Surrender

If you're reading this, you probably know me pretty well. And if you know me, then you know how I tend to be a bit, let's just say "control freak-y," wherever food is concerned. It's no secret how I'll tote along my own knives and condiments if I plan to cook at your place; how I could spend hours selecting string beans from the bin at the market; how nothing I order in restaurants is ever quite the way I would have made it myself. It's therefore a positive exercise to surrender complete control of the menu occasionally, as I did this week.

Master was doing his grocery shopping earlier in the day. I encouraged him to pick up whatever he wanted me to make for dinner, and asked only that he let me know what proteins and vegetables I would have at my disposal. Seems not so long ago that planning dinners in this fashion was the rule rather than the exception. I'm not sure at what point I usurped menu control. But this was fun, and it forced me to think on my toes.

When the call came, I was informed that pork loin chops, a head of Napa cabbage, fresh corn, tomatoes, carrots, and cucumbers were all waiting for me in the refrigerator. That sounded like the makings of a fine summer dinner. I needed only to pack a jar of homemade Chinese five-spice powder and to hit up the market for a knob of ginger, chicken broth, a couple of Patagonia pears, and some cilantro - since our little experiment in herb farming was thwarted by thrips (whose voracity for those pungent green leaves is apparently even greater than our own).

It was already past 6 PM by the time I arrived at Master's gate. When I sat and considered the options, braising the meat seemed to be the best way to compensate for a somewhat abbreviated stretch in the marinade (canola oil, ginger, soy sauce, green onion, garlic, five-spice, red pepper flake, and brown sugar, if you're wondering). I shredded half of the cabbage and one of the pears, sauteed them with scallions, garlic and ginger, sprinkled in some dark sesame oil, then wiped the pan out to prepare it for braising the pork.

For the other side, I wanted to make a grilled-corn and grape tomato salad. Thus began the great struggle to cook corn on the Foreman grill. Oh, it looked like it would be easy enough. Heat it up, soak the husks so they wouldn't burn, and let the grill do its thing. But three corncobs do not sit well on the inclined surface of this device. The floating hinge doesn't float high enough, and the cobs roll down to the edge, away from the searing heat. I spent the better part of an hour pushing and poking the corn back into place with a wooden spoon handle, turning each when it looked like rows of kernels were beginning to char - or weren't getting any color at all. When I'd had quite enough of this Sisyphean silliness, I impatiently yanked the corn off the grill and, not even waiting for them to cool (not so smart, that), sliced the kernels off into a bowl - something I've seen done many times, but have never actually tried myself. To my pleasant surprise, the grill had indeed worked its magic on the corn, which tasted unrecognizably vibrant and sweet. I tossed the corn kernels with the tomatoes, halved, lots of finely chopped cilantro, the juice of a lime, salt and pepper to season. Lovely!

I had prepared the pork, the sauteed cabbage and pears, and the corn to appeal specifically to Master's sweet tooth, but in no way was the sense of sweetness overpowering. The five-spice and the ginger cut nicely through the concentrated natural sugars. The lime and the tomatoes gave acidic punch to the salad, whose raw elements also lent an appealing overall lightness with the meat and the cooked vegetables. Master loved everything on the plate, both separately and together. And if we've confirmed our suspicions that Napa cabbage and IBS make for uncomfortable bedfellows, well, now we know. No more cabbage.