(In honor of mother's day, I thought I'd share a poem I wrote on my adopted son's 21st birthday.)
Underneath this
great-boughed tree, its
branches low, needles arc-ing
over us in fountain sprays,
we share
a picnic table,
my son and I.
Folding his limbs
to fit
upon the narrow bench,
he stretches out,
falls into
an easy sleep.
A thin strip of belly
between waistband and shirt
gently rises
and falls.
I watch
to see that he is
still
breathing. He rustles,
pulls the woolen cap over his face,
makes
his explanation:
To stop the chestnuts
from hurting
if they fall.
That’s not
going to protect you, I say.
But it will
ease the blow.
I look to the woods
wishing for
Lilliputians to emerge, come
to bind him
to this moment. For
what will ease the blow,
I wonder,
when I can no longer
watch him sleep,
when I no longer
see the six year-old boy
in the man’s face?
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
"In nature and the language of the sense, The anchor of my purest thoughts..."(or the Diagnosis Part II)
I live in a stunningly beautiful place. Surrounded by madrones, manzanitas, and vineyards, the property on which I am lucky enough to live also affords me glorious views of the oak-studded California hills, a sometimes-rushing-sometimes-dry creek and, particularly spectacular at the moment, three dogwood trees covered in ivory, four-petalled blooms.
In the mornings I walk down the road, past lizards sunning themselves, to the vegetable garden. Here, the farmer’s constancy is aided by the alluvial soil and everything grows brazenly, from the springtime favas and rhubarb to the summer’s sweet corn and tomatoes. In the afternoons, when I take the dogs out gopher hunting (they catch nothing but definitely enjoy the dig), quails traverse the road unsteadily, like besotted dowagers in party hats. Driving home on a moonless night I must be attentive to the jackrabbit zigzagging across the road; the foxes are faster so I only catch a glimpse of a bushy tail being sucked into the brush. Occasionally, a pointy-eared bobcat lopes across the driveway. Frogs sing me to sleep and coyotes disturb that sleep with high-pitched cries no different from the ululating wails of women in grief.
As the determinedly hot days give way to unhurried breezy nights, the uncluttered, certain sky becomes a layering of Braille on an indigo page. It is easy to breathe deeply here, to find one’s angle of repose. But as much as the beauty of this place brings me a contemplative stillness and unquantifiable gratitude, I am restless.
I remember this feeling from many years ago. I was living in another rural, wonderfully beautiful place: the Pocumtuck Valley in western Massachusetts. Farmland, rolling hills, a river, plus the New England seasons. After two years living there, I had to leave.
Now, as I did then, I realize that when I live so close to nature, I am overwhelmed. As I should be: Nature is profound in its beauty, power, mystery. Here I have fallen into an intoxicated stupor of submission. It is exactly what the poet Rumi writes about: that drunken love one experiences upon meeting G-d. All there is for me to do is luxuriate in this beauty. And so, prostrate before Nature’s magnificence, I do nothing. I feel too small, too insignificant. What can I possibly do to contribute to THIS?
Knowing my smallness in all of this makes me ready to leave Eden. But not out of a sense of inferiority, rather out of an understanding. Yes, in the grandness of Nature I am small. Just as a single jackrabbit or oak tree or creek is. But small and solo don't mean insignificant.
I don’t know that I will ever live in a place as beautiful as this one again, but I have been given an inestimable gift to have lived here for six months. I have been embraced by Nature--indeed by G-d--and shown the grandeur of this world to which I am not merely a witness but a bonded actor. And now strengthened by that embrace, I must go do my part.
(Note: Blog title from Wordsworth's poem "A Few Lines Written Above Tintern Abbey")
In the mornings I walk down the road, past lizards sunning themselves, to the vegetable garden. Here, the farmer’s constancy is aided by the alluvial soil and everything grows brazenly, from the springtime favas and rhubarb to the summer’s sweet corn and tomatoes. In the afternoons, when I take the dogs out gopher hunting (they catch nothing but definitely enjoy the dig), quails traverse the road unsteadily, like besotted dowagers in party hats. Driving home on a moonless night I must be attentive to the jackrabbit zigzagging across the road; the foxes are faster so I only catch a glimpse of a bushy tail being sucked into the brush. Occasionally, a pointy-eared bobcat lopes across the driveway. Frogs sing me to sleep and coyotes disturb that sleep with high-pitched cries no different from the ululating wails of women in grief.
As the determinedly hot days give way to unhurried breezy nights, the uncluttered, certain sky becomes a layering of Braille on an indigo page. It is easy to breathe deeply here, to find one’s angle of repose. But as much as the beauty of this place brings me a contemplative stillness and unquantifiable gratitude, I am restless.
I remember this feeling from many years ago. I was living in another rural, wonderfully beautiful place: the Pocumtuck Valley in western Massachusetts. Farmland, rolling hills, a river, plus the New England seasons. After two years living there, I had to leave.
Now, as I did then, I realize that when I live so close to nature, I am overwhelmed. As I should be: Nature is profound in its beauty, power, mystery. Here I have fallen into an intoxicated stupor of submission. It is exactly what the poet Rumi writes about: that drunken love one experiences upon meeting G-d. All there is for me to do is luxuriate in this beauty. And so, prostrate before Nature’s magnificence, I do nothing. I feel too small, too insignificant. What can I possibly do to contribute to THIS?
Knowing my smallness in all of this makes me ready to leave Eden. But not out of a sense of inferiority, rather out of an understanding. Yes, in the grandness of Nature I am small. Just as a single jackrabbit or oak tree or creek is. But small and solo don't mean insignificant.
I don’t know that I will ever live in a place as beautiful as this one again, but I have been given an inestimable gift to have lived here for six months. I have been embraced by Nature--indeed by G-d--and shown the grandeur of this world to which I am not merely a witness but a bonded actor. And now strengthened by that embrace, I must go do my part.
(Note: Blog title from Wordsworth's poem "A Few Lines Written Above Tintern Abbey")
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Snakes and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails (or the Diagnosis, Part I)
Yes, I have eaten two of the three. I have eaten an entire banquet made from snake in Hong Kong--I particularly enjoyed the stir-fried snake with chrysanthemum but the rest of the dishes didn’t do that much for me (then again neither does chicken). I do enjoy snails, though, to be honest, most snails are like nuggets of dark brown, rubbery tofu so, as with tofu, it’s really all about the sauce. And, at least when the snails are prepared in the West, the sauce usually involves butter. I have not and will not ever knowingly eat dog, though a roast dog seller on QingPingGaai in Guangzhou, China once tried to convince me otherwise. While I remained steadfast in my conviction not to eat it, I could not stand fast at his stall and so hightailed it out of there (you may disregard the pun). At any rate, the title refers to something I have been missing. Not in my diet but in my life.
I knew that something was amiss was when I began to experience food ennui. Last night, I told a friend I really didn’t care what I had for dinner and she looked at me--the poster child for “Live to Eat!”—in alarm. I’ve been searching for the cause of my dining indifference and have come to the conclusion that my life is imbalanced.
I am a great believer in the Tao; I know that too much or too little of something disrupts life’s harmony.* Coming in the “too little” category is time spent in the “Bro-zone;” that is: I am missing boy energy.
Okay, this seems to make little sense. I am a forty-something woman. I have many, many close women friends. I went to a women’s college. I read Sisterhood is Powerful and In a Different Voice several times. I hate the oppression of patriarchy and the violence it has bred. I don’t abide bad table manners, “Dutch ovens,” or contests that involve distance urination. And, having been the dorm mother to 40 high school boys at an East Coast boarding school, I think boys smell bad. Or at least their rooms do, especially if their sweaty hockey uniforms are left drying on the radiators. Eeewww.
In spite of all that, having spent a good deal of the last 25 years around boys and adult males who can easily access their “boy-ness,” I realize that whether you’re a boy, an adult male, or a female, you can experience a lot of positive energy in the “Bro-zone.”
Without benefit of a sociology degree, extensive reading into evolutionary biology, or special attention paid to post-modern gender theory, here’s my highly un-nuanced, overly generalized take on what’s good about boys.
• Their desire to dog-pile, like puppies, whether on a grass field or in the back of a taxi-cab: it’s rambunctious, intimate, messy and someone usually gets hurt but doesn’t complain.
• That they can be picky without being fussy: that is, boys seem to be clear about their wants/needs and come to resolution quickly about how to respond when they aren’t.
• That they have a less angst-ridden relationship with their bodies than females do; they have little day-to-day concern with their bodies.
• That they trust their senses.
• That they like jokes--the practical, the scatological and the punny--and laugh with ease.
• That they form their bonds through doing things and so their memories and loyalties are etched deeply, right down to the cell-level.
• That they are curious and open to possibility (i.e. they're risk takers).
• That they can trust easily (and can be almost irrevocably hurt when betrayed by someone to whom they have given their loyalty).
• That they can stand alongside; they might not always know what to say or do but they will stay in the zone so as not to leave the person alone and unprotected.
• That they don't run the Social Communication De-coder at all times; a cigar can just be a cigar. (Okay, that was a bad example as phallic reference runs high in the bro-zone; the point is, boys can take a comment as it is said, unless it even remotely references anatomy or sex.)
• That they give their friends a lot of room to mess up, to be weird, to be themselves.
In short, at its best, the bro-zone is physical, fun, goofy, less verbal, straight-forward, loyal, protective, less focused on analysis and more on being & doing. I need more of that in my life. You?
*(Caveat: butter, cream, pork and good bourbon are excluded from the “too much” category; any amount of these is the perfect amount.)
I knew that something was amiss was when I began to experience food ennui. Last night, I told a friend I really didn’t care what I had for dinner and she looked at me--the poster child for “Live to Eat!”—in alarm. I’ve been searching for the cause of my dining indifference and have come to the conclusion that my life is imbalanced.
I am a great believer in the Tao; I know that too much or too little of something disrupts life’s harmony.* Coming in the “too little” category is time spent in the “Bro-zone;” that is: I am missing boy energy.
Okay, this seems to make little sense. I am a forty-something woman. I have many, many close women friends. I went to a women’s college. I read Sisterhood is Powerful and In a Different Voice several times. I hate the oppression of patriarchy and the violence it has bred. I don’t abide bad table manners, “Dutch ovens,” or contests that involve distance urination. And, having been the dorm mother to 40 high school boys at an East Coast boarding school, I think boys smell bad. Or at least their rooms do, especially if their sweaty hockey uniforms are left drying on the radiators. Eeewww.
In spite of all that, having spent a good deal of the last 25 years around boys and adult males who can easily access their “boy-ness,” I realize that whether you’re a boy, an adult male, or a female, you can experience a lot of positive energy in the “Bro-zone.”
Without benefit of a sociology degree, extensive reading into evolutionary biology, or special attention paid to post-modern gender theory, here’s my highly un-nuanced, overly generalized take on what’s good about boys.
• Their desire to dog-pile, like puppies, whether on a grass field or in the back of a taxi-cab: it’s rambunctious, intimate, messy and someone usually gets hurt but doesn’t complain.
• That they can be picky without being fussy: that is, boys seem to be clear about their wants/needs and come to resolution quickly about how to respond when they aren’t.
• That they have a less angst-ridden relationship with their bodies than females do; they have little day-to-day concern with their bodies.
• That they trust their senses.
• That they like jokes--the practical, the scatological and the punny--and laugh with ease.
• That they form their bonds through doing things and so their memories and loyalties are etched deeply, right down to the cell-level.
• That they are curious and open to possibility (i.e. they're risk takers).
• That they can trust easily (and can be almost irrevocably hurt when betrayed by someone to whom they have given their loyalty).
• That they can stand alongside; they might not always know what to say or do but they will stay in the zone so as not to leave the person alone and unprotected.
• That they don't run the Social Communication De-coder at all times; a cigar can just be a cigar. (Okay, that was a bad example as phallic reference runs high in the bro-zone; the point is, boys can take a comment as it is said, unless it even remotely references anatomy or sex.)
• That they give their friends a lot of room to mess up, to be weird, to be themselves.
In short, at its best, the bro-zone is physical, fun, goofy, less verbal, straight-forward, loyal, protective, less focused on analysis and more on being & doing. I need more of that in my life. You?
*(Caveat: butter, cream, pork and good bourbon are excluded from the “too much” category; any amount of these is the perfect amount.)
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Canary Meet Coalmine
It doesn’t take much to get me excited. Mere mention of pork in some form—bacon, trotter, ham—or a runny French cheese or a seared rib eye makes my eyes sparkle in joyful anticipation. I am ALWAYS thinking of what delights the next opportunity to cook and to eat will bring. Every meal represents creativity, pleasure, choice.
But lately…something is amiss. I feel as if I am stranded on a barren shore, with no culinary wind to roust my sails and set me a-sea again. So much so that even a luscious ramekin of rhubarb custard the other night could not float my boat. I had lunch today without once thinking of all the options--pupusas? ceviche?burger? I came home and ate whatever was on the counter. (Some pretzels, a handful of almonds, and a half an avocado.) My palate lethargy signals "Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!" My palate, my love of food is my compass. When my palate fatigues, it means I’m not on true north.
I began to wonder where I had gotten off tack. Perhaps I have been neglecting my other senses. Those of us who love food are usually sensualists. We feast not only on taste but also on:
smells—a bouquet of freshly cut lilacs or the rich earth newly plowed;
sights-- the sunlight playing hide and seek among the oaks;
sounds--the caress of Alan Rickman’s voice; and
touch--a cashmere sweater holding you close (or, even better, a cute man in a cashmere sweater holding you close).
So I did a check of my sensory world to determine if my palate was in a funk because another sense was being under-utilized. You know: sometimes when part of the system goes down, the whole thing gets affected. I had to conclude, well, no, my sensory life is pretty dang rich.
More diagnosis is needed. I mean, a girl without her pork joy is a lost girl indeed.
But lately…something is amiss. I feel as if I am stranded on a barren shore, with no culinary wind to roust my sails and set me a-sea again. So much so that even a luscious ramekin of rhubarb custard the other night could not float my boat. I had lunch today without once thinking of all the options--pupusas? ceviche?burger? I came home and ate whatever was on the counter. (Some pretzels, a handful of almonds, and a half an avocado.) My palate lethargy signals "Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!" My palate, my love of food is my compass. When my palate fatigues, it means I’m not on true north.
I began to wonder where I had gotten off tack. Perhaps I have been neglecting my other senses. Those of us who love food are usually sensualists. We feast not only on taste but also on:
smells—a bouquet of freshly cut lilacs or the rich earth newly plowed;
sights-- the sunlight playing hide and seek among the oaks;
sounds--the caress of Alan Rickman’s voice; and
touch--a cashmere sweater holding you close (or, even better, a cute man in a cashmere sweater holding you close).
So I did a check of my sensory world to determine if my palate was in a funk because another sense was being under-utilized. You know: sometimes when part of the system goes down, the whole thing gets affected. I had to conclude, well, no, my sensory life is pretty dang rich.
More diagnosis is needed. I mean, a girl without her pork joy is a lost girl indeed.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Make It a Double Old-Fashioned
I am, as mentioned in earlier posts, a brown-liquor girl. While I can appreciate the clever dexterity of the modern mixologist, I tend to go for the unfussy but classy old school choices: the Manhattan and the Sazerac. When I wrote this to a friend, he (pun-ishingly) replied that I was an “Old-Fashioned” girl. Although he may have been talking about my choice in cocktails, I think the lower case version also applies.
That I like the classic cocktails perhaps says less about my palate (though I do like the caramel honey taste of whiskey, bourbon, and rye) than about my relationship to the world. Those drinks suggest something clubby, like the drawing rooms of English manor houses in Masterpiece Theater dramas where men retire to sip aged whiskies in front of a roaring fire flanked by two Scottish deerhounds. Part of the attraction, if I must be honest, is what attracted Charles Ryder to Brideshead. No, not Sebastian, but the whole social echelon to which I can never gain entry. I don’t really want entry (do I?) but I want the romanticized version of it, where comforts envelope you like a wreathing of sweet cigar smoke and where dinner is an enough of an occasion that one needs to dress for it. Sipping an amber-hued, cherry bejewelled Manhattan is like sipping that world but without all the racism, imperialism, classism, sexism and tubercular consumption that go with it.
Too, I think classic cocktails, white or brown, suggest a formality that, say, a Sex on the Beach or Cape Codder cannot muster. While I am not in the least formal, I would be lying if I said I didn’t like a good dose of propriety. Yes, I like rules and precision. I like manners and etiquette to the extent that they are intended to make everyone more comfortable. If I must be uncomfortable (e.g. not chew with my mouth open) so that someone else can enjoy his meal, then so be it. A little giving up of one’s personal interest for the greater good seems a fair trade to me. (I know this may seem a bit contradictory given what I said about my attraction to upper crust salons.) All of this is embodied in a classic cocktail. Its proportions are precise, the shape of the stemware specified, the expectations for its being imbibed genteel (i.e. sipped rather than slugged, chugged, or downed).
I think, though, what I'm really getting at is that I want the ritual that cocktails or the cocktail hour, at least in my imaginings, suggest. Not in the 1950s parodied form where ruggedly handsome dad has polished off four martinis in quick succession and perfectly coiffed and rouged mom is soused from the cooking sherry she keeps pouring herself. Rather I want to reintroduce a time of repose into our day, a time of transition where we go from the ravages of the day into the reflective sanctity of the evening. Rituals tether us to time and place and connect us to others. In these times of uncertainty, it is easy to feel unmoored. Here, in the ritual of preparing a cocktail—measuring the ounces into the shaker, pouring the mixture into the appropriately chilled and chosen glass, garnishing the sparkling drink with an edible—we come back to the present because a cocktail, unlike a beer or glass of wine, must be made not simply poured. (Were alcohol not verboten for Buddhists, I think preparing a cocktail would be the perfect Zen act and the Pousse Café the perfect Zen drink.) We then sit, our cocktail perched on its little napkin, bowls of nibbly things on the side tables, and we chat. As we sip our cocktail (note it is singular not plural), we relax into our bodies, we enjoy the camaraderie of friends, and note our appetites returning. In this way, a cocktail is neither a crutch used to get through the day nor the focus, just as lighting the candles or eating the challah on Shabbat is not the point of the ritual, though it is integral to the structure. In a way, drinking the thing is not the point. What matters is the intention, attention, and belief that at least some part of our day needs to be sacred. I choose to mark that part of the day with a Manhattan, a Sazerac, or an Old-Fashioned.
Now if I could only re-introduce Game Night and Sunday Night Dinner, I’d be a happy old-fashioned gal.
That I like the classic cocktails perhaps says less about my palate (though I do like the caramel honey taste of whiskey, bourbon, and rye) than about my relationship to the world. Those drinks suggest something clubby, like the drawing rooms of English manor houses in Masterpiece Theater dramas where men retire to sip aged whiskies in front of a roaring fire flanked by two Scottish deerhounds. Part of the attraction, if I must be honest, is what attracted Charles Ryder to Brideshead. No, not Sebastian, but the whole social echelon to which I can never gain entry. I don’t really want entry (do I?) but I want the romanticized version of it, where comforts envelope you like a wreathing of sweet cigar smoke and where dinner is an enough of an occasion that one needs to dress for it. Sipping an amber-hued, cherry bejewelled Manhattan is like sipping that world but without all the racism, imperialism, classism, sexism and tubercular consumption that go with it.
Too, I think classic cocktails, white or brown, suggest a formality that, say, a Sex on the Beach or Cape Codder cannot muster. While I am not in the least formal, I would be lying if I said I didn’t like a good dose of propriety. Yes, I like rules and precision. I like manners and etiquette to the extent that they are intended to make everyone more comfortable. If I must be uncomfortable (e.g. not chew with my mouth open) so that someone else can enjoy his meal, then so be it. A little giving up of one’s personal interest for the greater good seems a fair trade to me. (I know this may seem a bit contradictory given what I said about my attraction to upper crust salons.) All of this is embodied in a classic cocktail. Its proportions are precise, the shape of the stemware specified, the expectations for its being imbibed genteel (i.e. sipped rather than slugged, chugged, or downed).
I think, though, what I'm really getting at is that I want the ritual that cocktails or the cocktail hour, at least in my imaginings, suggest. Not in the 1950s parodied form where ruggedly handsome dad has polished off four martinis in quick succession and perfectly coiffed and rouged mom is soused from the cooking sherry she keeps pouring herself. Rather I want to reintroduce a time of repose into our day, a time of transition where we go from the ravages of the day into the reflective sanctity of the evening. Rituals tether us to time and place and connect us to others. In these times of uncertainty, it is easy to feel unmoored. Here, in the ritual of preparing a cocktail—measuring the ounces into the shaker, pouring the mixture into the appropriately chilled and chosen glass, garnishing the sparkling drink with an edible—we come back to the present because a cocktail, unlike a beer or glass of wine, must be made not simply poured. (Were alcohol not verboten for Buddhists, I think preparing a cocktail would be the perfect Zen act and the Pousse Café the perfect Zen drink.) We then sit, our cocktail perched on its little napkin, bowls of nibbly things on the side tables, and we chat. As we sip our cocktail (note it is singular not plural), we relax into our bodies, we enjoy the camaraderie of friends, and note our appetites returning. In this way, a cocktail is neither a crutch used to get through the day nor the focus, just as lighting the candles or eating the challah on Shabbat is not the point of the ritual, though it is integral to the structure. In a way, drinking the thing is not the point. What matters is the intention, attention, and belief that at least some part of our day needs to be sacred. I choose to mark that part of the day with a Manhattan, a Sazerac, or an Old-Fashioned.
Now if I could only re-introduce Game Night and Sunday Night Dinner, I’d be a happy old-fashioned gal.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Bonjour La Tendresse
The other night I had a wonderfully seared New York strip steak. Love that cut. Very flavorful yet chewy and, when it’s seared, it gets a nice salty crust that balances and protects the internal rare juiciness. I thoroughly enjoyed it and the virility—a manly man thing a charred steak is—of it all. And yet… maybe because it’s winter turning tentatively to spring (or maybe because my spring is turning to early winter), I am coming to regard a steak cooked in that manner as a thing of my youth. No, I haven’t lost my ability or will to chew. In fact, I’ve always rather enjoyed that which I can sink my teeth into, both literally and figuratively. It’s more that I am appreciating the delicacy and decadence of the slow hand, as it were.
There is certainly a primal carnality to searing. Hot flames, high temps, precision. Too long on the heat and the item being cooked—be it a quivering diver scallop or a stalwart sirloin—turns tasteless and leathery. Done right, the rough char of the exterior safeguards the sweetness within. In a way, searing food requires gamesmanship: risk-taking, the ability to count the cards, bravado. Remember, the food that is best suited to grilling or pan searing is the lean, unfatty cuts of exceptional quality. So the cook’s job, really, is to do no harm; s/he must be swift and sure, and know when to say “enough.”
As I grow older, I have come to see the value in a different kind of cooking, a different kind of cook. Don’t get me wrong: I will never say no to a perfectly grilled steak. And I appreciate the skill of someone who knows how to grill. But where grilling is youthful instinct, braising is mature experience. When a cook grills s/he is like the intense, ardent lover but when s/he braises, s/he is a seducer, a coaxer, a conjurer. Poetry is to be found in the slow cooked dish.
Unlike a grilled strip steak (or lamb chop or quail) which can reveal its pink pleasures nakedly with little adornment save large grains of sea salt, the chuck roast or shank must be treated tenderly and plied with spices. The cook who knows how to braise transforms the unsexy tough, fatty cuts into silken, luscious invitations to gustatory sensuality. This is an unhurried, patient cook who trusts the alchemy of time, heat, and ingredients. This cook is a conductor who melds the disparate flavor voices into a pleasurable melliphony. So, to take the metaphor achingly farther, while a grilled steak asserts itself in a solo, command performance, a braised short rib is an ensemble player, working with rather than dominating.
In these days, let us give praise to the braise.
There is certainly a primal carnality to searing. Hot flames, high temps, precision. Too long on the heat and the item being cooked—be it a quivering diver scallop or a stalwart sirloin—turns tasteless and leathery. Done right, the rough char of the exterior safeguards the sweetness within. In a way, searing food requires gamesmanship: risk-taking, the ability to count the cards, bravado. Remember, the food that is best suited to grilling or pan searing is the lean, unfatty cuts of exceptional quality. So the cook’s job, really, is to do no harm; s/he must be swift and sure, and know when to say “enough.”
As I grow older, I have come to see the value in a different kind of cooking, a different kind of cook. Don’t get me wrong: I will never say no to a perfectly grilled steak. And I appreciate the skill of someone who knows how to grill. But where grilling is youthful instinct, braising is mature experience. When a cook grills s/he is like the intense, ardent lover but when s/he braises, s/he is a seducer, a coaxer, a conjurer. Poetry is to be found in the slow cooked dish.
Unlike a grilled strip steak (or lamb chop or quail) which can reveal its pink pleasures nakedly with little adornment save large grains of sea salt, the chuck roast or shank must be treated tenderly and plied with spices. The cook who knows how to braise transforms the unsexy tough, fatty cuts into silken, luscious invitations to gustatory sensuality. This is an unhurried, patient cook who trusts the alchemy of time, heat, and ingredients. This cook is a conductor who melds the disparate flavor voices into a pleasurable melliphony. So, to take the metaphor achingly farther, while a grilled steak asserts itself in a solo, command performance, a braised short rib is an ensemble player, working with rather than dominating.
In these days, let us give praise to the braise.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
“I am not a Squid! I am a Cuttlefish!”
“I am not a Squid! I am a Cuttlefish!”
I saw this defiant declaration on a package of dried cuttlefish once. I think it was in Hong Kong. Maybe Tokyo. No matter. What I like about it is the proclamation of identity, like when Hymie says he wants to be a dentist and not a toy-making elf. (If you don’t know about Hymie then you didn’t grow up in the US during the 1960s watching a lot of t.v.; if you did, you’ll likely remember not only Hymie but also the commercial where Santa rides the triple-head Norelco electric shaver over the snow banks.) Unlike Hymie, my realization about my identity did not come after much soul-searching or elf angst. I just had a slap in the face last weekend that made me declare “I am a not a Hostess! I am just a Cook!”
Last Saturday, I attempted to cook what I had hoped would be a fabulous meal for eight. It fell, in my estimation, terribly short. I planned what I thought was a good seasonal menu. Fresh shitake mushroom duxelles in crispy won-ton cups to start; curried Dungeness crab salad on a chiffonade of Romaine with diced apple, fennel, and celery as a first course; duck legs with sour cherry sauce, pureed turnips, and wine-braised lentils for main; and, finally, chocolate cinnamon pot de crème for dessert. Too ambitious a menu, you say? Perhaps. Perhaps. But I am pretty good at doing things in stages, preparing my mise-en-place, cleaning as I go, so that a big menu doesn’t usually overwhelm me. What overwhelms is the people.
I think I have performance anxiety. I can't do the big group thing. Too many people to worry about, too many expectations to meet (or so I think), and I get too stressed out trying to make it "perfect." I have not managed the effortless, charming hostess thing where, with grease-stain free clothing and hair styled into something more chic and age-appropriate than a high ponytail, you float about chit-chatting with your guests, pouring libations, and handing out canapés. I have not achieved the bodhisattva state of entertaining where the hostess radiates the calm and good vibe that then puts everyone into the happy party soup. I haven’t even realized the shortcut to creating the perfect party: plying yourself and others with many martinis.
No, I was too anxious. Trying too hard. And as a result I was not in the zone. While the mushroom appetizer was good, I didn’t plate enough of the crab salad, the turnip puree was watery, the lentils under-salted, the duck legs too dry, and the pots de crème a little grainy. I wasn’t paying attention to the food; I was scattered. Funny, though, everyone who was here said they loved the evening and thought it was warm & cozy. I already know the big take away here: entertaining isn’t about the food, it’s about how people feel and relate to one another. But dammit, the way I try to show people I care about them is by making a nice meal and if it doesn’t come out well, then it feels as if I haven’t shown my guests proper care. People can tell me they had a good time at my dinner but if I feel like the meal wasn't really good then I don't believe what they've told me. Yes, I know that’s twisted and dismissive. (Where's Dr. Phil when you need him?)
During the week I made some amazing meals for others when I didn’t feel like I was having a DINNER PARTY. I was just making dinner. I was just a cook, not a hostess. So maybe I need to trick myself into thinking it’s just a meal. But, to be safe, I think I will limit my dinner guests to four. At least until I get some therapy.
I saw this defiant declaration on a package of dried cuttlefish once. I think it was in Hong Kong. Maybe Tokyo. No matter. What I like about it is the proclamation of identity, like when Hymie says he wants to be a dentist and not a toy-making elf. (If you don’t know about Hymie then you didn’t grow up in the US during the 1960s watching a lot of t.v.; if you did, you’ll likely remember not only Hymie but also the commercial where Santa rides the triple-head Norelco electric shaver over the snow banks.) Unlike Hymie, my realization about my identity did not come after much soul-searching or elf angst. I just had a slap in the face last weekend that made me declare “I am a not a Hostess! I am just a Cook!”
Last Saturday, I attempted to cook what I had hoped would be a fabulous meal for eight. It fell, in my estimation, terribly short. I planned what I thought was a good seasonal menu. Fresh shitake mushroom duxelles in crispy won-ton cups to start; curried Dungeness crab salad on a chiffonade of Romaine with diced apple, fennel, and celery as a first course; duck legs with sour cherry sauce, pureed turnips, and wine-braised lentils for main; and, finally, chocolate cinnamon pot de crème for dessert. Too ambitious a menu, you say? Perhaps. Perhaps. But I am pretty good at doing things in stages, preparing my mise-en-place, cleaning as I go, so that a big menu doesn’t usually overwhelm me. What overwhelms is the people.
I think I have performance anxiety. I can't do the big group thing. Too many people to worry about, too many expectations to meet (or so I think), and I get too stressed out trying to make it "perfect." I have not managed the effortless, charming hostess thing where, with grease-stain free clothing and hair styled into something more chic and age-appropriate than a high ponytail, you float about chit-chatting with your guests, pouring libations, and handing out canapés. I have not achieved the bodhisattva state of entertaining where the hostess radiates the calm and good vibe that then puts everyone into the happy party soup. I haven’t even realized the shortcut to creating the perfect party: plying yourself and others with many martinis.
No, I was too anxious. Trying too hard. And as a result I was not in the zone. While the mushroom appetizer was good, I didn’t plate enough of the crab salad, the turnip puree was watery, the lentils under-salted, the duck legs too dry, and the pots de crème a little grainy. I wasn’t paying attention to the food; I was scattered. Funny, though, everyone who was here said they loved the evening and thought it was warm & cozy. I already know the big take away here: entertaining isn’t about the food, it’s about how people feel and relate to one another. But dammit, the way I try to show people I care about them is by making a nice meal and if it doesn’t come out well, then it feels as if I haven’t shown my guests proper care. People can tell me they had a good time at my dinner but if I feel like the meal wasn't really good then I don't believe what they've told me. Yes, I know that’s twisted and dismissive. (Where's Dr. Phil when you need him?)
During the week I made some amazing meals for others when I didn’t feel like I was having a DINNER PARTY. I was just making dinner. I was just a cook, not a hostess. So maybe I need to trick myself into thinking it’s just a meal. But, to be safe, I think I will limit my dinner guests to four. At least until I get some therapy.
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