I love making shrimp stock. Heating the empty shells in a dry pan, then adding water, watching it steam, then simmer for 20 minutes makes a beautiful, delicate broth.
Then my husband sees the bowl of fragrant stock cooling on the counter and pours it down the sink before he starts doing dishes. Sigh. I can gut a fish, but I don’t enjoy it. I love making chicken and turkey stock. I threaten my hens that they will be in the stock pot when they get old. But I don’t have the heart to do them in. I love buying local organic olive oil by the half gallon and decanting it into a ceramic vessel to use every day. I love the char on a good piece of meat or fish. I also love sashimi. I love making pizza dough, rolling it thin, and cooking it on the grill; a crispy, delicious base for olive oil, grilled veggies, or figs. I love eating vegetables in season, but I make one exception. There are always – and I mean always – red bell peppers in my fridge. I won’t touch an off-season tomato, but I need my red bell pepper fix. I love pomegranate arils. Pips. Seeds. Whatever you want to call them, they are delightful. I love cooking simply. I try to help the flavors of what I cook sing their songs and then get out of the way. I am not a transformative cook. Why would you want to transform something that is already delicious? I love looking at pictures of beautifully prepared food. They make me hungry. They can inspire me. I don’t like the term “food porn”. Why make appreciating beautiful food sound prurient? Cooking inspires my writing. When I am in my kitchen preparing dinner, ideas, words, stories come to me. I run back and forth between the kitchen and my office to capture them before they evaporate like steam. That’s why dinner is typically late. But usually worth the wait. Comments are closed.
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