Lately I have been having a recurring dream. I am standing in a kitchen, chopping, with a slew of simmering pots behind me.
In another room close by, I hear the lilting tones of light-hearted conversation, the clinking of glasses, a sudden whoop of laughter.
Sometimes, I realize that I am dreaming. I recognize that I am in an apartment, and it’s my apartment, but not my apartment. I nod to myself, relaxed. I understand what’s going on here. I remember this social ritual. I’m entertaining.
Whether I am woken by a passing siren, a neighbour’s dog or the untimely trill of my alarm clock, the sad realization comes with a familiar thud. I am not entertaining. I have no space to entertain. I am in my studio, dreaming of the culinary adventures I would undertake… if only I could.
Back in Australia, there was nothing that gave me more joy than inviting a few friends around and using them as guinea pigs for a new recipe trial. I was lucky enough to live in an apartment where the wall between the kitchen and living room had been knocked down, and replaced with a wide bench, perfect for guests to lean on while I whipped something up, and also useful if I needed to roll out a packet of filo pastry or spread out an assembly line for dumpling-making, and so on.
Compare then this image of kitchen splendour with my current “kitchenette”. With its dark wood cupboards and “retro” oven and bar fridge, it could be described as “cute”, “frugal” or “a minimalist’s dream”. But of course what I am really trying to say is that it’s inadequate, tiny and deeply disappointing to the aspiring chef inside.
Miraculously, this doesn’t stop me from cooking. I embrace the limitations.
For example, my oven. I won’t say that it can’t be warmed beyond 200 degrees, I’ll just say perhaps I have never seen it give me a good old-fashioned try. No matter how long I wait for its quaint dual-coil electric cavern to preheat, it just never seems to reach a decent baking (or even warming) temperature.
So, what if I want to bring cookies to someone’s rooftop Sunday brunch? No problem. I just search under “no-bake” and find a decent selection of recipes that promise to yield what resembles cookies, but without the need for that pesky oven.
[Now, I am not going to waste valuable blog space whining to you about how tiresome it is to search multiple New York supermarkets to find a simple packet of crunchy Chinese noodles that is so easily found in Australia I could point you to the exact aisle and shelf it’s on in Woolworths’ Bondi Junction. Nor am I going to explain to you exactly what kind of no-bake cookie requires the inclusion of crunchy Asian noodles. Google, if you must.]
And yet, every time I choose to search for groceries, get to work on my tiny bench top, fight with my oven and marvel at the enormous pile of washing up that results, I come to the same conclusion. It’s just not worth it. The cost, effort and final results consistently pale in comparison to the simple delights you can purchase in New York City with cash.
Likewise, the options for ordering a delivery of breakfast lunch or dinner are abundant. Perhaps in Australia, the idea of asking some guy on a bike to bring you only a couple of bagels and coffee in the morning is bizarre, or at least indulgent. In New York, it’s commonplace. It’s not even expensive.
At dinner, for example, if you decided to cook a modest meal, say pasta and salad for two, the cost of ingredients alone would reach between $40 and $60 at a local supermarket. And this does not including the cost of your time for food preparation, space frustration and kitchen mess.
For roughly half the cost you could dial a local restaurant, order a meal for two, and receive bread, salad and condiments on the side within about 20 minutes. When you’ve finished eating, you dispose of all the plastic containers into the same paper bag the delivery arrived in, and the whole adventure is over. Simple.
So why do I persist in cooking? Somehow I cannot stop myself from watching the Food Network and searching the internet for new recipes. I offer to cook for anyone who’ll eat. I even twist the arms of friends with bigger apartments, offering to prepare meals in their kitchens, if they’ll host the party. Call it desperation.
As for my next culinary challenge, it’s coming up with the funds to attend a few courses at the French Culinary Institute here. Courses cost between two and six thousand dollars. Hey! A girl can dream, right?
Sponsorship, anyone?
4/25/2007
Culinary fantasies
Lately I have been having a recurring dream. I am standing in a kitchen, chopping, with a slew of simmering pots behind me.
In another room close by, I hear the lilting tones of light-hearted conversation, the clinking of glasses, a sudden whoop of laughter.
Sometimes, I realize that I am dreaming. I recognize that I am in an apartment, and it’s my apartment, but not my apartment. I nod to myself, relaxed. I understand what’s going on here. I remember this social ritual. I’m entertaining.
Whether I am woken by a passing siren, a neighbour’s dog or the untimely trill of my alarm clock, the sad realization comes with a familiar thud. I am not entertaining. I have no space to entertain. I am in my studio, dreaming of the culinary adventures I would undertake… if only I could.
Back in Australia, there was nothing that gave me more joy than inviting a few friends around and using them as guinea pigs for a new recipe trial. I was lucky enough to live in an apartment where the wall between the kitchen and living room had been knocked down, and replaced with a wide bench, perfect for guests to lean on while I whipped something up, and also useful if I needed to roll out a packet of filo pastry or spread out an assembly line for dumpling-making, and so on.
Compare then this image of kitchen splendour with my current “kitchenette”. With its dark wood cupboards and “retro” oven and bar fridge, it could be described as “cute”, “frugal” or “a minimalist’s dream”. But of course what I am really trying to say is that it’s inadequate, tiny and deeply disappointing to the aspiring chef inside.
Miraculously, this doesn’t stop me from cooking. I embrace the limitations.
For example, my oven. I won’t say that it can’t be warmed beyond 200 degrees, I’ll just say perhaps I have never seen it give me a good old-fashioned try. No matter how long I wait for its quaint dual-coil electric cavern to preheat, it just never seems to reach a decent baking (or even warming) temperature.
So, what if I want to bring cookies to someone’s rooftop Sunday brunch? No problem. I just search under “no-bake” and find a decent selection of recipes that promise to yield what resembles cookies, but without the need for that pesky oven.
[Now, I am not going to waste valuable blog space whining to you about how tiresome it is to search multiple New York supermarkets to find a simple packet of crunchy Chinese noodles that is so easily found in Australia I could point you to the exact aisle and shelf it’s on in Woolworths’ Bondi Junction. Nor am I going to explain to you exactly what kind of no-bake cookie requires the inclusion of crunchy Asian noodles. Google, if you must.]
And yet, every time I choose to search for groceries, get to work on my tiny bench top, fight with my oven and marvel at the enormous pile of washing up that results, I come to the same conclusion. It’s just not worth it. The cost, effort and final results consistently pale in comparison to the simple delights you can purchase in New York City with cash.
Likewise, the options for ordering a delivery of breakfast lunch or dinner are abundant. Perhaps in Australia, the idea of asking some guy on a bike to bring you only a couple of bagels and coffee in the morning is bizarre, or at least indulgent. In New York, it’s commonplace. It’s not even expensive.
At dinner, for example, if you decided to cook a modest meal, say pasta and salad for two, the cost of ingredients alone would reach between $40 and $60 at a local supermarket. And this does not including the cost of your time for food preparation, space frustration and kitchen mess.
For roughly half the cost you could dial a local restaurant, order a meal for two, and receive bread, salad and condiments on the side within about 20 minutes. When you’ve finished eating, you dispose of all the plastic containers into the same paper bag the delivery arrived in, and the whole adventure is over. Simple.
So why do I persist in cooking? Somehow I cannot stop myself from watching the Food Network and searching the internet for new recipes. I offer to cook for anyone who’ll eat. I even twist the arms of friends with bigger apartments, offering to prepare meals in their kitchens, if they’ll host the party. Call it desperation.
As for my next culinary challenge, it’s coming up with the funds to attend a few courses at the French Culinary Institute here. Courses cost between two and six thousand dollars. Hey! A girl can dream, right?
Sponsorship, anyone?
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