Thought for Food

by Audrey Beth Stein by Audrey Beth SteinRemember making concoctions as a kids When Mom and Dad weren't looking, you and your best friend would take a couple of paper cups from the bathroom and fill them with shampoo, toothpaste, old Spice, powder--anything within reach. You by Audrey Beth SteinRemember making concoctions as a kids When Mom and Dad weren't looking, you and your best friend would take a couple of paper cups from the bathroom and fill them with shampoo, toothpaste, old Spice, powder--anything within reach. Youlearned that if you dumped powder on water it made a skin, and if you ground up sticks of white chalk with your scissors it looked like confectioners sugar but it tasted like, well, chalk. You learned that when Mom found out what you'd done she would get mad, but if you begged real hard before that happened she might let you make playdough. That was one of your first introductions to using a kitchen. The recipe was easy to follow: by Audrey Beth SteinRemember making concoctions as a kids When Mom and Dad weren't looking, you and your best friend would take a couple of paper cups from the bathroom and fill them with shampoo, toothpaste, old Spice, powder--anything within reach. Youlearned that if you dumped powder on water it made a skin, and if you ground up sticks of white chalk with your scissors it looked like confectioners sugar but it tasted like, well, chalk. You learned that when Mom found out what you'd done she would get mad, but if you begged real hard before that happened she might let you make playdough. That was one of your first introductions to using a kitchen. The recipe was easy to follow:1 cup flour 1 cup water - 1 tablespooon oil 1 tablespoon cream of tartar Mix all ingredients in a bowl. Add food coloring (optional, but important when you're a kid). Watch as a parent or responsible adult puts it in a pot on the stove/ brings it to a boil, and stirs. You'll recognize when it's ready, but let it cool before you touch, Maybe you ran outside with your new playdough, gave up your concoctions for stickers and sports, and never thought twice. Or maybe you were so enthralled that you begged to learn more, cooking the entire Thanksgiving dinner yourself at age ten. I continued making concoctions for the next few years, discovering that marigolds planted in Japanese toothpaste, Suave shampoo, and the dirt from my sandbox turned-garden would grow quite successfully. I also started helping my parents bake. That was quality time growing up. I licked beaters, spilled flours and learned from Mom how to make Polish tea cookies, chocolate mousse, and zucchini bread. While Mom rested, Dad taught me Russian black bread, challah, and pizza. He also turned me into a champ at making breakfast-French toast, tomato pancakes, omelets, the works. Then I got to college. My repertoire diminished to a batch or two of cookies a year. And though Itd watched my parents do it hundreds of times, and helped them occasionally, I'd never officially learned to cook. As a freshman I quickly taught myself how to digest Dining Services' offerings on weekdays and spend my parents' money on pizza, Chinese take-out, food trucks, and Ramen noodle soup during the weekend. Sophomore year continued pretty much the same way. I added midnight Wawa runs and Taco Bell to my food staples. A friend promised to teach me to cook Mexican, but graduated before that happened. Welcome Summer 1995* I'm living in a house, off campus, off meal plan. On my own. Nice-sized kitchen. Two sinks, two refrigerators, two stoves. Microwave, toaster oven, pots, pans, cookie sheets. Mom donated a copy of The Joy of Cooking. Never mind the mouse and the housemates who can't clean up after themselves--it's a fine set-up. I have a desire to eat healthy and cheaply this summer, a friend to cook with, and my imagination. So I plunge in. I do mean "plunge." I haven't yet mastered the basics of pasta but I've produced Chicken Florentine and sweet potato puffs. I browse through cookbooks for ideas, remember nursery school favorites (peanut butter balls: a cup each of powdered milk, peanut butter, and Cheerios; a quarter of a cup of honey; ball and chill), and stare at fruit stands and supermarket displays. And in the spirit of my childhood concoctions, I experiment. What if I mix mulberry juice ice cubes in lemonade? Can I concoct a cold fruit soup? I study the complicated cheesecake recipe and discover that softened cream cheese and sugar slopped on a graham cracker satisfies my craving. Sauteeing coconut, vegetables, and donated canned chicken is less successful, but still fun to try. My friend learns how to eliminate oil from everything but eggrolls. I taste apple squash soup at the Manayunk farmer's market and wonder if I can imitate it at home. The old saying about learning more outside the classroom is certainly proving true. I picked up a lot watching my parents over the years--exact measurements are crucial when baking, less important when cooking; you can replace eggs with orange juice to get raw cookie dough without salmonella poisoning; don't forget to turn the oven off. But the parts I missed I teach myself, trial-and-error. When my pasta started boiling over, I took off the lid; if mulberries won't freezes I'll try making them into jam instead. This is a practical hobby--I eat my experiments. My stomach lets me know if I've gone too far.