Goodbye, Gourmet; It's Been Sweet

I love hamburgers. I mean I really love hamburgers. A lot of ladies think of a cupcake as the Ideal Flavor Unit. For me, it is the hamburger. I will take that buttercream frosting in a shade of non-threatening pink and trade it, happily, for mustard in a screaming, nuclear shade of yellow. Some things are what they are.

Because of this, I found the New York Times article that both Domenica and Linda mention completely terrifying, especially in the wake of another completely sad, icky piece of news, namely the shuttering of Gourmet magazine.

It is one thing to be handed, on Monday morning, concrete scientific evidence that mass meatery is not only environmentally and economically questionable but apparently, potentially lethal. (This is going to make me seriously rethink my In-N-Out Burger Strategy, which, thus far has been, "If you see one, eat it.")

And it is another thing to be handed, on the same Monday morning, the news that the Holy Grail of Good Things to Eat -- the food nobles who first brought the words "Black Angus" into common parlance, and the castle they once lived in -- has been lost forever.

I'm going to get a lot of, "You liberal, arugula-loving swine!" sorts of comments on this one, and I accept them from all corners. Some things are what they are. Gourmet was my Norman Rockwell. My mother, an immigrant from outside the matrix of honey-baked hams and corn on the cob, married a man who was born into a family that ate fish on Fridays and homemade doughnuts on Sunday. Bratwurst and oatmeal were as exotic and tasty to her as kaffir lime and almond jelly, and so it comes as little wonder that Gourmet was in our mailbox, every month, for decades.

Sometimes she actually made the dishes, although most of the recipes were simply dog-eared with enthusiasm. "Alex!" she would say to me, "look at this 76-layer coconut cake encased in a spun sugar spider web! I'm going to make it!" Alas, this ended up being, mostly, a whole lot of "big talk" and "no action." Still, it rubbed off on me. In high school, my nerdy friends and I spent an entire December 31st cooking Gourmet's suggested New Year's Eve dinner, which involved lighting Muscat grapes (or escarole, I can't remember) on fire and painting glass cups with melted chocolate. It was more of an athletic event than a meal.

In college, I witlessly subscribed, taking voyeuristic foodie vacations every month, lusting after Gulf shrimp pozole and cinnamon pot de cremes while pounding down Golden Grahams from the cereal bar. (Some things are what they are).

When my mother and father split up, she took with her only the Things That Mattered the Most. Her select issues of Gourmet (including the 1992 Christmas cookie spectacular) were in the suitcase. My elementary school report cards did not make the cut, but that recipe for Cornish game hens with chanterelle risotto? She wouldn't leave home without it.

Perhaps in a foreshadowing of what would come to pass, I was overseas last week and visited my mother, (who now lives abroad), on the weekend. Because she lives thousands of miles away these days, making dinner together is a luxury, never a chore. We decided to make something long and ambitious and looked for guidance. Neither she nor I subscribe to the magazine anymore, but when it came down to it, we still went to gourmet.com. The boeuf bourguignon took a hell of a long time to make, but oh it tasted delicious. And today, perhaps, a little bittersweet.