French Onion Soup

Finally, the gym again.  I walked there from the office at 4:30, was about 15 minutes away from finishing the treadmill walk, and my left knee started acting up.  Not just my knee, but the left hip/buttock.  I don’t know what’s in there exactly, but it feels like a pinched nerve.  I longed for my knee brace.  I slowed the treadmill down to 3.8, then 3.6 and then 3.5, and it was still painful.  I decided, before I did any real damage, to just go home and finish up another mile with Banks.  And my knee brace.  I’m almost out the door.

May I tell you about my latest culinary disaster?

I have a strange sort of amnesia when it comes to my cooking skills.  On the one hand, I know I’m hopeless.  I have no sense of smell, which probably affects my taste buds, which probably explains the lack of any nuance in seasoning.  I’m also not detail-oriented, terribly organized or patient.  I’ll find a recipe, get halfway through it, realize I failed to purchase a key ingredient, make a last-minute replacement and hope for the best. Or I’ll add the required cup of something, and then realize it was supposed to be added after the thing was at a full boil.  It is a dangerous thing when a recipe calls for any kind of judgment on my part.  “Cook until just tender.” “Cook over medium-high heat until translucent.”  Huh? “Add salt and pepper to taste.” We’ve discussed this.

On the other hand, I have an unusual amount of hope and optimism. After reverting to the old standbys that even I can’t mess up (spaghetti, tacos, baked chicken), the desire to cook nutritious and imaginative dishes begins to rise again.  And two or three times a year, I’m drawn to the crockpot. 

I planned to be out almost all day Saturday last weekend, and chose this day to prepare what I just KNEW was going to be a delicious, aromatic pot of French onion soup.  How I love that stuff.  I purchased a loaf of French bread and shredded cheese to accompany it, and early Saturday morning, set to work. Why hadn’t I paid more attention to the flour-and-butter part? I never seem to get that right, but I heated them together, and dumped them into the four cups of beef broth. They seemed to sort of ball off into small, discrete sections, but I figured that after nine hours on the low setting, they’d be fully integrated into the mix.  My confidence flagged further when directed to “chop” three large onions.  Is that finely chopped, or coarsely chopped?  I seem to remember that most of the FOS I’ve enjoyed had a variety of chopped and sliced onions.  Oh dear. I soldiered on.

Nine hours later I arrived home.  I’d been thinking of French onion soup all day, and couldn’t wait.

“Watery” is the best way to describe the contents of the crockpot.  The only liquid in there was the aforementioned beef broth – why did it seem so diluted?  The onions, after nine hours of simmering, were mystifyingly crisp.  I don’t know if it needed salt, but God knows, it needed SOMETHING.  It was bland and tasteless, pretty much like everything else I cook.  When, WHEN, will I learn my lesson and give up?  I resolved, as I always do at times like that, to simply broaden my take-out options.  But it won’t last.

Thanksgiving is around the corner.  Just yesterday, I was leafing through an old magazine and came across an incredible sounding recipe for chocolate bread pudding.  Somebody stop me.