Superman and Chiffonades
Yesterday was superhero day at school. Matthew proudly modeled his Superman t-shirt.
I should probably mention that Matthew now never stops talking, just like Papa. He has an opinion about everything. Just like Papa. He insists that you hear him. Just. Like. Papa. There may not be room enough in this town for the two of us.
Long ago in the mid-1990s, my friend Jim and I attended a cooking “school” hosted by a higher-end kitchen supply company called Home Chef, which was a lot like Sur La Table, but without the business acumen. There were twelve weekly sessions at their downtown Palo Alto, California location; Jim and I attended the one every Saturday morning at some horrible hour like 8:30 am. The teacher, a lovely lady with a great sense of humor but whose name I’ve forgotten was dating the BMW Service Manager where Jim had his car serviced. Small world, huh?
Jim and I were not very serious students; we treated it like Mystery Science Theater: we provided a running commentary throughout. The other attendees probably didn’t like that too much, so we sat in the back so everyone could hear us.
On a typical day, the teacher would discuss the day’s topic (say, stock) and show us how to make something (like stock). Here’s what to do, here’s what not to do. She happened to be the store manager and her hook was that students got a 30% discount on store merchandise. This was before we had the miracle of Amazon. Even back then, I was a discerning shopper looking for deals, so I have a set of aluminum All-Clad cookware and several utensils and knickknacks from Home Chef, all for probably too much money even with the discount. I’m sure they saw me coming from a mile off—”Easy mark,” they no doubt celebrated.
Our classes were hilarious fun. One day we sampled olive oils (which Home Chef conveniently sold) and despite my skepticism, the variation in oil taste was pronounced. Another day we sampled butters, which Home Chef also conveniently sold. Jim’s stage-whispered comment as the tray of crackers with the butter on them was passed: “I love this restaurant but their portions are so tiny!” If you haven’t taste-tested different butters, I urge you to do so. It’s shocking how much they differ.
We would watch the teacher suppress her laughter at our commentary. Other students complained about us; they were there to learn from The Master and didn’t appreciate our witty répartée. We were not serious like they were; after all, later they were going to Volvo over to yoga, wearing their ponytail-through-a-ballcap uniforms to drink chardonnay spritzers with the other bored moms while discussing their kids’ lacrosse and tap lessons and expensive orthodontia and therapy. It was pretty typical for Palo Alto.
In class, we didn’t learn until the butter lesson that if you volunteered to help with that day’s class, you got a take-home goody bag worth a couple hundred dollars. Jim and I volunteered for every class after that, which is how I first cooked with Plugra butter. I have never bought it since, but that stuff was amazing.
We learned a technique to cut fresh basil leaves into thin ribbons. It’s called a chiffonade (shiff-unn-NOD) and it’s the only leaf-cutting technique I ever learned, so now I employ it everywhere because as a Home Chef summer cooking class graduate, I aspire to fine things. To chiffonade basil is to stack three or four leaves, roll them up, and then cut the rolls on a bias. And then voilà: basil ribbons! [ pause for thunderous applause ] My partner at the time was a serious pastry chef and pointed out that there are other techniques, but I was happy to retain one thing from my expensive Palo Alto cooking class where I spent more money on supplies than I did on the class itself.
Maxwell and William had their fourth swim lesson yesterday. First William goes into the water, has some instruction, and then he gets out and Maxwell has his instruction. The water is cool, but not cold. Still, they scream from the moment they see Miss Elly until the moment their swimsuits are off. I expect my own hearing to return to normal soon.
Both are walking and are hilarious as lurching zombies.
During the summer here in San Diego, we have caprese salads with dinner. Caprese salad includes basil.
So there I was last week, minding my own business, chiffonading myself into a stupor as I made a caprese salad. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement at the top of the staircase. “That’s odd,” I said to myself. “The babies are safely in their play area. How can there be movement up there? Mayhaps I should check.” As you can see, I am the very model of parental baby safety.
They had escaped the play area and were running around smoking cigars, playing poker, and juggling knives. I carefully corralled them and blocked their escape path. Superior parenting for the win!
Curtis and I read a lot but by far, Curtis reads more. Like many people who read a lot, he sometimes mispronounces words that he has only ever encountered in print. The other night, he was reading an X posting to me and came across the word cognoscenti. When I commented back, I used a more correct pronunciation. He always resists my gentle corrections and we end up having to look it up. (I have won this game about 879 times.) If he doesn’t like the answer (because I’m right), he goes to the British pronunciation for vindication. This time, the British pronunciation was even snootier: they said that the gn of cognoscenti is pronounced as the Italians would say it—like there’s an ñ sound for the gn: con-yo-shen-ti, as opposed to the American form, cog-no-shen-ti.
He looked at me.
“I suppose you think you’re a member of the Illuminati now.”
”No, of course not,” I said, shocked that he would think I hadn’t already been invested into that august group.
”I think you’re a member of the Condescendi. That means you explain big words.”
”I can guess what it means. And look! It’s working! I could be their Grand Poobah! (That’s an allusion to The Honeymooners…)”
Last week was my Dad’s eighty-eighth birthday. I hadn’t seen him in eighteen months, so I went to visit him for a single night. This was the first time Curtis had been alone with all three kids. He did well, but I don’t think we’ll repeat the experiment anytime soon.
Still, Dad and I ate at one of our favorite places in Scottsdale. It was fantastic to see him.
In conclusion, it has been a busy week.
How is cognoscenti pronounced in “American?” I can’t hear it except with the ñ sound.
Happy Birthday Tony!! You both look great!