Week 5 :: Three Short Pieces

I am rather distressed that I have been unable to write or cook in the past couple of weeks - a three-day bout of severe insomnia rendered me so sluggish and apathetic that it was a feat of strength to even leave the house to buy fresh produce. This past week, my mother has been visiting me as I graduated from my MA program, and so, with all the hoopla, doctor's appointments, and celebratory times with family, I have left the oven off, the spices untouched, the cutting boards and gleaming white dishes to rest in their nooks.

Nevertheless, I'm eager to get back to that which I love, and I'm armed with both delicious eaterly experiences and a lovely gift from a dear and wonderful friend who fully appreciates and understands my culinary philosophy.

1) The Solitude of Baking

First things first. My dear friend M. has been a supporter of my cooking adventures since the beginning, and has often sent me a quick message to inquire whether or not pictures of the day's dishes will be soon forthcoming. M. and I also have a mutual love for sushi and pineapple corers, the latter of which she brought over once on a visit, and seemed absolutely bowled over by my delight and fascination with a gadget that left a perfect pineapple-shell with dozens of perfectly shaped slices of fruit. More than that, however, she understands that I both love and detest being and eating alone, and that if I am to be achieving some level of comfort with my reclusivity, that I ought to at least be able to cook the dishes that are most commonly (although not necessarily) associated with eating with others. MFK Fisher writes in "A to Z: The Perfect Dinner," the last essay in her book An Alphabet For Gourmets, that

"perhaps the most limited, and at the same time most intricate, form of the perfect dinner is the kind eaten by one person."

And indeed, the food that I eat alone often takes strange forms; cooking a quarter-cup of dry macaroni for dinner, using the tiniest ramekins for individual apple crumbles. There are certain dishes, generally desserts, that are rarely made for one, namely pies, cakes, and cupcakes.

Fortunately, M., in her infinite wisdom, recognized my love for baked goods and has given me the wonderful gift of a small springform cake pan, an individual-sized ceramic pie plate, and a miniature cupcake-pan. And really, if, on a lazy Wednesday, I feel like baking a small Sacher torte to celebrate the banal achievement of having gotten out of bed, then should I not indulge myself? Or, perhaps, on a glorious Friday morning, I might be of the mind to make a quiche Lorraine, and wouldn't it be lovely to sit down to one of a perfectly solitary circumference? And on a miserable Monday, when the dreariness of life is almost too much to bear, mightn't it be comforting to make a batch of the tiniest cupcakes and revel in their disarmingly adorable perfection?

2) My Kingdom For A Salad

On Thursday night, a very small group of my family and friends went out to celebrate my having been formally awarded my Master's degree, and I, in my infinite love of Caesar salads, opted to re-visit Cru, a small but wonderfully intimate and ambient restaurant in Vancouver. I can't think of a more beautiful concoction: the salad itself is named the "Cellar Door Caesar," the first two nouns having been deemed (when, and by whom, I am uncertain) the most beautiful combination of words in the English language. The salad itself is an unusual take on one's regular Caesar, which is often a haphazard mess of torn Romaine, covered with bland Asiago (or even more unpalatable Parmesan), stale croutons, and dressing that is more reminiscent of an amateur, store-bought Ranch than anything else.

The Cellar Door Caesar begins with a heart of romaine, lightly grilled; the whole heart is then covered (not smothered) in a piquant dressing with a hearty dose of garlic, and generously topped with a blanket of wholly fragrant shredded Asiago. Placed beside the heart are four cubes of warm sourdough bread croutons, infused with butter and yet more garlic; when these little boxes of bread-heaven are pierced between your teeth, you can feel the warm butter ooze past your tongue and down your throat in what can only be described as one of the most pure articulations of decadence. Though my Epicurean rhetoric was not quite as elegant at the table on Thursday night, I did persuade all four of my dining partners to experience the salad. That's what I love about truly marvelous food; you are often surprised and absolutely captivated by dishes where the presentation and the eating of the food is as filled with drama and marvel as any good stage play. In Julia and Jacques Cooking at Home, Julia Child recalls having seen Caesar Cardini make his legendary salad in person in Tijuana:

"[We] were so excited when big jolly Caesar himself came to the table to make the salad, which had already been written up and talked about everywhere. And it was dramatic: I remember most clearly the eggs going in, and how he tossed the leaves so it looked like a wave turning over." (100)

If you find yourself on West Broadway any time soon--or if you care to make the pilgrimage out there--do go and eat the marvelous salad at Cru. It is rather reasonably priced, and I'm certain you shan't regret it. Do, of course, feel free to invite me along.

3) The Garden of Eating

Yesterday, I had the pleasure of attending a garden party at a dear friend's house. K. is my culinary mother. Having trained at the Cordon Bleu in Paris, her cooking is always simple and exquisite, and I have spent many an evening peering over her shoulder watching her make delicious red wine reductions, stuffed pastas, lovely salads, and so on. More than anything, I love that K's kitchen is triangulated with three entrances: one from the front hallway, one from the dining room, and one from the door that leads down to the garden itself. As such, the kitchen is always abuzz with the motion of comings and goings, and the various configurations of bodies and food that arise from such a marvelously orchestrated space. And so K's house, with its kitchen, garden, and wonderfully-sized dining room table, is a safe haven, a port in the storm.

Yesterday, there were about a dozen of us--perhaps more or less--lounging on chairs in the sunny garden, bedecked in our very best neo-Victorian steampunk couture, drinking wine and other alcoholic beverages, munching on hors d'oeuvres, delicious strawberry tarts, crackers with Brie and Havarti, and feeding each other grapes. I really can't think of anything more marvelous and intimate than sharing food, and there's something so exquisitely sensual about having grapes dangled in front of your mouth, and eating them sans mains.

I am infinitely grateful to be blessed with such a wonderful group of friends, and to have a second home to visit, knowing that I can always stop by to enjoy some wonderful delicacy, or just a perfectly-brewed cuppa.

As I prepare to dive back into cooking this week--today, in fact--I do so with renewed optimism and a cleansed and invigorated palate. If only I could guarantee that I won't muddle the goat cheese cheesecakes I'm supposed to be making today...