Unmade and Unsure

The fatal metaphor of progress, which means leaving things behind us, has utterly obscured the real idea of growth, which means leaving things inside us. 
- Gilbert K. Chesterton

I really hope this isn't a midlife crisis. I mean, not in a traditional sense where in as many years as I've already lived it will be over. But it's a...something. An uneasiness. And since my mind goes straight to how food and life reflect each other I'm contemplating recipes. Or rather, how we select what we cook and likewise, how we select how we live.

~*~

A Fancy Ham and Cheese: Cooking for My Father

A baby is born with a need to be loved - and never outgrows it. -Frank A. Clark 

My father is a meat and potatoes kind of guy. A Midwestern outdoors man and unapologetic story- teller. He boasts an impeccable work ethic, carries deep devotion in his heart, and plays the role of generous host when he can and when it's most needed.

At times I've assumed he could subsist on venison chops, flake mashed potatoes and canned corn for unimaginable stretches of time. That's not to say he doesn't love food or variety in his food. He, after all, was the first person to introduce me to the simple pleasure of eating foods you love with people you adore. Some of my fondest childhood food memories include snacks with Dad. Popcorn with American cheese singles lining the bowl. Buttery crackers and oily sardines. Braunschweiger sandwiches. Port wine cheese spread.

Gastronomicom II- A Retrospection

There are only two mistakes one can make along the road to truth; not going all the way, and not starting. -Buddha

My mother, being the ever-curious woman that she is, asked me the most challenging question when I returned from France. She asked, "What weren't you prepared for?" I think she expected me to say something about the language, the cultural differences, a certain skill or expectation at school, but despite it being a difficult answer, without hesitation I responded, "Coming home."

Gastronomicom I- A Brief Introduction

The preparation of good food is merely another expression of art, one of the joys of civilized living. – Dione Lucas

I am here, in Cap d'Agde in the South of France. I am sore and exhausted and more full of life than I can remember. I've never slept this well. I've never cooked this well. I've never learned this well. How do you articulate the realization of a dream? The taste and smell of adventure? Where do I begin?

Des Fraises

One must ask children and birds how cherries and strawberries taste.  -Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

I've been tackling M.F.K Fisher's The Art of Eating for a few months now. I've finished Serve it Forth, Consider the Oyster, and How to Cook a Wolf. It has been, and continues to be, one of the best literary journeys I've had the pleasure of taking. For all you romantic foodies out there, pick up a copy and spend some time, preferably over some delicious bites and sips, losing yourself in her rhetoric. 

In Serve it Forth, M.F.K. discusses those food moments where things change in the mind and on the palate of a budding gourmand. Those moments when food transcends the molecular and nutritional certainty to unapologetically reveal a hidden potential. She discusses how these moments are often the simplest or most innocent encounters to start, a crust of bread during a hike, a fruit dried on a radiator, but somehow melt like a Dali painting into enlightenment.

I've had a few of these moments but I want to revive the pinnacle. Poignant because it was during those first few wild days of falling in love with Paris.  

Lettre de motivation

 non scholæ sed vitæ discimus

Dear Monsieur or Madame,
Looking at my CV you’ll see no mention of the heat of summer kitchens, the fluidity of a well-laid line, crisp starched tablecloths, or the labor of love that is the demand of the brigade. You’ll see office jobs held, projects managed, budgets accounted for, a winery to be fair, but only a one-dimensional picture of my pursuits. Food and drink are the hours between the words on that page. My escape from obligation. The breaths between client meetings and conference calls. My quiet moments kneading dough, separating eggs, sweating onions, or sweating over a soufflé.

The Eight Things You Need to Perfectly Poach a Stupid Egg

Whipped cream isn't whipped cream at all unless it's been whipped with whips. Just as a poached egg isn't a poached egg unless it's been stolen from the woods in the dead of night! -Roald Dahl

The poached egg is an elusive culinary beast. At best it requires practice, patience and a few extra eggs, at worst it creates a swirling storm of lost whites and a bobbing, lonely overdone yolk.

Being a fan of poached eggs on any dish, any time of day, naturally I approached poaching an egg with gusto and confidence. I knew what I was looking for: a tight, glossy white, smooth and singular, with a hidden sunburst of custardy yolk that we, like good taste and courtesy, should assume exist within one another. I did my homework researching the different methodology and myth and settled on ye olde vinegar splash and whirlpool approach.

Egg in hand and water properly swirled, I cracked directly into the water. A panicky Jackson Pollack looking moment later I had neither a perfectly poached egg nor my dignity. I fished out the soggy and stringy mess and set it aside on a disappointed paper towel. Deep breath. Back to the books and interwebs.