There is an old (old as in, having Medieval origins--even Chaucer takes a stab at a variation on this via the Wife of Bath) sexist joke that goes something like this:
A young knight rapes a beautiful young lady. The king, for the reason du jour (low ratings with the female population--big-hearted sense of justice--desire to see the matter swept under the rug without any authentic adjudication--brain tumor), decides to let the queen and her ladies try this matter in the Court of Love. The ladies, using some arcane or arbitrary system of judgement decide that, rather doing anything so rational as tying this Y-chromosomatic over-achiever to the nearest pole and allowing a rabid polecat to search in his codpiece for mice, send him on an educational quest. If he can return with the correct answer to the council's Question in a year-and-a-day, they'll set him free. If not, it's the pole and ferret treatment for Our Hero. From this point onward, the young man's life (or at least that of his genitals) hinges on his discovering the answer to a fairly straightforward-sounding Question: "What does every woman really want?"
So, our Medieval Mike Tyson goes a-questing. Wherever he wends, he requests an interview with whatever woman the locals have deemed the wisest in the area. Because each maternal sage gives him an answer decidedly different from the previous answers, it quickly begins to look like this scumbag will get his just desserts. By various sources, he is told that all women really want:
- Financial security
- Frequent rogerings by accomplished young studs
- To be young and pretty
- Jewelry
- To be told that they are young and pretty
- A nice house
- True love
- A room of her own
- Exquisite desserts
- To be left alone
The requisite year-and-a-day passes, and Our Hero finds himself once more before the council of ladies. They put the Question to him and, having heard the same contradictory evidence as he, we are fairly certain this young fellow will soon be singing soprano.
"What every woman really wants," he says, "is"--
pause for dramatic effect--
"her way."
And they set the slimy bastard free.
I'd like to use this old joke to make two points. First, before you start getting steeped in the irony of progressive elitism, remember: the Clarence Thomas hearings weren't that long ago. Yeah, I know, that was a non-sequitur.
Second, that old sexist joke really demonstrates the dual nature of stereotypes. We tend to believe them even as we deny them. The stereotype of women from the men's perspective is that we never truly know what women want. The subtext of the joke, however, is that men actually know exactly what women want, but we also consider it an unreasonable desire.
In light of that stereotype, I'm sure you can see that we shouldn't be too quick to assume we know exactly what someone wants based on stereotypes. My wife, for example, is half-Italian. It's amazing how many people in this country think they know exactly what an Italian wants to eat based on nothing more substantial than a vague sense of ethnic origin. Italians are all supposed to love pasta, garlic, tomato sauce, Italian sausage, roasted peppers, langostino, and white truffles. Bollocks. Princess Valiant doesn't care, for example, for Parmesan cheese (she's also none too fond of roasted peppers or sausage of any description, but I'll address those matters another time). She's none too keen on Romano or any other stinky cheese, for that matter. Peccorino, Reggiano, Asiago, it makes no difference. She just doesn't like it. Her multa italiana Aunt Mary shares this sentiment; she says parmesan smells like a sweaty sock and won't allow it in her kitchen, much less near her pasta.
This puts me in a rather delicate position when I attempt to make risotto for the family. Authentic risotto is made with arborio rice, stock, white wine, cream, and parmeggiano, and I adore a good traditional risotto. Oh, I admit, I skimp on the parmesan for seafood risottos: shrimp, squid, lobster, and scallops just don't need the competition. Note I said "skimp." Seafood-based risotto still needs a little cheese for body. For most risottos, though, without sufficient parmesan, the results are rather bodiless and bland.
In most American households, this doesn't seem to be a problem. These days, folks in the US seem to be sold on the value of Reggiano Parmigiano as a flavoring agent. The Food Network and the boys at Queer Eye praise it to the heavens. Italian restaurants dole the stuff out like most places pass out cracked black pepper. This is unfortunate. It's rather like bathing your sushi in wasabi and soy sauce. Sure, it tastes good that way, but all you're going to taste is wasabi and soy sauce. At sushi prices, that's a waste of money. Likewise, if all you want is the taste of garlic and parmesan cheese, sprinkle 'em on a burger. What's the point of spending good money on a lasagna, risotto, or manicotti if all you're going to taste are the parmesan and garlic?
Recently, I discovered the answer to both of my risotto needs. First, I needed a the body of cheese for the seafood risottos, but I needed to eliminate the aged-cheese-stench. Second, for other risottos, I needed both the body and a certain extra flavor agent that would not provide too much grease (tried butter, threw away the results) nor too strongly cheesy. The answer I happened upon is marscapone.
Most folks are familiar with marscapone from a rather different source: marscapone provides the body and a degree of piquancy to tiramisu and cannolis (if you are not Italian and weren't an adult in the 1980s, you may have to look up this term--trust me, it's a dessert). Marcaspone is young mozarella. It has nearly the consistency of whipped cream cheese but with a slightly tarter flavor. What I found truly amazing is that marscapone not only makes an outstanding substitute for parmesan in risotto, not only works with (vice against) the flavor of seafood, but also makes the cream superfluous and allows the risotto to mount much faster than with cream. It's so easy to use, it almost feels like cheating.
No comments:
Post a Comment