On Food, Love, & Life.

 "Cooking is like love; it should be entered into with complete abandon, or not at all." - Julia Child


Sometimes I'm afraid people read my blog and think my life is too good to be true.

Truthfully, its pretty darn good, so I can't complain, but its not perfect, and neither am I. To prove my point (in case you missed the last post about my dubious experience with criminals), I want reveal one of my many  flaws:

I'm an emotional eater/cook. Some people drink. Some people do drugs. I cook and eat. I cook when I'm happy. I cook when I'm sad. I sometimes cook when I'm angry, or jealous, or bored. It doesn't sound like that big a deal, but when you've had a hard day at work or a fight with a friend, and then you cope by purchasing $68 worth of groceries for one night's dinner, it can become a problem.  On not-so rare occasions, I've then gone home, prepared an elaborate meal that took 3 hours to cook, and a) eaten all of it in one sitting, or b) been too tired to eat more than a few bites. Neither one of these is a good situation (unless you happen to be my roommate in scenario b).

It goes without saying, the more upset or anxious or sad I am, the more intricate the recipe I will probably attempt to make. There's something about cooking that's therapeutic. There's something calming in knowing that even if I can't make my relationships turn out right, I can take 15 ingredients and combine them into something that's going to turn out perfectly. Or at least, its supposed to turn out perfectly.

But things don't always go as planned. Sometimes even the best planned meals burn, or turn out too salty or bland. And sometimes the ones that you throw together at the last minute with whatever is left in your fridge wind up being the best. And sometimes it just takes practice.

Practice reducing a sauce with heavy cream and wine so its not too runny, but also so it doesn't turn into congealed goop.

Practice searing a meat so its flavorful and done, but not dry and tough.

Practice makes food perfect. Except when it doesn't. That's when you sigh,  order thai food take out, and hope it works out better the next time.

There's not always a perfect recipe to make food turn out just right. There sure isn't a recipe for life and relationships.

You just chop, and dice, and sautee, and simmer, and cross your fingers.

And sometimes, just sometimes, its perfect.

                                                                          ~

Below is one of my favorite comfort food recipes, that I stole adapted from my good friend and ex-roommate Liz (she's the author of Twenty-Something). This recipe always makes me feel better. It's something about the richness of wine and heavy cream and the summer-y taste of lemons and artichokes. Enjoy!

Lemon & Rosemary Chicken in White Wine Cream Sauce

Ingredients:
2 tbsp olive oil
1 large boneless skinless chicken breast, thinly sliced
2 tbsp minced garlic
1 stalk fresh rosemary
1 large lemon, halved
salt & pepper, to taste

1 cup marinated artichoke hearts, drained
2 cups sliced mushrooms

2 cups Sea Ridge Chardonnay (or other white wine)
2 cups heavy cream

2 cups cooked and cooled white rice

Heat olive oil in a sauce pan over medium to high heat, and add chicken, and minced garlic, and season with salt and pepper. Separate rosemary leaves from stalk, and add to the pan. Brown the chicken on one side, and then the other, and then add mushrooms and artichoke hearts. Keep pan on medium/high heat, and squeeze both halves of the lemon over the chicken, mushroom and artichokes. (Discard lemons).

 

Next, add wine and bring to a simmer. Reduce. Once the wine has cooked down, stir in heavy cream. Allow the mixture to simmer, and reduce until cream has thickened enough to coat the back of a spoon. (This will take time. Stirring it will not make it go faster. But ignoring it will result in a gross, burned mess. Trust me.)  Remove from heat and serve immediately over white rice.

Note: I like this recipe with roasted asparagus served with a drizzle of balsamic dressing as a side dish.