Saturday, March 31, 2007
A1: Failing the Grade
I had written it weeks ago, but I didn’t sense a proper tie-in till now. It was when I said, “The crock-pot steel-cut oatmeal experiment is a failure,” did I realize the larger issue I had invoked. Yes, the cereal I’d accidentally bought instead of instant oatmeal, and which I had then glibly promised could be cooked overnight into creamy perfection, but which had in fact turned into a puddle of serviceable gruel cowering in the middle of a crusted shell of hard-baked cereal solids; the boy liked it but it was hardly an effective use of either technology or materials. But that was okay, because I’d learned something about my kitchen and its limitations. And that reminded me that it was time to share this story:
I consider it an early triumph of the scientific method, though I guess I didn’t actually have a control group or statistical integrity or any of that good stuff. However, I did have a hypothesis, and I damn well disproved it. If that ain’t science I’ll eat A1 ice cream.
Oh yes, because I did and I do so enjoy my A1 steak sauce, and likewise my ice cream. Well, not so much anymore; I haven’t had A1 in years and I go slow these days on the churned glacees. But really, those flavors always taste so good that they must taste good together. Or so I thought.
I was young, like maybe third grade, and the family was concluding our evening meal. There had been a beefy main course of some sort, so the A1 was already out. Then supper was cleared away and dessert was served – vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce. At this phase of my story-arc I was basically lactose-affinitive, and ice cream was a product I consumed with unmitigated gusto; vanilla with chocolate sauce was a combo I particularly enjoyed so I set to my jumbo ramekin that night with out a second thought.
Anyway I didn’t have a second thought for a minute or two, and then the thought I had was not very profound – sort of a product of intellectual brainfreeze, though my being 10 may have played into it as well. I’m just saying, I’d hope I wouldn’t come up with such a notion today, knowing what I know now – what I learned that terrible night:
I was ruminating on my love of ice cream and said something to the effect that I loved it and A1 sauce too. Dad considered me quizzically: “Not together, though – right?”
“Why not?,” I queried the universe. Two great tastes – why should they not, as the sages predicted, taste great together? Sweet and savory, slick and creamy, piquant and redolent – I saw no reason why these shouldn’t be big-time culinary pals. My position was a hypothesis based on empirical evidence and well-established precedent. It seemed entirely obvious, but that may have been the ice cream talking.
We debated the point back and forth, me and Dad, he taking the position that some things are better apart than together, and I espousing the hypothesis that two rights invariably make an even bigger right. After a few minutes dad realized that his robust rhetorical skills would never persuade me – I’d inherited his stubbornness and absorbed his talmudic intellectualism, and even at my tender age I wasn’t going to roll over for a principal – in this case, that ice cream is better without steak sauce – in which I did not believe. Argument would be ineffectual. Only a live trial would convince me to change my view vis-à-vis a bowl of A1 ripple.
I remember thinking how great it was that my folks were letting me try th8is. They usually had strong feelings about wasting food and I already had a dessert in front of me. Now I would have two. Li’l sis’ eyes were wide with my audacity as mom settled a second frosty serving of ice cream onto my lucky placemat.
Mom then passed me the slim squared A1 bottle with silent amusement. Why was she grinning like that?, I wondered. Is she really so happy to be feeding me all this ice cream? My questions didn’t slow me down as I uncapped and upended my delicious condiment over the glistening confection.
My first tip-off was visual – I expected the brown sauce on the ivory mounds to look better than it did. The A1 sort of slid and glopped – most unlike the chocolate, caramel, and occasional butterscotch of my erstwhile experience. Then I caught a whiff: spicy yet fatty, vinegar and cream…. The individual components of the scent were all old favorites, but somehow they weren’t mingling properly in my snout. It didn’t smell so much like an inspired blending of classics as an odor that seemed to curdle with the very sniffing of it. Curious.
I glanced fast around the table, my spoon in my hand; all eyes were watching me in various forms of anticipation. The spoon plunged into the bowl and emerged laden with what was starting to look like a treat divided against itself, the A1 puddling and staining the margins of a big creamy dollop. There was no point in hesitating now so I took it deep into my oral cavity and let the sensations unfold of their own accord.
There were many sensations: coldness, softness, various textures… a phenomenon was taking place on my tongue, too, which I struggled to understand. It was like a fight between two cherished heroes from which neither might emerge. Sharp flavors were blunted; sweet ones, tweaked; each component of my creation seemed to provide a cruel foil to every other shade of gustatory satisfaction either constituent product had ever independently offered me. It was complex and sophisticated, this thing in my mouth – and I didn’t like it. In fact, once I realized what had happened to my ice cream dream, I could barely swallow it.
Dad’s delight at the results of my experiment (so called) was so evident that I felt compelled to scoop myself up a second spoonful, but even after I got it into my mouth I just couldn’t go through with it. “Sorry, Dad,” I admitted after half a swallow, “this just isn’t very good.”
“Well, there you go.”
“Yes, here I go,” I replied, and switched my A1 bowl for my chocolate sauce bowl. Since then I’ve tried to keep that experience in mind when faced with opportunities to blend fabulousnesses. Turns out that sometimes two rights actually make a wrong – or at the least, an about-face.
