On Cooking
by Joe George
Three-Cheese Barley Pizza with Shrimp, Broccoli, & Tomato-Carrot Sauce |
I woke this morning on my day off to find not only gray skies with low-lying clouds, but also melancholy running through me like a slow undertow. As often is the case when these moods arise I need to do something with my hands; I need to create. While I dabble with various creative outlets, my most comfortable one is cooking. Carl Jung wrote that creativity is an instinct, not an optional gift granted to a lucky few. I feel blessed that I recognize this innate urge.
After my third cup of coffee almost unconsciously I chop an onion, a carrot, and then a few garlic cloves, marveling that they grew underground nestled in the cool earth while their aboveground shoots reached for the sun. I sauté the onion and carrot in olive oil first, bringing out their sweetness, then the garlic, adding a pinch of crushed hot pepper and whole fennel seed just before the garlic browns. When I pour tomato puree into the pan it initially sputters and splashes like it’s alive and rebeling against the heat.
I’ve been asked if I, as someone who cooks for a living, ever get tired of cooking. Yes and no. Yes, I find working and everyday life exhausting, but no, I don’t tire of cooking. Sometimes when working as kitchen manager as I do now or as chef as I have in the past, food becomes a product. A product that moves from point A (the back door) to point B (the customer’s plate), and like any product it has a price tag on it. At work there are costs to worry about, staffing issues, etc. But at home cooking can be therapy.
There’s a bread starter bubbling away on my counter that I put together the night prior with barley water, flour, and a pinch of yeast. I add cooked barley to it, along with more flour and a little salt. Instead of using an electric mixer as I usually do, I knead the dough by hand. The dough feels good in my fingers, and as I push and pull on it, stretching and aligning its gluten, I can feel my own muscles straining against its resistance. I revel in the fact that, other than commercial yeast, this dough is made pretty much the same as it has for millennia.
After the dough rises I fold it inward and pause just for a moment to reflect inwardly myself. Then I refrigerate the dough to slow its fermentation. Somehow this is comforting to me, imagining that I am in control of something. I leave the dough to rest while I go to the health club, and while I swim I imagine the yeast multiplying and populating the dough, creating air pockets and rising.
I’ve always taken a somewhat contemplative approach to cooking, wanting to know about the food’s history, origin, and etymology. And when I take the dough out of the refrigerator and it is fully risen, it looks beautiful. Bread has been used as a symbol in many ways and referred to by many names, but the one that comes to mind as I hold the raw dough in my hand is an Arabic one, ayshe, which simply means life.
After rolling the dough flat, I top it with sauce, shrimp, cheese, and broccoli, and then put it in the refrigerator to rest while I pick up my son from school. Later, after baking it, we watch Seinfeld reruns and eat the pizza. I can’t help but analyze the pizza as I eat it: noting the sweetness of the shrimp and sauce, and how the barley that caramelized around the edges adds a nice texture. During a commercial my son, with a gleam in his eye, remarks that it’s really good. The commercial ends and we go back to eating pizza and watching the program. It is really good, I think to myself. Everything is really good.
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