Cook the Story

<Note from Christine: This was not originally meant to be a Guest Post Swap. It was originally a gift of a post from The Mrs to me for use after my sweet baby girl was born. But I hoarded it, waiting for just the right super-crazy time. In that hoarding period The Mrs had her own sweet baby girl and then I finally got around to writing and sending her a post-baby guest post.

Now we find ourselves each with a post from the other ready to go out on the same day. How fun!

I’m very excited about this post from The Mrs since it means you get to experience her wonderful amusiosity at its best. Read her post then head over for the Root Beer Pulled Pork recipe and poke around her blog for a bit. You’ll love it. She’s so very insightful and she makes me snort coffee out of my nose on a regular basis (that’s a good thing, right?).>

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I have experienced some of my happiest moments in my horribly ugly kitchen, although – thankfully – I didn’t give birth to any of my kids there (nor do I plan to, thank you very much).

Strange beginning, I know, but bear with me – I actually have a point.

See, harmony in the kitchen wasn’t always the case. In fact, it’s fairly recent, and has come from long years of gradual adjustment.

When Seth and I got married, we didn’t really talk about cooking. I assumed that I’d be the cook; my mother was, so I would be too. Imagine how much worse the crooked nose I was born with looked after it got all out of joint with Seth’s announcement that he wanted to cook too. Let’s just say that I didn’t handle it well.

For the longest time, if we had to share a kitchen, I’d be prickly. Everything he did bugged me – the way he’d measure out all his ingredients in separate bowls, the way he’d splash spaghetti sauce all over the stove, the way he’d follow the recipe precisely…it all rubbed me the wrong way, and I let him know it.

Fortunately, he persevered. These days, he’s a far better cook than I am – intuitive, adventurous, and consistent. He’s talked me into liking so many things I had been missing out on, like Buffalo Chicken Wings, French Onion Soup, Red Beet Eggs, cheese as a general category (Who doesn’t like cheese? I ask you!), and – my personal favourite, Root Beer Pulled Pork.

And me? I’m the “It’ll be fine” girl. I still forget to read the recipe all the way through before starting, and haphazardly substitute or ignore ingredients I’ve only just realized I don’t have.

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Friday’s Food Forum was: In TIME Mag Ozersky writes that only moms, and certainly not the majority of short order cooks, can make a grilled cheese sandwich right. On the other hand, in Huff Post Pollak seems pretty darned excited about the innovative cheesy sammies that are staking a claim in San Fran. What do you think? Should the grilled cheese stay at home or should it take on the world?

Here’s my opinion:

Growing up, a grilled cheese sandwich was one of those special rainy day treats, often served with cream of tomato soup or, even better, mom’s homemade little dumplings simmered in and then served in Lipton’s Chicken Noodle.

Here’s what’s weird to me: Nowadays, you will NEVER find white sliced bread (Wonderbread-style or any other) in either my parents’ house or my own. You will also rarely find anything resembling processed cheese (Note: I have not yet gotten used to calling it “American Cheese”. In Canada we call it “processed cheese” or “cheese slices”. I find it hard to call it American Cheese and I find myself wondering why Americans even want to claim it as their own, especially since it doesn’t actually qualify as “cheese” in some U.S. jurisdictions where it must be labelled as a cheese analogue instead! (That’s according to Wikipedia, here.))

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Do you ever go through a day and realize that the only adult you’ve spoken to is the cashier at the grocery store? Two days a week for the past 1.5 years I’ve managed to avoid this experience. On those days, I drop J off at Kids Gym for a few hours. During the drop-off and later at the pick-up I am greeted with smiles, how-are-yous and chats about what the little tykes and the teachers are up to.

Teacher appreciation week was last week. It’s usually all about the role teachers play in our children’s lives. I have tons of appreciation in that area. For sure! They taught J his shapes, how to do a forward tumble, a bazzillion songs and a love of crafts. But I also appreciate them for their role in my life.

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Chicken thigh brushed with a simple port reduction and then roasted. Served with a drizzle of the reduction, cheddar-garlic-mash and greens.

My little J is not interested in sauces:

• He does not want any liquid to touch his food (except maple syrup, which he will use to drench anything, even broccoli!).

• He does not like dips (unless he’s dipping his  fingers in ketchup and then putting them in his mouth for a suck).

• Any kind of stew or braise gets a full-body pout and the request, ‘Wash my food off please, Mommy.”

I therefore don’t worry about putting a tiny bit of wine into our stews and sauces. Most of the alcohol will boil away and what’s left is unlikely to get near J’s mouth.

What I avoid feeding him are the intensely boozy sauces (not that he would ever seriously consider sampling them anyways).

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I just saw a Subway billboard that read, “A great sub ahead of time! Now open at 7am.” I wondered, “Who wants a sub at 7am???”

Then I remembered the first Saturday I waited tables at my parents’ Falcon Lake Deli. They wanted me there at 9am. I didn’t have a clue why they needed a waitress in the morning when they didn’t even serve breakfast. (more…)

My mom says that food tastes better when somebody else makes it. She loves cooking but she also loves eating. Getting to eat someone else’s creation is a treat.

Last weekend I pondered this as I bit into a breakfast egg wrap at my parents’ holiday kitchen. I make egg wraps all the time and never marvel at their brilliance.

I had watched my mom make the wraps. Here’s my theory: They tasted better because everything was done slightly differently than how I do it.

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Saturday I tasted a sandwich that puzzled me. It was the best one I’d ever eaten and yet I couldn’t detect anything particularly special about it.

My fingers tugged at cling film as my lips rested on a brown bun. My teeth crumbled cheese as my tongue prodded roast chicken. Everything slid together and yet the spinach crunched. Breathing in, the seasonings intensified as I struggled to identify a mystery ingredient.

Mystery unsolved, I regretted answering “no” when my mom asked, “Do you want an extra sandwich for the cooler?” (more…)