It’s no surprise that since I imported my portly papa from the big apple, he and I have spent the better part of our time rhapsodizing about food, often directly across the table from each other, and likely while reveling in the pleasures provided by a bowl of grapes. We’re able to discuss food endlessly without tiring the subject out, for there is always an element of mystère in food, après tout. It is an endlessly giving subject, always relevant, and just elusive enough that it captivates me unendingly.
Indeed, with a French posse around (believe it or not, we’ve got a Francophone tribe in Marfa), a certain haughtiness appears in my culinary attitude. Or rather, the notion of French culinary superiority that I usually secret away in the far back recesses of mind, quite ashamedly, becomes validated. And I give it voice! Grace à dieu, for once in my life I’m not soliloquizing, but discussing! With real live specimens! It is quite a departure, a breath of fresh air, a horse of a different color, and, let me see…ah! A whole different ball game! Man, I love idioms! See, even when I get hoity toity and Française, I never forget that I am very much American too.
For the French, food and sex are inextricable. The idea of sex performed exclusively for procreation and eating only for fuel is abhorrent, abominable, and in violation of natural laws. Sex is sexy, or it should be. Food is too. This is what Americans don’t understand. In their obsessive zeal to render food scientific, they’ve lost the ability to enjoy eating. Constant referrals to nutritional pyramids and fad diets (who’s transience is in itself proof of how uncertain and un-scientific the field of nutrition is) have made most American meals a weird experiment in satisfying government-issued requirements. And they’re not even real science experiments, for they lack the whimsy of molecular gastronomy!
I’m not beyond considering the nutritional aspect of food at all. In fact, since a certain amoebic parasite’s stay in my G.I. tract three years ago, I’ve become something of a health nut (but minus the proselytizing and such). My family even calls me the food Nazi. Come to think of it, they also call me the grammar Nazi and the word Nazi. And they say I walk like Hitler (I can’t help it if my hips are locked in an unfeminine fashion)! Quite an accomplishment for a little Jewess, no? So I do have a vested interest in healthful eating, and can boast a veritably encyclopedic knowledge of food. Hurrah for nerdiness! I just don’t condone the American practice of stripping food naked in the most un-erotic of ways.
On to lighter things (certainly not on the scale, which groans under my weight now, but in subject)! Les recettes! For real Thanksgiving, father and I held a Battle of the Tarts!!! I made my own signature one, and he made the much more traditional and laborious tarte of Lenotre, the most famous contemporary French baker. We had quite a time. He got rather into it, and let out emotionally strangled cries of “BATTLE!!!” quite a few times. We thought by bringing our competing tarts to an unbiased audience, we’d finally know which tart was superior. Are you getting a sense, perhaps, of why I am so confoundingly bizarre? It’s not my fault, voiyez! Both nature and nurture are not on my side here! But alas, our crowd’s opinion was split exactly in half. So I guess the moral of the story is that each tart has individual and specific merits, and that they both cater to very divergent palates. As soon as I can find the time, I shall link the recipes to this post.
Profiting from the fact that daddy dearest is providing food during his stay, I’ve been cooking up a storm. In a last Bourgeois feast before his departure this afternoon, at which point I’ll go back to the starvation diet mandated by my meager salary, he and I collaborated to make a scrumptious spread last night. He is quite the obedient sous chef! The deceptively light and yet rich three course repast began with Roasted Duck with Orange, Thyme, and Butternut Squash, which is a deconstructed version of Duck a l’Orange, followed by a simple side salad of tender baby lettuces dressed in a Vinaigrette of Shallots, Sherry Vinegar, and Pistachio Oil. And for a most extravagant and festive dessert perfectly suited to the holidays, a magnificent Chestnut and Armagnac Soufflé with Bittersweet Chocolate Sauce. It was un delice, a culinary triumph! I’ve tucked this away as a streamlined and modernized candidate for Christmas dinner, and invite anyone else to do the same. It’s remarkably easy, really it is!
With that decadence over, I’m strapping on a thinking cap of an entirely different sort: gastronomic thriftiness! The youthful charms of poverty abandoned me long ago, or rather being a pauper got stale in my opinion, lost the sort of seductive quality I upheld it to have before. But, lest you get your undies in a bunch, there is indeed a very pragmatic and still wondrously romantic solution: Eat eggs. Serieusement, I could rhapsodize forever about eggs. They are endlessly valuable from a nutritive and culinary standpoint. And even their kitchen cred is multifaceted! Beyond the fact that eating a properly scrambled egg is indeed a sensuous experience, eggs are indispensable in cooking because of their chemical makeup. Yolks lend a luxuriant depth and richness to dishes and accomplish the scientifically magical task of emulsifying mayonnaise and sauce Béarnaise. Hard-boiled and passed through a tammy, yolks provide body to Sauce Gribiche and Sauce Tartare. Whites, when whipped, enable the whimsical rise of soufflés and Angel Food Cake. Together, these two culinary wonders compose one of the most nutritionally complete and valuable foods (second only to almonds, their vegetarian counterpart). And of course, from the standpoint of a poor peasant girl like myself, they are a fantastically inexpensive way to nourish body and soul. Plus, even eggs support the French notion of sexuality in food! Next time you fry an egg and prick the yolk, observe the languidly oozy golden goodness, in no rush to coat it’s surrounding whiteness, and tell me there’s nothing arousing about the eating experience!
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