The other day I found myself, sitting in a Korean restaurant in Palisades Park, eating a remarkable meal - Bibimbap with Bulgogi, in other words a bowl of warm rice and mixed vegetables topped with barbecued beef. And while eating, I am reading James Beard's chapter on Pies and Pastry in his bible of American cooking, American Cookery. This juxtaposition of Beard's treatise on the American pie and my Korean lunch seems like a metaphor for the circumstances of my life.
I am a white guy, an Anglo-Canadian from the English part of Montreal, firmly rooted in Northern European culture and traditions and married to a Filippino man, the son of two immigrants who began life in the mountains of Cebu in the central Philippines. These days food is one of the things that is both a bridge between our worlds and a barrier I must cross.
The other day I took a cooking class at ICE, the Institute for Culinary Education, on 23rd Street in New York City. It was called the American Pie Workshop and was taught by a delightful knowledgable woman who was formerly the pastry chef at Craft - impressive credential. This was my first cooking class here in the United States, in the past I've just taken classes while traveling. Frankly I didn't learn much in that Pie Workshop. I am actually a really good pie maker, thanks to a lifetime of great pies and pie making lessons from my mother who is an ace with a roller pin. I did learn a few tricks and techniques in the class but more importantly it opened my eyes to the rewards and opportunities of pie making, though it seemed to me that some of the recipes used in the class were not worthy of a Craft pastry chef. For me, a pile of berries and sugar on a mountain of cream and mascarpone does not make a great pie. I am a fan of the classics, a great sweet and tart two crust farm fresh raspberry pie, a creamy-mealy Southern lemon chess pie or my spring favorite, a rhubarb custard pie. All of these creations involve a certain amount - OK copious amounts - of butter, a bunch of sugar and maybe a bit of cream - all staples of the WASP kitchen. In the eight years Rich and I have been together, I have made lots of pies, and we have enjoyed most everyone of them. I think he fell in love with me over a succession of my raspberry pies.
At the turn of the year, the winds of change blew a chilly blast across my kitchen counter. Just before Christmas, Rich and I saw Forks Over Knives, a fascinating movie about the health benefits of a plant based diet. While I found it interesting and informative - the usual tepid WASP reaction to things - Rich saw it as a wake up call. And so just as I was unpacking the butter based leftovers from our Christmas turkey dinner on December 26, the specter of the vegetarian lifestyle loomed. That night was the opening salvo in the plant wars - out came Rich's black bean casserole and steamed kale, while my turkey with stuffing and gravy, candied yams and brussels sprouts and chestnuts in butter stayed in fridge.
This is not what I had signed up for on the altar when we were married last September 30. Didn't our wedding vows say something about regular servings of meat? As it happens, the specter of vegetarianism turned into the nightmare of veganism. Rich waited a day or two to give me the full picture of his new eating plans. It was going to be the full plant based program. Just as we were kissing my famous roast chicken and moist roast tenderloin goodbye, so too we were saying farewell to our Sunday breakfast staples, scrambled eggs and my buttermilk current scones.
The thing is, I am the cook in our kitchen. I usually set the agenda, work out the menu, make the meals - it was I who feed us and our frequent dinner guests. With Rich's embrace of the vegan path, the picture has changed. My lunch in Palisades Park speaks to my moods and feelings - I'm pulled in several directions. These days I am trying to perfect my pies while at the same time exploring new tastes and new foods that this WASPish Canadian never experienced before.
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