Across the River, In the Kitchen, and On the Mind

What do you think about when you’re cooking?  There’s the purely tactical element, of course.  But one of the things I love about cooking is that it doubles as some of my best alone time.   I don’t exactly have (or desire, for that matter) a quiet little fishing hole to retreat to; or a panoramic view of the sea to pensively gaze out toward.  I live in Brooklyn, yo.  I’ve got kids.  I work.  So give me a couple onions to chop, and leave me to my inner monologue. 

As to what gets pondered as I chop away, let’s just say that it’s not always a matter of national security.  There’s a reason why the monologue is supposed to remain inner.  Case in point, I found myself in the kitchen the other day, thinking the following:

How weird is the list of adjectives that some celebrity chefs choose to describe themselves?  Naked. Barefoot. Galloping.  That list in particular paints a bizarre picture.  Unfortunately, it’s a picture of streakers, not cooks.

It was late afternoon on a Saturday, and my wife Emma, our two children, Daisy (almost four) and Archie (nine months), and I had just returned from lunch at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, followed by a stop at the Greenmarket at Grand Army Plaza in Park Slope, where we bought a pound of sea scallops from Blue Moon Fish, a dozen farm-fresh eggs from Tello’s Green Farm, fresh bacon from Flying Pigs Farm, white corn from Kernan Farms, a yellow onion from Phillips Farm, and a baguette from Baker’s Bounty.

I had the bacon sizzling, and as I began chopping the onion, I thought:

So what would my adjective be?  If I had to be The [?] Chef, what name would I choose?

It was a typical Saturday for us.  In general, Emma and I look for things to do that are fun for the kids and for us. The Botanic Garden is a good example. The same idea carries over into our meals.  Whenever possible, we look for crossover dishes – things that we know Daisy will love, and that will work on Emma’s and my plates as well.  Archie is too young to take part, although as of about three weeks ago we now have bagels in common with him.  Of course, his tastes are not quite discerning yet, so little does he know that he is gumming some of the best in the city – from Bergen Bagels, on Bergen Street just off Flatbush Ave.

Before leaving for the Botanic Garden and Greenmarket that morning, Emma and Daisy had made a crossover dessert together – Pavlova, a traditional Australian meringue (Emma is from Melbourne).  Pavlova is great to make with kids because it requires lots of whipping in big bowls, and can be prepared quickly.  Also, when it’s done, it forms into this fantastic shape and texture, like the hair of Moses or Beethoven (or at least how I picture their hair). 

[See links to all the recipes mentioned in this article listed on the top left of this page.]

Now, back to me and my bacon.  The plan for dinner was that Daisy’s entrée would double as Emma’s and my side dish.  For the purposes of this story, I’ll call it “Greenmarket Fried Rice” but at home we call it “Special Rice.”  And we would all have Pavlova for dessert.

When the bacon was done, and all of my veggies were chopped, I opened up a bottle of Cakebread Cellars Sauvignon Blanc, and thought:

Maybe I should be “The Unlikely Chef.” 

Why unlikely?  There are two primary factors that would lead one to assume I might not know my way around the kitchen. 

The first is lack of time, which I touched upon earlier.  Rather than itemize here the various demands on time in my life, I’ll instead provide a few choice examples of how those demands impact my affairs in other ways – 1) I haven’t been to a dentist in six years, 2) I recently returned “The Motorcycle Diaries” to Netflix three months after receiving it, and I never watched the film; and 3) I’m beginning to get strange looks whenever I give people recommendations about cool places to get drinks.

The other factor working against me is that I didn’t exactly grow up with the best influences when it came to fine dining. There’s a period that took place in my childhood that my brother and I still refer to as “The Crockpot Years.”  That was followed shortly thereafter by the period when dinner every night was the same thing – ten bucks. 

Nah.  I don’t like “The Unlikely Chef.”  I might be busy, but I’m also the father of young kids.  God knows I don’t want them to have to live through their own Crockpot Years.  And really, wouldn’t it be more “unlikely” if I was ordering Daisy Chinese food every night? 

As I was cooking, Emma was bathing the kids.  When Daisy emerged from the tub and came into the kitchen to peek, with her towel wrapped around her tight, I was mixing in the final ingredients for our Greenmarket Fried Rice – a handful of fresh cilantro and a few splashes of soy. When she returned to the kitchen in her pidgies, there was a steaming bowl of “Special Rice” on the table, and a small piece of the Pavlova on the counter – something of an incentive program.

As Daisy ate, I cleaned the pan, and pulled the sea scallops from the fridge for seasoning.  I finished off my first glass of Sauvignon Blanc, took over Archie from Emma, and gave him his last bottle of milk for the day.  In the meantime, Emma made a salad of romaine lettuce, pears, dried cranberries, crumbled blue cheese, roasted pine nuts, and vinaigrette.

Maybe I should be “The Choreographed Cook?” 

I wouldn’t say that the meals we prepare at home have a particularly high level of cooking difficulty.  Given our bias for crossover dishes, we find ourselves square in the camp of either comfort food (e.g., fried rice) or simple but good dishes that can be prepared quickly (e.g., scallops).   That said, it doesn’t mean that running our kitchen is easy.

The difficulty is in the choreography. The day will come when my whole family sits down at the table together, passes the same plates around, and trades stories about Bailey, our mischievous family dog.  OK, maybe that day won’t come.  Regardless, right now we operate more like a restaurant that has to turn its tables three times before closing.  Archie comes first; then Daisy; and finally, there’s that couple that stumbles in every night, after hours, exhausted, looking for a quiet table for two. 

The trick is to execute with precision timing.  I take special pride in things like having Daisy’s rice ready as soon as she gets out of the tub; and having our dinner on the table, steaming hot and perfect, within three minutes of tucking in the last of the littlies.

Back to Saturday, and now it was getting dark.  Daisy and Archie had both been fed.  Emma and I were on our second glass of wine.  Daisy was watching Mary Poppins.  At 7:00 p.m., Emma put Archie to bed, while I sliced the baguette we got at the market. I gave a piece to Daisy, and put the rest on our coffee table with some aged Gouda from Union Market (6th Ave and Union in Park Slope, no website).  Emma returned to the living room, sat on the couch with Daisy and they both snacked while I returned to the kitchen.

I got everything in order for scallops in a lime and cilantro butter.  When I could see Mary Poppins was coming to an end, I got the first batch of scallops sizzling. 

By the time most of the scallops had been cooked to a golden brown, Emma had progressed nicely through the bedtime routine.  Teeth were brushed, a book had been read, and I was being paged for my part.  I put the last of the scallops in the oven to keep them warm, then found myself in a darkened little girl’s bedroom, saying, “Where’s Daisy?  Em, have you seen her?  She was here just a minute ago…”

With the lights officially out on that side of our apartment, I returned to the kitchen while Emma quickly set the table, and put her salad and the rest of the baguette out.  I made the lime and cilantro butter, and returned the scallops to the pan, getting them all nicely coated. I spooned out two portions onto hot plates, next to the remaining Greenmarket Fried Rice. 

As I approached the dinner table, Emma was pouring the last of the Cakebread, and reminded me that we also have Pavlova for dessert.

When we sat down, I knew I would be leaving my inner monologue, but for something much better.  And I didn’t leave it without one last thought…

I don’t like “The Choreographed Cook” either, since every cook has to have good timing.  In fact, I don’t really like anything with the definitive “The” in front of it.  I’m just one of the many young busy fathers and husbands in Brooklyn who cherish the time they get to cook for the people they love the most in the world.  I’m A City Cook.
 

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