No Julia Childs but…..
…. I am definitely dropping that self defecating attitude (post about the validity and origin of this expression to follow at a later point) that I can’t cook.
Spaghetti Bolognese. That I can cook, but what does ‘can’ mean, I excel at it. It’s one of those things that is genetically passed down. Although I mostly require a recipe, this is a family tradition that never required a recipe but simply a large dedication to loving the preparation as well as the consumption. In my eyes the quintessential comfort food, warming the soul from the moment the mise en place starts until the last noodle is sucked into the abyss.
Spaghetti Bolognese. It is impossible to eliminate the vision of my father from that dish. While I was growing up my dad was hardly seen in the kitchen, at least not for cooking except on Saturdays and sometimes Sundays. And on any of those days there was a fifty percent chance that the lunch menu would read, you guessed it, Spaghetti Bolognese. Although not Italian by birth, the procession starting from the kitchen to the dining table, with two loaded plates in hand, chest raised high towards the food goods and a grin on his face that screamed ‘aqui il maestro’, or at least the Swiss German translation thereof. If we did not praise him at least 10 times, he would say “fine, if you guys can’t appreciate a great meal, there is no point in me continuing to cook it!”. We hardly ever reached ten times and yet, he always returned.
How I learned to prepare it, I am not sure. Actually I don’t think I ever did. All it took was watching Dad, and sometimes Mum. And as I sit here sipping my wine and enjoying my creation, there is nothing more I’d rather have.
Well, maybe….. maybe just someone to share it with.