Not to say I don't appreciate a good meal. Years ago I became an honorary member of something called "The Diamond Jim Brady Club, " to qualify for which honor one must consume, before witnesses, six dozen oysters. I managed that rather easily, one evening, and had another dozen or so along with some oyster bisque and a few oyster croquettes just because there were so many delicious varieties ( I recall Blue points, Malpeques, and a few of those long salty Pacific ones, along with many others), served with a sweet Riesling wine. I love good food, and love sitting down to savor it, it's just that sitting at table eating seemed to me much more preferable to slaving away in a kitchen, preparing it all. Traveling for business I often found myself in Paris, the gastronome's nirvana, and with delight I explored the restaurants in the evenings, and in the daytime I shopped for fresh crusty baguettes and pungent cheeses, tiny fresh Champagne grapes, patés, cornichons, and exquisite chocolates for lunchtime picnics.
In retrospect I attribute my reluctance to cook to several factors: firstly, being engaged to someone for several years who literally demanded that I cook six nights a week as part of our living arrangement. (That's another story for another time.) After leaving him, I refused to have the gas connected on my new apartment's stove for three months, luxuriating in the array of takeout on the Upper East Side. For another, I spent many years in an apartment whose kitchen was miniscule; a half-fridge, tiny sink, two cabinets and a square foot of counter space. The oven was remarkably like the toy oven I had as a little girl, the Suzy Homemaker one with the light bulb inside that baked a cake the size of a tollhouse cookie. Growing up I'd learned a repertoire of a few basics so I wouldn't starve, but they were workhorse recipes: steak, pasta, omelettes, Overall, though, I think the main reason was time. I was always working crazy hours, and rushing, so cooking tended to be done that way as well.
When Dale and I moved into this house, we found ourselves with a real kitchen for the first time in our married life. Our last two kitchens had been reasonably roomy by New York apartment standards, but that still meant that counter space was tight, plus I'd never really stocked my kitchen with the right tools so I was always having to do things the hard way when I did make any attempt to cook. Here we were with not only counter space and a dishwasher, roomy fridge and freezer, a five-burner stove--but I'd also inherited some good kitchen tools from my mother and gradually I began trying things out.
I guess it really started with the guacamole. I 'd had a craving for guacamole for several days, and as we were in a new neighborhood, I didn't know the restaurants that well. Though we have a lot of good Mexican near us, I didn't know the lay of the land then and bought a plastic container of guacamole that I brought home and opened; inside was a pale green watery glue-like paste that looked nothing like guacamole and not even much like it had ever had anything to do with an avocado. It even tasted a bit like Elmer's glue. I was starving, and nothing but guacamole would do, so I went to the corner market and looked around. They had some bad prepackaged guacamole that didn't look promising, but I noticed they had some very ripe avocados, and the light bulb went on over my head.
I decided to just buy whatever seemed like it should go into a guacamole. I had some farmer's market tomatoes at home, I recalled, so besides the ripe avocados I bought garlic, lemon juice, onion, and jalapeno pepper, as well as some white corn chips. I minced a small purple onion, then chopped and seeded the ripest tomato, a small red Brandywine. I chopped some garlic, then scooped out two avocados. Leaving everything coarsely chopped I gently mixed it into a medium bowl and added in some ancho chile powder, then chopped about half the jalapeno and scooped it in. Fresh black pepper and a sprinkling of kosher salt, a dash of lemon juice, and when I dipped a corn chip into the mixture I was incredulous..... it tasted exactly like guacamole, and not only that, it was just about the best guacamole I'd ever had. I think that was the moment when I realized I could actually make things, silly as that sounds in retrospect. It just hadn't dawned on me that my own utilitarian cooking could morph into delicious food, with a little effort. Of course, it helps a lot that Dale doesn't mind doing the dishes.
That was the beginning. Soon I was trying all kinds of things in the kitchen, mostly soups and stews in the beginning. I hadn't turned into some Stepford Wife, I liked making things that would supply us with leftovers for a few days afterwards, or things I could freeze batches of for quick reheating when needed. I began looking at the recipes in the Times and trying things, we have a wonderful local market with fresh herbs and terrific ingredients, and I was dumfounded as my kitchen began to turn out amazing concoctions. Utilitarian but delicious pot roasts. Chili. Turkey with cornbread, walnut and sausage stuffing. Charlotte Malokoff and cherry pie. Crepes. Fish chowder, maple-glazed meatloaf, homemade spaetzle. In the summer we grilled constantly, fish, vegetables, chicken, and I began coming up with exotic marinades. Soon I bought an apron, something I'd never imagined myself owning.
When it dawned on me that it had gotten serious was when I found myself making jam from the strawberries in our garden; they are always all ripe at once and we were overwhelmed with delicious juicy berries, more than we could eat ourselves, and I started processing them into jam jars, gradually getting the hang of doing it without using added pectin to get it to set, which allows for much less sugar and therefore a more flavorful jam. When the raspberries came in I kept going, and when the peaches ripened I was making peach jam, peach pie, and peach cobbler. My early pies had thick doughy store-made crusts, but gradually I've learned to turn out easy, flaky crusts that melt on the tongue. I learned through practice to make airy, cloudlike biscuits, evolved from the hard hockey pucks I created as a beginning biscuit baker. I learned to fry chicken for my Southern-born husband, first soaking it well in milk with a little hot sauce and black pepper, though I am still aghast at how much grease the frying involves. I learned to make a garlic vinaigrette for artichokes, to roast tiny tender asparagus with a little sea salt and olive oil, to whip cream with a dash of Cognac to make it into Créme Chantilly and drizzle it onto freshly made crépes stuffed with strawberries.
The funny thing about all this is, you'd think I would have put on a few pounds, right? Tell the truth, you've been sitting there muttering, "yeah, this chick is like the size of a house by now."
The truth is, I have lost a ton of weight (well maybe 15 lbs) and lowered the cholesterol to boot, despite all that cream and butter I cook with. You doubt me? Well. here's my theory. We Americans don't sit down and savor our food, we eat on the run, distracted, we eat when we're working or watching TV, and we just aren't satisfied. We snack. We nosh. We're always picking at this and that, so instead of three meals a day we probably end up having twelve. In France they sit down at meals and enjoy what they are eating, take their time, and get up from the table satisfied. Their diet is full of butter and cheese, wine, bread, meat, and nobody can figure out why they aren't fat--I think much of it has to do with how they treat eating; a enjoyable pastime as opposed to either guilty pleasure or a necessary evil. Perhaps its the Puritan ethic again. Anyway, Dale and I are eating much healthy meals now, and also enjoying cooking and eating them together.
We no longer look at each other and say,"Oh, its my turn to cook, where's the phone?".
Your raspberry jam was is perfection! I hope you will make some this year. What a nice post! Can't wait to taste the barbecue!
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