Karl Klockars

In something of a subset to my $7 Stimulus plan (which I just put into effect an hour ago with a $7 bowl of pho from Pho 777 on Argyle – place was empty, except for family, proving my point) I’ve noticed something else interesting about my recessionary culinarianism.*

I am cooking like absolutely crazy.

As evidence, I submit to the jury the large burn on my arm (soon to be a scar, which we all know chicks dig) which I recieved after running it into the top of a 500 degree oven after messing around with a pizza.  A pizza constructed of homemade crust, homemade pizza sauce, sliced mushrooms, chopped broccoli, and supercheap deli mozzeralla.  And you’d best believe that since then I’ve looked into how to make my own mozzarella.

If you had told me last year that all I had to do in order to be a better cook, all I’d have to do was to be next to broke, I probably would have deferred to being better fed in restaurants, and tolerating my average jambalaya.  Occasional forays into things like soup and cookies would still be attempted on the weekends, but for the most part we would probably still be heavy on the mac n’ cheese.

So whereas my bank account and debts don’t thank you, Mr. Lack of Income, my need to remain well-fed does.

Just as necessity is the mother of invention, necessity also has a king-hell appetite and apparently in my case, needs to be fed in a great and splendiforous way.  So if one can figure out how to throw together a damned good tenderloin steak with a potato gratin with a salad on the side featuring a bacon vinaigrette and a poached egg for about $8 a head?  More power to me.

If the new Cook’s Illustrated inspires me to go out and get crazy with $12 worth of pantry ingredients and burn off an afternoon getting deep into a recipe for blueberry muffins, including making my own jam for the first time in this boy’s existence, then damnit, that’s how you’re going to spend your Saturday.

And if the gratin means you’ve got parmesan in the fridge, and if the muffin recipe called for heavy cream, that means you’re throwing together an alfredo recipe just because you can.  If I’m drinking less but still getting fatter, maybe it’s time to step away from the heavy dairy and stick to skim for the time being.  Or I should just get to running to the store instead of walking.

My friends who judge the passing of their lives by the fading of their tattoos can keep the ink of the vomiting leprechauns on their calves to themselves, but think I understand a little more of where they’re coming from.  The ever growing contingency of scar tissue on my fingers and forearms also serves as a reminder of kitchen adventures I have known.  I might not have the scratch pulled together to go down to the super-authentic Neopolitan pizza place, but at least I can scorch the hell out of myself trying to live a little bit of it at home.

Regardless of where my belt notches, at least going forward I’ll have one thing to take away from this winter of financial discontent.  I’ll be the annoying guy at your barbecue this summer demanding that the grill be arranged for indirect heat, scoffing at your marinade and trying to promote the process of low-heat steak cooking.  Before you decide to pre-hate me, please let me point out that I’ll still have a bottle of High Life on hand.

*If this wasn’t a word before, it is now.