It's been a while since my last post, but that is not because I have been ignoring this hobby of mine. I've been constantly thinking about what on earth to write about next, and while there are always "big" food issues running through my head and my reading list, I don't want this blog to become top-heavy with my thoughts on changing-the-world-one-meal-at-a-time. That said, I've managed to think of something that seems so simple and basic, but that I have gradually found myself steering away from: recipes.
I've never been good at following written directions. I have always disliked assembling toys (when I was young), or furniture (when I was a little older), and frankly, following recipes falls into that "assemblage" category. I often get an idea in my head for what I want to make - curried vegetables on rice, for instance. That is certainly a vague description of the end result, and if I don't quite know where to get started, I head for a cookbook. Actually, I usually haul out two or three, and read every curry recipe I can find. My brain starts working and I begin to see patterns developing - this spice goes well with this one, these vegetables need similar cooking times, etc. Then I close the books, put them back on the shelf, and start cooking. Usually the result turns out with varying degrees of success, but then again, I'm one of those pesky kinesthetic learners.
The reason that I want to talk about this is because I think I have undervalued the worth of recipes. There have been times when I have cooked food using the method described above, and it turns out to be simply delectable. Then I say to myself "I should really write that down" after which I promptly forget and the specifics of the made up taste-sensation, and it evaporates into the land of forgotten thoughts.
Today, though, I made soup. From a recipe. I'm not sure why. But it was damn good. And I'll make it again. And again. And again. And again and I will always know EXACTLY what to do. And so I've started to re-appreciate recipes because, as simple as this sounds, let me re-live all those exciting food moments that so easily could be forgotten. AND I can share it with other people. (Besides, how are you supposed to perfect my cooking if I don't know what I did to begin with?)
There were some recipe books that my mother used to use while I was growing up. Every once in a while I would ask her to make this thing, or that thing, and every time she did it turned out the same. (Except once, when she made a chocolate hot-fudge sundae cake when my boyfriend at the time came over for dinner for the first time, and she couldn't figure out why it was so flat. Turns out she accidentally baked a spoon inside of it, and didn't realize until she was serving it and it revealed itself to everyone at the table. Boy, was she embarrassed, though we still laugh about it.) But due to some unfortunate circumstances, she was separated from her cookbooks, and these cherished family recipes no longer exist. I drool in vain when I think about tomato soup cake (go ahead, laugh), Texas brownies, and those perfect jam cookies that melted in my mouth. Those recipes were for more than just consistency; they were memories.
I'm going to find some favorite recipes of my own. I will still experiment on my own and make things up (that's half the fun of cooking. The other half is eating, as long as everything went according to plan.), but I had better start writing things down because as sad as it is, memories don't last forever.
