Perhaps, because Sunday Supper has grown into a bit of a local legend (yes, there is clamoring for invites, yet we still like to keep it small), or because we are so particular when shopping the Saturday farmer's market, people often ask, "where did you guys learn how to cook?" The answer: as with any great passion, you pick up tips and tricks along the way, but really the Ranger and I were first sent to the stove by grandparents.
We both came from hard-working middle-class families, so Mom was not at home waiting for us after school with a plate of warm cookies and a glass of milk. While that continues to be an iconic American image, I don't know anybody who actually LIVED that life. Nope. Both parents worked. So it was Grandma waiting at home for the Ranger...and for me, my grandpa. The Ranger's Polish grandma introduced him to cabbage and noodles, pigs in a blanket, pirogis, and potato pancakes.
And my Grandpa Gabriel...well, he was an exceptional cook, particularly over an open fire. Being a sheepherder and all, that's how he'd cooked most of his meals as a young man. But because he didn't speak a lick of English and me -- my Spanish has always been little more than polite inquiry -- we "talked" in the kitchen. Or more accurately, I was his sous chef, in charge of dicing and slicing, even if I could only reach the counter using a step stool. Today, I'm not sure too many grandparents would hand their eight-year-old granddaughter a sharp knife and a pile of vegetables, but remember these were the years when no one locked their doors, kids played in the ditch, and matchbooks were never out of reach. What I remember about that knife...the handle was made of smooth, polished bone and it was razor sharp. If I ever cut myself, I don't remember. I just loved the responsibility of being handed something so dangerous and forbidden, magical and swift. Who needed sword fighting cartoon characters when I had a bone-handled knife. (I think I imagined the bone was a femur from some slain enemy, but really...there's just no telling)
So here I must raise a glass of Spanish Cava to our grandparents who taught us that the love of food starts in your own two hands. And speaking of...from the mitts of Chef Jesse Otero at the Whale Cove Inn came this fabulous, joyful meal, prepared just for us.
Let's start with the view from our table, set with crystal and shining with confetti. Looking out the window, it wasn't at all like the brick wall outside my New York apartment. Or the tangle of electrical wires that dangled behind my Albuquerque bedroom. Don't you love how I doctored the shot of the ocean and gave it a Moody Blue vibe?
Next, The Chef took my favorite mushrooms -- chantrelles and black truffles -- and made soup, sprinkled with local corn. Smelled like forest, tasted like goodness.
Finally, finally dessert. Individual lemon souffles that were still warm when they hit the table. So sorry I don't have a picture, but I dropped the camera right then and there...out of sheer ecstasy. I split mine open, drizzled it with creme, blueberries and slivers of jalapeno...and well, that was that.
Thank you Chef, for such a special meal...and thank you Ranger, for making it happen. A happy, happy birthday, indeed.
4 comments:
yum. love your food blogs the best.
My mouth is watering right now but I think the tastiest item in the cupboard is a rice cake. I might have to take a cold shower.
Yum-EEEEEEEEE sounds like a great birthday.
KLH-keep laughin' honey xo
I was going to give birthday greetings all around, but I can't seem to quit slobbering. gak. Real, lovely food without a dining companion saying, "I don't wike dat" (I don't cawe).
I find my own personal cooking flying out the window at the mo' for oh, so many reasons, so any excuse to oogle someone else's food porn will be gratefully taken.
What a meal!
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