Adventures in Cooking, part 2

My husband, call him D, is the kind of cook who will read a recipe completely before attempting it, ensuring that he not only has all the ingredients in the kitchen, but that they are easily accessible, that all pans, measuring cups, utensils he might need are clean and within reach. I tend to neglect these details, more likely to pause midway through cooking to wash some dishes when I realize, for example, that the only pot I could possibly use is encrusted in remains of oatmeal from breakfast, soaking in soapy water. He follows recipes rather precisely; I think measuring things like spices is overrated, and feel that creative substitutions are part of the fun of the kitchen. Although, I may feel this way because I often realize I don’t have the ingredients required only after I have begun to prepare the given dish.

He, for example, makes sure that there is a spot on the counter to put down a pan hot out of the oven before he takes it out. My preferred approach usually involves dancing around with the hot pan, trying to clear space off with my elbows. Suffice it to say that of the two of us, he has fewer burns.

Over the years of being together and cooking together, we have developed a comfortable rhythm in the kitchen. We have what I thought was a happy division of labor. Sadly, in recent weeks, while cooking without him, I have begun to suspect that on rather frequent occasions his role in the kitchen is much like that of a parent chasing after a toddler attempting to do damage control before the child harms herself or those around her. For example, by clearing off a spot for me to put down the hot pan that I might be holding while vainly trying to shove aside whatever else might be on the counter. Or reminding me that perhaps it would be wise to finish washing the dishes before launching into the food preparation. Or suggesting that it’s not a bad idea to check to ensure we have all ingredients on hand before starting to cook. Clearly, without him, I do none of these things, to occasionally hilarious, if frustrating effect.

Setting aside the tomato paste incident of a few weeks ago, several other misadventures have highlighted my pathological inability to plan.

When I first moved into the apartment I’m now living in, I arrived and my roommates had not yet moved all of their things in. They had returned to their old flat to pack up. I decided to make dinner. I chopped up and onion and some other vegetables that needed to be cooked, and I was looking forward to a nice stir-fry or sauté of vegetables. With the vegetables all chopped, I took a pan and reached for the oil. There was none. While this was a furnished flat, the kitchen was rather ill-equipped. But really, I do recognize that supplying cooking (or better olive) oil is beyond the purview of even a generous landlord.

I was utterly flummoxed. I stood, standing in front of the stove, staring at my plate of chopped vegetables, completely unable to proceed. I willed a bottle of oil to appear. (Sadly, my powers of telekenesis/telegenesis being underdeveloped, the situation remained unchanged). I opened all the cabinets, checked the pantry and refrigerator 3 times in hopes that I might have missed something. I looked in the freezer. There was no oil, ghee, butter, lard, no fat of any kind it seemed. What was I going to do? How could I sauté vegetables without oil?

The ghastly thought that I might use water finally occurred to me. I was quite loath to do so as it brought back bleak memories from a time when all I did was low-fat cooking, and sautéing with oil would have been anathema to me. This severe avoidance of any kind of fat was accompanied by a whole set of dietary and lifestyle restrictions commonly associated with anorexia.

I was hesitant to return to that bland and boring kind of cuisine. The mere thought of the poor vegetables stranded in a scalding bath, without even the merest slick of velvety butter made me cringe.

But, with an onion already chopped, and the dinner hour receding, I had little alternative. The vegetables turned out fine, if a little bland.

The very next day I went to the grocery store and bought oil, and salt, and pepper to prevent further culinary calamities.

After the incident with the misguided sauté I thought that I had made sure to fully stock the pantry so that I had all the necessary basics. I’ve been cooking for a few weeks without incident. I made a lovely lentil soup, lots of roasted vegetables, and a delicious spicy eggplant and tomato dish, among other things.

Yesterday, I was cooking dinner again and planning to add a can of beans to the vegetables I was sautéing (do you sense a pattern to my meals? Almost anything I make begins with chopping an onion and some garlic and browning it in oil).

The vegetables were coming along nicely. I retrieved the can of beans from the cupboard and went to put them in the pot of vegetables. I opened the drawer with the large spoons, vegetable peeler, and other extra utensils. I looked for a can opener. There didn’t appear to be one there. I looked on the drying rack, thinking perhaps it had been used. I looked in the regular silverware drawer. I looked up and down the kitchen, searching for a can opener.

I found a waiter’s style bottle opener and corkscrew. I took this item out and applied it to the can. I thought perhaps the corkscrew part could pierce the metal. It did not. Undaunted, I tried the bottle opener end, hoping somehow to slice the metal. I struggled with the can and the bottle opener, poking and prodding, attempting to wrest it open somehow. Alas, the can remained intact. Slightly dented perhaps, but not punctured.

I briefly considered attempting to melt the can open over the gas burner or using a lighter, but quickly thought better of that plan.

After a few more moments of banging the can against the counter, the floor, and attempting to force it open with the bottle opener, I gave up in defeat and made an omelet instead.

While a planner I may not be, I am at least resourceful. (I suspect, in fact, that the two characteristics may be linked). I used the unopened can to roll out my sore calves after a run at the gym this morning. Until I buy a can opener, at least the tin of beans can serve some purpose.

And perhaps I will someday learn to look before I leap.