Bad Home Cooking

Martha help us! Persimmon cookies to die for

Audge can be one stubborn dame. With her persimmon tree heavy with fruit, stooped like an octogenarian, I asked her this morning for the recipe for her show-stopping, locally-legendary persimmon cookies.

She shook her head, a gleam in her eye. No.

I blink. "I can't have it?"

"No."

"But I'm gonna blog about it. And a whole 100 or so people will read your recipe and rejoice."

"Nope. I'm not giving it out to anyone anymore. Not until Martha Stewart puts me on her show. Then I'll tell the world."

Well that put the kaibosh on my blog post. But what could I say? The cookies are indeed THAT worthy. They are. I've had them. Chewy and cakey at the same time, not too sweet, but with a pleasant fruity under-taste, they're almost the best thing about the crazy back-to-school season.

I wouldn't divulge a commodity like that for free either.

There is some blending of ingredients, some secret alchemy, that Audge infuses these delights with. She's always been a force in the kitchen, but with these persimmon cookies, she approaches art. No wonder she's not talking.

Many bakers, far more talented than I, have tried to recreate them. All have failed.

We're just gonna have to wait for Martha to come calling. Martha?! Are you out there?

How not to cut a birthday cake

There they sat, three kitchen muses, lounging on my couch and watching me with mirth in their eyes.

I glowered back at them. "Come on," I said. "You can't be serious. Of everyone in this room, and I'm counting the children, I am the least capable of cutting this birthday cake."

"But you're the birthday mom," said Audge. "You have to cut the cake. It's the law."

I looked around the room. "Lynne? Surely you'd like to cut the cake for me. Consider it a teachable moment."

Lynne shook her head slowly and smiled. "Nope."

"Joey?"

"I really think you should do it."

"Luke?!" I stared at the father of my children, who stood in the back, enjoying this mightily. "Back me up here, for God's sake..."

"Sorry. But I'll take pictures.."

So in the end, dear readers, thus abandoned by those who know better, there was nothing for me to do but dive in and hope for the best.

The ice-cream cake was a tidy little strawberry number from Baskin-Robbins (you think I'd make a cake for my kid's eighth birthday? I ain't Pru, you know..). I felt I was ahead of the game by remembering to take it out of the freezer 15 minutes before cutting it, and by having in my possession a cake-cutter once owned by my step-mother Barbara, who could cut a cake to make Martha jealous.

And I assumed that at least one of my skilled Mom-posse would step up to the plate and do the dirty work for me.

I was left to my own devices. Probably for the best there are no photos of the hack-job remains of the cake

At least kids don't care what form their cake comes in, as long as all the bits are there. Plus a good amount of frosting. And I don't think Barbara would mind too much that I bent her cake-cutter beyond repair making the first cut. She and Julia Childs are having a great laugh at my expense, I can feel it.

Seasonally-challenged

I finally figured out what the problem is.

I have a problem with seasonings.

Why should this be? I can't fathom. It's such a basic problem, and one you'd think would be fairly simple to remedy. Use more salt. And yet I continue to under-season my offerings. Truly, it baffles.

The flamenco guitarist pointed this out to me the other day, as he picked at his bland salmon and rice. "Tell me," he began, "and don't take this the wrong way. But do you have a thing against salt?"

I might have taken great umbrage, if I hadn't had heard this before.

Back in the day, Luke would bring me lunch on a plate sometimes; a sandwich, surrounded by small tomatoes artfully placed around a lettuce leaf garnish. His offerings were always delicious, vastly better than mine. One day I asked him his secret, and he looked at me with great pity.

"Salt and pepper," he said. "You can make anything taste better with salt and pepper."  Left unsaid: "You should consider doing the same sometime."

It's not as if I've grossly over-seasoned anything (on purpose) and am now repenting for my free-salting ways with bland fare. It's not as if I have some medical condition that requires me to watch my sodium intake. I have salt -- several kinds, in fact. And pepper too. And I use them in what I feel is a fairly liberal, open-minded manner. And I have had my experiences with too-salty fare. My dwindling audience of volunteer eaters, however, is suggesting that in general, I am not seasoning aggressively enough.

Apparently, I am seasonally-challenged.

Let's look at my track record. You'll recall, gentle readers, that I recently over-soaked the salt cod, rendering it tasteless (which pretty much guarantees me a place in the record books for bad home cookery) and ruined any chance I had of decent cod cakes. There's my fear of frying...perhaps I'm reticent toward any method that might infuse flavor. Sometimes I try to burn flavor into my food. Alas, this often backfires.

I am guilty as charged. I admit to an irrational fear of over-seasoning. I feel that when there is an 80/20 percent chance that a dish is not going to turn out well anyway, you don't want to take any reckless chances. People can season their own damn food once it's on the plate, can't they? That's why salt and pepper shakers were invented.

I mean, that's my thinking.

But in the interest of bettering myself, I will read up on this topic. Perhaps M.F.K. Fisher has something to say about it. In the meantime, it's probably best I quarantine myself and refrain from meals any more involved than opening a can. Stay tuned.