Ah Thanksgiving, a foodie's ultimate challenge or ultimate nightmare. On the eve of this most challenging of culinary driven holidays. I reflect on my journey into being master of my own kitchen. 

Oh the allure. To appreciate and experience one of the most legal forms of prurient pleasures. Sultry, sensual/sexual and tactile.  A combination of danger and unpredictability with an underlying skill and sense of purpose. Combining the most primal of man's instincts, taming fire and the wielding of  razor honed steel.  Yes I am talking about the joys and pleasures of cooking. The tactile art of preparing food into delectable and exquisite gastronomical art forms.

The Foundation of my education is built in the most subtle of ways. Layer upon Layer starting from the ground up, sublime and complex,  like a  lasagna rich and satisfying. Oh there were setbacks, sidetracks, burnt offerings.

The first inklings of these roots taking hold come from a traditional stay at home mom, cooking to the best of her abilities in the canned and frozen era of the rebellious 60's. The doting Grandmother with a treasure trove of ethnic knowledge trying to combat the Tang and TV dinner generation.  The sanctity of family meals. Gatherings at holidays, the reveal of those most sacred of recipes and treasured special foods handed down and cherished.

It continues as an undercurrent to everyday life.  The most Rudi mentary of skills,  learned in that most secretive of societies, Boy Scouting. Here was the first contact with fire and steel. I don't care how old you are or how refined, put people around a crackling fire of oak, ash and beech and you will see that 1000 yard stare. Peering into the hot gases flickering and dancing drawing your attention, holding it, as time seems to stand still. The awakening of the true meaning of using real fire and real steel to test one's mettle.

The dormant years of young adulthood. Career building and the need  for speed and fast food lanes. Time found in convenience, time lost in the search for a clear and diverse pallet.

I guess the reawakening  began with the creation of my own family unit. The cycle once again builds in the every day struggle to nourish the body as well as the soul. In an effort to assuage the guilt of generations of Polish mothers and grandmothers, the need to feed not only young bodies but, young minds, started anew, the need to prepare decent meals. A daunting task that continues to this day. To emerge from the chicken nugget, PBJ and plain pasta meals days, leading to the awakening and discovery of palates and taste buds. And I liked it.

To cook is to learn. Stretching the imagination, like that pizza dough across the floured counter top. It is all of the humanities rolled into a flour and egg pasta. Art, architecture, science and literature. Poetry for the palate. Bright shiny pennies everyday. It is the ultimate reward cycle, learn something new and treat yourself to a sumptuous feast.

Like woodworking, it is a hands on process, requiring intricate muscle memory techniques. Serving those minced onions, not dyed red with your own blood is quite an accomplishment.

And the tools. Please don't get me waxing poetically about the carbon steel of a santoku knife or the simple beauty of a Griswold cast iron frying pan, seasoned to a deep black with countless hours of cooking. I cherish my le cruset enamled 4 quart cast iron dutch oven as much as my
motorcycle. A Berland's tool store or Sur la table and I am lost for hours. That's another column all together. The equipment I have acquire for the kitchen is only overshadowed by the amount of tools in my garage.

But now here comes the rub (you decide about a possible pun) our new adventure overseas, has forced me to leave, no abandon my beloved collection of kitchen and garage tools at home. It just wasn't practical or feasible.

And worst of it is even more basic. I've lost my fire. No, not that burning ambition to create or the allegorical energy to carry on in the face of adversity. No I am not burned out, (god I love these puns).  I mean literally. Our transplanted temporary residence is all electric. The glow of blue flame, instant and understandable is replaced by the bright orange electric coil.
The horror of the electric stove. Numbers, settings constantly reccycling off and on. The orange glow is the same color same height at setting one on the dial as 8. Fire, Despite its ephemeral form is a medium that can be controlled and regulated.

Mind the Gap

Learning anew with the power of electricity, and  a rented kitchen I feel as a babe in the woods. A novice learning how to cook eggs and oatmeal without burning. Trying to regulate that simmer on the risotto is ever more stressful when everything has to be converted to grams and centigrade too. A simple omelette, (although those who cook know that an omelette is not simple) has to be learned all over again. Sweating onions and garlic now involves real sweating, watching so they don't burn.

But with challenges come rewards. The satisfaction of conquering a new skill set. Knowing that you licked that flameless bastard. Beat not only the eggs in the bowl but the odds of burning them once again.

This is minding the gap. Acknowledge there is a problem, a change, a new encounter. Assess your resources, what do you have at your disposal to address the problem. And finally Adapt accordingly.  No situation is perfect. Imperfection is rule rather than the exception. So I will keep slicing and dicing and trying to figure out what the hell temperature 6 really is. 

We celebrated an early mini-Thanksgiving this year on a recent trip to LA for a family visit. And that's what it's all about isn't it. A brined turkey roasted golden brown with the special homemade stuffing and gravy, surrounded by those you love. So matter how simple or complex the meal,  the real intent is love. Love of food, love of learning new skills, and most of all,  love of family.