Over winter break, I got into a daily habit of watching Barefoot Contessa.
For those who haven’t experienced the East Hampton treasure that is Ina Garten, I’ll try to capture her persona. Ina is a former staff member of the White House Office of Management and Budget. Her aura of nurturing competence has easily transferred over to the even more crucial role of instructing Food Network viewers to use “GOOD olive oil” and posing the rhetorical question, “How easy was that?” after laying out an impressive, highly involved spread of club sandwiches, warm brie and roasted chicken. She loves visiting her local seafood market, sending her delightful husband Jeffery to make cheese, and throws at least one garden party a day. Rumor has it she owns thirty of the same denim shirt.
I think she’s wonderful. (This is a polarizing opinion; I revealed this to my friend and she had an extremely passionate response—“You can hear her breathing! It’s so annoying! I can’t!” It’s a dispute that’s yet to be resolved). And even though her cuisine is angled more toward the “home entertainer with a lot of time on their hands and pots of herbs on their kitchen windowsill,” she is my Food Network icon. I’ve been watching the Food Network since elementary school, when I probably had to decide between watching Hannah Montana and Alton Brown’s classic Good Eats on many a night. I get overly involved in creating hypothetical menus with the Chopped mystery ingredients and constantly vocalize my desire for Pioneer Woman Ree Drummond to be my mom to my own mother (who approves), but I have chosen this heavy-breathing domestic diva to be my guide to gourmet food.
Wanting to become this vision of culinary finesse was a symptom of becoming more adult and preparing for college, I think. I decided that I wanted to be the type of person who throws dinner parties with refined menus and tables full of sunflowers, fresh bread and votive candles for her young professional friends. Not only could I become the consummate hostess and lead a resurgence in hospitality, I thought, but I could also pick up a skill entirely necessary for my survival in the world. Cooking can be both practical and impressive. Basically, it shows that you’ve got your shit together.
So with Ina Garten’s hearty laughter echoing in my head, I set out to make roasted shrimp, creamy pastas, and fresh tacos to mark my entrance into the adult world. Juggling saucepans and pots on the stove, chopping cilantro, crying over red onions and assuring my parents that I knew what I was doing (thank you very much) made me feel self sufficient and savvy—especially when I recounted my home cooking escapades like Ina does at the start of her show. Usually her voiceover monologues are about food blogger friends coming to visit, but mine was more along the lines of “So I invited my parents over to their own house this evening to try my triple berry sauce but first we’re going to share chicken in mustard sauce that I’ll inevitably over-salt!”
I was starting to live the barefoot dream. All I needed at this point was an oversized chambray shirt and Food Network would have no choice but to option the revival of my childhood home video production “Cooking With Sarah” (which serves as evidence that this Food Network dreams go back to my Easy Bake Oven days!).
But then I had to go back to college, and all that flew out the window. The most creative I can get with food at Brown is to put toppings from the yogurt bar on my pancakes and make disappointing peanut butter crackers out of Saltines and Skippy. I tried to be adventurous last semester when I made a pie with my friends after we wandered into East Side Marketplace at 10 PM and saw pre-made crust. I smuggled cinnamon and honey out of the Ratty in a to-go cup the next day, which should have been some sign that we were in over our heads. I think we got the message when we all cut our fingers, struggling to slice the apples with the blunt knife someone had lying around. It ended up fine, and was quickly devoured by my floor-mates once they saw me carrying it back to my room. But I’ve barely used a microwave since.
I suppose college isn’t the time to emulate a sixty eight-year-old celebrity chef, no matter how magical her life of beach picnics and horderves seems. I have midnight quesadillas and pasta Thursdays for the next few years—that is magical enough for me. But one day, I hope to throw a garden party (or at least, an apartment party) that gives the illusion that I have my life together. One day, I will say—yes Ina, how easy was that!? And one day, I will send my husband Jeffery to the butcher’s so I can prepare his favorite beef stroganoff.
But for now, I’ll listen to another one of Ina’s axioms: store bought—or rather, dining hall fair—is fine.
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