Sunday, March 26, 2006
You say empañada; I say empanada, but what about the dough?
Everywhere we look there’s compromise to be made. Perspectives, ideas, beliefs, biases and everything in between. When I thought about making empanadas, my first concern was, could they ever be as amazing or as tasty as Julia’s? Of course not, but she’s been at it for years. Once I reconciled that, I moved on to the next, inevitable concern: how do you really pronounce empanada? Do I sound completely ignorant when I leave out the “ñ?” Does it even matter?
Should I just call them homemade Hotpockets instead and openly throw away all credibility I might have had? The glory of Google came to my rescue here. Where else can you find a Spanish-Portuguese dictionary proving that no “ñ” belongs at all?
When I stopped fretting and started making the empanadas, I realized that all of my concerns were pointless when confronted with an imposing mound of flour on wax paper. It’s time. Just do it. Make that dough. And “make that dough” I did. I turned a veritable volcano of flour into beautifully smooth dough. Not without gaining a little perspective, though.
In the beginning, as I poured the homemade vegetable stock cup by cup into my volcano, I was sure this would be a failure. I knew that I would end up with a gooey mess of celery-onion-oregano glue. But somehow, as time passed and kneading became a groove, my glue gelled together. The pessimism faded into optimism, into excitement.
I realize that sometimes in life, we tell ourselves that failure seems logical and success is something we won’t experience simply because we haven’t seen it yet. As the girl who can barely remember to check the mail, how can I be expected to manage this empanada production? When confronted by something as yet undone, how do you know you can do it?
It turns out that the glue holding my life together is a mixture of moxie and preparation. The willingness to do what it takes and the gall to actually try it makes the impossible seem possible. Even with an MIA rolling pin, I managed to put together an impressive stack of equally sized empanada shells. Once you’ve spent an hour convincing flour, vegetable stock and shortening to get along, how do you turn your back when you can just use a can to roll things out?
When I look at my world, I recognize that I wouldn’t even know what an empanada is without having left the comfort of my Wisconsin roots. I mean; anything past pasties and cheese curds just doesn’t make sense. Yet, bucking the system as a rule, I managed to dart away from a life of supper clubs with fully-loaded baked potatoes into the great, wide world where curry and cumin reign hand-in-hand with the eggplant I hold so dear.
I take a look at a life pulled together by shear will and waitressing and I know that a little empanada is nothing to fear. Now if I can just figure out how to broil them without burning the tops…
Should I just call them homemade Hotpockets instead and openly throw away all credibility I might have had? The glory of Google came to my rescue here. Where else can you find a Spanish-Portuguese dictionary proving that no “ñ” belongs at all?
When I stopped fretting and started making the empanadas, I realized that all of my concerns were pointless when confronted with an imposing mound of flour on wax paper. It’s time. Just do it. Make that dough. And “make that dough” I did. I turned a veritable volcano of flour into beautifully smooth dough. Not without gaining a little perspective, though.
In the beginning, as I poured the homemade vegetable stock cup by cup into my volcano, I was sure this would be a failure. I knew that I would end up with a gooey mess of celery-onion-oregano glue. But somehow, as time passed and kneading became a groove, my glue gelled together. The pessimism faded into optimism, into excitement.
I realize that sometimes in life, we tell ourselves that failure seems logical and success is something we won’t experience simply because we haven’t seen it yet. As the girl who can barely remember to check the mail, how can I be expected to manage this empanada production? When confronted by something as yet undone, how do you know you can do it?
It turns out that the glue holding my life together is a mixture of moxie and preparation. The willingness to do what it takes and the gall to actually try it makes the impossible seem possible. Even with an MIA rolling pin, I managed to put together an impressive stack of equally sized empanada shells. Once you’ve spent an hour convincing flour, vegetable stock and shortening to get along, how do you turn your back when you can just use a can to roll things out?
When I look at my world, I recognize that I wouldn’t even know what an empanada is without having left the comfort of my Wisconsin roots. I mean; anything past pasties and cheese curds just doesn’t make sense. Yet, bucking the system as a rule, I managed to dart away from a life of supper clubs with fully-loaded baked potatoes into the great, wide world where curry and cumin reign hand-in-hand with the eggplant I hold so dear.
I take a look at a life pulled together by shear will and waitressing and I know that a little empanada is nothing to fear. Now if I can just figure out how to broil them without burning the tops…
Monday, March 20, 2006
To brie or not to brie (the conclusion)
My triumph over brie
Am I older? Not exactly. Wiser? I doubt I’m that either. Nonetheless, without time or wisdom, a lesson has been learned. I left off thinking about a little parmesan and possibly some cottage cheese. Before long, I had started thinking that I might be able to handle going back to dairy. Just here and there, but I might be able to handle it now.
Not long after hopping on the wagon and swearing off the brie wheel, I already began to underestimate the effects that amazing creamy cheese has on me. After months of careful avoidance, there it was again, laid out on a plate: the brie. So what is the lesson learned? Tempting, always, but this time I was wise to that wheel’s whiles. And apparently, once you lose your ability to stomach it, dairy forever haunts you and never gets better. Just when you make that realization, though, that cheese is everywhere.
And here comes the inevitable encounter with the unavailable, but infinitely accessible, man. Like a tray of brie in puff pastry being passed through the room, the unavailable man is everywhere. Just when you think that tray is gone and you’ve passed the test, up comes that waiter again. Was he making a commission each time he went by with that tray? With each dodged-tray pass, my resolved avoidance grew just a little bit stronger.
The illusion of flavor euphoria that brie on fresh sesame lavash produces is one that belies the truth: I cannot handle that cheese any better than I can overlook the fatal character flaw of the unavailable man wishing for freedom and taunting you into believing them.
Now that I’ve gotten past my eating cheese, how do I move beyond other people who not only love the un-digestible, but can stomach it also. I guess the hardest part of knowing what isn’t good for you is watching the person for whom your downfall is an uplifting force. That childish resentment that nags us into adulthood makes us want what we can’t have.
Is the ultimate confidence knowing, not only that something isn’t good for you, but also that others will embrace and enjoy that same substance? The unavailable, but inherently accessible is, in fact, unavailable because it is available to someone else. So, I may not be much older, but I could be just a little bit wiser. I recognize that I will never be able to stomach dairy, be it brie or a cheesy man—it’s not my style.
Am I older? Not exactly. Wiser? I doubt I’m that either. Nonetheless, without time or wisdom, a lesson has been learned. I left off thinking about a little parmesan and possibly some cottage cheese. Before long, I had started thinking that I might be able to handle going back to dairy. Just here and there, but I might be able to handle it now.
Not long after hopping on the wagon and swearing off the brie wheel, I already began to underestimate the effects that amazing creamy cheese has on me. After months of careful avoidance, there it was again, laid out on a plate: the brie. So what is the lesson learned? Tempting, always, but this time I was wise to that wheel’s whiles. And apparently, once you lose your ability to stomach it, dairy forever haunts you and never gets better. Just when you make that realization, though, that cheese is everywhere.
And here comes the inevitable encounter with the unavailable, but infinitely accessible, man. Like a tray of brie in puff pastry being passed through the room, the unavailable man is everywhere. Just when you think that tray is gone and you’ve passed the test, up comes that waiter again. Was he making a commission each time he went by with that tray? With each dodged-tray pass, my resolved avoidance grew just a little bit stronger.
The illusion of flavor euphoria that brie on fresh sesame lavash produces is one that belies the truth: I cannot handle that cheese any better than I can overlook the fatal character flaw of the unavailable man wishing for freedom and taunting you into believing them.
Now that I’ve gotten past my eating cheese, how do I move beyond other people who not only love the un-digestible, but can stomach it also. I guess the hardest part of knowing what isn’t good for you is watching the person for whom your downfall is an uplifting force. That childish resentment that nags us into adulthood makes us want what we can’t have.
Is the ultimate confidence knowing, not only that something isn’t good for you, but also that others will embrace and enjoy that same substance? The unavailable, but inherently accessible is, in fact, unavailable because it is available to someone else. So, I may not be much older, but I could be just a little bit wiser. I recognize that I will never be able to stomach dairy, be it brie or a cheesy man—it’s not my style.
Monday, March 13, 2006
Giving up or letting go?
There are things that are bad for you, but you could eat and like and just suffer for them with mild indigestion. What about the other side of things, food you let go of for your necessity of spirit and respect for life? Nearly three years in, I look back at letting go of meat, something I once liked, as I prepare to let go of something I love; my military-bound brother.
I don’t see as much of him now, living a couple time zones apart, but I think of him always. When I let meat go, I wasn’t seeing much of that either. It was around, sure, but not on my plate. I seesawed for a while, and came down heavily on the side of animals. Protecting them, that is.
After thinking long and hard about meat-packing, animals living sad lives and hormones coursing through all our veins, I knew that the best thing for me was to step away. I forged my own path, alongside the other vegetarians running rampant in the States.
Over the years, I’ve developed into a talented vegetarian cook, and cultivated my love for vegetables and a beautiful kitchen that inspires peace and tranquility. I look around me at all of the amazing food—without meat—and think to myself, who needs to eat flesh to be happy?
That was my decision. My choice. I celebrate that choice and the art of making decisions for myself. But what happens when the stakes are raised; what happens when your choices could kill you? What happens when you’re giving up, by choice, the right to make your own decisions?
When my brother decided to join the Marines, I fought long and hard to stop him. Much like the way my grandmother kept trying to tell me the bacon on my potato wasn’t meat, I tried every trick in the book to change his mind. Just as I saw through the guise of Bacos (posing as breadcrumbs?), my brother looked past my claims of, “just an fyi” or, “thought you might be interested.” He knew I was trying to change his mind.
Just as surely as my stomach will churn when I think of eating chicken, my voice will crack when I think of letting go of this child (man?) whom I love more than myself. But the choice is his. What’s right for him, you or I is only for us to determine.
In time, he may become a great soldier. He may rise through military ranks as I rose from a Morning Star Farms microwave dinner addict to tofu connoisseur. He may also, with his decision-making power gone, fight for his right to critical thought.
The difference is clear: In letting go of meat, I’ve made myself healthier and happier. In letting go of my brother, I’m doing just the opposite. But even as he gives up his right to decisions, I refuse to give up on him.
I don’t see as much of him now, living a couple time zones apart, but I think of him always. When I let meat go, I wasn’t seeing much of that either. It was around, sure, but not on my plate. I seesawed for a while, and came down heavily on the side of animals. Protecting them, that is.
After thinking long and hard about meat-packing, animals living sad lives and hormones coursing through all our veins, I knew that the best thing for me was to step away. I forged my own path, alongside the other vegetarians running rampant in the States.
Over the years, I’ve developed into a talented vegetarian cook, and cultivated my love for vegetables and a beautiful kitchen that inspires peace and tranquility. I look around me at all of the amazing food—without meat—and think to myself, who needs to eat flesh to be happy?
That was my decision. My choice. I celebrate that choice and the art of making decisions for myself. But what happens when the stakes are raised; what happens when your choices could kill you? What happens when you’re giving up, by choice, the right to make your own decisions?
When my brother decided to join the Marines, I fought long and hard to stop him. Much like the way my grandmother kept trying to tell me the bacon on my potato wasn’t meat, I tried every trick in the book to change his mind. Just as I saw through the guise of Bacos (posing as breadcrumbs?), my brother looked past my claims of, “just an fyi” or, “thought you might be interested.” He knew I was trying to change his mind.
Just as surely as my stomach will churn when I think of eating chicken, my voice will crack when I think of letting go of this child (man?) whom I love more than myself. But the choice is his. What’s right for him, you or I is only for us to determine.
In time, he may become a great soldier. He may rise through military ranks as I rose from a Morning Star Farms microwave dinner addict to tofu connoisseur. He may also, with his decision-making power gone, fight for his right to critical thought.
The difference is clear: In letting go of meat, I’ve made myself healthier and happier. In letting go of my brother, I’m doing just the opposite. But even as he gives up his right to decisions, I refuse to give up on him.
Monday, March 06, 2006
Do I really want to be able to bake a fabulous cake?
I am a cooker. If that is a word, then I am one. I would never go as far as to call myself a chef. And I most certainly am not a baker. Knowing that baking a cake is a skill, an admirable talent cultivated through meticulous following of measurement and timing. Wouldn’t it be amazing to add that to my list, the list of things friends, family and colleagues beg me to prepare? Who wouldn’t want to be a master of dessert, the course inspiring to those with an itchy sweet-tooth in need of someone to scratch it with a cupcake from scratch.
I was sure that, provided I worked hard, read the recipe carefully and planned my cupcakes to perfection, that I could do it. I could cook something amazing and fluffy and sweet enough to send my hypoglycemia reeling. What I didn’t take into account was that although it seems the logical next step for the girl who loves the kitchen to bake a mean cupcake, I might not actually want to be that girl.
Sometimes, when you think about the next logical step in life, career, relationship, you think that what makes sense must be what you want. The next logical step for me is to add another this or that to my resume. Could it be another recipe that is baked to perfection? Something that will get me an “in” to a party in need of sweets.
This might be an activity, not a new job. Perhaps this activity will be one that builds my networks and connections with people. If I succeed, they will follow my management like they wind through the line to decadent sweets at Firehook—blindly and with hunger in their eyes. At this point, ask yourself the same thing I asked myself: Is that really what I want?
I bought the ingredients, put together my resume, made a call here and there. I even dressed in business casual on a Saturday. I preheated my oven, took out the hand mixer and asked insightful questions of my interviewer. I brought up anecdotal evidence of my qualifications. Well, just because I made one excellent cake and bake a mean quiche crust (after how many failures?), does not mean that I can make these cupcakes to please these professionals and the prevailing DC sweet-tooth? In all honesty, as I read the recipe and filled my cupcake forms, I knew my heart wasn’t in it.
Stick with something you’re passionate about. Be true to yourself. I no more want to manage mid-career networking snobs in their quest to become high-level boss ladies than I want to add chocolate cupcakes to my mastered-menu-item resume. I will continue to experiment with pesto eggplant and the illusive holy grail that is The Perfect Hummus, but I probably won’t try to pour my heart into cupcake format. Or a bunt pan, for that matter...
I was sure that, provided I worked hard, read the recipe carefully and planned my cupcakes to perfection, that I could do it. I could cook something amazing and fluffy and sweet enough to send my hypoglycemia reeling. What I didn’t take into account was that although it seems the logical next step for the girl who loves the kitchen to bake a mean cupcake, I might not actually want to be that girl.
Sometimes, when you think about the next logical step in life, career, relationship, you think that what makes sense must be what you want. The next logical step for me is to add another this or that to my resume. Could it be another recipe that is baked to perfection? Something that will get me an “in” to a party in need of sweets.
This might be an activity, not a new job. Perhaps this activity will be one that builds my networks and connections with people. If I succeed, they will follow my management like they wind through the line to decadent sweets at Firehook—blindly and with hunger in their eyes. At this point, ask yourself the same thing I asked myself: Is that really what I want?
I bought the ingredients, put together my resume, made a call here and there. I even dressed in business casual on a Saturday. I preheated my oven, took out the hand mixer and asked insightful questions of my interviewer. I brought up anecdotal evidence of my qualifications. Well, just because I made one excellent cake and bake a mean quiche crust (after how many failures?), does not mean that I can make these cupcakes to please these professionals and the prevailing DC sweet-tooth? In all honesty, as I read the recipe and filled my cupcake forms, I knew my heart wasn’t in it.
Stick with something you’re passionate about. Be true to yourself. I no more want to manage mid-career networking snobs in their quest to become high-level boss ladies than I want to add chocolate cupcakes to my mastered-menu-item resume. I will continue to experiment with pesto eggplant and the illusive holy grail that is The Perfect Hummus, but I probably won’t try to pour my heart into cupcake format. Or a bunt pan, for that matter...
What to order for the intuitive cook
I think I know what a person likes because at one time or another they’ve said, “God, I love red bell pepper. I love its sweetness and flavor accentuation of any dish with the pure addition of flavor, sweetness and color.” When a reveal like that is made, a series of recipes come to mind, forever seared into my memory alongside that person’s tastes.
Of course, the logical winner in my red pepper recipe lotto was a smooth and hearty eggplant puree knowing the red bell pepper folded into the soup and lightly garnished on top would be a hit. But what do I want? In the recipe of love, now that I’ve taken into account the salivation of those around, how do I ensure my essential ingredients are represented?
When you cook to please, seeing that combined look of peace and elation wash over a person’s face brings satisfaction. But what happens when it becomes your turn for peace and elation? You’ve constructing a thoughtfully constructed meal for people you love out of the ingredients they adore. The peace and elation, for this intuitive cook, isn’t in the meal itself, but is in the eyes (whether they are half closed while savoring or wide open in surprise and recognition) of those you feed.
Of course, the logical winner in my red pepper recipe lotto was a smooth and hearty eggplant puree knowing the red bell pepper folded into the soup and lightly garnished on top would be a hit. But what do I want? In the recipe of love, now that I’ve taken into account the salivation of those around, how do I ensure my essential ingredients are represented?
When you cook to please, seeing that combined look of peace and elation wash over a person’s face brings satisfaction. But what happens when it becomes your turn for peace and elation? You’ve constructing a thoughtfully constructed meal for people you love out of the ingredients they adore. The peace and elation, for this intuitive cook, isn’t in the meal itself, but is in the eyes (whether they are half closed while savoring or wide open in surprise and recognition) of those you feed.
