Sunday, January 31, 2010
Instead of viewing it as a chore, though, we both came to love it. I remember him making beef stroganoff when he was still in high school because he’s eaten it somewhere and loved it. He made the title dish of “The Enchanted Broccoli Forest” to present with the cookbook of the same name as a birthday gift for our mother. I was more of a chocolate chip cookie gal, but I remember enjoying the chopping, frying and grating involved in taco night.
Now that we’re in our 40s, we wax nostalgic over memories of shared meals and talk excitedly of what we’ll make next. Holiday phone conversations inevitably include discussions of what everyone’s having for dinner on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. I cooked Indian food for him and his family the last time I visited them in LA, hoisting my two-year-old niece to my hip from time to time so she could see what I was doing.
He is the first-born, whereas I am the middle child, and the only girl. He is precise and by-the-book when he cooks; I am laid-back and approximate. When we routinely cooked together in that student apartment, he measured and followed to the letter, and my cavalier ways with measuring and substitution made him cringe. His objection, as best I recall, was that because someone took the time and energy to work out exactly how to make something, their directions and measurements should be followed – precisely. Whereas it has always seemed to me that a variance of 1/32nd of a cup couldn’t possibly ruin a dish, and I’m confident that almost any recipe can be improved by the addition of vanilla and/or nutmeg.
So this is how I cook: I am constitutionally incapable of following a recipe to the letter. I look for things to tinker with the first time out, and make notes on what works and what doesn’t. Most of the time, it works out. Sometimes it doesn’t, and I chalk it up to experience.
This blog will be me, cooking a new recipe every week, and of course tinkering with and writing about it. I hope you enjoy it as much as I know I will.