Man with a Pan

by John Donohue

  The time for the family dinner has come for Lisa, the kids, and me. But I have not given up on stunt cookery. I spend a portion of each day dreaming up the evening’s meal. Along the route from work, I gather ingredients at a dead run. Arriving home, I blow through the front door, march to the back of the house, and plunk the groceries on that same maple kitchen table of my youth. I fire up the stove. The patter of public radio news is the only companion I can abide. There are onions to dice and wilt, wine to reduce, greens to blanch, and marginal meat to braise. Each evening I set out, fully intending to make every family dinner an adventure. And just about every evening I fail.

  My daughter, always an unwilling participant, refuses to eat anything that isn’t whiter than she is. My son is as eager to please as I once was, and just as sensitive to some of the more outlandish ingredients and preparations. Lisa is appreciative, but she has her limits. This never ends well, she reminds me, and it is just dinner.

  There is no such thing.

  Every time dinner is dismissed as an event designed to simply deliver the day’s final load of calories and nutrients, an opportunity for adventure and fellowship is lost. So I persist. If I possessed an operative sense of myself in time, I might stand a chance. Usually, though, dinner, in all its inventive glory, is served late. The kids are exhausted. And because of my repeated, unrealistic insistence that unlike its predecessors this meal will be on time, Lisa has been forced to feed the kids stopgap cheese and crackers. They are usually not the least bit hungry.

  They moan.

  I bark.

  Lisa shuttles the kids off to bed. There is no fellowship at my table, and the only adventure is cooling in the kitchen. When I reported these misadventures and my frustration back to Dad, he’d grin widely and clap his hands together enthusiastically, just twice, then grip them together firmly. “That’s very, very funny, E-boy,” he’d pronounce enthusiastically.

  Recently, Dad was suddenly taken grievously ill. The ferocious disease has visited numerous indignities upon him. Cruelest among these, though, is that it has robbed him of both clear speech and appetite. And so, while puzzling over what I can feed Dad that will nourish him and deliver him even the most fleeting enjoyment, I am more convinced of dinner’s dual purpose; and yes, suddenly I’m painfully aware that a man has only so many dinners in front of him.

  He has no interest in the blandest of food now. My response, more a reflex, may prove to be stunt cookery’s finest hour, or its undoing. I reach for that now-battered black composition book—a return to origins, of a sort. There, his curry recipes, scratched onto its rotting, sauce-streaked pages in the ambitious if impatient scrawl of a devoted, much younger son, are now crowded in among other recipes that I have collected along the way. I set the book open on the counter and place four yellow onions on the cutting board: garlic, two to three cloves, chopped rough; garam masala, three tablespoons; tumeric, one tablespoon; green cardamom pods, one tablespoon; celery seeds, one tablespoon; red chilies, one-half to one tablespoon (to taste). I conjure a curry and deliver it to him sitting on the couch in the apartment I grew up in. It proves strong medicine, our curry, and for a time it rekindles in him what burns in us both.

  Recipe File

  Jos’s Curry, or The Old Man’s Shiva Curry (Untouchable-Style)

  Spices (mixed together):

  1 teaspoon salt

  3 tablespoons garam masala

  1 tablespoon turmeric

  1 tablespoon green cardamom pods

  1 tablespoon celery seeds

  ½ to 1 tablespoon red chilies (to taste), crushed

  ½ cup vegetable oil

  4 medium yellow onions, finely chopped

  2 pounds meat (chicken or beef), cubed to uniform size

  1 16-ounce can chicken or beef broth

  1 28-ounce can crushed tomatoes

  2 to 3 cloves garlic, roughly chopped

  Heat the oil in a pan, add the onions, and sauté until wilted.

  Add the spice mix and cook briefly (2 to 5 minutes), taking care not to burn.

  Cook the meat with the onion and spices for 10 to 15 minutes, stirring regularly, taking care not to burn the onions.

  Add the broth and crushed tomatoes and cover, stirring occasionally as needed.

  Add the garlic after the meat is tender.

  Cook until the garlic is integrated into the stew, about 30 minutes.

  Serve over rice. To mitigate the curry’s heat, serve with plain yogurt mixed with seeded, diced cucumber.

  Dum Aha (Fried-Potato Curry)

  1 pound potatoes

  ⅔ pint mustard oil

  2 ounces ghee or peanut oil

  ½ teaspoon red chili flakes

  ¾ teaspoon ground coriander seeds

  ½ pint water

  ½ ounce diced fresh ginger

  ½ teaspoon garam masala

  ½ teaspoon dried ginger

  1 tablespoon fresh coriander

  Preheat the oven to 200°F.

  Peel the potatoes, parboil, slice, cool, and reserve.

  To an ovenproof sauté pan, add the mustard oil and ghee (or peanut oil) sufficient to deep-fry the potatoes, heat to the smoking point, and cook the potatoes until golden. Remove the potatoes from the pan and reserve.

  Remove all but 2 ounces of the oil from the pan, remove the pan from the heat, and add the red chili flakes and ground coriander until fragrant. Add water, stirring regularly, taking care to loosen the caramelized potato from the bottom of the pan. Simmer for 2 to 3 minutes.

  Return the potatoes to the pan and cook until tender, then remove from the fire.

  Stir in the garam masala, ginger, and fresh coriander and place in the preheated oven for 30 minutes.

  On the Shelf

  The River Cottage Meat Book, Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall. Typically if by page 133 of a cookbook the author is still busy defining subcategories of free range for poultry, I hurl the book across the room, curse bitterly, and wait a full week before dropping it in the trash. Fearnley-Whittingstall has got my ear, and my full respect, however. This is probably because, only thirty-eight pages after his pious jobation about poultry joie, this erudite chef-butcher describes proper technique when skinning a rabbit. I’m willing to overlook the time Fearnley-Whittingstall spends in the same prissy corner of the tradition as Christopher Kimball because when he comes to his senses, he applies the same eager diligence while providing the secrets for deviled lamb’s kidneys, black pudding wontons, breast of lamb Sainte-Ménéhould, and the like.

  How to Roast a Lamb, Michael Psilakis. Michael Sand, executive editor of the imprint that published this volume, sent me Chef Psilakis’s book with a gracious note attached: “You’re one of the few people I could envision trying the recipe on page 208,” it said. The recipe is for olokliro arni stin souvla, or whole spit-roasted lamb. I don’t intend to let either Michael down.

  Craig Claiborne’s Southern Cooking, Craig Claiborne. This is the first cookbook I ever bought. I was inspired by the blackened redfish craze that depleted the Gulf Coast fishery back in the mid-1980s. But rather than pull one of Paul Prudhomme’s cookbooks off the shelf, I was drawn to the sophisticated gentility and great story-telling in Claiborne’s paean to his origins. The recipes with pages most spattered by ingredients are those for smothered chicken with mushrooms, Kentucky burgoo, and hoppin’ John.

  An Omelette and a Glass of Wine, Elizabeth David. A sense of time and place, one both meditative and humane, is the great gift of all David’s work. I am drawn to the tranquil determination of the title essay, but I usually return to my thoroughly throttled paperback edition by flipping it open at random.

  La Terra Fortunata, Fred Plotkin. I traveled to Friuli–Venezia Giulia (sort of the Maine of Italy, but with a much richer culinary tradition and no proper lobsters) with my friend Fred in the winter of 2000. The intellectual curiosity through which he expresses a love of all Italian foodways is inspiring, but his exploration of this often overlooked but complex region ma
kes this my favorite of his many books. Fred and I share a love for paparot, a garlic-infused spinach and polenta soup.

  Unmentionable Cuisine, Calvin W. Schwabe. If this cookbook were ever turned into a movie, it would not be Scott Rudin, Nora Ephron, and the rest of the clever clogs who brought you Julie and Julia. No, this culinary romp would be presented on the silver screen by Peter Block, James Wan, and the crew behind the shockingly gruesome Saw franchise. The recipe for battered trotters is exactly six lines long, and nowhere in this book can one find an ingredient list. But if you’re in the mood for hon tsao go zo, gedörrtes hundefleisch, or any of nine other preparations for dog, this is as good a starting point as I’ve found. Schwabe provides similar inspiration for palm worms, goose necks, winkles, and field mice (try souris à la crème, mice in cream).

  Roger Vergé’s Vegetables in the French Style, Roger Vergé. This is the only cookbook dedicated solely to vegetables that I have ever purchased. I never saw the utility in such a text. I don’t know if I do now, but I opened the tabloid-size volume and instantly fell in love with the photography within. I first cooked lettuce following Vergé’s instructions for laitues braisées à la sarriette, braised lettuce with fresh savory. And who else but the venerated proprietor of Moulin de Mougins could lend the moral fortitude to serve crémée de carottes à la ciboulette (eight carrots served atop two tablespoons of butter, one teaspoon each of sugar and salt, and two tablespoons heavy cream, along with “a small bunch of chives” and a pinch of nutmeg)?

  The Oxford Companion to Food, Alan Davidson. Alan Davidson is not the first person I’d invite to dinner, but he’s the first guy I’d consult to find out whether the tuber galangal is a stolon or a rhizome.

  Mrs. Balbir Singh’s Indian Cookery, Mrs. Balbir Singh. I spirited this 1961 ghee-spattered cookbook off my father’s bookshelf a decade or so ago. It remains my most treasured hand-me-down. I have used the vindaloo recipe as a jumping-off point and I’m proud to report that I have very nearly mastered a proper Goan pork curry.

  IN THE TRENCHES

  Fifty-year-old Jack Schatz, a professional trombonist, spends his nights in the orchestra pit of a Broadway show and his days cooking and caring for his family. He lives in suburban New Jersey with his wife, a violist for the New York Philharmonic, and their three children, the oldest of whom is in college and the youngest in elementary school.

  During the first part of my life, in East Flatbush, my grandmother lived downstairs from me. It seemed like everyone was cooking all day long. It was incredible. My parents were both survivors of the Holocaust, and my grandmother was our only living relative. Anytime I had off from school, I’d spend the week with her. She’d schlep me all around, shopping. We would go to a huge space, like a garage, with floor-to-ceiling cages of geese and chickens. It was deafening. There the shohet, a rabbi schooled in the art of butchering, would take a chicken in his fingers, draw back its head, utter a prayer, and slice its neck. The chicken was put upside down in a metal cone so the blood could drain out. When the feet stopped twitching, the chicken was dead.

  Lying in bed in the morning as a kid, I would smell onions cooking and know that my mother was making chopped liver. I love chopped liver and I make a mean one today. My mother browned the onions in oil or chicken fat and added the liver to the pan to brown that, too. She then put it all in a big wooden bowl with about a dozen hard-boiled eggs. For the next hour, all I would hear is chop, chop, chop, scrape—chop, chop, chop, scrape. I used to sit in the kitchen and watch my mother and grandmother. By the time I left home, I knew how to cook.

  I got married more than twenty years ago, and I started cooking 80 percent of the time. Of course, back in those days we’d go out to eat three times a week; you could get a whole meal for fourteen dollars, including tip.

  My oldest son, Brian, started his life as the worst eater imaginable. He was on the white and tan diet: waffles, pancakes, milk, grilled cheese, french fries, and the occasional banana. The only way I could get him to eat was by making up a story and withholding the plot until he took another bite. When Brian turned ten, it was like in The Wizard of Oz when the film goes from black and white to color: he started eating everything.

  Dinnertime is sacred. It’s the only time we all get to sit down together and talk about the day. It takes planning. The other day, Brian, who’s now in college, was home from school, so I knew I needed to cook something big. I went food shopping in the morning and bought a pot roast. I had to take the dog to the vet. I had to take my other son to the eye doctor. I had to go to the eye doctor, too. My daughter had ballet at five and Brian had tae kwon do at seven thirty. It was a crazy day. I started the pot roast, along with potatoes, carrots, kale, and garlic, in a slow cooker in the morning and let it cook all day. After six hours, the meat was so tender it flaked like pastry.

  Sometimes I think that my wife takes my efforts for granted. Every once in a while I’d like her to volunteer to make dinner. Instead I have to announce “The chef is off tonight” to get her to cook. Different people have different vices; some drink, and some do drugs. I don’t want to call food a vice, but it has always been my comfort.

  Recipe File

  Applesauce Meat Loaf

  This recipe has been in my family for years and has varied over time. For instance, my mother used to bake a meat loaf with hard-boiled eggs strategically placed throughout the meat loaf. It was delicious. When I cook meat loaf, I always make two: one with and one without onions (because my son doesn’t like them). I might use cinnamon applesauce instead of apricot. So you can change it. And it goes well with mashed potatoes. What’s not to like about that?

  2 pounds ground beef, or a mixture of beef, lamb, and turkey

  1 cup dry bread crumbs

  1 egg

  1 cup organic apricot applesauce

  1 small onion, finely chopped

  1 teaspoon salt A pinch of black pepper

  ¼ cup commercial orange-peach-mango juice

  2 tablespoons chili sauce or ketchup

  Preheat the oven to 350°F.

  In a large bowl, thoroughly mix all the ingredients except for the chili sauce. Place the mixture in a greased loaf pan and bake for 30 minutes.

  Spread the chili sauce or ketchup over the top of the loaf; return it to the oven and bake for an additional 45 minutes.

  Chicken Paprika

  My kids like this chicken dish because the taste is sweet and inviting. It is colorful to look at, which interests them. I like it because it’s easy to make. This recipe serves two and can easily be doubled, which is what I often do.

  2 boneless, skinless chicken breast halves, cut crosswise into ½-inch strips

  Salt and pepper

  4 teaspoons paprika

  1½ tablespoons butter

  1 small onion, chopped, about ½ cup

  1 large plum tomato, chopped

  1 cup chicken broth

  ¼ cup reduced-fat sour cream

  Season the chicken with salt and pepper and 1 teaspoon of the paprika.

  Melt 1 tablespoon of the butter in a large skillet over medium-high heat.

  Add the chicken and sauté until just cooked through, about 3 to 5 minutes.

  Transfer the chicken to a plate.

  Add the remaining butter to the same skillet.

  Add the onion and sauté until it starts to soften, about 3 minutes.

  Add the remaining paprika and stir for 10 seconds.

  Add the tomato and stir until it softens, about 1 minute.

  Add the broth, increase the heat to high, and boil until the sauce thickens enough to coat a spoon thinly, about 5 minutes.

  Mix in the chicken and any collected juices.

  Reduce the heat to low.

  Add the sour cream and stir until just heated through (do not boil).

  Season to taste with salt and pepper and serve on a bed of thick egg noodles.

  Surefire Broccoli

  1 head broccoli, trimmed of the stalk and cut into small pie
ces

  ½ cup bread crumbs

  1 clove garlic, minced

  Take a whole head of broccoli, rinse it well in cold water, and cut off the florets, making sure they’re not too big—kids like small things to eat. Dip the broccoli in some bread crumbs and garlic and stir-fry them over high heat. The bread crumbs make the tips get a little crisp and give them some extra flavor. It’s very tasty. I put it down on the table and it goes in a snap. The kids can’t get enough of it.

  STEPHEN KING

  On Cooking

  Stephen King has written more than forty novels and two hundred short stories. He is the recipient of the 2003 National Book Foundation Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters and the Canadian Book-sellers Association Libris Award for Lifetime Achievement. In 2007 he was inducted as a Grand Master of the Mystery Writers of America. Among his most recent best sellers are Full Dark, No Stars and Under the Dome. He lives in Bangor, Maine, with his wife, the novelist Tabitha King.

  First, my wife’s a better cook than I am. That’s straight up, OK? And she should be. Raised in a Catholic family during the fifties, she was one of eight children, six of them girls. These girls were “kitchen raised,” as the saying used to be, by their mother and grandmother, both fine country cooks. My wife has an excellent command of meats, poultry, vegetables, quick breads, and desserts. She keeps a deep store of recipes in her head. If she has a specialty, it’s what I call “everything-in-the-pot soup,” which usually starts with a chicken carcass and goes on from there. It’s good the first time, and—like the best country cooking, which specializes in plain food often prepared sans directions—even better the second time.