Making things

Originally uploaded by Molly | Orangette

I'm currently reading a book by Molly Wizenberg, called A Homemade Life. It's part biographical, part cookbook, as her narration revolves around the kitchen and it really brings the story of each recipe to LIFE. She talks about how her father made perfect french toast and delicious potato salad and generously shares the recipes. She also recently opened a restaurant in Seattle which I am very curious about...it's not often I have restaurant envy, since I am fortunate enough to live in New York and anything and everything I could want to eat (save for real Chinese food, which I am convinced does not exist in America) is within 45 minutes of stepping out of my apartment. And she takes lovely photos.

It's a little strange because I was always a little food averse growing up. It was a bit of a bother because you were always eating constantly and it became a bit of a drag. I also suppose it's because I had no part to play in feeding myself or making sure I put food on the table when it was dinner time. All I really had to do was show up. And there is no magic in food if you are not a willing and active participant in its making or in its flavors or in what it tries to impart to you in an experience. My biggest triumph was making a pot of instant noodles with an egg stirred into it in secret at midnight for a snack when I was about 12. And it was magical because I made it.

Stuff that happened in the kitchen was a bit of a mystery to me. Even today, I am hesitant to make this earl gray angel food cake because I remember when my grandmother made those cakes they seemed SO tedious and her mixer was deafeningly loud and the wire whisks were pretty frightening to me. And then we had to wait around for it to bake, then it needed to hang out upside down for a while before we ate it. This is preposterous because I know the elaborate ice cream custards I've made have taken forever to manifest themselves as frozen treats. There was one time when my dad asked me if I'd like to help him make some chicken and I asked if he was going to make it from scratch. He said of course. I was thoroughly disappointed when I saw him pull a chicken out of the fridge and said "I thought you said you were going to make it from scratch." In my mind, making chicken some scratch meant either raising it from an egg, or gathering together stuff like salt, seasoning and other sand-like substances to make a chicken, I suppose, out of thin air.

I think making things takes a lot of the fear out out of doing things. Vipin asked if we could make falafel again this week...and by 'we' he means me. Partly because I don't want to deep fry, don't wish to deep fry, but more importantly don't really know exactly what goes into falafel, anddd until recently haven't broken out my blender in a while, I've been skirting around falafel for a while. Besides, anyone and everyone can have perfected falafel for $3.50 at Rainbow Falafel at Union Square. I thought of it as an unnecessary cooking endeavour. But then why make bread or ice cream or potato chips (or beet chips) or pizza or grind your own beef patties or make your own meatballs? So tomorrow, I hope I'll make some falafel.

In other new eatings, I bought artichokes and made them at the last minute. I have only heard about the hassle of eating artichoke, but I wanted to see for myself. It's actually not that tedious and I'd rather eat barrels of artichokes than have sticky peach and mango juice dripping down my arms. I steamed them according to this, and later squeezed the mushy garlic clove into the olive oil and balsamic mixture held in an egg cup. And yes, the egg cups have feet on them.