Thursday, September 24, 2009

The depths to which my culinary abilities are capable of sinking have been well documented, to be sure, but tonight I submit to the jury that redemption is possible, even now. My newfound resolve stems more from boredom than anything else, because pasta can only satisfy for so long until you wish to transcend it. Here’s my plan of escape, starting with some stipulations.

I will only use the kitchen equipment I currently possess: oven, stovetop, pot, pan, and a tomato knife. The prospect of purchasing a blender, toaster, measuring spoons, baking trays, mixing bowls, and all that other shit isn’t remotely appealing. The initial focus will be solely on sandwiches, and I assure you it will be a narrow reading on the subject. That means no wraps and unequivocally no panini, but more on this later. We’re talking good old-fashioned bread, hot or cold. So it is written, so shall it be done, and if the Earl is somehow reading this, know that whether you actually invented the sandwich matters not. You’re about to get served.

Certainly taste will be a key criterion. Texture, though, will be equally important. It’s the feel of the sandwich–its heft, how its ingredients are layered, the full sensorial experience. And it’s got to be honest as well. Allow me to illustrate. I saw someone walk out of the supermarket the other day, carton of soy milk in hand, and I marveled over why I never asked myself one simple question: How exactly do you milk a soybean? Precisely. You can’t. It’s unnatural. Suspect. Panini, much along the same lines, just seem untrustworthy. They’re slight. Unctuous. In the wide world of food, I imagine they sport handlebar mustaches, wear frilly button-down shirts, and need to be punched in their faces.

Taste and texture won’t be enough, however. I’ll need sage guidance, and to this end I’m looking to Martha Stewart and her trove of recipes. It’s the persona. You just know she could simultaneously design a fantastic meal and architect your grisly demise in some darkened alleyway before the crème’s even been brûlèe’d, all the while wearing that inscrutable demeanor. The stint in prison merely seals the deal. I bet she knows how to make a shiv! Like, a really nice-looking one. It’s that rare quadrant where homemade edged weaponry intersects with macramé, and the world may be better for it.