Six 16 0z bottles of oil later, these russet French fries and this buttermilk fried chicken (thanks to Thomas Keller’s Ad Hoc at Home cookbook) were served up to me by my husband for my birthday dinner. So insanely delicious, so ridiculously indulgent, this seemed more like a Last Meal than a Birthday Meal.
I’m not a natural chef, but I am a spaz, and to undiscerning eyes, the two can look awfully similar. For instance, I simply cannot be bothered to measure. I pull things out of the fridge—random things—and I cut them to my whim and I throw them in, or mix them together, or hurl some cheese on top and it looks an awful lot like confidence. Maybe it is at some level, I’ve eaten in scores of great restaurants (thanks, eat.shop) and maybe I’ve picked up a thing or two. But basically, it comes down to this. If your ingredient list includes some of the following: copious butter, garlic, cheese, and salt, the tasty will follow.
Yet recently, I was moved by a recipe to try it. It was a rainy Sunday, perfect for cooking, so I tackled a New York Times mag recipe, Moroccan Tomato Soup (http://tiny.cc/NZC7d). I was equipped with fresh garlic and tomatoes from my local farmer’s market and was ready to go.
It was good, very good. Needed more butter.