How to read a recipe

This afternoon, curled up on a chair at the Harvard COOP, I read through recipes calling for purple perilla and banana leaves. (Shaw’s would definitely not stock those.) I inhaled instructions on making chantilly cream and fig sauce, preparing risotto ahead of time, and the expensive, three-page-long process of replicating Barbara Lynch‘s signature prune-stuffed gnocchi with foie gras appetizer. How much would it cost me to make Jean-Georges‘ braised lamb shanks with green curry?

No wonder it was a little strange to read Giada‘s recipes, some of which were as simple as skewering halved plums and nectarines and setting them on the grill. But Giada is really pretty! When I saw “whole wheat pasta” in the ingredient list, I stared at it, puzzled. Shouldn’t there instead be a sub-recipe on making said whole wheat pasta? What was going on? Also, why did marscapone cheese and ricotta cheese show up in everything? Was risotto even supposed to have that much cheese in it? Wow, Giada is really photogenic.

Nonetheless, I ended up reading Giada’s recipe on pizza pot pie and wondering if my dining partner would enjoy that, served up in an elegant ramikin (yet to be acquired) with premade puff pastry topping spilling over the sides just so. In the midst of my fine dining cookbook binge, Giada, along with the author of “Easy Chinese Stir-Fries,” was a reminder that not all food is difficult. Some food, like a recipe for broccoli and beef, are meant to be embraced without aspiration or trepidation. And there’s something soothing about the act itself of reading an ingredient list where everything is waiting in the wings, ready to provide weeknight comfort, if not transcendence.

Books mentioned in this post: