I know it’s a little early, but I’m still drooling

Another way I aid in the atrophying of my brain is by watching too much television, especially cooking shows.  I think it is genetic.  One of my earliest memories is of staying at my paternal grandmother’s house when I was just two.  My parents were on one of their trips to England to do research, and they had felt I was too young to go with my brothers to a neighbours, or that three of us were too many for Granny Tiny, and I totally lucked out.

Granny Tiny, Dad and Grandfaether (they were Scots, and that’s what we called him)

My dad was a bit of a surprise baby, 8 years younger than his closest sibling, and handsome and blue-eyed.  He was spoiled, and favoured by his siblings too, with his two older sisters saving up to send him to university, the only one of the four children to get to go.  He ran with it, one must say.  And then when grandchildren appeared, his were naturally the youngest, and then after two boys, I came along, with his blue eyes and somebody’s blonde hair.  To this day my brothers will complain that I was allowed to ride my tricycle around her kitchen.  That she let us also dig enormous holes in her vegetable garden makes me think she spoiled us all, but that I was on the favoured nation list could not be denied.

During that early week, that kind of kickstarted my memory process (the change from routine so important and yet so traumatic: anti-fragility at work), she would make me toast with honey, with the crusts cut off, another sign of great favour, as they had been immensely poor, and were now just fairly poor.  And then we would watch The Galloping Gourmet.  I gather now that he was not just Galloping, but possibly Guzzling, but he had pots on the stove and things sizzling and it was all terribly exciting.

Fast-forward four decades,

and you would find me and three kids and sometimes hard-working dad, lying on the enormous couch, glued to the Food Network or watching Anthony Bourdain eat his way around the world.  And while I drool over food and foodies, he did a lovely episode of his cleverly titled series, No Reservations, about Provence, where they sat eating lunch while discussing what to make for supper.  Now that’s life.

Here he is, explaining himself, about how he gets to travel the world, eating and drinking and making self-indulgent television.  A mentor!

Fast-forward another decade and you would have found me on the couch, drooling over the turkey Chef Ramsey, whom I don’t drool over because he is so fucking rude, cooked the other day.  Yes, I knew about putting butter under the skin.  But he mixed up a whole bowl of herb butter and put it everywhere – under and over the skin.  In the cavity he placed nothing but a lemon and some onion [well, garlic and a bay leaf too, but I was enjoying riffing off Seuss, Xty. [Don’t, ed.]], which he left rudely protruding, so it could roast too.  And yes, I knew about putting the bird in a hot oven and then turning it down.  And I knew about covering the breast with bacon.

But I didn’t know to let the bird rest for as long as you had cooked it!  And I certainly never knew to chop the bacon, onion and lemon up and fry them in the turkey pan, having poured off most of the fat, and then to throw in any turkey parts you wouldn’t serve like wing tips, and a quartered tomato! and frying the whole mess for a bit.  Then came apple cider, chicken stock, the juice from the sitting turkey, some mashing and straining.  But I was sold.  Rarely do I remember a recipe so clearly.  And breakfast – he even cooked scrambled eggs slightly differently and I had to try it – mouth-watering!

Sorry, I have to go …

But here he is, bacon sizzling audio and all.  An important 9 minutes and 25 seconds, if you are in anyway involved in the annual sacrificial bird roasting: