Yesterday I woke up not feeling well, and the thought of enjoying food seemed far away. I skipped breakfast and ate a simple, mild lunch. By dinner, I felt better and I needed to make something soulful.
More than a decade ago, my sister Tracy gave me a binder to keep favorite recipes. I flipped through it and found a recipe I’d created in my twenties. I hadn’t put a date on it for future reflecting; back then, time was expansive. Almost everything was present tense.
I hadn’t made the recipe for years. I was drawn to it because it’s a tribute to a favorite childhood comfort food dinner called Chicken a la King, a mellow, mushroom and cream-sauced chicken dish. My binder recipe was a chicken mushroom soup with similar ingredients, gussied up for my early adult years with onion and sherry.
When I tasted the soup, I could feel my twenties. I’ve cooked a lot since that time, so while I mostly followed the recipe, I also incorporated what I’ve learned. I thought of Anthony Bourdain’s advice in Kitchen Confidential. When asked about what makes home cooking taste more like restaurant food, he suggests shallots. So, I added shallots. I thought of French Onion Soup. Slowly caramelizing the onion adds so much flavor, so I caramelized the onion-shallot mixture. I thought of my favorite similarly flavored savory crepe dish. I chose ingredients to develop that flavor.
I’ve written recipes and notes on recipes since starting my cookbook collection in my early twenties. As my courage has grown and been tested, notes have evolved from tiny shy pencil-drawn stars to ball-point penned fully earned phrases like, “GUHH!
Flipping through my binder, days, years, events, and small moments are featured like museum exhibits: my mom’s holiday cheeseball; a neighbor’s chicken soup; my friend Cheryl’s oven-baked brisket; Tracy’s favorite Bobby Flay steak seasoning.
In the binder, I see inspiration, like Eddie’s Cherry Teriyaki, a recipe I dreamed up on a bike ride and named after my new kitten; and Mediterranean Layer Dip, a spin on Mexican Layer Dip I created for a tailgate; and Black-eyed Pea Soup fashioned after one at Teller’s; and Queso Dip in the style of Los Bandidos.
I see dishes created for a single local ingredient like Goatsbeard Goat Cheese. I see recipes for an event: honoring my nephew Tyler’s first birthday, watching the Oscars and Grammys, the first time I cooked for my parents. I see family: my sister, mom, dad, cousin, grandma, uncle, and aunt. The whole binder honors enjoyment and celebrates things I’ve made, times I want to keep.
When Tracy was designing the binder, she asked me for a phrase representing an especially resonant aspect of my cooking. I offered, “Write That Down,” a line from a slapstick movie that evolved into a reminder to save a memory.
A couple nights after my culinary time trip back to my twenties, I wanted to make a dish with a single filet mignon we’d bought at the Farmer’s Market. Since we had only that last filet, we planned to make medallions with wine sauce. I thought of a beloved small plate at Sophia’s here in Columbia, Filet Porto. I looked up their menu which explains that the filet medallions are served in a Port wine reduction and topped with crumbled bleu cheese.
So that’s what I made. Then I wrote it down so I can do it again. I don’t know if I prepared the sauce or cooked the medallions the way Sophia’s does, but the dinner sure tasted and felt like Sophia’s luscious dish.
I love the adventure of cooking. I’m not classically trained, but writing recipes helps me learn. I keep trying, reading, and creating, and I write it down when I get it right. “It’s confusing when you can DO something and not know exactly HOW you did it (and then somehow expect to do it again),” Jeff Tweedy writes in his book, How to Write One Song.
That last part — the ability to repeat a good thing — to go back in time to a successful moment, even if I’m not sure why it turned out so well and relive it, is the beauty of a recipe.
