What’s for Dinner?

To my mom, the question “What’s for dinner?” could only have caused a sinking feeling. Four picky kids, an irritable husband, a tight food budget…that’s a recipe for disaster. Imagine that, 365 days a year, on and on until…well, either you die or you’re alone and can eat cold beans out of the can (which Mom was not averse to). Having come late to the dinner party, I still have a sense of anticipation when I start to ask myself “What’s for dinner” sometime during the day. Yesterday, being Julia Child’s 100th birthday, I pulled down MASTERING THE ART OF FRENCH COOKING to find something I could make in a couple of hours on a hot summer night. Voila! Pommes de Terres a l’Huile with her suggestion of grilled sausages fit the bill.

The potatoes were tasty: medium-starch Yukon Golds steeped in vermouth and chicken broth before they were dressed with a vinaigrette of white wine vinegar, Dijon mustard, olive oil, and shallots. I put dried thyme on them for a little extra flavor and because I forgot to get fresh parsley which would’ve been prettier. Her instructions were to drop the potatoes into boiling salted water. The authors of THE SCIENCE OF GOOD FOOD, an award-winning reference on how cooking works, contradict Julia (Mon Dieu!) by saying they should be started in cold water and perhaps make the water more acidic by adding vinegar, but do not salt the water to avoid the potatoes getting mushy. Calls to mind the Gershwin classic, “You say potato and I say po-tah-to,” ultimately a love song which we all sang to Julia yesterday and will continue to sing through the years until she’s a thousand. And to Mom, I can only repeat Martin Luther King's passionate recital of the old Negro spiritual, "Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, [I am] free at last!"

How do you make an omelette? Practice!

With all due respect to the great Julia Child, I followed the instructions for the easier omelette in MASTERING THE ART OF FRENCH COOKING—in which she is very fair about having to memorize the steps so as not to delay the process—and the result? Pitiful, just pitiful. My own common-sense method turns out a fluffier, moister omelette than this piece of shoe leather, with its unappetizing insole of herbes de Provençe.

As Julia would arguably say, keep it simple. This morning’s egg sunny-side-up hit the spot after a dinner last night of spicy bar mix and two glasses of white wine, courtesy of Don’t Tell Mama where I was part of the raucous audience for “Words and Music," a cabaret of songs by Jerry Herman, Dorothy Fields and Jerome Kern, Stephen Sondheim, and Comden and Green. In all-American diner-speak, an order for that English muffin on the side would’ve gone into the kitchen as “Burn the British.” The French and American colonists would appreciate that!