The Kitchen Cabinet

At 7:15 pm on a Monday, I head out into the rainy Seattle night on foot.  Walking the first few blocks, I feel invigorated, inspired, even empowered.  As I approach my local butcher shop, Rain Shadow Meat, my heart sinks at the dim light and lack of sidewalk board.  Closed.  I take a moment to stand under an awning of a nearby store to gather my thoughts and construct a new plan.  I glance at the time on my phone, then up at the night sky.  Turning around, I begin the long trek over the freeway toward Whole Foods.

To walk in the frigid rain may lead you to believe that my refrigerator is empty.  Perhaps some wilted lettuce and a bendy carrot, and just a can of garbanzo beans and the remains of a burlap sack of basmati in the kitchen cabinet.  But that is not the case.  The refrigerator is stocked with leftover braised rabbit thighs, an herb roasted chicken, chicken liver pate, the remains of a cheese night from a few days earlier, brussels sprouts, arugula, as well as the typical staples.  In the freezer are pierogies and the last of the season’s king salmon.  As for the pantry, it has recently taken over the adjoining cabinet with dried flageolets, three kinds of rice, canned tomatoes, and a variety of pickled and preserved items.  The beans hollered, “pick me, pick me!” and the jasmine rice chimed in, “we’re the perfect team!”  I peered to the back of the cupboard, bored with the options in front of me.

So why am I standing in a puddle up to my ankles waiting for the crosswalk to give the go ahead?  I blame occupational hazard.  Some of you have experienced the Stephen Taber first hand.  While an amazing sailing (and to toot my own horn, culinary) experience, there is one specific geographic hurdle.  We are on a boat.  On the water.  There is no last minute run on a Wednesday to grab an extra head of lettuce, or even half and half for coffee.  When we back off the dock every Monday morning, I scan the landing for the last minute purveyor I may have forgotten about.  I always expect to see our fishmonger, Jamie, running down the gangway, one arm waving, the other cradling our precious stone crab, Pemaquid mussels, and Atlantic salmon. 

But we always manage to get through it.  Ask any schooner cook.  We forget even the most important of ingredients from time to time.  Most often we can improvise.  Low on milk? Use melted ice cream (churned the night before by our guests) or left over creme anglaise to soak bread for French toast.  Guests meeting us at the breakwater for dinner and need to stretch the protein?  Make a farce with chorizo and apples and stuff the pork tenderloin.  And what about forgetting ingredients altogether?  No apples for crisp, we turn to a chocolate and caramel dessert.  If the star ingredient for crab cakes doesn’t make it into the icebox, we’ll have fritters with leftover corn and prosciutto and a horseradish dipping sauce.  When the problem presents itself, us schooner cooks may take a moment to fret or sulk (or at the end of August, burst into tears), but then we jump into action.

There are, of course, those special moments when I realize that the swiss chard has wilted beyond saving or the last tomato saved for bruschetta went into the lentil soup.  I walk aft, eyeing Captain Noah (sometimes I fret out loud, and it is usually in the form of whining) and I hear those magical words.  “We’re taking afternoon walks in Stonington, and today is the farmer’s market.”  And thus my desire to just have things go my way as planned wins over the part of me that wants to heroically solve the problem without being saved by modern conveniences (if a visit to the farmer’s market can be called a modern convenience; although after being on a schooner in Maine it feels like a trip to New York City).

And so here I am, back on land and feeling pretty good about it.  While I love the simplicity of life on the boat, I fully indulge in the luxuries of being ashore.  Yes, I savor a queen size bed, central heat, and hot water.  But when I am in the kitchen, I marvel at the fact that I can cook on a whim.  I can make whatever I am craving to eat or create, and I don’t have to row a mile to get there.  Sure, the food processor, instant heat on the stove, and dishwasher are luxurious.  But it is the freedom to cook that I love.

I consider this as a car splashes puddle water across my chest, soaking my scarf, jacket, and will to push on. 

An hour later, I am pounding pork tenderloin medallions into flattened tender meat for Schnitzel and setting potatoes on the stove to boil.  The meat counter is fresh out of veal, but I am hell bent at this point to create a dinner that at least vaguely resembles my initial plan.  I am also surprised to see that I had used the last few ounces of flour, and can’t make the accompanying spaetzle (a spaetzle story to follow soon, perhaps in a collection of kitchen disaster stories).

I can hear the dried beans laughing at me, shaking like a pair of maracas.

Later, Jaimy and I bite into the first crispy corner of breaded pan fried pork, a slather of cheesy chive mashed potatoes bulging off the fork.  I commit to cooking from what we have in house before going to the store again.