You Are What you Eat
Yet somehow, having the "F Word" on vaguely in the background, somewhere in your flat while you cook your dinner can be demoralizing. I'm sure Ramzey would laugh in my face for even entertaining the thought that I'm ok in the kitchen. Just look at the evidence:
Fuck Ramsey; over-rated pig head arse-fucking snob; I don't need his complicated cavalier culinary ostentatiousness; I know what I'm doing. Tonight I sharpen my flat mate's best knives and go to war with:
Salmon. Fresh - Season with lime, pepper and ground garlic. Smell it.
Refrigerate.
Mean while get some Basmati rice on the hop, while heating extra virgin olive oil in the flat pan.
2 Tomatoes. Chop.
Half a small red chili - slice and dice.
1 Large mushroom. Slice - make sure each slice has some volume.
Take a hack out of your other flatmate's past-its-best coriander and dice it until you can smell the sap.
1/2 and onion. dice and throw into the pan just as the olive oil smokes.
I love that noise.
Now add your tomatoes and coriander, a generous pour of red wine and you're covering the onions and tomatoes with mushrooms then lay your salmon fillet on top. Leave on a low head so that the mushrooms are cooked by the steam coming from the tomatoes, and the salmon cooks slowly. You see the heat rising through the flesh of the salmon.
15 minuites. Plate up. Smell. Delicious. Great. Fuck off.
What's wrong with my evening? Somehow this exercise isn't as fun as it was. I switch the television off as I sit down to enjoy my meal with some Kruder and Dorfmeister providing aural nourishment. The fish tastes great, it is by no means over cooked, however the slow pan cook has given its texture butter-like quality. The rice is light and fluffy and the mushrooms are fleshy and rich, having soaked up the steam from the red wine. Chili gives a kick
but wait.
I am eating alone. I have cooked for one. And slowly the absent feeling to the whole exercise is explained.
So If I am what I eat, and I eat what I cook; do I cook who I am? It's a strange feeling when you go to your cupboard one day and find that you ran out of the ingredients that you thought you had an endless supply of. Reality check. Recently I've not had time to cook. It's been more: Pub. Pint. Drink. Snort. Smoke. Lovely. Refrigerate the brain for a night with orange juice before bed, then season with some more wine the following lunchtime.
When you stop, you have time to listen; take stock and question. When I stop, I find time to cook; it's one of the most relaxing things that I can do. I love it, however cooking for one just isn't as much fun.
Fuck Ramsey; over-rated pig head arse-fucking snob; I don't need his complicated cavalier culinary ostentatiousness; I know what I'm doing. Tonight I sharpen my flat mate's best knives and go to war with:
Salmon. Fresh - Season with lime, pepper and ground garlic. Smell it.
Refrigerate.
Mean while get some Basmati rice on the hop, while heating extra virgin olive oil in the flat pan.
2 Tomatoes. Chop.
Half a small red chili - slice and dice.
1 Large mushroom. Slice - make sure each slice has some volume.
Take a hack out of your other flatmate's past-its-best coriander and dice it until you can smell the sap.
1/2 and onion. dice and throw into the pan just as the olive oil smokes.
I love that noise.
Now add your tomatoes and coriander, a generous pour of red wine and you're covering the onions and tomatoes with mushrooms then lay your salmon fillet on top. Leave on a low head so that the mushrooms are cooked by the steam coming from the tomatoes, and the salmon cooks slowly. You see the heat rising through the flesh of the salmon.
15 minuites. Plate up. Smell. Delicious. Great. Fuck off.
What's wrong with my evening? Somehow this exercise isn't as fun as it was. I switch the television off as I sit down to enjoy my meal with some Kruder and Dorfmeister providing aural nourishment. The fish tastes great, it is by no means over cooked, however the slow pan cook has given its texture butter-like quality. The rice is light and fluffy and the mushrooms are fleshy and rich, having soaked up the steam from the red wine. Chili gives a kick
but wait.
I am eating alone. I have cooked for one. And slowly the absent feeling to the whole exercise is explained.
So If I am what I eat, and I eat what I cook; do I cook who I am? It's a strange feeling when you go to your cupboard one day and find that you ran out of the ingredients that you thought you had an endless supply of. Reality check. Recently I've not had time to cook. It's been more: Pub. Pint. Drink. Snort. Smoke. Lovely. Refrigerate the brain for a night with orange juice before bed, then season with some more wine the following lunchtime.
When you stop, you have time to listen; take stock and question. When I stop, I find time to cook; it's one of the most relaxing things that I can do. I love it, however cooking for one just isn't as much fun.
Labels: food, life, Relationships, Youth
posted by Donshades at
8:31 PM
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