Thursday, November 13, 2003

Those deboned cornish game hens just about did me in; very nearly put me off cooking and blogging, for life.    Let’s hope I have recovered.  I have still been cooking here, just not as frenetically, and still eating, just not as much.    But inquiring readers won't let me fade way:  what, you ask, was the most sublime meal in all of England?   Let’s just say a few words about sublime meals.  First, they are not meals I have to cook.  If I have to cook them, the pleasure decreases at least by half.  Second, acute hunger and general physical misery or exhaustion play a more important role than any cooking technique.  Whoever said “Hunger is the best spice” hit the nail on the head.  (I’ve been trying to court hunger a little more consciously these days; I find that I’ve missed it.)  Third, alcohol alone doesn’t make a meal memorable (think of all the meals you may have forgotten because of it), but just the right amount of wine, beer, or spirits can be as crucial as the right amount of salt.  And, finally, while good dinner companions can make the entire experience sublime, a sublime meal can be had when one is alone.   Reaching into the memory bank, I pull out three of my most sublime meals; there are many other excellent meals I have had, but most of those lack the preceeding “misery” quotient.  I invite all readers to send me accounts of their most memorable meals.   1.  September 1992:  Bogota, Colombia:   When an Englishman says, “Let’s go for a walk on Saturday in the hills ‘round the city”, beware.  Be very aware—that by “walk” he means “Six Hour Trek” through rugged terrain, up rocky hills and down muddy ravines, across fields with live bulls and under barbed-wire fences. He does not mean a leisurly stroll.   Having been subjected to such a walk, along with three other hapless colleagues, we were tired, wet, dirty, torn, hungry and thirsty when, at the end of our day in the hills, we finally reached a small tavern called “Santiamen”, quite far off the beaten track.  Once inside, we guzzled regular water, tossed back a few shots of “aguardiente”, and filled our bellies with warm arepas and flaky trout empanadas, which sound awful, but were incredible.  Had I not been so worn out, the food, the drink, the rustic atmosphere and the music of Guillermo Portabales (listen!) might not have affected me in such a delicious way.  It was one of those moments I’ll never forget, one of those evenings when so much pleasure comes together spontaneously, the experience augmented by genuine hunger, of body and spirit.     2.  January 1991, Duluth, Minnesota.   Again, I found myself being dragged out for an unexpected walk, this time through the frigid woods surrounding the city of Duluth, Minneosota.  We tromped through the woods. in snow up to our knees, for a good two hours longer than I expected, so by the time we got back to the house, I was very happy to warm myself up with a few beers, and a classic American supper.  Pork chops, green peas, and mashed potatoes have never tasted so good.  It was, in fact, a day I will always refer to as “the day I learned to love peas.”  I have my hosts, Julie and Chris, to thank for it.   3.  October 2003, Cranbrook, Kent, England   Jet-lagged, bleary-eyed, and doped up on half a dose of cold medicine, I crossed the cobblestone street from my lodgings to the 14th century George Hotel in search of much-needed sustenance.  It was far later in the evening than I was accustomed to eating, near to 9pm, but a good 8 hours had passed since my last airplane meal-- a measly croissant.  Expecting to be served shepherd’s pie or roast beef, I was surprised to see crab cakes on the menu. I ordered them and they appeared, served on a bed of scrumptious Vietnamese cole slaw, the plate drizzled in decorative fashion with peanut and cilantro pesto, and the moist cakes themselves topped off with pickled cucumber and ginger.  I washed them down with a little white wine and great gulps of water.  Was I in England?  I was not.  I was in heaven.  My misery ended right then and there, and as with that bowl of lentil soup that surprised me in Spain, I came home resolved to duplicate the experience.  Foolish, foolish woman.  comment []3:50:43 PM

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