As with any great meal, certain connections come to an end and do not deserve to be renewed, not even through a thinly veiled friendship that doesn't really amount to much. I think being on friendly terms work best for couples who have heavily invested together on something - like kids, or property, or even a dog. Like a great meal, an ended great love is something you remember with fondness and with good memories, long after you have digested and dumped it in the toilet.
It will be a while before I hit the kitchen again with passion. For it is with pleasure and heart that certain meals came about, inspired by the energy of love one experiences at that time. And it was an inspired period - starting with beef borguignone and sole meuniere, progressed into tarte tatin, that inspired a foray into Julia Child, which in turn brought me to the doorsteps of San Francisco's La Boulangerie for french baking because George Mulot and Laduree were continents away. Those were the evenings dedicated solely to the tactile maneuvering of butter and dough to make puff pastry, croissants, pain au chocolat, mini rustic apple tarts, eclairs and french fruit tartes. Trios of duck confit, filet mignon and seared ahi tuna were capped with creamy pots de creme. Never was pork so ignored to adjust to someone's taste. And I can barely remember how many rib eye steaks I have composed and served on a rickety table covered with a Middle Eastern headscarf until I finally whipped it off in disgust and replaced it with a more civil and matching linen. Seared chilean sea bass or black cod took turns with poached salmon and tuna steaks on the odd Sunday night. The last dinner I served him was now inspired by Spain, perhaps a sign of the changing times and forked roads.
Cornish game hen roasted with garlic and rosemary from Adrian Feria's discussion on the new Spanish gastronomy. It was good. No, it was perfect.
It will be a while before I hit the kitchen again with passion. For it is with pleasure and heart that certain meals came about, inspired by the energy of love one experiences at that time. And it was an inspired period - starting with beef borguignone and sole meuniere, progressed into tarte tatin, that inspired a foray into Julia Child, which in turn brought me to the doorsteps of San Francisco's La Boulangerie for french baking because George Mulot and Laduree were continents away. Those were the evenings dedicated solely to the tactile maneuvering of butter and dough to make puff pastry, croissants, pain au chocolat, mini rustic apple tarts, eclairs and french fruit tartes. Trios of duck confit, filet mignon and seared ahi tuna were capped with creamy pots de creme. Never was pork so ignored to adjust to someone's taste. And I can barely remember how many rib eye steaks I have composed and served on a rickety table covered with a Middle Eastern headscarf until I finally whipped it off in disgust and replaced it with a more civil and matching linen. Seared chilean sea bass or black cod took turns with poached salmon and tuna steaks on the odd Sunday night. The last dinner I served him was now inspired by Spain, perhaps a sign of the changing times and forked roads.
Cornish game hen roasted with garlic and rosemary from Adrian Feria's discussion on the new Spanish gastronomy. It was good. No, it was perfect.
