Experiments

I took a few risks this week.  I bought about a litre of soybeans off my roommate to make soymilk and tempeh at home when I had not done so before.  I made big batches of untested meals.  I experiment in the kitchen all the time, but never with a limited resource.  About fifty percent of the time I try something new, my worms or my dog wind up being the primary consumers.  New since this challenge is the seeming inability to move on from failure: if I produce something awful, I still have to consume it.

My soymilk was exceptionally beany in flavour, so my coffee this week tasted of multiple beans at once.  I produced a large volume of breakfast congee (rice porridge) that was so-so, and that so-so greeted me every morning for the rest of the week.  Without the spicy red chiles of last week in my daal, I made a batch of orange mush that I ate cold for far too many meals.  Because of all this, on Thursday, I was so bored of my food I wasn’t hungry for it.

At the end of a boring, cold, decaying week, tonight’s dinner of homemade tempeh and larch sambol (a Sri Lankan condiment recipe I modified, using some larch needles I picked) was redeeming, even when served it over some of that crappy breakfast congee.

This week I felt a newfound respect for the failed experiments I would normally throw in the compost bin.  In some way, too, I better understood why someone on a tight budget might default to the old standbys before risking a new recipe or an unfamiliar cuisine.

I’m normally invigorated by my freedom to experiment, to try new things and to grow as a home cook.  When I knock something out of the park, I feed my body, my soul and also my pride.  At week two, I’m starting to feel the joy go out of my food.  I deign to think how this feels in the long run.

-S