Haute Cuisine...or not

I recently finished a great read (made infinitely better if you are of the softer sex and were born between the years of 1976-1982...or so- it's a generational thing) by Sloane Crosley, called "I Was Told There Would Be Cake." I found her in an excerpted chapter on Salon where she covets the idea of a one night stand. Personally, I think they should have chosen the chapter where Sloane is propelled by guilt to the title of Maid of Honor (in pink plaid, no less) in a friend's wedding to whom she hasn't much spoken to since they were making forts out of couch cushions. Incidentally, this is exactly the type of book I can see myself writing- nostalgic and sarcastically dripping with humor- if my writing wasn't all over the place. Perhaps someday. Getting back to the point, in one of the last chapters/essays, Sloane laments her futile attempts to put together an elegant tart dessert in her Manhattan kitchen the size of a phone booth.

I used to bake. That is, I would occasionally blend a pre-mix of Betty Crocker Devil's Food Cake in the oven for 30 minutes and throw raspberries on top of it after mucking up the pre-made frosting 3 or 12 times and considered myself a lover of baking. This, when I had a kitchen in my converted apartment within a Victorian home in Massachusetts the size of my entire current NYC apartment.

I have taken criticism and and jaw-drops to my eating habits, or lack therof for years. I suppose, like all good children, I can blame my mother for this. Before I moved to New York, I had never tasted crab cake, or foie gras, and most of my foods were blissfully processed with things no one should be able to pronounce. Growing up, my mother had a philosophy that if her children didn't know what they were eating, all the better for them. Sadly for her, she had a wily tomboy on her hands who didn't want to eat if she didn't know what it was and would rather snack on the crabbing bait. Yes, in that manner, I shake my head at what a disgusting and quizzical child I truly was.

We weren't allowed cereals with sugar as one of the first three ingredients listed (seriously), enjoyed the state powdered milk and cheese for a long stretch, couldn't afford the more glamourous meal ingredients, and Mom worked a lot, so we dined on similar meals from week to week. There was no viewing of Julia Child, or Rachel Ray to come up with 20 minute healthy meals. So, it is that which I attribute my palate's adjustment, and ultimately, enjoyment of what others would consider painfully bland foods...and Lowry's Season Salt.

When I was 16, a six month stint working at McDonald's was all it took for me to swear off condiments for life. I still don't eat them, and won't eat anything that's remotely touched, or looks as if it's touched one. I fear change, obviously. The Subway folks hate me because I make them change gloves.

Today, with the growing list of foods I'm allergic to and the steadfast list of foods that make me recoil in fear and disgust, I have increasing fun trying to figure out what to eat. I once saw a Biggest Loser episode where a contestant was chided for his daily turkey sandwiches. "You're not going to eat those every day for the rest of your life, are you?" I took one look at the TV, and thought YES, by God, I can.

Moving to Manhattan, one of the foodie capitals of the world, has only highlighted this love/hate relationship I share with the stuff we need to keep on living. Amplifying this is that my kitchen really is the size of phone booth. There's a sink, but not a whole lot else going on there. No stove, no burners...my microwave sits on top of the small apt. size refrigerator and gloats that it's only really good for heating lean cuisines and campbell's soup.

One of my goals, and reasons for wanting to leave pristine Tudor City is in hopes of gaining a kitchen. A real actual kitchen that a 30 year old should have. Maybe once I get it I can work on expanding my palate. Nothing crazy here, there'll be no condiments- I'm not ready for that yet, but maybe I'll make a tart.