While the dishwasher was out of service, I managed nicely, and didn’t mind washing dishes myself, but I prudently avoided the use of certain implements, such as the Oxo ricer that I depend on for dreamy sweet potato purée. If I had a dishpan, and could leave things to soak for an hour or so, I’d feel more confident about cleaning greasy utensils with small sharp bits. But I don’t have room for a dishpan. Now that the dishwasher is working again, I don’t need one. Last night, we had the sweet potatoes, and they were very dreamy. (I stir in dribbles of butter, cream, and maple syrup.) They accompanied a Piedmontese strip steak that I picked up at Agata & Valentina a few weeks ago (or perhaps even longer ago than that) and, before freezing, covered in dry rub. I discovered the steak while cleaning out the freezer. I try to keep one on hand for nights like last night, when Kathleen works late. Steaks cook quickly, so that I can wait until she actually walks in the door before putting anything in the oven. (The sweet potatoes, on the other hand, can sit around over warm water for hours, and puréed while the steak broils.) A handful of haricots finished the plate.

This is the sort of meal that I hope will become the exception rather than the rule on weeknights. A piece of meat and two vegs, as the British put it, is not only not very interesting but also badly timed: who wants to be cooking at dinnertime? Much better to have soups and casseroles and even salads to warm up or toss and serve forth without fuss.

Last week, I took the leftover breast from a roast chicken and turned it into something not terribly unworthy of the sobriquet “Tetrazzini.” Kathleen and I both grew up with Stouffer’s frozen Chicken Tetrazzini, a pleasant if bland combination of chicken, spaghetti, and cream sauce, and I’ve been working on a recreation. (Some years ago, I found a recipe for the original dish, gala enough to be named after a world-famous opera singer, and was underwhelmed.) My latest mistake: concocting the sauce as a béchamel (milk) instead of as a velouté (broth). I’m also unhappy with my fallback herb, tarragon. I’m not sure that anything but parsley is right. And perhaps I’ll think of something to assist the light punch of nutmeg. But the handful of frozen sweet peas that I toss in when combining (and reheating) all the ingredients is a keeper.

I don’t intend to keep containers of this casserole lying around in the refrigerator. Oh, no. Rather, what I want to master is the portion control that will allow me to put together just enough for two (or three, or however many) a few hours ahead of time, so that all I need to do before sitting down is run a gratin dish under the broiler. I usually have the chicken on hand, and boiling a bit of spaghetti is no big deal. The sauce is the trick, not because it’s difficult to make but because it’s almost impossible to make just enough for two. The basic sauce recipe calls for a cup of scalded liquid to be poured into a cooked mash consisting of three tablespoons each of butter and flour. I could cut the quantities back to one tablespoon each and a third of a cup of liquid, but I’m not sure that I could cook it properly. I’ve never stored sauce as such. New worlds!

Behind this casserole magic is Tamar Adler’s An Everlasting Meal, which the author describes as an homage to MFK Fisher’s How to Cook a Wolf. Fisher was writing about the deprivations of rationing in wartime; Adler’s concern is the long-term urgency of cooking responsibly, not just for health but without waste. The first chapter, “How to Boil Water,” reminds us that Julia Child tasted the salted water that she was bringing to a boil several times along the way. “This may at first feel ridiculous, and then it will start to seem so useful you’ll stand by the pot feeling quite ingenious.” (That’s a typical Adler construction, and where we would expect but.) After presenting a complete re-think of the modern wisdom about cooking vegetables, Adler sends us off to the farmer’s market to buy a real chicken — and boiling that as well. Well! Not boiling, exactly. The chapter is so warm and homely and unspectacular that I’m convinced that I’ve got to master its precepts before continuing with the book.

This is because Adler’s governing idea, as the title suggests, is that no good meal has an absolute beginning. You don’t go to the store and buy everything that you need. You already have some things on hand, such as the chicken breast that I was talking about, or frozen mirepoix, or the remainder of a good sauce from last week. An Everlasting Meal preaches a simple sermon, but one that any cook will quickly see calls for extremely good habits. For one thing, you need to know exactly what you’ve got in the fridge — and how long it has been there. This in turn means that you can’t always make whatever dish suits your fancy; you’re constrained by the perishable ingredients in your larder. (And all ingredients are perishable, eventually, excepting, possibly, salt.) You don’t think in terms of “dinner tonight.” It’s “dinners this week.” The most breathtaking chapter, “How to Stride Ahead,” has Adler coming home with her haul of fresh vegetables and cooking or pre-cooking all of them in the course of an afternoon.

Start checking everything but beets for doneness after half an hour. You may still be scrubbing and washing or peeling. By your fourth or fifth (or tenth) week you will be wiping down your cutting board. By your twentieth, your greens will be nicely washed and cooking in their sauté pans on the stove. For now, stop wherever you are in your preparations and check.

We are not talking recipes here. This is a way of life. And it’s fitting that someone is teaching us at last. This is the final step in replacing the servants who used to possess this wisdom. For several generations, we have tried no more than to prepare the distinct meals that they brought to the table. Now we’re going to learn how to run the kitchen, and to do so in such a way that dinner is not preceded by frenzy.  

As for dinner tonight, I’ve got a spatchcocked chicken, seasoned beneath the breast skin with tarragon butter, mellowing in the refrigerator. Cranberries and spaghetti on the side. (Does anyone know how to make just a little risotto?)

Drop me a line at rjk@dailyblague.com
This entry was posted on Wednesday, October 10th, 2012 at 10:50 am.