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Brooks Peterson
Monday, February 12, 2001
The kitchen is no refuge from hubris
There's a lot to be said for this editorial-writing gig - sumptuous digs, no heavy lifting (unless you count the shovel work we have to do from time to time). There is, however, one drawback: the fact that there's a kind of gentleperson's agreement that you will have at least a smattering of knowledge about the subjects you address in that space over there on the opposite page under the big masthead.
Entirely understandable, of course, but it can be a bit of a drag.
That, neighbor, is why I cherish the opportunity to hold forth on this page every week. As some of you may have already surmised, the NewsWretch enjoys considerably more, ah, creative space in these confines. And so, today I intend to address a subject that is endlessly fascinating and occasionally frightening.
Let's talk cooking.
Understand, now, I'm not one of those knuckle-draggers who feels that a man has no place in the kitchen, save to plunk himself down at the dinette once his long-suffering mate has dished up a meal. Nossirree. Over time, I have managed to become a halfway decent breakfast chef, and I can whip out a burger, dog or sandwich without too much strain . . . but cooking, real cooking is an anxiety trip for the kid.
Nevertheless, every now and again I am seized by an irresistible impulse to go boldly, if clumsily, where I probably shouldn't go.
And sometimes it turns out halfway decent. Case in point: the meatloaf. For some reason, I was seized by a great hunger for my mom's meatloaf. I went rummaging through her little menu box, noted the ingredients, and hit the supermarket. Found everything, finally, only to roll over to the meat market and find . . . no chopped beef. At least, not the good stuff this recipe deserved. Frustration.
Eventually, though, I pulled together all the ingredients, and everyone agreed it was palatable - tasty, even.
See where I'm going? Of course you do: From there it was but a skip and a jump until I found myself adrift in the strange and terrifying landscape of . . . culinary hubris.
Thought I'd make an apple pie.
A real one. Peeled eight Granny Smiths (apples, that is), chopped 'em up, mixed in the stuff the cook book suggested - cinnamon, sugar, a dash of this, a suggestion of that - and was pleased with what I beheld.
Which brought us to the crust. Once, back in primordial days, I actually tried to make piecrust. And learned why they sell 'em out of the freezer section. I may be deluded, but I'm no fanatic.
So: I let my two frozen piecrusts thaw, then poured the apples into one and topped it off with the other. Inelegant? You bet. Gauche? No question. But, hey, this is America, where you can have your apple pie any dang way you want it - especially if you're the chef.
After reaching an understanding with our new high-tech oven about the settings, we were off to the races . . . and in due course the thing emerged.
A thing of beauty it was not. And, as had happened the last time I did this, the apples had sort of collapsed, leaving what amounted to a pie with a nice big attic.
So what? I helped myself, and darned if it wasn't right tasty. Nice and tart, the way I like 'em, and the crust is adequate, and . . . but what's . . . this? There's . . . something . . . in here. It's sorta chewy, and it doesn't seem to be apple or pie crust, which leaves . . .
OK: which leaves the piece of wax paper they use to keep the one frozen piecrust separated from the other - assuming, as is reasonable, that the chef will notice it and remove it.
My family was kind. Wife and daughter managed to keep from guffawing in my face. I think they thought it needed more sugar, too . . .
Like I said, I like a tart apple pie. And I had plenty of it to enjoy over a period of several days. The up side is that eventually I got fairly deft at extracting the wax paper.
This, children, is how we learn.
Brooks Peterson can be reached by phone at 886-3772, or by e-mail at petersonb@caller.com
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© 2001 Corpus Christi Caller Times, a
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