As I sit here full to the brim of a delectable fish stew, I
think about just that… “fish stew.” As you say the words, it has little to no
appeal, what-so-ever. But when I think about it, I mean actually think about
it, I think about being a young girl, forced to eat dinner at the table with her
parents every single night. I had
little appreciation for it then, as well as the glorious smells that brewed out
of my parents’ kitchen. The only interest I had in the kitchen growing up was
the occasional taste testing of cookie dough. But fish stew, not a popular
choice for young children I’m sure, was one of my favorites. Flavors layered in
of white wine, onions, garlic, stewed tomatoes, and then topped off with white
fish poached in flavors ever so delicately.
That meal was one of the few that I did not race through to
the finish line so I could hop back in front of the television. That was a meal
that I sat and enjoyed, slurping as the warm, filing yet light broth trickled
down my throat. This is the meal that I prepared tonight. We forewent the gym
in order for me to make a stew that took a little over an hour and a half to
sauté carrots, celery and onion, add wine, developing flavors with thyme,
basil, oregano, red pepper and more garlic. The broth sits and stews so that
every layer, every bite, is filled with the scents and memory of a little village
by the sea where the fish was without a doubt freshly caught that morning. Here
in the deep frozen tundra of Minneapolis, we had to settle with some
store-bought cod fish, but it worked well enough for our taste buds. After an
hour of building character, in goes the fish to bathe, cook, and get flavor of its
own. Ten minutes pass with salivating mouths pacing in my kitchen asking when
we can eat, and we’re ready to serve.
Holding on to my sense of tradition and longing for family
dinners at a giant dining room table, I demand the places be set with the bone
china, even if it is just two of us. It’s time that is easy to miss, but when freshly
bought flowers and sterling silver candle sticks sit as the centerpiece, Mozart’s
Piano Sonata No. 3, 10, 11 & 13 are playing in the background, you can’t
pass up the opportunity to enjoy the ambiance of a meal at the table.
Normally Sundays are not my “family time” meals I long for –
it’s a day of preparing for the week, getting done those last minute things
that you didn’t get done Saturday, and just some easy, eat-on-the-couch meals
(or at someone else’s table… like a restaurant). Today was different. After
being surrounded by friends all day
yesterday, celebrating the birthday of a girlfriend that might as well be my
sister, a day relaxing on the couch was much more desirable. No longer can I
sit and watch mindless television, I needed some sort of stimulation while
simultaneously “veg’ing out”. Normally I can watch the Food Network, or at
least have it on in the background, but as of late I find the commentary,
slang, and loud repetitive adjectives to be more of a pain to listen to than
the pleasure I once had from it.
As of late, our choice of food mixed with culture has been
Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations. I always wondered why it wasn’t on the Food
Network, until I first saw it. The show is less about ingredients that go in to
the world’s most caloric, Americanized “ethnic” food, burger, or fattiest tater
tot dish, and more about the culture. The travel and integration into the place
in which he visits is fascinating for several reasons. First and foremost, his
vernacular is so poetic, it borders on seductive. When someone throws around
the disgusting phrase “food porn” these days, it’s usually referring to some
overly-indulgent, sugar-packed dessert plated for what looks like seven
patrons, or a quadruple bi-pass as a result of 7 slices of processed cheese,
bacon, and some other deep-fried toppings plopped on top of a 70/30 “ground
beef” burger patty. When I think of food porn, and what it really should mean, I think of watching this
show. Sure, he uses profanity and has some inappropriate comments, but they are
witty, well thought out, and poetic because the usually involve some metaphor
that many would not use due to its brashness. Secondly, watching him explore
the depths of every little alley way in Rome, boarded-up shack in Hudson Valley
or Maine, you know you’re actually getting to the local culture. The passion
and respect that is given for the people that live and breathe that daily is
something you do not get from the other shows. He dives in head first, willing
to try anything recommended as his taste buds truly have been promiscuous over
the years.
For someone who already has a passion for cooking, history,
and travel, he hits all five senses for me. I find myself at ease yet excited,
inspired with a racing mind yet calm and focused; I get warm and fuzzy and want
to have this life of exploration myself. Travel is so often about climate, site
seeing, and getting to devour sinful treats you do not allow yourself at home.
These days, cities are so polluted with generalized cuisine: Mexican food is no
longer that, because they all taste about the same. Italian food has become
about out of the box pasta and canned tomatoes bought from the store rather
than seasonal, locally grown ingredients that build character and make you question
“what am I eating?” The flavor is so
rich yet light, warm and spicy yet smooth and soft. So rarely do people
actually go to a place using the Rick Steve’s Guide to find a hole in the wall
restaurant that looks like someone’s alley behind their house, but those are
the places we actually dream about. They are just that: someone’s alley – it is
home to them. The food should taste
like the person behind the stove in that kitchen 50 feet away is feeding their
grandmother and children, not opening a frozen package of pasta that is pre-seasoned
and will taste the same every single time you order it. Recipes are used as
ways to remember the ingredients and direction of the meal, not to be strict
guidelines.
Tonight as I stood in the kitchen adding in one layer at a
time, all I could think of was the different sensory that were going off with
each ingredient. What was that white wine doing for the broth? Did it need more
garlic, salt or oregano to hit a different taste bud? What could I do to get
the man who puts Kraft parmesan on everything to feel completely satisfied
without? I also reflected on the episode of No Reservations that took place in
Maine, with the seafood and endless possibilities of meals, followed by Rome
and an angry chef who stood by their traditional roots. Why did my mother
choose to feed an 8 year old girl (with impeccable taste, I will say) a fish
stew? She was cultured and well-traveled as a child, and looking back, I can
say with certainty, this was her way of letting me into all of the marvelous,
mysterious, and magical places she has been in her life. I think of other
people as inspirational, but someone who worked 50-60 hours a week made it a
priority to teach me to appreciate home-cooked, diverse, refined cuisine. That
is what I call inspirational.
