Carrot Top

Yeah, that would be my hesitation too, Tim. I've had friends that were private chefs and the situations were never quite as comfortable as one might wish, whether they lived in or not (depending on the season and the house, NY or Palm Beach). And I know several people who could well afford to have a private chef who simply wouldn't have one of any sort (part-time, full-time, as cook or as chef) not because they like to cook so much but because they don't like the idea of having "servants", at all. Though somehow housecleaners or nannies go around or under this radar for some reason . . . Miligai's post was interesting to think of, as the "someone to help cook" in the way she describes her mother having is (or was) a much more common thing in other cultures than the North American one.

Sounds like something from a science fiction story . . . Oof. And whoever made those for you had patience, too, believe me. Mmm. He may not remember it exactly, but I'm sure he remembers it in his heart. Your story made me sigh with pleasure, too. What a wonderful memory. Perfect cooking method, SheenaGreena! There's something about using what's available when fishing or crabbing that makes it that much more satisfying. Funny thing about crabs, though. Sometimes when you're trying to catch fish, all you can catch is the darn crabs and then you have to decide whether you're going to aggrevated at the things for "stealing your bait" or whether you're going to give in and just go crabbing which of course will make a fine meal too. Oooooh! Yeah! Mahi-mahi? I am so jealous. I can imagine that was super, really super. You reminded me of another fish story which I'll try to find time to post later . . . a big fish it was, but not one as delicious as a mahi-mahi. ............................................................................ P.S. heidih - What a beautiful "first post"! Welcome, and here's to many more.

Whoa! Now that's a fun neighborhood! Do you remember the first fish you ever caught and cooked? I remember the first fish I ever caught. It was in a canoe on a lake in Maine. Two of my three boy cousins had decided I needed to learn how to fish. I was seven years old. It was so much fun going into the muddy area near the boathouse to dig for worms, I remember. That was probably the best part of all. It didn't take long for us to catch a little fish of some sort. Then it got scary. The thing flopped around in the bottom of the canoe and I didn't know what to do. I got really nervous and scared and my older cousin took the fish in his hand and laughed deprecatingly and said "This is what you do", and he smacked the thing on the canoe seat so it passed out just flopping a tiny bit. I was appalled. Fishing was supposed to be *fun* I thought. Blech. Horrors. The poor fish. It got worse after that. My younger cousin hooked my bellybutton with his hook while he was trying to cast off. My bellybutton! I was bloodier than the little fish I'd caught, and I really wanted to go back to shore. Finally they took me in, and the worst was yet to come. My aunt refused to cook the fish. Why, I could not imagine. (Now, being a bit older and maybe not wiser but perhaps a bit more tireder, I can imagine. ) The die had been set. Why fish, except to have something good to eat? I was very upset. And determined, as I stood there with mud in my lanky messy red hair, blood dripping from my little bellybutton exposed in my somewhat odd-looking bright-colored bikini, almost-dead gasping fish in the bucket my cousin held, that someday there would be more. More fish. More.

I don't think it's all that astonishing that things *should* taste better when someone else cooks, if that person cooking (and, when applicable, add the person serving too, as a delicious dish summarily or uncaringly served can be ruinous to its enjoyment) has even an average level of skill. If we are talking about a creative art or craft when speaking of cookery, then we can compare it to other creative arts or crafts. Writers like to read other writers. Dancers enjoy watching other dancers . . .choreographers the same. Musicians surely do not only wish to listen mostly to themselves. And so on and so forth. So whether it is an emotional thing felt from the offering of friendship implicit in the food when eating something someone else has prepared . . .or whether it is simply a curiosity as to "how did this person do this and what is it all about", it surely is not off-base to feel this way at all. (Though for some reason there is a lurking hint laying in wait in our culture that there *is* something wrong with not feeling completely self-interested and self-sufficient unto oneself, but then of course there are lurking hints laying in wait in our culture about so very many things we have to sense are completely wrong anyway, that have no real basis in reality but are merely useful whimsies of the Marketing Age or what I like to think of as our Age of Impossible Self Perfection . . . Pah. ) ......................................... Gosh it's good to have gone through this exercise of thought. Now I just have to find someone to cook for me.

I know what you mean. When I was a chef, I often did not like to eat. Still don't, a lot. Partly it is the taking in of aroma(s) while cooking that fills one up, partly it is the work of it all, but moreso it is that the cooking becomes an intellectual or creative outlet that separates it from something to eat for oneself. A quick answer would be no, of course it doesn't taste better when someone else cooks, because I can make things taste exactly the way I like. Plus (meow) I actually know how to cook, which it seems is a dying skill in general. Fearsome, the things some people cook, really. A more in-depth answer would be that food carries other things than direct taste. Even the finest food can taste like sandpaper if the mood surrounding it is not right. And it is *us* (the ones who eat and the ones who cook) who carry the surrounds to eating that make things taste, emotionally, certain ways. The simplest (yes and even the most poorly-cooked) dish can taste like manna itself when offered with simple hospitality. It's a free-flowing thing, this hospitality - it's something in the air that some are better at accessing than others. In the *best* restaurants, the act of vocational hospitality is a precise dance, and it is to a great extent what people pay for. To be made simply and easily welcome, without fuss, with a sandwich. A mere sandwich. That can taste pretty damn good. There are sandwiches or simple meals I'll never forget and never be able to replicate. .......................................................................... But this is one of those trick questions one should ask job applicants, is it not? To discover their style of personality and psychological traits?

Yes, the books overlap between the forums. "Auberge" even does have recipes in it but somehow the focal point is not exactly the recipes. I hesitated to answer Multiwagon's question at first, for what we each individually consider to be "non-cookbook cookbooks" could vary so widely. That's wonderful, really, for books should not be cut from cookie cutters, should they . . . My sense was that Multiwagon's interest was in cooking as future vocation - that there was an urge there to hear the songs of the professional kitchen. To see the brigade, to smell the aromas, to hear the noises. A longing to be immersed in the milieu. My own interest is not in the milieu, having lived the milieu quite long enough. My interest is in the ineffable about cookery - the parts that science can not pin down. That which goes further than the stomach, that which is somewhat mystic even. From reading you in bits and pieces in the past, Max, I would guess that your interest is an expansive one, based on the "literary" as core focus, though I can't quite guess at what the time frame of interest is. Whatever the time frame, the encyclopedic knowledge you offer is impressive. Of the books you listed, this one: is my favorite. I remember reading it when I was just about the same age as Multiwagon, and loving it then. Whereas I attemped Brillat-Savarin at the same age and sort of got very mired and very tired. I hope there will be more additions to this thread as memories of readings flit into people's minds. What wonderful books these are, about "cooking" but not about "recipes".

Whether one considers it a fun activity, a practical neccesity, or even maybe a lazy waste of a perfectly good afternoon, the catching of a fish and all that follows along after is a rare experience that can offer "just a regular guy" (guy here being non-gendered, of course, as those who fish will understand) a direct connection from the natural world which our food springs from, to follow all the way to the table that fish will be placed upon in some hopefully delightful concoction to excite the tastebuds of those who wait upon it. You don't need property with a hayfield to catch a fish, as you do for livestock to yield beef or lamb or pork. You don't need soil and seeds and shovels and paraphernalia and worries about damaging bugs and willful weather attacking your dinner, as you do with produce from a garden. You don't need to catch the cackling chicken to cut off its head and then pluck all the feathers off it for your chicken dinner. And so on and so forth. What you need is simple. A rod and reel and line and hook. A worm or a piece of something that shines and glitters. A net, if you are so inclined. Maybe a spear if that's your style. A good sharp knife to gut and scale. A pan or a pot and a heat source. And a body of water, large or small, where fish live. A boat of some sort can bring more possibilities to the table. The two other requirements are a bit more if'fy and difficult to summon at times. Patience, and a willingness to get dirty. Put these things together and you have the makings of a fine kettle of fish, to be cooked in endless myriad manners, each final delicious bite filled with a sense of reality and knowingness that simply does not come in a plastic package, a cardboard box, or an aluminum can. Do you have a fish story? How did you catch it, how did you clean it, how did you cook it, how did it taste? And as the table was cleared, the dishes washed, the day done, how did you feel, about your day and your meal, which held that essence of earth in it? P.S. If you have any annual traditions of fish dinners or fish frys where you *yourself* did not catch the fish but still got to eat it, those stories would be fun to hear, too.

Has anyone here ever eaten one and lived to tell the tale?

White vans used to mean "out of state serial killers". Now it's white SUV's that mean "out of state lobsterhuggers". .................................... How long does it take for a missing lobster claw to grow back, Johnny? I've become slightly worried about those one-armed babes capacity for survival over there by the B&M factory.

The Auberge of the Flowering Hearth by Roy Andries de Groot.

Can't say I've ever heard of Downeasters being so impractical. Something is seriously wrong. Maybe these kids got a hold of some of that Santa Claus Beer the state worked so hard to protect them from. Over the border, of course. That might do it.

Set aside all considerations of cost, or size of your kitchen, or the state of your pots and pans. If you could hire someone to cook for you on a daily basis, would you? Why or why not?

Nice flavor to those one-armed babies. Be sure to charge a premium, Johnny. Molasses, bilge, and bean.

Okay, I thought of another one. One night we went out to dinner, myself and the children (they were 11 and 12 then). We sat in a booth, my daughter and I on one side, son facing us. A woman was seated in the next booth, facing myself and daughter. She was waiting for someone. She took out her compact mirror and fixed her lipstick and hair (her hair was big, so it involved moving the mirror various ways with arms extended). Then I guess with all the exercise involved with fixing her hair, something went wrong with her breasts. After putting the compact away, she wiggled her shoulders funny and started pulling on her bra straps. Apparently that did not help. They must have been itchy or something (goodness knows her top was low-cut, maybe some of her fluffed hair fell down there) so she took her right hand and scratched the left one. That must not have accomplished what she wanted, for she then reached directly, all the way into her bra and shifted the thing inside. No, there was no attempt to do this without anyone seeing. She was oblivious. Too much hairspray in her lifetime, perhaps. Then she took both her hands, cupped them under both breasts, and readjusted to suit. This involved sort of pushing them up and forward and laying them rather shelf-like upon the table in front of her (she was not a small woman). She then went on to peruse the menu. I must say my appetite was not what it was before her performance. My daughter was stunned. Thank goodness, though, that it wasn't my son that had been facing her. He probably would have screamed "Eeeeeeewwwww" and made gross noises with his head turned sideways to express his disapproval and then we would have been "the bad guys". Probably this is all my fault though, for dining in a chain restaurant. A family restaurant, you know. Goodness knows what can be found in families. Nice. Very nice. I'm wondering if they make paintball guns in small sizes, myself. Paintball pistols.

Two of Maine's finest in the same sentence. B&M and lobster. I like that. I admit to being a bit worried about the channel near the B&M plant, though. It sounds a bit like dropping a debutante off for a nice little walk in the worst neighborhood in town.

Here's a workable strategy: Service Suspended Just stop all service till everybody is nice.

I particularly like this one. Wheee! A Paris Hilton glamour moment, no doubt. And let me raise my little pinkie finger and drag this in, too. Even though it's sort of hip to talk this way, from some of the popular opinion I read and hear. ............................................................ As for bikers, I hate to admit to having wary feelings about them. Sorry, all you gentle, kind, nice bikers out there. Ever since (a long time ago) I saw a biker slit one of the nicest guys I knew's throat in a bar with a broken bottle then join his friends to move on out into the darkness of the almost-deserted street to stab, beat, and then murder another guy. Yeah. Those were the days. In retrospect, these kids aren't so bad. And of course, one must expect certain things at certain places, right? Or not. Whole lot of dissin' goin' on, in all sorts of spaces, that's all I can say. Can't say it's just the kids. ............................................................... Oh. Was it solutions you'd be wanting, Busboy? Let me put on my thinking cap. It sort of looks like the thing with feathers.

How dare you. ( ) (Almost forgot to add my laugh. How dare *I*. )

Actually, thinking about most of the restaurants here in town (except for the Chinese take-outs)(or except for the quieter vegetarian place where "sanitation" is a word not yet discovered by the BOH staff from what I hear from those who have been BOH) my picnic table is actually a much more polite place. Especially if you don't want your own ears or your kids ears filled every five seconds with ongoing shouted conversations filled with what we used to call "foul language". (But I hear that being offended by that sort of language used in a ongoing patter is out of style, so it just may be me that it bothers.) Here, it is the restaurants themselves and the supposed "grown-ups" who mostly make the ruckus. I'm not sure what message this sends to younger children who continue to see this when walking into a place to eat. Heh. It's not just the college students, either. I never really realized just how very much professors (most usually the ones that are shortish men with longish tousled hair) love to hear themselves profess. Loudly.

Mmm. Good point. It's the fourteen TV sets blaring ten different sports at the same time, and the college kids (oops, the college men and women) guffawing about their latest conquest of whatever or whomever, and the server that seems to be able to remember to tell us their name but then not remember to get the orders right that don't belong in restaurants. And yet across the land these things grow and flourish. Loud and obnoxious. Yes, I live in a college town. Higher education apparently brings this along with it, as a standard of behavior and place.

Handful of fresh chopped basil or equivalent dry, freshly ground black pepper, pernod, hint of tomato paste, lemon juice. Lick pan. (Just not right away)

I think the "mage" part of her blogname stands for "magic". Which explains everything, as magic is . . .well, magical. So do go on drinking. Just raise a glass to magic. (Or, maybe, to the fact that she has her blog link in her sig line, too, which is where you might have found it the first time. ) As to lime mint, the only place I've ever seen it sold is in gardening stores in little pots to grow yourself. Sigh. Someone ought to start a business selling it in bunches. The relative obscurity of it would allow it to demand a lovely high price.

kitchenmage posts on eG sometimes. Here's a link to her blog.

The Alimentum Spring online journal has been posted with more offerings to read. The print journal which has much more comes out again this Summer.

I have only a few. eG of course. The Old Foodie, who I read daily. bookofrai also has things you will not find elsewhere easily. The Gilded Fork usually makes me sigh with pleasure. And now I count on Serious Eats to provide full and broad-range information and direction to all sorts of cooking, recipe, and food sites, while doing so in an amusing way. Gorgeous site. Eye candy as well as mind candy.