Generally speaking, anytime you find your dinner splattered on the walls, under the lamp shade and down your shirt you can bet there was something wrong with the recipe. But before you start pointing fingers, just know that I was something like 20 years old when I used fennel for the first time. Not knowing how to deal with it’s strong, liquorice flavor, I paired it with some veggies, rice and called it a day. It tasted like gasoline.
My boyfriend at the time, a generally well behaved pre-med student with a very tidy Clifton apartment, GQ magazines stacked by the wall and a giant collection of watches, had an unusual reaction. There, in the center of his dining room, he gathered his food in the palms of hands, tightened the congealed mess like a snowball and launched it clear across the room, sending it straight into the bay window where it smacked and puttered down to the floor.
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I’ve got a secret, folks, and it’s born from the kind of raw emotion that divides nations, ruins presidential campaigns, sabotages relationships. I hate to admit it but my secret burns even hotter than John Edwards in a hotel room … and even though it’s so, so wrong, I hope you’ll understand.
Selfishness, greed, power. You wouldn’t know it but it’s all right here in this recipe.
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Say what you will … yes I am that girl with the messy hair and the half-wrinkled shirt who is often thinking four steps ahead without remembering to wear cute shoes. But when it comes to cooking, I’ve got priorities.
It’s late over here – or should I say really early – and that’s a nice thing because the house is still and even though the wind is loud and scary out there, I’ve got my husband and dogs tucked safely upstairs. Which means, I’m okay for now to write you a little love letter about roasted smashed potatoes.
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A savory cook doesn’t like to measure. Prides herself on creativity, spontaneity, judging temperature by sound, flavor by taste. A pastry cook prides herself on accuracy, on regiment. She is patient and organized and finds big reward in tiny little measuring spoons. For a long time I couldn’t identify with the latter … until last week when I found sanity in a cookie.
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