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A cook's secret ingredient: confidenceBy JANET K. KEELER © St. Petersburg Times,
Every Sunday night during one year of college, the hunky trio and I had dinner together. We pooled our money, I cooked and they cleaned. Well, at least two of them did. My roommate, Doug, said he cleaned up after me enough. The dinner music came courtesy of Fleetwood Mac, Rickie Lee Jones and Billy Joel on vinyl, not CD. Doug loved Devo, but we restricted their version of Satisfaction to after dinner. Bad for digestion, we told him. We called our weekly gathering "The Circle of Love," and we never let anyone else in, which was irksome to women in our larger group of friends. We were not as welcoming as our name indicated, or perhaps it was just me keeping the boys to myself. Though we now live in Florida, California and Washington state, we are bound by those meals, that experience. Doug was the spitting image of the Who's Roger Daltrey, right down to the long, curly blond hair. He was a mechanical engineering major who drove a vintage Volkswagen bus and loved to talk late into the night about anything. Kevin lived in the apartment upstairs. A fellow journalism major I had gone to high school with, too, he was sophisticated and funny, and women loved him. Clay, also a high school friend, attended college on a track scholarship and played guitar, mostly Neil Young stuff, at one of our favorite funky hangouts. I was going to be a sportswriter and spent lots of time studying the San Francisco Giants box scores. I've been thinking a lot about those Sunday dinners now that I make my living writing about food and cooking. (I gave up sportswriting long ago.) I've come to realize it was there that I learned to cook with confidence. My mother taught me the basics, but it took the likes and dislikes of Doug, Kevin and Clay to teach me that when someone doesn't like what you cooked, it doesn't mean it's rotten. It just might mean it's not their cup of tea, or bowl of soup or piece of pie. One of the guys, and now I can't remember which one, wanted his tuna fish sandwiches drowned in black pepper; another one didn't want any mayonnaise. I think it was Clay who hated pickles. How on earth could you please all of them with one recipe? Kevin was deathly afraid of choking on fish bones, which he did one night after whining before dinner that he would. I'm sure we didn't show the proper concern, and he survived anyway. They all liked Italian food and never did understand the gravity of my ruined baked Alaska. (I left the meringue-covered cake and ice cream in the oven too long while gazing out the window at Kevin's buddy, Zak, whose nickname was Adonis.) I spent Sunday mornings, sometimes even part of Saturdays, studying recipes from the few cookbooks I had. (Note to Mom: This explains the lousy grades and the five years it took to get a degree.) I made my first loaf of bread, a braided challah, in our tiny kitchen and spaghetti sauce from fresh tomatoes. Special requests were honored on birthdays. My lasagna, for which the meat sauce simmered 11/2 hours, was a hit. I challenged myself not to make anything twice in the year or so that we gathered, but Lasagne Belmonte (see accompanying recipe) was a command performance. The positive feedback from the guys inspired me. * * * Anyone can learn to cook. Open a cookbook, read the recipe and do what it tells you. It's not brain surgery, even though sharp implements are involved. Learning to cook confidently, now that's another matter. A novice cook is crushed when a first attempt at sweet-and-sour chicken is met by a wrinkled nose. An experienced cook ignores the face. The Circle taught me to consider the tastes of family and friends but not to pander to them. The joy of reading cookbooks and devising a pleasing menu was cultivated in those laid-back California college days, long before Martha Stewart hit the scene and Food Network made cooking glamorous. To think I did it all with just four cookbooks and not the 200 I own now! As for baked Alaska, I never tried it again. It's just cake and ice cream with meringue on top, so what's the big deal? At least that's what Doug told me when we scooped up the melted mess and ate it anyway. - Janet K. Keeler can be reached at (727) 893-8586 or by e-mail to krieta@sptimes.com. Lasagna Belmonte
In a large frying pan that has a cover, saute onion in oil until soft; add beef and garlic and cook, stirring, until meat is brown and crumbly. Stir in tomato sauce, tomato paste, wine and water. Add salt, oregano, sugar and pepper, stirring until mixed. Cover pan and simmer slowly for 11/2 hours. Meanwhile, cook noodles in boiling, salted water as directed on package, until tender, about 15 minutes. Drain thoroughly, rinse with cold water and drain again. Arrange about 1/3 of the noodles in the bottom of a 9- by 13-inch shallow baking pan. (Lay one layer of noodles lengthwise in the dish and the next layer crosswise. Alternate this way as you continue to arrange the dish.) Spread 1/3 of the meat sauce over the noodles; top with 1/3 of the ricotta and mozzarella cheese. Top with the Parmesan. Bake uncovered in preheated 350-degree oven for 30 minutes. Makes 6-8 servings. Source: "Sunset Cook Book of Favorite Recipes" by the editors of Sunset Books and Sunset magazine (Lane Publishing Co., 1978).
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From the Times Taste section From the features wire |
