Luxe to Lentils

There is an unspoken prerogative amongst cooks which permits blatant nosiness when it comes to shopping baskets. I was in the local grocery store this morning, quaintly called the “Star Store,” and just paying at the cash register when Marty ambled up and wordlessly peered over the counter at my purchases. He must have been disappointed as these consisted of only two items, and not very exciting at that: a packet of lentils and bag of poppy seeds.

I explained as he scrutinized the lentils: “I’m teaching a cooking class at the food bank next week. I need to figure out some dishes using their limited stock and I thought about doing something with lentils.” He nodded and prodded the poppy seeds inquisitively. “I’ve got eggs that are about to go off, so its poppy seed pound cake. It’s all necessity cooking today if you know what I mean.” Marty nodded knowingly and trundled off into depths of the store.

When I first began to cook in high school, my approach was one of flamboyant disregard for all remotely practical or economical considerations. Whenever my poor mother made the tactical error of agreeing to let me cook for a dinner party, I would immediately settle down with my cookbooks, pouring over the most elaborate recipes I could find and making lengthy lists of the ingredients required.

“Darling,” Mum would ask, when confronted in one fell swoop by a demand for Spanish saffron, Thai vanilla beans, fresh porcinis, grass-fed filet mignons, Basque Manchego, red wine (and no 2 buck chuck, mind), grand mariner, and 70% Sharffen Burger chocolate. “Darling, is this all necessary?” Eyes moving down the list, her expression changed from concern to indignation: “1/2 pound of pata negra, bottle of balsamic, aged at least 5 years . . . do you realize what this is going to cost?”

I fixed mother with a hard glare. “The balsamic is for dipping. I’m making focaccia remember. You can’t just dip it in some crappy harsh vinegar.”

The conversation would proceed in the same vein, Mother indignant but only occasionally drawing the line. (Black truffles were out. No, not even the littlest, tiniest truffle.) Finally, Mum would part reluctantly with the cash, grumbling about budgets as I headed enthusiastically for the shops.

Naturally it came as a bit of a shock when, as a college student in my first shared apartment, I had to cater for myself on a vastly diminished budget. I remember going out blithely one day, early on in my new life, to the nearby Whole Foods store. It was glorious to wonder about, choosing my own fare, not having to persuade Mum of the merits of cave-aged Gruyere or pink Himalayan salt. The novelty lasted until I got to the register and began staring at the screen as my total mounted higher and higher. I parted with most of my month’s allowance that day, and staggered out of the store, heart palpitating, and mind dimly aware of one thought: Good food is not cheap.

After the initial shock wore off however, I began to embrace the challenge of cooking with less, and slowly, sometimes painfully, I have learned how to be a practical home cook: to use what’s in the fridge, modify recipes to my means, and generally make do. As I reflected after passing Marty in the supermarket this morning, a lot of my cooking is now dictated by these more pragmatic considerations. I still slip up on an irresistible slice of fragrant Stilton or a bottle of seductively silken olive oil, but these purchases are made furtively and savored with all the more relish and reverence.