Photo Courtesy of Georgeanne Brennan
It is assumed, I think, that all cookbook authors work on brushed stainless steel, state-of-the-art, six-burner precision ranges like those featured in the ads of glossy food magazines. Let me dispel the myth. I have written more than 20 cookbooks, and I can trace many of their origins back to two Spartan appliances: the first, a two-burner propane cook-top set over a retired charcoal braise in a French farmhouse; the second, a salvaged restaurant stove with replacement knobs and a slightly dented right side that my husband brought home in the mid 1980s, roped down in the back of his truck.
I did manage to upgrade about a decade and a half later, with the help of a modest royalty check. I bought a brand-new 6-burner professional range. It looked just like the old restaurant stove, big and blocky, but with insulation, a broiler, and no dents. I found it the height of luxury. It saw me through such tomes as Savoring France, The Essentials of French Cooking, and played its small, but important part in my memoir, A Pig in Provence.
I never gave much thought to improving on it. It seemed to me that it worked just fine, and I assumed that it would last forever, just like me. But a few months ago, after a soufflé that failed to rise rendered the special ingredients (eggs from my son's backyard chickens and a clutch of freshly gathered morels) nearly inedible, I started to rethink the situation.
My gorgeous Soupe de Poisson scorched and my favorite fat Italian beans burned. For someone whose mainstay is stovetop cooking, this was, I finally admitted, untenable.
Oven temperatures in the oven were off by 50 degrees; its hottest temperature seemed to be about 390 degrees; the infrared broiler--never its best feature, it turned out--died halfway through browning a trout last year; and, worst of all, the burner flames had become irregular, sending up blue then gold flames, high on one side, sputtering low on the other. Without a reliable simmer, my gorgeous Soupe de Poisson scorched and my favorite fat Italian beans burned. For someone whose mainstay is stovetop cooking, this was, I finally admitted, untenable.
However, I'm a faithful lover and wasn't going to cast aside my long-time companion and good friend without some serious counseling. I called a specialist in Viking repairs. He arrived on time, looking old enough to be competent and trained in the latest techniques but not so old as to be blasé about a woman's distress. I explained to him that I wrote cookbooks and how important it was to me to have everything on my range working properly.
He asked if I had a show on Food TV. When I said "No," he opened the oven, tested the broiler, tried out the burners, opened the bottom panel, and then closed it. Standing up, he put his tools away. "Sorry, lady, this thing is too old. There aren't any parts for it anymore. You gotta buy a new stove. Might even get you a TV show."
Yes, but could I really strike up a lasting romance with a brand new stove? One tricked out with brass and stainless steel? Was there a person lurking inside me who wore glamour like an old shoe, ready for love with a stranger? And, more practically, was this the economic moment for such an extravagance?
I plowed my doubt into cooking. I prepared a pot-au-feu, an economical stovetop dish I'd learned to make during the years I kept goats and pigs in Provence. I cleaned spring greens from my garden, braising them in olive oil, adding tender green garlic. I pan-fried pork chops with rice and simmered them (watching carefully for burning) with the last of my homemade Shady Lady tomato sauce from last summer's crop. I made some simple syrup to pour over sliced blood oranges from my trees. The old stove worked mightily to please me.