Dear Ricotta
My exploration into a half pound of ground chuck was part of a more general effort to reassess my needs and see what changes I could make to render my new life more livable. For example, I saw a doctor last week. She asked me various questions about my lifestyle and I answered confidently to all but one: Are you eating enough? I said yes at the time, but reflecting later, decided that I would be better off if I consumed more fat and animal protein. (Part of the need for more food is that I’ve chosen to pedal a seventy pound steel bike up the hills of Charlottesville, which is another life choice up for reconsideration—but later). So, while at Harris Teeter looking for a new toothbrush—the one I now hide behind my swim cap because I suspect my roommate of having sampled mine more than once—the butcher called me over and we talked for awhile. The conversation brought a few things to mind: my realization at the doctor’s office, explanations to new friends that I’d eat meat if I could afford the ethical varieties, and my desire to reevaluate and rebalance the ole vida loca. That night I grilled a quarter pounder on my new, and very heavy, cast-iron skillet. I ate it with sauteed kale and caramelized onions. I wouldn’t really rave about my creation, but my appetite was sated until morning.
Flash-forward to my study break at Food of All Nations, a Sendik’s like grocery store. I found myself staring at fresh pastas filled with prosciutto and cheeses. I debated and debated the value of buying the fresh package, versus buying the fillings to sprinkle atop my box tube noodles already in the cupboard at home. That’s when I spotted the tub of ricotta. I pulled it down, rotated it, caressed it, and weighed it and the pros and cons of having a pint of grainy, insipid, spreadable cheese in my possession. It seemed like a lot of responsibility at the time, but I committed to the vision of noshing my version of the prepackaged tortellinis in the comfort of my carpeted apartment on the edge of town.
Later, sliding my feet over the grimy and stained rug, I realized that ricotta is the cheese in lasagna, and remembered despising it. So I ate it on noodles with sauce and squash. Like the burger, it was ok. The next morning, I was still concerned that the ricotta would remain in the back of the fridge until it a pinkish hue blossomed around the plastic rim. Also concerned about consuming more calories, but not about to bring a cold burger for lunch, I decided to coat my multigrain bread with ricotta and puzzle a thick slabs of cheddar on top. Oh and I cracked some pepper.
Eating the cheesey non-burger lunch under a shady tree, gazing on the old general hospital and the hang-out spot called, “The Corner,” I discovered that smearing ricotta on all things edible would trump, according to my lifestyle computations, future ground chuck purchases. Ricotta=animal protein, fat, calories, spreadable factor, vehicle for savory and sweet, not meat>lonely burgers in my dirty apartment without friends, a grill, or the Fourth of July.
Love, Al
