I got inspired to pull out my copy of The Art of French Cooking because I wanted to make chicken, and I was bored with the ways I've been making chicken. It is more or less this recipe, although I will note the cookbook lists mushrooms as an *option* (one of about six).
The thing about French Cooking is it is like an encyclopedia; it leads you from recipe to recipe, because it cheerfully will tell you to put your chicken and mushrooms ("Supremes de Volaille aux Champignons") with asparagus tips au beurre and a chicken-broth/onion risotto. This makes you find the recipe for asparagus tips and then the one for the risotto, and it all ends with you going to Walmart for necessary, planned purchases (underpants for everyone in the entire house, literally) and unnecessary, but kind of needed anyway, purchases (heavy cream and asparagus).
The other nice thing about French Cooking is that it was written in the 60s. This means that while it wants you to have fresh mushrooms and herbs and things on hand, it acknowledges that maybe you won't, and tells you how to handle yourself if you're stuck with canned mushrooms, dried herbs, and (gasp!) canned fish. In fact, the fish gratinee, which calls for canned salmon, is still one of my very favoritest fish recipes. The white wine elevates it. (Of course if you're gluten free, you will not use 3 TB of regular flour that the recipe calls for, you'll either use GF cornstarch or 3 TB of GF all-purpose flour.)
Meanwhile my house has been consumed, lately, by an attack of the naughties. It struck us in Walmart, in the underpants aisle, when Sasquatch did not want to choose which kind of underpants to get. He wanted all of them, and none of them. "These are the stupid ones!" he said, waving a hand at the entire Walmart inventory of boys' clothes. (This is a kid who, of his own volition, insists on wearing a white button-down shirt to Sunday school every week. For the kindergarten class. And who needs his dinner plate to be masculine.) We might STILL be in the underpants aisle debating the relative merits of the Avengers vs. Spiderman had I not grabbed a package of plain, gray underpants, waved them in his face, and had the presence of mind to say "Just like Daddy's!" That, as they say, was gold, Jerry.
The other two were easier to please, thank goodness, because I could feel myself spiraling down into that crazy place where you're actually arguing with your five-year-old, as though logic is going to make a dent in his belief that underwear with characters on it is a stupid for him. Not for his brother or sister or random kids on the street. But for Sasquatch, it's A Stupid. We can't have A Stupid. We might die.
Then on the way out he crashed into a display of cake mixes and collapsed into a weepy pile of rage until we got home. I kinda think we all need naps, and maybe extra butter on our asparagus tips.
Cheers,
Breanna
The thing about French Cooking is it is like an encyclopedia; it leads you from recipe to recipe, because it cheerfully will tell you to put your chicken and mushrooms ("Supremes de Volaille aux Champignons") with asparagus tips au beurre and a chicken-broth/onion risotto. This makes you find the recipe for asparagus tips and then the one for the risotto, and it all ends with you going to Walmart for necessary, planned purchases (underpants for everyone in the entire house, literally) and unnecessary, but kind of needed anyway, purchases (heavy cream and asparagus).
The other nice thing about French Cooking is that it was written in the 60s. This means that while it wants you to have fresh mushrooms and herbs and things on hand, it acknowledges that maybe you won't, and tells you how to handle yourself if you're stuck with canned mushrooms, dried herbs, and (gasp!) canned fish. In fact, the fish gratinee, which calls for canned salmon, is still one of my very favoritest fish recipes. The white wine elevates it. (Of course if you're gluten free, you will not use 3 TB of regular flour that the recipe calls for, you'll either use GF cornstarch or 3 TB of GF all-purpose flour.)
Meanwhile my house has been consumed, lately, by an attack of the naughties. It struck us in Walmart, in the underpants aisle, when Sasquatch did not want to choose which kind of underpants to get. He wanted all of them, and none of them. "These are the stupid ones!" he said, waving a hand at the entire Walmart inventory of boys' clothes. (This is a kid who, of his own volition, insists on wearing a white button-down shirt to Sunday school every week. For the kindergarten class. And who needs his dinner plate to be masculine.) We might STILL be in the underpants aisle debating the relative merits of the Avengers vs. Spiderman had I not grabbed a package of plain, gray underpants, waved them in his face, and had the presence of mind to say "Just like Daddy's!" That, as they say, was gold, Jerry.
The other two were easier to please, thank goodness, because I could feel myself spiraling down into that crazy place where you're actually arguing with your five-year-old, as though logic is going to make a dent in his belief that underwear with characters on it is a stupid for him. Not for his brother or sister or random kids on the street. But for Sasquatch, it's A Stupid. We can't have A Stupid. We might die.
Then on the way out he crashed into a display of cake mixes and collapsed into a weepy pile of rage until we got home. I kinda think we all need naps, and maybe extra butter on our asparagus tips.
Cheers,
Breanna
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