Live From a Kitchen Near You

“Cooking is the art of adjustment.”

---Jacques Pepin

Adjustment? No, I’m sorry, I am horribly maladjusted (or so I am told), so perhaps this has been the problem in the kitchen for me. It’s not that I don’t try hard. I do try. What I lack in skill I make up for in effort and the ability to put out a fire. There are kids to be fed in my family; takeout and cereal are not proper meals, at least not every day. Recently though, I challenged myself. A good friend is an excellent cook, foodie, blogger, and social media maven. Jessica Alves has it going on in the kitchen, from simple to elegant and everything in between.

She recently started hosting Facebook live videos from her kitchen with fun recipes that can feed a crowd or just a couple of preschoolers. Honestly, a couple of preschoolers is a crowd, and they can turn on you fast. She asked if I would be a guest on one of the videos. Her current project is about waffles. Not those frozen Frisbees, but genuine, homemade waffles. She can do anything with them; it’s quite something. The problem, for me anyway, was that I would be entering into a Holy Trinity of danger if I agreed. There would be open flames, sharp knives and a video camera aimed at me. I don’t do well with any of those. Not to brag, but I don’t even have to touch a pan or a utensil to have a near-death experience in a kitchen. I suffered a concussion just from mopping the floor in my kitchen. A track light exploded over my head once, because that is the kind of luck I have, and I nearly lost an eye. I accidentally killed a goldfish in my garbage disposal; it’s a long story, but the gist of it is, don’t clean a fish tank in the kitchen sink. The floor at my badminton club is still sticky from the Great Caramel Sauce Incident of 2012. But hey, I have red shoes, what could go wrong?

Still, I was intrigued, so, like many of the adventures people ask me to go on, my answer is eventually, “Ok, why the hell not?” We agreed on a date, and that was that. Until it was fast approaching on my calendar and then began the wailing and gnashing of teeth. What was I going to wear? Did they make aprons that would cover up the evidence of a well-fed summer of fried clams and soft-serve? I don’t own anything flame retardant or camera ready. What about my hair? I tie it back when I cook because burnt hair stinks up the kitchen, but it’s not a good look for a close-up. Thanks to another good friend, I found an apron, and she monogrammed it for me, in case there was some disfiguring accident, the EMTs would know it was me by my initials. Jessica had the food all handled; my job was just to show up and help. I even wore lipstick, because I could hear my mother’s voice in my head, “Would a little lipstick kill you? You’re gonna have your picture taken!”

I showed up at the right time and on the right day, an accomplishment in itself. It was go time! Jessica’s kitchen is organized and looks like a magazine layout of some celebrity’s home. She got the camera rolling and there we were. Making angel food cake waffles, with maple sauce and roasted fruit. You can roast fruit, who knew? Ok, everyone but me.  My first job was to slice up the cake. Check that off the list; no blood was spilled. So far, so good. Then, for the sauce, I had to boil maple syrup and sugar. In a pan, over a gas flame. Another home run! I stirred, it foamed, it caramelized, it was a thing of beauty. No burns, no spills. Melted butter had to be brushed on the cake slices and the waffle iron. Pro tip: Waffle irons are hot and melted butter is slippery. Still, no incidents! I was cooking with gas, literally! Dusting waffles with a dredge (great word!) of cinnamon and a mere splash of butter. Plating fruit. But wait, there’s more! Whipped coconut cream. If you keep a can of it in the fridge, you can beat it into a smooth topping that tastes amazing. The mixer was humming, the waffles were sizzling, and I didn’t burn the fruit. Truth be told, that’s because Jessica did that part, but, moving on, what about the video you ask?

Well. It turns out that I am not good at knowing where to put my arms, they just flap around. On film, it appears as if I have restless elbow syndrome, but I’m working on that. We won’t discuss the fact that the camera adds 80 pounds. People say it’s ten, but that is a vicious lie. Couldn't I just hide?

 Also, in a Facebook video people watching can comment during the broadcast. Except I couldn’t see the comments since I was busy licking the coconut cream mixing bowl. I’m a class act for sure. Finally, whenever I have to speak around or to people I don’t know, I make a concerted effort not to sound like my Aunt MAHHHHGAHRET from DAW-CHESTAH. Except for this time. Holy Masshole Batman, it was wicked pissah. I did avoid dropping any F-bombs though, and if you know me, you know that’s a win.

All in all, it was seriously fun and surprisingly safe considering a kitchen is pretty much the Bermuda Triangle for me. Check out Jessica’s website at https://atasteforliving.com/blog/ for awesome recipes and videos. I will be back, stay tuned. Jessica's blog can be found here

https://atasteforliving.com/blog/ and the video is hosted here

HEY MA! What's for SUPPAH?

"There is one thing more exasperating than a wife who can cook and

won't, and that's a wife who can't cook and will."  ~Robert Frost

Ok, if I could, I'd edit out the "wife" part of this. But who am I to correct Robert Frost? I am an English major, and he remains my poetry icon in good times and bad. "Nothing Gold Can Stay" is a favorite, and, if I'm honest, that poem contains words to live by. We are almost done with summer; that's proof that these golden days are limited.  While the fall and back to school is the best part of the year for me, this summer has been fantastic. Hot days, beach waves, happy kids, scooter adventures, paddling at Riverhead and so much else. It's been a treat. Lazy days also mean less work in the kitchen.  

Sandwiches, hot dogs, a rare lobster roll treat at Little Harbor and of course burgers on the grill whenever possible. Soon though, that will not be an option, and the daily dinner debate will begin. Friends of mine know that I am not a cook. I can assemble a sandwich, boil some pasta, and, on rare occasions, make some beast, usually some poor unsuspecting chicken or doomed cow, into a holiday meal. That's the extent of my foodie prowess. I'm lucky my children are still alive, but I guess I owe that to Cheerios, Velveeta, and Chef Boyardee.

Sure, there are technological advances and microwaves and all sorts of delivery options. But then I'd have to deal with the shame of "OMG, you can't even figure out dinner? What kind of mother are you?" Well, that's a question for another day. Right now, I'm trying to answer another question, the perennial, "Mum! What's for suppah?" I've reconciled myself to the fact that "How the hell should I know" is not the answer my kids want. They are picky; in food choices and in every other way possible, and I'm left wondering how this became my job.  Sure, OK, my kids, my responsibility, but they are almost full-size humans now. There's only one left living at home, but the older boys come by on a regular basis. I'd like to think it's because they love me and miss me, but no. It's because I usually have cold cuts, bread, chips, Oreos and milk on hand and now that they are fully "adulting" they realize how much food costs. Who's your Mommy now boys? You might have flown the nest, but you're like bats; you can sense where the food is.

That's OK though, any day that includes my kids around a table is a good day. I simply must get better at this planning thing. Especially since I have started making my own dog food. Perhaps it's a function of having two kids out on their own, that I've turned my focus to Penny, the Smug Pug, but she's having some issues. Allergies, as it turns out, so now I'm making her food. Literally, I am scouring the internet for recipes that won't exacerbate her skin issues, but still sound yummy. This irony is not lost on my children. "Really Mum? I'm making my own Ramen noodles, but the dog has a custom, portion-controlled meal?" Yes, dear, that's precisely it. Because the dog doesn't give me any back talk.

So feeding these wandering offspring is my job, sure, no problem. It's not like I haven't been at it for decades. Still, I wonder why, after all these years, I still don't have it down. What gene am I missing? Why is it so hard to figure out food? Well, guilt is probably part of it. Back in the day, when my mother was in charge of keeping us fed, I do not ever remember getting takeout. A ride to Bianchi's Pizza in Revere was a rare treat, but most nights it was flank steak, mac and cheese, or "sketti and meatballs." The ever-present, "Finnan Haddie" made an appearance every Friday night,  because…Catholic. While I am grateful to my mother for many things, I suspect that my culinary frustration comes from her. She could not pass on her kitchen secrets, because none of them were food related. Yes, I learned from her the importance of having a cash stash in what should have been a cookie jar. Yes, she taught me how to put out a grease fire, but other than that, nada. No secret recipes, no helpful hints. I'm on my own here.

So what though? Have my children starved to death? Nope, not even close. Anyone who knows me can tell I haven't missed a meal in a while. So, is it a big fat hairy deal that I'm not passing out platters of food every night? As we head into fall, dinner will be served, eventually, and no one will die from hunger. They will just act like it. It's all good though. It's been a great summer, and now that it's almost (but not entirely) over, I supposed I will figure it out. I'd ask you all over for dinner, but there's a reason I only throw cocktail parties.