TRUST ME, EVERYTHING

There are people who fondly remember their mom's cooking.
I remember my dad's dishes more fondly be a very large margin. My father liked to cook, and liked food. My mother, on the other hand, had some mighty queer ideas on the subject. Risotto: for over a year she tried to make it once a week. Not good. Tuna casserole: abysmal. Meatloaf: it took several years before I tried meatloaf again.

My father did great spaghetti and meatsauce. Superior curries.
A fabulous paprikash. Roasts. Meat preparations. Bird.
Jordanian rice pilaf, nasi goreng, shellfish.

My mom grew up in a military household that had a cook, and spent several years living in student boarding houses while at Berkeley or eating mess-hall slop while in the navy. Her cooking was 'inspired' by those experiences, and strictly formulaic.

My dad grew up with a mother who cooked in the English fashion, then lived several years as a bachelor. An interest in food was perhaps not a natural outgrowth of that, but not altogether surprising.

So it should not surprise anyone that I use spices liberally, plus garlic, ginger, scallions, cilantro, and chilies, and have a free hand with bottled sauces (soy sauce, fish sauce, oyster sauce, abalone sauce, hot sauce).
Plus I know what the heck I'm doing in the kitchen.
And when necessary I'll do the research.


It helps that I grew up with considerable exposure to Dutch East Indies exiles and their food preferences, and for many years worked part time at an Indian restaurant. And I used to know a lot of Filipinos.


I regard a passionate interest in food and culinary experimentation as natural, but I can understand where most Anglos are frightened and clueless in that regard. I hope that they get the therapy they need.
I do not want to eat at their houses till they're cured.




A friend in North Carolina learned how to make Tuscan chicken pasta.
Bravo. Small quibble, though. Everything goes better with sambal.
Remember that.





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