Here come the holidays, and in my world, they include lots of goodies. There is Thanksgiving and then Hanukkah latkes, Christmas dinner, Christmas cookies and sugarplums dancing in our heads. This time of year, I can no longer deny that I’m a cook-zophrenic.
That means part of me relishes the creative, delicious world of food preparation and consumption. The other part of me runs shrieking at the mention of a cookie exchange or the phrase “Can you bring an hors d’oeuvre?”
I have never been adept in the kitchen. I can scrape by, but I lack motivation. That “simple” Chinese wok recipe loses its magic after I have chopped my 14th vegetable. I did go all out and make one classic Christmas dinner with goose, ham, Yorkshire pudding, gravy and the works. It was spectacular and during the three full days it took me to clean up, I vowed never again.
But like labor pains, I soon forget and get sucked in again. It always hits me when I wander into a gourmet kitchen store. Knowing full well I will never use a garlic press, a deluxe spatula, a strawberry huller or a combination deep fryer and FM radio, I nevertheless want them. I want the pretty hand-blown glass toothpicks, the matching snail plates and the cookie cutters shaped like tropical fruit. I want the nests of colorful bowls, the pasta keeper and all the refrigerator magnets.
The worst happens when I’m watching TV and happen to flip past “Good Eats” with Alton Brown or “The Holiday Baking Championship.” You would think I had actually ever iced a layer cake or successfully handled one of those decorator icing bags. But no. I just find myself wanting to. After a couple of TV cooks make it look so simple, I have to fight the urge to race into the kitchen and begin preparing peanut brittle from scratch. I need to remind myself of the even dozen batches of fudge I mixed, cooked — and tossed out — one Christmas.
The odds are further stacked against me. I think the oven is pouting from neglect, and I have to replace the battery in my smoke alarm more often than most. Nonetheless, I’ve been known to fantasize about busting out a perfect standing rib roast.
I am equally vulnerable anytime I pass a Martha Stewart Living or Bon Appétit magazine on the rack. When the publication shows those rich, glossy photos of a beautifully set table groaning with at least five courses, I begin to lose touch with reality.
Suddenly it doesn’t matter that each recipe has three parts with 10 ingredients and instructions that cover two pages. Fully cognizant that I probably can’t afford the exotic ingredients, much less find them, I want to flip on the oven, gather up the ingredients and spend a solid 15 or 20 minutes cooking up a storm. Then I snap into consciousness and face the fact that just one of those five dishes needs hours of my attention, and I tend to burn something or bail.
All that effort, just to be eaten? Oh no. Were I to invest those great chunks of time and creativity into something, I want it bronzed and put on the mantle.
Uh oh. I’m feeling woozy. Hide the cookbooks.
Jean Gillette is a freelance writer and culinary lazybones. Contact her at [email protected].
