Salt is Your Friend

This is a quick rant about a friend who nearly killed me with her cooking.  I love her to death but the woman can’t cook.  First, I need to set something straight–Salt is Your Friend!   Too much salt is the ocean.  There’s a difference, so we’re going to focus on the friend part.  When you’re cooking with meats, they need salt.  And…And….barbecue sauce doesn’t count.  I think my pork chop had a spoonful of the bottled sauce, which clearly was not enough to mask the taste of shoe leather in my mouth.  Second, beans that have gone bad cannot be salvaged with sour cream.  I took the first bite and knew they were bad.  I looked at my hosts and they seemed so happy to eat the spoiled bits of incomplete proteins.  I looked down at my plate and realized I grabbed too much to simply spread it around the plate.  The only other thing on the plate were the chops.  I looked for the dog, but mushy beans are not the easiest to pawn off to a dog while conversing with my friends.  I held my breath and took two more spoonfuls before I had enough to spread around the plate.  Later that evening, I desperately wanted to shove my finger down my throat.  I stared at the toilet too long then realized that I had never forced myself to throw-up and wouldn’t even know how to start.  The thought of it made me want to throw-up.  That’s how much my stomach hurt.  In the next two hours my stomach found another way to dispel the god-awful cooking.  I love my friends in SB and I wouldn’t trade them for anything, but I sure wouldn’t mind a few friends who actually knew how to cook.  I guess I should just be grateful, right?

Creating a Signature Dish: Attempt #1

Is this my signature dish? Macaroni and Cheese.

My sister makes the most amazing, scrumptious cookies.  In fact, she’s the queen of baking in our family.  People clamor for her cookies.  Her signature cookies are soft and chockfull of sweet, melty chunks of chocolate and butterscotch chips.  She started with a recipe on the back of the chocolate chip bag and she lovingly nurtured its evolution to a recipe that she keeps only in her head.  For our family, and others who have been lucky enough to taste these magical gems, these cookies are like crack.  When the cookies come out, we turn into conniving, scheming liars.  We hoard the cookies for ourselves, stashing them in the coffee can that’s never used or behind the jumbo pack of soap from Costco.  When they have disappeared, we solemnly swear, “But, I only had one.”  In this way, my sister is revered and respected for her gift.

My aunt makes an amazing stuffing with ribbons of salty prosciutto and provolone cheese.  My other sister produces cheesey potatoes that are to-die-for.  My grandma is infamous for deviled eggs.  My mom’s the queen of quiche.  Each holiday, these women present their offerings of  delectable dishes that have become synonymous with family gatherings.

Since becoming of age (read I got my first job and could contribute to holiday meals), I was always given such tasks as picking up a bag of rolls, bringing pre-made deserts, or other processed items.  This year, I put my foot down.  I would no longer allow myself to be considered good for running errands.  I would contribute my own masterpiece with the hopes that I would have my own signature dish.

I contacted my sister, this year’s Thanksgiving hostess, and informed her that I would be making something for the holiday.  ”Please,”  I begged, “don’t give me some trivial errand of bringing rolls.”  Her response: “How about some canned cranberry sauce?”  Once we got past the compulsory expression of Jessen-sarcasm, we agreed that I would contribute some sort of pasta side dish.  Hey, what’s an American Thanksgiving without a carb-laden table?

I settled on macaroni and cheese and I enlisted the boyfriend (and classmate from a 6-week community center French cooking course) for help.  Our flighty teacher praised him for his béchamel sauce – so certainly he would be useful.  I then unleashed the academic within and began researching.  Ultimately, I ended up at my go-to website for all things culinary and took tips and cues from Bobby Flay and Alton Brown.

Now armed with a recipe, I was ready to shop.  The boyfriend and I quickly discovered that the best part of making mac and cheese was the sampling of multiple cheeses at Whole Foods – a necessary step to settling on the the right combination: danish and italian fontinas, asiago, white cheddar, and parmigiano reggiano.  We also purchased thickly sliced bacon, fresh flat leaf parsley and thyme, and some chili powder (for a little kick).

Back at the house, we got to work and he graciously agreed to be my sous chef.  While he was diligently shredding blocks of cheese into piles of heaven, I was browning bacon and warming milk.  We spent the next hour side-by-side, cooking and cleaning.  There were a few moments of anxiety, first when the quantity of produced sauce seemed to overwhelm the noodles and again when the panko bread crumbs wouldn’t crisp they way I wanted them to.

We ended up with two large pans of ooey-gooey macaroni and cheese and transported them safely to my sister’s for Thanksgiving dinner.  I remember receiving compliments, though I can’t remember any of them exactly.  In looking back, what I recall was the closeness I felt with my fellow cook.  If I close my eyes, it’s not the macaroni and cheese that springs to mind.  Instead, I’m transported back to the kitchen.  I can feel the warmth from the stove rising to my cheeks, my hands busy at work chopping fresh herbs, and Darrin (the boyfriend) gently touching my back and offering the taste of a fresh slice of asiago.  I can see the smile on his face and I know that the joy between us was an ingredient we never counted on adding, but found was all too necessary.

Ultimately, I’m not sure I landed a signature dish.  I know that I’m many attempts away from reaching the same level of fame that my sister’s cookies have enjoyed for some years now.  However, I believe that if attempts number 2, 3, 4, 5, and so on are anything like the first, getting to the place where I have the recipe in my head and fans clamoring for it at the door, it will be worth the wait.

In Search of Inspiration

Breakfast of champions: grande Awake tea and a slice of banana walnut bread from Starbucks.

As of late, my love for cooking has taken a back seat to, well, life.  I’ve been told that if something really matters to me, I’ll make the time for it.  What then, does my recent lack of cooking say about my burgeoning love for the activity?  I’ve got a billion excuses: work is intense; I still don’t have my own stove; my boyfriend’s recent move has left us sans refrigerator for three weeks; I’m tired – too tired to grocery shop and cook; and I’m just too busy.

Despite all of the incriminating evidence, I really do want to cook.  It’s cathartic and to be quite honest I’m rather sick of eating out.  In place of being in the kitchen, I’ve been living the life of a couch-cook and making do with endless hours of Top Chef: Las Vegas (in case you’re wondering, I’m officially rooting for Kevin), The Next Iron Chef (Go, Chef Frietag!), and Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations (my newest foodie crush).  But, no matter how much time I spend living vicariously through others, I’m left unsatisfied.

I need to get my hands dirty.  I need to chop, and simmer, and smell, and taste.  So, I’m looking for inspiration.  I’ve been scouring websites and cookbooks, collecting interesting recipes, and looking for the one that is going to motivate me off of the couch and in front of the stove.  I think I may have found inspiration in the most unexpected of places – Starbucks.  This morning, when ordering my favorite hot tea (Awake) and a slice of the Banana Walnut Bread, my eyes wondered around the counter bouncing between CD’s for sale and smartly wrapped chocolates.  Eventually, I narrowed in on a stack of cards that seemed to be haphazardly thrown next to the tip jar.  I picked one up to discover that it was the recipe for the exact sweet treat I was purchasing.

But, banana bread seems so unassuming and benign.  Certainly, this can’t be the thing to reignite my passion for cooking.  I mean, it was only a few years ago that I hated banana bread.  In all fairness to banana bread, I’d never actually tried it.  I simply avoided it on a general belief that bread is not supposed to be sweet.  This idea developed from a long history of being a picky child and struggling with the idea of mixing sweet and savory.  I could not comprehend fruit in my salad and could not accept cake in my cheese (or cheese in my cake for that matter).  And the one I really could not get around was sweetened bread.  In fact, I detested the idea.  On more than one occasion I’ve been threatened at having my Azorean-Portuguese heritage revoked because I disliked Portuguese sweet-bread so vehemently.

Thus was banana bread equally judged.  Eventually, I was persuaded to try a slice  when a friend went out of his way to bake a loaf for a gathering.  I didn’t want to be rude.  And to my surprise, and perhaps my chagrin, I actually liked it.  Of course, I do contend that banana bread isn’t so much like bread as it is like cake, which is supposed to be sweet.  Regardless, I fell in love.  The smell alone is delicious and sweet.  Chunks of soft banana and crunchy walnuts are too good to resist.  Another friend recently deepened my love for this comfort food by adding slivers of rich dark-chocolate to her recipe.

I’ve checked the weather.  Next week we’ll (Fresno) actually drop into the 60′s – perfect weather for staying in-doors and baking.  I’m armed with a new recipe and, hopefully, some new inspiration – everything I need to return to the comforting arms of my loving master: la cuisine.  Until then, as this will be my first attempt at baking bread of any sorts, tips, suggestions, and words of encouragement are more than welcome.