Exotic and unusual spices always add an element of Michelin-starred derring-do to every meal. They are super fuel for that long journey from frowning at an ambitious recipe to elegantly plated haute cuisine. With luck, it's a journey that won't make pit-stops at Botulism and E-Coli, because exotic and unusual spices can cast a discreet veil over questionable meat. Trust me, I have sprinkled those spices liberally over what I believed to be farm-fresh poultry, oven-roasted my creation, devoured its wings and thighs, done the dishes, then sat on the toilet for what seemed like an eternity.
I always wanted to be a broth-sniffing, onion-juggling, talented amateur chef who can chop multiple vegetables in the blink of an eye while expertly reducing several sauces on his stove top; and sometimes, when splashing a cup of red wine into my sizzling pans, I pretend that I am such a superior being. But the truth is, culinary destiny has not been kind to me. I'm much better off just reading directions off the back of the box and so are my fellow diners. In fact, my cooking style is more freezer-to-microwave than artisanal butcher to cast-iron skillet; more Uber Eats to table than farm-to-table. There is no teacher like volcanic diarrhea and self-prepared spicy food has been my Krakatoa.
Yes, the egg-timer of life has run out on my kitchen dreams. It has become winter in the land of seasonings; my gravy has turned to thick mud all the au jus is iced over. The bloom is definitely off the rosemary, so to speak. Yet sometimes in the quiet of the evening, when I'm defrosting packaged lasagna, I can still sense the disapproving shade of Julia Child hovering over my shoulder. And, to paraphrase Hans Johst, that's when I reach for my salt and pepper.
Comments