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May 26th, 2005
I'm sitting in bed reading a cookbook and missing Steve Doughton. (I seem to recall Martin Amis citing the reading of cookbooks in bed by wives as a reason to dissolve a marriage). So much of the pleasure of cooking is dependent on the enthusiasm of those who eat the food you have prepared. Steve is a very excited diner and I find myself cooking less, partly because of work, but also because he now lives on another coast. The work thing is very disappointing. You work in a restaurant and you never cook a meal. I cook for the dog, she is a selective diner and I’m still figuring out her preferences, but when I present her with a bowl that she devours it reminds me of feeding Steve. There is pride, delight, and a very fundamental pleasure in nourishing another creature. Christine laughed at me when I told her this, “hah, I used to cook for Guthrie too.” I haven’t been able to locate a piece of mutton (old sheep) in Manhattan. We fed this to our dogs and to ourselves in Ireland, it is good, inexpensive protein that can be rendered delicious with a pressure cooker. Where do all the old sheep go?