Preparation: Procurement to Plate, the Joy of Partaking II

photo credit:  Lalu Danzker

So, you have hauled home a treasure trove of good eats from vendors with whom you have hopefully had a jolly time.  You are excited.  You are hopeful.  You are vibrating from relationship; relationship with your curious self, exquisite gifts from nature and beast, and a nourishing engagement with those who love and appreciate what they grow.  This is a happiness.  Now, in this gratitude, we consider how best to prepare these gifts.

How do we do this?  What are the influences?

The conditions vary.  We might have shopped with an idea of a meal in mind, being directive in our approach.  We might have shopped wearing our instinct, our intuition, open to what is freshest at the market.  Regardless, we have these fine resources.  I take them out and admire them once again.  I resensitize myself to their vibration, their hardiness or delicacy, their beauty.  I consider their relationship and possible combinations to each other.  I notice their "voice".  The seasoning they call for, even the way they'd liked to be cut, chopped and treated.  In my regard for them, these gifts I and others are about to receive, there is a hope to honor them and those that provided them.  But this is not a heavy honor, if anything it is a playful one.  I want to find ease, and relaxation, again my curiosity and most of all I want to have some fun.  Braise, broil, steam, bake, poach, reduce, wine or no whine?  The possibilities.  How to know what actions and in actions are needed.

Because you shopped locally and picked things with glory and vibration-- you probably picked seasonal.  And the season calls you to respond.  Spring is light and lightly aromatic.  Summer calls for bare-naked naturalness, a coolness even rawness.  Fall is deep, earthy, heavier more sustaining.  Winter is warm, daringly aromatic, rooted.

Tamar Adler's An Everlasting Meal: Cooking with Economy and Grace has been a life changing book for me.  Life changing in the way I consider food and cooking.  One of her premises I work with all the time is the connection one meal has to the next.  The thick residue from the bottom of the pot of beans one cooked is the beginning of tomorrow's soup.  The "ends" of vegetables not used in preparation for dinner, are again, the beginning of tomorrow's soup stock.  Everything is connected, useful.  I've taken that one step further in asking myself, how are my components related?  How do I bring a thread of what is part of one component to the next, relate them, bring an overall harmony to the entirety of a meal.  The slice of lemon in water served at a meal might be echoed in a sliver or two of it's rind perched almost

imperceptibly on a piece of herb and wine-poached fish.  The basil in the herbed fish might be suggested in the spearmint (same family--Lamiaceae-- as basil) that is lightly confettied over the fresh fruit for dessert.  A lamb stew with fresh sprigs of rosemary has an almost subliminal echo in the water boiled for the accompanying rice or potatoes which you threw the stripped branches of rosemary into (to remove at the end of the cooking).  It's a hint, a light almost subconscious impression of the relationship from one component to the next. There is an endless way to carry the thread in a meal.  Staying close to curiosity and "the player" in oneself is helpful in determining the manifestation's gesture.

Another consideration is suggested by Ayurveda, an (eastern) Indian health approach.  Our tongue and palate is comprised of sensory taste receptors: sweet, salty, sour, savory (umami) and bitter.  Ayurveda cooking looks to satisfy all of these taste receptors in a meal.  So, when I cook, I try to consider that the entire meal has a balance of these five taste sensations.  Balance not being 20% of each flavor making 100% of the meal, but balance being in relation to the whole.  Hence, the development of one's culinary "palate" is inevitable.  This opens my field quite a bit.  Sweetness doesn't always have to be in dessert, but perhaps a condiment to go with the protein.  Perhaps dessert is the protein; a combination of nut-based crust and dairy filling, preceded by a thin soup and light salad; a sublimely hearty end of a meal .  Experimenting with turning the predictable on its head is, dare I say, a heady notion.

Culinary pleasure and digestion begins in our senses, especially the visual.  Hence, why care in presentation is necessary.  The gustatory sense is stopped if food is presented wrapped in greasy paper or unspecific boxes.  Considerations with the visual in mind are color, shape, size and texture.  In the plant world there are arguably 7 colors as far as palette goes (that arbitrary number is challenged as there are at least 5 variations of green alone in the edible plant world).  I try to have at least 5 colors in a meal, (for nutritional composition and visual compliment) but I always aim for 7.  I consider the "heart" of my meal and move from there.

The heart is often the protein.  My rebel self often balks at this seeming undeniable culinary truth.  I play with this notion.  And sometimes I lose.  But at least I play and I always learn.  I resist the cultural habit that meat be at every meal, be at one meal a day, one meal a week (depending on your cultural influences).  I play with the notion that meat can be treated more like a condiment, an aside, a small potent presence to the mighty diverse selection of the incredible vegetable or homey complex carb.  Sometimes it works just so and other times the heart of a meal just can't be the vegetable combination you've put together.  It's live and learn.  A very complex and hearty slaw with roasted nuts or seeds can be very central and sustaining, especially if a chewy/crusty bread and cheese accompany.  Try and succeed, try and fail, it's all great because your interest, intention and attention are active.  There are no bad meals if that is engaged during the preparation.

photo credit: Lalu Danzker

The consideration of shape, size and texture is important, but often enough not considered.  I was looking forward to trying Ethiopian food out on the town with some friends, but found that each of us were served varying flavored legume purees.  The flavors couldn't trump the solitary texture, and the bread served, although somewhat interesting (made from an ancient African grain) was not in good relationship to the pureed food, being kind of stretchy and gray.  Purees can be used to wonderful effect; they can compliment in color and texture. A light green pea puree under a delicate white fish has contrasting textures and complimentary colors.  A white parsnip puree or bright orange carrot puree is a delightful foil for a rich, darkly glazed beef or lamb.  To have something straightforward and simple accompanied by something complex in flavor is a marriage of balance.  A group of minimally touched green beans is a whole component that supports a garlic/potato mash and multi-colored/complicated stew.  Everything about it grounds the meal:  the deep green color, its untouched wholeness, its promise of lightness and simplicity, even its possible reference to a season just ended or about to begin.  It might not be the "hero" on the plate, but it makes the hero look good by its otherness.