Recently I read a blog by a pretty popular homebrewer about how he uses miller light to test new varieties of hops before throwing them into full batches of beer. Using a bland, familiar base to become acquainted with an unknown variable seemed like a brilliant idea to me and I made a quick note to try this out some time. A few days later it dawned on me that this is precisely the method I used to work my way through my mother's spice rack as a teen.
When my friend Dustin was visiting a few weeks ago he kept poking me about how I plan meals, how I think about cooking, and why I wasn't using a recipe. As usual, I shrugged and probably gave an unhelpful and sarcastic answer. I have a few good cookbooks (Joy of Cooking is my jam) and obviously an internet brimming with shitty advice, but mostly this goes ignored or lightly-referenced. There are a handful of tried-and-true recipes that Ann has faithfully transcribed but I couldn't tell you where she keeps "our" cookbook. When I'm in the kitchen, it's like a sloppier version of lab Bryan. Constant experimentation and trial and error both in cooking methods and spices used, which has only grown exponentially with this weird gardening kick I've been on lately. Seasoning my tomato sauce or sauteed vegetables pretty much depends on what looks bushy on my porch, or what I know works with zucchini. I guess my cooking modus operandi is essentially as a mad scientist who should really write more down.
That was certainly how it started out. I would have to feed myself lunch most summer days from my family's immensely overstocked kitchen with very little oversight and almost no knowledge of basic cooking techniques. I don't think I even liked onions at this point. Looking back now, I realize that you pretty much can't make shit without onions.
So I made ramen.
I don't know how quickly you moved out of your ramen phase, but if you're like most normal adults it's probably been awhile. Ramen gets old fast, so I had to be resourceful. I'd tear through and de-alphabetize our spice rack until I tried every sad, crusted McCormick's spice we owned. Then I'd move through the fridge and pantry to utilize odd leftovers or canned tuna. I ate some really terrible soup most days. But some days I made something decent, or at least edible, learning my likes and dislikes as well as pairings that were appealing. None of this was particularly conscious I suppose, considering I'd never considered the implications of these shenanigans until recently but I think it left a lasting impact nevertheless. The more basic varieties of ramen are simply cheap noodles plus cheap stock in the form of bullion powder. It's a 25 cent essence of any soup out there.
I never would have thought cloves and beef broth belonged in the same pot together, and yet it's the base for every stew I've made since. Same goes for thyme and chicken. Perhaps more imporantly, the low-rent broth is so familiar it can be ignored in favor of herbs I have no experience with and am not sure why they ended up in my cart or garden. Siam queen basil and lemon balm sound nice enough, but I'd have to blow a pot of soup to find out if I'm right or not. Unless of course that soup cost about as much as the water that went into it.
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