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Surviving the Chalky Chicken
Published on September 20th, 2009 by Will
HOW I BECAME A FOODIE
What age were you when you realized that you wanted to learn how to cook? My moment came when I was 19 years old, working at a local Trader Joe’s grocer. Up until then, I was never particularly enchanted with food. My parents cooked for me and my trips to the fridge or pantry were usually driven by a desire for one packaged snack or another. I could cook a decent grilled cheese, but nothing that demanded ‘real flavors.’ I was your typical food numb-skull who couldn’t tell the difference between garlic and onion. This all changed however when my job forced me into everyday contact with flavors, textures, and nutrition that I had, until then, taken for granted. It wasn’t a conscious choice, but a necessity – I wasn’t about to stack parsley on basil.
At the end of the day, when employees made their rounds of the store, grabbing whatever they wanted to buy, I didn’t know where to begin. I didn’t have any vision, no ideal taste to strive for. I often bought carrots, but that was it. I liked carrots, but was also aware of their shortcomings, their lack of intriguing flavor. My carrots went unpaired, and my taste buds suffered. With a fervor, inspired by the abundance of unexperienced foods I packed daily onto grocery shelves, I once and for all decided to take my food future into my own hands. I had a desire to mix and match, to pick and chose, to dip and dab whatever I wanted. I didn’t have a clear goal but I knew what to steer clear from. My childhood had consisted of bland chicken, with flavorless rice and watery green beans. The chicken would’ve made anybody beg for a liquid diet so I wasn’t about to make cooking it my first endeavor. With no concepts and no technique, I began a personal, culinary journey in search of clearer waters.
I admit, there were rough seas throughout – there’s no telling how many meals I made that ended up rivaling my parents’ chicken in tastelessness. I stumbled often, my lack of cooking know-how surfacing in meals which would’ve appeared on a menu as ‘blackened, slightly charred tofu with a side of something that looks like a vegetable but may be a sea creature.’ Throughout, however, I laughed away my mishaps. While the flavor was close to the watery green beans that I had grown to loath, the ingredients were different and that was enough for me. Taste could wait.
Cookbooks became my friends. These were the large bindings that had before laid untouched on bookshelves with threatening titles like, Cooking Basics or Anyone Can Cook. Accepting that I would never be one of those cooks who claimed to have taught themselves, I summoned the courage to open a cookbook and immediately the unknown world of cooking began to open up for me. With each new recipe, interesting flavor profiles were introduced to my sponge-like brain, and I soaked up the names of listed ingredients, Wikipedia-ing whatever I didn’t know. This was almost everything, but it payed off. Slowly but surely, as the tofu transformed from slightly charred into curry infused and the green beans from watery to garlicy, I got better. Cooking became a hobby and eating, while adventurous at times, proved enjoyable. Only months earlier, preparing a meal had monotonously driven me into a daze I equated with physics projects. Now, while chopping, dicing, and sauteeing, I felt like Dr. Frankenstein, mad and loving it. I didn’t know exactly what I was creating, but it was sure to be original, decently tasting, and easily elaborated upon. That’s a meal worth cooking.
Marriage and the Kitchen
Published on August 24th, 2009 by Will
Relationships Challenge the Taste Buds
Ahh, it was early June. We, here at the EYL test kitchen, were churning out a recipe every week. Sometimes two, with an article. We were hitting our summer stride. The weather wasn’t good. Maybe that had something to do with it. We didn’t feel bad, staying inside – our heads dreaming of culinary bliss, our eyes glued to our computers. But then we remembered something. In late July, my girlfriend’s parents were scheduled to get married and before then we had to – drum roll – clean and paint the garage, dig up the existing yard, create in it’s place a flowery oasis, gut the back porch, construct new stairs leading up to the porch (with no experience), paint the porch, and place new railings. It was a lot – got done eventually – but EYL was placed on the back burner.
The wedding was beautiful, the yard looked great, and the food was fantastic. While cocktail hour rolled on, black dressed waiters brought a wide variety of appetizers. We had bite-sized crab cakes, antipasto on a stick, and ahi tuna adorned with a light peanut sauce. Everything was lighter than the rain that started to fall and it was for this reason only that I still had room for more. For dinner, us vegetarians had portobello mushrooms stuff with a delightful blend of artichokes, onions, and cheese. For desert, the wedding cake was served. Chocolate fondant covered a lightly sweetened cookies and cream filling. Now, I usually don’t like cake, especially the wedding variety, but for the first time in my life, I wanted a second slice. I think once the cake was entirely eaten, after a week or so of living in the refrigerator, I had eaten half of it.
After we had cake, the fire pit was lit. Chocolate, graham crackers, and marshmallows (regular and coconut) were brought out. Smores were in order. Can you think of a desert that better embodies the summer spirit? I can’t.
I ate too much as usual, drank a responsible amount, and blabbed to friends and family. While perusing, I couldn’t help but over hear voices declaring such things as ‘the food is amazing’ and ‘ I have to stop eating – I’m going to explode.’ It was at this time when I realized that the event was as much about the food as the ceremony. And further, a marriage is not just two people vowing to deal with each others’ temperaments, but also their cooking.
The fact is, a lot of people can’t cook and many of them get married. This means there’s a lot of married people that don’t know sauteing from steaming and this undoubtedly leads to a lot of problems, with taste and, for the rice burners, edibility. It is sad that some don’t receive the proper cooking skills, but there’s a bigger victim here, the spouses. These are the poor souls that have to stare down at a plateful of what looks more like a teenager’s room than an appetizing meal. Smiling, thinking if it’s possible to chew without tasting, the spouses are in quite the predicament. If they have any tact whatsoever, they’ll refrain from saying, “Honey, this looks awful” or “I’ve changed my mind. I’ll have what the cat’s eating.” No, it has to be the cook who proclaims the meal a failure. Once this happens, spouses have permission to rummage through the fridge for left overs. While I hope that these lapses in culinary know-how don’t put marriages on the rocks, they are inevitable. Unfortunate meals are bound to arise when entering into a relationship.
“I’m sorry hun. I’ll cook the spaghetti better next time.” I’ve had to say this more than once. I don’t know what it is with spaghetti, but I can’t seem to leave it in the pot long enough. It always comes out tasting raw rather than al dente. It has reach the point that I am no longer allowed to cook spaghetti, but I try to take my banishing from the kitchen on Italian nights with a grain of salt. My girlfriend, however, out of the goodness of her heart, still lets me boil the water. Like many aspects of a relationship, cooking requires one to recognize their own shortcomings and adapt accordingly. Because whether the toast is burned or the eggs are soggy, it’s important to remember one thing. There’s always Chinese take out.
* Photos courtesy of Joe Elario Photography