June 7
I’m starting to go to the Saturday morning markets as much to chat and see people as to get provisions for the week. So half the pleasure came from just asking Elvis the cute young butcher for “2 hot Italians”. They are great sausages -- in this market sea of every imaginable sausage meat-seasoning combo – but when your butcher’s eyes light up and he flashes a killer smile and then undercharges you for these chubby, spicy sausages, well, it makes a girl want to eat more sausage. Even if I am an inveterate flirt. Let’s drop it there.
But when I looked at the rest of the contents of my shopping bag it was clear that once again I had shopped without A Plan. A giant bunch of rhubarb ($4.50), a tiny tub of Monforte sheep milk ricotta ($7 gasp), 2 bunches of sorrel (why 2? Why why why?). So it’s now Sunday afternoon, 36 sticky, humid degrees, I have a laundry list of chores to do (including, ironically enough, the laundry) but all I can do I sit and pant a bit. Off to the movies to cool down for 2 hours (and heat up, thank you Robert Downey Jr). Now I can finally turn on the grill and cook these hot Italians. Yes, the grill, keep all that cooking heat out of the tiny apartment! But no, because I’m still a professional idiot, the only starch in the house is pasta, so on goes the boiling water and the kitchen turns even more hot and humid. Vegetables? Sorry Mom, keep dreaming. There’s the rest of the Dirtiest Head of Lettuce from Tuesday’s market, but the humidity wilts it right in the salad spinner. Can I huff out an exasperated “BAH!” yet? Thank goodness I like my beer on the warmish side because just minutes after the Marston’s is poured, the glass is soaked with condensation (hmmm, much like my forehead). Regardless, the meal of penne, sausage, some of our excellent 2007 red pepper relish and a warm beer made me glad. Not elated, just glad to have accomplished food preparation in a heat reminiscent of Bombay noon after a too-short thunderstorm.
skip to main |
skip to sidebar
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment