by John Donohue
Nonetheless, I felt that giving up meat was the right thing to do, even if I couldn’t—and to a certain extent, still can’t—fully explain it. Reading people like Michael Pollan had made me realize how I was rationalizing my meat eating. For a while I just tried to eat less meat, but that took more effort than it saved, so finally I just stopped entirely. I found it was a lot easier to follow strict rules than to discipline myself.
The effect of switching to vegetarianism was immediate. I lost a large amount of weight (though I hadn’t been heavy) and felt much better in every way: no longer lethargic in the afternoons, no longer ravenously hungry all the time, full of strength at the gym. Most surprisingly, I didn’t miss meat at all. I enjoyed what I was eating, and I enjoyed cooking differently than I had been. The challenge of exploring new foods and flavor combinations, of treating vegetables and grains and lentils and beans as subjects in their own right, instead of mere adornments, was exhilarating.
Everyone I knew was stunned by this transformation; one friend brilliantly called it a “sexually transmitted eating disorder.” They all assumed it wouldn’t last long, certainly no longer than my relationship with the young woman. But when that ended, I felt no real desire to go back to eating meat. It was working too well for me to want to change. I still love what I’m eating and cooking, and the ethical and environmental concerns will never change. I also understand myself better and have settled into a life that is much closer to what I actually want—I no longer need to make violent upheavals to figure out who I am.
Ultimately, the change in my diet was a reaction to the state I had found myself in. The things that were supposed to make me happy were no longer doing so. When I found myself sitting on the dusty floor of my tiny new unfurnished apartment and watching TV on my laptop with my girlfriend, I was happy. Cooking had become a distraction and a source of solace in a marriage that no longer offered its own consolations, and when I was free of the latter, I no longer needed the former. So these changes—in my marriage, in my eating—were unexpected but beneficial.
Yet these benefits came at a cost: I don’t always want to be watching TV on an unfinished floor, and I have yet to start cooking elaborate meals that are vegetarian. “There is no miracle more heartening than the one which can occur when good people eat good food and drink good wine together,” M. F. K. Fisher has written, and I believe that. While it’s not healthy for me to be riven by stress for weeks surrounding a party, it’s also not necessary, so if I can work through my own worries about entertaining and relax enough to provide a setting for this miracle, I will surely do so.
Preparing meals for my two daughters, who are now nine and ten, is also now more of a challenge. Cooking for, and with, them had always been a struggle. They have the finicky and inflexible tastes of most children, and an unwillingness to try new things. Though their preferences have changed over time, at any given moment they’d be limited to some small number of dishes, which could not of course be satisfied by what was put on the family table. They were, though, proud of my accomplishments, and proud that other people respected my cooking. And they were always happy with desserts—no brownies-from-a-box for them!
When they got old enough, they expressed eagerness to cook with me, but this rarely went well. I was too rigorous, not allowing them to do things the “wrong” way. While I thought I was training them to use the right techniques, in fact I was taking the fun out of it. I was interested in achieving culinary perfection, not in doing the right thing for my family; I was unsatisfied when anything went wrong, continually harboring a grudge because the school prohibition against nuts meant that I couldn’t make the brownies I wanted to make. No matter how many times I explained to them that the amount of flour in a cup varied depending on how you scoop it, they’d just dig in and shovel, and then I’d get angry when we ended up with flour all over the counter. Ultimately, I think, they said they wanted to cook with me only because they wanted to do something with their dad that they knew he liked, not because they really enjoyed being on the receiving end of my taskmastering.
My switch to vegetarianism greatly complicated my relationship to them. If you don’t like broccoli, or even pizza, that’s just individual taste, and people can work around that. If you don’t eat any kind of meat, that’s a huge step that everyone has to address. It changes your shopping habits, your restaurant habits, even your casual conversation: people assume you’re making a political statement, and will earnestly criticize you or, more rarely, ask for advice. If there is any kind of moral or environmental reason behind the choice, which is the case for me, then it becomes a conversation you may not want to have; despite my convictions, I am not trying to proselytize anyone.
In my omnivorous days, I was once walking on the Upper West Side with one of my daughters, and a man picketing a fancy butcher aggressively tried to engage me about the evils of foie gras (which I adored). I ignored him, but when he directly addressed my then eight-year-old, I lost my temper and started a loud argument with him on the sidewalk. Why not campaign against factory farming of chickens or pigs, I asked, which causes vastly more damage to humans and animals? Standing outside a gourmet shop in a wealthy Manhattan neighborhood isn’t going to help animals or the environment one bit. My daughter, who happily helped me throw live lobsters into the steamer and hold the lid down as they tried to climb out, was impressed that I had stood up to the activist, but I was left shaken and angry that he had usurped a debate that should have been mine to initiate.
And yet it is a debate that I still haven’t initiated. My children eat meat, but I have never talked about Bambi, or dead animals, or compared the contents of my daughters’ supper to the body of the family dog. And I have never tried to convert them, or even to explain my views in a way they can understand. But I also do not allow any meat in my apartment. This has, as one would expect, been a source of tension between me and the kids, and between me and my ex-wife, who asks, not entirely unreasonably, why I can’t just keep chicken in the fridge if I’m going to let them eat it when we’re out. On the one hand, feeding them—feeding anyone—chicken nuggets is a horrible thing to do. On the other, they do need to have protein, and they’re not going to eat lentils, no matter what I say.
My unwillingness to be forthcoming with them about why I eat what I do has made it impossible for them to understand why they have to eat what they do when they’re at home with me. Family meals in my apartment are exercises in frustration. Cereal and fruit at break-fast time isn’t a problem. Dinner can be pasta with cheese (or just salt), or perhaps scrambled eggs with toast, now that they’re old enough to take pleasure in cooking this for themselves. But these choices get old, and my daughters want chicken, a hamburger, a hot dog, even (in what does make me pleased) sushi. And when we go out, I feel obligated to make sure that they have some meat; my ex would like them to have more protein than I think they need, even though I know that they’d be perfectly fine, for the few days I have them, eating nothing but chocolate chip pancakes. So when we go out to the diner, I will say, “You have to have some bacon,” because it’s something that they will reliably eat, all the while thinking to myself that I must be crazy for actively encouraging them to eat this.
I don’t know yet what will ultimately happen to my eating habits. Perhaps I will come to the realization that it’s too limiting to remain a vegetarian—that I miss meat too much. And eventually I’ll be able to talk to the kids more directly about it—once I figure out what I want to say. The French proverb is, of course, that the appetite comes with eating. Perhaps the answer will come at the table, too. I just need to give it some time.
“I don’t know, sweetheart. Perhaps Daddy can tell us if chickens have souls.”
Recipe File
Bacon-Wrapped Duck Breast Stuffed with Apples and Chestnuts
Serves 4
This recipe is adapted from Boulevard: The Cookbook, by Nancy Oakes and Pamela Mazzola.
ROASTED APPLES AND CHESTNUTS
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p; 4 tablespoons butter, melted
¼ cup water
1 tablespoon sugar Salt
2 apples, cut into wedges
16 peeled chestnuts, fresh or jarred
2 teaspoons chopped fresh thyme
Preheat the oven to 350°F.
Combine the butter, water, and sugar and a few grinds of salt in a medium-size bowl. Add the apples and toss to coat.
Spread the mixture on a baking sheet and roast, stirring often, for 20 minutes.
Add the chestnuts and roast for 10 minutes more, until the apples and chestnuts are lightly browned and the liquids are absorbed.
Sprinkle with thyme and set aside to cool completely.
DUCK BREASTS
4 skinless, boneless Pekin duck breasts, about 6 ounces each
Tamarind paste
Apple mixture, from above recipe
24 thin slices bacon
Butterfly the duck breasts by slicing most of the way through from the thinner, rounder side.
Place a butterflied duck breast skin side down on a work surface.
Spread a small amount of tamarind paste on the breast.
Place 4 apple wedges down the center and put 4 chestnuts in between the wedges. Fold the breast shut to form a roll.
Repeat for the other breasts.
At this point the breasts can be refrigerated overnight.
After they are wrapped in bacon they must be cooked within 8 hours, so this can be done on the afternoon of a dinner party.
Arrange 4 slices of bacon in rows, slightly overlapping.
Place 2 slices of bacon perpendicular to these, laid end-to-end across the center of the 4 slices.
Place a stuffed breast on top of the 2 slices (which should overlap the ends of the breast), fold the 2 slices over the breast, and roll the 4 slices around to form a neat package. Repeat for the other breasts. Refrigerate for up to 8 hours.
CELERY-ROOT PUREE
1 1-pound celery root, peeled and cut into chunks
4 tablespoons butter
Salt
Put the celery root into a large saucepan with salted water to cover and add half the butter.
Bring to a boil, reduce heat to a simmer, and cook for about 20 minutes, or until the celery root is soft.
Drain and transfer the celery root to a blender with the remaining 2 tablespoons butter.
Puree until smooth and season with salt.
CALVADOS DUCK SAUCE
Olive oil
1 apple, thinly sliced
3 large shallots, diced
1 cup Calvados or other apple brandy
1 cup purchased veal demi-glace
2 sprigs fresh thyme
Heat olive oil in a saucepan over medium-high heat.
Add the apple and shallots and cook until they begin to turn brown.
Carefully add the Calvados and cook until most of the liquid has evaporated (it may ignite).
Add the demi-glace and the thyme and simmer for 5 minutes.
Strain into a saucepan and set aside. (The sauce may be made in advance and refrigerated.)
FINAL COOKING AND ASSEMBLY
¼ cup grapeseed or canola oil
2 tablespoons white truffle oil
Preheat the oven to 375°F.
Heat a large ovenproof sauté pan over medium heat and add ¼ cup oil.
Cook the duck breasts until lightly browned on all sides.
Pour off most of the fat from the pan. (The breasts may now be set aside for 1 to 2 hours.)
Put the pan in the oven for 15 minutes.
Remove and let the breasts rest on a cutting board, tented with foil, for 5 minutes.
Place a mound of celery-root puree in the center of a warmed dinner plate and spread out with a spoon.
Drizzle each mound with some white truffle oil.
Slice each breast diagonally into 5 or 6 slices (discarding the small uneven ends) and fan these out on top of the puree.
Drizzle some sauce on top of the duck and dribble down onto the plate.
Serve to acclaim.
Mushroom Soup with Pear Puree and Cumin Oil
Serves 4 (with leftover cumin oil)
This recipe is adapted from one by Charlie Trotter.
CUMIN OIL
¾ cup grapeseed oil
1 tablespoon finely chopped onion
1 tablespoon cumin seeds (whole)
Heat 2 tablespoons of the grapeseed oil in a small saucepan over medium heat.
Add the onion and sauté for a few minutes, until translucent.
Add the cumin, stir thoroughly, and remove from heat.
Let stand 10 minutes.
Transfer the mixture to a blender, and add the remainder of the grapeseed oil.
Puree thoroughly and refrigerate overnight.
Note: There will be leftover cumin oil. It is good as a condiment in many different dishes.
PEAR PUREE
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 shallot, finely chopped
1 large or 3 small (for example, Seckel) pears, peeled and diced
¼ cup verjuice
Heat the olive oil in a small sauté pan over low heat.
Add the shallot and sauté for a few minutes, until translucent.
Add the pears and sauté until softened and lightly browned, about 20 minutes.
Add the verjuice and simmer until the liquid has mostly evaporated, about 5 minutes.
Transfer the mixture to a blender, puree thoroughly, and return to the sauté pan.
MUSHROOM SOUP
2 tablespoons olive oil
4 cups exotic or plain mushrooms, sliced
2 shallots, chopped fine
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 tablespoons soy sauce
2 tablespoons white wine
3 cups water
Heat the olive oil in a large sauté pan over medium-high heat.
Add the mushrooms and sauté until lightly browned, about 10 minutes, adding the shallots and garlic to the pan after 5 minutes.
Remove about 1 cup of mushrooms; set aside. Add the soy sauce and wine to the pan and cook until absorbed, about 5 minutes.
Transfer the mixture to blender, add 3 cups water, and puree until smooth.
Season to taste with salt and freshly ground pepper.
Transfer to a medium saucepan and keep warm.
PRESENTATION
Chervil or parsley, for garnish
Gently warm the pear puree and reserved mushrooms. Divide the puree among 4 soup bowls. Scatter the reserved mushrooms in the bowls. Drizzle about 1 tablespoon cumin oil around the bottom of the bowl. Sprinkle with cumin.
Serve the bowls at the table. Walk around with the saucepan, ladling equal portions of soup into the bowls. Instruct your guests to mix the puree into the soup. Bask in glory.
On the Shelf
My Gastronomy, Nico Ladenis. One of the bad-boy chefs of England in the 1980s, Ladenis writes with rare candor about the ego necessary to be the best. No other cookbook demonstrates such extreme contempt for one’s audience; his descriptions of his hostility to patrons are breathtaking. The recipes are fantastic.
The Auberge of the Flowering Hearth, Roy Andries de Groot. One of the best cookbooks ever written, this charming portrait of an unpretentious inn in Savoy is brilliant as a travel book, a cookbook, and a study of the philosophy of food. De Groot’s collected essays, In Search of the Perfect Meal, includes a 1972 Playboy piece, “Have I Found the Greatest Restaurant in the World?” about Restaurant Troisgros in France, which remains unsurpassed as a study of how a world-class restaurant is run.
660 Curries, Raghavan Iyer. Despite the horrible title, this is the indispensable book on Indian food. Iyer, a cooking teacher, not only provides a huge range of recipes but is exceptionally clear on explaining the complex flavors of various Indian regions and how to combine them. He also manages a personable and witty tone throughout that is unusual and refreshing for a book of this type.
IN THE TRENCHES
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bsp; Omar Valenzuela is a forty-seven-year-old carpenter who lives in Brooklyn with his wife, Paola. Their children are nearly grown. The oldest is twenty-three and the youngest is sixteen.
The construction crews that I work on are almost always all-male. No one on them knows that I do most of the cooking for my family. I don’t tell anyone because I think that I would be made fun of. Still, I am very proud to take on this task. Good cooking, I have learned, is the secret to a happy marriage. Not everyone I work with is as fortunate as I am—my marriage has lasted more than twenty years.
I was born in Valparaiso, on the Pacific Ocean, and like most everything in Chile, the city is not far from the mountains. My mother, as is customary, did all the cooking for the whole extended family. The kitchen in my childhood home was long and narrow. I would sit at the end of a long table and watch her prepare the meals. She would clean fish, grind meat by hand, and cook all the family meals while I sat there.
I have known my wife since she was an infant. She grew up next door to me in Valparaiso. For the first part of our marriage, we lived with Paola’s family, and her mother cooked for us. We came here more than a decade ago, and after we arrived we were both working and there was no one to cook for us. Paola’s hours ran later in the evening than mine, so I was happy to start making the meals.
It wasn’t the first time I had cooked for myself, or others. When I was about twelve years old, I used to go on camping trips in the Andes. It would be a group of us, about seven or eight friends. We would all take turns cooking, but my friends could make only plain pasta or beans. They hadn’t had a chance to sit and watch my mother cooking.
Climbing the mountains makes you really hungry, and all we wanted to do after a day of hiking and bathing in the river was to eat a big meal like charquicán . This is a traditional Chilean dish made of a mashed combination of onion, potato, squash, carrot, spinach, and, usually, ground beef, or horse meat preferably from the legs. It can also contain mashed coca leaves, and in some regions tomato is also added. On top goes a fried egg. I became the cook, and I’d make it with dried soy protein since it was really hot, forty degrees Celsius, and if we’d brought meat in our packs, it would have spoiled.