The Starving Artist cookbook : illustrated recipes for first-time cooks

376 Pages·2016·22.88 MB·English

by  Zin

For my husband, Piotr Zin.
Thank you for your patience and love always,
but especially when I’m at my craziest.
And for sharing this strange and delicious
journey with me.
CONTENTS
Introduction
Where I Began
The Basics
BREAKFAST
Simple Eggs
Burrito Scramble
Piotr’s Apple Pancakes
Vegetable & Sausage Crustless Quiche
French Toast & Crispy Bacon
Garlic Kale & Eggs Quinoa
Popovers with Strawberry Butter
Grandma Teresa’s Omelet
West Coast Benedict
Crêpes with Strawberries & Cream
SALADS
Strawberry & Balsamic Salad
Garlic Bread Salad
Balsamic Chicken Salad
Kale Salad
Beet & Cheese Salad
Edamame Salad
Polish Vegetable Salad
Forsyth’s Salad
Daikon Salad
Coleslaw
SANDWICHES
How to Make French Bread from Scratch
Smoked Salmon Bagel
Bruschetta
Leftover Turkey Slider
Egg & Cheese Sandwich
The Summer-Time Burger
Tofu Bánh Mì
Pulled Pork Sandwich
Tea Party Sandwiches
Pork Belly Bao
Chicken Gyro
SOUPS
Vegatable Stock
Chicken Stock
Beef Stock
Chicken Noodle Soup
Pasta Fagioli
Leek & Potato Soup
Polish Beet Soup
Chicken Corn Soup
Hearty Beef Stew
Tomato Soup
Cream of Broccoli
Anja’s Spinach Soup
Clam Chowder
SMALL PLATES
Sautéed Mushrooms
Asparagus & Eggs
Chicken Gyoza
Brussels Sprouts with Walnuts
Fried Rice
Green Bean Casserole
Smashed Potatoes
Creamed Spinach
Roasted Root Vegetables
Lusia’s Peppers
DINNER
Lasagna
Simple Roasted Chicken
Homemade Pasta
Grandma Julia’s Artichokes
Chicken Enchiladas
Simple Carbonara
Sanaë’s Galette
Ratatouille
The Perfect Steak
Rosemary’s Eggplant Parmesan
Pork Cutlets & Mashed Potatoes
Classic Bolognese
Scallops, Corn, & Tarragon
Korean Bulgogi
Swedish Meatballs
Spaghetti Alle Vongole
Roasted Lamb Chops
Chicken Marsala
Basic Stir-Fry
Honey Mustard Salmon
SWEETS
Pie Dough
Jan’s Oatmeal Cookies
Crumble-Top Muffins
Blueberry Pie
Italian Pear Cake
Strawberry Tarts
Banana Bread
Basia’s Chocolate Walnut Cake
Chalka
Birthday Cake
Amy’s Molasses Crinkles
DRINKS
My Perfect Cup of Tea
My Perfect Morning Cup
Irish Coffee
Quince Tea
Healthy Smoothies
Mojito
Berry Margarita
Homemade Lemonade
Sangria
Lychee Martini
Classic Old-Fashioned
One-Egg Eggnog
Where I Ended Up
Culinary Terms
About the Author
Index
INTRODUCTION
THE TRUTH IS THAT I’VE NEVER REALLY KNOWN WHAT TO DO
WITH MY LIFE. I’VE HAD IDEAS about how to live—work tirelessly until I
am successful (arbitrary)—and ideas about how not to live—just do
nothing and see what happens (chaotic). But no matter what I do, it
always comes back to my art. Weeks, months, even years can go by in
utter confusion, but the moment I paint, I feel alive again, my vision
clears, and whatever had been nagging me—fears about aging, the ever-
present uncertainty of the future, and general doubts about who I am—
begin to work themselves out. This happened, most recently, a few
months back, when I picked up a paintbrush for the first time in over a
year and painted the ugliest cookie I had ever seen.
It was terrible, like, wtf happened to my hand (or brain) to have
diminished my once-honed ability? I stared, dumbfounded, at the
awfulness, and it stared back, challenging me to do better. Asking me
why I had stopped painting, and demanding that I wake up and get my
life in order. I wasted the entire day looking at cookie images, analyzing
how other artists painted food, worrying about what to do, and finding
nothing that could help me. It was not something that I could force, or
mimic, or control; I had to trust myself. Instinctively, I chose the tiniest
brush I owned and went to work. Unsure of what would come, I painted
over the entire cookie.
This was hard to do because the piece was a watercolor—to paint
over it goes against all painterly common sense and technique. But I
wasn’t after tradition; I was aiming for whatever would make me feel
better, even if, in the end I would throw it out and start all over again. I
painted all night, and sometime during the process, I began to remember
who I was, how much had changed, and why.
MY NAME IS SARA ZIN, and I’m an average “just turned 30” girl trying to
make sense of a life gone unexpectedly off-plan. A few years ago, a
dream of mine had been realized. I was living in New York City, working
at a well-paying design company, and painting in every spare moment.
Work-art, work-art, work-art, and all the while, the important things—food,
sleep, love, life—had taken a back seat to my grand plan. I had
everything mapped out: “You put the time and effort in, the universe
meets you the rest of the way, and that is how shit gets done.” It had
worked this way all my life—why would it ever change?
Except, as my husband Piotr and I drove our rented U-Haul across the
Brooklyn Bridge and into our new neighborhood, Piotr—who had put his
faith in my decision to sell our house in Seattle, drive across America,
and live in the most crowded city in the United States (even though he
hates large cities)—got a call from his dream employer asking if he was
available to come to Los Angeles and work on a short-term project.
“Seriously?” I asked, incredulous. “We haven’t even stepped onto the
island! We spent five years in Seattle praying for such a call. It has to
come now?!”
After the initial exasperation, we both agreed that he should take the
job. It was only a short project, and then he’d come back and find a job in
NYC. Once we found our new apartment and unloaded the truck, he
returned to the West Coast, leaving me alone in that strange but holy city,
to work and paint like the proud machine I had become. Needless to say,
this interruption was not in my script, but a dream is still a dream, and I
could check Living in NYC off life’s “to-do” list. Next item—Become a
starving artist. How hard could that be? Just don’t eat. Piotr was the chef
anyway—I never learned how to cook, having grown up with fast food
and microwaveable dinners, too busy with my own interests to ever stay
in the kitchen with my mother or grandmother.
As I settled into the city, I had more time than ever to paint. I was free
to structure my days as I wanted—no husband to come home to, a
comfortable job, and no friends to distract me. Only, I started noticing an
emptiness building inside me. I couldn’t understand what it was. I would
come home from work, wrap my wrist for the nightly strain of holding a
brush, paint until the early morning, and sleep a few hours before going
to work again.
When I painted, I felt calm—this was exactly where I belonged. Free
from my constant questioning and brutal self-recrimination. I felt allowed
to experiment, to make mistakes. But somewhere between the validation
I was receiving in the gallery world and my desire to be worthy, I lost my
mind. I thought I wanted success, but really, I wanted people to love me. I
looked around at the artists in the city, and felt that they were all going in
a different, more correct direction than I was. These people had
something to say, a message, however beautiful or inarticulate or
grotesque. But what did I have to say? How could I gain their love?
Work harder, mail this painting to that gallery, then start the next one.
Apply for more shows. Send out my portfolio, go to galleries, go to
museums, come back home and paint. Do it again. Life went on like this
for a few months until I started to crumble like a stale cookie. I was
exhausted, I was hungry, I didn’t know what to paint—I’d lost any sense
of a “message” inside me long ago. Piotr’s project kept getting extended.
One month apart became six months, then a year.
I asked myself over and over, What do I have to say? What do I
believe in? But I loved only the act of painting. Couldn’t art exist simply
because it made me happy? Was that not worthy or meaningful? The
only thing I had believed in was the plan, but that was breaking down.
Was coming to NYC all a mistake? Had I uprooted my life, ruined the
things that were working on some vague notion of how to be an artist? I
had become a starving artist, as I had wanted … but not in the way I had
wanted. I was literally starving, but for what?
I needed something sweet. I wanted my life to be like it was when my
grandma would give me a cookie and hold me when I was scared. I
stopped doing and started being, as memories flooded over me, past and
present blurring together. I felt so lost. I wandered around the city and
passed strangers, heard their excitement and hope, the kind I’d once
oozed. But now, a cold sweat formed underneath all my layers of clothes,
my toes numb from walking, my belly grumbling, my head spinning. As I
opened my eyes to the dream I followed, everything became a question.
What does success even mean?
The things I thought were solid—my art, my husband, my happiness—
had disappeared. I had thought that life was fixed, that as long as I
stayed within certain boundaries, nothing bad could happen, but that was
a childhood naïveté. Adults had set those boundaries, but as an adult, an
equal, life was boundless. I had made a mess of my life. How could I go
back?
I returned to the West Coast, only to LA, not Seattle. Piotr had done