It’s been 36 hours in Boston, after 12 days in Japan, and of course this means pleasant disorientation, a big pot of hot coffee each morning, fatigue at five P.M., and full consciousness at 4:30 A.M. Thank goodness, last night, for oven baked and panko crusted onion rings, a salad of mache and romaine leaves in homemade miso dressing, a turkey cheeseburger, and ice cold gin. Oh, and “Homeland.” Mustn’t forget “Homeland.”
Just when you thought there was no more to be said about paranoia, enter “Homeland.”
Meanwhile, here in the tropics of New England, with crickets chirping in November on the 6 A.M. walk, my taste buds gain vigor.
Coming from a country where religious-military principles are applied to food, it’s tough to adapt to a place where expediency and convenience dictate the terms.
By religious-military principles, I mean: Discipline, timing, raw power, and adornment chiefly to indicate rank. Pragmatically, this means knife skills to create dishes are paramount; seasonality and even micro-seasons are critical; the ingredients are what matter most rather than the chef; and, if there is something on the plate it must have a purpose.
