As a young man in college – I took five years off after high school, I studied Spanish all three years I attended university, which is all I needed to graduate because I went year round – fall, spring, both summer school sessions and even did a three-week winter session once for three credits. Majoring in Journalism with a minor in Latin American Studies – Reagan was in charge at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, the Contras were at it in Nicaragua and my thinking was that I would either end up in the State Department or CIA working in a Spanish-speaking country and use journalism as a cover. Needless to say that career didn’t pan out and the closest thing I have to it is enjoying Mexican food a couple times a month and going to my time share in Cabo every few years. Nonetheless, my breakthrough in college Spanish classes was when I had dreams in Spanish. That’s when I knew I was fluent. Emphasis on ‘was.’ Speaking a foreign language is not like riding a bicycle. At least for me. The fluency I achieved in my 20s cannot only be attributed to those college classes. It helped, a lot, that during and after high school I worked at a German bakery and three of the young guys that worked there were from three different states in Mexico. I taught them English. They taught me Spanish. The Germans spoke German to each other but English to me.
And so it is with food, after all these years, I have still never had a food dream. I was thinking about this the other day and then realized that I have had numerous experiences that were very close to having food dreams, but technically were not.
For example, one weekend afternoon some years ago, our daughter was away at a camp and my wife and I made love, long, so and tenderly, then fell asleep. Waking from a nap…evening was fast approaching, I was still in that sleepy, dream state, when the world was perfect. No place to go, nobody to be, no one to see, at peace. And I started thinking about what to make for dinner, while still in that dream state, so it felt like a dream, but wasn’t, especially since I dozed off again. Before falling back asleep, however, I took a mental inventory of what was in the fridge and pantry. When I awoke, I knew I would make a version of chicken-pot pies, one of my favorite meals.
I had the pie dough. Back then, I usually kept homemade pie dough around for two out of four weeks per month, because that’s about how long a batch would last. We loved our fruit pies but even more we liked pumpkin and sweat potato pies. And savory pies. Quiches and the like. And pot pies!
A few days earlier my wife had roasted a rabbit and there was leftover meat on the bone. I had one single, but huge, leek, and of course carrots. I minced a couple carrots and sautéed them with the sliced-up leek in olive oil and a little water toward the end before I covered the sauté pan and turned the heat off, to soften up the carrots. Just before I put the lid on, I tossed in a cut-up celery stalk. I made a butter roux, and added the half & half for the white sauce. To thin it out, I added homemade chicken stock, and for flavor, a healthy teaspoon of Dijon mustard (plus a pinch or two of tarragon – a classic pairing) and an even healthier teaspoon of rendered duck fat. As all that was resting, I sliced chunks, slivers and whatever else I could get off that rabbit bone, then mixed it all together and let it stand while I rolled out the pie dough. I have individual, deep-dish and ceramic baking dishes that are perfect for pot pies. The mixture filled three of them and I popped them in the oven. Note to readers, there are options on making pot pies and I only top mine with dough, while others make pies with tops and bottoms.
That dinner remains one of my favorite in memory and I never attempted to repeat it. It was so good, and this sounds ironic, I haven’t even wanted to try to replicate it, because it was that good. Plus, if I tried to make this dish again, and was disappointed in the outcome, then I might lose this memory. Who says food cannot conjure up emotional connections?
I don’t recall what we drank that night. Yet if I had a chance to be in that moment of time again, I would open a 2020 M&C Lapierre from Morgon. A great Rhone wine with a rabbit pot pie is about as French as it gets. Julia Child would have liked this meal.