Cooking

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       This is spaetzle. I learned how to make it the winter before last, in Germany. My parents' friend, Christoph, who taught us all how to make spaetzle, would not, I think, be pleased with this effort. No matter what I do, I always make the noodles too large. Nightcrawlers, I think he called them. This spaetzle has spinach in it (for nutrition) and is cooked with bacon and onion (for deliciousness). It's also good with beef stroganoff, cheese, or lentils and carrots (which is how Christoph made it). 

      I have always liked to cook, but moving to Geneva has sent me into another culinary gear. Eating out here is expensive and, frankly, not that great. Eating in is expensive, too, but we have to eat somewhere. Plus, unlike cleaning, which I can generally do without, cooking is relaxing and fun. I've learned how to make spaetzle, coq au vin, crême brulée, chocolate mousse, tartiflette, fondue, raclette (which is hardly cooking), French onion soup, Paris-Brest, and my latest favorite . . . fish tacos. 

       Most weekends, I find myself cooking for some kind of company -- A birthday party, Luc's Bible study, Drew and Johanna's youth group, the winners of the Olay auction item: "Dinner with the Americans," sometimes even my own friends. I am all for cooking for company: Company gives me an excuse to try new recipes, make dessert, and buy these really yummy cracker appetizer sticks that taste like olives and rosemary. I like to set the table with our gold glass goblets and the BIG dinner plates. Events for kids aside, in Geneva, having friends over for dinner is usually a dressy occasion. A meal of several courses is expected, and the guests bring flowers or bottles of wine. I like it. Recently, however, I developed a yearning for a casual dinner, the kind where you call up a friend and say, "If you're not busy, why don't you come over for pizza." Maybe it's more that I developed a yearning for that kind of friend. 

       If there is one thing I have learned in the past 20 months, it is that in Geneva, You're On Your Own (see "The Gold Star" from 9/23/12). If you want the kind of friends who don't mind if you serve them pizza, it is your job to find them. So I racked my brain for our most "casual" friends, and settled on two families. One has an American dad and the other lived in the U.S. for seven years, so I figured the idea of pizza night might not fall completely flat. I warned them that it was only pizza (from Dominos) and drinks. Very casual. Nothing fancy. i.e. Don't bring me flowers because I'm not making dessert and there will be no cracker sticks. I was a little nervous anyway. Other than another American family who once had us over, I have never actually heard of anyone in Geneva inviting adults over for pizza. Not only that, but after 6 p.m. on Friday, Dominos will not let clients in the door to pick up their take-out. The pizza must be delivered, and you do not want to know what delivery pizza for three families would cost in Geneva. Nobody around here eats dinner before 7:30 or 8 p.m., so the pizza was going to be kind of coldish, too. I did break down and make some carrot and celery sticks, and another mom said she'd make flan.

       As I had advertised, the pizza was nowhere near as impressive as coq au vin, and our paper plates, paper-towel napkins, and everyday drinking glasses were not as beautiful as the usual guest-ready table. Our guests, however, were excellent sports. One even said she thought it was a good idea. The other mom said that her daughter later told her it was the best pizza she'd ever had. (I'm glad she likes cold take-out). I was thankful to see that, while I may not yet have the kind of close and relaxed friendships I did in Cincinnati, I at least have some friends who are willing to give it a try.

         Last weekend we again had company for whom I did not cook. Eric was the chef, an unprecedented event that had its inception in his running group of three guys. One of them suggested a challenge in which each man would cook dinner for the three families, doing all shopping, preparation, and cleanup without help from his wife. For some men, this may be no big deal. For Eric, it was a nail-biter. He can travel the world, give presentations to company presidents, and evaluate advertising copy with one hand tied behind his back (although why he would need that skill, I'm not sure). Company dinners, however, are not his metier. 

       These runners/chefs decided to call themselves the Men of Men. I'm not sure what the name means. Is it Men of Men in the sense that the Bible calls Jesus King of Kings and Lord of Lords? Are they saying that of all the men in the world, they are the ultimate exemplars? (I could get on board with that.) Or is it Men of Men like one might say "Men of Faith" or "Men of Integrity"? They are describing a quality that they possess. Or is it, rather, more like saying Men of Topeka or Men of Crossroads Church -- a means of identifying their particular group? I didn't ask. Who am I to mess with a great idea by questioning its title? It would be like complaining that the diamond ring came in the wrong color box.

       Familiarity may breed contempt, but it also breeds comfort. I could whip up a taco dinner -- even for company -- with hardly a thought. If I had to give a presentation on the future of beauty care to a company president, however, I might be a little nervous. I might not know where to begin. This is how Eric felt about the tacos. He did a good job, though, with no help from me (but a little from Lucas, who made the shortcake for dessert and generally provided moral support). He even used the gold goblets and big plates. His guests brought not only wine, but energy bars (this is a running group, after all). This weekend is Men of Men dinner #2, and Eric is delighted to be finished with the hard part. Now he can watch his friends sweat.

The Men of Men. Eric has borrowed the gear from our usual chef.