A Brief, Albeit Mildly Important, Introduction
I skip reading introductions. Often I will return to the introduction at some point, to glean what the author’s original intent was, but not always. I suppose this might make me a bad reader and I beg the forgiveness of those authors to whose works I never returned to peruse the introductions, especially now as I attempt to woo you, the reader, with one. Brevity being what it is, I will try to be succinct.
Many a friend and relative have uttered to me this phrase:
“I wish I was a better cook.”
To my recollection none of these people lacked the facilities to be proficient in the culinary arts. I use the term “proficient” as there probably exists in the highest echelons of any art or trade some natural aptitude for the craft that lends itself to genius. Proficiency is an entirely noble goal, for which I personally strive, as it indicates a consistent and pleasurable return from one’s endeavors. And this is what this book is about.
These “unteachable lessons” are meant to guide you toward achieving a proficiency in cooking. I guarantee that you have within you the ability to cook a solid meal, bake a fine loaf of bread or make a tasty dessert. First, though, we must explore some essential kitchen existentials before we can start to figure out what exactly all this cooking stuff is all about. Some are tangible physical boundaries, others more ethereal in nature.
Beyond that, I believe much of what you might discover along the way reflects itself in your day-to-day life, whether it be at work, at home or in love. These basic tenets of learning to cook also apply to learning to live.
But this is the extent of my introduction. Let’s just get to work.
Gumbo, Patience and a Few Biscuits
I have always wanted to be a magician. I have a fairly good banter, a decent amount of showmanship but very little patience when it comes to learning the slight of hand. Unfortunately the latter makes all the difference in convincing the audience you’re not a hack. But I haven’t stopped trying and hopefully someday you might see me in Vegas.
I am telling you this because I want you to understand that I know the difficulty in applying patience to something you want to be able to do RIGHT NOW. I want to be able to do card tricks RIGHT NOW but I can’t. It makes me frustrated and I put the cards and the book down and there they sit for several months (unless I can find someone to play cribbage with) until a rainy day presents itself and I take them up again. This is the way many people approach cooking. They see a recipe on a food show or read one in a magazine and they want to make it for dinner tonight. They haven’t cooked an entire meal in quite some time and they follow the recipe and it just doesn’t come out particularly well. They get frustrated and decide THEY CAN’T COOK and that is the end of that until something entices them to try again.
First, a little secret about recipes in newspapers and such. Let me start by saying, so as not to be lambasted by friends and colleagues alike, there are many fine outlets from which to get recipe ideas. The providers undergo the most intensive formulations in state of the art kitchens so that you, the consumer, will be able to recreate the most glorious of culinary masterpieces in the comfort and privacy of your own home. That being said many recipes, quite frankly, suck. I have probably contributed such a recipe myself at one point and here is the reason. It is 5:30 pm on a Saturday and a media type person calls you and wants a recipe for <insert dish here> to be scaled down to feed a party of four with ingredients that are easily attainable from your local market to be printed tomorrow. Now, few chefs will turn down such an opportunity for publicity so they (we) try to cobble together a practical and useful recipe in five minutes. I think you see the point. What the chef is unable to impart to the reader is all the technique needed to know to produce the dish and hopes the directions will mean something to the reader. So if your last culinary mishap was somehow related to such an article we will let you slide. For now.
That being said, before we can address technique we need to return to the more fundamental obstacle of learning card tricks and cooking, patience. Patience is not something you learn but rather practice. In cooking, this ingredient is more precious than salt and more valuable than saffron.
On the most basic level you must be patient with yourself. Cooking is not easy but it is not hard either. Food is a wonderful middle ground for creativity and precision. There are basic “rules” to follow but you are allowed an amazing breadth when it comes to personal panache. My friend and fellow chef Nick and I have debated the nature of cooking for close on to a decade now. We go back and forth as to whether it is an art, a trade, or a craft. We finally decided, I think, that it is all three bound as one. With each of these three, though, you must practice, practice, practice and expect to not do so hot all the time. Perseverance is the physical manifestation of patience.
O.K., so now you’re persevering. Cooking takes time. Not a long time, unless you are making kim chee, but time. Water has to boil in order to blanch, dough needs to rise for a good crumb, egg whites need to be whipped to a stiff peak for a perfect meringue. It is these necessary steps in production, which if overlooked or shortchanged, mean the difference between success and failure and in the big, mean, nasty kitchens of the industry and denotes whether you are a hack. You can be an egomaniac. You can be an alcoholic. You can be a sociopath. You can be all three. No one respects a hack.
Being a cook, a good cook, is a life-long journey. There are certain skills you can acquire fairly quickly such as making basic vinaigrette. It requires a little patience but not much. In general a ratio of 1 to 3 vinegar to oil will suffice to make a fairly tasty vinaigrette. Start with your vinegar (say ¼ cup balsamic) in a bowl. From there add a teaspoon of whole grain mustard. Whisk. Slowly add, a few drops at a time whisking constantly, your oil until you have added the entire ¾ cup. A pinch of salt and you now have balsamic vinaigrette. The patience lies in the slow addition of the oil, creating an emulsification (big weird word number one) a fully combined liquid which doesn’t separate immediately. It will though, just shake it up. From here you now have the basic gist of making a dressing. Pick your vinegar, try some different herbs in there, it is yours to play with. Other skills take longer to acquire, often years.
Living in Knoxville, Tennessee for a number of years I grew very fond of biscuits. Even more specifically of biscuits and gravy. The gravy is fairly uncomplicated and you can find my own recipe at the end of the chapter but the biscuit is the challenge. For years I tried and tried to make buttermilk biscuits and they never came out quite right. Too flat, too hard, too doughy, and too dry. But each time I made them I noted what I did differently and each batch got better. I consulted French bakers and old southern women alike to try to understand the principals that would lead me to the quintessential biscuit. This enduring patience has brought me to this, while it could still be better in my mind, a damn good biscuit.
Buttermilk Biscuits
makes 12
1/2 tsp baking soda
1 cup buttermilk
2 cups all purpose flour
2 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1 tsp salt
1/2 cup cold lard or butter
rendered bacon fat for greasing the pan
Preheat you oven to 400 degrees. Combine the soda and buttermilk to dissolve the soda. Whisk together the flour, baking powder and salt in a mixing bowl. Using the larger holed side of a box grater, grate the lard or butter into the flour mixture. Add the buttermilk and mix til just incorporated, the more you work the flour the tougher your biscuits will be. Liberally grease a cookie sheet with your bacon fat. Like lots. At this point you want to scoop out 12 portions of dough onto the cookie sheet so as they will touch each other on the sides (3x4), dusting the portions with a little flour and lightly pressing them down to approximately 3/4 to 1 inch in height. Bake in your oven for 12 minutes or until lightly browned.
Now that we have nearly exhausted the multilevel dilemma of patience, I have a little exercise for you. One of my favorite dishes to make is gumbo. There are few concoctions that evoke such feelings of nostalgia and romance as a good bowl of gumbo. Imagine yourself outside Lafayette, tying off your piroux on the bayou and relaxing to the sounds of water lapping against the side of your boat, a glass of Bordeaux or Dixie Beer, your chéri at your hand and a pot of gumbo on the fire.
So what makes a good bowl of gumbo? As with any dish the freshest possible ingredients will make your creations infinitely better. My indispensable 1966 copy of Larousse Gastronomique (I strongly urge you to find a copy) suggests using eggs no older than the morning’s laying for many dishes. If only it were that simple. Thankfully we have many farmer’s markets across the country which I whole-heartedly suggest you utilize whenever possible. Specialty shops for produce and dry goods exist in many towns and even the larger chain stores have begun to realize the demand for fresher and healthier ingredients. To that end you should be able to source out some good stuff.
In the end, though, the defining characteristic of your gumbo is your roux. And what defines the character of your roux? Yup, patience.
What is roux you may ask? Simply, roux is a combination of flour and fat (butter, oil, or lard) cooked together over low heat to create a thickening agent for stocks, soup, stews, and such. When preparing a roux for gumbo, we want to take the roux to a very dark color. The “darkening” comes from the cooking, or carmelization, of sugars in the flour. It is this dark roux that creates the essential flavor of gumbo as well as many other Cajun dishes.
Sounds simple enough. Butter. Flour. Cook.
Well, roux burns. Quick. Once it burns you can’t use it and you have to start again. The closer it gets to being adequately dark the quicker it will burn so attention is mandatory. If you don’t take it all the way to dark, the gumbo won’t achieve the “manna from heaven” aspect that we are striving for. Trust me, this is all worth it.
First, take care of the vegetable and meat prep ahead of time; this makes things less frantic when the roux is ready to go. Melt your butter in a large pot over medium heat. Add the flour. Begin stirring with a wooden spoon. Reduce heat to low-medium. This does take some time so be prepared to commit at least ½ an hour to the roux. As you stir your kitchen is going to blossom with the most wonderful smell, something resembling that of shortbread cookies baking. Keep stirring. As the roux cooks, you will begin to notice the change in color. It will morph from the lighter blond roux, to reddish, to reddish brown, to lighter brown, to a dark rich brown.
Once you have successfully achieved the dark brown stage you can add what in Louisiana is known as the Holy Trinity – a vegetable base of onions, peppers, celery, and garlic, (garlic being the holy part.) In French cooking such veggie mixes used for stocks and soups is known as mirepoix, substituting carrots or parsnips for peppers, one of those terms that gets thrown around and not always demystified.
From here add the rest of your ingredients, except salt and garnish, stirring frequently on medium heat. Be careful to stir around the edges of the pot and the very bottom so the roux doesn’t settle out as it cooks and scorch. After all your patience, this is very frustrating. Trust me, I know.
Once the meats have cooked through, reduce the heat to low and allow the dish to cook for another 20 minutes. Now it is time to season. I am giving a very baseline amount of salt here, add it, stir thoroughly, and taste. It takes a minute or two for the salt to really get infused before you taste it accurately but if you like more salt, go for it.
