Recently in cooking Category
Haven't been writing 'cause I've been feeling the need to produce things people can touch and taste.
This weekend, I was invited to a "welcoming spring" party. With the pending vernal equinox, it seemed like macaroons were the right thing to bring.
The hosts made tea sandwiches and cracked open homemade infused vodkas. (The vodka was store-bought but the infusions were done at home.)
It was a lovely evening — one where many of us discovered that we liked horseradish mixed into cream cheese and spread onto baby carrots sliced lengthwise.
To top off the evening, the hosts held a bookswap. I gave away "Subwayland" by Randy Kennedy (Amazon|BN|Powell's) and in return picked out "More Tales of the City" by Armistead Maupin (Amazon|BN|Powell's) and "Talk Talk" by T.C. Boyle (Amazon|BN|Powell's).
Meanwhile, the knitting bug has bitten again.
It's been a long time since I made anything from scratch.
Some say it's because I no longer have a dishwasher.
Others say it's because New York wears you out with its multitude of restaurants and exhausting pace, making it all too easy to buy something.
But when I spied Mark Bittman's Ultimate Minimalist Macaroon recipe, something in me said I had to make them.
Mine weren't quite as pretty as Bittman's, but they were good enough for me.
My days have blurred together in an endless, unvarying cycle of wake > work > eat > drink > read > write > sleep. To mix things up a little, I travel, but those opportunities have been too few and far between.
Still, a change of pace is necessary. Now that cold weather seems to have really set in, memories of my seasonal habits are creeping back to the surface.
For as long as I've had a place of my own, the period beginning Nov. 1 and ending sometime mid-January or February was baking season.
As I developed better stovetop skills, it became cooking season as well. In addition, if the weather was cool, I'd bring out my trusty walnut, ebony and rosewood knitting needles and whip out holiday gifts in cashmere, mohair, merino and silk. (Only the best for friends and family.)
Since moving to New York, I have lost the will to cook, which, for those who know me well, is like losing the will to live. I stand in front of my tiny stove, pull out a saute pan and can only muster enough spark to make scrambled eggs and tea.
Pathetic.
Working in the kitchen involved all of me. Every meal for friends and loved ones involved thought, instinct and emotion — not just about the food but about the people who'd be eating it.
I liked to make every dinner a tailored and memorable experience, if not for my friends, then at least for me. Occasionally, I'd receive nice post-dinner notes or phone calls. But more often I'd get oohs and ahhs during the meal and a happy look on guests' faces as they left. Like all cooks, professional and otherwise, I find the joy of cooking is in feeding people who like what you've made.
Back in L.A., I had a nicely outfitted kitchen with just enough space for two to cook in while guests hung out by the fake fireplace playing board games, talking over drinks, or trying to spin the Levitron (to this day, the best and most-cherished going-away present coworkers have ever given me).
After applying apartment therapy, I tried to step up my game by making lots of new things. Thanksgiving dinner, however, remained semi-traditional, something I learned by instinct and by talking with friends. Here's what else I learned.
• I like cooking for people who mean something to me. Therefore, it's unlikely I'll ever become a professional.
• I never had enough people to have a whole bird, so instead I baked drumsticks and breasts that, thank goodness, came out with enough moisture and enough flavor to be edible. I can't tell you my baking secret, though. You'll just have to hope for a dinner invite.
• Cooking parts as opposed to a whole bird saved everyone from the dreaded "fun with turkey" period that inevitably follows T-day. Besides, aside from the wish bone, no one ever asks for parts other than breasts and legs anyway. Geez, that reads kind of ... ahem.
• Duck breasts will shrink by more than half their size in the oven, despite 24 hours of soaking in red wine and seasonings and being cooked under foil.
• Overmashed potatoes will turn into glue. Don't wing it like I did. Read this advice instead. Or use potato flakes. Unless you hate them.
• Chestnuts must be peeled while hot, otherwise the shells and skins will stick to the nut and the ensuing futility of your efforts will make you cry. Or cuss.
• Accidentally burning the tips of your fingers while peeling is helpful — you'll eventually stop feeling pain and you can work faster. Put the hot, peeled chestnuts into a hot, damp towel surrounded by foil until you need them. If the peeled chestnuts dry out, steam them.
• I love chestnuts, but StoveTop stuffing is scary.
• Make green bean casserole.
• Some people like their cranberry jelly shaped like the can it came from.
• Canned pumpkin makes good pumpkin pie if you don't want to make yours from scratch. Pillsbury pre-made pie crusts are also a trusty go-to brand.
• If you buy a whole frozen pie from Trader Joe's, you should have gone last week. By now, the traditional pie might be harder to find and you'll be stuck with the pumpkin mousse pie which is not the same. Not by a long stretch.
The other night, I received a last-minute in-home dinner invite from some friends. In-home entertaining is a rarity in this town, where a scarcity of space makes people highly territorial.
I brought a bottle of Il Nebbiolo purchased a month or so ago at Acker, Merrall & Condit, purported to be America's oldest wine shop.
Unfortunately, I can't remember who the winemaker was, but the wine guy recommended it without reservation. My hosts were intrigued by the idea of a dark rosé and very pleased after taking a sip.
Dinner was simple, the conversation lively. But best of all was the evening and nighttime view of the city from the gigantic windows in their high-rise apartment.
A friend had suggested once that if Manhattan ever feels too big, the fastest cures are to either take a drive around the island or go into a high tower and look down.
For an evening, the city didn't feel so overwhelming.