Cooking at Dara's House

It's torture.
I'm sitting on a hard wood stool in a small kitchen watching someone who clearly loves to cook and is having a ball. Imagine watching a really good pinball player. You know when they get that ball moving lightning quick all over the place racking up thousands of points and the bells and lights are going nuts? That's how Dara Merin moves around her tiny kitchen while while she teaches her classes.
Torture is maybe too strong a word. Anticipation maybe? At 6:30, five of us cram into her gorgeously organized kitchen and find a stool. We hold our packets emblazoned in beautiful font, "The Sage Table, cooking and classes for culinary wisdom." Tonight is "Mexican Mole, Posole & More". (Aha , stews! Perfect! see last entry...)
For two hours we watche her slice, grate, mandoline, mix, run into the closet and work her industrial blender, simmer, and all the while her rapid fire monologue continues. We don't do much except wait and wonder at her knowledge.
"How much cilantro did I say to add?" she asks us to check her recipes for her often. "Jordan would you grab me that onion?" I reach to the basket right above my head and pass it to her. "Isn't this easy? Didn't I tell you this is easy?" she says as she flips 180 degrees and opens her bursting fridge to grab a Ball jar of lime juice she squeezed earlier.
This aint Kitchen on Fire. This is Dara's world. She is the fastest talking most organic and health-minded chef I've ever seen and though she seems to forget and misplace as many things as she remembers to include in her cooking, her food is incredible.
But when will we get to eat it?
This is my third class at Dara's, and it really teaches you patience. This is a woman, after all, who can go on a master cleanser diet of nothing but lemon juice and cayenne for ten days. This is a woman who can cook an incredibly authentic Indian feast for 250 people in the woods outside Mendocino. This is a true iron chef, no flashy bullshit or port wine reductions, just straight up really f**ing good food.
For two hours all she fed us was a crunchy and delicious Algerian cucumber with salt. But what salt! "This is that Maldon salt from France which I finally splurged and bought and I'll just sprinkle a little on here... it's really good, you don't want to cook with it, for soup I'll use this jar of wet sea salt, see here? Wanna taste that? It's too wet to ground up, so to ground up and just sprinkle I might use- see that big jar of pink Himalayan salt? See, okay, I'm soooo excited because I got that a year ago from a guy at the Rainbow festival and I use that to-"...
Bring up salt, or fermentation, or Kombucha, or anything edible, and Dara gets like my nine year old daughter on her way to sleepover, "Sooooo EXCITED!!"
I've been sneaking little cherry tomatoes. It's 8:30 now and the enchiladas with incredibly rich brick-red mole just went in the oven. My stool neighbor catches me. "hey, those are for the guac."
"Ooops, sorry" I slink back to my stool and pretend to be very interested in the hundreds of hand labelled jars of grains and spices two inches from where I'm sitting." Actually I am fascinated by her extensive larder and do stare at it a lot.
"Okay, we're just about to eat, let's do the Margaritas, ooh, I'm so excited, we're having a party!"

And finally. We sit down. This is the best part of class at Dara's house. We do the most importnat thing. We sit down. We ladle ourselves steaming bowls of Posole. It has a wonderful grainy texture from the blending of the pumkin seeds, tomatillos, and chilis. The heat of it is just enough to make the mouth hum. The balooned-up white corn kernals, the hominy, are wonderful and creamy.
The chunky guacamole on the sliced up and baked organic Primavera tortilla slices ("From the tuesday market on Derby, I just can't have you over for a class and buy chips in a bag, it's just not my style") -fantastic.
"Ole" I say as we toast with the margaritas. They are smooth and syrupy. Sweetened with actual Agave Syrup. Glasses rimmed with the Maldon salt. Dara is a fanatic.
Suddenly I have forgotten the two hours of waiting and watching. Her food is the essence of soulful. We start to talk loudly, smiling and laughing. I go get the enchiladas that have been warming in the oven. They are made with organic corn tortillas, and a mixture of zucchini, onion, carrot, all bonded together with goat cheese. They are so rich and earthy, the mole is not that bland chocolate sauce you might get in a burrito- it is an incredible mix of Ancho Chiles, cumin, cinnamon, garlic and just a few hunks of Sharffenberger bitter chocolate. (She let us taste it at one point, two people said it tasted Indian, we all voted for more chocolate, she complied. It's perfect now. )
I eat one huge one.
Then another.
I realize that this wouldn't be so delicious if we had been handed Margartias upon entering the house and if we'd been stuffing our face with chips and salsa for two hours. In fact I'd probably be drunk, full, and half asleep if we had. We are all very awake now.
This is what Dara's house is all about to me. Being awake to tastes, to food, to the other people you are eating it with.
If Kitchen on Fire is the boot camp of technique and improvisation, about skills and methods and becoming confident with your hands and your taste buds, then The Sage Table is a reminder of what those techniques are for: Meals of beauty, made from ingredients with integrity, shared with other human beings.
And I can't f** ing believe it was vegetarian!


(I hate to encourage others to take her classes because you might get my spot at the table, but in the spirit of sharing good things, thesagetable.com... reserve your spot early...)

No Recipe

The Culinarian Barbarian gave us a threatening look and raised his big eyebrows.
"Those are tonight's recipes folks, BUT, you don't necessarily need to follow them. You know the techniques right?" No one disagreed, it was the calm before the storm. "Everything in the kitchen is fair game, if it's special it'll be marked. GO!"
And with that, the cooking part of my third class, "Stewing and Braising" began. There were lots of great dishes on the bill. Meditteranean Seafood Stew. Doro Wat and Mesir Wat (Ethiopian Chicken, and Lentil Stew, respectively.) Bayou Style Spicy Greens Gumbo. Longevity Noodles, and more.
And Osso Bucco.
Osso Bucco. Say it. Now say it in a low husky voice. Gets you right there doesn't it? Just the sound of those two words and I see a dark haired woman stretched on a sofa in some crumbling Venetian villa.
I know it's just long cooked veal shanks with a nice thick sauce, but when I saw that in our recipe packet, I knew that would be the station I raced to when Mike's lecture was over and the cooking began. But true to his promise, he'd thrown a wrench into our routine. Instead of finding all the ingrediens laid out on hotel pans, leaving only the measuring and cooking, lots of things were AWOL. Some stations were almost bare. He sensed our confusion.
"Folks, the first two classes you shoulda got the lay of the land," he sounded like a football coach at the halftime of a losing game, "now get in there and play around, see what happens. Most cooks don't use recipes, I never do. I might check 'em out for flavor combinations, but I know the technique. So do you, go for it."
Okay. The Osso Bucco station was pretty naked. There was no veal. There was no carrot. There was no celery. My dark haired woman rose and left abruptly.
I found a bowl of lamb hunks in the fridge and claimed it quickly. I nabbed a red bell pepper from another station, plus a few sprigs of parseley, a stray onion.
"You're gonna want to cut that into smaller pieces right?" Mike said as he whizzed by my cutting board. He made a point in the lecture that if you wanted the slow, magic meat-softening of a Braise to happen faster, just cut the meat in smaller pieces. So I cut them up, not as uniform as I should have, but into small cubes. I wanted that fall-apart-in-the-mouth magic.
Next, part one of the technique; I dredged the protiens (meat) in flour before browning it. This proved to be very f**ing smart, as it rendered to the stew an incredible gravy-like mouth feel.
So I browned them until I had a bowl of crusty lamb hunks. I removed the protiens.
Step two; I browned my odd veg assortment. I ran off to get some stock for step three. Where the hell are those nice plastic pitchers? Damn this kitchen has a lot of drawers.
"We're burning here Jordan!" Shit.
Mike turned down my pan as everyone looked at the damage on the central 8-burner range top we all shared . Some onions were blackened. Bad, but not ruined. Despite much forehead sweat, I went on to step three.
I Put protiens back in, added my liquid, the stock, so it's about half way up. (For a stew, technically speaking, everything would be submerged in the liquid.)
This was fun. I was free. It wasn't Osso Bucco but maybe I could make something edible, something great even. I remembered from the Sauces class, mike said that tomato paste was a good thickener, has collagen or something, so I found some in a glass at the bottom of the fridge and in it went. A few slugs of wine.
Step four; Bring it up to a boil, then to a simmer, cover, let cook.
I went to clean my station so I wouldn't get yelled at twice in one night, then I had some dead time. Peeked around in the fridge. A little bottle of Martini olives caught my eye. Threw about ten in the stew. A Little cayenne. Tasted it. Hm...ooops, a little too spicy. Crap. But I knew Osmosis would help that heat spread around eventually, becoming more mild. I was definitely making something.
About forty five minutes passed. The pair doing the Longevity Noodles finished and we all tasted that. Incredibly healthy tasting, beautiful brown, soy gingery broth and those toothsome Chinese fresh noodles, accented beautifully by baby Bok Choy. The bar was raised high.
I tasted my meat. Chewy. Oy.
I seasoned, salt, salt, salt. Pepper. I just had to wait.
I grabbed a tangerine, put it on my station. Cut up some flat leaf parseley and some very fresh oregano so even if it tasted like mud I could do a really cool garnish right? Tangerine zest on mud.
Mike tasted the meat. "Chewy. This is when it siezes up. Now it'll start releasing. Look at the clock. Wait, taste again in fifteen minutes. "
Okay. Wait.
After fifteen minutes, we taste again, everyone starts tasting with plastic spoons, bread. The meat is breaking down now, not like butter in the mouth, but not chewy. It's super rich, dark brown and gravy like. That's it. Any more and it'll reduce to nothing. I put it on the buffet. Microplaned some zest on it, garnish with the green.
People liked it. I liked it. It tasted good.
Yes the meat could have been softer. But the stew had an amazing texture from that residual flour, the tomato, the animal fat, the butter I used to saute stuff, all working together. Did I say "stew"?
Mike had a bowl of it, and seemed to enjoy it though he didn't say anything.
It was fun, the most fun I've had in class yet. I created.
No recipe needed.

Not While I'm Cooking

The scene where Carlo and Silvio wack big Dom in the back of the Pork Store was so good I had to watch it twice.
Ahhh. This is summer vacation for a teacher. I watched the last two episodes of season six of The Sopranos before lunch. Even pushed lunch a little late, which for me is major. Meals are how the men in my family measure the day.
No one is more religious about mealtimes than my dad. Though for five months of the year he lives alone in a little house in France, so he runs no danger of any late arrivals pushing lunch to 12:15. My oldest brother Paul has been an ex-pat in France for the past 10 years. Crammed into a tiny third floor walk up on the Rue Paradis, he likes nothing better than walking all over Paris for THE best loaf broad and all the way across in the other direction for THE best disk of goat cheese. A long time bachelor, much of his time is consumed being a connoisseur. My dad also loves to cook elaborate things for himself, and loses no sleep if he dines alone, as he'll tell me over the phone, "I wish you were here, I've got six oysters I just opened up and a plateful of beautiful tomatoes and-" he enjoys himself, by himself. Not a skill everyone has.
I dropped the kids off at their camps by 9am. Hit the strip in North Berkeley that has the worlds greatest fruit and veg place, Monterey Market. I contemplated grabbing a few things for the whole week, the kids lunches and whatnot, but realized we had already done the Big Shopping. So I pretended I was in Europe and just shopped for what I might eat today.
A big bulb of fennel. Two tomatoes so ripe they were cracked.
Up at the cheese store run by cheeful Asian women, I grabbed Pecorino Romano, and the ground coffee smell was so earthy and intense, a single espresso was unavoidable. Came home.
Tried to blog.
Nothing to say, I hadn't eaten yet.
So after my two hours of tube time, I went into the kitchen. Then into the Zone.
The zone, where all you see is the cutting board, all you think and smell and taste is the food.

I pooled olive oil in a saute pan, melted two anchovies in that, clove of garlic, chili flakes, in went the thick sliced fennel bulb, and I forgottaboutit- so it would carmelize nice.
Chopped up the final messy hunks of leftover lasagna, added some left over grilled eggplant and a few hunks of grilled chicken into it that was destined for the trash. Put a lid on that.
Sliced a bursting tomato, showered it with chiffed basil, olive oil, sweet balsamic, a little funky sherry vinegar, some of that Pecorino.
Beautiful brown almost burnt crust on that fennel. Tomato so wet it has to be summer now.
Took it all outside. Ate. The fennel was the best part. SO sweet, with that slight fishy edge to it, as unctious as Tony Soprano himself.
Which brings me to my final point, if I have one. When Dom came into the back of the Pork Store, Carlo had his apron on. "We're making fra Diavolo" Silvio says to Dom, "why don't you stay?" Dom refuses.
Who the hell would refuse Lobster fra Diavolo? Foreshadowing.
Then of course all the off color homophobic remarks Dom makes about their recently murdered colleague, Vito Spattafiore.
Then he incorporates Carlo into these remarks, who in spite of his silently building rage, continues to stir and season, his back to the interloper from Brooklyn.
Until the last comment about the lipstick.
Sil hits him on the head, and Carlo -despite Dom's huge size- manages to get that knife in about twelve times. Talk about knife skills.
A big professional mistake of course, to kill a made guy, to act out of passion in this way. But for gods sake, when you're cooking, when you're in the zone, you just shouldn't be disturbed.

The First Sunday

(As per my vow to cook for others in my house every Sunday.)

It wasn't until all the food was eaten and most of the guests were gone that the moment happened.
My mom's birthday dinner went off fine. The Lasagna I made was nice and saucy, the layer of grilled eggplant turned out to be a good idea. The Drunken goat cheese was better than the uber-thick mozzarella I've used in the past. There were kids playing, the wine was all fine, (even though it gave me a headache) it was good to see my brother very happy with his new girlfriend.
My mom was pleased and kept telling me "I can't believe you did this, you shouldn't have done this!"
It was over fast as my mom and her man split to see a concert, then my brother left to get his daughter to his ex wife. Only Jennifer hung around with her grand daughter Camille. Camille and my daughter Faye holed themselves up in our bedroom doing flips off the bed and watching Spongebob. Dashiell, who's six, stayed out in the living room, listening.
It isn't often he just hangs around listening and talking to adults when there are kids around.
But Jennifer has a hypnotic voice. She's a big Bubby. A hundred years ago she'd have been in a shtetl with a black headscarf on and a gaggle of little kids around her, or maybe a Yentl, telling them amazing stories of Dybbuks, Golems, and Rabbis.
Today she is a retired first grade teacher, a big huggable slow moving woman with a bad hip and a beautiful shock of short white hair. She talked and talked as she does, long stories about mundane things made interesting by her animated teacher's voice. Dash holed up in the easy chair and sat transfixed for an hour, occasionally joining in, in his stilted but eager six year old talk, telling a little story to join in.
As I kept looking over at him it hit me, that he was becoming familiar with a sound that was such a part of my childhood. The sound of someone's voice, so distinctive, like a thumbprint, much more vital that than their picture, or what others can say about them. In twenty or thirty years I can talk about my childhood, how Jennifer and my mom ruthlessly, ceaselessly tried to match me up with Jennifer's daughter Missy, and Dash won't just look at me dumbly becasue he spent every day with just his nuclear family or watching TV when all the grownups talked.
The food seems pretty irrelevant sometimes, except that it can be the glue that keeps us together.

Niki, a Great Host

Despite Mario Batali's creed, "in my perfect world everyone has an industrial slicer for Proscuitto and spends their days making Lasagne", I have to say, it aint easy. I made two yesterday. Today is my mom's birthday and I volunteered to make an early dinner for her at my house. I'm terrified.
Every night before I am about to "entertain" I have repeated nightmares where I am struck terribly ill before the guests arrive and they have nothing to eat or drink. I'm in my room throwing up with a headache and they are milling about confused and upset.
In spite of that, I did wake up this morning. The lasagnes are made. I also made some potato/green garlic /onion soup, the last two ingedients coming from my mom's garden, and I just have to clean the house, do all the dishes, and I'll be ready for twelve people to come in and make a complete mess.
So why entertain at all? Why do people do it? Some people are natural at it.

My old friend Niki Hale from Newburyport was a natural cook and host. She's a Greek woman who married a much older scion of the Hale family (one ancestor was Nathan Hale, "I regret I have but one life to give to my country") then she found herself a widow with two kids living in an inherited old historical relic of a house at the dead end of a road near the Merrimac river. Chipping green shutters. Creeky wood floors. Cloth bound books a century old lining every room. Coal stoves in all the bedrooms.
She rented a room to my girlfriend at the time, I was doing a degree at Harvard Extension in Cambridge, and the thing that got me through a week of lonely studying in Lamont library was the food-conversation-people filled weekends at Niki's house.
She'd pick me up at the train station, her frizzy gray hair flying, in her red rabbit convertible. Driving way too fast. Goofy smile with brown, crooked and missing teeth, brown because she smoked like a chimney. We'd go directly to the supermarket where's she'd get either a whole salmon, or a leg of lamb, maybe a bag a mussels. Though she was tiny , she moved through the aisles like a talk, talking, laughing and for some reason calling me "Jose".
We'd get back to the cold creeky house, warm our hands by the kitchen's coal stove which was black and about the size of a rhinoceros. Then we'd cook.
She'd put the fish in the oven. She taught me how to make real mayonnaise, whisking olive oil into egg yolk, and then she'd cut up a whole head of dill, add that in with lots of lemon juice and that would go with the salmon, still the best way to eat it I've ever had. She'd be on her second Jim Beam on ice (she always bought the gallon size) we'd put everything on the table.
Maybe she'd off to pick up her twenty year old boyfriend, or her daughter back from Columbia. But when we sat down, she'd talk. Talk about Greece, her father who was an archeologist, fleeing from the Nazi's, or Art. She could run down the whole history of art, especially the modern stuff, as her late husband, Robert Hale, was the first curator of Modern Art at the Met. By the time coffee was brewed in the chrome stove top pot, she might repeat the story of how, when she and Robert lived in the Hamptons, a neighbor who was low on cash, begged and pleaded and finally sold them a paintning for 65 bucks.
It was Jackson Pollack.
Sitting down with Niki, no matter if there were two or twenty people around, it always felt like a party. She'd say whatever the hell was on her mind, she'd shoot down someone if they were bullshitting; she was herself. At midnight, When she finally wobbled up to bed to read some thick novel for an hour, and fall asleep with the light on and her reading glasses perched on her nose, it was deathly quiet around the kitchen table.
I miss her.
It's rare to meet someone that fills a room with life. What a great gift to have.
That is what is truly "entertaining". Not just a bunch of good food spread out on a table, but that feeling of anticipation about being around people that are sure to surprise you.

Baby Octopus

It was a grey sunday, before the last week of school, when three things came together to create something really good.
1. A memory of something I ate ten years ago in Boston's North End .
2. The ever present half empty bottle of marinara.
3. The way the baby octopus glistened at Whole Foods, like they'd just been pulled from the sea.
(#1 -An appetizer at a place Wendy took me to called Limoncello. Just a few of the tiny cephalapods stewed in a tomato broth with some firm garbanzo beans. So profoundly simple.)
I boiled the little guys for 40 minutes, with a wine cork in the water. While that was happening I heated up a saute pan, Olive oil. Tossed in some chopped onion, garlic. When that was fragrant but not burnt, I emptied in the red sauce, let that hiss for a bit.
I ladled in about six of the octopus, now with the legs curled up regally, their grape-shaped heads tilted back, devil may care. Added a little of their boil water, which had become rose colored.
Opened a can of cannelini beans, emptied in half, with their goo. A few pinches of sea salt my son had mortar and pestled with oregano when he was bored one day. A few chili flakes. Cooked it a few more minutes. Turned it off, let it cool.
Was about to plate it up, when I thought of another favorite Boston place, around the corner from Limoncello, on Hanover street called Calamari's. A closet sized restaurant that's always packed, the freshest seafood pastas. No plates used, they serve you the food the pan it was cooked in. But unlike my blackened pans theirs are brushed to a shine.
I took the pan outside and ate under the gray sky. The octopus were soft to the teeth. Everything tasted like the sea. Like the sea somewhere far away.
All the tastes fit. I ate slowly because it was so nice to look at.
Sometimes you get it right.
Try this.

Cooking Basics 1 Stocks and Soups

This was the first class I took at Kitchen on Fire in Berkeley. (It was actually the second in the series, I missed Basic Knife Skills).
Walking into Kitchen on Fire was a bit spooky. I had only taken two cooking classes, ever. Both at The Sage Table, in Oakland. The Sage Table is Dara Merin's apartment. It's four people on stools in her small but incredibly well organized kitchen, watching her cook and gab and then eating at her dining room table. Dara knows her shit, and she gives you a nice packet with the recipes, it's a great little intimate thing, and the first time I walked into her kitchen filled with Ball jars of grains, an old yellowed Wedgwood stove, jars of fermenting cabbage, strange bottles of spices everywhere, I almost cried. It was like coming home. Like, "here is someone who understands me!"
Kitchen on fire, at first glance at least, is more like a kitchen class room. there were five rows of chairs facing a very large modern kitchen with about three major work stations. A huge hanging mirror over the main cutting board served to let the back rows see what was being chopped by the lecturing chef.
And Mike C did lecture. For ninety minutes. About soups and stocks. My first reaction was to bolt the hell out of there. What am I in high school?
Then I shut my mind the hell up and listened.
Surface area. Osmosis. Thickening. Femur bones verse bones with cartilege, joins. Cooking time. Fine chop, verse large chop. Size of bones and its relation to cooking time. Mirapoix or not. Flavor transfer. Flavor extraction. Coating starch with fat. Consomme. Bisques. sachet/Bouquet Garni.
Then finally summarized in Mike C's classic east coast no bullshit style, "Crap in a pot, Cold water, bring to a boil. Got it? Any Questions?" (Imagine the physicality of a hockey player, the focus of a ninja and the patience of a priest, and you have an idea of Mike C.)
Then we all got up and in a flurry of action twelve people made eight soups. The New England chowder was a f**ing revelation.
Kitchen on Fire Rules.

The Darker Side of Cooking, Part 1

Mothers Day

Like a good Jewish boy, I volunteer to make a mother's day brunch at my mom's house. My older brother Aaron will be there. My two kids, his daughter. My wife. It's a sunny day, light fills my mother's cozy little north Berkeley house. The kids play in the garden as I fry the potatoes. I've got a tart (or quiche?) of green garlic and asparagus cooling on top of the stove. A little fennel salad on the side. Some "kids macaroni" flourescent orange from the box. (Sorry Mikc C! I didn't know about Bechamel then!)
I'm proud that my dad's olive-oil-only crust recipe worked out well. I've made the flourless chocolate cake I learned from the first cooking class I took at Dara's house last May (TheSageTable.com). Very happy with the success of the cake. I've done all the cooking, again, but hey , I enjoy it so it's all good.
We're about to sit down. Aaron cuts up a few tomatoes and some hard mozzeralla. Part of me, the eternal-jealous-bitter-younger-brother, wants to say that for a tomato-mozz salad, probably the fresh mozz is a better choice, (duh!) personally I can't stand that hard mozzarella, but I don't say anything, it's just food for heavens sake. He drizzles some olive oil over it. Basil leaves. Looks good enough. We take all the platters to the table.
We all load our plates. Eat, talk. This is what it's about, I think to myself. The kids, adults, all together...My mom seems to enjoy the food I made. It's nice that after all th thousands of times she cooked and cleaned for us-
"Mmmm..oh...great salad" she says, giving Aaron a warm and satisfied smile. I wait. Silence.

...Huh?

More silence as we eat. I look at Rebecca to see if it's just me, but she smirks at me. She gets it. Great salad? Great fuckin' salad. I imagine myself pulling a Tony Soprano and ruining a family meal with a sudden fit of rage. "I'll show you a great fuckin salad, capiche#@!!?" I'll scream, pulling out the table cloth and sending everything crashing to the ground while they look on stunned and shocked.

But like a good Jewish boy, I sit silently and stew in rage and spite. And I write about it a month later.

Lessons learned? Don't need praise. Cook for yourself. Grow up.
Or maybe just be more Italian.

Any Given Sunday (in France)

june 21

Ten years ago I found myself in the middle of rural France. High in the hills, in a hamlet that had four houses. A fifth was being built by an American couple, that's why I was there. They hired my dad and his building partner, Daniel, to lay the foundation, break down the stone barn etc. My dad brought me along.
The only other life in the immediate vicinity was Michelle, his wife, and their goats. We spent the hot days of June wrecking old wood structures, jackhammering old pig stalls, digging temporary fire pits, an outdoor shower, and best of all, a totally temporary partially outdoor kitchen in a large garden shed. Kitchen table was a door laid over two sawhorses.
On weekends there were more people that showed up. Michelle's brother from Paris who was in a gypsy music group "Bratsch", his wife doing a PhD, Michelle's in laws, a guy who'd leave his car door open all day playing music, his girlfriend with bloodshot and wanderings eyes, a peasant who could have easily been cast in the French version of Deliverance, big moustache, yellowed cigarette stuck permanently to lip, always down to invite himself in for a glass of wine as long as it was after 9 am.
Every Sunday, in someone's yard, we'd lay out a big lunch, around two o'oclock. It was always hard to me to wait that long (noon is lunchtime to me) but what was laid out usually made it worthwhile.
It always ended with cheese from Michelle's goats. I remember this crazy one shaped like a pyramid, rolled and coated in gray ash.

I'm not a big cook or entertainer, but I vowed to myself when school ended that each sunday this summer I would have at least one person over my house and cook for them.
This terrifies me. It seems to come easily to many. Daniel and his wife Pat actually went on to move to France and have been there for about four years now. A natural choice for them as they are natural party hosts, very social. I am not. I'm awkward. Actors are most comfortable playing someone else. My self? how do I do that.
But there is something that happens, sometimes, when you sit down with a bunch of people, not just to satisfy hunger, but to sit down. It happened on some of those days, not all. In some way the laughter, the serious and silly conversation, the food and wine, the weather, it would all balance together and become more than the sum of it's parts.

This sunday is my mom's birthday lunch. Twelve people. Crowded backyard, no goats. I don't even know what to make yet.

Everyone is crazy for food these days. The food book table at the bookstore is enormous. Chefs are hotter than movie stars. Restaurant openings are more buzzed that theatre openings. Iron chef is bigger that boxing or baseball with people I know.

I'm trying to find something else. I'm trying to find that reason for sitting down.

Who Goes to a Cooking Class?

June 19th
Keeping in mind that I myself am not the deepest person, I will now offer some superficial thumbnail sketches of the folks I share counterspace with in my Cooking Basics classes:
*A kid who I taught in my Drama class two years ago, I guess he's about 17 now, seems kind of embarassed to find himself with his old teacher every tuesday night so he avoids me. People teased him in class, I wasn't much help. His sauce turned out better than mine. Karma.
* A skinny kid in tight jeans and a black mop over his eyes, bike messenger type, twenty maybe?
* Middle aged white guy with glasses, bank manager?
* A re-married ex-teacher and mom from Piedmont, loves the classes, goes immediately for the stations with things she hasn't tried before. Her first Hollandaise broke (broken sauce, really hard to get it back, pretty much impossible) so she tried again and got it, Rambo style too. Ten years teaching in Oakland public schools and having four kids at home leaves her pretty unfazable.
*Olivier Said. "Chef Olivier", aka Oliveman, Mike's co-partner in this venture, quick moving scruffy balding frenchman (or Spaniard?) looks like a pirate, has two books out, "Cesar: Recipes from a Tapas Bar" and "Bar"... Accent as thick as Bechamel, winks a lot, mischevious grin. Comes upstairs a lot at end of class to make a plate to take downstairs (the wine/food bar "Taste", also theirs)
*A few middle aged couples I have not really bonded with.

Next week is stewing and braising.

Cooking Basics #2

Sauces are F-ing Easy

As taught us by Mike C, the Kitchen Alchemist, a.k.a the Culinarian Barbarian of Kitchen on Fire in Berkeley, I will now teach you how to make sauces in one sentence:
Saute butter and then whisk in flour, once your flour molecules are all coated in fat, you are good to go and can slowly at first incorporate your liquid until you have a nice thickening sauce.
Booyah!!
So besides being a little bummed that I had to start this new blog because I was too dumb
to get on my old blog (cookingwillsaveyourlife@blogspot.com) I am pretty juiced after last night's sauce ho down. We made tons of them. Veloute. Buerre Blanc. Espanole. Bechamel. Then offshoots of these "Mother"sauces like mushroom sauce, and cheese sauce. We did Hollandaise two ways, one over a water bath and one "Rambo Style" just holding a metal bowl over the burner. We did cold sauces, Aioli, Pesto, Red Pepper Coulis...
It's ALL ABOUT THE ROUX. Roux is just that paste you get when you saute a fat then whisk in the starch. There were about twenty people last night in the kitchen so it was a little hard to get in to do a sauce but I managed to do a "espanole." This one is the same deal except you saute some minced onion, carrot and celery with the butter before addong the flour...then you mix in some beef stock and tomato puree...
So easy it's boring me just to write about it!

? What the hell...I had a blog, "Cooking Will Save Your Life" then it vanished...sigh....that is the way we shall all go... are we not all blogs that God created, till one day his password returns "invalid" and poof, we're gone?