I
have been fighting for a sort of recognition. You see I can cook. I really can:
Although if you were to ask my family they would probably make a joke about
beans, chili, or hotdogs. Then they would say that I could cook, as long as I
am using something that originates from a can.
Their joke would pre-date my independence as an adult. In many ways it
would predate most of my life. In fact I believe you could trace it back to
about the time I was eight years old. It was about that time my parents decided
that my siblings and I should each take turns cooking one night a week. It was
a period of my life that I wanted nothing more than to be a cowboy. So canned
food had a certain appeal, especially baked beans, chili, and stew. I didn’t
see why anyone else would see it otherwise. As I grew older my cooking habits
changed and adapted, but reputations are hard to kill.
I
guess because of the reputation I’ve gained throughout the years, I’m
constantly trying to prove to myself, and my family that I can cook. I do cook.
Very few of my friends cook. And if they do it usually consists of some sort of
barbequed meat. And I don’t mean Texas barbeque. I can’t bake, but my cooking
repertoire is much better than just barbeque.
One
thing I’d never cooked before was a Cornish hen. I’d never even eaten a Cornish
hen before. I’d seen them in movies and on TV. But never had I experienced them
first hand. Maybe just to prove to myself that I could cook, I was going to
cook Cornish hens and I was going to bake them too.
One
of the reasons that I garnished my infamous cooking reputation was because of
baking. Most of my cooking fiascos corresponded with me baking. One day I
decided to make cheese puffs. They came out as puddles of melted cheese. On
another occasion my cousin and I tried to make cookies. Apparently we got two
recipes mixed up so the cookies turned out somewhere between snickerdoodles and
ginger bread cookies. It was not a good combination. Apparently when you set
about baking something, every ingredient is extremely vital. Not only that, but
every ingredient has to be added in the right order. I guess one of the reasons
I hate baking is that I have a hard time making sure I’ve added everything in
the right order.
Regardless
of my personal baking skills, I am a pie lover. My favorite kind of dessert is
pie. I like just about any kind of pie. The only kinds of pie that I’m not partial
to are usually crème pies. (Although on occasion a crème pie hits the spot). One
night I was contemplating pies when I had an epiphany. Mango-Strawberry Pie. I had never heard of those two flavors being
combined in a pie–or anywhere else for that matter–but it sure sounded
wonderful to me. So I enlisted the help of my sister–who is a wonderful pie
maker–and we set out creating a mango-strawberry pie. It was delicious. I
highly recommend it. Although I warn you, don’t make it too sweet. Its best if
you can still taste the natural flavors rather than just straight sugar.
I
usually cook the same way that I envisioned Mango-Strawberry
Pie. I take a few moments to consider flavors, textures, and my current
appetite. Then I try to think of combinations and tastes that sound good to me,
and seem like they would give exultation to my taste buds. Then I go for it.
This is how I started my Cornish Hen escapade.
After
my initial contemplation I realized that I was stuck. So I began looking for
recipes. I soon became bored and stopped looking (I don’t like recipes much). Instead
I turned to the hens. I had two, one for my wife, and one for me. They were in
a sort of vacuum-sealed package. You know the kind of packaging that turkeys
come in. In fact they looked like little baby turkeys. I opened them up and
realized that I had no idea what I was doing.
I
don’t think it helps my reputation when you consider that I hate using recipes.
Instead of using recipes I usually use a method similar to what my
mother-in-law calls Muscle-Testing. When
she tests something she holds it in her hand. Then she concentrates on her
purpose. If the object is the right one, the one she needs, she can feel it
through her muscles. This method works for gift giving, spicing different
foods, and just knowing what an individual needs in their life. From what I’ve
noticed, these intuitions are usually correct. I’m apt to believe it comes
mostly from the process of thinking and concentrating about an individual or
event, rather than any sort of magic. It’s amazing how much you can learn about
something if you spend a little bit of time pondering it.
The
way I see it, recipes are like using GPS. It can usually get you to where you
want to go, but rarely ever do you have fun getting there. And by the time you
do arrive at your destination you are going crazy because all you can hear is
that obnoxious voice saying “turn left in 1.5 miles. Turn left in 1 mile. Turn
left in .9 miles.” There is a special kind of excitement that comes from stepping
off the beaten path (and even more excitement in escaping those annoying GPS
voices). In order to illustrate this, I reference two separate times that I
lived in London England on study abroad.
On
the first trip I spent most of my time sticking to the map. I visited the
places you have to see: the Tower of London, Kew gardens, Buckingham palace,
Tower bridge, museums, theatres, and various different estates and gardens. I
did everything that was expected. Although it was fun, it was exactly what
everybody else experienced too.
The
second time around I vowed that I would create my own experience. So I spent
most of my time in parks, climbing trees, exploring nooks and crannies, ambling
down side streets, and just escaping the main thoroughfares of life in London.
I can honestly say the second trip was better. I discovered small cafes and
local pubs, independent bookstores, former residences of famous authors and
people, small parks, and a side of London that most visitors never see.
Somewhere
in the back of my mind I remembered that a lot of turkey’s had their gizzards
and other undesirable things stuffed inside of them. So I set about trying to
make sure there wasn’t anything inside the two Cornish hens. This was a lot
harder than it sounds. The holes at the front and back of the hens were
extremely small. I could barely fit my finger inside. I realized then that
cooking Cornish hens was not for the faint of heart. In fact it was a little
gruesome. But I am a man, and I can cook, so I pushed down my queasiness and
stuffed my index finger down the hole that had either been previously occupied
by the head or the anus. I tried not to think about it too much; just incase it
was the latter. Luckily I found them both to be empty of anything resembling a
gizzard. (Not that I know what a gizzard looks like.)
After
my thorough investigation of the hens, I placed them both in a pan. At this
point I took a moment to compose myself–I can cook, and I can cook these hens. So
I thought about it a moment, then chopped some onions and placed them around
the two small birds. Then I chopped up some yams that my wife had gotten at the
store. I also placed these around the birds. In my head I envisioned drizzling
something over the Cornish hens. I would refer to this as a sort of glaze–I
don’t know if that is what you’d actually call it. Cooking terms, along with
recipes, seem to escape me, or confuse me– So I set about making what I think of
as glaze. I took a stick of butter and placed it in a frying pan on the stove.
(Everything is better with butter). I turned the burner to low. I didn’t want
to cook the butter; I just wanted to melt it. I minced some garlic and added it
to the butter. Then I took some dried orange peels that we had in our spice
cupboard, and added that to the butter as well.
In
order to understand my search for recognition in the kitchen, you have to
understand that to my family good food is prized above most worldly pleasures.
My oldest brother is a fantastic chef. At one point he considered culinary
school. My older sister is a wonderful pastry chef. Then there’s me, in the
middle, the cook-from-a-can brother. My brother just younger than me is a true
connoisseur of food. And my two youngest siblings, a brother and sister, have
been raised in the era of the Cooking Channel. My youngest brother often
arranges his food on his plate in a manner that would suit any
professional. He calls this plating. And
then there is my Mom. She has the most experience cooking. I never realized how
great my moms’ cooking was until I became a bachelor and started cooking for
myself; Meaning that often times I’d bounce from house to house, begging for
food from my friend’s moms.
I
noticed that a lot of my friend’s moms always made the same things. Things that
are known as traditional American dinners; beef stroganoff, or baked chicken,
or a casserole of some sort, or Jell-O with fruit chunks, or Hawaiian
haystacks. Don’t misunderstand. They cook those things as well as anyone can.
But that is because they stick to what they know. For example, growing up my
grandma always made tuna fish sandwiches for lunch. I normally hated tuna fish.
But when my grandma made tuna sandwiches, I loved them. She would always buy
the good tuna, not the cheap stuff, and she would always put relish on the
sandwich too. As I got older she also started making sandwiches out of chicken.
Just like canned tuna fish, but chicken. Her chicken and her tuna sandwiches
have remained the same for years. I still hate tuna sandwiches, except for
hers.
My
mom, on the other hand, is always trying new ideas and new recipes. And they
usually turn out pretty good. I believe this is because like my family, her
siblings all enjoy discovering and experiencing new foods. They still cook “traditional”
meals, but they also aren’t afraid to try new recipes. I believe this love of
discovery has been passed on to the next generation.
When
the butter was completely melted, I drizzled it over the birds and yams. Then I
sprinkled the Cornish hens with a smattering of thyme, rosemary, and chili powder.
I set the oven to bake at 375 degrees Fahrenheit. Just as an afterthought I
minced some ginger and spread it over the birds and yams. I may not have had a
clue to what I was doing, but at least in this stage of the cooking process the
Cornish hens looked lovely. And if you looked at them from the right angle,
they may have even looked like they fell from the pages of a cookbook.
One
of my family’s favorite pastimes is the tasting game. This is when you
blindfold one person, then open the fridge and find some sort of food. You get
a spoonful of the undisclosed substance and put it in the blindfolded persons
mouth. Then they have to guess what they just ate. This game is a lot of fun,
as long you aren’t the person being blindfolded.
My
grandpa has his own version of the tasting game. He is from the southern end of
Georgia. So growing up, we were introduced to southern cuisine. A breakfast
staple in my family is grits. Grits are made from hominy. In many ways grits
resemble warm breakfast cereals or oatmeal. But they can also be eaten with
cheese for supper. Although my family has come to love grits, there are other
foods that my grandpa loves that most of us don’t: pig’s feet, raw oysters,
sardines, etc. Whenever he eats something that he knows most of us don’t like,
he asks if anyone wants to share with him. Usually we decline. Most of us have
tried these so-called delicacies and know we aren’t partial.
When
my cousin was two he had yet to discover this. So when my grandpa asked him if
he wanted a raw oyster, he enthusiastically accepted. My grandpa then spooned
any oyster into his mouth. My cousin’s face instantly contorted into a look of
disgust. He opened his mouth and the oyster oozed out and onto the table. My
cousin is now 8 years old, and to this day he won’t eat oysters with my
grandpa. And to this day the expression on his face makes me smile.
One
of the problems with the way I cook is that you never know how it is going to
turn out. It’s a lot like playing the tasting game. Sometimes it’s good, most
often it’s mediocre. But on occasion its bad, like the time that I made
“Octopus Chicken.” It had been my night to cook and I decided to cook
strawberry chicken on rice. (Somewhere in the back of my mind this sounded
really good). So I went about my business: chopping strawberries, slicing
chicken, and putting them all in a pan. I started the rice and waited. As the
strawberries and chicken cooked I realized I was missing something. So I opened
the fridge and looked at what I had on hand. That’s when I saw the Tahitian
Noni juice--Tahitian Noni is a company that specializes in making juice from
the Noni fruit. Their juice is extremely healthy for you. And in my opinion it
tastes horrible. My family has a running joke that if you drink too much Noni
juice you are liable to grow a third nipple--I should have known better, but
upon seeing the Noni juice I thought, “that is just the thing.” I sprinkled the
chicken and strawberries with it. Boy was that a mistake. We had our blessing
on the food and began to eat. Or attempt to eat. The Noni juice had done two
things to my chicken: one, it became extremely chewy. Two, it turned it bright
purple. I’m not sure who said it first, but one of my siblings, between chewy
bites of chicken, deemed it Octopus chicken. I have to admit, it was pretty
close to the same color and texture of Octopus.
In
order to avoid repeating the failure of “Octopus Chicken” I had two options:
use recipes, or pray for the best. Seeing as I already failed to use I recipe,
I was stuck with my faith. So I placed the Cornish hens, with the yams and
onions, into the oven. And began to pray. My prayer went something like this.
“Dear God, thank you for this day. Thank you for my wonderful life and wife.
Bless me now at this time that those funky little turkey things called Cornish
Hens, will bake all the way through. You see I love my wife and I’d hate for
her to die because of my inept cooking. Thanks a ton, love Zac.” And I baked
the Cornish hens.
I’m
not sure if it was luck, my prayer, straight skill, or a combination of all
three, but those two little birds came out of the oven slightly browned and
ready to eat. They were delicious. Was I surprised? A little; but you see, I
can cook. I might not be the most enthusiastic chef nowadays, but rarely ever
do I cook from a can. And in case you don’t believe me, or just want to try cooking
Cornish hens for yourself–but are one of those people that need a recipe–I’ve
written mine down.
Zac’s
Cornish Hens
Two
Cornish Hens
One
chopped yam
One
onion
Some
minced garlic
Some
minced ginger
A
dash of rosemary
A
dash of salt
Some
pepper
A
pattering of dried orange peel
One
cube of butter
A
little Thyme
Chili
powder for good luck,
And
a little more time in the oven at 375 Fahrenheit. (Bake until the yams are soft
and the hens are golden and succulent.)
