I am sure that many of you have watched at least one of those countless cooking shows on cable. There are nearly as many of them as there are countless home remodeling shows on cable.
Joanne was hooked on those home fixer-upper shows. Hooked hard. I was hoping that after her discharge from rehab for her HGTV addiction we would return to more "normal" television viewing habits. You know--football, NASCAR, football, Mayberry RFD, and football. But sure enough, two weeks after she was released, she discovered those countless cooking channels and once again the marathon viewing sessions consumed her. The Property Brothers and Love It or List It were replaced by Rachael Ray, Cutthroat Kitchen, Emeril, and the ever-popular Julia Child reruns on some obscure triple-digit cable channel.
But, I will concede, she is learning some awesome culinary skills from those quintessential cooks. Our DVR is programmed to record all of them in perpetuity. It has been maxed-out for months now because she cannot bear to delete even one commercial-riddled episode. If it can be souffléd, sautéd, filleted, boiled, broiled, roasted or toasted, she has it recorded.
She especially enjoys watching vintage Julia Child episodes where Miss Julia creates her signature French concoctions. Now that Joanne is an accomplished French chef (she awarded herself that title after she successfully prepared French toast one morning for breakfast), she enlightened me that French cooks manipulate seasonings and flavorings in much the same way that a conductor controls a symphony orchestra. I had no idea what that meant.
A while back she spent the better part of a Saturday morning preparing a four-course French dinner. She couldn't come up with a fifth. She jumped out of bed early (read: before noon) and proudly announced that she would be creating (not cooking, mind you--"creating") soupe a l'oignon, céleries braisés, and le gigot qui pleure. And for dessert, her pièce de résistance--gateau de marrons au chocolat.
I wasn't sure what any of that was, but it sounded delicious. Especially that part about chocolat. But you know the French. They can tell you that they are "creating" hot dogs and it will sound something like pieds de porc Ste. Menehould. They will fry it in a river of butter and drown it in a sea of la sauce Béarnaise.
She sent me out to get a nice red wine for the meal. I returned with a 12-pack of Miller Lite and a gallon of Mogen David Concord. I returned much earlier than she expected, and spied her, I swear, with a small baton that she was flailing about over a sizzling and steaming kitchen cacophony.
Last week the countless cooking shows all ran their Thanksgiving Specials. Rachael had some sort of turkey smothered in almonds and peaches, Julia had canards aux navets roasting in the oven. Joanne said that the French are big fans of canards at holiday time. That's French for duckling. After viewing all of the Thanksgiving Specials on the DVR, she settled on Emeril's deep-fat-fried turkey with okra, shrimp, and filé stuffing. And of course his signature bacon-wrapped bean bundles in red wine sauce.
We rose early on Thanksgiving morning and Joanne danced her way into the kitchen, ready to whip up Emeril's Cajun Thanksgiving Extravaganza. She carefully pre-measured all of the ingredients and arranged them in order of usage on every available square inch of counter space in our small kitchen. She likes to have everything measured and ready just like the battalion of set assistants do for Emeril.
It was nearly noon, and she was ready to go. Then I heard it. A bloodcurdling scream drowned out my game on TV. I raced into the kitchen to see what the heck was wrong. In her enthusiasm to get everything just right, Joanne forgot to buy one critical ingredient: the turkey.
I was immediately dispatched to Kroger, hoping they had at least one turkey left in the store. Oh--and a fresh turkey, mind you! No frozen turkey for Emeril's Extravaganza. I was in luck ... one lonely turkey laid in repose in the cooler. I had to arm-wrestle some guy in his red plaid jammie pants for it. I did a victory dance out to my pickup, dropped the tailgate, and tossed the fresh bird in the back.
I was about four blocks from our house when I heard the tires screeching behind me. Somehow my tailgate had flopped down (I had been meaning to fix the dang thing) and the fresh turkey tumbled to the asphalt. Some big Suburban riding my bumper swerved to miss it, but like a lumbering ocean liner, couldn't respond in time. Joanne's fresh turkey looked more like fresh roadkill.
I carried it into the kitchen and held the mashed carcass in my arms. I could still see tire tracks on its fractured neck. I was trembling, certain that I was going to be (once again) on the receiving end of Joanne's rage. Miraculously, she just grabbed the thing and flopped it on the counter. She handed me a Miller Lite and sent me back to my game.
Later that evening, after several glasses of Mogen David, our guests raved about Joanne's avant-garde French Thanksgiving creation. After they left, she told me that she remembered Julia's 1971 episode on Tourte à la dinde--turkey pot pie!
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Bill Rausch is a freelance writer from Little Rock. Email him at williamrausch25@yahoo.com.
Editorial on 11/27/2014