Step Into My Office, Baby

Fire code restricts us to two adult human beings at any one time.

Fire code restricts us to two adult human beings at any one time.

This is where I make things happen. In the future, when I review cooking equipment, make a new dish, or try to be coordinated enough to document step by step how I cook something, this will be the backdrop – except it’s not usually this clean. Right now, for instance, the dishes from this evening’s “oops my in-laws are coming over to watch our son and I should probably feed them” dinner are still unwashed, and will likely remain so until tomorrow. I’m woman enough to admit that.

I try not to complain about our “new” (older) kitchen, though I confess that the oven does drive me to the border of reason. At any given time during cooking, it’s up to fifty degrees off. Not reliably fifty degrees…that would make things easier. But if I do break out into the occasional lament for my kitchen that was, perhaps especially the counter space (ungrateful wretch that I am – I used to resent having to wipe them down many times a day), then hopefully you will understand and forgive me.

The Kitchen at Sierra, where I was spoiled rotten:

Red, Shiny, and oh-so Spacious

Red, Shiny, and oh-so Spacious

There are books of historical cookery that often have to be translated for modern cooks. “When the oven is goodly hot” will be come “375 degrees Fahrenheit” and “add some flour thereto” will be rendered “measure and sift 2 cups all-purpose flour.” I sometimes think that any cookbook I write would have to sound more like my historical forebears. The fact that my oven is more of the “goodly hot” or “smoking hot” type than one that conforms to precise measurements of temperature is merely the beginning. Mostly, my cooking is sort of a jazz riff on a chord – recipes are there to be altered, adapted, or abandoned. This can go well or very, very wrong. As long as it’s still edible, it’s all good. Otherwise, I have to chalk it up to painful (and sometimes expensive) experience.

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