Veggies I can sink my teeth into
For relatively ill-defined, but passionately felt notions, I have twice tried to give up the practice of eating meat.
Both attempts were wildly unsuccessful, and I could rationalize my dashes back into carnivorousness with a philosophical-cum-faux-scientific digression on the benefits of eating meat (on the small farms I use as the source for most of my meat, animals ward off predators, pests and act as giant fertilizer machines; even plant-only agricultural systems produce biomass and waste that is best utilized if kept in our food system by using it to feed livestock, except I would babble on for quite a while in a more and more irritating attempt to justify my lack of control), but I won’t.
I’ll just admit the truth, sans the somewhat rational rationalizations: I like it. Deep down, I’m a hedonist. I like to tear into a big, bloody hunk o’ flesh a few times a week and revel in its juicy, lush, strangely life-affirming unctuousness.
I try, instead of giving it up entirely, to limit my consumption to a few big carnivorous feasts a week, balanced out with a lot of veggies and grains. This was more difficult than it should have been for many years. I was afraid of mushrooms — a state of existence which now seems anathema, to me, to existence at all.
Mushrooms, in all of their Alice in Wonderland, psycho-active, poisonous, toad, poop and straight-up fungus associations didn’t entrance me, they freaked me the F out. I claimed it was the texture, but really? They seemed wild to me, too wild to consume. I ended up eating them, and falling in love with them, totally by accident.
Stephen and I were on a date a zillion years ago in the East Village at Frank Restaurant, one of my all-time favorite osterias in Manhattan, and I was too distracted by the chaotic, self-conscious, preening people-watching and strike-posing scene that can only exist in New York City, Paris and London, God bless them, to pay too much attention to the menu. I ordered the porcini ravioli, thinking it was pork. Duh. I saw Stephen smirk when I ordered, but I assumed he was getting his jollies over my long-standing and all-consuming obsession with pork products; the notion that he was hatching a dark and insidious plot to pollute my body with the dread fungi didn’t even enter my mind.
Two bites into dinner later, I looked over at Stephen.
“This isn’t pork, is it?”Horrified gaping.
“No, it’s not.” More smirking.
Blank panic, repugnance, terror. Mouth moving, no sound coming out.
Finally: “Mushrooms!” Choking, sputtering. My version of smelling salts: quick, repeated slugs of wine. Eventual recovery. Tiny nibble.
Enthusiastic gobbling.
Endless smirking.
Now I eat mushrooms, every kind, as often as I can. They’re like nature’s ugly, funky little miracles, quirky little beings that seem scary but are actually quite ordinary in their majesty; the John Cages of the fungi universe. (He also fell under the shroom spell, eventually becoming an internationally recognized mycologist.)
Stephen tries very hard not to lord the Great Mushroom Victory over my head, though he has been known to whip it out if I claim that I hate a food product. Next stop: tripe.
This week, I made two veggie dishes that are often as drab as they sound: Mushroom Pasta and Banana Bread. They’re like old ladies who haven’t hit the town in a while — grim, gray and insipid. But I made like Emeril and Bam! Kicked Them Up a Notch! The best part — they’re both easy and fast, perfect for summer munchies on the run.
Click below for recipes and photos.
Sunday in the Kitchen 