Cook with Me!

"Ladies and Gentlemen across America, welcome to 'Cook with Me!' A show dedicated to teaching you how to make delicious meals in your very own kitchen. I'm your host, Christina, and I'll take you step by step, using ingredients right out of your pantry."

When I was eleven, I hosted a cooking show, broadcast from my kitchen, in my head. Those precious days of winter break just before Christmas when my parents were still at work, or shopping for last minute gifts. I would stay at home and bake. I gathered every little bowl and mug I could find and measure out the ingredients to display across our counter tops, a pinch of salt, two teaspoons of baking powder, a tablespoon of vanilla extract. As I added each ingredient, I made suggestions.

"Some grated orange zest in this mixture would work well to balance out the bold flavors of the dark chocolate."

"I always add an extra splash of Vanilla to give it a little bit more flair."

"Nutmeg would be a great addition to this recipe, if you happen to have any in the house."

I was a conductor, blending all of the movements to create a symphony for your taste buds. I was teaching America to cook by heart, and bringing them into my home by imagination, experiencing the excitement as the oatmeal cookies start to fill up the kitchen with with sweet, nutty cinnamon as though each time were the first time.

When I reached middle school, I somehow took to roasting chickens. It was amazing to me how simple it was to roast a chicken. I would massage the naked, little bird with olive oil, then make little slits to stuff with garlic and rosemary. I would fill the bottom of the pan with potatoes and onion, it was the perfect one pan meal that fed the whole family!. I could revolutionize the way America felt about cooking, one pimply, little chicken at a time.

As I write this, I remember my younger self. When we're younger, we always look forward, it doesn't even occur to look to the past. I can recall that driving force that has faded, and hope that there's an eleven year old out there right now, who's revolutionizing the world in his or her own mind. Sometimes I can feel myself at eleven yelling at the 24 year old me to get moving, everyone is waiting. Go teach them that they can do anything. Tell them at the very least, they can learn to cook with me.

Saturday night snow-in: A discourse in 2 parts. Part One: A Wallop

A friend of mine threw a holiday dinner party on Saturday night. Kristin, a kitchen master in her own right, presented a spread of chafing trays (yes, she owns chafing trays) filled with home made creations emitting a scent so delicious you couldn't keep your fingers out of them. I, for one, may have eaten an entire platter of stuffed mushrooms on my own, but I'm not admitting to anything. As the night wore on, and we stuffed our hungry little faces with the delectable spread, outside the snow began to rise. We continued, playing reindeer games, paying no heed to the "winter wallop" of 2009. As the other local guests began to leave, calling cabs (and getting hung up on several times) or walking through the winter wonderland that Brooklyn had become, I settled in for the night (Brooklyn to New Jersey is no easy fete in 10 inches of snow).

In the morning, Kristin and I walked down for breakfast in our PJs and broke out the box of cookies I had brought with me as a hostess gift Molly Wizenberg's "Jimmy's Pink Cookies" which were a total hit, despite the fact that I ran out of powdered sugar and had to omit a full cup from the frosting (I believe it was a sign from the diabetic Gods, because they were perfectly sweet, and didn't cause my blood sugar to soar). This was the first time I had made a cream cheese frosting, scented with cherry liquor -- and I think this is the best one I've ever eaten. It will definitely not be the last one I make, and I look forward to trying it with different flavors. I also happened to realize halfway through that we were out of food coloring - it's difficult to make pink cookies, with nothing to turn them pink.

I scoured the spice cabinet for something flavorless that would make my sinfully delicious white frosting rosy. I finally found a bottle of red sugar crystals which I dissolved (you don't want that texture in the frosting) and ended up turning them the perfect shade of pink (Christina: Kitchen Crisis Master).

At the bottom of my little white box of cookies, was a layer of my old stand by, the biscotti. The recipe lies typed with the broken lettering of a type writer on a yellowing, butter stained piece of paper. It was given to my grandmother by one of her neighbors, Rose, on the little New Jersey street where my mother grew up. It was one of those streets with matching houses, where I imagine tupperware parties and jello molds were all part of a Sunday afternoon. This sheet of paper, contained measurements in grahams, carefully converted to cups by my mother's handwriting. My hand was responsible for doubling the amount of Sambuca. The recipe called for 6 cups of flour and 6 large eggs, and I always made it in triple batches because they vanish. My mother takes a tin full and hides it so at least they'll last through the holidays. But, at present, we were in Kristin's living room, dunking them into hot mugs of coffee.

To be continued in Part Two: The Olive and The Cow