What Does Your Little Voice Say?

What are your first thoughts when you wake up? Do you think about that lays ahead? What you did last night? How quickly you can dash to the bathroom? Or is it food? It will be no surprise to you that my first thoughts are about the food to come. It starts as a whisper while I open the curtains of my mind.

Once done with my morning ablution I hurl myself downstairs between running cats and an excited dog. My stomach is still sleeping as I feed the four footed kids and put the coffee on. Opening the fridge for the first time in twelve hours I gaze at the array of leftovers and condiments. My inner voice pipes up again reminding me of what I ate yesterday and its first thoughts on how to eat today.

Intent on my coffee and letting the dog in and out, in and out, in and out; I push the little whining voice aside, grind my beans and wait sluggishly for the water to boil. As if in a trance I consume the first cup with no more thoughts of the future. Then the little voice pipes up. This time in a duet with my stomach that has decided to add its own bass rumblings.

“All right,” I say, “What is it to be?” I think in basic units, starch, protein, fruit, and vegetable. Remember the four food groups of yore before we started scaling the Pyramids? I find it easier to remember a four item check list especially in the morning. This is where the little voice gets excited. It is its first food decision of the day and one that will set the groundwork for the rest of my eating. My stomach silently waits for the voice’s decision.

Since my last meal was pasta, my little voice suggests a protein. I open the fridge and gaze at the eggs both hard boiled and raw.

“Not today my stomach, you might go out to lunch and need that cholesterol.”

“What about egg beaters or cottage cheese?”

“Those are better choices, and what about a little fresh tangelo and a slice of Rycrisp?”

My little voice fades away knowing that my stomach will be fed fuel and I have two more meals to eat.

At lunch time my little voice is a bit louder and more demanding. This is when the decisions will directly affect “What to have for dinner”. Should I continue on my four pronged food assault with a bit more protein and some V-8? The bigger question is what will trigger the happy meal spot in my brain to make me feel satisfied mentally and physically so there will be no snacking before dinner.

Added to the mix is a trip to the club which squelches the little voice. My body screams out “I AM HEALTHY!! I CAN EAT LUNCH!! SHUT UP LITTLE VOICE!!” So with that in mind I cast my mind as if I was fly fishing toward different eating establishments to figure out what would be the most satisfying food, environment, and price to pay.

“Not so fast,” my little voice pipes up, “you have pork tenderloin, mashed potatoes, green beans, sauerkraut, and applesauce that you were planning for dinner, so just cool your caloric jets my gal and stay focused.”

I try to stay upbeat and optimistic about my options but that damn little voice has pulled the imaginary rug from under my culinary feet. “Okay, can I have a half tuna sandwich or sliced turkey on rye?”

“That’s better my human,” she says as she slips silently in the background again.

Life continues with errands, laundry, and dog walking. At 5pm my dog loudly barks; explaining that it is time for his snackies. The kittens erupt looking for snacks as well and attention.

By now my half a tuna sandwich, carrot wedge, and pickle have long ago rumbled down my digestive track leaving room for dinner. My little voice has awakened and rounded up a chorus from the bass stomach grumbles to the soprano melodies of the creative side of my brain. It is hard for me to think straight with this cacophony swirling around so I pour a glass of wine and the voices subside into a soothing melody.

As I pull out the various ingredients for my planned meal another voice is heard from. This is the little creative side that joyously pipes up every time I look at food. “Do you really just want a hum drum pork meal? Do you need that comfort today or would you like to take a trip to Asia with a stir fry and Hello Kitty made rice? Remember we had mashed potatoes a couple of days ago and you did exercise so perhaps a crisp potato pancake or that risotto recipe that looked tasty. I just can’t see eating sauerkraut right now so let’s nix that one. Anyway it is a bit salty- remember the high blood pressure. We’ll keep the applesauce and how about a dry sauté on those green beans- you’re trying to master that technique.”

I feel the creative voice clap its hands as it spins a web around my ingredients making me happy to cook and eat the meal. “But what are we doing with the pork again? I’m confused as the creative voice happily pirouettes demanding risotto rice, stock, panko soy sauce, shallots, and Parmesan cheese.

I am just a vehicle to prepare sustenance for the rest of my body but now my taste buds have started to weigh in. “A touch of lemon, some thyme, are we up to mustard today? Should we stay Italian? Do I want to taste green beans or how about some asparagus folded into the risotto at the last minute.”

Plastic vegetable bags are riddling my counter and crowding my cutting board. I still haven’t picked out the knife I’m going to use tonight nor given it a few strokes on the steel.

I take another sip of wine and put a damper on my mental crew. I decide on the knife, for old time’s sake I reach for my 10” Sabatier carbon steel and slowly run it over the steel. The sound of knife and steel rubbing against each other helps me focus on the final details and the order to prepare dinner.

Pots and pans come out, a splash of this and that. A grate and a chop, all is coming together when I realize there is calm in my production and the last ingredient of the meal must be decided. What dishes, glassware, and utensils will I use? I open my cupboards and stare at the options. Do I want to use my mindless everyday or would it be fun to go retro with Russell Wright? Do I feel black and white today or circular with my Manhattan glass? Another sip and the decision is made to do Russell.

The table is set, candles are lit and music is on. The dish is plated, the mess is- well let’s say I turn my back on it and eat in the dining room. I pour water and reach for a clean wine glass. Emitting a sigh I can sit down and enjoy the best meal of the day. My voices are sated. My happy meal spot pats me on the shoulder and says, “Well done, you’ve fed me well.”

Until tomorrow when I wake up to my little voice and new decisions.

For Once in Your Life

The first wild mushrooms I encountered were dried porcini’s in a cooking class. We made veal scaloppini with a reduced cream porcini sauce. It was ridiculously easy to make. Pour the cream in a pot. Re-constitute the mushrooms in Madeira strain chop add to the cream and reduce by half. I then graduated to dried morels. Now, living in the Pacific Northwest I have moved up to fresh porcini’s, morels, and recently matsutakes (which are to the Japanese what truffles are to the French).

Truffles have always lingered in the deep recesses of my mind. They were the imaginary ghosts of the fungi world. Expensive, short season and not found in your basic A&P. Any impassioned food person had to try them and love them. It was required. But truffles eluded me. It wasn’t until I started to circle expensive food items that I finally “got” truffles. As with champagne and caviar, truffles are acquired. You have to slow down and turn yourself over to the experience itself. This isn’t pork barbecue the hits you between the eyes and you are bowled over into a lusty culinary orgasm. Some of the classic preparations are only sensory vehicles to turn on your mouth. Risotto, soft scrambled eggs glide the truffle taste around your tongue. A shaving here a shaving there, it’s all about awakening your taste buds to the heady aroma of this delicacy. Close your eyes and give way to the taste.

Champagne for me is all about the size of the bubbles, how fast they race to the top of the glass and their effervescent feel as they explode in my mouth. Using the perfect glass for the bubbles to race up and most importantly the right way of opening the bottle adds to the champagne experience. None of this flamboyant twisting of the cork so the champagne explodes all over you or is soaked up in a towel. Just a very slight twist of the cork to loosen it and then it is all bottle action. Holding the cork perfectly still with one hand and a thumb in the bottom well and fingers gripping the bottle at the other end it is twist, twist, twist until there is a slight “puff” sound as if a woman has taken an intake of breath when she has seen something particularly beautiful. And with that, the champagne is poured into chilled glasses and drunk. If a toast is to be made clink the glass at the bottom where there is liquid not at the top where there is a greater chance of chipping the glass.

Caviar? Those plump tapioca shaped orbs, when pushed by the tongue to the roof of the mouth are all about squish and a delicate hint of fish and saltwater taste. It is a perfect two dimensional taste that isn’t about gorging into bliss but about a very sexy eating experience. The whole ritual can be charged with accoutrement's. Caviar on ice, mother of pearl spoons, little blini’s and cream cheese to transport those vessels of taste. These vehicles melt away once a dollop of caviar hits the roof your mouth.

What do these three delicacies have in common? You can’t make a whole meal of the single item, you will go seriously into debt to satisfy your habit, and halfway to Debtors prison with mouth gorged in sensory delight you will realize there is nothing better in the world and you have experienced perfection.

A Vickie Viking Fantasy

When I decided to upgrade my Kitchen Aid mixer to something more powerful I fell in love with Vickie. How could I pass up her glowing red color, 7 quart bowl,and little rolling wheels in the back. She can delicately whip one egg white into submission or roll up her sleeves and knead 3 loaves of bread. She is my go to girl for power in the kitchen.

Shortly after Vickie came into my life I was holding court in our kitchen with my NSSP (Not So Silent Partner) and two of our neighbors. We do this regularly discussing various male and female views on subjects. I introduced Vickie to our neighbors and we all looked at her with wonder.

The four of us started to fantasize what Vickie would look like in "real" life. The women saw a Nurse Ratchet/blond pigtailed woman. Competent, strong, and no-nonsense. The Mars boys saw Vickie as a shapely bikinied blond ( at least we agreed on her hair color) with flashing blue eyes in need of rescuing.

Now folks, take a gander at this gal- what do you think?

Slather Me with Butta!!

Butta- those hard yellow cubes of saturated fat that make everything it touches glisten and yes taste better. I always thought there was a magical process to making butter, a reason why no one made it today, another convenience food. But thanks to Saveur Magazine my eyes were opened to the possibilities of making butter at home and I dashed out to buy one quart of organic heavy cream.

At first, I was going to follow the recipe using a balloon whisk (had to knock the dust off of it first), and a big bowl. But I quickly saw the error in the recipe and dumped the cream in Vickie Viking my burly red mixer. Fitting her with her own balloon whip I started her slowly and gently increased the speed as she moved the cream through its chantilly, heavy whip, and butter clot stages. To put it simply, it was way cool!!

After the clumps of butter had materialized there was more beating to do to separate the buttermilk from the curds (as in curds and whey) Well, I had to tell someone about this successful science experiment so I dashed out and found my NSSP (Not So Silent Partner) cutting the grass for the first time this year. He rolled his eyes and gave me thumbs up.

The next step was to pour all of the contents (buttermilk and butter) into a moist towel and after draining the buttermilk away (and fantasizing about buttermilk biscuits, buttermilk pancakes, and googling buttermilk recipes) there was a gentle washing process to remove any last milk. This is when I started to have my first butter-gasm. I cooed to my yellow disc as my mind raced to whom I should tell next about this glorious discovery. I discounted The Princess feeling her eyes roll. I pondered my neighbor but I couldn’t face the answering machine that they leave on. Finally I settled on a quick e-mail to my partner in culinary crime knowing she would be duly impressed and reply with the appropriate strokes.

The texture was so soft and delicate. As I kneaded it moisture came to the top and I patted it away. So now what do I do with the stuff? First I weighed it- just curious about the yield- and found it was slightly less than a pound. I did add the ½ teaspoon of kosher salt as the recipe suggested. I buy salt free butter but was curious about the flavor.

In closing the recipe suggested wrapping the butter in wax paper, (honestly, I think I am the last person on earth who still has a moldering roll in the back of my drawer) I updated with two rectangular molds and saran wrap.

So in less time than it takes to mow ¾ acre we have homemade butta. Now all I need is a cow and I can go into full production! Watch out Land O’ Lakes!

Surprise it's the Beard Man!!

I know you all are waiting with baited breath- maybe reading my blog daily to see when I'm going to answer the puzzler. And here it is Portland, OR. own Jimmy Beard. The man who gave Calaphon the kiss of death with, "I like pans that look pretty when you cook in them. That's why I couldn't stand to cook in those dart gray anodized aluminum pots. They look as if you're in mourning."

Vegetarian Cassoulet?

I love my Gourmet Magazine! From random issues dating back to 1968 to the one I cracked open last night (March 2008); I always find a comment, recipe, or article that I enjoy. With Ruth Reichl as editor in chief the magazine has broken out of its stuffy beginnings and entered the new century.

Enough waxing poetic. This month is dedicated to rustic French cuisine with a cover photograph of three profiteroles filled with ice cream and an active shot of melted chocolate syrup oozing down. There is a fabulous menu that I want to make in its entirety.
"Spiced Orange Wine
Onion Tart with mustard and fennel
Provencal Fish Soup with Saffron Rouille
Rack of Lamb with swiss chard
Roasted Red Peppers
Roasted Garlic Souffle
Meyer Lemon Cake with Lavender Cream"
I can't think of a better way to say Vie Va La France! than with this menu.

Now I was on a roll and my eyes fell on an article about a bread making technique from Richard Bertinet a master baker from Brittany (historical home of our dog Buzz The Brittany Lightyear). This is a sweet brioche like dough that is very wet and thanks to www.gourmet.com there is a video of his kneading technique.

Wow! after purging myself of my magazines (see previous entries and pictures) I have a reason to horde another batch- Until my respect for Gourmet plummeted when I saw three disturbing recipes.
A Crustless Quiche- "Getting rid of the crust for this clever play on quiche Lorraine is a win-win." How cute is that! And lazy to boot! You might as well just make a Frittata and be done with it in 1/2 the time!!

Mussels and Fries with Mustard Mayonnaise- " While there's no substitute for eating a bowl of mussels on France's Atlantic coast, you'll be surprised at how easy it is to re-create this briny, aromatic dish at home." With one 15-16 oz. package of frozen french fries (cooked according to package instructions- keep warm in oven if necessary.) as the first ingredient. Nothing like a soggy institutional fry go eat with those briny bi-valves.

And the piece de resistance?
Vegetarian Cassoulet!! What were they thinking? I feel the French Revolution all over again! A rustic dish that takes 1 1/4 hour to make and serves 4-6? Julia, Louisette, Simone where are you? I leaped up and grabbed my Mastering the Art of of French Cooking volume one, page 399 and found not necessarily the definitive recipe but a recipe and its variations that embraced the true essence of the dish WITH MEAT. Another part of the cassoulet mystique that was missing from the vegetarian version (ugh) was the bread crumb cracking and basting to form a seasoned crust. The Veggies have you wielding a potato masher to smash the beans and the "Just before serving, sprinkle with garlic crumbs."

Now I will have to put on my critical cap and instead of being lulled into a food orgasm with Gourmet I'll have to have an inner dialogue with every recipe and notation. There is no reason to keep the magazines in their virginal entirety I will now slash and cut only the recipes I want.
Ahh- such is life!

It's not Micheal Jordan-

Guess Who?
I know that one is supposed to have a professional gas stove in order to qualify as a gourmet cook, but maybe I am just never going to be one.(How humble...)
"Corning makes nice oval gratin dishes. I like some of their white pieces, but not with those goddamn cornflowers on them"

Only Three for Me!!

Ready to Go!!

The Snazzy Celica!!

Purge and Ponder

It was a day of purging and gloom. It was time for me to come to terms with 30 years of cooking magazines that have formed culinary insulation in our garage. Let it be said that there was a time when the collection was smaller and in use. The magazines were divided by month and used for inspiration when I created catering menus.

But alas that was 25 years ago and now they had been breeding at a brisk clip of 4-6 magazines a month for way too long. You do the math and figure it out. My NSSP (Not So Silent Partner) has been quiet on the growth. He only whimpers when the magazines are in the house. Once they make the move outside his only interaction is to avoid them when parking the car. After an hour of speculating my day’s activity he surfaced to view my paltry results.

I turned with tears in my eyes and with clenched fists beat him on his chest saying, “Why didn’t you stop me! Why did you let me continue with this collection?” He gloated at my despair and walked away!

What was the catalyst? You might ask. It all had to do with a chance meeting of a budding chefflet who came into In Good Taste lusting after Art Culinaire magazines. I dropped my voice and like a dealer looking to sell drugs I told him of my horde of not only Art Culinaire but other untold culinary magazines waiting for a good home. And that dear friends is why I spent a beautiful, actually sunny, warm day in my cold garage humping boxes and shifting the stash from monthly organization to title.

Many had old addresses and had been with me from my divorced swinging single time when I dashed around Boston in my Toyota Celica ST. Then there were the years represented in our address in Michigan, New Jersey, Florida, and now Oregon.

I held firm not to read anything, I did flip through, but resisted ripping random recipes out. I found out that Gourmet changed from paragraph recipes to our ingredient/explanation style of today in 1983 and with that a narrower collection evolved. I kept those magazines prior to that bench mark. My ever trendy Bon Appetits received the same harsh treatment with only a few of the oldest staying.

I was merciless! Away Cuisine! Be gone defunct Pleasures of Cooking! Adieu Australian Taste! Never breed in my garage again Cook’s!

And when I was done I had moved the magazines from one side of the garage to the other, broken up the old moldering boxes and liposucted the collection from 28 crates to a svelte three.

Having gotten rid of one crate to my new culinary friend I dream of a steady stream of foodies clamoring for the rest of my booty ($25-crate included). If not it’s off to recycling!

Whoopee it's Bagel Bliss

Let’s talk about those bagels that I alluded to in the Whoopee blog. My first thoughts Saturday morning were of how quickly I could make coffee, feed the animals, and dive into bagel bliss. There is always trepidation when food memory and real product meet. Have you waxed poetic on the perfection of the item? Was it really that good? Maybe it was good because you were starving and you used your last dollar to buy sustenance. Maybe it was who you were with? Was this a food shared in a post romantic interlude? My perfect bagel moment was when I was in high school and had Saturday morning Chinese language lessons. There was a car pool of kids that traveled from Dover, NJ to Piscataway. Along the route was a bagel shop in a strip mall.

Time stopped when I walked into the bagel shop. Giant caldrons of water were bubbling with their doughy orbs. Large horizontal pizza ovens flanked the back wall cranked to the perfect temperature to brown the bagels outside. I only ate the hot freshly baked bagels. I snubbed the cool ones in the metal bins. Salt, poppy, sesame, everything, I ate them all with or without cream cheese depending on the pennies in my pocket.

Why did these become my gold standard? It was a food I discovered. Growing up in Iowa gave me little experience to this ethnic wonder. It was an adult pacifier that sent me into a carbohydrate orgasm that lasted through the interminable Chinese class. That gummy doughy center encased by a skin that you had to fight open and chew into a pulp before swallowing. It didn’t get much better.

My husband’s gold standard was based on bagels at the source, New York City. It never occurred to him that there could be a bad bagel until we found ourselves in the Midwest. Then all of his ethnic standards were challenged and we only ate bagels that were brought to us from friends and relatives. We ate them like junkies gorging and hording until the last poppy seed was swallowed.

Now we have become a bit more egalitarian in our bagel consumption. We resign ourselves to an inferior product and with each bite remind each other that it isn’t like…

It is only when we have a chance to eat the perfect bagel that our trust in our bagel memory is renewed. We forget all of the inferior substitutes and wallow in bagel bliss.

Woo-er to Whoopee

I’m so glad I’m not a male “in a relationship” or wanting to get lucky on Valentine’s Day. In the restaurant business we call it V-D Day, innuendos implied and it is deuce night a go-go. To the hapless public it is Valentine’s Day and for the male constituency it’s woo or sleep alone.

There are those high flying types who pull out all of the stops and the credit card for a dozen long stemmed roses (a flower that wracks up frequent flyer miles in February) and a gourmet meal. A hump in the hay is a shoe-in as long as the conversation focuses on the female’s interests.

Another sure fire way to a big bang is a little bauble. Now the woman that you are setting your sights on might “state” that she isn’t interested in gems but remember Mr. Woo that the jewelry food chain is long and you need to seek the sweet spot and buy the embellishment. This can be challenging when you realize Valentine’s Day is a mere 24 hours away. Believe me men, go for the goods be they diamonds, sterling silver or a plug for the ear. Every girl loves her jewelry of choice. Don’t forget to have it wrapped! Surprise is also important to the recipient of woo.

Let’s say your plastic is too hot to handle. In the plastic vs. Christmas fight Christmas won. So nix those roses and buy a bunch of tulips or better yet a little plant for her to nurture and think of you when she waters it! Gee how cute!

We’re on to dinner and the Outback Steakhouse is out. She turned vegetarian last week. The produce section has “caution enter at your own risk” taped around it as far as you are concerned. Wow this is getting rough! Words of advice? Start safe and dive for the wine and beer department. Grab the wine guy and ask him for suggestions. Don’t quibble! Go for the bubbly rosé with a pink and gold label in French. Good job! Remember your goal as you ease back to produce land.

So meat is out and you don’t eat anything green. Have you pondered our aquatic friends? A burly fish like tuna (don’t grab a can Mr. Woo!) or swordfish? How about shellfish short of being allergic shrimp can elevate your status as a cook and get you closer to the night of your dreams.

Buy a half pound of shelled shrimp (1/2# will do), a head of garlic (use 2-3 peeled cloves chopped), white wine (1/2 C) with the rest ready to drink after the rosé has run out, chopped parsley (1T) DON’T buy the curly kind buy flat leaf! That separates the men from the boys on the parsley front. It’s not really a vegetable just a bit of color.

Heat 1T olive oil or butter; throw in the chopped garlic, and then shrimp. Once one side is pink turn the shrimp over and add the white wine, parsley, salt and pepper. Turn heat off and cover.

Done deal. Serve over linguine ( just testing- it’s spaghetti to you) with garlic bread (make sure you are both eating the bread and pasta!!), and a salad from the grocery salad bar. After the coos and kudos you both will be in a garlic induced amorous heaven.

Remember- the meal should be filling but not button popping! Your goal is eat enough calories for friskies not to pass out with the bloats.

Dessert? Well let’s just say Mom’s Apple Pie isn’t appropriate. Go for sex and nothing screams “I want you” more than chocolate and ice cream to be served in bed. Clean sheets help and candles for effect.

Good luck men and the force be with you!!

P.S. My husband knows the way to my heart. Although arriving a day late he is bringing me fresh H&H bagels- onion, garlic, and everything bagged separately…

What a guy!!

Restaurant Madness- A Culinary Poem

I don’t want to know that Sam is my Server

(Or attentive slave salivating for a tip)

Nor that Babs is my Busser

Nor that Carlotta shakes my cocktails

I don’t want to be told that my entrée is a good decision

(Would they tell me other wise?)

Do they know my palate?

I don’t want them to kneel at my feet

And look adoringly up at me as I place my order

I do hate being asked, "How everything is tasting?"

Or "Do you like the food?" with wringing hands

It would be nice to have my chair pulled out

And to always be told the specials

(And not hear them recited at the next table)

It would be nice to have my beverages topped off

Without raising my white napkin

And at the end of the meal I would like my

Check delivered face down

Until I am ready

To pay

Ratatouille the Movie or Roll over Walt Disney

I finally saw Ratatouille and I must say I was completely unimpressed. There is something unsettling about a “cute” rat that #1 has a palate, #2 is coached by a fat chef ghost, #3 pulls the hair of a cook want a be to make him lurch through the kitchen to create perfect dishes and #4 a legion of rats divided throughout the kitchen to prepare a perfect meal for an obnoxious critic. Does this make sense?

Now in older Disney animal movies there was always a depressing sense of reality with an animal dying, evil parent, or nasty protagonist. There was something to make a child bawl and give them nightmares. In this movie the rat was separated from his clan and found himself in Paris. It was hardly heart wrenching since just a few seconds later he found himself in front of a three star restaurant. In this candy coated version of a professional French kitchen there is a runt of a chef who intimidates by rolling his eyes and screwing up his face. He devises a way to expose the chef wanabe by recreating the soup his rat friend had created. Now if Chef Jr. was worth his chops he would have been quizzing his rat friend and learning how to cook instead of letting his hair get pulled under his toque. Where are the knife throwing, food rage and culinary perversion that can be found in a dysfunctional kitchen? And what about the rest of the kitchen staff? Yes they all look like convicts and I’m sure they are tattooed as well but the only one with a personality is the female cook who would never make the cut in any traditional French restaurant. The rest are there for close-ups.

There is no feel for the grueling daily grind of cleaning cases of lettuce, butchering meat, or the magic of emulsifying a sauce. Even the ghost is 2 dimensional (excuse the pun) sagely pushing rat and son to perfection.

I know that the food is excellently choreographed thanks to Thomas Keller graciously letting the production team into his kitchen and allowing them to pixilate his movements. But so what?

Finally the reason that the reviewer is sent into a taste bud orgasm is because the rat has recreated ratatouille that reminds him of his childhood? And that makes a great restaurant?

The real kicker is that the bumbling Chef Jr., who shouldn’t even be cooking at a fast food restaurant gives a toque to the rat and names him “little chef”. Just to wrap up this already basic and uncluttered tale (tail…) Cheffie has found the love of his life in the militant little vixen female chef.

Disney must be rolling over in his grave.

Just saying the word ‘November’ makes the entertaining challenged run for cover. From now until January 2^nd (The official start of the January Diet Campaign) these poor souls are awash with anxiety and culinary hurdles.

The easiest way around this conundrum is to entertain in restaurants or have your party catered. This method is rather expensive. If you are entertaining challenged have one large party and bang out as many pay backs as possible. In this vein you could do “co-mingling” entertaining. In its purest form this is a pot-luck. You supply a clean house and beverages and let your guests bring the rest. Be forewarned that without guidance your guests might all bring a chunk of cheese or desserts. Don’t forget lots of saran to wrap all those goodies up and give back to your guests (keep the ones that you like- they owe you). A variation is the "orchestrated foraged" party. This uses more gas and ingenuity but by tearing around your fair city you can create an “I can’t cook but I can party! menu. With a little bit of planning (you’re the hostess you know when the party is) you can order some excellent items from Zabar’s to intimidate your guests. Nothing like a little smoked sturgeon to show you care. Just gather as many exotic pre-made ingredients that your budget will allow and don’t forget that ever popular crudités (that says healthy) and your party will scream “Look I’m entertaining and having fun!”

There are die hard foodies like me who would rather be spit roasted than use someone else’s candied nuts. We stubborn stupid cooks feel that each entertaining event puts our sauté pans on the line. Having been a caterer means that I can’t do pot-lucks or cookie exchanges. And each year the entertaining bar is raised. I want to give a party like I used to be hired to provide. I rent dishes, wine glasses buy snappy invitations with R.S.V.P.’s and pick special stamps. The guest list is a pot pourri of people. There are always those tiresome neighbors, the boss who thinks he knows it all, and special friends to talk to while the rest of them face off.

The thing I hate about entertaining is that I have to clean the house and do the cooking. Catering was so simple. I showed up with the food and the house was clean. I didn’t have to mingle just make sure there was enough food and the kitchen was spotless when I left.

When we entertain, invariably my Not So Silent Partner with wine glass in hand, will decide to give the newbie’s a tour of the chateau. Is our bedroom with its 14’ butterfly on the wall or my office with 4 6’bookshelves filled with cookbooks necessary for all to see? So I dutifully clean all the nooks and crannies wishing we could do a series of parties since I went to all this trouble. But the hardest thing for me to clean for guests is the kitchen table. You see our kitchen table is a living being dedicated to reading. Layers of food magazines, NYT book review sections, and catalogs grace the marble surface. It takes months to get the right mix of medium so that no matter when you sit down you can exhume a never read piece of literature to fit your mood. Did I mention the random scraps of paper that garnish like a sprinkle of parsley on a dinner plate? I digress into my own entertaining quandary.

What I wanted to discuss was not only the impending doom of Thanksgiving, Christmas, (Hanukah, Kwanza) and New Years; but a little known French holiday that will ease your entertaining woes and put you at the top of the 2007 social circuit. Don’t tell anyone but Nouveau Beaujolais is the answer! On the 3^rd Thursday of November (a week before Thanksgiving) at 12pm the Beaujolais region of France releases its first wine of the season. Yes, the wine has been shipped to your favorite wine shop but they can’t sell it before 12pm your time. In some circles nouveau beaujolais is considered a precursor to how good the wine year will be.

All you have to do is round up 3 different vineyard’s wines put paper bags around them; label them 1, 2, 3 rent some wine glasses (red cups won’t do!) and away you go! The menu? What’s easier? Cheese, fruit, store bought paté (for that gourmet touch). If your French side is clamoring for attention you can make gougere or fondue. You will notice that no EVOO was spilled nor “chunked” potatoes were “smashed” for this event but it was oh, so easy!! Dessert? You’re off the hook- a wine party doesn’t need it! Voila! A party! Your guests vote on which Beaujolais they like the best and then after the fabricated award is given to the wine and the suspense is done you can continue to drink in earnest. Now the secret to this party is the date. No one is thinking of a party before thanksgiving and your party won’t get lost in the holiday shuffle. When your friends think back on their holiday season and the endless holiday buffets they “enjoyed” they will remember your party first with glowing nostalgia and a well done!

Have You Made Your Grocery List Today?

Every counter in the kitchen, every pocket of my pants, and scattered around my pocket book and wallet are random sized pieces of paper written in various colors of ink creating grocery lists. I on occasion, absent mindedly pick up these lists of yore and feel calm as my eyes caress the items that make our house run. There were days of coupons, when I judiciously snipped, filed and threw away more than I used. Now I have moved on to obsess about which store to forage in for our supplies. My buzz words are local, organic, and sustainable.

They are not profound grocery lists full of forgettable ingredients for an haute cuisine meal but lists of mundane needs for the house to keep it running.

The list often starts out with the trilogy milk, o.j., and bread. Then the generic notation of meat, fish, potatoes and veggies. These items are road maps to creativity in the grocery store. Now the list gets into the occasionally needed but no less necessary item. So we add dog food both dry, and wet. Not to be outdone is the dry and wet cat food and an occasional addition of cat litter. There can be asides of less than exotic items that must be in the home at all times- flour, yeast, Perrier. Sometimes recipes have been researched in advance for a meal and those items receive special treatment with underlining, CAPITALIZATION, circles and exclamation marks! Vitamins need an added reminder because of their variety and we never need all of them at the same time. Holiday grocery lists are still pretty much the same but with a theme- the Thanksgiving list always mentions turkey, cranberry sauce, and cubed bread as if it could be forgotten!

Once at the grocery store of choice the list becomes alive and the word meat is translated into veal chops, hamburger, or pork. The fish becomes fresh scallops pregnant with sweetness, halibut cheeks with their unique texture, or the first wild salmon of the year. Vegetables burst into the cart after I have pondered their origin nestling amongst the organic milk and no pulp orange juice. The word bread always gives me a pause at the store. Here a decision has to be made. Who will be home during the week to consume it? Should the bread be an uncut artisan loaf or a pre-sliced whole wheat sandwich loaf and in that case are sandwich meats needed?

To keep my life simple I have settled on certain products that I can buy without pondering. I always buy the same basics. It keeps me simple- Aim toothpaste, Neutrogena soap, and for many years Cascade dishwashing soap that has been recently replaced with Seventh Generation dishwashing soap (see there is room for change). I save my questing for interesting canned goods, olive oils, mastering new ingredients, spices or which coffee to buy. Give me a free sample and if it passes the taste test it goes in the cart.

To come across an old grocery list that has made it through the washing machine is like an archeologist trying to put some import on a simple water vessel. The list is my own special map for taming the grocery store and wresting the supplies needed to maintain my household’s happiness. When I do find my maps dotting the house I glance at them, sigh as I remember cruising the isles for the items and then throw them away. I could save time by continuing the list, instead of using a new piece of paper, but it would like retracing my steps. A new sheet is needed for a new quest.

Sometimes the lists go AWOL before they hit the store and in that case I play the remembering game. It’s a win-lose game with the down side being a new list started as soon as the groceries are put away.

My grocery lists bridge the home and store. With them I am able to navigate the isles unscathed by temptations and bring home the bacon.

Restaurant Madness, A Culinary Poem

I don’t want to know that Sam is my Server
(Or attentive slave salivating for a tip)
Or Babs is my Busser
Or Desmond shakes my cocktails

I don’t want to be told that my entrée is a good decision
(Would they tell me other wise?)

I don’t want them to kneel at my feet

It would be nice to have my chair pulled out
And to always be told the specials
(And not hear them recited at the next table)

It would be nice to have my beverages topped off
Without raising my white napkin
And at the end of the meal I would like my
Check delivered face down

Until I am ready
To pay

Move Away Gourmet!

Tired of being called a foodie or gourmet? Try on the word gastrocenti. Based on the Italian cognoscenti meaning the people who know this morph means people who know about food. How utterly continental!

And by the way the answer to the picture is in the What is this? comments section!

Another Angle

Here's the "ladies" from another angle- Now you can see those sexy toes!

What is this?

I know it looks like kinky can-can but it really is a "useful" item. What is it? Comments please and the answer will be next week!
From Queen Art-o-Eat

What Does This Mean?

From my Nation's Restaurant News, 2.12.07
Most frequently ordered foods at restaurants...
Men:
1. Burgers(17.4%)
2.French Fries(14.2%)
3.Pizza(9.0%)
4.Breakfast Sandwich(6.2%)
5.Side Dish Salad(5.7%)
6.Eggs(4.5%)
7.Doughnuts(4.2%)
8.Hash Browns(4.1%)
9.Chinese(4.0%)
10.Main Dish Salad(3.4%)

Women:
1.French Fries(13.8%)
2.Burgers(13.1%)
3.Pizza(8.2%)
4.Side Dish Salad(6.8%)
5.Chicken Sandwich(5.3%)
6.Breakfast Sandwich(4.9%)
7.Main Dish Salad(4.6%)
8.Chinese(4.1%)
9.Chicken Nuggets(3.8%)
10.Rice(3.6%)

O.K. Lets see if we can extract some sense from these Mars Vs. Venus eating pattens. Burgers or fries? Fries or burgers? it's a toss up. Out of the top ten frequently ordered foods 17.2% are in agreement with Pizza. It also looks like men eat breakfast out more with breakfast sandwiches, eggs, doughnuts and hashbrowns. Women lean toward lunches and the real mystery is who are the 3.6% of the female public ordering rice?

Alpha Chef

In a recent article in The New York Times they mentioned couples in the kitchen. That sounded cute since it was Saint Valentine's Day and the western world (or at least the U.S.) was awash in chocolate, romance, and roses. I delved further into the article and found it talked more about how couples negotiate the hallowed grounds of the kitchen, and that's where I discovered myself. It seems that kitchen cooks are divided between the alpha's and the beta's. The article tried to soften the conflict with cute he and she head- butting but I saw something bigger. I had not only become the dominatrix in the kitchen but it was like a solo Iron Chef show-down every time I entered kitchen stadium! No wonder my NSSP (not so silent partner) who came into the relationship with a little brown file box of recipes only opens it on Sundays for waffles and rolled up pancakes. I don't start cooking until 5 being the night chef at heart and loathing to make any brunch type meals.

Then I thought of The Princess. When I grew up I was given the job of stirring My T Fine Pudding until it was done or stirring the lumps out of gravy or shucking corn in the summer. But The Princess had never done any of those things. My NSSP had occasionally suggested that I teach her how to cook but I dreaded these exchanges. I had no patience for bumbling hands. As a result the other 2/3rds of the household stayed clear and left the dog and myself to my culinary alchemy. Now The Princess was falling out of the nest with a darned good palate and no tools to satisfy it. Bad Mom.

As in any 12 step program understanding your bad behavior is one step to recovery or not. I love being an alpha chef. My ego soars as I sharpen my knife in anticipation of boning a chicken breast. My thoughts layer food elements together, mentally trying combinations before I put them in the pan. I get off on being in control. It makes me nervous when the NSSP declares it his turn to make dinner. I wait nervously in the living room waiting for him to ask for help so I can swoop in and right his wrongs. But that doesn’t happen. He produces a very nice meal, has learned to pick the dishes, and even garnish his food. Darn it, it’s tasty too!

I guess I just have a restaurant ego in a home kitchen!

Master Baker

He walked, or was it a strut or swagger. What ever it was it was purposeful, forthright, and with intent. His dancing brown eyes highlighted the all too healthy tan. The azure blue work shirt was opened one button too many. The gold chain, at least 18 karats was anchored with a medallion below the viewing point. His gold marriage ring was noticeable but one didn’t feel that it restricted his social movement. He was French with joie d’ vie.

He had a rounded paunch. Not the soft bread poking kind but one that was in constant use. One that felt curls, twists, and kitchen bends. He was virile and very masculine. His whole male package could make women of a certain age have an intake of breath and remember flirting, a hobby out of practice.

He shrugged his traveling bag off his shoulder and removed a nylon jacket and a neatly rolled chef’s coat. “I would like to hang this up; it has traveled a long way. I rode my bike up from Arizona,” his French accent caressed each word as his eyes probed mine.

It was his hands that mesmerized me. They were strong and muscular. Ragged finger nails capped the fingers and heavy calluses protected his hands from his profession as a Master Pastry Chef. Andre was a master of his profession. His passion was sugar sculpture. Working with sugar is a highly technical and artistic section of the pastry department that includes pulling sugar into gossamer sheets and the most delicate pastel colors. He could blow sugar balloons, imitate roses, and make a pond for swans to swim.

Sugar sculpture is a dying art, with few chefs developing the skills and having the patience necessary for blowing and pulling sugar into elaborate and decorative masterpieces. It takes years of dedication, perseverance, and burns along the way to master this discipline.

The sugar is boiled with water and glucose to a caramel, tartaric acid and food colors are added. As the sugar is cooled it is pulled to form a chain of sugar crystals which will give the sugar a pearl like shine. The artist goes to work molding, pulling, and blowing the sugar into the shapes. The final application is to hand paint or airbrush the finished product with food colors.

And here before me was a master ready to teach a class and hop on his red and chrome bike to ride back to Arizona. I gently took the chef’s coat and showed him the way to the back room. I shook out the jacket perhaps a little longer than necessary and stroked out the wrinkles.

I would not take the class and it would be better that way.

A Meal Created #1

Many times I come home with no clue what to make for dinner. I know what ingredients I have bought to stimulate my palate but on most days there is not a complete meal ready to be cooked in my imagination. I crawl home, am greeted by the dog and cat, then I enter the kitchen. A glance at the clock, phone for messages and flip through the mail are the next decompressing activities. A glass of wine poured and then the refrigerator is opened.

I fumble through the paper wrapped meats, saran wrapped leftovers and plastic bags of veggies much the same as I flipped through the mail, looking for that one ingredient that will be the catalyst toward dinner. Part of the rummaging and fondling is also the mental evaluation of how creative or tired I am. There are very few nights that a leftover is left in its primary state and just reheated. There are also nights when no light bulb goes off before the stomach grumbles. At these times I ask for advice from my family. They usually throw out ideas quite different from my ponderings but are enough to jump start a menu. I hardly ever take their advice but file away their wistful meals for future times.

There are weeks when I'm on a roll. Thumbing through a new cookbook, finding seasonal produce, thinking of different country's cuisines can break the lethargy and make the forage through the refrigerator and pantry a quest toward the perfect meal. I'm an explorer as I poke and squeeze ingredients. Willing them to tell me how they would like to be prepared and presented. These protracted adventures are usually on weekends or at times when schedules can be stretched. When I am on this culinary quest my family's hunger drifts from my mental fore front. Many times in mid chop my husband will tentatively ask when dinner is. Quickly followed by "Just curious, no rush, I just want to know if I have time to..." My daughter however is more insistent with a movie to go to or a date. If the meal doesn't fit her time frame it's a quick sandwich and off she goes.

Then I am left to continue my dance with ingredients. Food is coming out of the fridge and pantry faster than it is being cooked. The counter is getting smaller and 3 burners hold simmering, bubbling pots and saute pans. This is the exciting time of the meal. Food is briefly in a holding pattern. As I come up for air I start imagining how I want to present the meal, which dishes to use, are there to be garnishes, what wine and glasses. How dirty is the tablecloth? Paper or cloth napkins? I turn my attention to these finishing details and once executed, delve back into the cooking. I love the romance of creating the meal. Sometimes it isn't up to my imaginary concept, sometimes it surpasses and I gloat at the dishs' perfection with each bite, regaling my husband with my culinary prowess. He is always supportive and since pushed to the edge of starvation is grateful for dinner at 10:00. At this point he would be happy with gruel.

Now up to this point no one has entered the kitchen except me. I've kept everyone at bay fighting them off with glowers and growls.With a full stomach and figuring it's the least he can do my husband smiles and suggests indulgently that he do the dishes. I look demurely at my plate and say o.k. he pats my hand, fills my glass with wine and says, "Go put some music on and sit down, I'll be done in a minute."

If he had made the meal that would be true but the culinary tornado has been creating for the past 2 hours and the kitchen looks that way.

"My God! He screams,"Don’t you ever put anything away? I can't even find the sink! You only cooked for 2 people! There are dishes everywhere! I still have to walk the dog!!"

Sitting in the big purple chair, I close my eyes, listen to the music, the rants of my husband and replay the tastes I have just created knowing that they are transient and perfect.

Grated Pie

For the record I didn't create this recipe but found it trolling around on the old internet. It intrigues me and I thought it needed a wider audience so I've added it to my site. I happen to have frozen dough and will give an update on this technique.

Please check out yulinka's website-
Grated pie, probably an invention of my late grandmother, is pie made of pastry dough that is frozen and then grated, instead of defrosted and rolled out. I hesitate to compare this dough to pâte brisée, since the recipe is completely unorthodox, but pastry crust is what it tastes like when baked. This is an admittedly odd recipe and technique, but it’s a longtime family favorite because it's easy and convenient. You can make the crust and freeze it, and when you have a hankering for some pie all you need is a pie pan, filling and a grater. I have yet to make this dough myself, but this recipe has always worked for my mom. I used one of her ready-made batches to bake a very good apple-pumpkin pie a couple of weeks ago.

For the crust: Beat together 3 eggs and 1 cup of sugar. Melt 2 sticks of butter; cool, add to eggs and sugar. Add 2 tablespoons of sour cream; mix well. Sift 2 cups of flour and 1/2 tsp. baking soda. Add the flour to the wet ingredients gradually, and knead until you form dough. Add more flour if the dough is too wet--about 1/2 cup should do it. Divide the dough into two rounds, wrap, and freeze.

For the filling: I sautéed four sliced, peeled and cored apples in some butter. When the apples were soft, I added a splash of Calvados, some sugar--1/3 cup, maybe?--a little nutmeg, ground cloves, cinnamon and ground ginger, and about a cup of canned pumpkin (not pumpkin pie filling).

For the pie: You’ll need ½ crust recipe (one frozen round of dough). Butter a 9-inch pie pan. Grate the frozen dough until it covers the bottom of pan. Use your fingers to press on the dough so that it covers the entire pan and its sides. I used about ¾ of the dough round for this. Add the filling, spreading it evenly over the dough. Grate the remaining dough over the top. Use your fingers or a knife to fold the dough on the sides onto the filling. Bake at 350 for 40-50 minutes, until the crust on top is nicely golden. Let cool.


www.yulinkacooks.blogspot.com

What the French don't tell us!

A recent article in my favorite paper(The NY Times of course! dated 1.9.07 and under the Frequent Flier column) there was an article writen by Christopher Elliott about drinking discoveries that Marian Jansen op de Haar, (Fleming's Prime Steakhouse restaurants)has experienced in her travels. It's an easy-breezy article full of wit and long flight stories. What stood out to me was her next to last paragraph.

"Despite the polarity between French fries and French bubbly, all it took was a bite and a sip to convince me I'd found a perfect pairing. The acidity and the bubbles in Champagne refreshed the palate beautifully between every bite of the salty fried food."

I guess I'll have to give up ketchup as the side car to my French fries and carry champers to Mickey D's!

It's a Party!

What better reason to get dressed up than Saturday night! For most of us up on the restaurant food chain we had graduated from working Sunday brunch. For the rest, a little hangover made omelette's slide easier onto plates. Bags were brought filled with high heels, make-up, tight pants, and sultry dresses. After slinging dishes and waiting on customers it was time to party! We all piled into one changing room to beautify ourselves for a night on the town. All the men were gay, the straight men never lasted. All the women were horny heterosexuals. We all dressed together exchanging make-up tips and sharing a mirror that was vertical for lipstick and horizontal for a pre-party pick-me-up.

Where to go? Who thought they would get lucky and most important to the kitchen staff on hourly pay, where was it cheap? The ‘trons, flush after a night of tips took us under their wings and spent money with abandon forgetting about rent and essentials. An agenda was agreed upon and we teetered into cabs and cars for the evening’s excitement.

The world of girls and gays in the 80’s was a rite of passage for us all. Cyndi Lauper summed it up; “Girls just want to have fun.” Yes, it would have been nice to end the night with a romp in the hay after a steamy dance but dancing and humping never went together when you went out with the boys in the band. And the boys were so much fun!! We drank the same watered down cocktails, discussed the same tight pants and bulges. Both sexes were drooling with only the boys having the slightest chance of getting lucky. We danced with hedonistic abandon, both sexes knowing that at the last Donna Summers song we would careen out of the bar and into bed alone.

Some boys, ever opportunistic, continued on to the Charles River Fens to roam the parked cars for anonymous sex. In the early morning's mist the boys still went home alone to sleep off their night on the town. This wasn’t an option for the real girls and we went our separate ways.

We thought it would never end the way it did with AIDS and death of many friends. For that narrow window of time we were all invincible and would live forever.

Flavor Forecast for 2007

Just in from my Foodservice.com website- the 2007 top ten flavor pairings-


• Clove and Green Apple

• Thyme and Tangerine

• Tellicherry Black Pepper and Berry

• Sea Salt and Smoked Tea

• Lavender and Honey

• Crystallized Ginger and Salted Pistachio

• Cumin and Apricot

• Toasted Mustard and Fennel Seeds

• Wasabi and Maple

• Caramelized Garlic and Riesling Vinegar

Book cover

Ruminations on Buford's Heat

I have recently finished Bill Buford’s book titled HEAT. Yes, it was well written in a hip journalistic style and garnished with expletives used liberally in a restaurant kitchen. There were flying sauté pans and it was a school of very hard knocks. I just couldn’t shake the fact that once the book was done Bill would return to his writing white tower and leave his culinary cohorts cooking endless Saturday nights in the pressure cooker of a restaurant kitchen.

Bill had culinary quests that he became impassioned about. Let’s go to Italy and find out when the first egg yolk was added to pasta (the Italians were intrigued by this quest and didn’t care about the when. They were more interested in the perfection of pasta with the addition). Butchering anyone? Find a butcher maestro to chain yourself to and master the pig. Just to remember the technique buy a pig in New York City and butcher it in your summer apartment.

Ever wonder about the creative force behind Mario Batali? We are teased with his intimacy with Mario, another screaming gonzo chef. For every even-tempered, woman-supporting-chef, there will always be the antithesis chef from hell who runs a kitchen on intimidation and brut force. Mario reinforces the latter.

Bill’s wife appears to be fully supportive of this mid-life crisis. Paying for numerous trips to Italy and accepting his minimum wage internship. She did rebuke him when he came home from working the line only to have food stench on his hands. What a swell guy…

There was oblique bragging about learning how to make Miriam’s tortelli, pasta that Mario never mastered. Bill came to the realization after three trips to Italy to learn its various subtleties that the end result had to be made by women or children with small hands. It wasn’t the type of thing that beefy muscled fingers could adeptly mass produce.

I guess I’m just a bit tired of these restaurant memoirs. It is a memory lane that I go down rarely and no matter how eloquently Anthony, Bill, or anyone else describes working in a professional kitchen my hands ache, feet throb, and I feel the layers of grease on my glasses when I finish the book. I don’t have romantic memories about cleaning a gas stove top after it has been flambéed or sautéed on for 10 hours nor picking up the floor mats that are saturated with food ooze. I am thankful for the skills I learned at zero hour. It was the supreme multi-tasking experience and thinking on one’s feet was paramount. I didn’t go to culinary school to learn my trade but I can’t imagine any school that could prepare you for the rigors of a Saturday night shift with a chef from hell abusing you to test your ego.

When all is said and done and I stop my complaining, it is an amazing, satisfying, and rewarding profession. Raise a glass to the humble masses preparing your food night after night.

My Freezer

My freezer is a goldmine of good intentions. It’s loaded with frozen potential suspended in various states of creation. There’s Thanksgiving stuffing from last year waiting for the right moment to either be thrown away or changed into pot pie topping with frozen chicken meat equally as old, and peas and carrots only bought for the said purpose.

Staples move through the freezer to fridge like soldiers to culinary war. The egg beaters ready for de-frosting to make cholesterol free baked goods or a Sunday omelette. Coffee in the bean form to stay fresh. Various tasty sausages are my arsenal against a boring weekday meal. They slip into stir fry’s, soup, or as a protein topping on salad. Pork tenderloin, ground buffalo, stray chicken breasts with or without their skin all contribute to the efficiency of the freezer stash.

In the door we have immediate, not-to-get-lost items. Nuts, whole, ground, and chopped jostle next to various sized household batteries that are stored according to an urban legend that they would last longer. True or not our freezer has been the battery's home in many of our houses and I can locate them quickly when the flashlight dims. Little plastic bags of chicken fat wait for rendering on top of a new freezer necessity, porcini powder. The powder was bought with all surety that this secret ingredient would blast through my culinary repertoire giving that secret umaji to my daily meals leaving the family panting for more and voluntarily joining the clean plate club.

As new occupants sit front and center, bits and pieces scuttle to the back only to be guiltily retrieved when I reach just a little too far looking for the frozen butter. Small containers of chopped clams bought for white clam sauce play hide and seek when I want them fast. Filo and puff pastry make seasonal appearances with their leftovers re-frozen for another day.

Last winter I decided to save the last cup of soup I would make and thus have a welcome addition to nights when I didn’t want to cook. A full season has passed and fall is upon me again as well as those little globs of frozen soup. They think they can hide in the back but my arms are long and off they go to the garbage. I don’t think I will continue the leftover soup practice.

There have been years when I dutifully froze pesto in ice cube trays, put tablespoons of leftover tomato paste on parchment paper to freeze and then in to baggies. The result? Flavored ice cubes with a hint of pesto and blobs of tomato paste that merged together during the freezing and defrosting cycle. Another example of efficiency gone awry.

There is only one habit I do religiously to foods I put in the freezer. I label and date them so I know when I can throw them away.

A Lone Man and his Dinner

A worn key turned easily in its companion; opening the weary door that scraped and creaked, when the man entered. Inside, the living room held furniture that had seen better days. Fabric once colorful and stretched tight now sagged. Curtains rich with embroidery were brittle to the touch and rugs had traffic marks from years of shoes rubbing against their nap.

John was oblivious to his aging surroundings. They fit him. He had grown up in the house and was now living in the third floor apartment once reserved for servants. Shrugging off his suit coat he smoothed its lapel, straightened the sleeves, and removed his tie retaining the knot. Both were hung on a Victorian hall tree in the entry way.

Tonight was Wednesday. Nothing on T.V. All four channels were midway through their sit-coms. Another night alone eating dinner and to bed.

John shuffled into the kitchen and punched the light switch on. The kitchen was not much larger than a closet lined with cupboards that defied age with annual coats of cream colored paint. All surfaces were pristine. Even the top of the refrigerator passed a nightly white glove test. His eyes came to life as they embraced the kitchen. Opening the fridge, John assessed its contents. An absent-minded hum echoed off jars and tins. He delved in and began to gather ingredients.

Vivaldi jumped into the kitchen from a pre-programmed station. John’s hum couldn’t keep up with the pirouetting violins and abandoned song as he honed in on what to make for dinner. Foraging under the glimmering light; shallots, lemon, garlic, and parsley mounded next to the fridge. A chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio turned John’s attention to the cupboard. He removed a solitary Waterford crystal wine glass and filled it a scant ½ full. Swirling the golden liquid John inhaled then sipped from the glass letting its cool liquid caress his throat.

Veal scallops, butter, asparagus, and cooked red skin potatoes from a previous culinary adventure were added to the counter’s bounty. A second sip gathered the flour, olive oil, fry pan, and sauce pan.

Olive oil splashed into an aluminum sauté pan and water salted like the sea broke into a smile of bubbles on the stove top. Opening a drawer John grasped a steel in one hand and a carbon steel Sabatier in the other. A few well measured swipes against the steel brought the chef knife’s edge back to life and ready for work. The ingredients began marching to their destination with precision.

John’s whole attention was on the veal. His new culinary challenge was to teach himself how to flip food. Graduating from pancakes and not proficient enough for fried eggs, tonight’s venue was a perfect segue toward this accomplishment. Hot olive oil welcomed the flour dusted veal, sealing it and quickly and browning the edges. Moving the pan in a circular motion released the scallop so it slid freely around. Next, he thrust the pan back and forth until the meat was resting on the opposite side and slightly curling up the side of the pan. With a shake forward and jerk back the veal gracefully turned in the air and landed perfectly in the middle to finish its cooking.

A smile broke on John’s face while he thought of doing it again, a grumble from his empty stomach convinced him otherwise. Shallots, garlic, and a splash of wine went into the pan to reduce. Asparagus tumbled into the waiting water for a quick cook. Noticing his glass empty he poured another measureful. Aromas entwined with the baroque and steam warmed the kitchen.

John ran his dinner plate under hot water to remove the cupboard’s chill. Once warm it was dried, and the veal placed on the left side. Sliced potatoes went into the sauté pan with chopped parsley, and a large knob of butter swirling around and emulsifying. Three sliced lemons and a squeeze of juice finished the sauce. Drained asparagus joined the waiting veal and the potatoes wedged themselves between the two. Sauce was spooned judiciously over each item.

A single set of sterling and large linen napkin rolled tightly in a monogrammed ring went on the small dining room table. Candles were lit. John carried his glass and meal to the table. It was Chopin’s turn to accompany John’s dinner party. Lilting piano nocturnes soothed the room. At times like this John never felt alone he was his favorite culinary companion and critic. Wednesday melted away leaving an empty plate and a man content with life.