Cooking soothes heartache, it is widely known. Though it is easy to forget this when one is in the grips of such heartache, or malaise, or depression, or any variation of the above. There’s something about measuring, stirring, follow directions, fussing over culinary details—fennel fronds, or fennel fronds and a bit of parsley? perhaps I should halve the rosemary? is it brown enough yet?—that takes you out of yourself, if only momentarily.
It takes you out of yourself just long enough to be able to find yourself again, somewhat refreshed and renewed, reassured of your ability to care for yourself, to be nourished. These are not small things, such reminders.
Cooking brings you back to those primordial necessities. It also adds necessary touches of luxury.
Enter the Fennel al Forno.
Enter David Tanis, master of simple elegance; master of the unfussy, but remarkable, culinary creation.
I stumbled upon this recipe in the NY Times on Valentine’s Day, of all times—you know that cheery holiday where we herald San Valentin and all of his little cupid hearts and arrows? Yes, that one.
But I stumbled across this recipe and felt a determination rise within me—to celebrate this Valentine’s Day with the nurturing of my appetite. A worthy cause, I think. I left work at 5 pm, as usual, and rushed to the grocery store, printed newspaper recipe in tow. Never before had it occurred to me to roast fennel, in the manner of a gratin, but now that I have been eating it this way all week, I am having trouble thinking of any other way to consume this pert, crispy vegetable—will I look at the raw shavings in my salad forever after and think only of the need for breadcrumbs and rosemary oil?
Perhaps.
