[Happy one-year anniversary to Sunday Scribblings.]
In the kitchen, my mother conjures up potions as she makes magic. She has no need to follow a recipe, save for her most complicated creations. Her specialties are numerous. When she visits, she creates sauces for the table and the freezer. While she is here, we eat homemade. While she is here, the house smells like home. While she is here, even the coffee tastes better.
In the kitchen, I make meals. Mostly edible, fairly adequate meals.
In the kitchen, my husband creates masterpieces. He will make his own concoctions based on the teachings of Emeril or Iron Chef or Rachel Ray. No scoffer, he, at the Food Channel. In living room TV usage, it is surpassed only by the Discovery channel. (Or America’s Funniest Home Videos reruns.) In the kitchen, he can ad-lib with the barest of ingredients, creating scrumptious, unusual fare.
In the kitchen, where timing is everything, my clock must often be flashing. And I’ve got no time for thought.
In the kitchen, my sister and her husband devise extraordinary meals with their All-Clad cookware, their Calphalon cutlery and their unusual spices. They take classes in Italian food, in Indian food, and in Country-of-the-Month food. They know the names of all the spices in their spice BRAND rack. And they know how they taste.
In the kitchen, I must follow recipes with almost no exception. One such exception is the very good marinade I make with…whatever. And it’s a good thing that the marinade is good because, in the kitchen, I am as apt to burn the meat as I am to undercook it.
In the kitchen, I am unable to focus, so my garlic bread turns out to be oven-baked toast (because I forgot to put the garlic powder on).
In the kitchen, I feed my family. Nothing more. But that’s enough.