Brownies, Bridget Jones, and Boys

Today I woke up at 6:30 (for no good reason other than that my body is a puritanically early riser) and after battling against consciousness for a few militant minutes, surrendered to the day and went down stairs to make some tea. An early morning “cuppa,” while still enveloped in a dressing gown and sporting eccentric bed hair, is one of my favorite moments of the day. And this morning was particularly scrumptious as I had the pleasant work of figuring out what to make for my third feast, coming up tomorrow evening. It is going to be a farewell meal and Girls Night for one of my dearest friends, Aleah, as she is heading off next week with her boyfriend to spent the next six months or so in Amsterdam (lucky buggers.)

Girls Night has become an institution among my Seattle friends and I. It all began in the rollercoaster years of high school, when we would ban all testosterone for an evening each week, watch goofy romantic comedies, paint our nails, compare notes on boys, sex, and love, and eat copious quantities of brownies with whipped cream.

This ritual was a balm for me, a haven of secretive femininity in which we all dared to confess our gravest sins and giggle over our silliest escapades. There was a unique dynamic created, in that space of undiluted feminine, one that wove between the therapeutic and the gleefully silly, yet was always supremely nourishing.

Over the years our evenings have often gone into hibernation, as we have all been sprinkled across the globe at different times and variously absorbed in our own lives. Yet Girls Nights still happen, more of a marking of passages now, than a weekly ritual. We’ll have one when someone’s leaving or returning, when a lot of shit slaps one of us across the face, during brake ups to sooth wounds, or when someone’s got a new guy and we want all the juicy details. As for tomorrow, I’m sure it won’t be the last Girls Night, but it’ll be bitter sweet nonetheless.

And so, as I leaf through recipe books this morning, I’m looking for something as warm and round and encircling as these evenings have always been for me. . . . Something communal and summery . . . I’m thinking a big skillet of seafood paella and a leafy green salad, some albariño wine and stewed peaches for dessert. We’ve come a long way from brownies and whipped cream, gastronomically at least.

Playing with Pasta

The pork loin was in the oven and the guests had begun flocking to the back garden. In a sudden fit of turtle-like effacement I found myself not wanting to socialize but instead to hide in the kitchen, ensconced in a voluminous Swedish apron, rolling fresh pasta. However, several junior guests would not allow this, and soon I found myself the center of a small cluster of wide-eyed on-lookers. They were mesmerized by the process of rolling and cutting the pasta dough, watching intensely as I threaded, folded, and threaded again; gradually transforming the rough ball into a paper-thin sheet which I then shredded into strands of fettuccini.

Elijah, a little boy with a head of tight black curls, hurled a volley of questions at me: what was I doing? Why did it have to be rolled so many times? Was it not thin enough yet? And he appeared so entranced when I finally shredded a sheet of dough, that my heart and desire for hermitage melted and I offered to let him have a go.

Alas I should have remembered that children are sticklers for equal distribution of goods and services, and I soon found myself teaching the whole cluster of kids how to roll pasta. Now I don’t consider myself to be one of those women who is inherently good with kids, or particularly motherly, but as I helped the determined little Phoebe press a wad of pasta through the machine I suddenly found myself immensely gratified by the whole process. Perhaps the rather maternal Swedish apron I wore (which looks more like a frilly Mexican peasant dress than anything else) was subtly influencing my mind; or perhaps my raw wrangle of emotions was responsible. Either way, that evening socializing with children seemed a haven of comfort and sustenance.

Later I took off my apron, bolstered my courage with a glass of red, and went outside to socialize with the rest of the guests. But looking back on the evening, the thing that really etched itself into my memory is standing in the kitchen with those eager kids, playing gleefully with dough and rolling pasta together.

Trussed

This morning I awoke to find Mum and Dad in the usual state of pre-entertaining frenzy: Dad out in the garden at sunrise with the weed whacker and Mum flitting around the house with various cleaning implements like a deranged, house-proud humming-bird. Taking stock of the chaos, I offered to get breakfast from town: croissants from the Swiss Bakery and coffee from Useless Bay Coffee Company, (otherwise referred to as my place of employ).

After breakfast I chopped together the fruit stuffing, placed it in between the halves of marinated loin, and then trussed the two pieces together with cotton twine, thinking absentmindedly that this process must be reminiscent of cinching up a pair of corsets on a corpse. Not that I have ever done such a thing, naturally.

Salt and Brine

I have a much-thumbed tomb on my cookbook shelf, entitled The Food Lover’s Companion. It contains thousands of definitions of ingredients and culinary terms. Under the letter B, the definition for brine reads thus: “a strong solution of water and salt used for pickling or preserving foods.”

As I prepare a flavored brine for pork loin, as I crush fennel seeds and toss sprigs of thyme into the boiling salt water, I think about this mixture and how it perfectly mirrors my mood tonight. Numbed by half a bottle of red wine, I am partially pickled myself. And my lips still taste the saltiness of the tears that have been coursing down my cheeks. I want not just to marinade this pork loin, not just to use the sand-paper salting to tenderize this flesh. More that that I wish I could tenderize my heart. It feels hollow and hard and mean inside my chest. But some ingredients can’t be brined; some relationships resist preservation.

Hot Sauce and other Thoughts

By the time I came in to the café for work on Sunday afternoon (I earn my bread by bashing coffee beans around and grilling sandwiches at a small artisan coffee house), our feast was already famous.

¨That homemade hot sauce sounded amazing¨ Jeff commented, as he layered cured meats onto a length of baguette.

¨What? . . . Oh, yeah, Sean’s brew. It was like bloody smelling salts,” I replied, grinning.

It had indeed been a potent concoction. “What’s this?” I asked Sean, bending over the stove and taking a hearty sniff at the pot only to find my nostrils assaulted with a powerful battalion of spices and vinegar. Spluttering and sneezing, I staggered back from the stove and lent against the counter until my vision cleared. “Oh, that’s just my hot sauce,” murmured Sean, quietly stirring another pot. “I got inspired to try making one while I was reading that book, the one about the history North Carolina barbecues. ¨I never knew that there was this huge debate about Eastern versus Piedmont styles of cooking. Apparently they’re like the Israelis and Palestinians of barbecue. They‘re not kidding.”

Back in the café, my thoughts began to wander from homemade hot sauce and on to the prospect of another feast . . . What would I make, I mused, shoving a tray of dishes into the industrial washer. I had promised Sean to make him British style pork pie, a delight that is sadly foreign to most people in this country. Maybe this weekend? And perhaps I should take advantage of the ripening blackberries that are rapidly blushing purple in this hot August sun? Blackberry infused vodka, I mumbled indecisively to myself.

I often spend days or even weeks in a delicious delirium of menu indecision.

A Precarious Ganache

“Oh shit, oh bollocks . . . It’s separating. Look, the chocolate and cream is going all icky. I think it's something to do with milk and butter fat in the cream,” I mumbled. “I must have heated it too much. Bugger.”



I could feel my body beginning to tense up and my brow furrowing deeply. Not now, I silently begged the universe, please God don’t let my chocolate ganache turn into a complete disaster. Not after such a glorious meal.





We had just finished wreaking havoc on the food. The big cast iron skillet that had, only an hour ago, been weighed down by Sean’s epic chicken pot pie was dog-licking clean, my burnt carrots with thyme and melted goat brie were reduced to a couple remaining orange wands, and the beef, peppers, and collard greens were in a similarly diminished state. Conversely, our bellies were happily full of the feast. But I had sternly admonished my guests to save a corner of space in their interiors for the two desserts which I had so carefully prepared. But now, alas, the evening’s perfection is in danger of being spoilt by th mischievous and uncooperative ganache icing destined for the almond chocolate mousse cake.





And then I paused. Just as I was heading headlong into on of my kitchen meltdowns, I suddenly stopped. No, this was not going to work. I was categorically not going to spend the next year cooking as a competitive sport. It’s the very first feast and you’re already forgetting what this is about, one of my more balanced and sane inner voices said. Now, just calm down, breath, and remember that everyone is having a lovely time. A broken ganache may bruise your culinary ego, but no one else really gives a shit.





As if in confirmation, Cory, who had been strumming idly on his guitar, suddenly broke out into song, everyone else lolling about on the sofas and chairs, airing their distended bellies and sipping cups of espresso. And so I just let go. I put the offending ganache into the freezer for a time out, took a swig from my glass of Pimm’s (a cooling, gin-based English punch), and beamed around at everyone in the room: Bennett was deep in philosophical conversation with Kammie, the usual knowing grin playing at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Aleah and Reilly were curled up together on the couch, and Cory’s little daughters were running about like colorful, mobile Easter eggs, all blond hair and summer dresses.





After pottering about the whipped cream and peach tart, I went back to the freezer to examine my ganache. To my utter delight, a small miracle occurred. As I took the mixture out onto the counter and began beating it, the lumpy globs of chocolate and swimming pools of butter disappeared, morphing into a luscious, silken gloss.





Perhaps the Pimm’s had clouded my mind, but as I iced the cake, I thought about the year ahead and decided, with great satisfaction, that the magically mended ganache must be a very, very good omen indeed.

Cheers. And another sip of Pimm’s to that!

The Kitchen

The inaugural feast is approaching (this Saturday night which may seem like cheating but, as Sean reasoned, we plan to be eating long into the wee hours of Sunday morning), and my fridge is groaning under the weight of marinading beef and pork, ears of corn, bulging bags of veggies, and the makings of two desserts: an almond chocolate mousse cake and a French fruit tart (my favorite recipe from Anne Willan's From My Chateau Kitchen cookbook). Am just hoping the kitchen can take this much weight for the next 24 hours. Breath . . .

The Beginning

Sunday August 9, 2009. I sat transfixed, eyes wide and riveted on the massive cinema screen. Meryl Streep took a bite of buttery fish and tossed her head back in a wild chortle. Julia Child laughed. My soul squealed in delight. This was categorically, without a doubt, my film. It was one of those films that come along so rarely, one of those whose protagonists reflect something incredibly essential within you.

I didn’t merely identify with the two main women in Julie & Julia, I felt myself fused to them. And for that hour and a half I seriously believed them both to be my cinematic and culinary soul mates: the unadulterated love of food and cooking, the contrasting banality of daily life, their secret life-sustaining dreams, and above all their hunger.

In this movie, Meryl Streep plays the famous America cook, Julia Child, who studied the length and breadth of French cuisine while living in Paris with her husband. Then she brought this seemingly unattainable refinement to Americans in her formidable work Mastering the Art of French Cooking, as well as through her TV cooking show The French Chef.

But Julia is only half of the story. The other character is a modern-day American woman who is grappling with the age-old conflict between dreams and reality. Having given up on her vision of writing with nothing but a shelved, unfinished novel, Julie now lives in a shitty little apartment in New York with her husband and cat, while slogging away daily at an unfulfilling, frankly demeaning, cubicle job.

In the end Julie is rescued by her love of cooking. She needs a project and a deadline, so she takes on the momentous challenge of cooking every one of Julia Child’s 524 recipes within one year. And, after many kitchen catastrophes, marital upheaval, and some insanely good food, she accomplishes her goal. Oh, and becomes a legitimate, celebrated writer in the process.

I once heard someone say that jealousy is nothing to be ashamed of; it simply reveals what you truly want. I like this interpretation of what I had always assumed to be a dirty emotion. And it greatly comforted me as I walked out of the cinema with my boyfriend. Because, in addition to having a new movie to add to my top ten list, and in addition to having two new fantasy soul sisters, I was wildly, stomach achingly jealous of both Julie Powell and Julia Child.

* * *

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid there’s about a 45 minute wait,” the hostess apologized. Hmmm . . . Sean and I looked at each other, sighed wistfully at the dining room—at the people crammed around little wooden tables, each laden with hot, thin-crusted and fire licked pizzas—thanked the hostess and trudged back out onto the street.

“Well,” murmured Sean, “there’s a new Thai place we could try.” So we headed down the road and ducked through a doorway into the surreal world of Long. Both famished by now, we ordered eagerly from the rather wifty waitress who glided up to our table and absentmindedly recited the specials. And then we waited for the food; reminiscing fondly together about the latest meal we’d cooked at Sean’s place.

“That chicken,” I murmured, lost for adequate words to describe the divinely barbequed wings, the sweet-spicy, subtly nuanced marinade, and the impossibly succulent flesh. “And those potatoes,” Sean added, remembering the crispy, rosemary roasted wedges, each of which gave way on the tongue to an ethereal, interior lightness.

“You know,” Sean mused, “there’s just something about good home cooking . . . you just can’t beat it.” I nodded eagerly. This was our favorite subject: the strange and inexplicable superiority of home made meals over even the most decadent, elaborate restaurant fare. But just as we were warming to the topic our entrees arrived.

I took a bite. “Oh no, murmured Sean, setting his chop sticks down, “you don’t like it do you.”

“What? I mean, well, I didn’t say anything yet,” I argued defensively.

“Yeah, well I could tell, by your face . . . .you, you made a sort of grimace.”

I sighed and poked at the noodles. "Huh, didn’t know I was so transparent. Well, to be honest no, it’s well, kinda flat, if you know what I mean." He nodded sympathetically: “It’s just like we were saying. Mine’s not that great either.” We finished hurriedly, paid the bill, and fled.

Returning to the car, we paused briefly to duck into a deli and buy some chocolate. This would serve to drown out the residue of our unfulfilling dinner and to raise our spirits. It always works. “We should cook more of our own food,” Sean said, slipping a comforting arm around my waist. “Definitely,” I agreed, “a lot more.”

* * *

And that is how I come to be embarking on this crazy adventure—tossed out to sea by a strange mixture of jealousy and desire and love. Jealousy of two semi-fictionalized female heroines, desire to apprentice myself to the craft of writing, and a deep, all consuming love of food and cooking. So, raise your glasses my friends: to a year of food, feasting, and friendship.

An Explanation

Why am I undertaking such a laborious endeavor, one with the potential of starving my bank balance and fattening my hips? The reasons are manifold; many are irrational or at least highly eccentric, while others are still, no doubt, hidden in the recesses of my sub-conscious, waiting for a prime moment to reveal themselves. However, for those who need a better answer, I have attempted to outline below the immediate preceding to this mad adventure. Good night and good feasting!