I've always loved projects. As a child I enjoyed art projects like making paper, pottery, collages, mobiles or even painting cigar boxes. For a period of time I think I even considered becoming an "artist" when I grew up. One day in fifth-grade art class, my teacher said something I will never forget: "a real artist is someone who can make a mistake and still turn it into artwork." At which point, I believe she showed a Matisse or Picasso with their exuberant lines that often held ambiguous meaning. Proving to us, that when Picasso had made that seemingly misfit stroke, he was still capable of turning it into a work of art. For years, when I attempted artwork of any sort this phrase had haunted me. I tried not to erase or regret the mistake I had made, but adding to it often seemed to make it worse, leaving me defeated. So I put artwork in that category of my mind as something I would never be good at. Until one night. I was in college, living with an artist, who's work greatly inspired me. Her positive feedback and encouragement of my work was motivating me to try my hand with the brush, once again. The night is vivid. Several other artists were over at our apartment, we all had a canvas and several bottles of wine circulated the room, as did conversation and music. I had made a piece that for me, represented love. It started with an intense and pure red, slowly and perfectly fading into more soothing and comfortable shades like yellows and oranges. It was a piece I was making for my boyfriend of the time, an architecture student living in Florence. Toward the end of the night (I'll blame it one the wine), I chose to incorporate a hint of gold throughout the painting. However, that "hint" ended up being a blob of splattered gold paint oddly positioned on the rectangular canvas. I panicked at first, instantly thinking of my art teacher's words, which led me to toy with the idea of spreading it in. Instead I took a step back, looked at it and after seconded approval by my artist friends, I decided I liked it like that. A mistake that ultimately provided my unrealistic expectations of the perfect painting with a splash of something different. Much like love, there are goals for perfection, but if you've ever loved or been loved you know that perfection is not a fitting word for romance. So I left the gold splatter. Unique in its form, it is an aesthetic example of making a mistake while maintaining the creation of art. When I gave the painting to my boyfriend, he thought I had added it on purpose.
Now in life, I often find this phrase popping into my mind while I'm in the kitchen. On a journalist budget and living by myself, my fridge isn't always stocked. So on this day, after a seventeen hour deadline, I'm tired and hungry. I have some potatoes that are starting to smell and some zucchini that's verging on slimy. I need to cook these perishables. I chopped the potatoes into pieces adding roughly chopped garlic cloves, tossing them in olive oil, salt and pepper, roasting them for over thirty minutes. A little too long, in a pan not meant for roasting, the bottom potatoes crusted to the pan and that crisp shell that protects the tender potato when roasted was burst when i tried to scrape them from the bottom. luckily i'm cooking for myself, because this wasn't how I had planned. A glance at my nearly empty fridge, and I added a spoonful of pesto, splash of milk and some leftover brie a friend had brought over the other night. Mashing it all together, I had a surprisingly good dish. Serving it as a side with my sauteed zucchini, baked mahi mahi filet and mushroom risotto. It's not a piece of artwork, merely a simple meal taking me very little work and not much time, yet very satisfying. It's something I think about often. A recipe with the best ingredients can be easy for some. Not to be presumptuous, but is the sign of a good cook one who can turn mistakes into meals? I think about it often on my limited budget. After all, some say that chefs are artists, which would entail that cooking is just another form of art.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Monday, August 4, 2008
Meredith had a little lamb, it’s fleece was white as sand, and everywhere that Mere went, her lamb was sure to go…
Cruising “the Beast” from a ranch in Texas, to another ranch in Texas, towards the East Coast, dipping low into the Southern tip of Florida, where it resided in a dysfunctional relationship-- where a healthy appetite does not thrive-- and finally make a pit stop on the West coast of Florida, in Marco Island, where it was successfully roasted and then finished its’ journey back to good ole’ Fort Lauderdale. “The Beast,” as my formerly-vegetarian sister lovingly calls it, is the grass-fed all natural lamb shoulder that my father cautiously wrapped up in ice before sending me and the unassuming lamb into “the Real World,” on a two day road-trip, turning the pages of life towards a new chapter.
Eventually becoming more of a burden than pleasure, the frozen ‘beast’ and I fought tooth and nail, effectively leaving a two-year relationship, that ended with a sweaty mess of closet organizers in the lobby of the posh condo my former boyfriend and I had been living in. And as my belongings slid humiliatingly across the marble floors, the only thing that had remained in my arms was, “the Beast.” So she and I gathered the ice packs, left the crap I didn’t need, and peeled out in my Passat. Only to realize that the “charming little studio,” I had just moved to, did not have a freezer big enough for my little lamb.
Embarking on all new adventures: new job, new car, new friends, a new studio for us to live in; an altogether new life. It was me and my cooler of lamb, and yes, we are living in Fort Lauderdale, Florida—Spring Break central.
The only caveat was not only did my “charming little studio” not have a freezer or fridge large enough for ‘the Beast,’ but it also didn’t have an oven large enough to cook it in—nor had my gas been turned on yet. So night after night, I rubbed the beast down with some spices and olive oil. Never really sure if it was ever going to get cooked, but after several nights of the ‘Kobe beef rubbing’—I like to call it—the lamb and I were packed, once again, on a roadtrip, this time to a little island in the Gulf to visit my niece.
Three or so hours intot he roasting process, which was appropriately taking place in a sea-foam green and pink ‘80s’ decorated apartment, I had my niece turn the oven off, as the adults were out at the bar. Only to stumble home to a perfectly tender, juicy slab of meat, waiting to be accompanied.
After the weekend had passed, I took my half of ‘the Beast’ back to my side f the state, and after a day of deadlines—the paper was released to the press, and I returned to that ‘charming little studio’ and yet once again—it was me and ‘the Beast.’ Accompanied by microwavable ‘dirty rice,’ I devoured juicy chunks of lamb as the fat comforted my frail body and the flavors soothed my loud mouth, and the lamb fell apart, delicately swimming in a bowl of rice. The mellow taste and smooth texture softened the spicy rice, and with a beer, it all went down smoothly.
Now, while writing about my new friend, ‘the beast,’ I am finding a close similarity to a bedtime story I read to my youngest niece this weekend. Reading Shel Silverstein’s words, I notice my supply of lamb slowly diminishing in the fridge, but like “The Giving Tree,” the lamb’s spirit is sure to live on.
Eventually becoming more of a burden than pleasure, the frozen ‘beast’ and I fought tooth and nail, effectively leaving a two-year relationship, that ended with a sweaty mess of closet organizers in the lobby of the posh condo my former boyfriend and I had been living in. And as my belongings slid humiliatingly across the marble floors, the only thing that had remained in my arms was, “the Beast.” So she and I gathered the ice packs, left the crap I didn’t need, and peeled out in my Passat. Only to realize that the “charming little studio,” I had just moved to, did not have a freezer big enough for my little lamb.
Embarking on all new adventures: new job, new car, new friends, a new studio for us to live in; an altogether new life. It was me and my cooler of lamb, and yes, we are living in Fort Lauderdale, Florida—Spring Break central.
The only caveat was not only did my “charming little studio” not have a freezer or fridge large enough for ‘the Beast,’ but it also didn’t have an oven large enough to cook it in—nor had my gas been turned on yet. So night after night, I rubbed the beast down with some spices and olive oil. Never really sure if it was ever going to get cooked, but after several nights of the ‘Kobe beef rubbing’—I like to call it—the lamb and I were packed, once again, on a roadtrip, this time to a little island in the Gulf to visit my niece.
Three or so hours intot he roasting process, which was appropriately taking place in a sea-foam green and pink ‘80s’ decorated apartment, I had my niece turn the oven off, as the adults were out at the bar. Only to stumble home to a perfectly tender, juicy slab of meat, waiting to be accompanied.
After the weekend had passed, I took my half of ‘the Beast’ back to my side f the state, and after a day of deadlines—the paper was released to the press, and I returned to that ‘charming little studio’ and yet once again—it was me and ‘the Beast.’ Accompanied by microwavable ‘dirty rice,’ I devoured juicy chunks of lamb as the fat comforted my frail body and the flavors soothed my loud mouth, and the lamb fell apart, delicately swimming in a bowl of rice. The mellow taste and smooth texture softened the spicy rice, and with a beer, it all went down smoothly.
Now, while writing about my new friend, ‘the beast,’ I am finding a close similarity to a bedtime story I read to my youngest niece this weekend. Reading Shel Silverstein’s words, I notice my supply of lamb slowly diminishing in the fridge, but like “The Giving Tree,” the lamb’s spirit is sure to live on.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
If you are what you eat: Then I’m a Daddy’s girl.
“More. More. More!” Were the first words that spat out of my mouth in between slobbery bites of corn on the cob. I was a toddler, in the process of teething, nonetheless still using my first front tooth to break into the buttery kernels of Wisconsin corn.
Ten years later, my father and I went head to head in a corn eating competition. The lack of teeth as a toddler never held me back, and neither did my braces as I finished thirty-three ears of corn—to beat my father’s thirty-two. Ranking as the youngest corn eating champion (of the family).
No one can deny my love of food. Despite my high metabolism and tendency to eat healthy foods, I will eat ANYTHING. Probably because, as I child—I had no choice.
I remember being in fifth grade, and my father was going through a phase of cooking spicy Mexican rice dishes. They were probably incredible; some with sausage, others with chicken, all I really remember though was my anxiety. I did not like my father’s cooking at the time, and stopped eating the large portions that I typically eat. What bothered me most was my worry that perhaps, I may be a “picky eater!” I pulled my Mother aside one evening, confiding in her my worries, and she assured me that it was just a phase that I was going through. And indeed it was, as I resumed my normal eating habits within the year when we moved to Texas, where BBQ became my staple.
The reason I was so concerned about my possible “picky” propensity, was because my father had instilled in me a love of food. Not just for the food itself, but for the process, whether it be cooking in the kitchen with my Dad, or going to the fish market to pick out dinner, as he would shove slabs of raw fish in my face forcing me to learn what fresh fish should smell like. Never have I flinched at my father’s appreciation of food. Instead I have stood by his side, in admiration and awe, as I learned bits and pieces about cooking along the way. He and I once made a Turducken—from scratch. My bony arms shaking to pull the tweed rope through the flesh of a turkey to sew up a turkey stuffed with a chicken and a duck. That was the last year we ever made our own, nonetheless the memories will always be with me.
After moving to Texas, we advanced from our eighties minivan, and bought a real pick-up truck. We were officially Texans. Despite my Father’s busy schedule at the Chicago Board of Trade, he still made every weekend an adventure. Once, my mother was visiting her family in East Texas, so he loaded my sister and I into the truck, and drove us across the state to meet her. Along the way, he stopped at EVERY farm stand that sold melons. I sat in the backseat with a Swiss Army knife, newspaper piled on the leather, and every kind of melon you could ever imagine, slicing up hunks for us to try. The melon was still warm from sitting in the warm Texas sun, which also produced a strong aroma in the pick-up truck, covering us in seeds as my sticky fingers were getting tangled in my hair.
Not only has my Father provided me with endless memories of food exploration, he has also been my guiding light. In the kitchen and in life, whether it is a recipe for veal piccata or relationship advice, he has always selflessly offered any and all of his resources to those around him.
And with some short memories of my Dad’s adventures with food and in life, I would like to thank all fathers'. Thank you for the inspiration in the kitchen, thank you for instilling high morale, and thank you for motivation, the motivation that makes one achieve ones goals on a daily basis.
In honor of my father, I spent the day eating, cooking, and filling my “memory book,” as these are some of the greatest moments we spend together. In parting, I will leave with one more memory. One that provided me with great joy and hope-- even to this day.
Waking at dawn when I was seven years old, my father hustled me out of the house. He had me help arrange a bag of goodies, and as we quietly left the family sleeping, we jogged all the way to the middle of the Northwestern campus (maybe I was being pushed in the jogging stroller- can’t remember). I trailed behind my father up a temporary hill of scraps that had grown over with itchy weeds. He sat me down, passing me a Ziploc bag leaking of orange juice, another of milk, and some cheerios that made up our breakfast. And as the sun rose over Lake Michigan that morning, I remember being filled with the simple kind of happiness that you can only have as a child, and with respect for my father, who was surprising me every day with seemingly innovative ideas about how to live ones life. I learned by example, and continue to learn everyday from him. As a Boston Marathon runner, David Clements has achieved a great number of accomplishments in his life, yet it is the memories of crawling up “Weed Mountain” for a picnic, that continue to teach me life’s greatest lessons.
While it took me four years of studying philosophy to clarify my thoughts on life, it took us a morning jog and a sunrise to discover life’s greatest goods: happiness and love. Thank you Dad for teaching me.
Ten years later, my father and I went head to head in a corn eating competition. The lack of teeth as a toddler never held me back, and neither did my braces as I finished thirty-three ears of corn—to beat my father’s thirty-two. Ranking as the youngest corn eating champion (of the family).
No one can deny my love of food. Despite my high metabolism and tendency to eat healthy foods, I will eat ANYTHING. Probably because, as I child—I had no choice.
I remember being in fifth grade, and my father was going through a phase of cooking spicy Mexican rice dishes. They were probably incredible; some with sausage, others with chicken, all I really remember though was my anxiety. I did not like my father’s cooking at the time, and stopped eating the large portions that I typically eat. What bothered me most was my worry that perhaps, I may be a “picky eater!” I pulled my Mother aside one evening, confiding in her my worries, and she assured me that it was just a phase that I was going through. And indeed it was, as I resumed my normal eating habits within the year when we moved to Texas, where BBQ became my staple.
The reason I was so concerned about my possible “picky” propensity, was because my father had instilled in me a love of food. Not just for the food itself, but for the process, whether it be cooking in the kitchen with my Dad, or going to the fish market to pick out dinner, as he would shove slabs of raw fish in my face forcing me to learn what fresh fish should smell like. Never have I flinched at my father’s appreciation of food. Instead I have stood by his side, in admiration and awe, as I learned bits and pieces about cooking along the way. He and I once made a Turducken—from scratch. My bony arms shaking to pull the tweed rope through the flesh of a turkey to sew up a turkey stuffed with a chicken and a duck. That was the last year we ever made our own, nonetheless the memories will always be with me.
After moving to Texas, we advanced from our eighties minivan, and bought a real pick-up truck. We were officially Texans. Despite my Father’s busy schedule at the Chicago Board of Trade, he still made every weekend an adventure. Once, my mother was visiting her family in East Texas, so he loaded my sister and I into the truck, and drove us across the state to meet her. Along the way, he stopped at EVERY farm stand that sold melons. I sat in the backseat with a Swiss Army knife, newspaper piled on the leather, and every kind of melon you could ever imagine, slicing up hunks for us to try. The melon was still warm from sitting in the warm Texas sun, which also produced a strong aroma in the pick-up truck, covering us in seeds as my sticky fingers were getting tangled in my hair.
Not only has my Father provided me with endless memories of food exploration, he has also been my guiding light. In the kitchen and in life, whether it is a recipe for veal piccata or relationship advice, he has always selflessly offered any and all of his resources to those around him.
And with some short memories of my Dad’s adventures with food and in life, I would like to thank all fathers'. Thank you for the inspiration in the kitchen, thank you for instilling high morale, and thank you for motivation, the motivation that makes one achieve ones goals on a daily basis.
In honor of my father, I spent the day eating, cooking, and filling my “memory book,” as these are some of the greatest moments we spend together. In parting, I will leave with one more memory. One that provided me with great joy and hope-- even to this day.
Waking at dawn when I was seven years old, my father hustled me out of the house. He had me help arrange a bag of goodies, and as we quietly left the family sleeping, we jogged all the way to the middle of the Northwestern campus (maybe I was being pushed in the jogging stroller- can’t remember). I trailed behind my father up a temporary hill of scraps that had grown over with itchy weeds. He sat me down, passing me a Ziploc bag leaking of orange juice, another of milk, and some cheerios that made up our breakfast. And as the sun rose over Lake Michigan that morning, I remember being filled with the simple kind of happiness that you can only have as a child, and with respect for my father, who was surprising me every day with seemingly innovative ideas about how to live ones life. I learned by example, and continue to learn everyday from him. As a Boston Marathon runner, David Clements has achieved a great number of accomplishments in his life, yet it is the memories of crawling up “Weed Mountain” for a picnic, that continue to teach me life’s greatest lessons.
While it took me four years of studying philosophy to clarify my thoughts on life, it took us a morning jog and a sunrise to discover life’s greatest goods: happiness and love. Thank you Dad for teaching me.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Messy Mussel Sunday
Sitting at our high-top dinner table, with wine coated fingers flinging potent drops of mussel juice about the table; he said, “We love making a mess, don’t we!?” And for once, my not-so-articulate boyfriend had said the words to properly sum up our cooking adventures.
Yet another Sunday evening food adventure, resulting in kitchen catastrophe. Two pounds of mussels and half a pound of grouper in the fridge, and with an interview looming on my mind, I was looking for anything to distract me. Thus, what led me to a number of websites searching for an authentic moules Mariniere recipe.
Never having been able to successfully make mussels and pomme frites that tasted anything close to the paper baskets that filled my hands while in France, I attempted another try. I’m embarrassed at how surprisingly easy it is to achieve the true flavors. The secret and key ingredient to this recipe, which is considered to be a blue-collared dish in France, is shallots. We had a few rotting in the back of the fridge, a quick clean-up adding two garlic cloves and a chop through the Cuisinart, the mixture was added to melting butter that soon turned in to a fragrantly steaming pot of heaven. I knew that I had done something right, continuing with the addition of about half a bottle of wine, bringing to a boil, tossing in the mussels, another splash of wine on top and closing my pot of cold mussels. Meanwhile mixing my garlic and butter in the Cuisinart for yet another loaf of garlic bread, this one a bit more traditional and simple than last weeks, and keeping my fingers crossed that the ingredients were welding together in a fury of white wine steam. Keeping my paws busy elsewhere- I turned around to the most delightful surprise on my stove! I didn’t think that such simple steps could yield such beauty, however when I saw the shells opened wide, exposing the delicately swollen and plump mussels, I knew that finally, I had done something right. Mentioning this because the fear of failure that evidently looms in the atmosphere of a testing kitchen, when other options for dinner are not readily available- rather unexplainable to an unhappy boyfriend—is a consequence that I sometimes face. But, with my fathers words in mind, “you can’t go wrong with butter and garlic,” I continued in confidence.
Using a slotted spoon to drain the mussels out of the pot, keeping the heat on, in order to plop two nice pieces of grouper in the mussel broth. These too, were steamed and puckered up when ready to be eaten. Placing the fish on top of the bowl of mussels, pouring the entire pan of wine broth, steaming that heavenly scent, signaling that dinner was served. By now, my garlic bread was just about to burn- I always seem to catch it close! Tearing the hot loaf into three hunks and inserting them around the edges of the bowl, their tips sitting in the broth, soaking up the juices. Now, had I had the ingredient, adding handfuls of freshly chopped Italian flat parsley along the way, had made for not only a colorful splash, but also a tasty addition. Having lacked that, I have to say that it was just fine without.
Ten steamy minutes later, our table was a mess, and with one look in to the kitchen, Chris made his comment. Making a mess in a relationship may be inevitable, but making it together in our kitchen has only made us stronger- and our bellies more satisfied!
Yet another Sunday evening food adventure, resulting in kitchen catastrophe. Two pounds of mussels and half a pound of grouper in the fridge, and with an interview looming on my mind, I was looking for anything to distract me. Thus, what led me to a number of websites searching for an authentic moules Mariniere recipe.
Never having been able to successfully make mussels and pomme frites that tasted anything close to the paper baskets that filled my hands while in France, I attempted another try. I’m embarrassed at how surprisingly easy it is to achieve the true flavors. The secret and key ingredient to this recipe, which is considered to be a blue-collared dish in France, is shallots. We had a few rotting in the back of the fridge, a quick clean-up adding two garlic cloves and a chop through the Cuisinart, the mixture was added to melting butter that soon turned in to a fragrantly steaming pot of heaven. I knew that I had done something right, continuing with the addition of about half a bottle of wine, bringing to a boil, tossing in the mussels, another splash of wine on top and closing my pot of cold mussels. Meanwhile mixing my garlic and butter in the Cuisinart for yet another loaf of garlic bread, this one a bit more traditional and simple than last weeks, and keeping my fingers crossed that the ingredients were welding together in a fury of white wine steam. Keeping my paws busy elsewhere- I turned around to the most delightful surprise on my stove! I didn’t think that such simple steps could yield such beauty, however when I saw the shells opened wide, exposing the delicately swollen and plump mussels, I knew that finally, I had done something right. Mentioning this because the fear of failure that evidently looms in the atmosphere of a testing kitchen, when other options for dinner are not readily available- rather unexplainable to an unhappy boyfriend—is a consequence that I sometimes face. But, with my fathers words in mind, “you can’t go wrong with butter and garlic,” I continued in confidence.
Using a slotted spoon to drain the mussels out of the pot, keeping the heat on, in order to plop two nice pieces of grouper in the mussel broth. These too, were steamed and puckered up when ready to be eaten. Placing the fish on top of the bowl of mussels, pouring the entire pan of wine broth, steaming that heavenly scent, signaling that dinner was served. By now, my garlic bread was just about to burn- I always seem to catch it close! Tearing the hot loaf into three hunks and inserting them around the edges of the bowl, their tips sitting in the broth, soaking up the juices. Now, had I had the ingredient, adding handfuls of freshly chopped Italian flat parsley along the way, had made for not only a colorful splash, but also a tasty addition. Having lacked that, I have to say that it was just fine without.
Ten steamy minutes later, our table was a mess, and with one look in to the kitchen, Chris made his comment. Making a mess in a relationship may be inevitable, but making it together in our kitchen has only made us stronger- and our bellies more satisfied!
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Chrissy Omo and her Cheese Farm!
Exhausted after a flight from Miami in to Austin, and a long drive to my parents’ town in the hill country of Texas, they drove me straight to their precinct insisting that they get my vote in before the caucus was to close. After hours of unsuccessful chaos, a mouth-watering meal of pho the size of a fish tank, seared duck breast with plum sauce on an arugula salad, bottle of malbec, and a fiery plate of basil beef from August E’s- Fredericksburg’s hottest new restaurant- my body was ready to retire.
A refreshing sleep, only to be awoken by my sixty-one year old father, risen at sun-rise, ready to take “the day to its knees,” as he would say. Dressed in running gear, I realized that if I took half an hour getting ready, he would have already become too impatient and would have left for his run without me. Lucky for me, my strategy was achieved and when he came in sweating I sat satisfied in the kitchen, cup of coffee, filled with relaxation. That is—until I heard what was next on the agenda! I was to be picking up my boyfriend at the airport that afternoon, so when my father suggested that we all make the road trip together, and casually stop at a “goat cheese farm” along the way- I was a bit hesitant. Taken by surprise, I was simply happy to hear that the goat cheese part would be over before my boyfriend arrived- as he will have no part in anything to do with goat.
Another winding road trip through the hills of central Texas lead us to a farm where goats greeted us at the door of our car as opposed to dogs- like most homes. Alarmed at first, Chrissy simply implied that they wouldn’t hurt, and indeed you are encouraged to treat them as if they were pets. Chrissy is the young woman who practically runs the entire goat cheese farm- CKC Farms; everything from the milking to the churning, to the creations of flavors, gaining her skills from traveling in Italy.
I say young, because Chrissy is younger than me, and many of you know—I am only twenty-two years old. She and I hit it off as friendly young women would, and then suddenly a wisely mature young adult developed before my eyes. Her business goals, her gratefulness for her family, and willingness to work hard, were all qualities that are rare to find in a young woman. Sitting with a smile on my face, tasting her incredible samples- my favorite being the ash-coated chevre- I saw a woman who I not only admired, but also related to, and in that moment I felt incredibly comfortable in her warm aura of talent and confidence.
A refreshing sleep, only to be awoken by my sixty-one year old father, risen at sun-rise, ready to take “the day to its knees,” as he would say. Dressed in running gear, I realized that if I took half an hour getting ready, he would have already become too impatient and would have left for his run without me. Lucky for me, my strategy was achieved and when he came in sweating I sat satisfied in the kitchen, cup of coffee, filled with relaxation. That is—until I heard what was next on the agenda! I was to be picking up my boyfriend at the airport that afternoon, so when my father suggested that we all make the road trip together, and casually stop at a “goat cheese farm” along the way- I was a bit hesitant. Taken by surprise, I was simply happy to hear that the goat cheese part would be over before my boyfriend arrived- as he will have no part in anything to do with goat.
Another winding road trip through the hills of central Texas lead us to a farm where goats greeted us at the door of our car as opposed to dogs- like most homes. Alarmed at first, Chrissy simply implied that they wouldn’t hurt, and indeed you are encouraged to treat them as if they were pets. Chrissy is the young woman who practically runs the entire goat cheese farm- CKC Farms; everything from the milking to the churning, to the creations of flavors, gaining her skills from traveling in Italy.
I say young, because Chrissy is younger than me, and many of you know—I am only twenty-two years old. She and I hit it off as friendly young women would, and then suddenly a wisely mature young adult developed before my eyes. Her business goals, her gratefulness for her family, and willingness to work hard, were all qualities that are rare to find in a young woman. Sitting with a smile on my face, tasting her incredible samples- my favorite being the ash-coated chevre- I saw a woman who I not only admired, but also related to, and in that moment I felt incredibly comfortable in her warm aura of talent and confidence.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Taking a turn.
This is a story from my childhood- an instance in my life where I tasted hints of my passion for food. This passion soon blossomed into a full on love affair, never to cease.
Fritters for the Family
Every year my family and I would join the Lind family in a neighboring Chicago suburb for a Christmas Eve meal. The youngest children would run around this beautifully restored historic home chasing the dogs and knocking over vases, while the teenagers would be in the basement listening to music, playing pong-pong and probably coming up with some rascally scheme that usually resulted in getting themselves in trouble. While the house was bustling with pets and children everywhere, the parents would always be in the kitchen. There would be several bottles of wine circulating and the occasional cigar being passed between the men. For as long as I can remember, this is where I wanted to be. I didn't really know why, but I was fascinated by the noticeable transformation throughout the night. The raw ingredients would transform into delectable delights. The conversations and laughs would progressively get louder and louder as more vino was consumed. The kitchen would become smokier, dirtier, noisier – in a way – homier.
My father would often pick at the food that was cooking – always when it was too hot, and when it was cooled, he would sometimes slip a nibble to me, in a way similar to when kids sneak food under the table to the family dog. But if I were to go in for a bite by myself, my hand would get slapped in the same way one would smack the family dogs nose when it would leap up for food. My father would look at me and say, "Only the chefs get to taste the food." It was obvious to me at that point that I would become one of the many chefs in that warm magical kitchen.
So, one of those nights at around the age of maybe six I wanted to partake in the action. Mrs. Lind fastened an over-sized durable red and white striped apron on my fragile bony body, pulled my long brown straggly hair back out of my face, and my father and I began to formulate antipasti, which would eventually be named, with the aid of several glasses of wine, "artichoke fritters." I tossed the quartered artichokes through a light egg wash and coated them in a breading made of coarsely chopped stale baguette. My tiny fingers were more coated than my precious artichokes, but I didn't care. Dad and I tossed them in a hot oiled pan on the stove and let them sizzle away. My father has this way of parenting where he would get us started on something in life and then let us loose. For example, teaching us to ride a bike, he would make us feel so comfortable and trusting in him, while he sturdily got us going, and I swear – just as he got us going – he would say something to the extent of : "It's all you" or "Go get 'em." On occasion this method would be beneficial, however many times it would result as a massive crash into a huge bush with twigs in my hair and big "bees on my knees." So, like bike riding, he handed me two potholders that covered my entire forearms past my elbows, put me on a stool for a little height, and let go of the spatula, leaving me in charge of the fritters. While sautéing an artichoke may not seem like a big deal, it can be if your forehead barely skims the top of the stove. So with a big smile on my face, and excitement in my heart, I flipped and fried these little guys, dousing them with fresh lemon and eventually serving them up to the adults in the kitchen. This was when I noticed the true benefits to be reaped of working in the kitchen. I received tastes of wine, bits of titillating adult conversation, compliments of my cooking, and as many bites of artichoke fritters and other exciting appetizers as I wanted. Needless to say, sitting at the kid's table for the next ten years or so, was something I always tried to get out of!
Fritters for the Family
Every year my family and I would join the Lind family in a neighboring Chicago suburb for a Christmas Eve meal. The youngest children would run around this beautifully restored historic home chasing the dogs and knocking over vases, while the teenagers would be in the basement listening to music, playing pong-pong and probably coming up with some rascally scheme that usually resulted in getting themselves in trouble. While the house was bustling with pets and children everywhere, the parents would always be in the kitchen. There would be several bottles of wine circulating and the occasional cigar being passed between the men. For as long as I can remember, this is where I wanted to be. I didn't really know why, but I was fascinated by the noticeable transformation throughout the night. The raw ingredients would transform into delectable delights. The conversations and laughs would progressively get louder and louder as more vino was consumed. The kitchen would become smokier, dirtier, noisier – in a way – homier.
My father would often pick at the food that was cooking – always when it was too hot, and when it was cooled, he would sometimes slip a nibble to me, in a way similar to when kids sneak food under the table to the family dog. But if I were to go in for a bite by myself, my hand would get slapped in the same way one would smack the family dogs nose when it would leap up for food. My father would look at me and say, "Only the chefs get to taste the food." It was obvious to me at that point that I would become one of the many chefs in that warm magical kitchen.
So, one of those nights at around the age of maybe six I wanted to partake in the action. Mrs. Lind fastened an over-sized durable red and white striped apron on my fragile bony body, pulled my long brown straggly hair back out of my face, and my father and I began to formulate antipasti, which would eventually be named, with the aid of several glasses of wine, "artichoke fritters." I tossed the quartered artichokes through a light egg wash and coated them in a breading made of coarsely chopped stale baguette. My tiny fingers were more coated than my precious artichokes, but I didn't care. Dad and I tossed them in a hot oiled pan on the stove and let them sizzle away. My father has this way of parenting where he would get us started on something in life and then let us loose. For example, teaching us to ride a bike, he would make us feel so comfortable and trusting in him, while he sturdily got us going, and I swear – just as he got us going – he would say something to the extent of : "It's all you" or "Go get 'em." On occasion this method would be beneficial, however many times it would result as a massive crash into a huge bush with twigs in my hair and big "bees on my knees." So, like bike riding, he handed me two potholders that covered my entire forearms past my elbows, put me on a stool for a little height, and let go of the spatula, leaving me in charge of the fritters. While sautéing an artichoke may not seem like a big deal, it can be if your forehead barely skims the top of the stove. So with a big smile on my face, and excitement in my heart, I flipped and fried these little guys, dousing them with fresh lemon and eventually serving them up to the adults in the kitchen. This was when I noticed the true benefits to be reaped of working in the kitchen. I received tastes of wine, bits of titillating adult conversation, compliments of my cooking, and as many bites of artichoke fritters and other exciting appetizers as I wanted. Needless to say, sitting at the kid's table for the next ten years or so, was something I always tried to get out of!
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
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