The Dough Boy That Was

So when I started out in this business, everything was made from scratch: Sauces, vinegars, breads, pastry shells, you name it. You could say it was an ideological thing. But for the most part, you’d be wrong. I simply enjoyed the process and meditative calm that came from creating something from the beginning. OK, so that’s partially ideological, I’ll give you that. But I embraced the calm, mostly.

I still do. Creating sauces from scratch is a real love. I think in another life, I would like to come back as a saucier. And making a ring-mold quiche shell, French-style, is a real joy. Nerve-wracking, for sure. But also a joy. I also felt the same way about making pasta: creating a small volcano of semolina in the mjddle of my prep table, mixing in the gazillion eggs, kneading, rolling it out, creating the sheets of pasta, cooking it.

The problem is that I have an abundance of meditative tasks at my disposal, every day. Making my espresso and poached eggs in the morning is meditative. Creating a small mountain of brunoise cut vegetables for my cajun shrimp dish is meditative. Making slider buns is meditative. Getting my mornay sauce to the right consistency is meditative. I add one more routine meditative element to my daily cooking routine and I am going to become a prune.

Something had to give. So I buy my pasta now. But it’s not the same. Not even close. What can I say? I’ve sold out to the man (which, I guess, would be me).