I am on a bit of a rant this morning, triggered by nothing tangible, only memories of things past. This seems the perfect forum to express my consternation.
There are few things in this world that make me happier than putting a plate of lovingly prepared and beautifully presented food in front of someone I care about and them being too happy to speak. Conversely, having that food ignored or refused because of pickiness or the “diet de rigeur du jour” makes me want to crawl into a fetal position under the sink.
Aside from writing, which I don’t do enough of to which my spotty updating here and at the victoria blog can attest, cooking is my creative outlet. I read cookbooks like novels. Harold McGee’s On Food and Cooking is a spiritual text. Glossy British foodie magazines make me salivate and inspire me as much as reading Linda Gregg poems makes me want to grab a pen and paper and move to Greece. Having someone turn down my food is a deep, deep hurt.
Don’t get me wrong, I do not get upset when the religiously observant, vegetarians, vegans, the food intolerant or the deathly allergic say, “I’m sorry I can’t eat that because it goes against my beliefs/convictions or it will make me sick/kill me.” That is a wholly different matter. But, if you are coming to eat food prepared by my hand in my home, or I am bringing prepared dishes to you, please, please, please tell me these things up front. I will happily make a complete vegan dinner from aperitif to dessert to accomodate one person’s needs without the other diners even having to know. I hate the “salad for the vegan” approach to dinner parties and celebrations. I have vegan friends and I know for a fact that they get more than enough salads and carrot sticks. Also, Keifel is deathly allergic to shellfish. Once he is here, crustaceans will never darken the door of our house. I am okay with limitations. I am not okay with having my seven-layer lasagna picked apart with a microscope and tweezers to eradicate any errant pieces of rosemary or whatever.
I have a theory about all this. Of course, I have a theory about everything, but… I think we have become so absorbed in our own weird eating regimes that we forget that there are others out there who may view onions or spices differently. And, I think because we have become largely a nation of people who rarely cook from scratch at home that we forget how much goes into it. It isn’t going to hurt the burger flipper’s feelings if you don’t eat your Big Mac or supersize your order. It will hurt your sister-in-law’s feelings if you don’t at least try her heavily-guarded, secret-recipe, family-heirloom pasta sauce. Be nice.
As I shove my soapbox back under the desk, I will give other frustrated cooks a little tip I use. I have a bound journal-type book that I keep my best recipes and kitchen tips in along with guest lists and menus for dinner parties and a section of likes/dislikes/can’t eat for people I cook for on a regular basis. In case they forget to remind me that they are only eating watermelon for the next six months, I have it there at my flour-covered fingertips.
