I have consumed nearly all of the market wares from last Sunday. Incredible, particularly for me, and especially on a week that had me eating out 4 nights. Here's the play-by-play:
Monday: I invited myself to a young gentleman's to cook for him the sirloin, marinated in Korean kalbi and topped with half of the radishes (thinly shaved on a Benriner), the shell peas with leeks and some of the spinach (and bacon for added oomph), the new potatoes boiled and banged up with butter and dill, and the berries, eaten plain while watching an excellent BBC doc on TV chefs.
Thursday: the remaining spinach sauteed Italian-style with lots of garlic in spicy oil, with the rest of the beautiful tomatoes halved and added, the rest of the asparagus.
Today: does this count as cheating? I brought the dirty dirty head of lettuce and what remained of the radishes to work and made a Big Salad for the crew's lunch.
Meanwhile, throughout the week I've also been bringing slices of the bread into the office for my breakfast.
So now the fridge accounting stands thus:
Half the bread
A handful of the shell peas which escaped from the bag and into the depths of the crisper (I have low expectations for these escapees)
And all the condiments you can shake a stick at.
I think this is progress. Or else just more encouragement for me to overspend at the markets. I'm going out of town this weekend, though, denying myself the best farmers' markets. What will I do for food next week?
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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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