I've managed to cook in four Swedish kitchens now. It's hard to document the kitchen coups because I'm always fussing over the food. But I'll try to give you some snapshots.
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The guests:
The editor
The style writer
The musician
The nurse
A 9 yr old
A 4 yr old
A 2 yr old
The kitchen: an eat-in family kitchen, mostly white, with tall ceilings and a short green Smeg refrigerator. Induction stove, 4 burners. Big empty slot under the counter, currently the 4 yr old and 2 yr old's favorite hiding place, soon to be the slot for the new mini-dishwasher. A silver lamp arches widely over the kitchen table like a shiny basketball in mid-toss. The table is set with a pair of white Tripp Trapps, the Scandinavian high chair of choice.
The coup: Six sea bream halves. Bones-in, skin-on. They have no heads, and yet they stare back at me, gray, dull. What now, boss?
The plan: Chinese-style steamed fish. I try to put the sea bream on a plate. But the plate will not fit in the steaming pot. I try another plate. And another pot. And another plate. And another pan. The editor and the style writer are pulling out kitchen cupboard keys, unlocking cabinets, climbing onto chairs. "We always think we have too much stuff."
We borrow a bigger pot from a neighbor. But the editor and style writer's kitchen has an induction stove, and the pot refuses to heat up. I put my All-Clad underneath the borrowed pot. Like magic, the induction burner lights up.
The guests will arrive soon. I am dubious. The fish is going to put up a fight, I know it. I stuff the fish with ginger, cilantro, dainty straws of Chinese celery, to shut it up.
Gentle steam, check. Steaming plate raised up from the bottom of the pan with the help of a little bowl, check. Lid on, check. Make note of the time plus ten minutes. Go!
The guests have arrived. The 4 year old and 2 year old are ready to eat. It's past their dinnertime. They start up on rice cooker rice doused in soy sauce. We start to eat the other dishes, which have been ready to go.
I check on the fish. Done? Hm, done around the edges. But -- dammit! -- raw inside, the wan, translucent color of disappointment. Shit. Well, we'll let it go. I turn the heat up.
The rest of the courses pass. Chicken green curry over somen is pleasantly creamy and starchy, if a bit undersalted. The pork larb is excellent, made chili-free for the kids and chili-ful for the adults. The water spinach with bean sauce is reliable.
Oh the fish!
We are at rolling boil. The steam is angry. It shoots out of the sides of the lid like the ears of a dragon. The fillets are now decidedly opaque, strands of white protein leaking into the steam puddle. I scrape the soggy ginger off and pour the soy sauce-sesame oil-julienned ginger over it.
Overdone. Overdone overdone overdone. FAIL.
Nobody else seems to notice. The 9 year old has actually cleaned her plate completely. She is totally fascinated by me, the Asian lady cooking exotic food and speaking only in English, a language she has not yet mastered. She asks her mom to whisper English to her so she can talk to me. "Where are you from?" "How old are you?" and even stranger, "You're skinny." I protest that I'm fat, but then I think, what kind of message are you sending? So I switch tactics and tell her that she's pretty and lagom, which I use to mean that she's just right, but I'm probably not using the word correctly.
The conversation floats around me. The musician offers to get more wine at his apartment down the street. The editor asks for the recipe for the pork larb. I smile, I laugh, but inside I shake my fist at the fish and vow to avenge my failure.
----
The guests:
The editor
The style writer
The musician
The nurse
A 9 yr old
A 4 yr old
A 2 yr old
The kitchen: an eat-in family kitchen, mostly white, with tall ceilings and a short green Smeg refrigerator. Induction stove, 4 burners. Big empty slot under the counter, currently the 4 yr old and 2 yr old's favorite hiding place, soon to be the slot for the new mini-dishwasher. A silver lamp arches widely over the kitchen table like a shiny basketball in mid-toss. The table is set with a pair of white Tripp Trapps, the Scandinavian high chair of choice.
The coup: Six sea bream halves. Bones-in, skin-on. They have no heads, and yet they stare back at me, gray, dull. What now, boss?
The plan: Chinese-style steamed fish. I try to put the sea bream on a plate. But the plate will not fit in the steaming pot. I try another plate. And another pot. And another plate. And another pan. The editor and the style writer are pulling out kitchen cupboard keys, unlocking cabinets, climbing onto chairs. "We always think we have too much stuff."
We borrow a bigger pot from a neighbor. But the editor and style writer's kitchen has an induction stove, and the pot refuses to heat up. I put my All-Clad underneath the borrowed pot. Like magic, the induction burner lights up.
The guests will arrive soon. I am dubious. The fish is going to put up a fight, I know it. I stuff the fish with ginger, cilantro, dainty straws of Chinese celery, to shut it up.
Gentle steam, check. Steaming plate raised up from the bottom of the pan with the help of a little bowl, check. Lid on, check. Make note of the time plus ten minutes. Go!
The guests have arrived. The 4 year old and 2 year old are ready to eat. It's past their dinnertime. They start up on rice cooker rice doused in soy sauce. We start to eat the other dishes, which have been ready to go.
I check on the fish. Done? Hm, done around the edges. But -- dammit! -- raw inside, the wan, translucent color of disappointment. Shit. Well, we'll let it go. I turn the heat up.
The rest of the courses pass. Chicken green curry over somen is pleasantly creamy and starchy, if a bit undersalted. The pork larb is excellent, made chili-free for the kids and chili-ful for the adults. The water spinach with bean sauce is reliable.
Oh the fish!
We are at rolling boil. The steam is angry. It shoots out of the sides of the lid like the ears of a dragon. The fillets are now decidedly opaque, strands of white protein leaking into the steam puddle. I scrape the soggy ginger off and pour the soy sauce-sesame oil-julienned ginger over it.
Overdone. Overdone overdone overdone. FAIL.
Nobody else seems to notice. The 9 year old has actually cleaned her plate completely. She is totally fascinated by me, the Asian lady cooking exotic food and speaking only in English, a language she has not yet mastered. She asks her mom to whisper English to her so she can talk to me. "Where are you from?" "How old are you?" and even stranger, "You're skinny." I protest that I'm fat, but then I think, what kind of message are you sending? So I switch tactics and tell her that she's pretty and lagom, which I use to mean that she's just right, but I'm probably not using the word correctly.
The conversation floats around me. The musician offers to get more wine at his apartment down the street. The editor asks for the recipe for the pork larb. I smile, I laugh, but inside I shake my fist at the fish and vow to avenge my failure.
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