I enjoy thinking about this. I enjoy it because I’m not as good at making stuff as I am at making stuff look good in photos, and even with photos I’d rather take a few shots and say, “Eh, good enough,” than go get some ring lights etc and make really quality stuff. I’m okay with that; I’m happy being true to myself. I’m not going to spend 3 days making cassoulet when I can make a simple stew in half a day. I’m not going to cure my own brisket for pastrami. I’m lazy.
On the other hand, there is beauty in simplicity, and not everything that is authentic is also complicated. Italian pasta sauces can be Sunday sauce, or they can be tomato, basil, and garlic. And just because I’m lazy doesn’t mean that I’ll settle for “good enough” when excellence isn’t that far away. Which is one of the nice things about bbq: learn your tools, learn your meat, learn your process, and really good Q is simple. I’m going to stop short of calling it easy, but I want to say that it is. But if I do that, my next Q will be jinxed.
And that brings me to something I want to share, a recipe for Persian Meatballs that came in my social media feed. Take a minute and look it over…. Okay. Done? Good.
Now, I thought about this. And you know what? That would probably taste pretty good. It might not be very authentic, but it’s going to be a good meal. But will it be as good as these Persian Meatballs? Or these? I picked those randomly, there are thousands of choices out there; and even the ones I linked take the convenience step of using spice blends rather than having the spices on hand. Having them on hand gets expensive if you don’t live in the Middle East! But you get the idea. It’s not authentic, but it’s also not especially convenient; convenient would be buying a frozen Persian Meatball dinner! It’s in between. You make it, and there’s some technique, and you kinda-hafta know what you’re doing. But it isn’t hard, or complicated, and it’s going to taste good… it will be good enough.
So I’m tossed, a little bit. What’s the goal here? Is there a target? What’s the payoff? Brillat-Savarin, in The Physiology of Taste, ruminated on the paradox of the art of gastronomy; it is the only art that is intended to be destroyed, and so it leaves the participant satisfied, but also a bit sad. The more work, the more risk; the more risk, the better the food; the better the food, the more astonishment at the brilliance of the art, but also the more of the letdown knowing it is over… the only delight being the memory of the experience and the knowledge that there are more experiences like it waiting!
This, I think, is why we love hosting guests. If I make something incredibly complex, nail it, and feed the two of us, that’s a win, but it’s also over, we’re still going to watch Wheel of Fortune, and I still have to do the dishes. The food was incredible, but it was dropped into the middle of humdrum, daily life. But if I host a bbq with family and friends, there is the anticipation, the planning, the greeting, the friendship and stories and sharing and laughter, then the great food… and an immense feeling of satisfaction. It was a hell of a lot of work, but the payoff was worth it.
So now it cycles back to the original musing, on convenience, authenticity, and in between. Every one of us decides where to draw what have to be shifting lines, lines that shift based on the circumstances. And some things are worth learning in depth. I can spend a Sunday afternoon and make a Sunday sauce that’s as good as anyone’s: I put the work in, I messed it up a couple times, I figured it out, and now I’m pretty confident with it. The payoff is going to exceed the investment, even if the next step is watching WoF. (Plus it freezes well, and makes so much sauce that we can have it once a month for probably 6 months.) Same with a few other things. But mostly, for me, I work at making simple stuff well. Simple stuff good. I recognize and understand the cliche of being an old retired guy pretending to be good at something; I embrace that. I want to be the best cliche I can possibly be. When it’s all said and done, I want the food to taste good. Because the food either tastes good, or it doesn’t. That is the only thing that is relevant.
On the other hand, there is beauty in simplicity, and not everything that is authentic is also complicated. Italian pasta sauces can be Sunday sauce, or they can be tomato, basil, and garlic. And just because I’m lazy doesn’t mean that I’ll settle for “good enough” when excellence isn’t that far away. Which is one of the nice things about bbq: learn your tools, learn your meat, learn your process, and really good Q is simple. I’m going to stop short of calling it easy, but I want to say that it is. But if I do that, my next Q will be jinxed.
And that brings me to something I want to share, a recipe for Persian Meatballs that came in my social media feed. Take a minute and look it over…. Okay. Done? Good.
Now, I thought about this. And you know what? That would probably taste pretty good. It might not be very authentic, but it’s going to be a good meal. But will it be as good as these Persian Meatballs? Or these? I picked those randomly, there are thousands of choices out there; and even the ones I linked take the convenience step of using spice blends rather than having the spices on hand. Having them on hand gets expensive if you don’t live in the Middle East! But you get the idea. It’s not authentic, but it’s also not especially convenient; convenient would be buying a frozen Persian Meatball dinner! It’s in between. You make it, and there’s some technique, and you kinda-hafta know what you’re doing. But it isn’t hard, or complicated, and it’s going to taste good… it will be good enough.
So I’m tossed, a little bit. What’s the goal here? Is there a target? What’s the payoff? Brillat-Savarin, in The Physiology of Taste, ruminated on the paradox of the art of gastronomy; it is the only art that is intended to be destroyed, and so it leaves the participant satisfied, but also a bit sad. The more work, the more risk; the more risk, the better the food; the better the food, the more astonishment at the brilliance of the art, but also the more of the letdown knowing it is over… the only delight being the memory of the experience and the knowledge that there are more experiences like it waiting!
This, I think, is why we love hosting guests. If I make something incredibly complex, nail it, and feed the two of us, that’s a win, but it’s also over, we’re still going to watch Wheel of Fortune, and I still have to do the dishes. The food was incredible, but it was dropped into the middle of humdrum, daily life. But if I host a bbq with family and friends, there is the anticipation, the planning, the greeting, the friendship and stories and sharing and laughter, then the great food… and an immense feeling of satisfaction. It was a hell of a lot of work, but the payoff was worth it.
So now it cycles back to the original musing, on convenience, authenticity, and in between. Every one of us decides where to draw what have to be shifting lines, lines that shift based on the circumstances. And some things are worth learning in depth. I can spend a Sunday afternoon and make a Sunday sauce that’s as good as anyone’s: I put the work in, I messed it up a couple times, I figured it out, and now I’m pretty confident with it. The payoff is going to exceed the investment, even if the next step is watching WoF. (Plus it freezes well, and makes so much sauce that we can have it once a month for probably 6 months.) Same with a few other things. But mostly, for me, I work at making simple stuff well. Simple stuff good. I recognize and understand the cliche of being an old retired guy pretending to be good at something; I embrace that. I want to be the best cliche I can possibly be. When it’s all said and done, I want the food to taste good. Because the food either tastes good, or it doesn’t. That is the only thing that is relevant.
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