Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,20
better mother, I thought, would be worried about his losing sleep, but just the sight of him made all the other stuff seem small.
“I’m hungry,” he said when the babysitter had gone.
“Didn’t Anisa make dinner for you?”
“Yes. But it wasn’t as good as the food you cook.” My son has always known exactly how to play me.
“It’s kind of late.”
“Please.” He looked up at me. “Please.”
What the hell, I thought; end the day on a high note. “How about spicy noodles?” They could be ready in a flash.
Nick nodded, happily following me into the kitchen, bare feet slapping against the floor. He hoisted himself onto the counter and, as the scent of ginger, scallions, and black beans rose around us, regaled me with tales of his day.
I boiled the pasta and tossed it into the wok, swirling it with a flourish. As I ladled noodles into Nick’s bowl, I inhaled the scent, thinking how much better this was than anything the restaurant had served us. I reached for another bowl, and we took them into the living room, sat down on the sofa, and slurped noodles together. “I’m really going to like it,” he said, “when you’re home every night to cook dinner.”
SPICY CHINESE NOODLES
•••
½ pound Chinese noodles, dried egg noodles, or spaghetti
Peanut oil
½-inch-long piece of fresh ginger
2 scallions
1 teaspoon sugar
2 tablespoons Chinese black bean paste with garlic
1 tablespoon Chinese bean paste with chili
½ pound ground pork
Sesame oil
Cook the noodles in boiling water until al dente (the time will vary with the type of noodle). Drain, toss with a half tablespoon of peanut oil, and set aside.
Peel and mince the ginger (you should have about two tablespoons).
Chop the white parts and slice the green parts of the scallions.
Mix the sugar and the two kinds of hot bean paste, and set aside.
Heat a wok until a drop of water skitters across the surface. Add a tablespoon of peanut oil, toss in the ginger, and stir-fry for about half a minute, until the fragrance is hovering over the wok.
Add the pork and white scallions and stir-fry until all traces of pink have disappeared. Add the bean sauce mixture and cook and stir for about 2 minutes.
Stir in the green scallions and noodles and quickly toss. Add a drop of sesame oil and turn into two small bowls. This makes a perfect snack for two.
OF ALL THE KITCHENS I’VE inhabited, my favorite was the high-ceilinged Victorian room in Berkeley with its ancient stove. Bedraggled ferns dangled from macramé-covered pots, and Stella the cat was always perched atop the highest cupboard, purring loudly. We never knew how many people would show up for dinner, so we always cooked for a crowd; for ten years I fed at least a dozen people every night.
Everybody pitched in. Stella sat regally surveying the scene as we rolled pasta out by hand on an ancient chitarra, cured our own sausages, cleaned squid, and stretched a single chicken to feed us all.
We’d lovingly constructed that kitchen, board by board, sourcing every single item at the flea market: the industrial stainless-steel sink that stretched across an entire wall, the granite for one counter, and the butcher block for the other. We lived communally, so there was always someone sitting at the round table in the corner, nursing a cup of coffee or a glass of wine. I cannot remember a single moment, day or night, when the kitchen was empty.
I loved the light in that room, the way the sun bounced off the lemon-yellow walls, making the wood gleam. I loved the cozy feeling, the camaraderie, the music that was always playing, and the curved glass bowl sitting on top of the refrigerator, filled with eggs. (It was a Dale Chihuly reject, rescued from a glassblowing workshop where I’d once cooked.) The last thing I expected was to walk into Gourmet’s test kitchen and feel that it was much the same.
* * *
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I’D HEARD A lot about the magazine’s kitchen over the years, and I’d always imagined a large, imposing room filled with gleaming stoves, modern equipment, and frighteningly scientific cooks armed with stopwatches and thermometers. But when I pushed open the door, I found that the room was smaller and far more modest than I’d anticipated. The four ordinary stoves looked a lot like the one in my apartment, and the jumble of counters and tables lent the room a slightly cluttered air. It was a home kitchen