Willie The Wimp
As a child I was an incredibly picky eater. Then teenage years came, when I would gorge on anything. I was ravenous for the next five years, hungry at all times and ready to ingest anything new. Except hot spices!
For my first year at university, I opted to live in residence. Great idea socially but, as to sustenance, the cafeteria was a disgrace. I quickly learned to boycott breakfast as nothing but various colours of rubber were served up. I would remove the cap of the saltshaker and dump a pile of sodium onto the crap that they served up for lunch and dinner.
With four of my friends we decided to rent a house off campus for our second year. These guys had all been out on their own for a few years, so they were experienced in the kitchen. My expertise there was quite limited to grilled cheese sandwiches and mini pizzas. Their culinary delights came with a price, if I was to eat their results. They all liked hot spices. One buddy had posted a vertical poster in the kitchen, akin to a child’s grow chart, which listed in increasing order the hottest spices. Those wing nuts would mark off what they had tried with pride, trying to outdo each other. I was given the nickname of “Willie The Wimp” as I refused to be drawn into their crazy culinary creations.
At this point, I read an article about hot spices. They were, and still are, used in hot climates to mask the taste of meat gone bad. Plus, the pain of the spice would increase the body producing endorphins that made for a “high”. Thus, I understood the junkie-like habits of my friends. Always looking for the ultimate high.
This was my impetus to learn how to cook for myself. In using subtle spices to bring out the nuances of the food. This became my enjoyment of cooking.
A couple of months ago, a good friend visited me and I took him to one of my favourite restaurants. He went through several courses: appetizers, soup, entrée then desert. He asked for Tobasco sauce, Worcestshire Sauce, mustard, “anything hot the kitchen has”. I reminded him that I brought him to this establishment because of the culinary talents of the owner and staff. He ignored me, as he slavered the accoutrements all over his first three courses. I finally stated, “I could serve you dogshit with all this crap over it and you would love it, right?” He nodded in agreement, as he shoveled in the hot stuff.
For my first year at university, I opted to live in residence. Great idea socially but, as to sustenance, the cafeteria was a disgrace. I quickly learned to boycott breakfast as nothing but various colours of rubber were served up. I would remove the cap of the saltshaker and dump a pile of sodium onto the crap that they served up for lunch and dinner.
With four of my friends we decided to rent a house off campus for our second year. These guys had all been out on their own for a few years, so they were experienced in the kitchen. My expertise there was quite limited to grilled cheese sandwiches and mini pizzas. Their culinary delights came with a price, if I was to eat their results. They all liked hot spices. One buddy had posted a vertical poster in the kitchen, akin to a child’s grow chart, which listed in increasing order the hottest spices. Those wing nuts would mark off what they had tried with pride, trying to outdo each other. I was given the nickname of “Willie The Wimp” as I refused to be drawn into their crazy culinary creations.
At this point, I read an article about hot spices. They were, and still are, used in hot climates to mask the taste of meat gone bad. Plus, the pain of the spice would increase the body producing endorphins that made for a “high”. Thus, I understood the junkie-like habits of my friends. Always looking for the ultimate high.
This was my impetus to learn how to cook for myself. In using subtle spices to bring out the nuances of the food. This became my enjoyment of cooking.
A couple of months ago, a good friend visited me and I took him to one of my favourite restaurants. He went through several courses: appetizers, soup, entrée then desert. He asked for Tobasco sauce, Worcestshire Sauce, mustard, “anything hot the kitchen has”. I reminded him that I brought him to this establishment because of the culinary talents of the owner and staff. He ignored me, as he slavered the accoutrements all over his first three courses. I finally stated, “I could serve you dogshit with all this crap over it and you would love it, right?” He nodded in agreement, as he shoveled in the hot stuff.
posted by Musings from Idle Acres | 6:33 p.m.
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