A love story, Lindstifa style

I'm still trying to figure out how to use my Tumblr and this blog in harmony. Until then, forgive the double post. Or if this is new to you, surprise! New post!

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You know how relationships are; all fire and passion in the beginning. But eventually, that passion fades. You know what to expect, there are few surprises, and you find yourself going through the motions. Before you know it, two weeks pass since you’ve touched and you barely have the energy to order a pizza before bed, much less do that. And yet you soldier on, you create opportunities to reconnect because you know it’s possible to feel the way you once did. And now I find myself falling in love all over again - with cooking.

It’s hard to cook for one; It’s lonely through and through. Not just the eating, but the preparation and the actual cooking. I love kitchen conversation. I love to be at the stove, wine glass in hand, while a friend chats with me over hors d’oerves. Without that company, cooking for yourself is conspicuously lonely and it ultimately seems like too much effort when a Hot Pocket and American Idol will do just fine, thank you.

After relocating from Boston, I’m staying with a friend for a few months while I find a new place in Chicago. Having someone else to cook for has kick-started not only my joy for cooking, but my desire to cook. I’m excited to do it again. I’m planning menus every day. I’m experimenting with risotto. A dish I would never cook alone for myself, I will gladly stand at the stove and stir for 30 minutes straight if it’s for someone else. The last two nights I cooked from recipes found in an Ina Garten cook book. They were perfect - a rare result on a first try for me.

I have no formal training or culinary education. I just love food. Really, really love it. I love food the way you love music. I love food the way you love taking photographs. I love food the way you love Hugh Laurie. OK, maybe not quite that much, but you get the picture. I love how flavors come together and create something different than the sum of its parts. I love how food involves all of your senses. I love how closely it is tied to memory. It is with food more than any other area of my life that I can be brave.

Growing up, I was the pickiest eater. The only vegetable I liked was spinach (thank you Popeye). My first curse word came when I was still in a high chair. When told I couldn’t get down until I ate my peas I put my chin in my hand, sighed, and said, “Oh, shit.” You couldn’t sneak anything past me, either. I could tell when my babysitter salted the water for macaroni and cheese. Because that is not the way my Mom made it.

I have always loved meat. I named a jack o’lantern “Roast Beef” one Halloween. Who does that? What I have never liked is seafood and generally don’t eat anything that came from water. No fish. No shellfish. This kills me because I really want to like it. I try the dishes my friends order in restaurants, hoping that at long last I’ll realize that I am desperately in love and never want to go another day without it and it’s been under my nose THIS WHOLE TIME. I had a scallop last week that I enjoyed, and I don’t mind sea bass. But salmon, lobster, crab, oysters - you can keep them. I’ll continue to try food of my friend’s plates, I’ll continue to hope I”ll have magically developed a taste for it, but more than that I want to experience the food. Just because I don’t care for it doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the cook’s effort and creativity. I may not care for the texture or smell, but I will be able to appreciate the flavors, the decision the cook make in preparation and seasoning. That’s all part of the experience of dining for me.

I never would have developed this attitude if I didn’t cook. I owe a lot of that to my stepmother. She actually went to culinary school, and she is the first person I ever saw cook without a recipe. She always lets me watch her, even allowing me to hover and get in her way while she’s cooking. She taught me how to dice an onion the fancy way they do on the Food Network (Bobby Flay, not Rachel Ray), and how to gauge the volume of seasoning in the palm of your hand. But she can’t explain a recipe to save her life; cooking for her is like walking for the rest of us, and she’s done it for so long that she doesn’t have to think about it. If you start deconstructing something so innate, you can’t do it justice. I’m not there yet but I am getting closer. Every recipe I read, every restaurant I visit, I learn something new. I let that sit with me and eventually it will be incorporated into something I make in my own kitchen.

Today is my 32nd birthday, and rather than go out to a restaurant for dinner, even just to the neighborhood place on the corner, I am cooking. Tonight’s menu: whole roasted chicken, roasted potatoes and asparagus, salad, cheese and wine from Piemont. My roommate thinks I’m nuts and doesn’t want me to “have to” cook my own birthday dinner. What she doesn’t understand is that letting me cook this meal and allowing me to try and maybe even fail at my first whole roasted chicken, is an indulgence I will savor.

Progress

The list is not done yet, and I'm already crossing two items.

Pops for Champagne
I'm meeting a Twitter friend for drinks after work. I can't wait.

Primehouse
I'm meeting an old coworker for dinner here tonight. Bone-in meat and truffled fries, here I come.

Keep the suggestions coming.

Making a list, checking it twice

I'm making a list of new restaurants and bars in Chicago. Once it's complete (will it ever be complete, really?) I will post it here and then update you as I check them out. I'm taking suggestions, send them on in.

So far I'm putting Alinea, Hot Doug's, Avec, Publican, and the entirety of Greektown on the list.

Wheels up

Chicago you look hot. Let's do this.

So cute you'll puke

Pammy, AKA Diesel's Mom, made this video for Tucker's going away. I've played it 18 times.

So far.

Latest email from Mom

My brother recently moved from Palm Springs to Denver. My Mom has his dog for the next few weeks while he gets settled. She sent both of us this email last night:

Subject: Barkley

I got him to stop pulling me on a walk by putting his leash in a loop around his snout (thank you dog whisperer). See what a good Grandmother I would be?!

Love you,
Mom

P.S. please get married first.

Nice to see she hasn't lost her focus.

Week 6: Bamm Bamm hits the bar scene

Bamm Bamm Rubble's Failed Pick-up Lines

I'm totally evolved. I've been using tools since I was a toddler.

So, what do you do when you're not gathering?

I really like how you wear your hair. My ex-girlfriend wore a bone in her hair, too.

Your cave or mine?

I don't usually go to watering holes. Everyone is always so desperate. It's not like the survival of the species depends on you getting laid tonight. Oh. Wait.

Are you going to finish that pterodactyl?

I still live in my parents' cave. It's home, you know?

Hi, I'm Bamm Bamm Rubble. You know, of the Bedrock Rubbles?

They originally offered me the Geico commercials but I turned them down. Only neanderthals sell out.

Why drive a car when you can ride a brontosaurus? Not everybody can do it, you know. I like to live on the edge.

I was born with this strength. Only troglodytes go to the gym.

Can I check the label on your loin cloth? Just as I suspected, "Made in Heaven."

Please forgive the photo quality. This is another from the cell phone archives, taken in low light.