There’s something about the economic downturn that has us turning to the kitchen to get our foodie excitement on. Over the weekend, Esteban devoted three hours to making risotto. He even put an onion in it, an actual real onion, which I still can’t get over. The man despises onions to the point that he lies and tells waitresses that he’s allergic to them, but he apparently is more adherent to authenticity than his fear and loathing of Las Onions. (Plus, he pulverized them in the food processor) In the end, he is very bitter about the risotto experiment, because it took two hours longer than it was supposed to and didn’t taste amazing. I actually liked it more than he did, but admitted that it would have been better if he would have skipped the pecorino and lemon zest and used truffle oil as the flavor component. Meanwhile, I have spent the better part of two days slowly caramelizing forty thousand pounds of yellow onions, which has resulted in 5 quarts of onion soup. I keep calling it “Thomas Keller’s onion soup”, because I enjoy the recipe with a pedigree, but really, I didn’t use homemade beef stock (a carton of beef stock and three parts water, because I became overwhelmed with guilt by TK’s admonishment that water was better than canned stock) and I used cabernet sauvignon vinegar instead of sherry vinegar, and I tore a few leaves of sage into it, since I had them on hand and it seemed like the right thing to do. At what point does it become “Weetabix’s Onion Soup”? I don’t know… right now, the onion soup belongs to no man, as I’m not sure I want to claim it. However, I’ll be posting the recipe (along with process photos!) over at my friend Kim’s culinary site, Forkful of News, where I’m occasionally contributing my half-hearted culinary tips and trinkets.
The month-long culinary experiment has resulted in a few unexpected surprises. For instance, I ran to the grocery store to buy milk and got a wild hair up my fine ass to buy some raw prawns. I had no idea what to do with said prawns, so snagged a spice mix and ended up boiling them with a quartered lemon (leftover from the risotto experiment). They take about a minute! It’s the fastest meal ever! It was delicious and fancy and I can’t believe anyone buys pre-cooked shrimp because it’s like chewing on a condom dipped in cocktail sauce. We then ate them out of a bowl in the living room while watching Wall-E and wishing we had giant floating chaises to hoist our corpulent selves. Ok, I’m projecting. That should be the royal We because I have no idea if Esteban wished this at all. Also, I hope to have a bikini’d princess chained to my body, and perhaps a little dish of frogs nearby.
In other news, Esteban has been pushing me to do something to help not feel so dismally depressed. I suspect that the recent demise of two of my blogging gigs has knocked the wind out of my sails, if only because it makes it more difficult to distract myself by jetting off to here or there, or to anesthetize myself against the weather by buying shiny, pretty things. Also, the idea of no longer receiving a monthly box filled with free fancy products would depress anyone. Thus, I’ve decided to take a pottery class. Apparently that’s what women without children do when they are finding themselves without direction.
Pottery. I have become an empty-nester without ever having children.
I’m vaguely excited about the pottery, just because it’s one of those things that I imagine myself doing if I ever had a million bazillion dollars. I would buy a kiln and a wheel and a bunch of clay and probably wear loud colors and listen to world music and maybe wear Birkenstocks with socks. Wait, this isn’t sounding as delightful as I had pictureed. Anyway, I like producing things. I like tactile creation. And the idea of clay has always been appealing to me, so I’m weirdly excited about the prospect of this class taking me through the bastardly months of winter into spring. Plus, I can make myself a huge mug and then say “See this? I made that!” And also, I’ll never have to shop for Christmas presents again, because I can earnestly hand my relatives a hunk of misshapen earth and not even feel bad about it.
I have also been invited to participate in an online workshop with one of my favorite authors, Jincy Willett. Every time she sends me an e-mail, I keep thinking that Jincy the kitten has finally figured out the magic of Gmail, but then I remember that oh yeah, it’s the person and then my head does a series of mini-explosions. And also, I’m worried about demonstrating any number of the workshop behaviors that she gleefully shish-kebobbed in her recent novel The Writing Class
It worked for Jonathan Adler, and let’s face it, Simon Doonan is too good for him.
