For some unknown reason, tigers have obsessed me lately. I see them everywhere, anywhere; they follow me like the economic crisis follows half of the world.
Pardon this strange start, but allow me to explain. I have written before that it is impossible to cook the same way that our grannies used to. I think we all agree on that for a simple reason: We don’t value time or money as much as we once did.
It could be the heat, or maybe its days spent at the beach showing off my spare tire. But the humble salad has grown more and more heroic in my mind.
I was on the Mediterranean coast for the summer, and shock therapy has begun. All these perfect bodies, no fat to be seen, and there I was, trying to hide under a beach wrap, a hat, an umbrella, a newspaper — all the while wondering why I wasn’y getting tanned.
During one of the most appetizing dinners of my summer so far, a chef delighted us with a tasting of several kinds of fish cooked using different techniques. If you have read this column before, you already know my passion for fish. I believe it is cultural. Spain, my country, is the fifth-largest consumer of fish in the world, after Japan, China, Norway and Portugal.
If I associate any fruit with summer, it’s the peach. The smell of it, the colors like a warm sunset – it reminds me of my grandparents’ “pueblo,” and the jar collection my grandmother used to keep in the pantry.
Her pantry was a place I used to slip into, thinking I was invisible. The place was a sanctuary. I would sit there smelling the aromas, dazed by all the food at hand.
“Operation Bikini” begins every year in Spain about this time. It’s a dark ritual that involves doing whatever is necessary to achieve the perfect summer body. If we’re being honest with ourselves, we’ll probably never get that body. But we try anyway. Oh, do we try.
It’s the second major self-improvement effort of every year, after New Year’s resolutions. Back in late December we were going to join a gym, diet, by next summer become goddesses. Now here we are, a third of the year over and no progress to report. Time for a redoubling of efforts. Desperate measures. Operation Bikini.
Every year, the fad diets come with much fanfare and then quietly go away. There’s the artichoke diet, the Duncan diet, the fruit diet, and currently and most bizarre of them all, the food inhaler diet. Yes, you read it correctly. The Vaportrim (“Inhale flavours. Curb cravings. Lose weight.”) consists of a tube, similar in size to a cigarette, that is used to inhale the flavours and smells of a muffin, a cupcake, or a cinnamon bun. Seriously. By smelling these tubes you’re supposed to avoid the actual temptation of eating those chocolate doughnuts. Since when does smelling tasty food make you less hungry? Some people might be able to dupe their appetites with this trick (olé for them), but when my stomach rumbles, no man or machine can stop it.
I probably inherited my baking ineptitude from my mother. She’s an awesome cook, full of ideas. She has a drawer full of recipes, and masters them without any problem. She’s passionate, an artist. And cooking is art. But baking isn’t. Baking is math.
February is gone. Love is no longer in the air. Life is moving along, and suddenly one of my friends sends me an email: “What’s the best drink for a broken heart?” After considering several options (the cheapest cocktail? the beer nearest my hands?), I try to put myself in her shoes (not difficult at all) and provide her with a good answer. Sartre, the French philosopher, said that happiness is not doing what you want but wanting what you do. I know my friend really wants a good answer, so I put my hands to work, write her an invitation to my house, and start creating an uplifting cocktail.
It’s February, and Valentine’s Day is fast approaching. I must say, the day is way too sweet for me. For all of you happily in love: couldn’t you celebrate said love on one of the other 364 days of the year? It’s absolutely impossible to escape the pink and red hearts this time of year, the chocolates, flowers, cards, advertisements. Love is in the air, and everyone knows it.
Dreams of the holidays, airports, the never-ending family dinners — it’s all come to an end and the new year awaits. 2012 is here and it seems it is going to be anything but boring.
If you don’t believe it, listen to this: This year we will enjoy the Olympics in London; the 2012 World Expo will be held in Yeosu; in May there is going to be a total solar eclipse; and of course, the world will end. If it does, at least it won’t happen until December.
Its ubiquity and low price have made this product an afterthought in our kitchens. At one time it was a valuable commodity; now it’s something we are not ashamed to ask a neighbor for a cup of, with no intention of giving it back.
What am I talking about? Let me give you some hints: it is, along with water, essential for living. It’s the only rock that humans can eat, and its uses include keeping colorful veggies colorful when we boil them, making it easier to whip cream, removing stains, keeping cut flowers fresh, melting ice from the roads, and on and on.
