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My mother and brother, both with various health care concerns, have long abandoned experimental, inspirational cooking; they've resigned to the preparation and consumption of practical, predictable foods. Beef or chicken, green beans or summer squash, everything is seasoned the same. Bland and boring. No, no, no. My palate is screaming, "This will not do!" Where is their culinary enthusiasm? Around them, cooking seems like a joyless obligation, necessary only for subsistence. They eat just to fulfill hunger's need, and I wonder how can they possibly enjoy their food? The memories I have of mom's cooking contain so much more variety and spiciness, but how to revive their memories. I'd like very much for them to see as I see and feel as I feel a passion for what's on the plate.
Of those that truly know me, it's no secret that I have a passion for food. Call me a cooking zealot, a fanatic foodie, a gourmand, whatever, but more than anything, I'm an appreciator. I appreciate the who, the what, the where, the why, and especially the how of good food. As an appreciator, I not only enjoy the end result, but the process of its creation.
Still holding on to baby fat in my early teens, I desperately wanted to lose weight. Peer-pressure and poor body imagine drove me to dieting. It's difficult dieting at such a young age, when all you want to do is go to a pizza party with your friends or enjoy a bowl of ice cream after dinner. As difficult as it was, I managed to resist temptation and satiated my hunger by watching the cooking channel. Easily, I'd become engrossed in watching bubbling pots and sizzling pans, so much so that I'd forget I was hungry. I didn't it know then, but those days were my first experiences with what I'd later call food pornography.
During that time, my definition of eating changed. Eating was no longer about shoveling food down my throat until I was full. Suddenly, eating involved all my senses like it never had before. In my mind, I would deconstruct a meal into its numerous ingredients and stages of preparation. Then, I'd devour each ingredient individually, searching for its distinctive voice within the dish before ever savoring the flavors together. My mind wrapped around food in ways my tongue wished it could. Watching the cooking channel taught me the complexity and diversity of food, and most importantly to respect processes. The process of making a cake was more than mixing ingredients, pouring batter into a pan, and baking it in the oven. Now, I was able to see the whole story of my food from farm to plate; I could see the series of unique steps in creating something wonderful. It was the harvesting of wheat, the laying of eggs, thousands of glittery sugar crystals, the mother's milk of a cow, the essence of vanilla traveling from Madagascar; it was my time, my love, and my good intentions together in one sweet symphony.
Now back to the aforementioned food porn. Food pornography has become a growing addiction/obsession of mine. As a cookbook collector, I appreciate how new cookbook publications incorporate a lot of pictures. Can you imagine me snuggled in my bed at night, reading my cookbooks lustfully like Harlequin novels? All the mouthwatering images of foods prepared in such imaginative, provocative ways makes me crave more, so much more than a taste. I want the adventure in the making of a recipe. I want the thrill of creation. *maniacally bellows* "It's alive!"
Closing thoughts:
I'm returning to the subject of joyful home cooking. As much as I'd like to share my enthusiasm and passion with my family, I know that what I do needs to be for my own fulfillment and pleasure. Still, I think everyone deserves a fair warning.
Here ye, here ye! Make note of my decree. I'm dumping the bland and boring in my life. Give me a taste adventure. Better yet, give me a taste explosion, or else I'll consume thee instead. Fava beans and Chianti optional. Citizens of the world, there's no telling what I'll create, what wonders I'll serve up on a plate. Be not afraid of the possibilities or the promise of adventure.
It is not with a heavy heart, but rather with a heavy hand that I poor the heavy cream.
Viva la bacon, butter, and booze!
Let my culinary revolution begin.
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