Feed Yourself
A few years back I made an appointment to meet a pair of friends at
Copia. At the time I lived in Sacramento and Copia is in Napa so it was somewhere between a two and four hour drive depending on when I started — seriously a two to four hour difference in driving time. My friends were driving up from San Francisco, same deal for them. But they’re were long-time Californians and I’d only lived there a year at the time. We decided to meet at 11:00. They arrived at 10:55 and I arrived at 11:05. I don’t know about you, but I hate being frantic. I’m a planner and I don’t procrastinate. If I say I’ll be somewhere at 11:00, I’ll be there at 11:00, maybe 7:05 at worst if the exact timing doesn’t matter. If the exact timing matter I’ll likely arrive at 6:45.
I had a class,
An Evening in Greece, scheduled last night and I had everything well in hand. It was an ambitious class in terms of getting it all into a 2-hour period, but I’d done my shopping the day before. I’d allowed time for a quick run to the grocery in case I’d forgotten something (and, because I’d doubled-checked my recipes the night before, I knew I’d need to make that run). I had all the prep planned, the menu/recipes printed out, my work versions of the recipes scaled (I was feeding 20 people, not six). I had a checklist of what to pack for the class and had a few notes for filling in "dead air."
In all my obsessing over the meal I was fixing for my class, I’d lost track of the need to feed myself and hadn’t.
When my alarm went off yesterday morning I spent about five minutes laying in bed going over my plans for the day, then got up to pour a cup of coffee (prepped the night before and brewed automatically just before I got up) and read the newspaper. Next I responded to my overnight email, then I ran down to the store to pick up an extra container of yogurt and some Triple Sec to flavor the yogurt for the cake (a last minute change in plans). When I got back I checked my email again and found a frantic note from an editor requesting last minute tweaks to an article. Shit!
Two hours later the editor was happy but my schedule was down the hole. The rest of the afternoon was a frantic effort to catch up. I arrived for the class with only 40 minutes to spare instead of the hour I prefer, and I had a major prep job (making meatballs) still to do. Fortuately, at this venue (Glass Bazaar, if you happen to live in Knoxville) I have excellent cooks helping me. We managed to get everything ready with five minutes to spare, and as I paused to review our mise I was handed a glass of wine and reminded, “It’s not really the Normandy invasion, you know.”
The class ran a tad longer than scheduled due to a faulty burner, but otherwise went off without a hitch and was a great success with folks chiming in at a break to request classes on other things. The pizza class is now scheduled, Middle-Eastern cuisine is probable, and grilling and barbequing will absolutely happen if I can figure out how to do it there.
I got home at 9:00 pm, stiff as a board (I’m too old and fat to spend eight straight hours standing on a hard floor), tired, and, not having had more than a taste (literally) of anything all day, hungry. So I turned on the TV and collapsed to watch one of those cop shows — something mindless. By 11:00 pm I was very hungry and needed something quick and easy.
An artichoke went into the steamer and I melted a couple of tablespoons of butter with some lemon juice and dried lavender over low heat. So what else? The perfect quick meal, of course: eggs.
I didn’t even want to futz with an omelet, scrambled was fine. While the artichoke cooked, I chopped some prosciutto, some green pepper, and whipped three eggs with a bit of salt, pepper, and fresh oregano (left over from the class). When the artichoke was done the eggs went into a buttered skillet along with the prosciutto and some goat cheese. The meal would have been perfect if I’d only had another glass of wine, but, alas, I didn’t.
Nevertheless, I had a bite of artichoke, a bite of egg, exactly what I needed. And then I forced myself to get up and take a couple of photos. In all my obsessing over the meal I was fixing for my class, I’d lost track of the need to feed myself and hadn’t. I wanted to capture that simple repast as an object lesson and making myself photograph it, as hungry and tired as I was, made the lesson.
I spend a lot of time and words evangelizing food and cooking as a way each of us can reach out and touch others. And food and cooking is certainly that and I think, given American attitudes about food, it’s the best approach to getting others to cook and, even better, explore cooking. But ultimately I must cook for myself. I must make myself happy. And I must remember that even with all my highfaluting ideas and philosophies about food and cooking, when I’m tired and sore a simple meal such as a grilled cheese sandwich or scrambled eggs and a steamed artichoke, made in 15 minutes, is often the perfect meal — or would it have been if I’d had some wine.Labels: eggs, essay
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