VINE CHAT

I want them to remember that my roasted chicken was tender, moist, and flavorful, that I spent half an hour prepping it before it went in the oven, but that I could prep it in under ten minutes if we had to be at baseball practice on time (or at least try).

I want them to remember that I saved the wishbone every single time I roasted a chicken, and was conscientious enough to remember whose turn it was to make a wish.

I want them to remember how I made stock from the leftover roasted chicken for awesome soups or pasta sauces the next day...Tortilla Soup, Potato Soup, Spilt Pea Soup, Acorn Squash Soup...and of course, steamed shellfish or pasta with feta, sundried tomatoies, broccoli and toasted pine nuts.  All with the stock that I simmered as I followed up on homework, gave vitamins dutifully, and washed dishes with lavender scented soap.

I want them to remember a home that was filled with love...a home that had the culinary aromas to prove it.  Mom had the cooking to back it up - "I love you" also meant "Warm your soul with soup, calm your fears with tomato and bean salad with basil."

I want them to do these very things for my grandchildren.  And invite me over to dinner.

I don't know who to give credit to, but two strange things have occurred; 

I ate a plain potato AND ENJOYED IT, and

HAVE STARTED PUTTING TABASCO ON MY FOOD.

I grew up watching my French-English grandfather from the South put Tabasco on everything (everything). I married a man (Mediterranean) who does exactly the same thing (exactly). I am beginning to think that people follow culinary patterns subconsciously, just like they do with emotional ones.  Because, as you know I believe, food is emotion (or at least the best way to express them).

I never ate spicy food, thought I would never like Tabasco due to its ability to overpower the other flavors of the food to which it was added. Jack in the Box tacos are the spiciest I have ever gone. My Aunt Rose Marie makes incredible chorizo, machaca, you name it, but she has always turned down the heat for us Welsh-English folk. She would be so proud of me.

Couple of months ago I was putting Tabaco on my husband's something or other before I served it to him, and the vinegary, sweet smell just possessed me. Like something subconscious that waits until your mid-thirties to reveal itself. And I had to have some. So I put it on my pasta last week, pasta with broccoli, roasted chicken and tomato sauce with parmesan grated on top. It was so much better with Tabasco!

First it was the smell that was so familiar and inviting, now the taste - the bite and the edge Tabasco gives my food - I'm hooked.

Last night I baked potatoes in the Advantium (they turned out perfectly - I LOVE my Advantium sooo much), and while they were still hot, I challenged myself to break apart the hot potatoes with my finger tips, the way the chefs on Food Network do. I did one of three this way then used the potholders (it hurt!) Anyway, I sprinkled them with kosher salt after I heard them softly crunch into quarters, saw the steam rise, and the meat of the potato glistened at me. I took a bite before plating them up for everyone else (carb addiction just blinds me sometimes).  The potato, in its earthiness, the salt drawing out the natural sugar, the way it crumbled inside my mouth and became a silky paste - I could not believe that all my life I had been drowing this botanical phenomena in butter and sour cream, when it stood so well on it's own. Who knew? (Oh, that would be my husband who always eats them that way).

There was one huge tuber left last night, which I promptly put into a Tupperware and hid in the back of the fridge for me - and only me - to eat today.

I reheated it in the Advantium, and when I pulled it out, I only added Tabasco.

Check me out, appreciating food in its natural state.  Never say never.

Those subconscious culinary patterns are for real - and we all have them.

Chew on that for a while