When
in the kitchen, how often do you follow a recipe exactly? Are
there times when you stray?
Most
people will tell you to follow it as written. At least the first
time you make something. And, of course, depending on what you
are attempting there are reasons for sticking as close as possible
to the play-by-play on the card… a peanut butter and jelly sandwich
with fluff swapped in reacts much more smoothly to changes than
a cake recipe where you go willy-nilly with the type of flour
being used and decisions on how much baking powder or unsweetened
cocoa to add are made with shrugs of shoulders or estimating what’s
left in the package rather than exact measurements.
There
are a variety of reasons why you might stray from what’s been
handed over in writing. Someone doesn’t like onions. Someone wants
to see toffee chips added. The actual recipe is someplace, nobody
knows where, so it’s being assembled by memory. You get the idea.
Changes are made.
More
often than not, I find two things come into play. The first is
having a general idea of what is supposed to be done. The second
is why you are doing it the way that you are.
That
peanut butter sandwich? My wife is a classic fluffernutter lover.
Peanut butter and fluff. Simple. There you go. I’ve got no problems
with that myself, but if I’m making one for myself, I’ll usually
be tempted to bring something like raspberry jam to the party
as well.
In
order to pull this off—and yes, I realize I’m talking about a
sandwich with marshmallow fluff on it—you need to know what the
sandwich is and then who you’re serving it to. What you’re doing
and why you’re doing it.
In
many cases… for our discussion, following the recipe… you really
only need to worry about the first part. What are you doing? That
might involve a bit of training, or perhaps some explanation of
how. (But honestly, a request to make a peanut butter and fluff
sandwich is very straightforward.)
Where
it gets fuzzy is when you try to step away from that norm. If
I handed a plate to my wife that included raspberry jam on her
peanut butter and fluff, I feel fairly certain she wouldn’t be
all that happy with it. (And, since I have already admitted I
know what she wants, rightfully so.)
Terry
and I have been making a kielbasa dish for years. Includes a pasta
of some type (rotini or farfalle work great) and several fresh
vegetables. The original recipe called for broccoli and summer
squash. These days I usually follow that recipe as a guide, add
in other seasonings, and often try to have some fresh corn to
include.
Now
once you start with a recipe you like, there’s some good news
about always making it. You know it will be well-received. But
when you start adjusting… penne out and farfalle in… corn added…
“Oh, look at that seasoning mix we have, I bet it would be awesome
in this”… and you get the idea. Gradually, even when enjoyed every
time, the recipe is sliding away and at a certain point it becomes
something new. I guarantee you that, having been the person cooking
it the past several times, if I went and found the original recipe,
Terry’s reaction would likely be to ask what I did differently.
This
isn’t a recipe, but it works for covering the ground as a summary
to what we’ve outlined…
Many
years ago, a friend of mine and I set off on a challenge. Basic
parameters were this: who could design a course that included
passing ten different buildings in the shortest distance driven?
We would each get two shots.
I
set off first and hit a fairly remarkable mileage. It was actually
pretty evident to both of us that I had managed to create the
best order of buildings, especially considering a few one-way
streets that were involved.
My
friend set off and delivered a masterful performance. He was sliding
into turns crisply, and moved the vehicle without wasting a foot
of extra driving. His careful effort and exacting detail shaved
about three-tenths of a mile off of my attempt.
But
I had missed something during my drive that I spotted while riding
as his passenger. It was a back road that led to loading docks
at three of the properties, connecting them in a way that took
more than a half-mile off of the route. When I finished my run,
and my friend took the driver’s seat, he looked a bit frustrated.
“Would
wrong-waying a one-way street at 3am be against the rules?” he
asked.
It
would. He made his attempt anyway, but lost.
There
are always changes that can be made. Knowing how and when to make
them… what you’re doing and why you’re doing it… that’s the trick.
(On the other hand, never be afraid to add toffee chips. Everyone
likes toffee chips.)