Introducing Text Me When You’re Done: a column all about sharing what you want with who you want. We’re inviting contributors to tell us about the things they always turn to as a way of explaining who they are—the works of art, articles of interests, or other tangible elements that they refer to as a way to understand them. First up is Erika Houle on taste, in every sense of the word.
Part of my personality is defined by salt. ‘Coarse’ and ‘flakey’ are descriptors that I identify with. When a savory recipe calls for a pinch, I interpret it as more of a punch. On occasions when others generously cook for me, I can’t help but season the entire meal before taking a first bite. At dinner tables everywhere, excusing myself to return with whatever mill or shaker I can find comes as second nature.
People take notice. The other day at school, while presenting a plate of fish to my chef instructor, he sampled a small piece and paused for what felt like an eternity. “I hate to say it,” he said, “but it’s a little over seasoned.”
Be still, my quivering chin. Four months into a culinary arts program, I’m far from becoming an expert on exactly when and where I’ve crossed the threshold of too much sodium (an inherently impossible and totally subjective task, anyways). What I’m now preoccupied with is finding ways to bring more involved layers of flavor to the plate. Less finishing salt, more je ne sais quoi. What that means in terms of the perfect bite—beyond sufficient seasoning, and in my personal opinion—relies on sauce. On decadent dips, silky-smooth spreads, and multidimensional dressings that make even the strongest aftertaste a pleasurable experience.
I think of the essay in Jenny Slate’s Little Weirds titled “Night Treats for Her,” in which she summarizes her ideal snack during the quiet hours as a condiment on its own: “I drool for scoops of dripping colors,” she writes, in regard to syrupy fruit preserves, dismissing their bread and baked counterparts entirely. “I want to bite into the things that they say are too sweet to have just on their own.” On the savory side of that spectrum, I know exactly what she means—there is no greater joy than taking a spatula to a food processor still coated with fresh hummus and doing the dishwasher’s work. Each time I return to Edna Lewis’ recipe for “Rich Wild-Mushroom Sauce,” steaming hot and loaded with heavy cream and black pepper, I wonder if it would ever be appropriate to serve it as a soup. Watching Yotam Ottolenghi’s MasterClass on mezze spreads, I’m reminded of the first time I tried muhammara, a heavenly spiced and textured pool of blitzed walnuts, red pepper, tomato paste, and pomegranate molasses I ate with a spoon.
Studying traditional French cuisine means spending a lot of time with what are known as the “mother sauces:”: béchamel, espagnole, hollandaise, tomato, and velouté—each of which provide a base for endless offshoots. I love them all dearly, and refer to them regularly, but at home I’m more prone to keeping the textbook closed and working with what I’ve got. A steady surplus of garlic has yet to fail me (as the scent that reemerges from my pores never fails to remind me).
One of the best parts of making any dip, sauce, or spread is that no matter how complicated the recipe might be, it’s almost always easy to customize. Unlike baking a dessert, or achieving the right sear on a protein, making a condiment is not a matter of science but rather of the heart. Got a pickle lover in your life? Have them choose their preferred ratio of ketchup, mayonnaise, and mustard for a special burger or french fry sauce, then stir in loads of extra diced cornichons along with a splash of brine. For someone who’s forever in search of spice, a homemade hot sauce featuring whatever peppers look best at the farmers’ market amounts to a very sweet gift. If you, like me, obsess over using up ingredients before they go bad, quickly blanch and shock your near-wilted herbs and blend them with oil before straining through a coffee filter to create the most gorgeous emerald green drizzle over just about any dish.
There's an album in my phone titled "94s and more." It's shared with my husband, Sam, and consists of a collection of photos of home meals I've made that he's graciously graded with straight As. While the benchmarks for his approval might be arbitrary—add Zonzon's merguez or harissa paste to anything and it's pretty much guaranteed to make the cut—the takeaways are always beyond valuable. Making food for anyone you care about is about exactly that: taking care. It's about keeping curious, and tailoring recipes to meet the uplifting response you hope to receive, because there's nothing better. The same ethos applies at school, where grades are equally important, and where being able to adapt to what different chefs consider the right texture of risotto, doneness of green beans, or flakiness of biscuits are key to improvement. One of my teachers despises shallots, which lends to less mincing for béarnaise. Two are smokers that seem to prefer a heavier hand with seasonings and spices, which is apparently a thing, and one that I'm still trying not to take too far. My classmates and I all have our own inclinations, which is to say that successful team assignments and restaurant simulations rely on respect, honest feedback, and putting something forward that everyone feels proud of.
The point is that this is about taste, and more specifically, yours. Below you’ll find five loose recipes—none of which are uniquely my own, but my takes on things I’ve learned at school or online and in books from chefs and recipe developers I admire—that I believe will be delightfully potent additions to your fridge. Keep Heinz ketchup and beloved chili crisps stocked in the sidedoor, because every condiment serves a purpose, but I promise homemade and personalized versions will become front and center shelf essentials. Feel free to cut each recipe in half for a first try. Taste as you go, season as you please, and if any specific ingredient speaks to you—like salt, perhaps—I urge you to add more.
