If you watch enough food shows on television — guilty as charged! — you have probably heard the word "love" referred to as an essential ingredient in many recipes. The implication, one supposes, is that preparing food for others is an act of giving, self-sacrifice and an expression of bondedness and devotion. Perhaps….
I have often thought about this sentimental notion when slaving over the details of a meal prepared for guests or family. The question that keeps running through my mind is — why do I bother? Is it just for me and my persnickety taste-buds that I take pains to make sure all is sheer perfection? Or is it that my outsized ego will swell even further when people fuss over how grand it all tastes?
The jury is still out on that question, but let me give you an example. The other night we had two couples over for dinner and I decided in advance to cook up a bunch of Mexican food. So first I get myself a bag of dry masa flour, mix it with water, then form little balls of the sticky stuff to be flattened between sheets of parchment paper in my cast-iron tortilla press. Then, I gingerly take each wafer-thin corn pancake and brown it (on both sides) in an ungreased iron skillet.
An hour later, I have twenty-five fresh tortillas that would have cost me a dollar to buy and which would certainly have saved me much time and energy. But wait, there's more! Then I boiled some water, dropped a dozen tomatillos (those little green tomato-looking things that are the basis for a green sauce) therein and roasted three jalapeño peppers and two pasilla chiles in the oven. I put the whole lot into an industrial blender (the Vitamix — there is no other!) and added salt and a little chicken stock. Voila! Salsa verde...
In the meantime, I'd been marinating chicken breasts in lemon juice and spices and sautéed some organic chicken Italian sausages. I then chopped onions, garlic, cilantro and olives and began to assemble what I learned was called Mexican lasagna on various food websites. Silly me, I thought I had invented the notion myself! Then I layered the softened-in-oil tortillas with the tomatillo sauce, vegetables, crumbled cotija cheese and the meat mixture until I had a heaping baking dish of the concoction. Whew, I'm not sure I was feeling love at this moment or resentment— this was hard work!
Then there was the fresh guacamole to make — four avocados seeded and chopped, more cilantro, onions, lime juice and salt; of course, I had to make a scratch salsa out of tomatoes, onions, Serrano peppers, cilantro and garlic; at which point, I figured the more the merrier and fixed a roasted red pepper hummus (made from dried garbanzo beans, not the canned stuff) and a white-bean dip — why do one chip-dip when you can have three?
Oh yes, then I prepared a Caesar salad, making my own fresh croutons out of La Brea Bakery Italian bread, sautéed in garlic oil then baked to a crunchy, golden goodness. I mortared and pestled the dressing out of real anchovies (not the paste), extra virgin olive oil, mucho garlic, cracked black pepper, parmigiano reggiano and lemon juice. I washed and towel-dried the romaine leaves and then sat down on the couch to watch some sports. I'd been on my feet for four solid hours at that point.
Our beloved guests arrived around eight bearing bottles of vino, began munching on the tortilla chips and such, while I flitted about between the kitchen and the parlor, trying to be host-with-the-most and conscientious cook at the same time. I took the tortilla lasagna out of the oven and served it with the salad and started reaping the praise for my protean labors. Seconds were requested, and happily doled out. I had prepared way too much food!
After dessert and post-meal living room chatter, I found my way to bed and asked the $64K question: Why go through all this travail? I'd been on my poor heels and toes for half a day, the meal was consumed in less than twenty minutes and I'd eaten way too much of my own delicious food. My dear guests were way appreciative, which certainly helped, but I wondered to myself if I was moved by love or an obsessive-compulsive need to chop, dice and assemble tiny things into a whole. Was I serving others, or just my own gluttony or strange brain-wiring? Is food really love, or the ultimate Darwinian selfishness? Help me figure this out before I do it all over again!!