My Dad became a cook after he recovered from kidney transplant surgery. He spent many of those convalescing days in front of the tv, and was drawn to the cooking shows; he became Rachael Ray's biggest fan. She ate at the end of every episode! The food she had cooked during the show! Dad was smitten. (MB said to me then, "I watch cooking shows. But that doesn't mean I cook!") And one of Dad's specialties? French Onion Soup.
But none of this was helping me with my six pounds of onions. Because French Onion Soup is an ethereal thing that Dad made, and Dad was no longer here to make it, and I was bereft.
Still, I bought the onions.
I shared my onion travails with my family, and Mom -- bless her heart -- emailed me Rachael Ray's recipe.
An Ah-Ha moment! *I* could make French Onion Soup!
The ensuing email discourse:
Ellie: Yum! Thanks Mom. Going to have to buy sherry, which is an idea that delights me. Thanks!
MB: Awesome. I don't think I've ever bought sherry. On Frasier the brothers used to sip it out of those cute little stem glasses...
Mom: I have some cute little stem glasses, and some authentic onion soup bowls....
Me: I know you do, Mom. I'm making up an image of Dad sipping dry sherry from a cute little stem glass whilst making French Onion Soup in those awesome crocks........
Mom: um, I think dad would be sipping vodka, but I do have sherry in the fridge....
Me: I know, but I *made up* that image because I think it's awesome. Plus, he would think it really funny.
Which is all fine and good, and entertaining and heart-warming, that this is actually what Mom and my sisters and I email about every day, but still, I had bigger fish to fry: I had no soup crocks of my own.
But then? Look what I saw sitting in the window of the Homeward Bound Treasures, right in downtown New London, two bucks each:
|Pretty rocking, right?|
Bring it on, baby. I had the onions, I had the sherry, I had the crocks; I was ready.
A couple of years ago, Jacques Pépin came to New London during Sailfest, and did a cooking show/demonstration. Outside, under a tent.
And the very first thing he did, before he so much as crushed a garlic head, was pour himself a glass of cold white wine, in front of the audience.
Who am I to argue with such sound cooking technique?
I love you, Jacques Pépin.
(*preferably, the "buy one 3-pound bag, get one free" kind.)
And over there, on the other side of the Vulcan:
In . . .
. . . she . . .
. . . goes!
I've bragged about our Vulcan ad nauseaum. Two ovens? Six burners? I know: blah blah blah. But this night? It was better than ever. Because it's just so pretty in there!
And out they came! Annnnnnnd . . . Mistah told me they needed more cheese . . .