Years ago I gave my dad a copy of John Allemang's great book The Importance of Lunch, which he continues to quote from to this day. Sometime around then, my brother dared our dad to list his Top 10 foods (Dad is a slave to the Top 10 list, though he usually refines the food-related ones -- "top 10 desserts" etc). Deep in the list, somewhere near #5, Dad listed "cheese", which Dylan argued wasn't allowed, saying "that's like saying your favourite food is lunch".
Long intro: in a few words, suddenly, I am in love with lunch.
I am at my desk right now delaying the pleasure of a steak sandwich stashed in the work fridge. It's just the leftovers from our Saturday post-ski Keg dinner (while the Brit eats his whole 16-oz ribeye, I (shame, shame) have to bring the back half of mine home). But between 2 slices of my favourite bread (Premiere Moisson's carré au lait) one caked with pesto and mayo, the other with grainy Dijon, and OH MAN, it's going to be great.
The other day I had leftover beef bourguignon with a slice of sourdough and some baby carrots. Yesterday, some toast, a slab of wonderful pate forestière and an orange. And while I was making today's sandwich, I was already dreaming about tomorrow (there's an avocado on the counter which will be perfect, some 5-yr-old cheddar in the fridge, and a tomato). Lunch! It's the new dinner.
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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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