One of my favorite things to do is to watch passionate people. I love the Italians, the Portuguese, Latin Americans, and, yes, even the French.
Soft, and warm
I have been watching a show called “No Reservations”, in which our intrepid gastronome/Foodie/celebrity chef/ex-addict/savior of food from the bowels of mass produced disgusting glop/host takes us to regions far and fairly local, showing off the local cuisine. In America, that cuisine is always foreign and domestic; half-smoke “hot dogs” and raw meat Ethiopian-style in DC, to Azorian cuisine in, well, the Azores. It is all so beautiful. I love it.
I love cooking – I love the smell of fresh bread. I love the smell of garlic hitting the pan or the pot, roasting chicken, salmon on the grill, the smokiness of chorizo in a skillet with eggs, pancake batter sizzling in the pan, mussels with crusty sourdough, coffee and pastries, carne asada tacos. I love food. And I want to do it right.
So here goes: I am turning 30 in May, and I plan on having a blast on that day. I am not dreading turning 30 – on the contrary, I finally feel like I have a little bit of direction in my life, things that I am striving for, and I can’t wait to get to them. I plan on having the tasting menu at The French Laundry, an unapologetically extravagant expenditure that I may never do again. Truffles, seafood, meat, risotto, duck, 3 desserts – sound extravagant yet? And yet, I know I will be in the hands of a people who love food, and cook to make the customers happy. I am going to sit down, shut up, and do whatever the servers and chefs would have me do. I am in their hands. Their happy, happy hands.
