Eastside Road, Healdsburg, October 23, 2009—ONE OF THE DIFFERENCES between Lindsey and me is probably the reverse of what most of the people who know us would expect. When I fry onions, preparatory to a sauce or whatever, I sweat them very slowly. My aim is to make them translucent, with no color at all. When I make a risotto, for example, I sweat them as slow as possible, and after adding the stock I stand there and pick out the darkened bits of onion, eating them on the spot, so my risotto will have as little caramel color and taste as possible.
Lindsey, on the other hand, tends to leave the pan to its own devices, turned down low for sure, but cooking away while she knits, or reads, or watches the news, or talks on the telephone, or does any of a number of things. I shake my head sadly at this: the onions will be burned, the dinner will be ruined.
What happens, of course, is that the onions get very dark, very crisp, and very delicious. So it was again tonight: she browned the onions, added some leftover lentils, and made another perfectly delightful dinner. I have so much to complain about.
Malbec, "La Finca" (Mendoza), 2009 (not very good)