Truth or dare

I am a big fan of determination and single-mindedness. Logic and detached reasoning. Stiff upper lips and perseverance. Am not at all the type of person to condone or encourage endless soppy venting, emotional dilly-dallying, interminable searches for consensus.

This brisk way of making decisions suits me fine since I mostly know, in the moment, how I feel and what I want. And I am never afraid to tell. Snap decisions are easy when you have already made up your mind. If it turns out you were on the wrong track, there is nothing terrible about doubling back.

Of course, this affects my cooking. You won’t find me lingering in the grocery shop weighing up the relative merits of the fresh cod and the ducks breast. Nor will you find me comparing the prices of tomatoes, or looking shiftily from full fat to half-and-half. I like to go in, fill the trolley, and get out.

At the stove, I like the heat up and the motions swift – seasoning all out full speed. A saffron risotto is not a saffron risotto unless it is fairly dripping with occracoloured parmegiano goo. An sea-food chowder needs all the broadleaf parsely it can get and as for garlic: it should never apologise for itself. And if it burns or congeals – well: it is, after all, only a meal, right?

It will come as no surprise then, to anyone, that I know what I want for my supper. And that, given that no one puts in a foot or other veto-type limb, I shall buy and cook and consume what I damn well please.

This works fine if you are sharing your hearth with equally rash feeders. But it has lately been brought to my attention, that there are those out there in the world who like their spices a bit more moderate, their shopping lists a bit more thought through and their confrontations a bit less violent in the proximity of kitchen knifes. An example, if you will:

The other night I called from the office, asking briskly what he’d like for dinner. A lentil and chive salad. Or boiled ox and forest mushroom clear soup. Or mashed wasabi potatoes with glazed red beets. He said anythings goes.

Happy to have such a man, I threw togeter the meal, whistling as I over-salted the simmering broth, humming as I chipped a plate setting the table, calling out lovingly that dinner was on.

But eating was a quiet affair. In silence he slurped the noodles. With a faraway gaze he spooned up the last of the stock. Only as we sat with our tea, looking out into the quit evening, did I get him to admit. He would have preferred the potatoes. Au naturel. On the trail now, I asked him if this happens a lot, that he just swallows what is served, and eventually he admitted that yes, it does. Apparently, he cannot see the point of arguing about the menu, so he just suffers the wild cards in silence.

In one way I can respect that. I am a big fan of getting on with things. A big fan of biting down and putting a good face on a bad business. I do not think that relationships require absolute honesty at all times. But there is one subject where I demand total honesty. Brutal, shocking, hard core reality. One area where I don’t want you to humour me. What do you fancy eating? and Do you like it?

Alas, who is at fault? The determined one who doesn’t coax or court? Or the careful one who doesn’t place an order… Only time will tell. Till then, I guess we will take turns cooking. Will match his carefully measured recipe-faithful mild flavours meal by meal with my off-the-cuff mix and match concotions. But maybe keep the wasabi on the side.