On to the Meals

(October 11, 2009, part 2)

Yesterday was the monthly gathering of the Second Saturday ladies, a loose-knit group committed to regularly scheduled, agenda-free, friendship time. Barb Chamberlain (aka Bike-to-work Barb) started the group several years ago—yesterday, we were trying to recall just how many years it’s been. I think it’s closing in on 10 years. Most months we meet at a coffee place somewhere around town, but this month my friends Cate and Ann W. hosted the gathering at their new home. They provided a baked frittata (more like a strata, with bread, veggies, eggs and cheese) plus coffee and mimosas, and other people brought along dishes to share—apple crumble, pumpkin-chocolate muffins, fruit and cheese, scones.

I decided to bring Grapenut pudding, a baked custard pudding (like bread pudding or rice pudding) made with Grapenuts cereal. I got thinking about it after someone asked me if any restaurants around town serve bread pudding. (Latah Bistro’s pumpkin bread pudding is worth the trip, BTW.) I don’t think I’ve seen Grapenut pudding anywhere around Spokane, so I’m thinking it must be a regional New England specialty. (Oh, those hearty, practical Yankees.) Indeed, the recipe I found online came from Yankee Magazine’s archives.

And it was a big hit—although most people (even those who really like baked custard puddings) said they had never heard of such a thing. So score one for the sharing of regional specialties.

Besides, I had a lot of milk and eggs on hand that had to be used. (Who says I’m not a practical New Englander despite my years of living away?)

Instead of the actual Grapenuts-brand cereal, I used Kashi’s version—organic, made with seven whole grains, etc. But it tasted like Grapenuts.

Since the pudding had to bake for an hour before I left to drive across the South Hill, I took it straight from the oven to the car—so it was still pretty warm when I got there, and it hadn’t had chance to really set up well, meaning it was a little bit liquid-y when people first dove into it. I found myself apologizing for its appearance and offering excuses. Then I heard Ann W. doing the same thing about her frittata—she said she left it in the convection oven for too long so the top got a bit too browned. (I hadn’t noticed—I thought it was supposed to look that way.) Someone else dithered about another one of the dishes, too.

And it got me thinking: Why do we do this? Why do we apologize when dishes aren’t food-magazine perfect? Why do we make excuses for failings that only we can see?

A few years ago when I took a pie-crust workshop with local baker Gina Garcia (formerly of Bittersweet Bakery, and soon-to-be baker at Cake, next to Chaps), she said this to everyone whose pies and tarts didn’t look like the cookbook photos: “Nobody knows what your original intent was. Just bring it to the table with pride.” I’ve always remembered that sentiment and tried to follow it, but obviously I didn’t do that yesterday.

That’s the same approach to cooking that Julia Child made famous when picking up pieces that landed on the counter or stovetop. No one really cares about the process or the difficulties you encounter along the way; the hospitable thing is to simply share the food and enjoy the company.

So I am shutting up now about my procrastination. That’s the process. No one but me knows how long it took me to begin writing, or how profound my original thoughts were and how pale these current ones are in comparison. I shall just present them here with pride and hope that they satisfy.

Postscript: I made myself a deconstructed BLT at lunchtime with some leftover bacon (thick-cut, from Eggers’ South Hill shop) courtesy of Cate and Ann W.—that’s bacon slices plus a side salad of chopped tomato and lettuce mixed up with mayo, and a piece of toast on the side. Then in the evening, I went back over to their house for a dinner with our mutual friends Paul and Stacy. (Stacy makes chocolates and preserves and sells them at area farmers markets.) Ann W. made a fabulous meatloaf (ground beef and pork from Eggers, in a 2-to-1 ratio) with baked russet potatoes, and I brought along a simple salad of tomatoes, cucumbers, onions and green (poblano) peppers, with olive oil and lemon juice. Stacy made a deep-dish crumb-top apple pie, which we topped with both vanilla ice cream and whipped cream. (Ah, decadence.) With dessert, Ann W. opened a bottle of chardonnay ice wine from Chelan Cellars, and it was a marvelous combination. (I’m thinking that the wine would go really well as a topper to a scoop of vanilla ice cream.) Both the company and the food were a delight.

Along the way, I asked Ann W. why she had apologized for her frittata on Saturday. She said, “I always assume that everyone else in the room is a far better cook than me, and that they will immediately notice the deficiencies in what I’ve made. So I apologize first, to beat them to the punch!”