I’ve read somewhere that the fewer ingredients food has, the better. The healthier, too. Nothing could be less healthy than the overprocessed stuff supermarkets sell in these shiny, poorly designed, ever so colourful boxes, one might think. Reflecting on this, I was asking myself what I could possibly have for lunch that consisted of not more than one or maybe two things. Hmpf. I gave up immediately and made my notoriously famous risotto. It’s really yummy. And truth be told, I am still convinced that my risotto is not only yummy, but also quite healthy despite the fact it has way more than two ingredients in it. There’s rice in it, obviously. And then there’s chicken broth, broccoli, graped parmigiano reggiano, salt, white and black pepper, white wine, Italian Chardonnay, to be quite precise, butter, and olive oil. That’s an awful lot of stuff, isn’t it? Still healthy, though. I think it’s not the number but the quality and origin of the stuff one puts together for a meal. So, don’t you listen to what you learn on the internet! In order to stay healthy, just follow my advice: eat more risotto!
You wake up, not because you wake up but because the alarm goes on, you get up and out of bed and realize it’s raining again, it’s cold, too, you can’t find your favourite sweater, the mirror tells you you look tired, you resent that although it’s true, you can’t even keep your eyes open, you try to do push-ups nonetheless, stop at 1.5 and after that you’re just about to reconsider getting up at all. But then there’s the smell of freshly ground coffee and, even more intriguing, the smell of croissants fresh from the bakery. You dodder into the kitchen and find a nice breakfast served on your favourite china, the one with your best friends on it. You sit down, eat and smile. Life’s good, even at 7:30 AM.
Some days ago, we cooked some pears in red wine, in some Rioja, just to be overly precise, but it doesn’t really matter, I think, the minute you put in the cinnamon stick and the cloves, it would be a little casting-pearls-before-swine-ish if you had opened a bottle of Château Pétrus especially. Not having one of these fancy bottles in the cellar anyway, I was quite secure not to spoil the swines I don’t own either. Anyway, whichever red wine you use, let the pears simmer at an almost boil for quite some time, just to make sure not only the aromas are allowed enough time to infuse properly but also the red wine’s red colour. I’m sure, these red parts are especially high in flavonoids and antioxidants so you can tell yourself poires au vin rouge is a very healthy dessert. Works with me. Maybe too well. Health and dessert appears so very contradictory a combination… Maybe that’s why I completely forgot about the pears twice: first on the oven, I only thought of them when it was way too late for dessert and by then most of the red wine had diffused into thin air (or rather rich air, the whole kitchen smelled of wine and spices), I had to add some fresh Rioja, and then a second time in the fridge, where subsequently the wine was allowed three whole days to infuse ever so completely. They tasted divinely! And as far as I’m concerned, it’s one more recipe to make it to 100. By the way, you don’t need a steak knife to cut them like in the photo, they’re ever so mellow and soft. It was just the only knife of our household not yet in the dishwasher… Anyway, Bon appétit, or rather Santé!
There’s pasta and there’s… nothing! If it comes to pasta, I lose all objectivity, I forget all about any other meal, I always declare I will never ever eat anything else again. Like the boy who cried wolf, nobody believes me, but it’s true, nothing beats pasta, nothing is better, believe you me! As a proof, I stop writing right here and now, there’s nothing left to be said.
When you’re on Instagram, you learn that every day is a very special day, there’s a day to remember everything and anything, the earth, cats, mothers, turtles, France, tattoos, allergies, beer, butterflies, and bamboo. Today, however, should be World Fruit Salad Day as I made one of my chaotic fruit mixes, consisting mostly of a giant ananas, two pears, a banana, an orange, rum raisins, walnuts, and some defrosted blueberries from the freezer that turned everything not-blue blue. For dressing, I consequently chose a blue one: a blend of Cointreau and crème de cassis, which turned out a strange chemical experiment. The blue blackcurrant liqueur just wouldn’t mix with the orange liqueur, just like oil and vinegar they stayed apart, and when I tried this bi-phase-mélange, it didn’t taste like neither of the liqueurs but like some old school cough sirup from some very secluded pharmacy somewhere high in the mountains, run by some old bearded fellow with a bow tie, like Breinmeier’s Est. 1543, do you know what I mean? Anyway, maybe today isn’t World Fruit Salad Day but World Bi-Phase Day…
One is supposed to eat all kind of colours on a daily basis to remain fit and healthy and quite good looking, green, red, orange, yellow, and whatever colours there are in vegetables and fruit. With red, I don’t have the slightest problem (see previous post), but sometimes I wonder whether my supply of anything green might in any way be questionable. For instance, I hate Granny Smith apples. Horrid specimen of green little helpers! They look like they came right out of a chemical lab from outer space, just the kind of apple Mr. Spock would love to have for a snack. But I keep digressing, anyway, just to kill two birds with one stone, I put all my eggs in one basket, meaning I made a stew out of some fine ever so organic beef bouillon, green peas, even greener beans, red peppers, orange carrots, and as I didn’t have anything yellow to add, I had to substitute some colourless cabbage for the health benefits any kind of yellow stuff would have let one profit from. Poor me. However, it tasted so fine that I ate it all up and should survive to a hundred and five.
We’re all schizophrenic beings, I think. Otherwise, how could it be possible to name a duck your favourite animal, and still love the very same guy served for dinner, à l’orange or Peking or roast with some yummy sauce? As for sauces, I came up with a totally new one. Lots of rucola, haché menu, some garlic and spring onions, aka shallots, also chopped and minced in as tiny little pieces as you can manage, some fine aceto balsamico, from Modena of course, ever finer olive oil, from any Mediterranean origin, I prefer Sicily, lots of crushed white pepper, chillies, and some honey, not a lot, all of it gets stirred, not shaken, and you end up having the most aromatic condiment for your roast duck. It’s so good, you want to give it a name! Donald, or Daisy, or as you please. As I said, we’re all schizophrenics…
I have no idea if F. Scott Fitzgerald or any of his protagonists ever had bratwurst for dinner, leastwise the Divers should have eaten this teutonic meal at least once when staying in Zurich, the Swiss make such fine bratwurst, but since I happen to own Jay Gatsby’s personal napkin ring, discovered it some years ago in an antique store in West Egg, Long Island, I can tell you that his spirit is still with us and was with me tonight, when I had bratwurst for dinner, accompanied by some savoy cabbage. This curly leafed vegetable surely would have put a smile on Scott Fitzgerald’s face, savoy has such a nice first class hotel ring to it, doesn’t it? I think, I can say sans rougir that tonight, Jay Gatsby and I had a bratwurst as big as the Savoy.
Today, just by chance when shopping for Turkish chestnut honey at my Turkish grocer’s (despite the Turkish invasion in Syria, I decided not to take it out on the Turkish bees and chestnut trees, I cherish both of them way too much), I came along some dorados that were fresher than any other dorado I had ever met, and my life’s plans changed instantly—tonight’s originally planned linguine surely wouldn’t mind taking a rain check, and so I carried two of these wonderful, bright-eyed dorados home. Not realizing of course, that they were so fresh that I would have to remove all of the scales first, tricky job, and then open their bellies and operate on them to extract all of their intestines before I could finally put them in a pan, oh what lucky people all these vegetarians are… It was kind of a survival trip, rather challenging, no filleted stuff served on fancy plates by some blasé waiter, no, these guys I almost hunted down myself like a lion would an antilope… We had them with potatoes and some parsley, quite à la Hemingway, I understand lions like them best this way…
Cheese is the best thing there is, unless you’re lactose intolerant. I thought I was, at least until very lately, but it turned out to be an imaginary intolerance. Actually, it was a severe case of media brainwash, thus called by my physician, but that’s a totally different story. Anyway, as I said, cheese is the best thing there is. Especially this one, imported from Burgundy, France, by my parents who came back yesterday, served tonight for dinner with baguette and some other fine stuff and, most importantly, with a (actually, two and a half) bottle of Maranges, a very fine Burgundy wine, with a nice aroma of almost overly ripe cherries to lighten the almost overly creamy heaviness of that wonderful cheese. A cheese, of which my parents couldn’t recall the name, otherwise I would have told you, please believe me!