The curse of the defined palette (or Ignorance is Bliss)

Damn you good quality food!

I never thought it would come to this, but it seems that my palette has changed. For the better? You tell me.

I went through most of my years on this planet with a very limited culinary view. Orange juice comes from a can. You can add anything to ground beef, throw it on a bun, and it will be delicious. Seasoning? What seasoning? And what the hell is a Yorkshire pudding anyway? I didn't know, I didn't care, and I was fine with it. But now everything is different and it took a quick dinner fix a few weeks ago to remind me of that fact.

My little brothers are sophomores at John Carroll and since it's only half a mile away from our house, we like to have them over from time to time. This time they wanted to bring over their PS3 and play some video games with me (an activity I will never turn down), so I decided to have them over for dinner as well. Not only would I make dinner, but it would be a dinner that we all grew up with and absolutely loved...the famous Souper Burger. It is a simple recipe: brown some ground beef with onion, add a can of cream of mushroom soup, squirt in a little yellow mustard, throw it all on a bun and you are good to go.

Jeff, Jon, and I were all ridiculously excited since we hadn't eaten Souper Burger for years, but Kelly was much more suspicious. As it turns out, Kelly was right. It looked and tasted exactly like my mom's Souper Burger so why did I have such a problem with it? Probably because the taste was nothing to write home about and the texture was like I mixed a pound of ground beef with a bowl full of snot.

This actually made me really sad. It was one of those moments where you realize that sometimes the simple things just don't make you as happy as they used to; another reminder that you are an adult.

But that still didn't stop me from eating two servings.

But there's oil in my peanut butter

For years when I was little, my mother always bought natural peanut butter. It was gross, lacked flavor, and you had to stir in the oil before you could spread it on anything. My brothers and I begged and pleaded for "real" peanut butter and my mother finally caved and started buying Jiff. It was probably one of the greatest victories that that Hatgas boys ever won over Mom.

You see, we were the type of family that never (and I mean NEVER) had sugar cereals. We ate Wheaties and Chex and on occasion we were surprised with a box of Kix (which never lasted more than a day). More often than not my mother bought generics so we really didn't eat "Chex" it was more like "Corn Flavored Lattice Squares," but that's besides the point. What I am trying to get at was our breakfast options were pretty limited so I would usually default to peanut butter toast; but that natural stuff was just so nasty.

It's possible that my palate has matured (it's probably more possible that I am just not as lazy to think that the extra step of stirring my peanut butter was worth it), but I really love natural peanut butter now. When I opened up my cupboard this morning to look for a morning meal that natural peanut butter was staring me right in the face. It's funny how things come full circle sometimes.

Thanks Mom.

My journey begins here

I recall very vividly my first solo attempt in the kitchen. I was about 8 years old and had been pouring over the Peter Rabbit's Natural Food Cookbook. There was a recipe for Mrs. McGregor's Fudge Cake that I was dying to try (of course).

My mother was working on some new silk designs in her studio next door and I convinced her that I could and would be the responsible young woman she had raised and could handle making this cake "all by my self". Thinking I would stay out of her hair so she could perfect the batik she was working on, she agreed.

She advised me to read the recipe carefully so I would understand the steps and know what ingredients were necessary. Standing in the kitchen with bowls, measuring spoons, cups, and the usual suspects (flour, eggs, butter, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, salt, cocoa powder) I was ready for the adventure set before me. I thoughtfully sifted flour. I timidly cracked open each egg. I whisked, blended, mixed and folded. Each ingredient was so carefully measured. Finally, I poured the mixture into the 8x8 pan greased just like the recipe called for. I knew this was going to be the ultimate masterpiece. The perfect book end to a delicious family dinner.

My mother helped me put the pan in the oven and set the timer. Only 35 minutes to transform the buttery batter into heaven on a fork. When the timer dinged, it was all I could do to distract myself until dinner. On the back of the stove, cooling, Mrs. McGregor and her fudgy goodness sat. Oh glorious cake! When would you be mine?

I can't to this day recall what was served for dinner that evening. But I can tell you how much I beamed when the plates were cleared and my fudge cake came to the table. Everyone was served a piece. All afternoon, I was awaiting this very moment. But I was too nervous! I paused to wait for the applause, the enraptured "mmmmm" signaling that this was the most decadent of decadent desserts. It was, afterall, Mrs. McGregor's Fudge Cake.

My eyes were on my mother as she, too, anticipated the sweet delicacy before her. She took the first bite. This was it! Her lips pursed and her eyes rolled in what I was sure was the ultimate compliment. And then she spit the cake back out into her napkin and took a huge gulp of milk from the frosty glass.

I was devastated. It looked just like I thought it should look. I read the recipe 3 times over. I did everything right. Thoughtfully, my mother went through everything step by step with me asking me to show her exactly what I had used to measure each and every ingredient. It then became clear to her (and later to me) that she and I had very different ideas about what careful measuring was. To me, careful measuring was leveling the flour in a measuring cup or making sure the liquid was just to the line. I was a precocious child so it never occured to my mother that fractions hadn't been introduced to me yet, that I was unsure of when to use a "T" or a "tsp" and definitely that I hadn't grasped how many "tsp" are in a "T" or vice versa.

Still, it's kitchen tradgedies like this that have made me who I am as a cook. I have loved to bake since I can remember and of all things I can do in the kitchen, it is one of my favorite things to do. Mistakes and success are all a part of the culinary journey. Julia Child is famous for her mistakes and I doubt Hubert Keller made a perfect omlette right out the womb either.

This blog is about halfway gourmet. Halfway because I can say without pause that I have a long way to go before anyone calls me a gourmet. Sure, I can throw in a little bit of this, a touch of that, and top it with some pine nuts and it comes out looking like something you'd pay alot more to eat someplace else. But what makes a true gourmet? White linens, fine wine and flickering candles, fancy plating with foams, essences, and reductions? Whatever it is, we don't even eat our meals at a real table, so I can't possibly be there.

This is also halfway gourmet because I will be the first to admit that there are days when I would rather (and actually have) eaten a bag of Doritos for dinner. Can you imagine Alice Waters with nacho cheese fingers?

Lastly, it is halfway gourmet because I represent one half of this project. Along with my husband and fellow contributor to this blog, we will be sharing our experiences through the food that we eat. Afterall, a dish worth serving is a dish worth sharing.