night time.
I'm first up. I do the coffee. Yes, I resent it! ( I'm a princess, what can I say?...) But there he is, handing me that big glass of green. I feel so healthy, gulping down greens, peppers, beets, and ginger. I feel so energized, leaving for work with this cholorphyll rhapsody evolving inside me. Most of all, I feel so loved....My French Man is watching out for me.
I don't cook dinner anymore. I make. I assemble. It's my three-month vacation: the season of California's best. I visit the markets and stores to whiff those aromatic peaches as I saunter by, gaze at the bounty of berries, and, for sure, grab the cherries and figs while I can.
Fuzzy peaches and nectarines barely have time to hit the fruit bowl before the sandbox hands take them out. Watermelon chunks and halved strawberries cool in rosewater. Dulcinea melons become a casual bowl for berries, or port and proscuitto, or sea salt and pink peppercorns. Apricots get devoured in twos and threes.
My spice drawer gets busy this time of year: Fruits get dressed up in simple syrups: blueberries and nectarines swim in a bath infused with star anise, lemon peel and ginger. Plums and pluots with cardamom. Pineapple and papaya spears loll in white ginger. Lemongrass, kaffir lime leaves, and tamarind all perfume fruit salads. I pluck mint and toss it with reduced balsamic vinegar to mingle with chopped strawberries and crystallized ginger.
By mid-August, I start getting frantic. I see the end of the season and wonder who thought Thanksgiving belonged in November. I imagine this American holiday smack in the middle of summer when this cornucopia of nature's candy collides with a plethora of fresh vegetables.
Tomatoes, zucchini, peppers, ramps and green onions meld with red, pink, and white radishes, mache, watercress. This plethora of greens and reds feels like culinary Christmas in July. I introduce juicy pineapple and mango to my arugula; I sprinkle my mesclun with julienned radishes, red peppers, baby beets; I present a coupling of melons and figs to proscuitto-laced red and green lettuce, their sturdy leaves supporting a cool port vinaigrette.
Classic ratatouille gets redressed inside peppers and giant sweet onions. Sliced into a layered pie (a tian, they call it over there...) Stacked into a tower of summer and pesto, shimmering on that cool white plate with a teaspoon of tapenade surveying the table. Served rustic in a thrown-together crust (that's a galette!) Even wrapped in a tortilla with tuna, chicken, or rice.
The best part of summer, however, is my French man's morning gift to me: a green smoothie. In the summer time, this thick liquid might contain pineapple, peaches, watermelon, mango, or a handful of grapes, topping off that blender stuffed full of kale, radish greens, swiss chard and romaine. I get my 5 a day along with my coffee, knowing that everything else I eat is bonus.
Whatever gets me through the day? Yes! But summer is the best time to give yourself this ritual: a green smoothie gives you more than just an awesome breakfast. It turns you into Energizer Bunny. And yes, that liquid goes down so much easier sweetened with juicy peaches, sweet, sweet pineapple, dripping mango to offset the bitter leaves that give me the energy to chase my kids around the house after work, cook dinner, and still have some Me left for post night-night time.
I'm first up. I do the coffee. Yes, I resent it! ( I'm a princess, what can I say?...) But there he is, handing me that big glass of green. I feel so healthy, gulping down greens, peppers, beets, and ginger. I feel so energized, leaving for work with this cholorphyll rhapsody evolving inside me. Most of all, I feel so loved....My French Man is watching out for me.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Fries with That?
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?
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 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!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)