When the family's away, it's delicious to indulge in the foods they spurn and she loves.
By Joyce Gemperlein
For The Inquirer
They're gone for the weekend, so I've brushed aside a tear and rushed to the store for a hunk of blue cheese and a bag of onions.
In general, those left behind are expected to sorrow over loved ones leaving on a short holiday. But time alone at home is a gift to cooking martyrs.
Day in and day out, we considerately do not serve food that our family members dislike or are unable to eat. In my home, this would also include mushrooms, lima beans, brussels sprouts, tofu, beets, very spicy green curry, and breakfast for dinner - all of which I love.
Am I a downtrodden home cook who did not thoroughly food-screen her intended husband and so must make do without onions, a chief building block of flavor, just because they make him sick? Do I subjugate my passion for blue cheese because my daughter and husband can't stand its smell or taste?
Yes, I say, simultaneously ashamed and proud.
Furthermore, this is a reality shared by many meal-meisters whose definition of love includes sacrificing some food passions for the greater good.
Even if every member of a family is a relatively eclectic eater, there are bound to be food likes, dislikes, or allergies that circumscribe a cook's freedom. Logic might dictate that the person who primarily controls the kitchen could rightfully declare a dictatorship and send out whatever she wants. (You know, like when we were single, childless, and could eat only popcorn for dinner without worrying about being a bad role model.)
But, no. We endlessly sacrifice!
Doing so in my family is a bit of a tradition - but in reverse.
My mother expected all of us to eat what we were served and did not tailor her meals to anyone's particular tastes. She also heroically fried eggs regularly even though she is allergic to them and their smell made her sick.
But most of us these days are not as altruistic.
If we cooked to our own tastes every night, it would mean that we, or someone, would have to whip up other acceptable dishes in order to sit down for those amiable family dinners that are supposedly so important to the fabric of society.
So rather than rock the boat or play short-order cook (with the attendant excessive dirty pots and pans), we whip up meals of consensus.
Then, when our beloveds pile into the car and the taillights disappear into the sunset for a few days, we are relieved of dispensing kindness, generosity, and thoughtfulness - culinary and otherwise.
We are home alone, permitting days to progress as they may, watching stupid television at any time, attending two yoga classes in one day, and not having to drive anyone but ourselves anywhere.
In between, I, for one, saute chopped brussels sprouts and top them with blue cheese and bacon. I may caramelize an entire bag of chopped onions in butter, add a splash of Pernod or rosemary, and eat it with toast points or on a crisp pizza shell. I make a salad that incorporates bacon, mayonnaise, avocado, eggs, and blue cheese, and it is all the more enjoyable because no one is around to curl his upper lip or say "yuck" and run from the room.
Sometimes I concoct what my husband and daughter call "cat food" by squeezing the liquid from a can of tuna and dressing it with a little unsweetened coconut, lime juice, diced shallots, a bit of sugar, and a tablespoon or two of roasted ground rice. (This is my version of a Cambodian salad I remember from a California restaurant.)
And what is more glorious than sitting with the Sunday newspapers eating tofu squares dressed in hoisin and scattered with green onions, or pizza made from portobello mushrooms?
I'll be having a wonderful time, so not wishing their palates were here.
By Joyce Gemperlein
For The Inquirer
They're gone for the weekend, so I've brushed aside a tear and rushed to the store for a hunk of blue cheese and a bag of onions.
In general, those left behind are expected to sorrow over loved ones leaving on a short holiday. But time alone at home is a gift to cooking martyrs.
Day in and day out, we considerately do not serve food that our family members dislike or are unable to eat. In my home, this would also include mushrooms, lima beans, brussels sprouts, tofu, beets, very spicy green curry, and breakfast for dinner - all of which I love.
Am I a downtrodden home cook who did not thoroughly food-screen her intended husband and so must make do without onions, a chief building block of flavor, just because they make him sick? Do I subjugate my passion for blue cheese because my daughter and husband can't stand its smell or taste?
Yes, I say, simultaneously ashamed and proud.
Furthermore, this is a reality shared by many meal-meisters whose definition of love includes sacrificing some food passions for the greater good.
Even if every member of a family is a relatively eclectic eater, there are bound to be food likes, dislikes, or allergies that circumscribe a cook's freedom. Logic might dictate that the person who primarily controls the kitchen could rightfully declare a dictatorship and send out whatever she wants. (You know, like when we were single, childless, and could eat only popcorn for dinner without worrying about being a bad role model.)
But, no. We endlessly sacrifice!
Doing so in my family is a bit of a tradition - but in reverse.
My mother expected all of us to eat what we were served and did not tailor her meals to anyone's particular tastes. She also heroically fried eggs regularly even though she is allergic to them and their smell made her sick.
But most of us these days are not as altruistic.
If we cooked to our own tastes every night, it would mean that we, or someone, would have to whip up other acceptable dishes in order to sit down for those amiable family dinners that are supposedly so important to the fabric of society.
So rather than rock the boat or play short-order cook (with the attendant excessive dirty pots and pans), we whip up meals of consensus.
Then, when our beloveds pile into the car and the taillights disappear into the sunset for a few days, we are relieved of dispensing kindness, generosity, and thoughtfulness - culinary and otherwise.
We are home alone, permitting days to progress as they may, watching stupid television at any time, attending two yoga classes in one day, and not having to drive anyone but ourselves anywhere.
In between, I, for one, saute chopped brussels sprouts and top them with blue cheese and bacon. I may caramelize an entire bag of chopped onions in butter, add a splash of Pernod or rosemary, and eat it with toast points or on a crisp pizza shell. I make a salad that incorporates bacon, mayonnaise, avocado, eggs, and blue cheese, and it is all the more enjoyable because no one is around to curl his upper lip or say "yuck" and run from the room.
Sometimes I concoct what my husband and daughter call "cat food" by squeezing the liquid from a can of tuna and dressing it with a little unsweetened coconut, lime juice, diced shallots, a bit of sugar, and a tablespoon or two of roasted ground rice. (This is my version of a Cambodian salad I remember from a California restaurant.)
And what is more glorious than sitting with the Sunday newspapers eating tofu squares dressed in hoisin and scattered with green onions, or pizza made from portobello mushrooms?
I'll be having a wonderful time, so not wishing their palates were here.
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