Thursday, May 29, 2003

Though Maggie scooped me on the Julia quote in the New York Times yesterday, I would like to discuss a bit.  Let’s review: "Though Julia Child gave the clarified butter version for hollandaise in her 1961 opus, ‘Mastering the Art of French Cooking,’ her recipe in ‘From Julia Child's Kitchen’ (Alfred A. Knopf, 1970), offered a choice: clarified or soft butter. Last week she went one step further. ‘I've changed my point of view,’ she said. ‘Now I think clarifying the butter is just a nuisance.’” My initial thought on this was – “Thanks for telling me, Julia!  I didn’t get that memo!”  But on a second reading, the real kernel of this sentence lies, I think, in “Last week.”  Julia Child is ninety-one years old.  Last week she came out against clarified butter.  That is maybe the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.  Eric did me the honor of finding this supporting quote from Jaques Pepin, from the Powell’s Books interview : “Indomitable. Her spirit is what's exciting. I spoke to her three days ago, and at ninety-one she's ready to go start something else. Her open-mindedness in terms of new cuisine or young chefs -- she's always ready to help someone and make suggestions. Let's try this. That kind of appetite for life, that spirit, is what strikes me with her.” And, yes, Hannah, your description of her in yesterday’s comments – “an otherworldly primate god of kitchens and good humor" – is both beautiful and correct.  Thanks.  Julia, Salud! So after a lovely evening of Public Outreaching (Bernie Goetz was there, how’s that for weird?) it was home to throw together a Marinade au Vin for a pork roast for tomorrow, and make the Mayonnaise Collee.  Eric had prepared the way for me by steaming the asparagus I’d be putting the Mayonnaise Collee on.  He also was in charge of the entree – lemon basil chicken.  I’d told him to pull out the clipping from my scary recipe file.  I told him the recipe is (cringe) from (ick) “Under a Tuscan Sun”, and that it’s just a little paragraph of italicized letters.  Well, I kind of forgot that I actually had two lemon basil recipes, and what with this that and the other, I realized too late that Eric was making ready to do another one, for which I had not bought the correct cut of chicken.  We had chicken quarters, the recipe called for boneless skinless breasts.  But it was fine.  With only minor panic, we adapted, and Eric wound up making some really fabulous lemon basil chicken.  This even though when he through in the chopped garlic to cook, the pieces turned mysteriously, unmistakably blue.  You think I’m exaggerating, but no – his little garlic pieces were in a pan, frying up with oil and stock, turning a very distinct aqua color.  It was a little disturbing, I won’t lie to you.  But what could happen – nobody ever died from a little blue garlic.  And it tastes fabulous.  That lemon basil taste was so exactly wonderful, and different from the usual.  Taste buds, even at eleven-thirty at night, were crying out like the women in those stupid herbal essence shampoo ads, “Yes!  Yes!!! YES!!!!” The same success was not had with the Mayonnaise Collee.  I don’t know what the fuck is going on with me and my mayonnaise.  Perhaps the Primate-Julia God is working her mojo on me.  All I was supposed to do for this mayo was make some regular stuff in the blender, and then add some gelatin dissolved into vermouth, wine vinegar and chicken stock.  No problem, right?  But it was no dice.  I made up a first batch – egg, mustard, salt and wine vinegar in the blender, thirty seconds.  Add olive oil, in droplets at first, and then in a thin stream.  That’s what I did, I swear!  Well, it didn’t work.  I even tried a second batch, being extra special careful with the slooooowww adding of the olive oil.  Fuck.  Nada.  It was totally thin and unmayonnaise-y.  I blended it for a very, very long time, which predictably had no discernible effect.  So I went ahead and blended in the gelatin stuff and blended that awhile, just for kicks.  I chilled it for a bit. I came out like marinated string cheese.  This clumpy solid white stuff surrounded by olive oil.  I went ahead and ate the stuff, over the asparagus, but I do not think by any stretch of the imagination you could say that I achieved Mayonnaise Collee.  If Julia was squeezing this stuff out of a pastry bag, it could only be for unfathomable Machiavellian reasons.  Oddly, I didn’t freak out and throw things.  Perhaps it was simply too late to get riled up about mayonnaise.  It was also too late to make a soufflé (This, I will admit, is becoming a sad pattern in my life.)  It was not too late, however, to watch a bit of our long-neglected Sopranos DVD collection.  12:15 at night, I have to get up in less than six hours, and my husband is clamoring for “just half an episode more.”  This is a man who’s been knownto lie in bed of a morning prone and groaning like a confederate soldier getting his leg amputated without benefit of ether if he gets less than eight hours of rest.  I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with him these days. Reporting live from the fourteenth of my fifteen minutes, I must say – ah, the vagaries of fame!  My bosses, who are suckers for media coverage in all its varied forms, are now all of a sudden keeping tabs on my blog, so I have to be careful about calling them “government drones” and “eighth-grade boys.”  In addition, for the past day I’ve been in a strange mood to log every detail of my life – “Ooh, weird, my new make-up smells like burning rubber,” or “I wonder if I should get a bikini wax?”  But I’m realizing I need to stop with that kind of thing.  It’s going to get me in trouble one of these days.   7:42:43 AM    comment []