Careless cook VIII

Evidence of how my world has shrunk to within the four walls of my apartment can be evident in the difficulty I am having with the fitful progress of late with the blog. During the pandemic this writer has been shut out of the world: I have ventured out to very few places; I have not traveled; I severely restricted my social agenda; regretfully gave up the cinema; saw very few people. There was little stimulation coming in from out there. The out of doors has begun to feel alien and somewhat dangerous. I read in The New York Times about the rise of violence everywhere: and especially have been appalled at the rude and narcissistically disordered passengers on airplanes. There is war in Ukraine and in other countries as well though the latter don’t get the same press space as white people’s wars. I have nothing to say and do not much care about the court case between Johnny Depp and Amber Heard; and am appalled that the Times is running a three-part series about Tucker Carlson. There is the daily blustering of Trump and the pusillanimous horde of Republicans I would prefer to avoid: I become physically ill when I think of them. And so to write about them would only keep them in focused view when I would prefer that they be kept out of my sight. They soil my consciousness with their lies, their hates and their ignorances. Too much of my writing efforts have been expended on them. And though I continue to read vigorously and widely, I do not want again to write literary analysis of the novels I consume. Nor turn this blog into a journal.

But I had undertaken a new thread, “The Careless Cook,” in which I meant to report on my haps and mishaps in the kitchen and perhaps how these events might relate to the rest of life. I continue—will continue as long as I live—to prepare my meals and to bake my bread. There is certainly a neurotic component to the efforts of the latter: there are usually too many breads stored in the freezer. But I sense that it somehow calms me to mess about with the dough, and I am comforted when on the streaming show Julia I see Paul Child and Avis DeVoto throw out not a few failed baguettes in their attempt to develop a method for baking them that will produce a nice oven spring and crisp browned crust. I have recycled not a few loaves and I still have issues with my baguettes—well, my careless method with baguette shaping and baking. But I think Amelia and Lilian still enjoy my results, tentative as the ladies may be. As for my dinner meals, I follow recipes (mostly) from the NYT and sometimes the dish comes out exactly as planned. And sometimes not.

            Now the other cookbook I look into a little less frequently is my Moosewood soup, stews  and salad edition, The Daily Special. I had earlier owned and dribbled all over the original two volumes from Mollie Katzen, Moosewood Cookbook (1977) and The Enchanted Broccoli Forest (1982). Both of these volumes have long since fallen apart. I retain a great affection for the Moosewood volumes and the restaurant that spawned them: my eldest daughter went to Ithaca College where the restaurant is located and whenever we visited her we dined at the Moosewood and was never unwilling nor impatient to wait for our table and always enjoyed our dining experience there. 

            But last night’s dinner was a creamy tomato soup from a NYT recipe, though I have also prepared the Moosewood dish as well. The latter is a bit more complicated with many more ingredients and thus, leaves greater opportunity for carelessness yet more possibility for variety of flavor. But of tomato soup: when I was much younger (now, at seventy-five years of age the description ‘much younger’ lacks substance) the only soups we were served, mostly of the vegetarian variety, came from the Campbell Soup company. My mother would prepare a can of tomato soup into which we children would be allowed to drop crispy Chinese noodles purchased specifically to serve as the soup’s condiment. Almost always, a grilled cheese sandwich would bepaired with the soup and be part of the meal. My mother’s kitchen had a circular iron grilled cheese device. She would prepare the sandwich and place it into the iron, close and lock it, and then trim the square bread that stuck out of the sides and thus forming what would be a perfect circular grilled cheese sandwich. The sandwich was then placed on the burner (gas or electric I do not recall), and when one side seemed done (mother always unlocked and peeked into the iron to assess the progress) the second side got its opportunity. In seemingly no time, the round grilled cheese sandwich was done and served as what seemed the appropriate accompaniment to the tomato soup. This pairing seemed to me (and still does, in fact) a perfect meal. And always delicious.

I believe that somehow tomato soup got paired culturally (whose culture, I wonder?) with grilled cheese sandwiches. I recall that once on a summer bicycle trip, after a fifty-mile ride the group stopped for the night at the designated inn and for our dinner we were served grilled cheese sandwiches and creamy (and home-made) tomato soup. I suppose that chips might have accompanied the soup and sandwiches, but I don’t specifically remember that addition. To the others about the table, I remarked that all that was missing to make this the all-American dinner was a chocolate malted. I can’t imagine where I considered that this menu figured as the all-American meal but everyone about the table seemed to nod their heads in agreement. And several grabbed a second sandwich and another bowl of soup! A restaurant in Madison, Wisconsin, Cooper’s I believe, is famous for its tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwich meals. Their French fried potatoes are also outstanding. Maybe tomato soup and grilled cheese is an American variant of Italian pizza: tomato, dough, cheese . . . just not prepared in a single structure. 

            Creamy tomato soup is remarkably comforting: the thick liquid fills the spoon heavily unlike typical broth soups which tend to run off the sides of the spoon on the way to the mouth. Creamy tomato soup is easy to consume. It is also smooth textured and there is nothing complicated about its accessibility. There is nothing in it requiring chewing: to have to chew: like the American dream, tomato soup offers accessibility to all. Nothing obstructs consumption: chopped additions that might complicate consumption and fill up the spoon are avoided, though adding leftover rice is sometimes a simple and convenient addition. And the grilled cheese sandwich with several thin slices of American cheese oozing out of the sides of enriched white bread that has been slobbered with fresh butter satisfied (me, at least) absolutely.