Seven. I got interested in cooking at age seven. Mom got a Saturday job at the Marianna post office and left early. I liked to sleep in on Saturday, so I was on my own for breakfast. She showed me how to make eggs and toast. I love eggs. I got Mom to show me all the different ways she fixed them: straight up, over easy, basted with bacon fat, scrambled, even shirred eggs, her Sunday morning special. Oven eggs, we called them, and she always served them with buttermilk biscuits. I learned the basics, then started experimenting. Scrambled eggs gave me room to play. I learned how to make scrambled eggs creamy.
Yep, just like that. I took that a step further by mixing in more milk and cooking that over low heat without stirring, making a delicate custard. It later spawned dessert custards like bread pudding and experiments with custard sauce like I had at the Duke of York. Then I went the other way, getting the pan hot before pouring in the eggs. Puffy eggs! I had independently discovered the frittata. But it was dry, so I grated in some cheese. Eggs and cheese are kind of good together; who knew? Puffy eggs eventually took me to popovers and Dutch babies. I first encountered the Dutch baby at Dot's Diner in Boulder. There it's a German pancake, and I see they still serve it. The menu looks the same, but huevos rancheros are no longer New Wavos Rancheros like they were in the 80s. The German pancake, which you needed to order in advance, was guaranteed to turn my whole day into a depressed post sugar fat crash.
Pizza ai funghi. My first time in Rome I was looking forward to eating real Italian pizza. I first made Chef Boyardee pizza in a box when I was eight. Pepperoni was good, Italian sausage was better, best was sage scented breakfast sausage. Later on, in Asheville, I discovered Broiled in Butter mushrooms. I just loved that decadent fungal flavor. Those became a regular pizza topping too. I was used to very American pizza, so the Roman pizzeria menu puzzled me. I settled on the mushroom; the other names I couldn't translate. I was expecting tomato sauce, hoping for meat. That pizza was a flavor bomb, all new flavors. Different color mushrooms, fresh herbs, no meat, no tomato, and OMG the crust! The rich gooey cheese!
Bacon. Green bean mushroom soup casserole was Mom's contribution to any covered dish dinner and I loved it. So I had to learn how to cook that, starting with the green beans. Her green bean secret was bacon. She'd fry some up then cut it up in the iron skillet, leaving in the grease. Add the green beans, snapped not cut; cutting leaves the strings. Toss the beans in the hot grease till they turn dark green, add water, cover till tender. They made that casserole sing. I made that dish for decades. Always got rave reviews. It's the bacon!
Butter. My Mom's buttermilk biscuits were the best anyone ever made and you can't prove otherwise. Even the uncooked dough for her biscuits was intoxicatingly good, tangy and rich; I would beg for scraps as she punched out the round pads destined to become biscuits. Her secret, I learned, was all butter, no shortening or other lesser fat. I still go by that: there is no cooking fat but butter. Ya, ya, ghee, it's a pain in the butt and not as good. You can't improve on butter. Gloriously tender buttermilk biscuits dripping with more butter or holding a freshly cooked sausage patty spread with homemade blackberry jam became another signature dish of mine. Thank you Mom.
Canning. In Asheville I took the homemade blackberry jam idea and ran with it. I became the consummate canner. Peaches pears and plums, blackberries blueberries… loganberries? On a trip to a campground on a lake in northern Arkansas I tasted jam that made my eyes bug out. It looked like blackberry jam but had a distinctly different taste, a sort of candy wonderland flavor. Years later I learned it was loganberry jam. I've never made it. Never saw loganberries in a store before Seattle. I won't be making any more jam here, but I wish I had found some logans back then, just to try it. Anyway in Asheville, on East Park Avenue, I became the jam king. I made spiced pear preserves, then made them again with a little port for color and flavor. I spiced peach preserves with amaretto. Sad to remember that; peaches taste so regally rich alone. Amaretto? That's as bad as the vanilla flavored coffee beans I used to grind and put in my Chemex with the festive wooden beads. Plum preserves with brandy, cherries with kirsch. I had a canning bath with the basket, a steel funnel and jar tongs. And case upon case of Mason and Ball. The straight sided canning jars had recently appeared and I was gaga over them. Heat resistant glass with tasteful designs. Domes with holiday cheer printed on. Threw it all away when I headed off to Boulder in 1979.
Campfire cookery. A whole new realm to explore! My favorite campfire meal, which I also made at home when my dad had charcoal going, was the foil pouch: a piece of meat (cubed steak was my favorite) and some vegetables sealed up carefully in foil and dropped in the coals. Here I learned that how you cut the vegetables was crucial: potatoes had to be cut mighty thin if I didn't want 'em crunchy. I'm still working on my knife skills.
Peach cobbler. The other camping delicacy required a cooking pot, preferably cheap aluminum, soot-blackened and dented well. Campfire peach cobbler was one box Bisquick mixed with one can Hunt's peaches with syrup. The trick was to cook the gloppy mess until the middle was done but the outside wasn't burned, a trick no Boy Scout ever learned. Of course we ate it all anyway, burned and goopy alike. It was heavenly.
Sunday dinner at the Pagoda. Living in Kenya blew my world wide open in just about every way, and food was a big one. In Nairobi I began to discover the culinary world, starting with China. Soon after we arrived, my dad's boss invited us to join a group of UN staff for dinner at The Pagoda. They're still in business; it was ranked among Nairobi's top ten restaurants in 2017. It's upstairs in Shankardass House, a classic Chinese-style mixed use commercial building that'd be right at home in Seattle's International District, say along S Jackson somewhere. The tables had lazy susans set flush into the tabletop; you might say they encouraged diners to share. I was still using Pagoda chopsticks all through the 2010s in Seattle. Instead of pull-apart unfinished chopsticks you got nicely finished bamboo with The Pagoda Nairobi in charming foil printing. They're gone now, along with all my chopsticks; I prefer to eat with a spoon, gweilo that I am.
Banana. The real culinary heart of Nairobi was Indian. There were Indian restaurants everywhere, at every price point. Meaty samosas were the standard snack food in any bar, and Indian stalls vied for my custom, enticing me with abundant displays in all the markets, colorful mounds of spices and lentils. I learned new words: elaichi, haldi, kalonji, dal. I loved curries. You got a bowl or mound of rice, and the meat and sauce was served separately in a metal pan. You put some curry and rice together, and then there were the toppings. Even in very humble restaurants, the toppings were lavish: chutneys, pickles, radishes, fresh cut fruit, shaved coconut and other nuts, etcetera. I loved all the toppings, but my favorite was sliced ripe banana. Still my favorite.
Curry on the brain. While I was still in college the UN would pay my airfare so I could go visit my parents in Kenya. I was getting more serious about learning to cook now that I had a kitchen, and when I visited Kenya I'd go soak up all I could in Nairobi's Indian restaurants and markets. I started collecting Indian cookbooks. Early on I learned to scoff at prepared curry powders, buying all the individual spices and grinding them or frying them whole as needed. Indian became my second culinary language after southern.
English? I also discovered English delicacies in Nairobi. Cadbury bars were the first chocolate bars I liked: Caramello, Fruit & Nut, Royal Dark. I also became fascinated by luxury canned goods that I thought of as English because I found them in very English-style grocers, things like paté de foie gras with truffles, lumpfish caviar, smoked mussels. That dubious fascination lasted for years, but I survived it.
Sam's spinach salad. Food on the Fishfarm was a team effort. Sam, Gail and I all loved to cook, and we all brought our own favorites. I've already written about stack pudding and fried genoa salami cubes, a couple of Sam's favorite munchies. Sam also made a spinach salad that was to die for. The only salad items were spinach, hardboiled eggs, and bacon bits; the magic was in the dressing. The eggs had to be cooked hard, till the yolks were crumbly. They became part of the dressing as you tossed the salad. The other dressing ingredients were tamari, toasted sesame oil, prepared mustard (usually Grey Poop in our house), and just a smidge of wine vinegar. Oh, and salad oil, usually olive but untoasted sesame oil was also great for that. The secret was in the proportions, and Sam worked by feel. It's a salad unlike any I've ever tasted before or since, just mind-bogglingly good.
Curried pulao. One of my contributions was a curried pulao dinner that combined things I learned in Nairobi with 50s/60s California-style cooking I was learning from Sam and Gail, who lived in Cupertino and other Bay Area burgs for years. French onion soup dip, anyone? You want guac with that? I would fry up a bunch of Indian spices into a tadka. When the spices all got very fragrant I dumped in dry brown basmati rice, and let the rice fry before adding water. Then cover and don't peek! While that was cooking I'd make a very garlicky green salad with a good amount of lemon juice as the acid. You mixed the richly spiced fragrant rice with the tart garlicky salad and ate them as one dish. Everyone loved it, even the kids. A popular vegetarian meal, whoo hoo!
Peachy. I would cut up ripe peaches and simmer them in a cast iron skillet with butter and brown sugar until they began to get soft and syrupy. I would dot the surface of this sea of peachy goodness with a California-style pancake batter. Oatmeal, pecans, whole wheat. The dollops of batter always looked like they were going to drown. Then I took the skillet off the stove and put it in the oven. When I took it out, the peaches had disappeared under a bulging brown hippie cake. I served it with a spoon so you could make sure to get the sweet doughy treasures at the bottom. This Scout finally made that peach cobbler.
The Diet. In Boulder I learned a new approach to food: grain and veggie-based conscious cooking and eating. All the meals were one-bowl meals eaten with chopsticks while sitting on the floor. It probably saved my life; it certainly saved my health. I rebelled mightily against the discipline and simplicity of it, but I actually liked most of the meals. Cooking was spelled out in minute detail: how to cut each veggie, what order things went in the pot, the exact size cubes to cut the cheese. Proportions of each ingredient were precise, as was the exact quantity each person was allowed to eat, determined via muscle testing. I had a real love-hate relationship with The Diet, as it was known, and I'm so grateful that I had to live with it, more or less, for twelve years. I learned a lot and got healthier, while my coworkers in Tallahassee were settling into middle-aged spread. The comfort that never lasts. A miserable ease as Nietzsche so plangently put it. The ease I dodged by leaving Tallahassee.
Carbs. When I came to Seattle in the 1990s I let most of my dietary discipline fade, and by the early 2000s I was getting fat. But in 2006 I finally got in touch with my wisdom, and the first order of business was losing weight. The diet my wisdom gave me had a new theme: low carbs. I lost the weight by eating a diet based on low carbohydrates, relatively high fat, and portion control: I cooked only the amount I was going to eat; no leftovers, and of course no seconds. My diet mellowed out after the weight loss, but I held on to limiting carbs and portion control. I stopped eating holiday feasts. I avoided potlucks. I made my meals just the right size, no matter what day it was.
Experimentation. My diet in the 2010s was one huge crazy experiment. I now had enough connection with my wisdom to avoid complete catastrophe, but also free enough rein to try all kinds of stuff. I had a new diet every few months. Hidden in all the happy chaos was a steady process of refinement: I gradually got better at cooking, came to understand cooking and food more deeply.
Keto. At one point I went full-on keto for a few months: super-low carbs, lots of fat. I succeeded in moving my metabolism into ketosis, and I was mesmerized by it. It felt like I had entered a whole new world; my body felt so supple and alive, just crackling with energy. But after a while it began to feel like too much, I couldn't handle the energy, so I upped the carbs and tipped myself back into normal healthy metabolism. Not even Eskimos are keto. Great article, btw.
Detox diet crisis. My big crisis in diet, really a series of crises, came with cannabis detox, which began in December 2019. In the latter part of my yearlong pot glut I was having a harder and harder time consuming the smelly crap. I didn't want to mix it with my food and make that taste awful. I really detest the flavor of extract, and the smell and taste of pot in general. Shit tastes like shit.
Red bush tea. After some experimentation I settled on mixing it into sweet, milky (mostly whole milk) rooibos tea. The flavor of the rooibos and the fat of the milk made it less onerous to get down, and gave me some nutrition.
Panic food. When I entered cannabis detox in December 2019, I couldn't bear to eat anything. Everything tasted dreadful. But something led me to try the rooibos milk tea without pot, and I found it tolerable. So I drank a lot of that. I've had my fill of red bush tea for this lifetime. As I tired of that, I tried flavoring my milk with spices. That was OK, but only just. A few months into my nightmare I found I could tolerate caffeine again, so I began making sweet milky coffee, and tea as well.
My indulgent meal. For most of my adult life, I had a favorite indulgent meal: a giant mug of sweet caffe latte and a pastry to dunk in it. I've never much liked donuts, so I'd dunk a cinnamon roll or giant cookie. I started making this meal at home, and my wisdom helped me work out a home-baked sweet bread that was especially good for dunking. Every week or two I'd bake a big yeasty pan of it. The diet I settled into consisted of my indulgent coffee meal for breakfast, a chai version of the same for lunch, and then a meat and veggie dinner where I'd try to cram in all the missing nutrients. And a midnight snack: an even bigger mug of whole milk. My diet was so bad I couldn't make it through the night otherwise. As bad a diet as it was, I'm grateful to milk for providing accessible high-quality food all those months when I couldn't anything else. But my milk diet came to an end in October 2020. I woke up back in full panic mode, brought on by too much caffeine, duh.
Gullible. You'd think I'd be onto this trick by now, yes? My wisdom encourages me to drink up, enjoy the booze, drink more and more until I create a crisis that scares the bejaysus outta me so I quit drinking. Then basically ditto for pot a few years later, now caffeine. But if I were onto the trick it wouldn't work. Thank god I'm such a chump. Caffeine may not be addictive, but caffeine withdrawal still sucks. Thankfully it was very short compared to booze or pot, just a few miserable days.