Boiled, Burned, and Finally Beautiful

I remember where I was, and I recall vividly how it started.

I sat across the large, round, oaken table from my father, who had purchased it from a man named Wolfman. Technically, we bought it from his daughter, Donna. I thought she was cute. In case you missed the memo, I am Generation X; thus, Dad did what Boomer dads were famous for, especially after he saw the blushing on my young face. He teased the living piss out of me.

"This is a nice table, and we got good chairs with it. At a darned good price, too. I'll think of something else to buy, and you can work out a deal with that little sweetheart there." He grinned like a tomcat watching a canary.

I nervously polished the lion paw feet of the table with my socks when that first scent of hell and sulfur crossed the table and broke our moment.

There were many things my mother could cook well in her heyday, but there were a few items that were sins against society and nature in her kitchen. This was the latter.

Mom had two speeds with cauliflower: overboiled and annihilated. At her hands, they were twin demons that looked alike, unseasoned, and steamed into oblivion. The coating of cheese substance she had applied almost in afterthought was more of a straightjacket than the crowning accoutrement she intended.

Dad looked at me, the smile vanishing, and in a daze, surveyed my mother as if she had just informed him she was pregnant with a goat. Amazingly, he remained silent.

As we ate the rest of our meal, he prodded at it with his fork like Darth Vader poking Obi-Wan Kenobi's robe for signs of life. It was not of this world. It was so soft it could've doubled as wallpaper paste in an emergency. If vegetables had a jail for crimes against humanity, overboiled cauliflower would be serving a life sentence without the possibility of parole. I tried to bury mine in mashed potatoes like the crime scene it was.

Then, remembering I had wanted the potatoes, I fought tears. Dad looked at me and gently said, "You can be excused whenever you're ready, son. It's okay." As I left the kitchen, I heard him say to Mom, "Whatever magazine you got that recipe from, we gonna burn it. I'll give ya credit. We tried, but I wasn’t sure if I should eat it for pride, or use it to grout the kitchen tiles."

For me, cauliflower's new reputation was proof that good intentions didn't always lead to good meals.

I avoided that reviled vegetable for the next two decades. I dodged it in military chow lines, Asian vegetable soups, and any cafeteria setting that threatened me with it. We were not friends. I refused to be an acquaintance, and we were definitely not lovers in the night.

Then I took a trip to The French Laundry.

You probably know The French Laundry as the place Gavin Newsom hammed it up at during Covid. That does it a disservice that frankly makes me want to spit.

In Yountville, California, the French Laundry is nothing less than a holy temple of food, a pilgrimage, an event, and an experience almost religious in nature. Headed by Thomas Keller, who is also nothing less than a patron saint of cuisine, although he may not approve of that assessment, this is a place to learn great truths. I won't even try to do it the justice Michael Ruhlman has already done.

Two types of people go to this place, life students and the priest class of sustenance, and asshats that are full of themselves and want to show off because they heard a thing or two and want self-indulgent status boosters.

At The French Laundry, I had forgotten my French.

I took French in high school for a very vapid reason. The French teacher was pretty, and the Spanish teacher was much older. The German teacher was a man. Still, that was back when students and teachers didn't make it awkward. We knew our roles and never thought of doing otherwise.

So, I got a basic education in French that I used to horse trade personal gear with French Army soldiers in the Persian Gulf and a cute t-shirt of a cat in a beret that read 'la langue de l'amour' that was almost a feline version of Pepé Le Pew.

The angel in white presented me with a small saucer and a demitasse cup. Inside was a steaming white liquid, almost like a soup with a scent that was vaguely familiar yet pure and elegant.

I had no clue what in the hell 'choux-fleurs' were.

From the first sip, magic happened. I found the light touch of butter and cream, the billowy froth gently kissing the tongue, and a pristine flavor almost spiritual. When the angel returned, I enquired, "Excuse me, what was this? I mean, what is choux-fleurs?"

He looked at me in a gentle surprise and softly replied, "Cream of Cauliflower. How was it?"

"Perfect. It was perfect. I finally know what cauliflower tastes like."

It was like meeting someone you've hated for years and realizing they've been secretly awesome all along. Thomas Keller didn't just cook cauliflower; he gave it a Ph.D. in elegance. The moment was as if he whispered sweet nothings to it and tucked it into bed. After one taste, I forgave every bad cauliflower dish I'd ever had. Almost.

From a soggy side dish to a star of the table, cauliflower taught me that anything—even a vegetable—can find redemption with a bit of care and seasoning. Turns out, the secret to good cauliflower is the same as a good marriage: spice it up and give it plenty of space. A glass of wine doesn't hurt, either.

I later learned to roast it as well. Roasting cauliflower is like sending it to therapy—it comes out so much better. It's amazing what a little olive oil, heat, and love can do—kind of like a Southern Baptist revival for vegetables.

It's proof that even the ugliest duckling of the vegetable world can grow into a swan—albeit a swan that still tastes like a vegetable.