Julia’s Child
My kids are often the subject of my columns. Truth be told, so are my pets, my husband, and anyone, (or thing), that crosses my path, really. That’s how it works when you’re an observational comic.
Because of this my friends require assurance whenever they do something even marginally amusing, “Oh, no! That’s not going to be in your column, is it?”
Uh, no, huh-uh. Of course not. Certainly not without a drastic renaming, rewriting, or retelling applied to the whole thing.
Which brings us to this week’s installment spawned by my spawn. I didn’t even have to leave my house for this one, thereby negating the need for a change out of my “house shorts” or a comb-out of my “house hair.”
The topic? Food. Specifically: The cooking of it.
A funny thing happened on the way to my snazzy black and white checkerboard-floored kitchen. I met up with my youngest who was cooking.
Lest I under-present this finding, she wasn’t just cooking, she was cheffing. In fact, it looked like minute number twenty-two in a professionally produced thirty-minute Food Network show.
I stood there motionless and mesmerized in the presence of this culinary whiz, what with the professional chopping, scrumptious smells wafting, and foodstuffs sizzling.
Though I’ve prepared adequate feed-the-machine offerings for my family over the years, (something I’ve detailed in a column or ten), it is not my special gift.
Consequently, my style of cooking can best be described as home cooking with a dash of low fat applied to it: Low Home Cooking.
And speaking of lo, lo these many years I’ve yearned for an in-house chef. Did the universe hear my not-so-silent pleas?
After two decades of serving tolerable meals no one is more amazed than me at the bounty procreation has gifted me with in the form of children who produce gastronomic delights. Perhaps this culinary mutation occurred in self-defense.
It is the youngest, however, who has gone beyond all measure, as she rolls out, often literally, delicacies and delights that confirm my belief in miracles.
Gourmet Girl can magician together three seemingly ordinary ingredients she excavates from my understocked larder and – wha-la – the creation of an exquisitely memorable repast.
At first I’m sure folks thought I was bragging in that parental Lake Woebegone, “all the children are above average” way, but then Julia’s Child proffered her homemade fare to the masses. All that’s left now is the shouting – for more!
And her inspiration? Well, it’s a Dean, but it’s not her Mama Dean. It’s Paula Deen. Therefore her not-so-secret ingredient for everything is about two sticks of luscious butter.
Oh, the rivers of beautiful, sunny, delicious butter that flow through these sumptuous meals. We’re talking down-home biscuits and gravy, the best hamburgers I have ever chowed down and mouthwatering casseroles, cobblers, and candies, oh my!
At any moment I’m expecting Guy from that “Dine and Dash” program to show up at our house touting our dining room as an unknown gem of an eatery in the Gold Country.
The cuisine my culinarian produces would make a fitness trainer weep. This is both due to its innate ability to tip the scales unfavorably in the Battle of the Bulge as well as for the sheer beauty of the bounty that lies waiting to be forked in at record speed.
I’ve even instituted a little game I like to play that marginally amuses our chef-in-residence called, “Surprise me!”
I tell her, “I’m thinking basil, apples, and chicken for a meal. Surprise me!” Just thinking about the results always sets my tail to wagging.
The only problem is that I’ve noticed lately it’s getting a wee bit more difficult to lift the aforementioned tail, but oh, how it’s worth it.
Hum, worth. Mrs. Butterworth. Gosh, I could really go for some of those homemade banana nut pancakes Chef girlardee makes.
Do you think her teacher would mind if I texted her while she’s in her math class?
My kids are often the subject of my columns. Truth be told, so are my pets, my husband, and anyone, (or thing), that crosses my path, really. That’s how it works when you’re an observational comic.
Because of this my friends require assurance whenever they do something even marginally amusing, “Oh, no! That’s not going to be in your column, is it?”
Uh, no, huh-uh. Of course not. Certainly not without a drastic renaming, rewriting, or retelling applied to the whole thing.
Which brings us to this week’s installment spawned by my spawn. I didn’t even have to leave my house for this one, thereby negating the need for a change out of my “house shorts” or a comb-out of my “house hair.”
The topic? Food. Specifically: The cooking of it.
A funny thing happened on the way to my snazzy black and white checkerboard-floored kitchen. I met up with my youngest who was cooking.
Lest I under-present this finding, she wasn’t just cooking, she was cheffing. In fact, it looked like minute number twenty-two in a professionally produced thirty-minute Food Network show.
I stood there motionless and mesmerized in the presence of this culinary whiz, what with the professional chopping, scrumptious smells wafting, and foodstuffs sizzling.
Though I’ve prepared adequate feed-the-machine offerings for my family over the years, (something I’ve detailed in a column or ten), it is not my special gift.
Consequently, my style of cooking can best be described as home cooking with a dash of low fat applied to it: Low Home Cooking.
And speaking of lo, lo these many years I’ve yearned for an in-house chef. Did the universe hear my not-so-silent pleas?
After two decades of serving tolerable meals no one is more amazed than me at the bounty procreation has gifted me with in the form of children who produce gastronomic delights. Perhaps this culinary mutation occurred in self-defense.
It is the youngest, however, who has gone beyond all measure, as she rolls out, often literally, delicacies and delights that confirm my belief in miracles.
Gourmet Girl can magician together three seemingly ordinary ingredients she excavates from my understocked larder and – wha-la – the creation of an exquisitely memorable repast.
At first I’m sure folks thought I was bragging in that parental Lake Woebegone, “all the children are above average” way, but then Julia’s Child proffered her homemade fare to the masses. All that’s left now is the shouting – for more!
And her inspiration? Well, it’s a Dean, but it’s not her Mama Dean. It’s Paula Deen. Therefore her not-so-secret ingredient for everything is about two sticks of luscious butter.
Oh, the rivers of beautiful, sunny, delicious butter that flow through these sumptuous meals. We’re talking down-home biscuits and gravy, the best hamburgers I have ever chowed down and mouthwatering casseroles, cobblers, and candies, oh my!
At any moment I’m expecting Guy from that “Dine and Dash” program to show up at our house touting our dining room as an unknown gem of an eatery in the Gold Country.
The cuisine my culinarian produces would make a fitness trainer weep. This is both due to its innate ability to tip the scales unfavorably in the Battle of the Bulge as well as for the sheer beauty of the bounty that lies waiting to be forked in at record speed.
I’ve even instituted a little game I like to play that marginally amuses our chef-in-residence called, “Surprise me!”
I tell her, “I’m thinking basil, apples, and chicken for a meal. Surprise me!” Just thinking about the results always sets my tail to wagging.
The only problem is that I’ve noticed lately it’s getting a wee bit more difficult to lift the aforementioned tail, but oh, how it’s worth it.
Hum, worth. Mrs. Butterworth. Gosh, I could really go for some of those homemade banana nut pancakes Chef girlardee makes.
Do you think her teacher would mind if I texted her while she’s in her math class?
