Lexington, KY - In one of life's never-ending jokes, the best meals I've had the pleasure of putting in my mouth always seem to be culled from the innermost recesses of the cook's memory -
not from a cookbook. The best meals, I've come to find out, don't come from cooking anthologies, they come from years of practice, which is probably why they are the best. Practice, I've also come to find out, doesn't always make perfect, but it does make permanent - in particular, the way to make these meals is permanently etched in the cook's mind.
So the chance of me being able to pilfer the recipe for later reproduction in my own kitchen whenever the craving arises is nil. How many times have you asked for a recipe only to be met with the absurd statement that it was made from memory? Ingredients? Just a dash of this and a dab of that. Measurements? It's just natural.
There are two striking examples of these instinctive food items in my life: my grandmother's spaghetti and my other grandmother's raisin oatmeal cookies. Obviously, these aren't the only culprits, but they are the usual suspects. In one instance, I even tried to watch behind my grandmother's back while she was preparing her Italian fare -
spot measuring the ingredients before they were destined for the sauce pan, meticulously notating temperature and cooking time, how often stirring occurred.
The sauce, of course, ended up tasting like nothing she had ever cooked before and definitely wasn't the meal I had grown up eating, loving and getting all over my shirt. In fact, it wasn't very good at all and my grandfather was none too pleased, with an expectant napkin tucked into his shirt. Perhaps spontaneity is the key ingredient. Regardless, I still think she botched it on purpose; she always says I don't visit unless she's making her spaghetti.
In this issue, our annual Food Issue, we write about the new regional television show "Secrets of Bluegrass Chefs," a product from the Louisville video production team Broadcast Me Baby. They profile the local chefs we've become familiar with and grown to love, and more importantly, they carefully document how some of these chefs' signature meals are made. They even post the recipes online.
In one of the most informative efforts I've ever had the pleasure of proofreading, Saraya Brewer, with the assistance of many of Lexington's wine shop owners and distributors, has turned in an indispensable guide for food and wine pairings. Being well versed in a vintner's trade is a mature and sophisticated pursuit, so needless to say it is one I can't even bluff my way through. I know nothing about soil acidity, altitudes, climates or grape temperaments, let alone which of these characteristics would pair well with, say, spaghetti made by a certain somebody. I do know that wine aficionados employ a very creative palette of vocabulary words to detail the drink's persona while stringing together short, poetic descriptors (from the text in this magazine: "medium to full bodied, with ripe red and black fruit flavors and accented by earthy terroir notes" -
I can't even write anything that good). I like building my vocabulary and I like imbibing, so this could very well be the making of a new hobby for me.
With Thanksgiving quickly approaching, our artistic director and office chef, Chris Rosenthal, presents readers a handful of recipes for their holiday meals. Interestingly, the main character, the turkey, has been replaced with another bird, the Cornish hen -
an alternative that might be heresy for some kitchens, but I was on hand for the photo shoot and I definitely didn't have any complaints when I got my own plate.