WHAT I BELIEVE ABOUT COOKING
This came to me because lately I am doing some writing, prose actually, and I never seem to be able to leave a piece alone. I add that I write to please myself, it helps me see the world in a more beautiful way, and to look more carefully at it.
.
I keep adding and "fixing", trying to make it better, and find that it's lost some of the fresh naive quality it had when I first wrote it. It reminds me of the way I was when I first began to get involved with food and cooking. Way too many things in each dish. Too many colors equals none at all.

I was speaking the other night with Roy Lichtenstein, an artist friend of mine, and we talked about how important it is to keep all copies of what I write, Roy spotted right away that I was using a word processor. He told me how easy it is to "overwork" the piece, and lose the statement I'm trying to make.

My initial thought was that more is better. I was wrong, I don't feel that way any longer, I think that less is more, the beauty of a dish or a poem is that the essential character is preserved, rather than mucking it up with lots of flavors or ingredients. Thus, I have found that my art with food is about subtraction, and using those elements which allow the special flavors of a dish to stand out.
I might use some smoked bacon in a dish of morel mushrooms to enhance the woodsy-musky character of the fungi. and maybe a drop of light cream or sherry to extend those flavors to the palate. A small amount of shallot, or chive, to add a note of sparkle, and the dish of mushrooms is done.
But never forget that you are serving mushrooms.

You have, also, to keep tasting. and to always be critical of yourself. And remember you can always come back at a later time and cook the dish again, in a diferent way. Thee is rarely a WRONG way to do anything with food. If it tastes good, it's probably good. The important thing is for you to taste things as you go along,. and decide whether each addition made any difference, and in which direction.

One thing more, the most important and the last: food is about love, it really is. It's a seduction, it's intimate, and for me, it's my way of expressing affection. Meals I've cooked with friends have been bonding experiences. Perhaps for the person I'm cooking for it was only just dinner, but I doubt it. The most essential element in food is the person you are preparing it for. Too many so-called chefs overlook that.

Now I should follow my own advice and end this before I go on too long.
Love, Michael

MAY 1997 ON FRIENDSHIP
Oh, the comfort--the inexpressable comfort
of feeling safe with a person,
Having neither to weigh thoughts,
Nor measure words--out pouring them
All right out -- just as they are --
Chaff and grain together --
Certain that a faithful hand will
Take and sift them --
Keep what is worth keeping --
And with the breath of kindness
Blow the rest away.

CHEF for Pierre:
I used to hunt critters
small animals, rabbits
game birds, pheasants
and fish too.
upstate in Brewster and Amenia -
it was beautiful.
cold early-winter mornings
we'd leave the still dark city
the silhouettes of the city towers behind us,
my Brêton friends Pierre and Yves
braconniers - poachers...
and Nihiz, my faithful companion dog...
paté sandwiches on french bread
hard boiled eggs, pickles, beers
toting a browning .20 gauge
silently stalking
tall brown grass hiding us
crunchy virgin ice-snow breaking
beneath my camel-skin boots
revealing wet brown mud.
razor cold air in my lungs
feeling so very alive
it was primal, I was my ancestor
homosapiens seeking his food.
and I have killed animals,
to eat them.
but I don't do it anymore
turns out,
I'm really a lousy shot
and I can't cause pain
any longer.
I recall with revulsion how I felt
when I had the limp, warm
body in my hands,
firing too many shots to be sure it
felt no pain. no clean kill.
you know, it taught me to
appreciate the value of life
made me a better cook,
food is real, not a plastic-wrapped
something on a shelf
each animal I cooked
was a life. God given.
it deserved my utmost respect.
my highest skill.

A CREEK SOMEWHERE`
fishing in a creek
before dawn
grey mists above the quiet shussshing flow
silent , ceaseless.
hypnotic, strong against my body
I'm chest deep in a pair of waders
feeling the constant rhythm of the water
pushing, caressing me.
aware now of an unseen
underwater rock
as the water's touch varies
of a narrowing in the bank
even sense the pressure of a fish nearby,
I was a fish,
I understood how they sense
not with eyes,
but thru the water
surrounding them
and there was the bottom
some stones, some mud, then sand
all different
there is so much to a creek.
oh. I am here to fish. shit, do I have to?
that means catching, killing, cleaning, and eating.
BAM! a trout on the line. I pull it in too easily
no fight. no thrill.
now what? my first trout.
Pierre: "why not have it stuffed?"
great! a souvenir, a memory of the stream
it's on the wall.
but my body remembers the creek.

MEMORIAL DAY
I caught a cold, everyone does--
Dad didn’t like that I was running barechested
on Fire Island in the rain--
why do I do these things---
how can I explain to him?
that it was right.
I’ve seen so much,
thanks to you dear God!

I’ve seen the aurora borealis from a mountain-top,
and a comet too,
shooting stars, constellations,
billions of miles away--
I've walked thru the deserted ruins of an
abandoned Benedictine stone abbey
and knew I'd lived there before.
I’ve seen the ocean turn to silver
by moonlight in the middle of the night--
and to liquid slate on an overcast day—
copper, too at sunsets…
pre-dawn fire island skies,
painted with wild pastels
my footprints glowing on the wet shore on dark nights
electric storms, fiery lightning
across the summer sky,
the whole world lit-up for a few seconds!
the eye of a major hurricane passing overhead,
my lover standing next to me
the ocean standing straight up before us
a 20 foot wall against the wind --
warm sweet rain refreshing my thirsty body
under clear spring skies
rich, lush verdant smells,
Dear my GOD, you put on such a wonderful show for me,
and all I can do is love it, words aren’t enough.

Thank You.
I nearly kicked the bucket once,
came back with a lost eye,
and one left to see the world with--
I won't waste any of it,
I'm not asking why any longer
I'm here to see and remember this,
and to learn
maybe to teach...
I'm sure thats why you gave it to me.
why you made me this way.