Some years ago, I noted a memory of my wife developing a
mild obsession with cooking since we moved to Johannesburg in 2010. A couple of years later; the mild obsession
nurtured, and now it is in full bloom. In
July of this year, she could hold it no more and enrolled for a chef’s course. Being the full-blown lunatic that is my mate,
she could not interest herself in the odd cooking class, NO, she will be a
qualified chef. I suppose we only share
a trophy, I am not often complemented on my sanity either.
I cannot say that I did not see the signs, there were many
signs. The fact that we own more cooking
books than days left over to prepare each recipe presented is a dead give-away
and first sign. Then, she is as thin as
a twig, or at least when I wrote this. I
am back after dressing that wound, hope the lump will not be too big, tomorrow
is a work day after all; back to the story. She is as thin as a twig, and we apparently
love to watch the cooking shows, all of them, the second sign. Then came the big one.
It is just over two years since she gathered all the family recipes
form all over the globe. The plan was to
soil the pages of an otherwise perfect book with the knowledge that gained countless
pounds, engulfing our gene pool over many decades. The enthusiasm of this endeavour was swiftly
replaced with a file full of notes gathering dust. Enter the engineer.
I recently moved to a new position recently, and quite impressive neglect on the part of business set up - operational procedures did not exist, and there were minimal documented philosophies
guiding my newfound team. I got in the habit
of writing stuff, and since there are only so many instructions to give in any professional
position, I offered to assist her now that backlog on my end is depleted. We
are writing a cookbook. I however
have no interested in guiding the rest of humanity down the slippery slope of
what others love. Our focus is now on
the meals she makes. I am sure, the
family will understand, or I do not care, whatever blows your skirt up.
The first thing of a book is to think of a concept and the
second, a striking title. The concept I
touched on, the title will have to wait; there is no consensus on any of the proposals
I made thus far; despite the amount of intellectual effort I have presented.
The thing about writing is, there is so much information out
there. I think we are beyond the point
of writing for others, we should write for ourselves. If another appreciate the effort, or can
relate to it, great. It might just get
them to note their own ideas too and that for another to discover.
Being a super-efficient engineer, I rapidly drew up a simple
format for recipes to go in to. You have
ingredients, a method and a photo; marvellous.
After the second recipe, I realized that is boring beyond comprehension. We needed some stories to bind this endless
listing of how and what into something enjoyable. My wife gave me the freedom of the pen here
and I love it. She normally gives me
some pointers, why she likes it, where it comes from, and so on. Very important information for me to ignore –
who screws up a good story with facts. Soon,
whoever will discover the wisdom I could dream up.
Being a relentless upcoming Michelin Star carrier, little
miss are not going to publish anything she did not test. Food, in my family at least, does not go to
the bin. We cook, and we eat, and if I
need to see another bagel after this weekend, I’ll go jump off a cliff. I put up a brave face with the 6th batch
- this weekend things did not go to plan and bagels were the recovery route.
She got the idea that oxtail can be made as a roast in the
oven from an American book. I do not
know what soft massaged cows they herd in the US, Africa is a tough country
with flies all over. A cows’ tail has
two purposes, the first and most obvious it to cover the poop fountain and the
second is to waive away flies. After
several year of swaying relentlessly, the cow’s tail is the toughest portion of
the entire animal. There is not a snowball’s
hope in hell that you get a tender oxtail in an oven after 2 hours, not African
cows. Lesson learnt, meltdown completed
and bagels made, we had a re-run on Sunday.
The oxtail, as on many previous occasions went into the pressure cooker
for 3 hours; that did the trick. She popped
it into the oven for 45 minutes afterwards, just to make sure and it was delicious.
I am not one to complain about the adventure, it is Monday
evening, and I am awaiting the Osso Buco to be finished up, eat like a king
every day. I have to run like hell in
order to maintain a reasonable shadow; I gave up on a small one, but as stated before,
I do not complain.
Spices - tools does not make you a chef, spices do. That is my observation. She was never scared of adding a bit of taste
to meals, but nowadays, there is no fear. They all come out and fortunately, there are
things that should be presented together, otherwise we would just have all of them
on lamb, beef, ice cream, and carrots too. She loves the selection and preparation of the
spices most, I think. It appears that
she keeps an accurate inventory of the bottles and jars, and have to ensure
something goes empty. Tomorrow she is off
to the spice shops, replace what needs too, and find some new tastes to add to
her repertoire.
The meals that make the book are very well tested, and they
work. An experiment like this is interesting
if you venture close to home. I suppose
one would think that living in Africa where meats are plentiful; we would like
the more sophisticated cuts. However,
that is not the tastiest meats you could have. Over the years, we honed in on the tougher
bits that require a bit more effort, like shin, neck, tail, and so on; the
effort is always worth it. Do not get me
wrong, I love the odd steak every third day, but I do not live for that. I suppose, it is clearer now why spices also
gets more important, you just have more options with these than with the other
cuts.
Here at the southern tip of Africa, we also have good wine. They go well, very well, with the stews,
braises and curries we have. To be honest,
they go pretty well without them too as many a casualty from an evening spent
at our home could testify.
As is written in the Good Book, let’s eat, drink and be
happy, tomorrow is another day. Let me
risk some truth here at the end, having a chef in training share your bed, is
not the worst fate you could be dealt. It
is actually a splendid concept. The tastes
are getting better and more sophisticated as time goes on; simple dinner is
more an experience now.
The price I have to pay!
Monday, 12 November
2018
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