Daily Blague

There has been some talk around here about a "new me." Such talk is exhilarating, of course, in those early moments when a better future beckons with false assurance. I didn't fall for it this time; I knew that I was going to have to trudge every difficult step between where I am and the promised land, and that it wouldn't be easy. At my age, "new" cannot mean "additional." I am already fully booked. "New" has to signify "replacement." Something's going to have to go, and I hope that it won't be "cooking."

It will certainly, this change, involve a new approach to the kitchen, one that is very, very focused upon immediate needs. It is time for me to throw away - far away - the mentalité represented by my mother's deep freeze. It is time to stop having things "on hand." There's no need for that - I can scoop up the ingredients of a good meal without crossing the street, twenty-four hours a day. Walking a little further and planning a bit ahead, I can make a memorable meal in "no time." But there has been, for some time, a disconnect between the me who shops and the me who cooks. The latter has been showing a mutinous side, and the sooner I fire the me who goes shopping and replace him with the me who does the cooking, the better.

I really had no thought of dinner when I walked down to Agata & Valentina this afternoon. It was a multi-purpose trek. I dropped off a few items at the framer's, got a haircut next door, stopped at Cafe 79 for a grilled-cheese-and-bacon, and then crossed the intersection to my favorite cornucopium. The reason for the this stop was very simple: nuts were low. From the minute he arrives for dinner until dinner is actually on the table, M le Neveu is constantly reaching into the big jar of cashews on the hall table. I noticed the other day that there were so few nuts in the jar that I could see wood through the bottom glass. And I buy my cashews at Agata & Valentina exclusively. Why? Because I'm a man, and when something works, I do it over and over and over.

But, as long as I was there...

Focus! Focus! As the old granny says in American Wedding.

With Kathleen off in Korea for a few days, and Ms NOLA up at Yale, I thought that I might entice said nephew to a simple dinner of rib steak and fries. M le Neveu is qualified to offer up his cadaver for the Museum of Carnivores; no slouch myself, I am always impressed by his capacity. And his enthusiasm! Grrr. So I got a nice rib steak from Dieter, and then I thought about Kathleen's last supper before the trip, which, in my wandering mind, was to be tonight; somehow, we were already at Friday. I couldn't decide between veal and veal - veal scallops, that is, and veal shanks. I plumped for the latter. I make a great jarrets de veau - osso buco, more or less, without the tomatoes - and I will share the recipe with you over the weekend, perhaps, when nobody's paying attention. I also bought bags of cranberries (yay! cranberry season!) and a few fingerling potatoes - period. Incredibly austere of me. I bypassed the charcuterie counter altogether, because I haven't wanted sandwiches lately, unless they're grilled by somebody else. I thought about buying some shucked clams for a nice linguine dish, but firmness prodded me down toward the cash registers. On the way, I recalled that today is not Friday. All right; ya got me: I'm writing this last night. Today is Friday. But yesterday was not Friday, and that fact registered. So. What about tonight? I turned around and went back to the fish counter for some slices of salmon fillet.

The cranberries are cooling, the rice water is on the boil, and the salmon needed to be taken out of its poach ten minutes ago, but I was having much too good a time sipping Jack and blabbing with you. Ah! There's Kathleen - she's got a car in ten minutes. So we'll eat at about ten-thirty - not at all abnormal. It doesn't get abnormal until eleven-fifteen. At that hour, even I lose my appetite.