Category Archives: Food

Stock Up? Make Do? Or Splurge?

Confusion in My Quarantine Kitchen

People are suffering out there. In here, life is truly . . . pleasant. This piece is about struggling with that contrast.

You can read the whole thing here. (If you don’t have a Washington Post subscription but you do have a library card, chances are you can access the paper online through your library’s digital resources. Might as well check!)

Read the rest at The Washington Post.

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Cooking for the Family Again

With one kid at college and one kid eating all her meals at school, I got out of the cooking habit this year. I still loved to cook, but I cooked mostly for dinner parties, cocktail parties, potlucks — occasions that assembled a more gratifying number of eaters. Suppers with my husband and the one kid who ate at home became more about sharing the same space than sharing the same food, especially since that kid’s no-animal rule and our (intermittent) no-carb rule created only a small vegetal overlap. I was still making roasted broccoli and slow-cooked green beans, but complete meals? Not so much.

Things are a bit different now, to say the least. Not only I am feeding everyone again, but feeding everyone is one of the few things I can do for them. Much as I love them, though, and much as the days call out to be filled with some sort of productive activity, I still don’t feel like cooking anything elaborate. The general mood calls for pantry food, not fancy food.

So when I wanted to make pizza the other day, I didn’t use the recipe that begins with sourdough starter and ends with unglazed quarry tiles. Or the recipe that begins with specially ordering 14-inch deep-dish pans and ends with . . . unglazed quarry tiles. I used my new favorite: a Sheet-Pan Pizza recipe in which the measurements are exact but the timing is loose, the ingredients are ordinary but the flavor pops. Best of all, the effort is minimal. Is it the best pizza ever? No. But it might be the best pizza recipe. If you happen to be sharing the same space and the same food with your family right now, I recommend it.

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Put Some Butter On It

IMG_3998Three things before I offer you this little essay from my files. One, it’s old. It features Noah, now 15, as a toddler. Two,  the culinary climate it describes has shifted slightly since I wrote it. Fat has gotten almost trendy: upscale restaurants are now serving pork belly and chicharrones (in tiny, delicately garnished portions, but still). And three, it’s just a food essay, with no Larger Import. Another time I’ll write about the pleasures and the pitfalls of tradition. (Actually, I already have: find pleasures here and pitfalls over here.) Right now I just want to cook.

***

My mother and I have a Thanksgiving ritual: just before dinner, when everyone else is setting the table, getting changed, watching football, she and I, alone in the kitchen with a resting roasted turkey, tear the salty, crispy skin from the neck cavity and share it in wordless, slick-lipped satisfaction.

We never invite anyone to join us, possibly because we’re greedy, and possibly because we’re a little self-conscious. Our Thanksgiving tradition might be characterized as private, or it might be less charitably described as furtive. No matter what Dr. Atkins has done for the sale of pork rinds, mainstream culture remains deeply suspicious of the pleasures of culinary fat. At best it’s considered a necessary evil—you can’t sauté without it—subject to strict, health-preserving limits.

My husband, for one, sometimes doesn’t even butter his toast. When he does, he spreads it like varnish, like polyurethane, as if he’s giving bread a thin layer of protection. I spread butter like spackle, like mortar, as if there were crevices to be sealed, bricks to be laid. I look at his toast sad, but unsurprised—this is a man who eats his salad without dressing, as if it were medicine. He looks at my toast disapproving, but resigned—this is a woman who eats the skin of other people’s grilled salmon left abstemiously on the plate.

Not that he doesn’t have vices. When it comes to dessert, my husband prefers his ice cream securely placed between a brownie and a blanket of hot fudge sauce. He has a sweet tooth; I have a fat tooth. Oh, wait, isn’t that an expression? Not in America. Here everybody loves sugar, and every other body craves it, declares herself unable to resist the candy in the bowl on the colleague’s desk. But to confess a love for the rich comforts of butter and oil is suspect in this country, where we sugar-coat our fat cravings as Krispy Kreme donuts and Ben and Jerry’s ice cream, where those of us who love fried foods have to sleuth them out of menus where they have been rechristened “crusted” or “battered” or “golden.”

My palate is far happier in Europe, where you can easily get a nice salad with lard shavings, but you would never find sugar in a vinaigrette. Where Belgian frîtes are accompanied not by a sweet tomato sauce but by a creamy, lemony mayonnaise. Brits like to have it both ways, god bless them: they have a raging sweet tooth, but they also have clotted cream, fried bread for breakfast, and sausages containing just enough meat and filler to hold the grease in place.

Europe feels like home to those of us who would consistently choose brie over a brownie. And Europe is where some of my best fat memories reside. I’m sitting in the breakfast room of a London hotel. How old am I? Maybe 12. Most of the others diners have gone, my parents are back in their room gathering their maps for a day of nonstop sightseeing, and I have a blissful moment of peace. In front of me is a pot of tea, and a toast rack filled with white bread perfectly browned at the edges. And somewhere on the table there is butter—in little pats? On a dish? I can’t remember. All I can remember is sublime comfort, buttering slice after slice, pouring cup after cup of hot sweet creamy tea. The tea warms my throat, the bread pleasantly scratches my tongue, and the butter is cold and a tiny bit salty. It’s drizzly outside, and I don’t want to go out and trudge around the city negotiating an umbrella, and I don’t have to. Quite. Yet.

I’m eating a dish of broccoli in a trattoria on a side street in Florence. I’m 23. The broccoli is not lightly steamed and still crunchy; it is not overboiled and flavorless. It is lusciously simmered with garlic and oil until it was left melted and silky, with just enough texture to use a fork—for scooping, not spearing. One notch further and it would be a broccoli spread. That’s what I do: I spread it on my bread.

In America, it’s true, you can find unapologetic butter-love; you just have to head south. Go on . . . that’s it . . . keep going . . . There you are. Down in Georgia, Alabama, Louisiana, the local barbecue joint or fried chicken joint may proudly be named Fat Boy’s, biscuits are made with lard, and the point of collard greens is evidently the pork fat in which they simmer for hours. Maybe it’s through Atlanta, where my mother was born and raised, that she finds her way to that turkey skin every Thanksgiving. Maybe it’s through her that I find my way there too. Despite the influence of his sugar-loving culture, I cherish a small hope that my son will join us there one day as well. Once, as a two-year-old, he held out a piece of bacon to me while we were having brunch and said, “Mama, put some butter on it.” He knew enough already not to ask his daddy.

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