The olive
oil is just starting
to hiss when I throw the chopped onions in, two medium sized ones, one
each red
and white. I also throw in a chopped
shallot for good measure, stirring them all with an old
wooden spoon. I would have
preferred to add a teaspoon of bacon fat to sauté the onions,
but the
olive oil
is what I have on hand so it will do fine. Once the onion starts to
turns
translucent, I add
three large cloves of minced garlic. The sautéed onion was
already smelling pretty good, but the
aroma of the garlic is truly fantastic: an
aroma powerful enough to change one’s mood, to stop a
vampire in it’s tracks,
to transform a house into a home. I sweat the garlic for a minute or
two,
and
then I add the two quarts of chicken stock, and bring it all to a boil.
In the
meantime, I cut 4
potatoes into a large bite size dice, and slice two leeks
lengthwise, carefully cleaning the silt from
between the layers of the white
end before chopping it down its length. The pot is boiling now, and
thanks to
the store-bought stock there’s no foam to skim, so I chuck in half of
the potatoes
and
leeks, and lower it to a simmer.
While I gave always
enjoyed eating, my serious interest in
food preparation has been a more recent acquisition.
I still remember my first
attempt to cook something myself. I must have been about 7 years old,
and I
tried to
cook some bacon for my folks for breakfast one morning. I figured I
had seen mom do it enough times, how
hard could it be? I got out her
electric skillet, turned the dial until the red light came on, and
filled the
bottom
of the pan with slices of bacon. However, for some reason the bacon
refused
to turn beautifully brown and
deliciously crispy as I expected. Instead it remained
shockingly, accusingly pink. So after what seemed like
an eternity without the
slightest change in color or tastiness in the bacon, I thought
carefully and did
what any
self respecting criminal would do. I got rid of the evidence. I took
the bacon out to the trash can, cleaned up
the skillet, and put everything
away. I think I told Mom what I had done, and since I don’t recall
being punished
over that particular offense, I really appreciate the fact that she
didn’t come
totally unscrewed about my
throwing half a pound of perfectly good bacon in the
garbage. After that, I left the kitchen alone for quite
some time.
A half an
hour has passed
and the potatoes are now soft. I get out the immersion blender and lower
it into
the soup, enjoying the hum and whine as I run the blades through the
liquid,
once again amazed
that I managed to do this without covering myself in scalding
liquid. When the soup is perfectly smooth,
I taste it, and add some salt and
ground white pepper. I then add the rest of the potatoes and leeks, and
return
the pot to its previously scheduled simmer.
My cooking chops
didn’t really progress too much over the
next decade, culinary breakthroughs coming in
the form of an ability to
constantly keep my kitchen workspace clean acquired in two high-school
summers
at Taco Bell, and the perfection of my chili dog recipe, which would
become a college
standby. To whit:
2 slices of Roman Meal
wheat bread, laid side be side on the
plate, and topped with
3 hotdogs that have been sliced length-wise and pan-fried
1 can of Nalley’s Chili with Beans, warmed concurrently in a
separate pot, and poured over the hot dogs
4 oz Cheddar cheese, grated over the whole mess.
Throw it in the microwave for a minute to melt the cheese
and
Voila! Your heart attack is served!
When I left home for
college, my Mom gave me a handwritten
recipe book, which provided me with a few
basic recipes that I still use variations of to this
day: Spaghetti,
Los Angeles and a better paycheck
gave me the ability to eat something other than Spaghetti, Ramen and
Chili Dogs. Meeting my adventurous wife,
Julie, gave me the
impetus to try new things. So by this point
as a young man, I could get by in
the kitchen and certainly keep myself fed, but still had nothing flashy
in my
repertoire. I now had the means, & thanks to my love of food
itself, the
motive. I just needed
one thing:
As I wait
for the soup
I unwrap a loaf of sourdough I bought earlier today. The outer crust is
crisp
and golden, and flakes nicely as I cut into it with the bread saw. I
cut
several slices, reveaing the
beautiful, soft white interior, and wrap them in a
towel for the bread bowl. I save the
short crispy
end for myself, spreading a little Irish butter on it for good
measure. The crunch of the crust is a
perfect counterpoint to the mellow
tartness inside. Delicious. Of course, I need a beer now, so
I retrieve a
There were three
important factors that contributed heavily
to my culinary awakening, all of which took
place upon our move to
interest in all things
culinary. The first was that Julie and I finally got cable, and more
importantly,
The Food Network. Thus was I introduced to Emeril Legasse , whose
first show quietly taught me
invaluable lessons that increased my cooking
skills ten-fold, before he lost me completely as he changed
format to play to
the audience on his live show. I would watch the Essence
of Emeril constantly, along
with Molto Mario and David Rosengarten’s
underappreciated and seemingly
forgotten series Taste,
from which I
got the Chili Verde recipe I still use today.
Fortunately this coincided with factor number
two, Julie’s being
promoted to a position that gave her access to basically every cookbook
currently
being published. The third factor and perhaps the most important, was
that I
met my friend Gonzalo,
the culinary Obi-Wan who would mentor me in the ways of food
geekiness.
Since that time I have
come along way. I have tried foods
from around the world, from many different
cuisines and techniques, and have
even attempted to cook some of them. I have become the owner of
strange items as
a pasta roller, tortilla press, mandolin, dumpling maker, tagine and
pizza
peel. It is my
most sincere hope that I can pass my love of food and interest
in trying the different and unknown to my
kids. Early results are promising as
they seem to eat things that other kids won’t, and have learned to
appreciate
that great flavor sometimes comes in bizarre packages.
Through our work Julie
and I have built a pretty wonderful
cookbook library, and have had amazing
opportunities to dine in a number of world
class restaurants, highlighted by meals at Charlie Trotter’s,
Nobu, 11 Madison
Park, Bibendum and Le Bernardin. I have often had the romantic notion
of
wanting
to work in a place like that, particularly after reading books such as Kitchen
Confidential by Anthony
Bourdain, or Bill Buford’s Heat. But then I
realize that I simply don’t have what it takes to hang with
the pros, the
dedication to work the long hours and holidays when people most want to
celebrate and
dine out. One of the greatest joys I know is cooking for the ones
I love, and were I to have such a job,
I would be working on those nights when
being with my loved ones is most important to me. Although
perhaps one day I
will be able to take the time to volunteer in a restaurant
I love for a time and perfect
my knife skills
at the very least.
Once again
the
remaining potatoes and leeks are soft, so it’s showtime. I add a
quarter cup of
heavy cream for a little richness, then taste the soup one last time,
and
adjust the seasoning a little.
It tastes pretty great to me. Finally, I ladle
the soup into four bowls and top each with a sprinkle
of chopped scallion and Italian parsley ,
and set
them on the table along with the bowl of sourdough,
and yell“Dinner!” I crack
open a bottle of wine and the kitchen suddenly explodes in a cacophony
of
squeals, whines, laughter, orders, and questions. As we all sit down to
what I pretentiously call
my Five Lily Potato Soup, I am perfectly
content, and I realize that everything I
need is right
here around this table.