This is what happens when a girl’s doctor discovers what she sort of does for a living (eat) and starts worrying about her cholesterol and blood pressure:
She comes upon a recipe for maple-bacon ice-cream calling for 12 large egg yolks.
And gosh darn it, she makes it.
One might speculate that there are many reasons for this occurrence — a deep-seated stubbornness, a misguided rebellion, a determination to cling to the belief of invincibility, the attempt to give the specter of death the big, well, you know.
But perhaps the reason is far, far simpler. (This is what she chooses to believe.) This ice-cream has bacon in it. Who wouldn’t want to try making it? Continue reading →
Years ago, I heard a sports writer complain about how he used to love sports — until he started writing about it.
Once it became a job, he all but stopped watching games on weekends. The thing that he adored had morphed into stress-inducer.
I remember feeling aghast — you get paid to write about something you love. Isn’t that more than many people dream of?
Recently, however, I’ve started to understand. After spending weeks with my nose buried deep in my book manuscript — which is all about a journey home to my native Singapore told through food and cooking — my time in the kitchen has become, simply, work. Meals have been thrown together out of sheer necessity; easy old faithfuls rather than new creative dishes have been making far too many appearances on the dinner table.
The stress of writing and editing my hundreds of pages on food, sadly, had transformed my love for cooking into a source of anxiety.
But I only realized I’d forgotten how to enjoy the act of making food when my Let’s Lunch friends nudged me back into the kitchen — not to put a meal on the table but to whip up something silly and anything but practical: A decadent chilled dessert.