People who cook...

are the most generous people you'll meet. I don't necessarily mean that on an economic level, although that can be true too. The fact of making something for someone else to eat, when you think about it, is a brave, and generous act. It's sharing, in a very basic sense.

But cooks do more than that. They share of themselves. Very little defines a cook more than his or her recipes. And I can think of very few cooks who will not share recipes with people who simply ask. I think the stories about chefs with tight lips, who say no, are apocraphyl. I've never gotten a no from any cook whom I've asked about a recipe. There have been times when I've had to cut down proportions from sixty portions to six, or had to buy a French/Croatian/Portuguese dictionary, but that's been because that's what the particular cook used or had . And there have been times when I've gotten "oh, it's this and that and this and that...." (with the particulars, ) but no measurements. Those are usually home cooks, like my Nana. A typical question and answer session with Nana would go something like

"Then you cook the pasta"
"For how long do you cook it Nana"
"You see."
"Oh."
"Then brown your meat, but don't make it too brown."
"How brown is too brown, Nana?"
"You see."

You see? That's how she operated. She wasn't concealing anything, this is how she operated. If anyone gave her a recipe, written down, she immediately threw it out and said "BAH. Tomatoes, peppers, onions, mushrooms, pork. Who needs a recipe?" And she never did.

Now, this is all by way of another story about my friend Huck. That's what I'm going to start calling Michael, because it's easier than writing out "my huckleberry friend" everytime. Huck is cooking a dinner party this weekend. He's a brave, gutsy man. Cooking for people is always unnerving. Trust me. If you knew how unwound I get before every dinner party, you'd swear that I put valium in my portion of the first course. By the time I sit down, I'm usually ok, but there's always that sense of nerves, regardless of how many times you do it.

Anyway, Huck ran his menu past me, and we were talking about first courses. We settled on soup. And then I began thinking: you know, when I started doing dinner parties, how much I wished I had an extra pair of hands. So I offered to make the soup. Not because Huck can't make the soup himself. The menu he's making shows that something as simple as a vegetable puree is well within his grasp. But who needs to "stretch," when really, you're trying to be the cook, a guest, the host, and probably put the make on someone. (This IS Huck we're talking about).

So we settled on celery root soup, after I put on my bossy boots (A new expression I learned: British slang for a domineering person. A dominatrix in a cook's suit. Hmmm). Here's the recipe. Make it for yourself, but better yet if you do what I keep on preaching: you make one thing, have someone else make a second thing, and have someone else make a dessert, and then share.

First, you'll need two good sized celery roots. These are UGLY vegetables, like I wrote about before. Cut away the brown, nasty looking outsides, and you get a big lump of whitish gray flesh, like a thick potato. Cut this into cubes and then put it under water to keep it from browning while you get the rest of the vegetables ready.

Your soup base here is onion (a large one, diced), and one or two carrots, also diced. If you like things sweeter, use two. When they're diced, put them in a soup pot that you've covered with olive oil, and cook them slowly, until the onion goes translucent. When that happens, drain your celery root, and add it to the pot with a quart of chicken stock (if you're lucky enough to know Dave, use his homemade stuff, but a good canned one will be fine). Add a big teaspoon of salt. Bring this to a boil, then lower the heat, and cover the pot and let it cook away for about thirty minutes (a good rule of thumb, but not perfect, for veggies, is if it grows underground, cover it when you cook it. If it doesn't, don't).

While this is going on, melt about two tablespoons of butter in a frying pan, and peel ,core and slice one large, or two small apples. Use eating apples, like granny smiths, or something like that. Don't use "cooking apples here. Brown them in the butter until they just get some golden color. Take them off the heat.

Check the celery root and, if it's soft enough to pierce easily with a knife, you're ready. Let everything cool down if you're going to use a blender, or don't bother if you use a food mill. One way or the other, add the apples to the celery root, and then puree everything. The mixer will give you a smoother puree, the food mill, a more rustic one. Take a look at it: is it too thick for you? Then add water, or stock, or milk. Use milk after you taste it if you think it's too strong. When you taste it, add more salt if you think it needs it. And you're done.

You can garnish this with your favorite, crispy pork product. Huck is serving a Mexican dessert, and I would tell him how to make chiciarones, but that's for another day. Crispy bac0n, a slice of sausage, some chopped prosciutto, or crispy pancetta, are all good.

This will make about two quarts, maybe more. That's plenty for eight people as a first course.

"In bocca di lupo, Huck." (It's how we Eyetalians say good luck). But you're gonna be fine. And next time you're gonna make it for me.

Officially, you're done now.