It was a big day yesterday for the large Le Creusset French oven Erin and I received for our wedding. I put it through the paces making, or trying to make, French onion soup. Old School. Three pounds of onion. Three hours of sauté. One pot.

I've got to say I was pretty well pleased both with the oven and, if I may be allowed to pat my own back, the soup. There's really something magical about the onion, how it slowly changes character, releasing more and different flavors the longer and slower it's cooked. Something beautiful, too, in the deep ambers of its fond, slowly darkening in the cast iron to walnut brown. Really, the soup is just one stage of this process, and eating it another. A continuum that starts when the first onion is sliced.

I should also add that Erin made a magnificent Greek salad to accompany the soup. I was skeptical of her choice at first (I had in mind something with beets and fennel), but it was a natural combination. Erin always surprises me in this way. She has a real nose for taste, and can pick out flavors way better than me, and often surprises me with her observations and choices. But she makes no distinction between Taco Bell and Higgins, fois gras and fake cheddar. They each hold equal appeal for her. She's like a Zen gourmet.

Labels: food