I love to complicate things. Is it human nature to crave challenge and complications and chaos? Perhaps. If so, I’ve reached human nature apotheosis, because I manage to add layers of chaos onto seemingly simple situations. Cooking is always ordered chaos in my kitchen. I’ve always been good at prepping and planning and somewhat distracted and hectic when it comes to execution. I end up changing things last minute, either by adding an extra ingredient or deciding to do another dish even though there’s already five and there’s only one person eating (me). And inevitably, chaos mixed with perfectionism results in one big hot mess.
But we love the chaos, don’t we? We love to revel in the complicated drama of romance, recount hectic, substance-fuelled nights out, gossip about endless work-related issues. Maybe it’s the relief when things work out after a build up of chaos, or it’s something in the nostalgia of being crazy and chaotic and young, told from the viewpoint of someone older and potentially (but not always) wiser. I’ve been voice noting my friend telling her I feel so chaotic because I’ve been feeling run down when in fact, it’s likely more to do with my inherently last-minute personality; it’s an excuse to justify fairly human reactions. I find myself typing emails that start ‘sorry for the late reply, things have been a bit hectic!!’, as if it’s something completely novel and unanticipated. Instead, isn’t chaos just the norm?
Last weekend, I invited friends round for dinner. Somewhat emotionally, physically and mentally hungover from the past six days and nights, I thought it best to keep things simple, which is usually the opposite of my MO (complicated for the sake of it). I knew there would be chicken (it was a Sunday, after all), and I had been craving rice that week.
Considering my exhaustion levels, I thought this meal should try and follow the rules of simplicity, and even the recipe, despite the fact that I’ve cooked it countless times before (all in varying ways, of course). I bought my chicken that morning, brining it in the usual mixture of soy sauce, sugar, lemon juice, salt and water. I soaked the rice for a few hours and when it was ready, drained it and seasoned it with plenty of kosher salt, sesame oil, chopped pistachios and a handful of sour cherries which was a new but welcome addition.
A brand new bottle of Chinkiang vinegar was begging to be opened, and my local always has some cute little Persian cukes, and so the greens were sorted. Nurungji rice was on the menu. I call it my signature dish, but really it’s my signature battle – the challenge of cooking it on a monthly basis to better the one before, make small improvements and finally achieve the balance of perfectly crispy rice on the bottom that’s moist with chicken fat on the top; and a chicken that’s tender and well salted with a nice, even golden skin. I usually only ever yield one or two of the four.
Before the chicken was ready, I smacked the cukes and let them sit in vinegar, soy sauce, sesame oil and chilli oil in the fridge. In between cleaning the house, sunbathing by the window, drinking copious cups of coffee and singing along to this Freshers 2009 playlist (as my friend Mehlaqa said, tell me you’re watching Everything I Know About Love without telling me you’re watching it), I brought out the chicken to come down to room temp. I removed it from the brine, patted it dry and salted the skin a little because I’m always chasing that elusive crisp.
My friends were to arrive at 5.30pm. So I knew I’d like to have the chicken in by 4.30pm. Which meant taking it out at 3.30pm. And steaming the rice at 4pm. Where I usually find structure and rules in the kitchen restrictive and frustrating, I found this meticulously timed, methodical approach soothing. Amongst all the chaos of life – chasing invoices, writing constant to-do lists, occasionally wallowing in the heartbreak and constantly wondering if I’m a good enough person – the ease of following a set of rules felt like a relief. There was a level of certainty and control that I’ve felt was missing in my life over the past couple of months.
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The subject line of this email is a little misleading, because I really don’t now how not to be a chaotic cook, except it seems like preparing things, not trying to do too many things at once and occasionally following a recipe can do the trick. And of course, this tracks in real life, too. But we can’t erase the chaos out of romance or friendships or work or family. Call me a cliché but chaos is what makes us human. There’s a balance to be struck between total internal anarchy and conformist boredom. Rituals help. Feeling like we have things (and people) we can fall back on helps. Ignoring the rules of dating helps. Not chasing the high all the time helps.
I used to think that I needed to slow everything down in order to be a normal person. But that’s assuming that we can control life like we control the dial of an oven. I like not always being chaotic in the kitchen, and it’ll probably be good for me if I learnt how to be slightly less last minute. But it’s also nice to know that there’s room for spontaneity and randomness and a little kismet, too.
But in the spirit of following the rules, just this once, I’m going to simply point you in the direction of Esther Choi’s perfect and timeless recipe for Nurungji roast chicken, which I will probably be chaotically testing and tweaking for the rest of my life.