You ever wake up and ask yourself, “What am I doing here?” Of course you have. Bedsheets knotted at the bottom of the frame, water from the faucet flowing, a loud knock on the door. I’ll tell you: Some people, and you know who you are, live life every single day like that. Ironically disengaged, on target with the rapid and not so rapid flow of moods within and in love with whatever you see of yourself in others, but otherwise as dumb as a post.
Hence, the magic of cooking. I mean: Who doesn’t like a good meal? And for those of us from cultures where food has cultural implications–Ethiopian born, raised by Italian-Americans–the kitchen as a venue takes on a reality all its own. Melkam megeb, as my grandmother used to say.
Like last night.
Three baby chickens with Amish butter, salt, and pepper oven roasted for about an hour at 300. Removed. To the drippings this was added: Parboiled and tiny pasta, miso broth, a few spoonfuls of Japanese rice wine vinegar and soy, a pinch of Indian curry, and all the kernels from a fresh ear of corn. Stirred over a low flame. At the very end, four thinly sliced radishes and some Thai basil were added. A bed was made of this. The birds were put on top.
Total prep time was about 10 minutes. Total cooking time was about 70 minutes.
I mean, seriously? You can take the private disorientation and put it where the sun don’t shine. I’m pulling up a chair. I am digging in.