So, we've entered into a quiet phase, after a long complicated few months. I've never been so happy about routine. Or, at least what passes for routine in this house.
Alden had a particular shiteous pair of games, at bowling, today, and I've encouraged him to begin a bowling journal. I told him, any time you seriously dedicate yourself to something, it's important to document your learning and growing process, that way, when I ask, or when he asks himself, "what the fuck went wrong today?" He has a language for it. Then, I realized...how totally hypocritical. I haven't exactly been diligent, myself.
After bowling, I made us some pastina, for a late breakfast. Pastina is something my dad's mother made for him, then he made for me, then I taught myself how to make it, and now I make it for Alden, and he's learning how to make it. It seems fairly unique to our family, and it's strictly comfort food. It has no measurements, and only by cooking it for probably 25 years, have I developed a fool proof method. It's pretty simple, a small amount of boiling water, salt, butter, then shake in a few tablespoons of pastina (microscopic star shaped noodles), and let it cook till the pastina is getting soft, and the water is disappearing, then we stir in shredded, or small cubes, or grated, or slices of cheese. The secret here is to always have some sort of processed cheese, otherwise the whole mess will be stringy. The shit cheese makes it all cohesive. Today I used about 2 ounces of colby, and a krap single. Season vigorously with salt and even more vigorously with pepper, sometimes garlic, sometimes hot sauce, and serve. Best with some type of crispy meat product crumbled on top, or within. Today, I finely diced a bit of ham, and fried that till it was brown and frizzled, and stirred it in at the end. What it amounts to, if done well, is microscopic star shaped noodles suspended in a melty cheese sauce, roughly the texture of...well, it's hard to explain. Something like risotto, but not quite as fancy. No milk. No fancy shit. No heavy cream, no broth (although I have been kicking around the idea of a dinner pastina, cooked on chicken broth, with some sage or thyme, and asiago...same concept, same method, fancy shmancy ingredients.) It's comforting to eat, comforting to walk Alden through the steps, and pass on what I've learned through years of refinement.
When he was wee, I was really excited about teaching him how to cook. I planned on getting all these children's cookbooks, and his own set of stuff, all that artifice. I learned through the years, that he learns best, and I love teaching him, when he's hungry and looming around the kitchen. Like "mom, mom, mom, can I stir that? What's in that?" He started out as a pain in the ass, underfoot boy, but as he got older, the rule of "if you're not helping, you don't belong in the kitchen" came into effect. Now, when he's hovering and excited about dinner, I hand him onions to chop, and make him my fetch boy. When he's tasked to get a list of ingredients from the pantry or the fridge next door, he always asks really involved questions, and he learns loads. He's grown into a better cook than most adults I know. Not recipes, although we're getting more into them, but the "why" of cooking. I feel like it's more important for him to know formulas, and the science of things. Like, why it's important to brown the onions before adding other stuff. Yesterday, he helped me make a French leek pie, and hung around for every step, and he learned a lot about the science of custards, how proteins coagulate, and emulsifiers blend oils and water. God help me, he might be a shitty bowler, but I think he's going to be a damn amazing cook, when he gets older.
If only I could get him as curious about the science of bowling, the hows and whys of trajectory, and whatnot, as he is about cooking. Writing about it might help him become more curious. It certainly works for me. On that note, I think I'll head over to my tarot blog.
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