Ode to Polenta

On a recent stormy Sunday night, my honey and I sat down to a homecooked dinner by candelight. The star of the meal - or should I say the sun, as everything else revolved around it? - was Chicken Piccata. As my faithful readers know, I'm slowly making my way through Giada De Laurentiis' Everyday Italian as the accompanying Food Network show is one my favorites. This chicken dish, one of Giada's "Everyday Cutlets," made me feel like I had accomplished one of the basics of cooking: deglazing. You brown your meat first, take it out of the pan, add in your deglazers (chicken broth, lemon juice, capers and butter in this case), add the meat again to simmer and heat through, and then plate it up, with the smooth sauce poured on top, garnished with fresh parsley.

I had never successfully deglazed before and luckily it turned out delish (although with only four ingredients and one pan, it better have or my culinary confidence would have been shot), especially served up next to some buttery broccoli. The only problem I had was with the other side-dish. As I've wrestled with various recipes to various degrees of success, I feel the need to express my tumultuous relationship with this dish in a piece I call "Ode to Polenta."

....ahem....cough, cough...

Polenta, O Polenta, you cruel, sludgy temptress, how can thou tease me so? You seem so simple and eager to please, like a rookie hooker with her first john - just pour cornmeal into some boiling, salted water, stir for 15 minutes, add butter and done! Nothing fancy...a little attention and a flip of the whisk. Rustic Italian cooking that sits as comfortably next to roast chicken as it does filet mignon.

But somewhere along the line, admit it, Polenta, you fucked with my head. You rebelled. You revolted. You went from fluid, grainy porridge to gelatinous blob in the course of a 15-minute stir session with my stainless steel saucepan. You still tasted fine, I'll give you that, but what happened? Were you anguished that I seasoned you with more salt and pepper, thereby triggering some hidden inferiority complex you've harbored because of America's fascination with that other cheap yet ubiquitous side-dish, the mashed potato? Did you resent my addition of cream and Gorgonzola to make Giada's subtely-titled Polenta with Gorgonzola Cheese? Or did I just have my pan too hot, thereby depriving you of what little excess water you needed?

You threw me for a loop again, sweet Mistress of the field, when I took out your leftovers and threw you into a pan to reheat, condensation-produced water and all. This time you were so thin and liquidy I had to serve you in soup bowls. Yet finally, as you cooled and set, you became the exact right texture: smooth and tender, but still thick enough to coat a spoon.

I gave you one more challenge: I added my homemade Chili Oil and some fresh parsley, poured you into a pan, and popped you into the oven to become Baked Polenta. This also didn't work out so well for us, did it, O cunning cornmeal goddess of the gastrointestinal fates? Again, maybe this was not your fault (so spare me your wrath). The problem may lie in Giada's directions: "Bake in the oven until the polenta is slightly firm to the touch, about 15 minutes." Excuse me? Am I supposed to actually press my fingers into still-baking, piping hot cornmeal to see if it's "slightly firm to the touch," a vague, non-committal litmus test if I ever heard one? It turns out that 15 minutes was not enough time, but damned if I was going to find out by scalding my fingertips.

So, Polenta, we may have gotten off to a rocky start, a culinary first date with the stovetop substituting for the requisite coffee shop, but Polenta - you poor man's doorway to affordable, creamy ectasy, you - somehow we must work together to have a beautiful future together. Do I offer gifts of rosemary to Demeter, the Greek goddess of the harvest, or thyme to Hestia, the Greek goddess of the hearth? If only they would pity me with good fortune. Lesser men have received more, so I pray they find me worthy. Hopefully the kitchen gods will look down kindly on me because, no matter how I've whipped, stirred, beaten, chilled, cheesed, chilied, creamed, or baked you, Polenta, I could still have you fried.

So let's not bicker any more. Let's put aside our differences and join together in a blessed union of Diner and Dinee. Is it a deal, O sweet, sating Polenta?