About a week ago I was at my sister-in-law's house. And I spotted this book.
It's a monstrously large book; I liked it because it explained everything. I mean everything. Martha's nothing if not thorough.
So I ordered it.
Because I really want to learn to cook. Properly. I think it's an important thing to know how to do. And I figured if Martha Stewart couldn't teach me, nobody could.
The book isn't cheap, but I found a brand new copy online for $10. Click. Click. I bought it.
Last Monday it came in the mail. I was really excited. I get excited when I get things in the mail. Especially things like magazines and books.
After the baby goes to bed, I pour myself a glass of wine and sit down on the couch. Okay, Martha, I think, show me what you got.
I read about the basics. What kinds of tools to have. What kinds of knives. Check. Check. How to sharpen them. And check.
I learn about herbs. What to do with them. How to prepare them. What they look like. All the photographs are stunning.
I'm getting really excited. I think about all the amazing meals I will prepare.
I finish my glass of wine, and read about citrus. How to zest. How to supreme. Wait... What? Supreme? Huh. I read about something called mirepoix. Mirepoix?
I pour a second glass of wine.
I studied French for 5 years and I never heard anything about mirepoix. Mirrrpwaaah.... I decide it sounds like a contagious disease from the 1800s.
Then I start the chapter on stocks. How to make your own stock. White Stock. Brown Stock. Veal Glace.
I finish the second glass.
When I start reading about fish fumet I'm done for. Fish Fumet. Fuuuumaaaay! I imagine myself going up to my local fishmonger and asking for a bunch of old fish bones and heads. Fish heads! For my Fish Fumet! From my fishmonger! I start laughing.
But I don't have a fishmonger. I try to stay away from mongers. Fishy or otherwise. I start a rhyme in my head.
Mirepoix and Fish Fumet
This is totally gay...
I close the book and realize I'm drunk.