Laurie Colwin's Home Cooking is part memoir, part cookbook, and fully charming from start to finish. Despite initial hesitation -- did I really want to read, in essence, two hundred pages of recipes? -- I actually love love loved everything about the book! Colwin's fun, familiar tone is really inviting and will probably inspire you to regularly prepare four-course dinner parties.
I was particularly struck by the chapters set in her first, very tiny solo apartment. Her words echoed memories of my own miniscule apartment in NDG, back when I was twenty-four, living alone for the first time, and feeling extremely grown-up hosting friends for supper. (You may freely replace the word "supper" with "1L bottles of Gallo Rose and cheap sushi from across the street".) Nostalgia can sometimes come barreling painfully at you like a freight train; in this case, reading those earlier parts of Home Cooking gently prompted a pleasant visit to my past.
Somewhere in the book, Laurie Colwin writes about cooking disasters. Not simply trying a disappointing recipe, but more like making a dish for the first time, then realizing it tastes awful after you've already served it to eight guests. Basically, the kind of kitchen fuck up whose memory triggers full-body cringing for years to come.
No one is shocked to hear I have a rich repertoire of culinary calamities, ranging from forgivable offences (overly salted tofu rendered inedible) to call-the-fire-department humiliation ("c'est une boîte à pizza"). Here's a doozy I'd like to share :)
Roughly one hundred years ago, back in NDG, Josh and I were planning to make pizzas at my place. These were relatively ~early days~ in our relationship, when I still felt compelled to impress him (hahaha). I pulled out all the stops for our meal prep: stinky cheese from a specialty shop on Sherbrooke West, fancy charcuterie, pesto, fresh tomato sauce, assorted veggies and pickled things, etc.
Except, guess who bought pie dough instead of pizza dough, unaware there was even difference?
Worse yet: Guess who didn't realize she had to bake the dough prior to loading it with toppings?
So there I was, in my pocket-sized kitchen overlooking a big neon KFC sign (such ambiance!) with dinner in the oven, boasting about the gourmet zas we would soon gorge on -- all the while, growing very concerned by pizza centers that seemingly wanted to stay raw.
After a very long and hunger-panged wait, watching toppings char and the crust blacken over, we conceded the rest of the dough would never cook through. The pizza was unsalvageable, we were grouchily famished, and I privately mourned the many dollars-worth of top-tier ingredients going heartbreakingly to waste.
I think we ultimately ate Subway sandwiches for dinner that night. How embarrassing.
Do you have a disastrous kitchen tale? I'd love to hear it (and possibly launch a support group with you) ;)
