I want to make everything! Cinnamon rolls? Bring it! Home made ketchup? The tomatoes are reducing! Crackers? Kneading the dough! Gazpacho? Chilling in the fridge! I want to make all of it!
In an ideal world I would have the time (and the inclination...and clean up crew) to make everything from scratch all the time. I love the idea of making my own Sriracha and baking bread every day.
However, I don't live in an ideal world. So my Rooster sauce comes in a squeeze bottle with a rooster & a bar code on it.
I go a little crazy sometimes. When I'm hosting Thanksgiving I go so far overboard that I end up walking around on the bottom of the ocean. It's cool - that holiday is made for it. Other times it's embarrassing.
I was raised by Europeans. In the Midwest. When serious company comes over you spend 2 day
preparing & the table is so crowded that it creeks. Everything is home made & delicious.
I now live in Los Angeles. The Euro spread I grew up with is the polar opposite of the blase shellac of cool that everyone must aspire towards in this city. Homemade food is the culinary version of heart on your sleeve.Awkward. Eyes brimming, emotion spewing. I LOVE YOU!
Horrible.
When we host friends the situation goes Bad News Bears. I'm able to make things that we can't eat all the time. Butter is used in obscene quantities. Things are deep fried. Chocolate is melted. Bite sized morsels are wrapped in bacon & dipped in cheese. I'll make my friends & loved ones fat, but hell if I'm going to clog our arteries with that garbage all the time. It's special occasion food! That's why all of it must be made!
Here's how the drill goes: We're having friends over! Huzzah!
I make a giant list of everything that I want to make. Jared takes a look. Balks. Suggests that I maybe pull back to 2 dips instead of 5. That I throw some ranch packets into sour cream, put out some Ruffles & call it a day. That maybe I deep fry wings OR shrimp. That I don't need to make the crackers - we can buy the crackers.
I rebel & make home-made Cheeze-Its.
He gently opposes the idea of serving cupcakes & cookies & brownies & a fruit plate. I bite my lip & pull back on the refined sugar.
He gets it. I still don't.
In a food sense, I guess I'm the one standing under your window with a boom box, declaring my love. He's cringing in the car, wishing that I'd followed his advice about sending a text message asking if you want to hang out sometime.
I don't know if I'll ever truly be able to scale all the way back. I'm too Midwestern. Too European.
My heart is on the table. Won't you have seconds?
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