It seems silly to be so
excited about a new stove. But I
am. Yesterday we ordered a new, top-of-the-line, gas range
that will be delivered in two weeks.
I ordered the stove described in marketing jargon as “Black Ice”. That translates
to a black appliance with stainless steel trim and a large window practically
the size of the oven door. No more
peering into a tiny space to see if the muffins are browning or the soufflé has
risen. It has five burners, a
griddle, a convection oven, a warming oven, and even a new self-cleaning system
that is called Aqua Lift. You pour
water into a special cup in the oven, turn it on low and wait for the steam to
clean the inside without any chemical fumes or 900-degree temperatures. I had no idea these amenities existed.
I am getting my wish to convert from electric to gas, the preferred form of
cooking for serious chefs.
The
mystery is how I came to love cooking and become the self-confident cook that I
am. I didn’t spend time as a child watching my grandmother make delicious
dishes from old family recipes She disliked cooking and household
chores. My mother told stories of
growing up in a house where her mother laid on the sofa reading a book while calling
out directions to others to get a meal ready. She was an artist and a free spirit and far preferred books
to any daily chores. She did encourage
me to love books. My mother was
not an extraordinary cook but once she married my father and became the wife of
a diplomat she was far better at overseeing a staff of maids and planning menus
than cooking. She planned dinner parties for large groups of guests as if she’d
done this all her life. She
hadn’t… but she never seemed daunted by any of it.
I grew up in Lima,
Buenos Aires, Sao Paulo, Bogota in big houses with “medieval kitchens” as my
mother always referred to them. Kitchens were always an afterthought in homes in South
America because they were meant for maids to work in and not the ama de casa, or lady of the house. We
had live in maids – a cook, a cleaning maid, as well as a chauffeur and
gardener. I only remember my
mother in the kitchen when the cook had a day off or when we lived in
Washington D.C. for short periods and hired help was out of the question. Looking
back I wonder if she didn’t worry as to how I would fend for myself when I went
away from home and had to cook for myself.
It
was when I married Art and moved to Santiago, Chile as a bride that I was faced
with the reality of daily cooking. I don’t recall feeling apprehensive but just happy to be making
a meal for my new husband. We
rented a fourth-floor, walk-up apartment with picture windows on three sides
and views of the snow covered Andes Mountains. It was spacious with hardwood floors. Stepping into the kitchen, maid’s room
and laundry was a different story.
While the kitchen faced the Andes it was Spartan with dirty gray tile
floors, marble counter tops and rusty enamel sink, a small (apartment sized) gas stove, and a
vintage refrigerator with a wobbly handle and freezer compartment the size of a
lunch box. The door of the
refrigerator would not close tightly unless you slammed it hard and the oven
door on the gas range had to be propped closed with a broom handle to get anything
to bake evenly.
Somehow
I turned out eatable meals in this awful kitchen. Art still talks about my Pork Chops with apricots, my
homemade grape juice, fresh cooked beets done in a pressure cooker, and the
cooked artichokes with lemon and butter sauce. Obviously he was blinded by
newlywed bliss because I recall the burnt dishes I pulled out of the very
unstable oven and Art swooping down to fill his plate and declaring it was all
delicious. That kept me from
having a complete breakdown in the “medieval kitchen” I was trying to cook in. I attribute much of my love of cooking
to Art who would eat anything and declare it perfect. As an educator he knew
the power of praise. And it
worked.
Nothing
in Chile came ready-made. We shopped
at the feria on Sunday mornings bringing
home straw baskets full of fresh fruits, veggies, and fish from the market and putting
it away in the antique refrigerator to last us the week. I learned to cook from ”scratch” which
stood me in good stead in many places where I went to live.
The
student apartment at Terrace View in Blacksburg, Virginia with “modern”
American appliances seemed a big step up.
But in two years we were living in San Jose ,Costa Rica in a garden
apartment with one of those kitchens built with maids in mind …except we did
not have a live in cook. Back to
the US to a traditional split level house in Huntsville, Alabama with a small
and very ordinary American kitchen, followed by six years in a charming stone
cottage on the 100-acre campus of Princeton Day School. Charming…yes…but NOT the difficult
kitchen again! I made do and
simply fed the family and guests and company and adapted to no counter space at
all, an old electric stove and refrigerator. Was this supposed to be part of the charm?
The move to Manila, Philippines to a big
house was my first experience managing a household staff. I took one look at the kitchen – the gray
marble floors, low counters built for short people, and the lack of air
conditioning, and felt totally defeated.
I promptly hired a live in cook and cleaning maid and a day chauffeur
and gardener. I relinquished
cooking for meal planning and shopping.
It was only on the cook’s day off that I would put on my bathing suit to
keep cool, and venture out to the kitchen to attempt a meal in the 95 degree
heat and humidity.
Buying
our first home in the Vermont mountains, we were so taken with the spectacular
views while talking with the realtor, that we forgot to carefully check out the
kitchen, and the inside of the house. By then I was an expert on managing with no counter space. Not only was I a good cook but an
exceptionally neat one. I would
fix one thing, clean up and put everything away before getting out the next
ingredients and starting the next part of the meal. We eventually upgraded the kitchen to a more modern
look with new refrigerator, granite countertops and tile backsplash but no
additional counter space. Then we sold the house.
In
Dubai we lived in a luxurious apartment on the 22nd floor
overlooking the Arabian Sea for two years. It was brand new with large rooms, picture windows, tile
floors, plenty of closets, modern everything including kitchen. As I soon discovered the kitchen was
more for show and not designed for cooking in. Most people in these apartments ate out. A one-person space,
the kitchen had sleek black granite countertops that showed every speck of dirt,
a small refrigerator, gas stove, a microwave and no pantry space or storage
space. Then we retired to
Asheville and a comfortable townhouse with a spacious kitchen designed in the
perect triangle as kitchens should be.
I marvel that it has taken me 40 years of married life to get here.
Adding
a new “top of the line” gas stove to this kitchen feels like a prize well
earned over many years. And it’s
because I don’t take it for granted that I am excited, as most people would not
be about simply adding a new appliance to the many we all seem to already have
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