Eating Artlessly
Eating Artlessly
In a recent post in her blog, Domestic Goddess, Jennifer Hamilton wrote "Feeling food come alive and develop beneath your bare hands is such an incredible sensation– you feel alive and in the moment. Creating something edible and delectable and beautiful from virtually nothing gives you a sense of power, a sense of accomplishment and the ambition to continue to do so." I know exactly what she means.
At the moment my first two loaves of rye bread, made from a sourdough starter that I started, are filling the house with the most wonderful smells. These two loaves began with nothing more than whole rye flour, water, and the natural yeasts the flour already harbored. I spent the next two weeks nurturing this starter, trying to convert the unimpressive concoction into something that could blossom into bread. Occasionally I tasted the raw dough. It was certainly sour, but almost tasted bad. I knew the taste and smell of my wheat sourdough starter well, but this was different. Was this what it should taste like?
Then, yesterday, I started making the dough leaving the pre-ferment to work overnight. This morning I made the final dough. Really wet stuff. Or was it wet? Perhaps that characteristic was just a result of the lower gluten in rye dough. It seemed too wet to even begin working with so I added a bit more flour. The bulk fermentation phase went well. The dough was still loose, but I managed two nice-sized batards. The bread smelled right while baking and the finished loaves are lovely. I look forward to tasting it after it's had time for the flavors to mature.
When you're passionate about some activity, it's sometimes easy to focus so much on the how that you lose track of the original why. My rye bread is a good example of this. I'll cut off a slice and taste it to judge if it's what I wanted, try it in a sandwich, note it's lacks and strengths, make notes for the next effort, and in general act as critic. This critical faculty is essential to any good cook.
I made a pot of French Onion soup a few days ago. I've had an urge for it lately but have never been really happy with my efforts. It was much better this time and I think I know how to take it to where I want it the next time.
Yesterday for lunch, I heated up the leftover soup and poured it into a bowl over plain toasted croutons made from my last batch of sourdough wheat bread topped with shredded gruyere. Then I cut off a few slices of good Genoa salami and added some cornichons to the plate. Oh Lordy, was that a great meal!
Too often I eat as a critic. Judging the tastes and smells and textures against existing expectations, prejudices, and history. Too often, my efforts meet these criteria.
I say "too often" because even if a dish -- or entire meal -- is exceptional in some sort of absolute sense, it's no better than expected. Occasionally, as with the chicken in parchment recipe posted last month, something turns out better than expected and that's both revelatory and great fun. Such events are one of the reasons I cook and judge my cooking (and other's) so critically. Ironically, the better I get as a cook, the less often I'm pleasantly surprised.
But eating lunch yesterday I let my guard down. I'd already judged the soup. I'd already judged the bread. I knew the salami and pickles. There should have been no surprise. But there was. I'm not sure why. Perhaps it was simply the particular combination of flavors, but I think not. I think instead that I ate the meal without expectation or memory and purely because I was hungry, much as I might eat fast food burger. And it was wonderful.
As much as I enjoy cooking, the reason for doing so is to eat -- and eat well. When I become too caught up in the minutiae of preparation, focus too much on good technique, obsess over choosing the right olive oil, I loose track of why I set out to cook in the first place. Fortunately, something usually comes along about then to remind me that the more genuine pleasure isn't cooking but eating. Especially if, like my lunch yesterday, the food is seriously good.
Kevin
In a recent post in her blog, Domestic Goddess, Jennifer Hamilton wrote "Feeling food come alive and develop beneath your bare hands is such an incredible sensation– you feel alive and in the moment. Creating something edible and delectable and beautiful from virtually nothing gives you a sense of power, a sense of accomplishment and the ambition to continue to do so." I know exactly what she means.
At the moment my first two loaves of rye bread, made from a sourdough starter that I started, are filling the house with the most wonderful smells. These two loaves began with nothing more than whole rye flour, water, and the natural yeasts the flour already harbored. I spent the next two weeks nurturing this starter, trying to convert the unimpressive concoction into something that could blossom into bread. Occasionally I tasted the raw dough. It was certainly sour, but almost tasted bad. I knew the taste and smell of my wheat sourdough starter well, but this was different. Was this what it should taste like?
Then, yesterday, I started making the dough leaving the pre-ferment to work overnight. This morning I made the final dough. Really wet stuff. Or was it wet? Perhaps that characteristic was just a result of the lower gluten in rye dough. It seemed too wet to even begin working with so I added a bit more flour. The bulk fermentation phase went well. The dough was still loose, but I managed two nice-sized batards. The bread smelled right while baking and the finished loaves are lovely. I look forward to tasting it after it's had time for the flavors to mature.
When you're passionate about some activity, it's sometimes easy to focus so much on the how that you lose track of the original why. My rye bread is a good example of this. I'll cut off a slice and taste it to judge if it's what I wanted, try it in a sandwich, note it's lacks and strengths, make notes for the next effort, and in general act as critic. This critical faculty is essential to any good cook.
I made a pot of French Onion soup a few days ago. I've had an urge for it lately but have never been really happy with my efforts. It was much better this time and I think I know how to take it to where I want it the next time.
Yesterday for lunch, I heated up the leftover soup and poured it into a bowl over plain toasted croutons made from my last batch of sourdough wheat bread topped with shredded gruyere. Then I cut off a few slices of good Genoa salami and added some cornichons to the plate. Oh Lordy, was that a great meal!
Too often I eat as a critic. Judging the tastes and smells and textures against existing expectations, prejudices, and history. Too often, my efforts meet these criteria.
I say "too often" because even if a dish -- or entire meal -- is exceptional in some sort of absolute sense, it's no better than expected. Occasionally, as with the chicken in parchment recipe posted last month, something turns out better than expected and that's both revelatory and great fun. Such events are one of the reasons I cook and judge my cooking (and other's) so critically. Ironically, the better I get as a cook, the less often I'm pleasantly surprised.
But eating lunch yesterday I let my guard down. I'd already judged the soup. I'd already judged the bread. I knew the salami and pickles. There should have been no surprise. But there was. I'm not sure why. Perhaps it was simply the particular combination of flavors, but I think not. I think instead that I ate the meal without expectation or memory and purely because I was hungry, much as I might eat fast food burger. And it was wonderful.
As much as I enjoy cooking, the reason for doing so is to eat -- and eat well. When I become too caught up in the minutiae of preparation, focus too much on good technique, obsess over choosing the right olive oil, I loose track of why I set out to cook in the first place. Fortunately, something usually comes along about then to remind me that the more genuine pleasure isn't cooking but eating. Especially if, like my lunch yesterday, the food is seriously good.
Kevin
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