Plague Journal, Day 37: No-fault recipe

My father learned to cook as an adult. An exacting soul, he liked rules, precision. When barbecuing he followed a metronomic regimen: prepare meat (usually in a marinade); remove ashes; pile briquettes on lighting coil; plug in coil for 8 minutes (timed on oven timer); remove coil; re-stack briquettes; wait til stack glows orange; spread briquettes; replace rack; place meat; cover; cook to time specified in barbecue book (timed on oven timer); flip meat; reset timer; remove meat to cutting board; spread briquettes; replace cover; cut meat; eat. 

For some reason he liked to announce these actions: “That’s eight minutes!” “Charcoal’s ready!” “There’s the timer for the meat!” “Let’s eat the meat while it’s hot!” 

At some point Wednesday night became dad’s night in the kitchen. The first week, Mom suggested Dad make a stir-fry, pointing to a cookbook recipe; for years after, while ingredients changed, Wednesday was stir-fry night. Dad used the wok hundreds of Wednesdays; each time he’d open the cookbook, cut ingredients as specified, pour liquids into measuring cups, set the timer to the required minute. Never did he eyeball amounts, dip a finger in sauce, alter to taste: 272nd time, same as the first.

Dad was an excellent recipe follower. In her 20s my sister invited a few friends for a birthday celebration at my parents’ house; somehow, Dad was commandeered to cook Julia Child’s duck à l’orange. He’d never cooked a Julia recipe, never cooked a duck, maybe never cooked French. Like most Julia recipes it had a lot of steps (peel blanching, duck tying, fat removing, sauce stirring). Dad followed orders, asked everyone to eat while the duck was hot, took a bite, and, before anyone could offer compliments, announced: “This is delicious!” (My sister says it was.) 

Mom made sure we four kids learned to cook. (Starting in middle school, my night was Tuesday.) As an adult I’ve always been the primary food preparer for myself, my partners, my child. I’m happy to tackle an ambitious recipe. But, like Dad, I’ve always been a recipe follower more than a chef. The 14th time I make something I might wonder what it might taste like if I crumbled in a dried chili pepper, maybe try yogurt if I’m out of sour cream. But I plan my week’s meals, make shopping lists, tend not to deviate.

My Connecticut Friend, an avid amateur cook, learned of my state, sympathized; for the past couple of Christmases he’s given me cookbooks focused not on recipes but on technique. The one that’s most helped me break my anal tendencies: Cal Peternell’s Twelve Recipes, which in fact has dozens separated into chapters like “Toast,” “Eggs,” “Grilling,” “Cake.” His style is assured, breezy, designed to instill confidence. E.g., for a lemon/olive oil dressing: “Just add each ingredient to the bowl of salad and toss with your hands to coat well. Taste and add more of whatever is needed.” I’ve found such advice freeing — I’m tasting! Adjusting! Trusting my palate! Somewhere, my late father is clutching his temples. 

When CoronaWorld started, as she moved in with me and left her two children plus one partner ensconced in her apartment, The Girlfriend decided this would be a good time for the youths to take on new tasks, learn new skills; after all, while they’d be going to school online they’d still have all kinds of time. Her father, who spent part of his youth hiding from Nazis in Budapest, counseled against it. The quarantine will be hard, he said; they’ll be doing enough just to get through it. The Girlfriend eased back. 

Before The Kid moved back in with me this week, I discussed with The Girlfriend how to manage the transition. I thought of things The Kid and I could do together, including new tasks for her to take on, new skills for her to learn; after all, she’s got school, but she still has all kinds of time. The Girlfriend reminded me of her father’s advice. 

OK, but we still have to eat. The Kid eats precious few things, cooks fewer. (I hear her object; both statements remain true.) On Saturday, her first full CoronaWorld day with me, I break out Cal Peternell, turn to “Beans.” I’ve made Cal’s beans for her, with success. (A breakthrough — any protein for the vegetarian Kid is a plus.) 

“Remember, this is supposed to be fun. This is a no-fault recipe.” 

“OK, Daddy.” 

One thing parenting books didn’t tell me: Things you’ve learned with difficulty will be almost impossible to teach your children. Hard-earned knowledge, struggles endured, hurdles o’erleaped: if only you’d known at 12 what you discovered at 23, 39, 54! Now a sage, I can impart wisdom to the youth: Avoid the tsuris! Heed my counsel! You know how effective as a teaching tool will be your desire to create for them emotional, educational shortcuts? Start at zero; now go backward. 

I’ve already soaked the beans overnight. (Cal on soaking: “You are a responsible, cleverly frugal, mature individual who knows what he wants for dinner tomorrow night and has the foresight to make it happen.”) 

“OK, what’s Cal say?” 

“‘Drain the beans, rinse them off a little, and then cover by a couple of inches with fresh water and put them on high heat.’” 

“OK. Do it.” 

She drains, rinses, asks, “What’s a couple of inches?” 

I show her the index finger trick: to the first knuckle is an inch, second knuckle two inches. 

“Is that true?” She gets a ruler. “It’s really to the bottom of the second knuckle.” 

“OK. Cover ‘em up.” 

She covers. 

“That looks high to me.”

“It’s to the bottom of my second knuckle!” 

“Seems high.” 

The Kid takes out the ruler. “See! Two inches!” 

“Still seems like too much water to me.” I pour some off. 

“Daddy! It says ‘a couple of inches!’” 

“You understand the whole point of this book is to help you trust your own instincts?” 

“I like baking better. You have to follow the recipe exactly.” 

“I hear you. But you really can rely on intuition here. It’s just beans. They’re hard to screw up.” 

“Put more water in.” 

I put more water in, say, “Now add salt.” 

“What’s the recipe say?” 

“‘Add salt.’” 

“It doesn’t say how much?” 

“It does not. Just keep pouring until the water’s a little salty.” 

“Dad!” 

She pours from a box of kosher salt. 

“Keep going.” 

“Really?” 

“Yes. Now taste it.” 

“What’s it supposed to taste like?” 

“A little salty.” 

“Dad!” 

“Trust your tongue.”

“I hate this.” 

We bicker over how large to cut pieces of onion, celery, carrot; how many stems of thyme and parsley to throw in; whether to crush the garlic clove; whether to add cherry tomatoes; how much brown sugar to add. (The Kid: You can’t add too much brown sugar.) 

Still, after we stir the beans four times, every 15 minutes (Kid: “Set the timer!”); painstakingly remove thyme and parsley stems, pieces of onion, carrot, celery (Kid: “I only want to eat the beans!”); transfer the beans back to a pot; pour extra bean water into a Tupperware (Me: “Now we can make stock!”); make an herb oil (1/2 cup of chives, basil, cilantro, olive oil, squeeze of lemon, pinch of salt; Kid: “At least there’s a real recipe!”) — after all that, the beans taste just fine. 

“I’d rather bake,” The Kid says. “Can we make a cake?” 

(New York state numbers as of Saturday: 236,732 diagnosed with Covid-19, up 3.1 percent; 540 dead, to a total of 13,362, up 4.2 percent. Overall U.S. deaths: 1,743, to a total of 34,178, up 5.4 percent.)