Wow. I’m actually writing a blog post. Feels like it’s been forever. I’ve been busy doing the FoodLore posts, revamping the web site, and pounding out that stupid fucking “About” page. I’m certain I’ll be redoing that one too. Probably more than once. I have not, however, been working on my book which I really need to. But if I am to build a food blogging empire, there are things that must be done and I’m doing them, as tedious as they are to me.
Fall is upon us. Cipollini season is here. Now I just have to find some of the elusive little shits. The grocers are putting out all manner of Autumnal gourds, which is nice. I’ll be doing some shoots with those soon. I’ve gotta start getting some traction. It’s been almost a year now and I still haven’t found my “voice”. I got close with the short, “Pork belly bites in 59 seconds”, but it’s still not there yet.
I made the crap out of some pork chops last night. They were so good, I woke up thinking about them. The pile of dishes I didn’t finish last night probably had something to do with it. Normally, I clean up as I go, but when we got back from the grocery store, I started cooking right away. It was already late and there was a possibility my wife would be tied up with personal business for the evening. I needed to serve while she was still available to eat. I prefer to serve food as soon as it’s ready, rather than holding it for 'whenever'—just a personal quirk of mine.
As I sifted through this morning’s research, sipping my coffee, the dishes in the sink seemed to call out to me. I hate having a dirty kitchen. I never know when I’ll need to start cooking something. Take last night’s pork chops, for example. It had been a rough day, and I had a violent need to cook. Which, I must say, is far better than needing to cook violently! It’s how I unwind—it gives my tension a purpose, and the act itself allows that tension to burn away.
I hadn’t planned on making pork chops last night. I assumed I’d be cooking something seafood-related since she’s dieting again and doesn’t get tempted by fish. But halfway through our grocery run, she suggested pork chops for dinner. I found it a bit irritating because I’d already begun my mental "if/then" cooking process. You know the one: If salmon, then dill. If shrimp, then something Asian. By the time we reached the meat section, my brain was shifting gears: "If pork, then what?"
That’s when I spotted a pristine four-pack of thick-cut, bone-in chops, stimulating my inner German. They looked stunning, and I don’t usually buy pork chops that nice. Typically, I’ll pick up a pork loin or two when they’re on sale and portion them out. But these chops were just so damned pretty, and since my palate was shifting from fish to pork, I thought, “Alright then, pork chops it is.”
For a side, I grabbed some broccolini—not because I particularly like it, but because it looks great on a plate. I also picked up a bottle of Fischer & Weiser Texas Whiskey Glaze because the sample I tasted was pretty good, and the calorie count seemed manageable. Plus, it seemed like I’d be glazing some really nice pork chops. Or not.
Broccolini is just so gosh-darned photogenic.
By the time we got home, glazing the pork chops was no longer part of the plan. You have to understand, I don’t always decide what I’m going to do—the food decides for me. I just kinda go with the flow. It’s my favorite way to cook, honestly, and where I get a little "woo-woo."
There are four types of cooking in my kitchen. Utility, Exploration, Intentional, and Intuitive.
Utility cooking is exactly what it sounds like—cooking just to eat. It’s the mechanical act of preparing food, following instructions on a box, and walking away from the stove because the phone rang. There's no heart, no soul, and no purpose beyond satisfying the immediate need.
Exploration is just that. I get in my kitchen and just start messing around. I don’t really get to do enough of that these days. You’d think I would, food blog and all, but food is expensive.
Intentional cooking is all about being fully present in your preparation. For lack of a better term, it’s a kind of “working”—occult folks will understand. Simply put, it’s about infusing your will and energy into the dish, so that when it’s consumed, your intent is passed on to the person eating it. You have to be mindful, aware of where you’re going, and deliberate in each step. Most importantly, you need to think about what you want your diner to experience through that meal. Every step of the preparation contributes to the whole, unified by your intent.
That’s what intentional cooking is: focusing on every aspect of the meal, not just the physical act of cooking, but the message you’re conveying. It could be as simple as “I love you,” or as profound as “Take this energy—mine and the energy of the food—and let it transform into your own, sustaining you for another precious day. May this gift bring you joy and happiness.” And yes, it can even be something like “Fuck you and the horse you rode in on,” though that one’s a bit trickier to pull off while still making the food enjoyable.
Intuitive cooking is more like using the Force—if I may borrow a “nerd boy” analogy. It’s about letting go of your intentions and tuning into what the ingredients need. You follow that instinct to its natural conclusion, wherever it leads. It’s raw, honest cooking. No tricks, no special spice blends, no unnecessary additions. Nothing is used unless it’s integral to what the ingredients are asking for. And that’s exactly what happened with the pork chops.
The chops needed to be seasoned, not flavored. They needed to be towel-dried. They needed high heat from a cast iron skillet, bonding with the spirit of the pan until it was time to let go. Then, they needed to finish off in a slow oven while the pan sauce they demanded was made.
I love deglazing a cast iron skillet. Nothing brings out the spirit of the pan quite like it. Fire provides the heat, water dissolves the bits, air carries the volatile aromas released during the process, and earth—the skillet itself—releases those little crusty bits from their coagulated state.
The pork subtly suggested it might be nice to add some of the whiskey glaze and break it down. I agreed. I’d gone too far to do otherwise, particularly without a plan, so in for a penny, in for a pound. I trusted the pig. Once the glaze was integrated into the solution and homogenous, I killed the heat.
The broccolini was about to peak in the steamer. The pork beckoned. It was time to plate. The chops went down to rest. I had about five minutes to finish the broccolini and the sauce—more than enough time. The steamed broccolini went straight into a hot pan with clarified butter, a quick toss with fresh garlic and oregano, a little salt and black pepper. Onto the plate! It needed parm. The sauce called next. Cold butter was whisked in until silky. The chops were plated, adorned with the sauce, and that was that.
Dinner.
The pork chops—something I had no intention of buying or cooking, and was initially annoyed at the thought of preparing—turned out amazing. They were honest. They had integrity. And their success had nothing to do with me or my kitchen skills. They were simply what they were, and all they needed from me was my attention and my trust.
Shit photo. Great meal.
