My dad clumsily peeled the skins off a few garlic cloves and then looked up at me with an expression I didn’t recognize. He looked like a little boy.
“I’m nervous cooking for you,” he said.
I smiled at the slight power shift from the man whose passion in the kitchen inspired my career– and intimidated the hell out of me.
“Naw, Pop, you’re just using cloves closest to the center of the bulb. The skins are thinner, especially if they’ve been around a week or two. I had the same problem the other day in my kitchen.”
He steadied his hands, deftly chopped the garlic and tossed it into the pan of onions and chili flakes sauteing on the stove. He pulled the can opener from a drawer and opened some DOP San Marzano tomatoes. He was preparing a simple arrabiatta sauce.
I fished the garlic that I was blanching out of a small pot of boiling water and washed some basil for the pesto.
A sizeable t-bone steak rested in butcher paper on the marble counter, seasoned and coming to temperature before getting tossed on the grill outside.
First off, I need to explain going bowling in France was never on my wish list, top or bottom.