Hubris. It was the demise of many a Greek subject in mythology and maybe it was ours too when it came to our son eating vegetables.
When Daniel went in for his nine-month check up, we told his pediatrician, “Daniel will eat anything we put in front of him, bolognese, lamb chops, broccoli, eggplant, sweet potato, anything. We even tried broccoli rabe with him, and he ate it!”
Daniel’s doctor promptly replied, “Oh, that’ll change. Just wait until he turns one.”
We rejected the words of this harbinger of doom, our very own Cassandra. We were convinced that our son had inherited our palates. And maybe we took too much pride, too much delight, in the way he ate all of the food we cooked for him.
Like clockwork, and as if our pediatrician had cursed us,
Some say that the numerous pleats of the tall, chef’s toque hat is a nod to the gastronomic wonder of the numerous ways to cook an egg. Even after culinary school, I can neither confirm nor deny whether there are more than a 100 ways to cook an egg. Investigative reports thus far seem inconclusive. See http://www.bonappetit.com/people/chefs/article/why-are-there-100-folds-in-a-chef-s-toque.
I only know that I love a well-cooked egg. It’s beautifully packaged and complete unto itself.
The other day as I sat with a small panel of chef instructors to taste students’ final presentations of their French cuisine menus, a conversation around eggs began. We were tasting exciting dishes such as
Disclaimer: I have no medical background and claim no knowledge of medicine. The name of the recipe below is “Immune Boosting Tea” but neither I nor anyone mentioned in this article make any medical claims about the tea made from the recipe provided.
Brrr…cough, cough. Sun? Not always. Freezing rain, maybe. Snow in spring, almost a fifty-fifty chance in Wisconsin.
This year, students of mine fell ill in droves, and so did I. A student came to me to ask if I could help her, because she was experiencing chills and rising heat. She had heard of a time when I brewed a pot of tea full of spices, including garlic, ginger, and cinnamon to help a Product Identification class overcome a wave of sickness. In Healing Spices, Bharat Aggarwal, PhD, writes about the thousands of studies done by the National Institutes of Health. According to Aggarwal, a small study in England and Russia found a correlation between garlic and cold prevention. Ginger may help to manage the nausea of flu.
I had my student peel the ginger in the recipe with the tip of a spoon facing downward toward the ginger root, because it’s safer. I worked at slicing the scallions. The interesting thing about this immune boosting tea
Sweets and The Arrival of Superman
Superheroes do things for us that seem beyond our reach in the moment. They have clarity of purpose and often a power that we secretly wish for in ourselves.
Daniel’s daycare instructor, Ms. Dee (abbreviated here), recently told me that distinguishing whether you are a boy or a girl is a developmental milestone, one that our two-year old son, Daniel, hasn’t quite caught on to yet.
He distinguishes males and females as “dadas” and “mamas.” Daniel has never given much thought to his peers and his identity within groups, because he is an only child; and talking about gender isn’t a big topic in our household.
When Ms. Dee asked him,
I never thought I would say this, but I may be “foie gras-ed out.” My friend, Jaimee, would probably come to Wisconsin to check my temperature if she read this. Maybe my friend Millie would too.
In days past, I used to dream of having more time in Chicago to dine on Graham Elliot’s foie gras lollipops. I used to hope to see foie gras on more common menus in other places. Locally, in Wisconsin, I ordered it most recently when I saw a chef’s rendition of a foie gras crême brûlée. It was beautifully done, so much so that we ordered two. It isn’t part of the culinary lexicon of most Wisconsin commercial kitchens, only the bold and higher-end establishments. Its scarcity has always made me want it more.
Cookies, especially small ones, remind me of Mrs. Thomas, my first piano teacher in Port Washington, Wisconsin.
By the time I was four and old enough to follow my brother, Gus, into her home to take piano lessons, she was fully white-haired. She had friendly, Mrs. Santa Claus glasses and an up-do to match. Her thin, patterned print dresses loosely swayed around her legs whenever she answered the door. She moved slowly and very intentionally to welcome us. We might have been among her youngest students, but despite the difference in age, she understood us, our motivation, and the root of our happiness.