A Dork And His Pork

It’s funny the compromises we make in the kitchen.  Especially when other diners are involved.

You’ll buy the cheap cocoa when you’re cooking for yourself but spring for the Valrhona when you make a birthday cake.

Or you’ll make creme angliase from scratch when company is coming but you’ll melt vanilla ice cream when it’s “only family.”

And don’t get me started about garnish.  Or which tablecloth I use or whether said tablecloth will be ironed.

It’s fascinating to observe how many different ways the preparation and sharing of food echoes the nuances of your relationships, and how subtle distinctions and  economies of effort play out.   I thought about this this past Saturday when I had David and Laura over for dinner.  It seemed like A good way to kick off the year, and a good way to start to emerge from the antisocial shell I’ve been hiding in for the last few months.

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Editor’s Note:  I’ve since done my dishes.  And cleaned the stove.  (I promise)

If I do my dishes, I can have some flourless chocolate cake.

However.

If I do NOT do my dishes, I’m still going to have some flourless chocolate cake.

This is pretty much the story of my life.
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On this day I find myself thankful for the following:

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There is a certain irony to the way I cook that is never lost on me.

On the one hand, I absolutely loathe pretense, bravado and fuss.  Food is such a huge source of pleasure and comfort, and a huge part of that comfort is the anticipation.  I want to be able to feel the crispy  chicken skin crackling around my molars while every succulent bite of meat dissolves in a garlickey haze above my tongue.   I don’t want to ruin or even compromise that anticipation by being preemptively confused by some foofy sauce I’ve never tried.  Or by having to wonder if the balsamic reduction is going to taste good on my ice cream.  (As if the answer to that question is ever in doubt).

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I’m willing to write off one out of every, say, twenty dishes I cook as a complete and unmitigated disaster.  And usually, afterward, I understand why it happens.  Botched technique,   too much heat, (either in the “caliente” or the “picante” sense of the word) too little attention, or drastically misunderstanding the changes the food will undergo while cooking.   We make a mental note, we salvage what we can, we do the dishes, and, if necessary, order up some Indian takeout.

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Sorry to not post for a couple of weeks, but I had to share this.

I made Concord Grape Jam today, courtesy of Jessie at The Hungry Mouse.

(sidenote: I would never presume to tell you guys how to spend your time online, but if you are not reading this blog, you really should be.  Even if you don’t like to cook, her whimsy and enthusiasm are just infectious. )

Anyway, this jam is not for the faint of heart.  You will squeeze the grapes until your hands and furniture are covered in acid.  Whatever you are wearing will be forever stained.  There will be purple goop all over your kitchen.  And you guys know how graceful I am.  Molten jam, like sugar or deep fried foods… DEATH TRAP.

But OH MY was it worth it.  I don’t know how long this jar is going to last.  I’m going to have to make some cashew butter to go along with this.

Pretty lucky I had some homemade bread, too, wasn’t I. YUM.

There is a trick to walking through a crowded grocery store wearing a sombrero.

You have to be it.  Own it.  Every movement, every gesture, every facial expression must ooze comfort.  I am not talking about cocky bravado - that would reek of overcompensation and defeat the entire purpose.  You must, rather, be simply confident.    Walking around in a sombrero must seem like second nature.   The vapid stares from the other shoppers must fall off you like raindrops upon stone.   The giggles are ignored.  Questions like  “dude… why are you wearing a sombrero?”  meet with a low-key, clever retort.

The only problematic moment of my trip (Kenard Avenue Kroger, for those of you keeping score at home) occurred at the very end of my visit, when I had to ask an 18 year old store clerk where in the freezer case I might find puff pastry.  He looked up at me from behind his fortress of boxes, and his face slowly started peeling back into a surprised smile.

Of course, it’s possible that Kroger corporation has developed a world-class sensitivity training program, whereby front-line staff are drilled in respecting customers for sartorial diversity…

I wasn’t going to chance it.  I just eyeballed him.  You’re gonna laugh at me, punk?  No. You’re not.  You’re going to tell me where the puff pastry is because I wear this goddamn sombrero every time i visit the grocery.  Arright?

I suppose I should back up and mention that I hosted a tequila party this past Saturday Night.
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I didn’t see the constellation Orion. But I felt a sense of profound relief that I came of age just after the Friday Night/Heavy Metal/Laser/Astronomy at the Observatory thing.

Seriously, There was a point on the return leg of the road trip that found me absolutely mesmerized. I had to ease the Hoopty off the the side of Highway 46, sit out on the front fender, and look up at the stars. I’m willing to risk that sounding a little bit trite, but seriously, it had been a long time. It was a clear night, with great visibility and no glare save from a dimly lit A-frame farmhouse about a half a mile downhill.

And I try not be cavalier about the word “awe,” but there are times when it just fits. I sat there dumbstruck for what had to be a half an hour, staring blankly into a sky that just teemed with life. I didn’t see the space station, but I found the Big Dipper, the North Star, and this faint streak of powdery white that I knew wasn’t a cloud, but I think was the outer arm of the galaxy. I think this image was seared into my mind as the most compelling visual of 2009.

Yeah, I need to get out of the city more often.

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So Poultry and I have reached an understanding over the years.

If a loaf of homemade bread is the culinary sacrament that gives meaning to my Sunday afternoon, a roast chicken represents the final official act of my weekend. It carries significance far beyond the kitchen or the table, with powerful, if obtuse, associations that always resonate with me as I cook. Like with the laundry that I always have to have done before I start dinner, or the dishes that I have just enough time to wash before the little guy comes out of the oven, or the abundant leftovers that will save me from having to make much effort to prepare lunch.

All of this bodes well for the upcoming week, one in which my socks match, my lunches are taken care of, and the kitchen sink can hold itself together for a couple of days.

Not to mention the fact that I can sit down with a plate of roasted chicken, good potatoes, a salad, a slice (or two) of bread, maybe with some homemade saffron mayo if I’m feeling especially saucy, and a glass of obscenely sweet iced tea with the store bought ice I love chewing so much.

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So I was mildly amused at the small but noticeable traffic spike I experienced this past weekend, presumably because so many people thought I might have posted something in honor of International Bacon Day.  Two things.

1. I love you. But I am not your goddamn bacon hero.
2. Every day is International Bacon Day.  Amateurs.

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