The best comment about the paté was from the pretty young thing who remarked "this is such great hummus!". Being a vegetarian, she wasn't particularly pleased when I disabused her of the notion that liver pate contains no meat. Sorry, I am mean to vegetarians sometimes. And pretty young things.
For no good reason -- I love pretty young veg and rarely cook meat at home. This morning's farmers' market was like some kind of acid trip for me. In the heady humidity the surfeit of gorgeous radishes, greens, tomatoes (in June!) and berries made my head spin. Naturally, I bought way too much, and now must focus the rest of the week's energies on consuming:
1 bunch red radishes
1 big red leaf lettuce
1 gargantuan bunch spinach
1 pint of the sweetest multicoloured grape tomatoes
1 loaf of Monckton's whole wheat-flax bread
1 quart new potatoes (so dirty they must be delicious)
1 grass-fed sirloin steak
1 quart shell peas
1 pint strawberries (which I gave away)
Good grief! It's enough veg for a family of 4. I had to clean out the fridge just to make room. But did any of this hyper-stimulation inspire me to out-do my self for lunch? I made a fried egg sandwich on the new bread and ate half of the tomatoes on the side. So that's a no. And then promptly accepted a dinner invitation. When will I learn?
Bunny is house sitting at the mansion where he is personal chef, so he invited some of us up for rotisserie chicken. This gorgeous house is filled with the best of everything, so the barbeque is a Viking built-in with about 18 square feet of grilling space and an industrial-like rotisserie. The smell of those chickens was to die for, and the four of us destroyed two of them. He is an inspired, self-possessed chef who takes utter delight in his creations, but guess what? He never cooks at home either. Take-away sushi and leftovers from work are the principle meals chez lui. Tonight though, in his stunning, kitted-out work kitchen, he was on fire, bringing out three of his homemade ice creams and sorbets after dinner as well as homemade dulce de leche and gluten-free chocolate pecan cookies. "Cooking at home is so annoying" is his simple explanation. Another single, apartment-dwelling professional chef whose fridge contains more condiments than edible sustenance. We are friends for a reason.
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What passes for a meal this week
- a terrible cafeteria salad
- veggie miso burger on greens
- bran flakes and a few medjool dates
- pork chops and sweet potatoes with green beans
- pesto pizza
- spag bol
- half a lamb chop, a sausage and salad
What's the deal?
I’m a chef - I make my living cooking. Years in the restaurant industry were good to me, but I concurrently took my Master of arts and when I was through it dawned on me that I didn’t actually want to be a prof in some charming small town; I wanted to keep cooking. Trouble is, restaurant work isn’t the most intellectually stimulating, and I wanted more. After years of cobbling together food-and-writing-related work, I landed in the wild world of magazines as a food editor.
The wrinkle is that I don’t cook for myself. People I meet at parties go all gooey-eyed when they ask me what I made for supper, imagining no doubt seared scallops on a puree of freshly shelled peas with crisped guanciale and basil oil. The unexpected truth is it was likely a bowl of pasta with olive oil and whatever was in the fridge, be that Parmesan, sundried tomatoes, or a shot of gin. I live alone so there is no one else to impress except myself. And now you.
But this is hardly the the sad tale of a lonely young woman. Many nights, it’s quite the opposite: if there is bread in the house I will drench two slices of it with mayo and add a fried egg and thinly sliced kosher pickles, then stand over the sink and inhale that mofo. It’s so good and makes me so happy that I often make another one right away. What, am I going to create a stunning three-course meal for myself, set the table, light a candle and cluck about how great it is to be single and independent? Bah. Better to dirty as few dishes as possible and get on with it.
The wrinkle is that I don’t cook for myself. People I meet at parties go all gooey-eyed when they ask me what I made for supper, imagining no doubt seared scallops on a puree of freshly shelled peas with crisped guanciale and basil oil. The unexpected truth is it was likely a bowl of pasta with olive oil and whatever was in the fridge, be that Parmesan, sundried tomatoes, or a shot of gin. I live alone so there is no one else to impress except myself. And now you.
But this is hardly the the sad tale of a lonely young woman. Many nights, it’s quite the opposite: if there is bread in the house I will drench two slices of it with mayo and add a fried egg and thinly sliced kosher pickles, then stand over the sink and inhale that mofo. It’s so good and makes me so happy that I often make another one right away. What, am I going to create a stunning three-course meal for myself, set the table, light a candle and cluck about how great it is to be single and independent? Bah. Better to dirty as few dishes as possible and get on with it.
The Girl
During my apprenticeship I was the only woman in a kitchen of randy, raucous men. At first they called my first name to get my attention, but once they started calling me The Girl ("pick up table 45 Girl", "get The Girl to make more crackers") I felt like I was one of the crew. Feminism be damned, there's nothing like being accepted into a kitchen brigade.
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