10th January, 2007
Heat
by
Last night Luke made this adorable statement: “I feel like a loser living here. No offense to you guys.” He finds living at home at his age unseemly. However, he does enjoy the nightly dinners, as well as the regular supply of clean laundry. Since he’s moved back, my weekly shopping list invariably includes cheese curds, frozen fries and a package of poutine gravy mix.
This homemade poutine would be thrown into the garbage by the chef’s I’m currently reading about. They’re described in a fabulous book called Heat by Bill Buford, which is a wonderful story about his experiences in a 3-star restaurant in New York. As a result, I intend to try his recipe for short ribs, but will stop short of the stuffed guinea hen legs, beef cheeks or lamb tongue.
When I read a book like that, I understand that certain things in life are passions. The way these chefs talk about food is nothing short of insane. Buford describes how the chefs begin their days around midnight, when they get off work. It’s not unusual for them to find a place that’s open all night, where they spend hours eating and each will consume a dozen bottles of wine!
I suppose that’s why most people can’t understand the appeal of standing for several hours, making fruitcake. But when you read a book like Heat, you understand that there’s nothing rational about a passion. It’s kind of like the way you feel when you open the cupboard and find some chocolate. Your heart skips a beat, a smile crosses your face, and your hand trembles slightly as you reach for your beloved.
But what a pity for those of us who develop passions for things that are damn hard. Why couldn’t I have developed a strong passion for being a civil servant, thereby enjoying the relentless bi-weekly auto deposits into my account? But then I think of the poor bastards who’ve developed passions such as mountain climbing or sky diving. I suppose it could be a lot worse.
There must’ve been an incredibly strong passion within my dad, to leave Germany in 1929 and come to a small scruff of a town, called Osoyoos. After walking three miles into town to borrow my uncle’s horse, spending the day clearing trees from his land, and then returning the horse, I’m sure he wondered, “Why oh why could I have not been happy at my job as a chartered accountant?”
So perhaps the world is divided into those who will suffer for their passions, and others who won’t. To whit: my family, who appear to have no drive at all, other than the one that says “Feed me.” Luckily for them, I am more than happy to do so.