Precious Instruments

Ravenous, a food column by Jennifer Brizzi

Precious Instruments

Ran in the Kingston Times and Mid-Hudson Post-Pioneer, April 13, 2006

“Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you got 'til it's gone.” --Joni Mitchell, “Big Yellow Taxi”

If I were stranded on a desert island—or a bare kitchen—there would be three indispensable items that I would have to have with me. No, not copper All-Clad pots and pans, even if I could afford such things, but three worn, ugly things that I’ve had a very long time, but that work so perfectly that rarely does a day go by that I don’t use all three.

The first is my chef’s knife, whose brand I’m not sure of. It has a handle that’s partially melted from some long-forgotten carelessness on the stove, so that it feels rough and bumpy, amorphous in my hand when I’m chopping with it. But its odd shape fits my hand just right, the blade cuts beautifully, and it’s perfect in spite of its unsightliness. I’ve had it forever; I think I was born with it in my hand. Actually, I think it was given to me with a bunch of other kitchen supplies back in the mid-eighties by my late father-in-law Angelo, who loved to shop for bargains almost as much as he loved to cook. Once his Manhattan apartment began to bust with bought bargains, he would bestow them on other people, so I got a lot of cookware in those days thanks to him.

Years ago when I was getting knives sharpened at Warren Cutlery in Rhinebeck, I asked owner Richard VonHusen what made my favorite melted chef’s knife so wonderful to use, when it had no fancy German name like Henckels or Messermeister imprinted on it. I asked him why it was so much better than the other knife I had brought in, a French knife of high reputation, appearing nearly identical but inferior in every way. Mr. VonHusen looked the knives over with his learned eye and showed me how it was all about balance—if I balanced each knife with a finger under the part where blade and handle come together, my bad knife toppled over toward the blade, but my beautiful/ugly one kept poised perfectly, like a gymnast on a balance beam. He also said that although it had no name imprinted on it, it looked to him like a well-known German brand, perhaps Wusthof-Trident, if memory serves.

Number two in my desert island collection would be one of my wooden spoons, this one made of bamboo, not really a spoon, flat rather than spoon-shaped, almost a narrow sort of paddle. As ugly as my knife, it’s split and worn nearly to splinters, the handle soft as chamois, with a dark brown patina of age and use. But it is my stirrer of choice for any sauce, for the lovely way it mixes and blends, more artfully than a whisk, the way it makes a creamy polenta or a perfect risotto, the way it gets into every corner of the pot, not that pots have corners, but this spoon never misses a spot. If it’s not handy, or if it’s dirty when I need a spoon quick, I will use another of my couple dozen wooden spoons, but I won’t be happy.

My third favorite thing, until recently, was my ten-inch cast iron pan, a very heavily used item for all manner of fryings, sautéings, simmerings, sauces, omelettes and frittatas, for just about anything that didn’t need a high-sided pot. It was smooth-bottomed, naturally and beautifully non-stick, doing all I asked of it is spite of my abuse of it. I seasoned it rarely (a process of baking in oil to condition cast iron); I washed it with soap and scouring pads rather than salt and a soft cloth the way you’re supposed to. I must have cooked thousands of delicious things in that pan—okay, I figure if I used it once or twice a day, let’s say 1.5 times a day, for 25 years, that means I cooked approximately 13,687 and a half dishes with that pan.

Don’t get me started on cast iron. A lot of cooks dislike it because of its weight, preferring something light and airy to toss about the kitchen. But I love the way it browns and cooks and I like the weight. Hey, if my three- and five-pound dumbbells are gathering dust upstairs in the bedroom closet, at least I get a bit of a workout for my biceps from moving, lifting and washing my assortment of five cast iron pans and three Le Creusets (cast iron coated with enamel).

Alas, the story of my three favorite cooking items has a sad ending. You would think I would cook happily ever after with these three things, never longing for spiffier knives or a prettier stirring spoon or a copper All-Clad sauteuse. Well, actually I don’t really want any of those things. The kitchen I cook in has a lot of room for improvement, like a dire need for counter space and storage, and while we’re at it, hey, a dishwasher would be great. But the stuff I use to turn raw ingredients into good food, the tools of my trade, as it were, work perfectly and happily. The sad part is how fickle, how untrue I am to them.

Remember that chef’s knife, ugly but beautiful in its utility? Well, it’s been a while since I took it to Warren’s for its regular sharpening and it’s getting a bit dull. A couple months ago the Meyer Company sent me a free Anolon kyotsu knife since I’m a member of the International Association of Culinary Professionals. One day when my favorite knife was dirty, I gave it a test drive. It’s big and brawny and chops pretty nicely, and I find myself grabbing it now all the time instead of my old one.

Not long ago I looked at the splinters and cracks in that bamboo spoon and decided it wasn’t long for this world, so I bought another, intending to replace it. Although the new one looked the same in the store, it really isn’t. It’s a little longer, lighter, paler, more rounded at the bottom and with a slight spoony curve to it the other doesn’t have. I don’t like it one bit, even though it has an impressive brand name. It’s hard and sharp on my hand and doesn’t get at all the nooks and crannies in the pot. I keep trying to like it but I can’t seem to. So until the old faithful turns into toothpicks, I’ll keep using it.

As for the cast iron pan that I used 13,687 and a half times, I’m afraid it is no longer with us. Last summer, in a fit of pique, exasperated at having to make dinner in a messy little kitchen, I did it in. In anger I tossed it on the kitchen rug, its only crime not being clean when I wanted to use it—not its fault but mine. It did not survive its fall; the handle broke off and took half the pan with it. I had thought it was sturdy, dependable, perfect and invincible. I was devastated by the loss.

But the next day I disloyally ran out and bought another ten-inch cast iron pan, which I use once or twice a day like the last one. But in my hand the handle feels a little different and it looks funny, with an odd hole for hanging on the opposite side. It’s not as smooth and nicely seasoned as the old one and it’s just not the same, like new leather shoes. Some day I will get used to it, I guess, but in ten months it hasn’t happened yet. Maybe it will take twenty-five years.

When it comes to material possessions, the ones that mean the most to me are old photos, letters and record albums, but nothing offers that combination of sentimentality and utility better than my favorite cookware.

Jennifer Brizzi | P.O. Box 48 | Rhinecliff, New York 12574 | U.S.A.

jenniferbrizzi@yahoo.com