An Cooking

As promised I've been experimenting again with my favorite gluten-free bread recipe. This latest incarnation is my husband's new favorite. Why? It features cornmeal. I learned a long time ago that cornmeal (and polenta) warmed the cockles of his heart. So I bake with it every chance I get. This bread was tender and soft enough for sandwiches. Delicious flavor. The cornmeal gives it a mild and almost grainy texture without overpowering it. It's not heavy. And it toasts up like a crunchy golden dream.

This part- the crunchy toast part- is why I perseverate in gluten-free baking. Because no matter how old I get (and I hate to tell you, I've got a milestone number waiting for me in June that is scaring the juniper pollen infested daylights outa me!) I crave the simplest of foods.

Like toast.

It's my go-to all time favorite form of culinary bliss. I kid you not. My tastes are childhood simple. That fancy-schmancy stuff folks swoon over captures my attention for maybe a minute. Haute food is pretty and all, but. I've read Kitchen Confidential. I know what they're up to in there, behind those greasy swinging doors. I know not to order fish on a Monday. And I know that even at the famous Rainbow Room food gets dropped on the floor. And re-plated.

Not to mention, they puts gobs of butter and salt and sugar in everything. Everything. Like, crazy. And they par-cook and make stuff ahead of time- hours ahead of time- so that when you show up hungry on an early- not too busy- Sunday evening, with a simple request such as, May I have (fill-in-the-blank) prepared without butter or dairy? the waiter grimaces and spins off toward the kitchen with a wiggle of disapproval only to return and tell you, The Chef will make you a special plate. And you exhale with relief.

You think, Margarita time.

When the dinners arrive, your husband is greeted with a heaping platter of grilled shrimp and garlic on greens and savory dirty rice and your son is presented with the mouthwatering carnitas and warm tortillas and calabasitas. And you. You are given a gleaming white dinner plate with enough dry broccoli and cauliflower tops to choke a horse. A big steaming horse. Except that a horse wouldn't be interested enough to risk the whole choking thing.

Horses are pretty smart.

I think I audibly gasped in horror (you don't want to know, Darling what that much Brassicaceae would do to a girl like me). The server kept his eyes down and skulked away. The waiter ignored us the rest of the night. I suspect he knew enough to know that charging $23.95 for a plate of broccoli and cauliflower tops was a tad passive aggressive on the Chef's part. Maybe he thought I was a rich and trendy [insert fad diet of the week] kind of girl. It was Santa Monica, after all. And the saddest part of this story is the punch line. Where this took place. The Border Grill.

Yeah. Those Two Hot Tamales girls. Who are wonderful cooks. And whose gracious Chef Ishmael served up a lovely, safe dinner for me the last time we were visiting Hell-A. He must have been off that night. Watching No Reservations. Or maybe he moved on to another gig. (Hey, Chef Ishmael- where are you Bubbe? It's not the same without you.)