Burnt waxed paper smells like birthdays. At least, that was the memory my sense of smell triggered, until my brain took over and I connected the flames on the waxed paper with the flames on wax candles in cakes.
I had rolled out each ball of dough into a see-through circle, then stacked them between squares of deli paper to move them. Even though each individual piece was fragile, thinner than pie crust, more like strudel dough, together they formed a decent bulk, heavy enough to set on the picnic table and leave while I turned to the oven.
The fire hissed as I used the paddle to break it apart and move it away from the opening. The logs cracked, the sparks made popping sounds.
I sponged off the front stones with a wet rag, while the coals that had been pushed to the back sat stacked up on each other, glaring pale orange in the black of the ashes and flickering into an occasional flame. The first tortilla I tried to frisbee closer to the flames, but instead of sliding through the air, it wrinkled over itself and instantly began to blister with small pockets of air, then bubble with larger pockets. The smell of warm flour rose off of the stones, mixed in with the smokiness of the disturbed fire. That's about all tortillas smell like, warm flour, but it's a comforting smell, a smell that makes you hungry. I reached into the oven and adjusted it, now that it had formed a crust and risen off of the floor somewhat. Several small jerks, in and out of the oven, and the wrinkle was smoothed out. There wasn't really a fire anymore and I had just used cold water to clean off the gray of the powered logs, but the sheer heat of the air made my hand feel like it was burning if I held it in there for more a few seconds.
I began leaving the waxed paper on the tortillas, to better position them on the stones, then pulling it off carefully, as the dough crisped and began to separate. With each piece I put in, the far edges turned a deep brown and kept the scent of hot wax in the air. The color of the dough changed from pale yellow to white with darker circles and went from flat to expanding into gorgeous bubbles.
I had kneaded the tortilla dough, before portioning out the individual disks. Fold and turn and fold and turn. One hand pressing on the other, the heel of my palms pushing the dough apart, my fingers gathering it back on top of itself. I love the rhythms of kneading. You can feel the structure of the dough change under your hands, from soft and weak to firm and elastic, bouncing back to its original shape almost before you are ready.
Touch. Smell. Sight. Taste. Hearing. A person can be deaf or blind. They can have little to no sense of taste or smell. But does anyone ever lose the sense of touch, of feeling? Each of the other four are so centralized. Only two ears, only two eyes. One nose, one tongue. And each of these so exposed, right out in the open. Touch, though is everywhere. You stand out on the rocks in front of the oven and you feel their edges under your feet. You walk through a doorway too quickly and feel its edge on your shoulder. You knead bread and feel it form with your hands.
Is touch more important than the other senses? In the dark, you can find your way by touch. If you are blind, you can learn a person's face by touch. If you cannot taste, you can still identify foods by texture, shape, size. Sometimes, blocking out some of your senses opens up the others. You close your eyes and become instantly more aware of sounds, and feelings. We have discovered ways to compensate for lack of four of our senses. Braille, lip reading, sign-language. Would we find a way to compensate for loss of feeling as well?
What would happen to wordless messages, passed through a touch on the shoulder, a kiss on the cheek, a hug to welcome or say goodbye? Strange, that that one sense so outnumbers the others. Perhaps we should be using it more.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Vanilla bean, brick oven, kitchen torch, creme brulee
My mother had been asking me to make creme brulee since December, when she received four ramekins as a Christmas present. My father had been asking me since December to use the kitchen torch that he gave her along with the dishes.
My afternoon today was more open than normal, a math test earlier this week leading to no math homework today. I spent the afternoon working with the oven, beginning with carrying pine logs from the woodpile near the lawn-mower shed over to the raised-bed that sits beside the oven. The weather was beautiful, sun, birds, green grass, all the cliches of a summer day. Each time I stepped outside to check on the fire, I passed through the greenhouse and was surrounded by the scent of warm potting soil that the black plastic pots of seedlings were giving off. The old dented metal bowl that my mother has mixed soil in as far back as I can remember is sitting on the curved cement work table that my father built her just a few summers ago, a project that followed directly on the heels of the pizza oven.
I took my time today, working on building up the heat in the oven slowly, following advice that I've been given the past three weeks, each time my results were smoky, burnt, or otherwise unsatisfactory. Be more patient, my mother said. It works better if you plan ahead, my father said.
When the oven was pushing waves of constant heat out into the already warm air and the stones had been sitting under the fire for two hours, with the creme brulee sitting in the ramekins inside on the counter, I unwound the hose and scraped the still glowing coals out, through the ash hole until they were scattered under the oven. I sprayed them over thoroughly, not wanting anything that shouldn't catch fire to catch fire. Barefoot on the stone, when I tried to step closer, a wayward coal became trapped under my foot, searing my toe.
I was patient with the custards, setting each ramekin carefully into a larger metal pan and filling it halfway with water, a water bath, supposed to control their cooking rate so that they came out smooth and creamy. I checked them after an hour. Still wobbly. After two hours. Their centers jiggled. After three hours. They were deep yellow, smelled of rich cream and vanilla, and they were still not set. Spanish class rapidly approaching, I pulled them out of the brick oven and carried them to the inside oven. It felt like cheating, but I was getting worried about the eggs, sitting out there in the warmth, but not quite cooking.
Once inside one of the smooth white convection ovens set into our kitchen wall, the custards set up quickly. I ate dinner, pulled them out of the water bath to better cool, found my books and keys, wrapped the cremes brulee and set them in the refrigerator and drove to class. By the time I made it home, I was tired, but I wanted to see this project through to the end. I called my mother into the kitchen.
Together, we located the raw sugar and the kitchen torch. Neither of us knew how it worked. I can operate the foot long torch that we use for creme brulee at work, but I didn't want to break this one by fiddling with it. My father came to the rescue, showing us how to obtain flame. I took the first custard, gave it a thin layer of sugar, then passed the torch slowly across its top, in circular patterns, as the sugar rose up, bubbled unhappily, then turned to a dark golden brown and subsided. Another layer of sugar, then I repeated my actions. When the sugar was all dissolved into a crust across the top of the ramekin, I passed the torch to my mother. My father hung over her shoulder a bit. "You can hold it closer," he advised, as she maneuvered the flame. She achieved her desired result, retiring to her desk with one of the ramekins. I offered the third custard to my father and he put his advice to action, passing the torch so quickly and closely across the surface that some of the sugar blackened.
We shattered one of the sugar crusts, spooning into the deep cream-yellow underneath. No smoke flavor. My father commented on this and I smiled. My parents have their wishes fulfilled, creme brulee and kitchen torch, I have mine fulfilled, no smoke flavor in this dessert. I have taken their advice and things have come out better.
I stayed in the kitchen a bit longer, putting away clean dishes, washing up some of the dirty ones. My father, quietly retired to the couch in the living room, my mother stayed at her computer, though I knew she would join him in a few minutes.
And I know that yes, my father built the oven and my mother taught me how to follow a recipe. But this evening is built on things deeper than that. I know that whenever I need advice, they will give it and it will be good advice. I know that even when I make smoky pineapple baklava that we have to throw out because no-one can stomach it, they will encourage me. I know that they will send me to bed, shortly, so that I can get up in the morning and go to math class. And I think that this is what family was meant to be like.
My afternoon today was more open than normal, a math test earlier this week leading to no math homework today. I spent the afternoon working with the oven, beginning with carrying pine logs from the woodpile near the lawn-mower shed over to the raised-bed that sits beside the oven. The weather was beautiful, sun, birds, green grass, all the cliches of a summer day. Each time I stepped outside to check on the fire, I passed through the greenhouse and was surrounded by the scent of warm potting soil that the black plastic pots of seedlings were giving off. The old dented metal bowl that my mother has mixed soil in as far back as I can remember is sitting on the curved cement work table that my father built her just a few summers ago, a project that followed directly on the heels of the pizza oven.
I took my time today, working on building up the heat in the oven slowly, following advice that I've been given the past three weeks, each time my results were smoky, burnt, or otherwise unsatisfactory. Be more patient, my mother said. It works better if you plan ahead, my father said.
When the oven was pushing waves of constant heat out into the already warm air and the stones had been sitting under the fire for two hours, with the creme brulee sitting in the ramekins inside on the counter, I unwound the hose and scraped the still glowing coals out, through the ash hole until they were scattered under the oven. I sprayed them over thoroughly, not wanting anything that shouldn't catch fire to catch fire. Barefoot on the stone, when I tried to step closer, a wayward coal became trapped under my foot, searing my toe.
I was patient with the custards, setting each ramekin carefully into a larger metal pan and filling it halfway with water, a water bath, supposed to control their cooking rate so that they came out smooth and creamy. I checked them after an hour. Still wobbly. After two hours. Their centers jiggled. After three hours. They were deep yellow, smelled of rich cream and vanilla, and they were still not set. Spanish class rapidly approaching, I pulled them out of the brick oven and carried them to the inside oven. It felt like cheating, but I was getting worried about the eggs, sitting out there in the warmth, but not quite cooking.
Once inside one of the smooth white convection ovens set into our kitchen wall, the custards set up quickly. I ate dinner, pulled them out of the water bath to better cool, found my books and keys, wrapped the cremes brulee and set them in the refrigerator and drove to class. By the time I made it home, I was tired, but I wanted to see this project through to the end. I called my mother into the kitchen.
Together, we located the raw sugar and the kitchen torch. Neither of us knew how it worked. I can operate the foot long torch that we use for creme brulee at work, but I didn't want to break this one by fiddling with it. My father came to the rescue, showing us how to obtain flame. I took the first custard, gave it a thin layer of sugar, then passed the torch slowly across its top, in circular patterns, as the sugar rose up, bubbled unhappily, then turned to a dark golden brown and subsided. Another layer of sugar, then I repeated my actions. When the sugar was all dissolved into a crust across the top of the ramekin, I passed the torch to my mother. My father hung over her shoulder a bit. "You can hold it closer," he advised, as she maneuvered the flame. She achieved her desired result, retiring to her desk with one of the ramekins. I offered the third custard to my father and he put his advice to action, passing the torch so quickly and closely across the surface that some of the sugar blackened.
We shattered one of the sugar crusts, spooning into the deep cream-yellow underneath. No smoke flavor. My father commented on this and I smiled. My parents have their wishes fulfilled, creme brulee and kitchen torch, I have mine fulfilled, no smoke flavor in this dessert. I have taken their advice and things have come out better.
I stayed in the kitchen a bit longer, putting away clean dishes, washing up some of the dirty ones. My father, quietly retired to the couch in the living room, my mother stayed at her computer, though I knew she would join him in a few minutes.
And I know that yes, my father built the oven and my mother taught me how to follow a recipe. But this evening is built on things deeper than that. I know that whenever I need advice, they will give it and it will be good advice. I know that even when I make smoky pineapple baklava that we have to throw out because no-one can stomach it, they will encourage me. I know that they will send me to bed, shortly, so that I can get up in the morning and go to math class. And I think that this is what family was meant to be like.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Halcyon
I arrived home from my last class over an hour ago, with nothing left on my to-do list for the day except writing a blog. Since then, I have checked facebook, read through e-mails, listened to a podcast, and considered writing for a forum that has nothing to do with brick ovens. I have procrastinated.
This morning, sitting in my morning classes, it occurred to me that I needed to do something with the oven, in order to actually have a subject for a blog post. Quick sounded good, easy sounded nice. My last few efforts having been lowered in quality due to smoke flavor, I brainstormed for something quick and easy that would not be harmed by smoke flavor. The obvious choice, at least to my mind, this morning, was s'mores. Not gourmet, not historical, not something that actually needs an oven, I couldn't actually convince myself that s'mores were something I ought to be making. But the very idea of them was so enjoyable, that I stopped at an Albertson's on my drive home and picked up chocolate bars and a bag of huge marshmallows.
I could have taken another route, reminding myself that the smoke flavor was being caused by baking with the fire still burning in the back of the oven. And the reason I had to leave it there was due to not planning ahead far enough to heat the bricks through, allow the fire to die, clean the oven out, and then do my baking. It would be, will be, character building, I am sure, when I force myself to exercise patience and planning in conjunction with my blogging homework. Today, though, the idea of s'mores was too good to pass up.
I poured marshmallows into a plastic bowl, broke the chocolate into squares in another, and laid graham crackers in a third. As I carried them out through the greenhouse sliding door, the sun gave out enough warmth to cause the faint smell of potting soil to permeate the air. There was a tiny breeze, but lighting this fire, with dry, rattling wood and no blustering wind forcing itself through the door to blow out my flames, was delightfully easy.
My younger siblings took a break from their studies to join me. We slid the marshmallows onto roasting sticks and poked them inside the oven, the narrow door making it so only one or two people could roast at once.
Second to youngest sister quickly finished her s'more, but couldn't resist coming back outside with the camera. Ian, our Taiwanese exchange student, had stuck his first marshmallow directly into the flame, and as I pulled the ashy sugar off of his stick, the camera wielder directed me to turn and smile.
"You've got marshmallow on your cheek."
I licked it off.
"Now you've got marshmallow on the other side."
I tried again.
"Maybe you should just use your hands."
I did as instructed, then posed with the black marshmallow, as more s'mores were constructed behind my back.
The sun was just warm enough the melt the milk chocolate squares in the bowl, making the edges of the bricks pool into softer curves. Our dog wandered about under the table, hoping some random accident would flip it over so that she could ruin her teeth forever with the sugar. We roasted the marshmallows, breaking the toasty crust to let the warm goo inside ooze out over the chocolate and graham crackers.
It was one of those moments when you realize why words like halcyon and blissful exist in the English language. We weren't done with our work for the day. I was, perhaps, putting off math homework for a little while longer. But taking the time to get marshmallow on my face and discuss with my brother the merits of a golden brown roast versus a dark brown roast was advantageous as well. Certainly, taking breaks from constant study will help the mind relax and refresh. This type of break, though, is different from the one I was taking a few minutes ago. Reading e-mails and browsing web-sites is relaxing enough that it can make me fall asleep, but it has never been something I would term halcyon. Halcyon was more than a sugar-rush or a job accomplished, even though those may have been part my experience today. It was more than doing the unexpected and making s'mores in a place that was perhaps more inconvenient than useful for the task. Halcyon was some of this and some of the strange comments,
"The best part of s'mores is the sweet part."
"The principles of marshmallow expansion"
"I want to burn my own marshmallow off."
Some of this and some of the intangible. Something that can't be recreated, even though it was not the best or worst of its time. A halcyon moment, in the warm air that said spring might finally be barefoot, blossoming weather.
This morning, sitting in my morning classes, it occurred to me that I needed to do something with the oven, in order to actually have a subject for a blog post. Quick sounded good, easy sounded nice. My last few efforts having been lowered in quality due to smoke flavor, I brainstormed for something quick and easy that would not be harmed by smoke flavor. The obvious choice, at least to my mind, this morning, was s'mores. Not gourmet, not historical, not something that actually needs an oven, I couldn't actually convince myself that s'mores were something I ought to be making. But the very idea of them was so enjoyable, that I stopped at an Albertson's on my drive home and picked up chocolate bars and a bag of huge marshmallows.
I could have taken another route, reminding myself that the smoke flavor was being caused by baking with the fire still burning in the back of the oven. And the reason I had to leave it there was due to not planning ahead far enough to heat the bricks through, allow the fire to die, clean the oven out, and then do my baking. It would be, will be, character building, I am sure, when I force myself to exercise patience and planning in conjunction with my blogging homework. Today, though, the idea of s'mores was too good to pass up.
I poured marshmallows into a plastic bowl, broke the chocolate into squares in another, and laid graham crackers in a third. As I carried them out through the greenhouse sliding door, the sun gave out enough warmth to cause the faint smell of potting soil to permeate the air. There was a tiny breeze, but lighting this fire, with dry, rattling wood and no blustering wind forcing itself through the door to blow out my flames, was delightfully easy.
My younger siblings took a break from their studies to join me. We slid the marshmallows onto roasting sticks and poked them inside the oven, the narrow door making it so only one or two people could roast at once.
Second to youngest sister quickly finished her s'more, but couldn't resist coming back outside with the camera. Ian, our Taiwanese exchange student, had stuck his first marshmallow directly into the flame, and as I pulled the ashy sugar off of his stick, the camera wielder directed me to turn and smile.
"You've got marshmallow on your cheek."
I licked it off.
"Now you've got marshmallow on the other side."
I tried again.
"Maybe you should just use your hands."
I did as instructed, then posed with the black marshmallow, as more s'mores were constructed behind my back.
It was one of those moments when you realize why words like halcyon and blissful exist in the English language. We weren't done with our work for the day. I was, perhaps, putting off math homework for a little while longer. But taking the time to get marshmallow on my face and discuss with my brother the merits of a golden brown roast versus a dark brown roast was advantageous as well. Certainly, taking breaks from constant study will help the mind relax and refresh. This type of break, though, is different from the one I was taking a few minutes ago. Reading e-mails and browsing web-sites is relaxing enough that it can make me fall asleep, but it has never been something I would term halcyon. Halcyon was more than a sugar-rush or a job accomplished, even though those may have been part my experience today. It was more than doing the unexpected and making s'mores in a place that was perhaps more inconvenient than useful for the task. Halcyon was some of this and some of the strange comments,
"The best part of s'mores is the sweet part."
"The principles of marshmallow expansion"
"I want to burn my own marshmallow off."
Some of this and some of the intangible. Something that can't be recreated, even though it was not the best or worst of its time. A halcyon moment, in the warm air that said spring might finally be barefoot, blossoming weather.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Need
I can feel a drop of water, barely moving downwards on my cheek. My hair is wet and I am waiting my turn for a haircut. A squeak-hum of bicycle wheels is coming from the next room, where my father is using up energy before bed. Close to me, the metallic sounding snip of scissors, as my mother finishes with my brother's hair. It is so dark now that when I try to look out of the window, I only see my reflection. The ambient sounds, the hour of the night, everything has meshed into a feeling of contentment.
I had been happy all day, but not this deep sense of everything being exactly as it should. This afternoon, browsing the books section at Costco, while waiting for tires to be changed on my car, I opened up a cookbook and, suddenly, I needed to bake something.
There is a reason that I am majoring in Culinary Arts. I am nearly always ready to mix up some baked good or help put dinner together. This was a different feeling though, beyond wanting to work in the kitchen or being willing to do so. When it comes, like it did in the Costco aisle today, I feel as though if I don't get into the kitchen soon, something will break. Energy, pressure, builds up at the thought of mixing batter or kneading dough. I think of all the things I have ever wanted to bake, all the things I have recently been planning to bake. I want to stay in the kitchen for hours and days, mixing, mixing, and mixing.
I didn't explode in the store, or in the car, either. But as soon as we arrived home, I pulled the log of frozen puff pastry, left from my mother's birthday dinner nearly a week past, in the refrigerator to thaw. I left my math homework out of sight inside my bag and stepped into the backyard. The wind was blowing wildly, but the sun was still shining and I left off shoes in favor allowing my feet to feel the rough rocks that paved the area around the oven. The wind blew my fire out. I lit it again and the wind blew it out again. We repeated the pattern a few more times, until, in a lull, I managed to get it lit and block the wind out with the door. Then, inside, I took the puff pastry, melted butter, cinnamon and sugar, and a rolling pin. I rolled out the pastry, brushed it with butter, gave it a generous sprinkle of cinnamon and sugar, folded it up into a log, and sliced it lengthwise. I placed each nascent cookie on a sheet and gently pressed them flat. Then, the urge was gone. I was still enjoying myself, but it was a relaxed enjoyment. I finished heating the oven and baked off the cookies. I ate one, fed one to my mother, two to my sister and left the rest for grabs on the tray. And I took out my math homework.
I don’t have any idea, really, why I work the way I do. Why, if I go too long without playing with food in some way or another, a feeling of unease grows. It never has to be complicated, I just have to touch it, feel it, and manipulate it in some way. Everyone can’t be like this, because not everyone likes to cook. But perhaps some people needed to be created with this urge to cook that is so strong it is almost like being forced to do so. Perhaps, in order to feed those people like my father, who will exercise every day of the week and more, and my brother, who lives in a state of perpetual motion, and my mother who always has something on her to-do list, there need to be people like me, who will bake every day of the week and more.
I had been happy all day, but not this deep sense of everything being exactly as it should. This afternoon, browsing the books section at Costco, while waiting for tires to be changed on my car, I opened up a cookbook and, suddenly, I needed to bake something.
There is a reason that I am majoring in Culinary Arts. I am nearly always ready to mix up some baked good or help put dinner together. This was a different feeling though, beyond wanting to work in the kitchen or being willing to do so. When it comes, like it did in the Costco aisle today, I feel as though if I don't get into the kitchen soon, something will break. Energy, pressure, builds up at the thought of mixing batter or kneading dough. I think of all the things I have ever wanted to bake, all the things I have recently been planning to bake. I want to stay in the kitchen for hours and days, mixing, mixing, and mixing.
I didn't explode in the store, or in the car, either. But as soon as we arrived home, I pulled the log of frozen puff pastry, left from my mother's birthday dinner nearly a week past, in the refrigerator to thaw. I left my math homework out of sight inside my bag and stepped into the backyard. The wind was blowing wildly, but the sun was still shining and I left off shoes in favor allowing my feet to feel the rough rocks that paved the area around the oven. The wind blew my fire out. I lit it again and the wind blew it out again. We repeated the pattern a few more times, until, in a lull, I managed to get it lit and block the wind out with the door. Then, inside, I took the puff pastry, melted butter, cinnamon and sugar, and a rolling pin. I rolled out the pastry, brushed it with butter, gave it a generous sprinkle of cinnamon and sugar, folded it up into a log, and sliced it lengthwise. I placed each nascent cookie on a sheet and gently pressed them flat. Then, the urge was gone. I was still enjoying myself, but it was a relaxed enjoyment. I finished heating the oven and baked off the cookies. I ate one, fed one to my mother, two to my sister and left the rest for grabs on the tray. And I took out my math homework.
I don’t have any idea, really, why I work the way I do. Why, if I go too long without playing with food in some way or another, a feeling of unease grows. It never has to be complicated, I just have to touch it, feel it, and manipulate it in some way. Everyone can’t be like this, because not everyone likes to cook. But perhaps some people needed to be created with this urge to cook that is so strong it is almost like being forced to do so. Perhaps, in order to feed those people like my father, who will exercise every day of the week and more, and my brother, who lives in a state of perpetual motion, and my mother who always has something on her to-do list, there need to be people like me, who will bake every day of the week and more.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Instilled
This past Saturday, we had a party. There were people downstairs, people upstairs. Sisters playing the piano, brothers playing ping-pong. The kitchen teemed with visitors, guests who sat around the kitchen table and chatted while waiting their turn to wind around the island, assembling their dinner. Outside, in the almost spring-like weather, the men stood and sat around the oven, my father standing at the front, others coming and going. Some, who had never seen the oven in action before would watch and marvel as the raw pizzas that they had assembled slid into the oven to come out a few minutes later, the cheese brown and melted, and the entire pie sending up aromas that had the dog sniffing the ground eagerly, pausing at each twig in the hopes that it would transform into a slice of pepperoni.
Our cookie jar, a brown bear clutching a huge version of a Hershey's kiss, nearly always has chocolate chip cookies in it. I have the recipe memorized. Sugar, brown sugar, butter, eggs. Flour, baking powder, salt. If you do it right, you can make them with one half cup measure, one half teaspoon measure, one bowl and one spoon. They are the essence of simplicity. And although my father and I have a standing debate over whether or not they can be called cookies when I omit the nuts, they are always basically the same. We mix the dough and mom gets a spoonful. That step is now written into the recipe. We bake off a sheet and eat them warm from the oven, on folded squares of white paper towels. The rest, cooled and hardened, are slipped into the cookie jar to disappear gradually over the next few days.
We have had pizza parties before. This one follow the pattern. Because only three or four pizzas fit into the oven at a time, there is never a time when everyone is sitting down and eating. Mom spends the afternoon standing at the inside counter, hands covered in flour, cutting off pieces of dough, forming them, stretching them and teasing the next person into line. Making sure that everyone has a chance to eat before sending people through again for seconds. Dad stands out by his oven, hands gloved, so that they don't burn on the handle of the door or singe in the heat of the air. He holds a metal spatula in one hand, sometimes a slice of pizza finds its way to the other, left behind when it didn't quite fit on a plate, but for the most part, he waits. At the ends of the afternoon, when everyone has found their way through the line, my mother brings out her pizza. There aren't many people eating at this point. Most of the kids are playing a version of football further out in the yard, adults sit around one of the tables set out on the lawn. Mom slides into a chair, off her feet at last. She says something serious, insightful. But before things get too dull, she makes a comment about the hard lemonade she is drinking, sending everyone off into laughter.
I could sit here and type out the recipe for chocolate chip cookies. I could sit here and type out the form for every pizza party we have had. They have small variations every time. Maybe we use macadamia nuts instead of walnuts, maybe we have five people over instead of twenty. But the essence doesn't change. They are still chocolate chip cookies. It is still not about the pizza, it is still about the fellowship, the joy of the gathering with those of like mind. But somehow, we take these objects and through repetition, instill in them some of the joy of a moment. Chocolate chip cookies are home and family, the oven is community and sharing. And the knowledge that we will do it again.
Our cookie jar, a brown bear clutching a huge version of a Hershey's kiss, nearly always has chocolate chip cookies in it. I have the recipe memorized. Sugar, brown sugar, butter, eggs. Flour, baking powder, salt. If you do it right, you can make them with one half cup measure, one half teaspoon measure, one bowl and one spoon. They are the essence of simplicity. And although my father and I have a standing debate over whether or not they can be called cookies when I omit the nuts, they are always basically the same. We mix the dough and mom gets a spoonful. That step is now written into the recipe. We bake off a sheet and eat them warm from the oven, on folded squares of white paper towels. The rest, cooled and hardened, are slipped into the cookie jar to disappear gradually over the next few days.
We have had pizza parties before. This one follow the pattern. Because only three or four pizzas fit into the oven at a time, there is never a time when everyone is sitting down and eating. Mom spends the afternoon standing at the inside counter, hands covered in flour, cutting off pieces of dough, forming them, stretching them and teasing the next person into line. Making sure that everyone has a chance to eat before sending people through again for seconds. Dad stands out by his oven, hands gloved, so that they don't burn on the handle of the door or singe in the heat of the air. He holds a metal spatula in one hand, sometimes a slice of pizza finds its way to the other, left behind when it didn't quite fit on a plate, but for the most part, he waits. At the ends of the afternoon, when everyone has found their way through the line, my mother brings out her pizza. There aren't many people eating at this point. Most of the kids are playing a version of football further out in the yard, adults sit around one of the tables set out on the lawn. Mom slides into a chair, off her feet at last. She says something serious, insightful. But before things get too dull, she makes a comment about the hard lemonade she is drinking, sending everyone off into laughter.
I could sit here and type out the recipe for chocolate chip cookies. I could sit here and type out the form for every pizza party we have had. They have small variations every time. Maybe we use macadamia nuts instead of walnuts, maybe we have five people over instead of twenty. But the essence doesn't change. They are still chocolate chip cookies. It is still not about the pizza, it is still about the fellowship, the joy of the gathering with those of like mind. But somehow, we take these objects and through repetition, instill in them some of the joy of a moment. Chocolate chip cookies are home and family, the oven is community and sharing. And the knowledge that we will do it again.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
450 words before midnight
I need to have 450 words written by midnight. If I write at a speed of approximately four words per minute, my goal will be accomplished, but the empty space behind my eyes, where I am used to finding thoughts, might mean that the 450 will be nothing but gibberish and that will not do. The oven, supposedly my inspiration, is sitting in the dark and the cold, I know the stars above it are easily visible in the clear sky tonight, but my desire for thoughts is not great enough to move me off of my couch.
I want to write more history, but the facts all feel dry tonight. Where are the stories? The history of the people who built the ovens and used them is what I really want to read, not the paragraphs on the development from round bowls to hive shaped mounds, to extensions from the back of the house until ovens were a metal fixture to blend neatly into the squares and rectangles of modern kitchen walls. Besides being dry, the facts here are tersely stated, mentioning no variation from the average standard.
I tuck my thumbs through the holes I have worn in my sweatshirt sleeves, turning them into comfortable gloves, to keep my fingers warm as I type here in the basement. With the gas fire turned off for the night, the air gets chilly quickly.
According to the encyclopedia, Greek bakers would build bowls of clay and heat them in the ground, then place their bread dough inside the bowl to bake. As knowledge of yeast developed, so did covered ovens, to provide the surrounding heat necessary to bake these new types of dough. The oven and bread have revolved around each other since earliest histories. In Rome, under the Emperor Trajan, a college for bakers was established. Our oven is of Roman design, a design that has persisted through time and across oceans. Metal ovens did not begin to appear until the end of the 18th century. From Trajan until then, 1500 years, ovens where you heated bricks, cleaned out the ashes and baked your bread on hot rocks were normal.
I suppose that it’s no surprise that people were eager to transition from masonry to metal, to our modern digital, self cleaning, self regulating ovens. There are many things that would be much more difficult in those wood-burning ovens. And no matter how you look at it, I have to admit that our kitchen ovens are much more time efficient than the outside oven. They always turn on, even if it has rained recently. Howling winds don’t effect them, or me, when I can stay safe inside the warm house. They are appealing in their own way, smooth polished curves, a gleaming whiteness set into the wall of the kitchen. The masonry oven, which is in reality just a carefully arranged pile of rocks, is oddly exotic next to these bits of normalcy. It is part of the romanticized past, a part of those stories that we cannot reach and therefore invent out of recorded fragments, making the past exciting, depressing, the best time in the world or the worst time in the world. ‘The grass is always greener’, is the saying. Are we always looking to another place or time for comfort? I am content to be able to sit here in comfortable laziness and speculate about the past, I know I would not want to switch times with anyone. I think there are plenty of people who feel the same way, who realize how much easier day to day tasks are in our modern world. But the simple contrast in realities is not quite disillusioning. There is always something ethereal about the past. No matter how many terrible hardships are put into words, no matter how many glorious triumphs are recorded. Perhaps, as we try so hard to articulate the abstract, even for others in our own times, you forget that you can only know what you have lived.
I want to write more history, but the facts all feel dry tonight. Where are the stories? The history of the people who built the ovens and used them is what I really want to read, not the paragraphs on the development from round bowls to hive shaped mounds, to extensions from the back of the house until ovens were a metal fixture to blend neatly into the squares and rectangles of modern kitchen walls. Besides being dry, the facts here are tersely stated, mentioning no variation from the average standard.
I tuck my thumbs through the holes I have worn in my sweatshirt sleeves, turning them into comfortable gloves, to keep my fingers warm as I type here in the basement. With the gas fire turned off for the night, the air gets chilly quickly.
According to the encyclopedia, Greek bakers would build bowls of clay and heat them in the ground, then place their bread dough inside the bowl to bake. As knowledge of yeast developed, so did covered ovens, to provide the surrounding heat necessary to bake these new types of dough. The oven and bread have revolved around each other since earliest histories. In Rome, under the Emperor Trajan, a college for bakers was established. Our oven is of Roman design, a design that has persisted through time and across oceans. Metal ovens did not begin to appear until the end of the 18th century. From Trajan until then, 1500 years, ovens where you heated bricks, cleaned out the ashes and baked your bread on hot rocks were normal.
I suppose that it’s no surprise that people were eager to transition from masonry to metal, to our modern digital, self cleaning, self regulating ovens. There are many things that would be much more difficult in those wood-burning ovens. And no matter how you look at it, I have to admit that our kitchen ovens are much more time efficient than the outside oven. They always turn on, even if it has rained recently. Howling winds don’t effect them, or me, when I can stay safe inside the warm house. They are appealing in their own way, smooth polished curves, a gleaming whiteness set into the wall of the kitchen. The masonry oven, which is in reality just a carefully arranged pile of rocks, is oddly exotic next to these bits of normalcy. It is part of the romanticized past, a part of those stories that we cannot reach and therefore invent out of recorded fragments, making the past exciting, depressing, the best time in the world or the worst time in the world. ‘The grass is always greener’, is the saying. Are we always looking to another place or time for comfort? I am content to be able to sit here in comfortable laziness and speculate about the past, I know I would not want to switch times with anyone. I think there are plenty of people who feel the same way, who realize how much easier day to day tasks are in our modern world. But the simple contrast in realities is not quite disillusioning. There is always something ethereal about the past. No matter how many terrible hardships are put into words, no matter how many glorious triumphs are recorded. Perhaps, as we try so hard to articulate the abstract, even for others in our own times, you forget that you can only know what you have lived.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Beehive
My parents moved to Taiwan a year and a half ago. With my uncle and his family moving in to take care of our house, animals, and garden, and me moving to share a small apartment with my sister for a shorter trip to school, many of the things from my bookshelves were boxed up, then crated up, then stacked with other crates in a storage shed. There is a hat rack, a rug, a basket, on top of the crates, a bike in front of them, a peddle boat for summers on the lake beside them. And inside, somewhere, is a white 3-ring binder, the sheet protectors filled with wallet-sized photos.
When my father began building his oven, he dubbed me the 'photojournalist'. I took pictures of holes in the ground, of re-bar and cement, of the nearly weightless red rock that my siblings and I use to draw on the driveway with and call 'lava rock'. Inside that notebook are pictures of things I have forgotten, steps in the construction that I was not aware enough of to remember. There are pages of blue-lined paper sitting alongside the pictures. Once, I began to write the story of the oven, describing the process one picture at a time. Pencil graphite on a few of the pages shows exactly when I halted, stuffed the notebook into a box, let the box be stacked in a crate.
'Our oven', I call it, at times. Sometimes I am more accurate and call it 'my father's oven'. Because it is my father who read the books, who learned the history and the secrets of managing this edifice that has been erected in our backyard. But his books sit on the shelves, free for the reading, so I reach for one and open it. I read.
Horizontal ovens date to the Roman era, the wood burnt on the same bricks you bake on. The massive hump of oven I saw when visiting Valley Forge, extending from the kitchen in the house George Washington slept in, was also an oven of this type, though I should apparently be calling it a beehive oven. The ovens could be small, large, for a family, for a community, for a business. And I am not as enterprising I would like to think myself, for the ovens were not used solely for bread. That they would be used for meat and perhaps the occasional dessert had occurred to me, but I read that they were used for drying and preserving fruits, for sterilizing pillows. The image of thrusting one of my mother's feather pillows into the maw of the oven flashes through my head. To these people, for centuries, from the Romans to colonial Americans, in Italy and in France, a freestanding oven was day-to-day life, a tool to be used in any way that was useful.
For me, sitting here on the green leather couch, my pillows clean of ticks, needing no sterilization, the brick oven is an oddity. A 'pizza oven', used perhaps for bread, occasionally a roast. I had thought I was branching and I find that others have been here before me, heating the oven bricks, using every last drop of heat, pulling out the ashes to use as fertilizer, making sure no resource was wasted. And each time I slide something between the blackened bricks, onto the smooth surface of the interior, there is a line of people standing behind me, who have made the same motions throughout time.
Note: The Bread Builders by Daniel Wing and Alan Scott, (c) 1999, was used as a resource for this post.
When my father began building his oven, he dubbed me the 'photojournalist'. I took pictures of holes in the ground, of re-bar and cement, of the nearly weightless red rock that my siblings and I use to draw on the driveway with and call 'lava rock'. Inside that notebook are pictures of things I have forgotten, steps in the construction that I was not aware enough of to remember. There are pages of blue-lined paper sitting alongside the pictures. Once, I began to write the story of the oven, describing the process one picture at a time. Pencil graphite on a few of the pages shows exactly when I halted, stuffed the notebook into a box, let the box be stacked in a crate.
'Our oven', I call it, at times. Sometimes I am more accurate and call it 'my father's oven'. Because it is my father who read the books, who learned the history and the secrets of managing this edifice that has been erected in our backyard. But his books sit on the shelves, free for the reading, so I reach for one and open it. I read.
Horizontal ovens date to the Roman era, the wood burnt on the same bricks you bake on. The massive hump of oven I saw when visiting Valley Forge, extending from the kitchen in the house George Washington slept in, was also an oven of this type, though I should apparently be calling it a beehive oven. The ovens could be small, large, for a family, for a community, for a business. And I am not as enterprising I would like to think myself, for the ovens were not used solely for bread. That they would be used for meat and perhaps the occasional dessert had occurred to me, but I read that they were used for drying and preserving fruits, for sterilizing pillows. The image of thrusting one of my mother's feather pillows into the maw of the oven flashes through my head. To these people, for centuries, from the Romans to colonial Americans, in Italy and in France, a freestanding oven was day-to-day life, a tool to be used in any way that was useful.
For me, sitting here on the green leather couch, my pillows clean of ticks, needing no sterilization, the brick oven is an oddity. A 'pizza oven', used perhaps for bread, occasionally a roast. I had thought I was branching and I find that others have been here before me, heating the oven bricks, using every last drop of heat, pulling out the ashes to use as fertilizer, making sure no resource was wasted. And each time I slide something between the blackened bricks, onto the smooth surface of the interior, there is a line of people standing behind me, who have made the same motions throughout time.
Note: The Bread Builders by Daniel Wing and Alan Scott, (c) 1999, was used as a resource for this post.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Moments
The nearly invisible smoke curls against my eyes, forcing them to squeeze shut, watering, to lessen the sting, but I force them to stay open in a half-squint, since I am pushing my head towards six-hundred degree bricks. A few centimeters closer, I sniff. The scent of smoke comes strongly. Not as painful as the sharp cut of it against my protesting eyes, the smell, sweet and ashy, turns my stomach slightly. Pulling away from the dry heat into the damp air that foretells more rain to come, I settle myself against the two level extension of smooth, white cement that serves as a counter. The rough reddish rock, which we hauled back from the desert on one of many trips, catches my attention. Thin edges line the curve of the oven door, each rock cut into a corner to fit over the unfinished cement base, mortared to another thin piece on the left and on the right. The shades shift dark, light, in-between. The corners are an odd kite shape, molded from black cement and polished down to show bits of granite and marble that were mixed in before it had a chance to set.
I glance back inside the oven. The half-sheet pan is pushed up close against the coals that are still glowing in the back of the oven, but the near edge still emerges slightly. The radiant heat manages to reach the crackers on this part of the pan, but unevenly. I rotated the pan, now the crackers nearest me look golden and inviting. I count aloud, sixty seconds, watching as the parchment paper dimples more deeply around each individual cracker, as they bubbled at the edges, then suddenly swell as the infinitesimal amount of baking powder inside reacts with the waves of heat rushing against the dough. Each bit of cheese melts and the edges of the crackers soften, then harden again as the cheese turns to a crisp lace.
Rolled to a fragile thinness and cut into undersized shapes, it only takes a few minutes before they threaten to burn and I pull them out. The gloves, heavy orange work gloves, are waterlogged from being left in the rain, but the heat of the pan is threatening to burn my fingers before I reach the door. I rush up to the picnic table, sliding the hot pan quickly down onto the wood. The glass patio door slides open as I lean my weight on the handle. Bagheera slips herself around my ankles, seizing the chance to make it into the warm house. The dog, rather than go after the cat, lays in the doorway and I step over her with care, lifting the hot pan through and managing to set it on the stovetop before my fingers begin to blister.
Each cracker is a different shape, diamonds, squares, miniature hearts, specked with dozens of poppy seeds. Lined up on the sheet, they begin to flatten and brittle as they cool. I snatch one up and set it in my mouth. I taste butter, I smell the cheese, for a moment. Then the cracker is gone.
The oven took months to build. We dug down into the ground to make the foundation secure, there were hours spent driving to and from the desert bring back loads of the rock that now covers the outside decoratively. My father built a mobile insulated screen so that he could work on in during the coldest months of the year. I learned how to make the best cracker dough in bakery classes during my three semesters in the culinary program. I learned to enjoy cooking and baking through working with my mother and father in the kitchen.
All of the knowledge that it took to build that oven, all of the care it took to mix the dough, all of the memories, all of the barely noticed details, all connect here, in this moment. And this moment, in turn, will become a memory to connect with the future.
I glance back inside the oven. The half-sheet pan is pushed up close against the coals that are still glowing in the back of the oven, but the near edge still emerges slightly. The radiant heat manages to reach the crackers on this part of the pan, but unevenly. I rotated the pan, now the crackers nearest me look golden and inviting. I count aloud, sixty seconds, watching as the parchment paper dimples more deeply around each individual cracker, as they bubbled at the edges, then suddenly swell as the infinitesimal amount of baking powder inside reacts with the waves of heat rushing against the dough. Each bit of cheese melts and the edges of the crackers soften, then harden again as the cheese turns to a crisp lace.
Rolled to a fragile thinness and cut into undersized shapes, it only takes a few minutes before they threaten to burn and I pull them out. The gloves, heavy orange work gloves, are waterlogged from being left in the rain, but the heat of the pan is threatening to burn my fingers before I reach the door. I rush up to the picnic table, sliding the hot pan quickly down onto the wood. The glass patio door slides open as I lean my weight on the handle. Bagheera slips herself around my ankles, seizing the chance to make it into the warm house. The dog, rather than go after the cat, lays in the doorway and I step over her with care, lifting the hot pan through and managing to set it on the stovetop before my fingers begin to blister.
Each cracker is a different shape, diamonds, squares, miniature hearts, specked with dozens of poppy seeds. Lined up on the sheet, they begin to flatten and brittle as they cool. I snatch one up and set it in my mouth. I taste butter, I smell the cheese, for a moment. Then the cracker is gone.
The oven took months to build. We dug down into the ground to make the foundation secure, there were hours spent driving to and from the desert bring back loads of the rock that now covers the outside decoratively. My father built a mobile insulated screen so that he could work on in during the coldest months of the year. I learned how to make the best cracker dough in bakery classes during my three semesters in the culinary program. I learned to enjoy cooking and baking through working with my mother and father in the kitchen.
All of the knowledge that it took to build that oven, all of the care it took to mix the dough, all of the memories, all of the barely noticed details, all connect here, in this moment. And this moment, in turn, will become a memory to connect with the future.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
It was ... interesting.
"Activating the hyper accelerator!" I proclaim, flipping the switch with my thumb as I speak and aiming for the oven's mouth. I reverse my actions almost instantly. Not because my father, standing safely behind and to one side of me, says,
"But be careful." I do it because at the same instant I am suddenly standing in a cloud of ash. Coughing, I lower the "hyper accelerator" to the ground and begin brushing black flakes from my skirt.
My dad is grinning at me.
"Not to aim it straight at the opening at first," he finishes.
"Yeah, thanks," I reply, but I am grinning as well and suddenly we are both laughing.
I lift the leaf-blower again, making certain that it is pointed far away from the opening and gradually move it sideways until the flames begin flowing off the logs and sliding around the edges of the cement doorway. Occasionally, I glance towards my father, which causes us to break out into laughter every time.
The baklava that I pull out of the oven later in the afternoon looks nice enough. The filo dough has become crisp and golden, cracking at the touch of the knife. However, my decision to not sweep the ashes out of the oven have proven fatal to the flavor. The smokiness that added so much flavor to last week's dinner is out of place in this cheese and pastry concoction. Add that to the fact that the ricotta cheese the recipe called for is one of my least enjoyed textures for food and the baklava is perilously near inedible. I have had my share of disasters in the kitchen, from using granulated instead of powdered sugar, to burning things to a crisp out of forgetfulness. This baklava, however, I will remember for different reasons. I will remember it for that moment of utter and complete pleasure, stemming from my first mistake of the day.
I am certain that I was an amusing picture, swinging the leaf blower up, after my dramatic announcement, then having my hair and dress blown back in the sudden rush of air and ash. That is half of the reason we are standing here, overcome with the need to laugh. Bt there is more going on than that. I laugh because I am glad that I amused him, even if I am slightly embarrassed, glancing toward the house and hoping that none of our guests saw. I know he is not laughing at me, but at the results of my overly hasty actions. There is no contempt, no mockery, we are simply sharing honest amusement and the joy of each other's company. I love him, he loves me, and we laugh.
"But be careful." I do it because at the same instant I am suddenly standing in a cloud of ash. Coughing, I lower the "hyper accelerator" to the ground and begin brushing black flakes from my skirt.
My dad is grinning at me.
"Not to aim it straight at the opening at first," he finishes.
"Yeah, thanks," I reply, but I am grinning as well and suddenly we are both laughing.
I lift the leaf-blower again, making certain that it is pointed far away from the opening and gradually move it sideways until the flames begin flowing off the logs and sliding around the edges of the cement doorway. Occasionally, I glance towards my father, which causes us to break out into laughter every time.
The baklava that I pull out of the oven later in the afternoon looks nice enough. The filo dough has become crisp and golden, cracking at the touch of the knife. However, my decision to not sweep the ashes out of the oven have proven fatal to the flavor. The smokiness that added so much flavor to last week's dinner is out of place in this cheese and pastry concoction. Add that to the fact that the ricotta cheese the recipe called for is one of my least enjoyed textures for food and the baklava is perilously near inedible. I have had my share of disasters in the kitchen, from using granulated instead of powdered sugar, to burning things to a crisp out of forgetfulness. This baklava, however, I will remember for different reasons. I will remember it for that moment of utter and complete pleasure, stemming from my first mistake of the day.
I am certain that I was an amusing picture, swinging the leaf blower up, after my dramatic announcement, then having my hair and dress blown back in the sudden rush of air and ash. That is half of the reason we are standing here, overcome with the need to laugh. Bt there is more going on than that. I laugh because I am glad that I amused him, even if I am slightly embarrassed, glancing toward the house and hoping that none of our guests saw. I know he is not laughing at me, but at the results of my overly hasty actions. There is no contempt, no mockery, we are simply sharing honest amusement and the joy of each other's company. I love him, he loves me, and we laugh.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Valentine's Day
There are spots along the left leg of my jeans, now stiffening, from where the pork brine sloshed out of what I had thought was a securely sealed container. Now, my youngest sister is cheerily letting me know that my shirt is rubbing against the raw meat on the counter. I step back momentarily, eying the two foot pork loin, but am now unable to maneuver. The oven is ready outside, potatoes, scrubbed, but now ashy, line the inside edge. I have already pulled the meat out of its marinade, sliced it strategically, so that it lay almost flat, crammed the briny smelling mixed olive puree into the cracks and tried to crimp the edges back together. The meat falls limply back to its new default, flat, and I call to my mother.
"You're sure we don't have any kitchen twine?"
I don't really have to wait for her affirmative reply. As far as I know, we never have had any kitchen twine. I ask, because I would rather hope that some has been spirited into our cupboards than wash my hands and hunt down a suitable substitute.
The hunt, once I decide to begin, is quite short. In a house where four out of six residents crochet, there is never a dearth of yarn. I grab the first ball that I see in the sewing room drawer, a rough yarn, formerly destined for dishrag and incidentally a bright, sunflower, yellow.
Now, the edge of my shirt still dragging over the edge of the log of raw pork, I draw the length of yarn under the meat. Under, over, cross, pull tight, knot, under, over, cross, pull tight, knot. I repeat the pattern, down the length, until the former limpness has converted to a compact bundle that is difficult to fold into the horseshoe shape that will allow it to fit into the oven. It looks like a strange form of caterpillar, but I could care less if it becomes a butterfly, all I require of it is that it taste good roasted.
Whenever I play in the kitchen, I eventually come to a point where there is nothing more to do but wait. Sometimes there is clean-up work to be done, the loading of the dishwasher, after letting the dog do a pre-rinse cycle, wiping counters. Today, everyone is helping, which gets the job done more quickly than it has to be. I would never complain about help with dirty dishes, but now I feel like I have nothing to do. I could go sit on the new, chocolate brown, couches and recline while watching the Olympics and I do, but I’m still just waiting.
For me, that is the hardest part of any project. As long as there is active work to be done, visible progress being made, I can be fairly content. But to wait, with no control over what is occurring? That’s something I’ve never mastered.
When I tore my ACL last spring, I was fine with waiting for the surgery. There was full extension and flexion of my leg to regain, I had a semester to finish out, I had my part time job to work into my spare time. At the beginning of June, I had the surgery. For a few painkiller blurred days, I was fine with being an invalid. Once PT began, I was being pushed and gaining ground constantly. I learned to walk without limping, how to do strange exercises, and regained some of my previous strength. But when the physical therapist decided I didn’t need any more appointments, the waiting started. The two activities I was working towards, running and soccer, were still off limits. There wasn’t anything I could do that felt like progress. And I lapsed. I biked fewer times per week, I lifted weights with less frequency, my strange exercises were now normal... and boring.
Every time I bake or cook, there is an element of this same long wait sandwiched into whatever time my current project is going to take. Admittedly, it is easier to overcome when the project is chocolate chip cookies, which only take twelve minutes. Still, I’ll be looking in the oven at six minutes, at eight minutes, at ten minutes, no matter how many years in sequence in this same oven they have take precisely twelve minutes.
Part of me loves this suspense, being left hanging, not knowing the outcome. The other part of me wishes that life was a novel, where you can skip to the last pages and see if the ending looks promising before allowing the story a grip on you. I want to work on this, to concentrate on enjoying even the moments in between the high points. Somedays, I’m better at this than others. Today, I will enjoy the togetherness of my family around the table, the sight of my mother sewing at the table, my father using the leaf blower to start the oven fire, working against the gusts of wind that are intent on knocking the flames back down to coals. Today, I will let the suspense sit there, in the background, but only so that it sharpens the other details of the day for me. Today... but I think I'd better go check the roast. Who knows? It might be done half-an-hour early.
"You're sure we don't have any kitchen twine?"
I don't really have to wait for her affirmative reply. As far as I know, we never have had any kitchen twine. I ask, because I would rather hope that some has been spirited into our cupboards than wash my hands and hunt down a suitable substitute.
The hunt, once I decide to begin, is quite short. In a house where four out of six residents crochet, there is never a dearth of yarn. I grab the first ball that I see in the sewing room drawer, a rough yarn, formerly destined for dishrag and incidentally a bright, sunflower, yellow.
Now, the edge of my shirt still dragging over the edge of the log of raw pork, I draw the length of yarn under the meat. Under, over, cross, pull tight, knot, under, over, cross, pull tight, knot. I repeat the pattern, down the length, until the former limpness has converted to a compact bundle that is difficult to fold into the horseshoe shape that will allow it to fit into the oven. It looks like a strange form of caterpillar, but I could care less if it becomes a butterfly, all I require of it is that it taste good roasted.
Whenever I play in the kitchen, I eventually come to a point where there is nothing more to do but wait. Sometimes there is clean-up work to be done, the loading of the dishwasher, after letting the dog do a pre-rinse cycle, wiping counters. Today, everyone is helping, which gets the job done more quickly than it has to be. I would never complain about help with dirty dishes, but now I feel like I have nothing to do. I could go sit on the new, chocolate brown, couches and recline while watching the Olympics and I do, but I’m still just waiting.
For me, that is the hardest part of any project. As long as there is active work to be done, visible progress being made, I can be fairly content. But to wait, with no control over what is occurring? That’s something I’ve never mastered.
When I tore my ACL last spring, I was fine with waiting for the surgery. There was full extension and flexion of my leg to regain, I had a semester to finish out, I had my part time job to work into my spare time. At the beginning of June, I had the surgery. For a few painkiller blurred days, I was fine with being an invalid. Once PT began, I was being pushed and gaining ground constantly. I learned to walk without limping, how to do strange exercises, and regained some of my previous strength. But when the physical therapist decided I didn’t need any more appointments, the waiting started. The two activities I was working towards, running and soccer, were still off limits. There wasn’t anything I could do that felt like progress. And I lapsed. I biked fewer times per week, I lifted weights with less frequency, my strange exercises were now normal... and boring.
Every time I bake or cook, there is an element of this same long wait sandwiched into whatever time my current project is going to take. Admittedly, it is easier to overcome when the project is chocolate chip cookies, which only take twelve minutes. Still, I’ll be looking in the oven at six minutes, at eight minutes, at ten minutes, no matter how many years in sequence in this same oven they have take precisely twelve minutes.
Part of me loves this suspense, being left hanging, not knowing the outcome. The other part of me wishes that life was a novel, where you can skip to the last pages and see if the ending looks promising before allowing the story a grip on you. I want to work on this, to concentrate on enjoying even the moments in between the high points. Somedays, I’m better at this than others. Today, I will enjoy the togetherness of my family around the table, the sight of my mother sewing at the table, my father using the leaf blower to start the oven fire, working against the gusts of wind that are intent on knocking the flames back down to coals. Today, I will let the suspense sit there, in the background, but only so that it sharpens the other details of the day for me. Today... but I think I'd better go check the roast. Who knows? It might be done half-an-hour early.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Poetry
Some days, words want to be a poem.
Invocation
Come. Walk. And let us gather
Silence, around us for a cloak
For this moment I would rather
Keep close the quiet and invoke
Deep stillness, a repose to ease out
The thought and sight and hearing
Of vastness unencompassed, a noiseless shout
Of sheer, stark glory, we are nearing
A perfection of happiness? This picture
Spins inside, but outward calm
Remains, so that wild bird’s chirr
And first spring flower meet in my palm
Beauty seen on an infinite sheet
Realized in a brief, painful, heartbeat
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Partied Out
I'm standing over the kitchen sink, rinsing the soap off of my hands, running the water as softly as possible.
"Come in and sit down," my sister calls to me from the other room.
"I have to finish my homework!" I shout back.
"The Saints just scored another touchdown," she yells in return.
I sigh. It doesn't look like the Colts are going to turn this back around. Turning from the sink, I survey the counters. Oreos, Mother's Taffy cookies, an emptied bag of potato chips, a scraped clean bowl of dip. Oh, and the chocolate cupcake batter that I just mixed. What was I thinking? I absentmindedly lick the spatula, feeling the heaviness of accumulated junk-food from Super-bowl Sunday in my stomach, but unwilling to stop eating the rich cupcake batter.
I received the cupcake cookbook on my last birthday, a gift from my mother, full of tempting full page color photographs. Strange how the results never seem to live up to the picture. I consider the unfairness of food photography. Sure, the pictures in the book always look better. No one has to eat that food, the stylist can do whatever they like to it. Like the contrast between the McDonalds commercials that run between football plays and the actual food you find yourself presented with at the counter, the food is always better on the other side of the camera.
At this point, though, I don't much care if the cupcakes burn to a crisp, sit in the oven as batter overnight, never reaching that magical point of change to solid food, or explode when I turn my back on them. At least if they do that, I'll have something interesting to blog about. The oven's temperature was measuring over 999 degrees Fahrenheit the last time I checked it, but I've left it for nearly three hours now, the over-heated stones giving me an excuse to sit on the floor and play Canasta while constantly nibbling junk-food and berating the on-screen football players for not making better plays.
Now that I've left it, I'm worn out from not moving enough. An odd paradox, the fact that resting all day only seems to make you more tired by the end. It's dark out and cold, but I'd rather let my feet get chilled than walk the extra few yards to my nearest pair of shoes. I wear my headlamp to carry the cupcake tins out to the oven, another benefit I'm certain previous brick-oven bakers lacked. At this moment, the headlamp is a welcome help. Previous bakers most likely were done with their day's baking by this time of night anyway. I tilt the heavy square of cement that is the oven door away from the opening and swing it to the side. Not wanting to bother with pushing the barely visible fire further into the back of the oven, I shove the pans in, pointedly ignoring the ashes that fall over the far edges. So some of the cupcakes would have a bit of ash baked into them. It wasn't as though we really needed the extra sugar.
Twenty minutes pass, in which I do not much of anything, still looking in annoyance at the cookies arrayed on the counter. I can't bring myself to sit down and watch the last few depressing plays of the game, when it's fairly obvious that the Saints aren't going to let go of their lead.
The idyllic-seeming day has begun to disintegrate, like they always seem to. While you work through your math homework, while you run errands, while you clean your room, you wish there would be one day, one day where you could simply sit around, eating unhealthy food, playing games, being absolutely lazy and incompetent. Then you do it and instead of feeling satisfied, you wonder why you ever wished for it. Something like when I was younger and would wish I was sick so that I wouldn't have to study - right up until I actually was ill.
I check on the cupcakes. The moment I lift the oven door away, I see the front row collapse as the cold air hits them. Lovely. There goes my plan to pipe filling into them. The toothpick comes out sticky and I shiver my way back into the house.
This time last night, I was panting, gasping for breath that wouldn't quite come, as I tried to get a stubborn soccer ball between the other team's goalposts. I was sweaty, exhausted. The knee I'd had surgery on was beginning to ache. I was utterly happy. We lost the game. I was still full of excitement. Last night, I had slept soundly.
Tonight, I pace the kitchen, twitching towards another piece of sugar, frowning at the dirty counters. The cupcakes need to be done now, I no longer care if they're raw in the center. I grab two potholders and open the sliding door again. When I deposit the hot pans on the stovetop, I can clearly see the burnt edges of the back row, in contrast to the sunken craters in the front row. It no longer matters. I'm past it, done with it, done with today. I leave the cupcakes on the counter and go to bed.
"Come in and sit down," my sister calls to me from the other room.
"I have to finish my homework!" I shout back.
"The Saints just scored another touchdown," she yells in return.
I sigh. It doesn't look like the Colts are going to turn this back around. Turning from the sink, I survey the counters. Oreos, Mother's Taffy cookies, an emptied bag of potato chips, a scraped clean bowl of dip. Oh, and the chocolate cupcake batter that I just mixed. What was I thinking? I absentmindedly lick the spatula, feeling the heaviness of accumulated junk-food from Super-bowl Sunday in my stomach, but unwilling to stop eating the rich cupcake batter.
I received the cupcake cookbook on my last birthday, a gift from my mother, full of tempting full page color photographs. Strange how the results never seem to live up to the picture. I consider the unfairness of food photography. Sure, the pictures in the book always look better. No one has to eat that food, the stylist can do whatever they like to it. Like the contrast between the McDonalds commercials that run between football plays and the actual food you find yourself presented with at the counter, the food is always better on the other side of the camera.
At this point, though, I don't much care if the cupcakes burn to a crisp, sit in the oven as batter overnight, never reaching that magical point of change to solid food, or explode when I turn my back on them. At least if they do that, I'll have something interesting to blog about. The oven's temperature was measuring over 999 degrees Fahrenheit the last time I checked it, but I've left it for nearly three hours now, the over-heated stones giving me an excuse to sit on the floor and play Canasta while constantly nibbling junk-food and berating the on-screen football players for not making better plays.
Now that I've left it, I'm worn out from not moving enough. An odd paradox, the fact that resting all day only seems to make you more tired by the end. It's dark out and cold, but I'd rather let my feet get chilled than walk the extra few yards to my nearest pair of shoes. I wear my headlamp to carry the cupcake tins out to the oven, another benefit I'm certain previous brick-oven bakers lacked. At this moment, the headlamp is a welcome help. Previous bakers most likely were done with their day's baking by this time of night anyway. I tilt the heavy square of cement that is the oven door away from the opening and swing it to the side. Not wanting to bother with pushing the barely visible fire further into the back of the oven, I shove the pans in, pointedly ignoring the ashes that fall over the far edges. So some of the cupcakes would have a bit of ash baked into them. It wasn't as though we really needed the extra sugar.
Twenty minutes pass, in which I do not much of anything, still looking in annoyance at the cookies arrayed on the counter. I can't bring myself to sit down and watch the last few depressing plays of the game, when it's fairly obvious that the Saints aren't going to let go of their lead.
The idyllic-seeming day has begun to disintegrate, like they always seem to. While you work through your math homework, while you run errands, while you clean your room, you wish there would be one day, one day where you could simply sit around, eating unhealthy food, playing games, being absolutely lazy and incompetent. Then you do it and instead of feeling satisfied, you wonder why you ever wished for it. Something like when I was younger and would wish I was sick so that I wouldn't have to study - right up until I actually was ill.
I check on the cupcakes. The moment I lift the oven door away, I see the front row collapse as the cold air hits them. Lovely. There goes my plan to pipe filling into them. The toothpick comes out sticky and I shiver my way back into the house.
This time last night, I was panting, gasping for breath that wouldn't quite come, as I tried to get a stubborn soccer ball between the other team's goalposts. I was sweaty, exhausted. The knee I'd had surgery on was beginning to ache. I was utterly happy. We lost the game. I was still full of excitement. Last night, I had slept soundly.
Tonight, I pace the kitchen, twitching towards another piece of sugar, frowning at the dirty counters. The cupcakes need to be done now, I no longer care if they're raw in the center. I grab two potholders and open the sliding door again. When I deposit the hot pans on the stovetop, I can clearly see the burnt edges of the back row, in contrast to the sunken craters in the front row. It no longer matters. I'm past it, done with it, done with today. I leave the cupcakes on the counter and go to bed.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Introduction and Fire
For the next two hours, I kept the fire burning, then I used a laser thermometer to check the temperature. 500 degrees Fahrenheit. I let the fire die out as quickly or slowly as it wanted to, going back to check the temperature of the bricks one more time. Two hours after the fire had burned away, it was still 325 degrees Fahrenheit, a temperature that I will mostly likely need quite often in my experiments. And it only took four hours to get it there. So, now I know what needs to be done to prepare the oven for the first test, which will come sometime next week.
I wonder why it is that next time I will see if I can get my brother to build the fire for me. It isn't that I don't know how to do it, because I just did. In fact, I get a feeling of satisfaction from being able to build a fire that can be sustained, that will serve a purpose, be it for cooking or for heating the house. When confronted with the building of a fire, however, I always have a feeling of apprehension. Going through the culinary arts program and even cooking day to day at home, I have burned myself repeatedly. Sometimes the burns are small, sometimes more serious, but they don't bother me. I don't think I have ever burned myself on open flame, though, more often it's a pan I've forgotten was hot, or spilled boiling liquid. Why, then, is there this fear of fire? It is entrancing to watch, contained in the oven, but I instinctively avoid getting too close to it. Perhaps it is the very characteristic that makes it so interesting to look at, its unpredictability, combined with its ability to unmake anything too near it, from logs to plastic utensils, that makes me shy away from it at the same time being drawn towards it.
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