Monday, September 24, 2012

What's good is good, right?

I am going to fail culinary school.
This is a fact.
A statement.

Right now, I am (let's face it) chowing down on the plum/blueberry tart I just made tonight. It is FABULOUS. It really is. The perfect amount of sweet to tart - soft to flaky. And I made it to cheer myself up from a BAD day at culinary school.

The thing is - I'm not good at math. And all these years - I guess I've just somehow faked my way through things - SOMEHOW changing a recipe for for Moroccan chicken that serves 8 into a dish that serves 150. How did I DO it without the math???? I DON'T KNOW!!!! I really don't. Apparently I am super math challenged. Well, I knew it all along. I'm dyslectic. Mr. K held my hand through the last 2 years of high school math at an ART SCHOOL!!!! My 14 year old is 4 years past any math I ever did right now. I SUCK.

And the thing is that this school preached a good sermon about giving extra help, etc - but they're not around. They are going fast as lightening and there's no time for an old broad like myself.
"How many teaspoons in a gallon?" - who the hell knows THAT???
 How do you turn 5 pounds of potatoes into ounces???? I DON'T FUCKIN' KNOW!!!!!

Some kid barked at me - SCOLDED me - for scrubbing a pot that had food stuck on it the other day.
"We don't DO that." he said, condescendingly. "We just just dip 'em."
I looked at him in horror.
"The 'THREE DIP SYSTEM'!!???" he asked me as if I were an imbecile.

I just don't know. If there's food STUCK on a pot or pan, you gotta SCRUB it. RIGHT? I don't want someone serving ME food that's just been cooked in a bunch of sani solution with goodness knows what else all over that pan....!

I started bawling TWICE today in front of my instructors. VERY embarassing. I am BEHIND on the math stuff. And I'm not making any excuses for that. That's WHY I came to culinary school. To learn all that. I know I've been faking it all these years. I WANT to learn the math. I do. But - I think it's the  attitudes and the lack of ANY ...whatever - kindness  - that's really getting to me.

And the thing is - is that sometimes I feel like getting up and making a speech when these kids are such brats - saying (all public- movie-speech-style) "You know what? Most of you are the ages of my children. And I GET that you just look at me and see some older woman and don't want me here. But - if your mom or dad ever came to your side and was protective of you - think about this :  What if YOUR mom was in culinary school as part of a second career move?  Wouldn't you be proud of her? Wouldn't you want the other students to be decent to her - regardless of  anybody's age?"

That's what I would like to say to some of these students.

And, bottom line is, we're producing food every day. Some of it REALLY sucks. But nothing I have had a hand in so far has. It's always tasted GOOD.

Math or no math, culinary school or not - what's good is GOOD - right?

Saturday, September 22, 2012

Ask for What you Want..

 I grew up terrified to ask for what I wanted.
That's what spoiled, bad children did. Good children are grateful for everything they get and are only allowed to ask Santa for what they want once a year IF they are instructed to compose a letter to him by their parents. That's what I was taught. In school, at home, in church.

Church and religion class also taught me that it was better to be poor - a rich man had a harder time getting into heaven than a camel through the eye of a needle, etc. If I ever had a teacher I didn't like, it was my job to tough it out and be grateful I had any teacher at all. If my food was terrible ( and it often was growing up - money was TIGHT), I was to eat it anyway and be grateful. "There are children starving in Africa, Jennifer!" my father routinely barked at me.
"Well THEYcan have my food!" I thought, but didn't DARE say. I frequently imagined boxing up the dinner I was loathe to eat and sending it on a plane or a ship to some starving kids in Africa.

This lesson was pounded so successfully into my head as child, that I am beyond surprised (when I look back at things now) that that, along with a terrible fear of authority did not successfully trap me in Texas in some dead end job forever. Grateful for it, of course.

I don't really know where the little flare ups of rebellion came from. Starting as little sparks, then growing into bigger and bigger sources of energy. Maybe it started when my Grandmother took me to Broadway and showed me her secret ninja method of getting tickets to a sold out show. I was only 14 then. I had seen Patty LuPone sing 'Don't Cry for Me Argentina' on the Tony's, and after witnessing me weep and hearing me sing that song for days on end everywhere I could, she bought us a couple of tickets to New York.

At the Plaza Hotel, we asked the concierge if there were any tickets available for 'Evita'.
"Oh no, Madam." the concierge said wagging his head at us in the manner of talking down to silly Texas tourists who didn't have a clue. "It is sold out for MONTHS, Madam."
"Well, alright." my Grandmother said, clearly irritated with his attitude. "Come on. Let's go get changed for dinner, Jennifer." she then said briskly as she bustled my crestfallen face into the elevator.

At Sardi's, she said, "Well, if we just get a bowl of minestrone and some pie, we'll have plenty of time to walk over to the theatre."
I looked at her in disbelief. The thought briefly went through my mind the she might be losing hers. After all, it hadn't been that long ago that she had lost her husband and continued to talk to him every morning at breakfast. "Didn't you hear him, Granny?" I asked her gently, "It's sold out for months.We can't go."
My grandmothers eyes sparkled like  a million diamond firecrackers. "Well, we'll just see about that. He doesn't know everything - I have some tricks up my sleeve."
I sighed and shook my head a little, but I couldn't help smiling at her radiant spunk. I was grateful to be here. I LOVED getting soup and pie at Sardi's. If that's all we did the whole trip - I knew how lucky I was already. It seemed like WAY too much to ask to actually get into 'Evita', the show I was obsessed with beyond anything.

I followed my Grandmother over to the theatre and watched her negotiate with the young man in the box office. She looked so cute in her Chanel suit, but I could see the young man shake his head, 'No', even if I couldn't hear him. But Granny didn't seem disheartened one bit.
"I told him we'd be waiting right over here." she said confidently.
I was positive it was all for naught, but I was caught up in my own feelings of excitement to be this close to Patty LuPone, and biting envy of all of the dressed up people walking through those doors with tickets in their hands. Just when I thought the last person had gone through, the bells were ringing people into their seats, and we would have to go back the hotel - the young man waved us over.

My Grandmother turned to give me my ticket exuding happy triumph.
"Fourth row, center", she said, gleefully.
My jaw was on the ground!
 "What!? How did you..??"
"Come on. Let's get in our seats before the curtain goes up."

As we sat down in our fourth row center seats at my first Broadway show, I thought my heart would explode with happiness. I really did. It was the absolute highlight of my young life. I was so full of love and excitement and gratitude  to my amazing grandmother - I could hardly contain it.

She looked over at me as the orchestra started to play and patted my leg with her pretty, plump little hand. "Sometimes you've just got to ask for what you want, Jennifer." she said matter of factly. I looked at this little woman in awe. As far as I was concerned, she'd just pulled off a miracle.

She looked right into my saucer-sized eyes as if she were a great Ninja Master imparting the core of her secret wisdom.
 "Just remember to ask nicely. That never hurts."
The red, velvet curtains began to part. But before I could become completely engrossed in the magic  around me, I felt as if the curtains of my brain were parting and a great ray of golden light was pouring into it accompanied by the dramatic score of 'Evita'.

"Ask nicely." I whispered to myself.

Monday, September 17, 2012

LP's are my only friends.

Over the last few days, this feeling of loneliness has crept up and over me like a blanket. It has become so intense, it is physically painful.

I'm listening to Stan Getz on my new RECORD PLAYER right now while I write and launder my uniforms for culinary school. I went into the record store downtown to see what they had the other night and was a little surprised to find it so shockingly pristine and clean and organized. Every single LP was in perfect condition. No bunged up dollar rack in this shop. But they didn't have a ton of stuff.

I took my handful of LPs to the register and a nice man who looked like he was straight off of the set of 'Portlandia' asked me if I had found everything ok.
"Well, I didn't see any classical. Do you have any?" I asked.
"Not anything good. Not right now. We only take albums if they are absolutely perfect. You might try some garage sales.."
"Yea, I noticed. Thanks."
"You from here?"
"Nope. I just moved here. I don't know anyone. That's why I'm at the record store by myself on a Saturday night."
The man with the chin beard looked at my face, as if he was decoding me.
"Well the records will keep you company."
(I chuckled) "That's exactly what I was thinking.."
"Hey, welcome to Portland - I'm gonna put a couple of freebies in here for ya. I think you might like these. And I hope we see you in here again."
"Oh, you will," I said, (aware that my throat was aching a little bit from the mere thought of walking out of that lovely store and the 2 minutes of human interaction that came with it), "..I'll need some more friends."

Friday, September 14, 2012

Canned Tomatoes.

Ok, this will have to be a short one, as I have school this afternoon/evening.

I've just finished doing my homework and reading out in the beautiful vitamin D, while sipping my coffee and eating a carrot cake muffin that my sister made me for breakfast.

I am happy to report to you that yesterday's class was a little improved. Mr "I don't want to be here" seemed a little happier to be there, and we made 4 kinds of potatoes : Lyonaisse, french fried, potato pancakes and  Duchess
and 4 grains : jasmine rice, rice pilaf, barley pilaf, polenta.
and fresh pasta with alfredo and red sauce.

Despite the fact that the red sauce was inedible (I wouldn't be caught DEAD serving that - not even in an institution of any kind), the rice pilaf was not good, and the jasmine rice was too soft and sticky - I was at LEAST reassure that I would be learning a GREAT DEAL at this school - and VERY RAPIDLY. Which is good, because I am not a patient person.

I am rattling around this big house here all by myself (with my cat, Zyll), and I have to confess it's getting a little bit lonely. I was hoping to make friends in culinary school - but in my mixed class of 25  (the majority of them will split off in a month to do pastry and baking) , I seriously think that at LEAST half the class (I would venture to guess two thirds) legitimately has something along the lines of Aspergers syndrome. They are painfully shy. In fact, they seem terrified of other people. A couple of times, I have innocently asked someone, "What's your name again?" and they reacted as if I'd whipped my french knife out, pointed it right at them and threatened to slice their throat.

Interesting to think about, really. I guess it makes sense that a lot of shy people would seek out professions that put them socked away in a kitchen (and if they are baking it's generally in the middle of the night when everyone else is asleep).

But HOW THEN, (I lament and wail to you) am I EVER going to make any new FRIENDS in this beautiful, beautiful, lonely place?????
        I DON'T EVEN HAVE ANYONE TO GO TO DINNER WITH IN A LAND FAMOUS FOR IT'S INCREDIBLE RESTAURANTS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
    GOOD GRIEF!




Thursday, September 13, 2012

Culinary School

My first REAL day of culinary school was yesterday. We were given our knife sets, our aprons and some other sundries, and learned that we would be fed dinner every school night.

Our main instructor (whose name I will not mention) started out with a ......jagged, crumbling...thud. He  
told us about the business he used to own ( an expensive meats shop), and announced that he would be serving a whole, stuffed pig for dinner. A pig stuffed with more pig.

"Well, I used to sell these for five or six hundred dollars..." he told us in his nasal, bored voice.
"People would buy the whole pig?" a student asked him.
"Oh yea. They'd order it and I'd stuff it with whatever - sausage and maybe pork loin, like this one..People loved it..." he said sounding like a man disappointed and bitterly resigned.

 In my head I was asking him why his beloved business was closed. But I already knew the answer. People that ate a lot of pig-stuffed pig probably died off, and/or then the recession hit, and they couldn't afford to pay six hundred dollars to give themselves high cholesterol and all of the things that go with it, and THEN pay their bloody doctors to fix the problems that they had gone to so much trouble and expense to inflict upon their own bodies.

Don't get me wrong.
I'm not a vegetarian.
And I love French food - lots of it.
But I NEVER want to look like that man, or sound like him, or be in ANY way like him.

Food makes me happy. I derive GREAT JOY out of cooking and eating really good food. I derive even greater joy out of cooking great tasting food that is GOOD for a human's body and a little better for the planet than pig-stuffed pigs. It's a stone cold fact that if China ate meat (any kind of meat) like we do in the USA - that alone would destroy our planet. We are the greediest and most ignorant consumers of food on this planet by FAR. We ingest poison chemicals and bio-engineered foods and defend our right to do so passionately, while many big American food companies are NOT LEGALLY ALLOWED to sell their same formulas/recipes in other parts of the world.

I am working - WE are working - on our knife skills this week. And that is one of the reasons that I wanted to go to culinary school. I have a big fancy bag of fancy, sharp, shiny knives now. Super fun. But, as my BORING and UNINSPIRING instructor rattles on about how he uses so many of the different knives to get into "small animal parts", I am day dreaming about making salads look like flowers and all of the scrumptious salad dressings I am going to hone and invent to make more people LOVE their veggies!

PS - this uninspired "Chef" had the audacity to claim that we would be using canned tomatoes in our red sauce tomorrow because they are "better than fresh". Oh my GOODNESS. Have you ever TASTED the difference? It's pretty intense - how great red sauce is when you make it from fresh tomatoes. I wouldn't fault him for saying - "You will probably be cooking for a giant hotel, and fresh tomato sauce is not practical" - but to say canned is BETTER.....!!!!!!!????????
I am tempted to wake up at 6 am tomorrow and make FRESH red sauce for 80 people so that I can bring it in for comparison. (and, no - there are not 80 people in my class - just in the whole school at one time)....signing off for now. Almost 3 am, haven't been sleeping. If I'm lucky, I will sleep a little tonight, and have sweet dreams of feeding fresh, organic red sauce with home made pasta and flower-like salads to the whole wide world.

Sunday, September 9, 2012

Insomnia, continued

As she took her seat in the small concert hall and tried to look normal for her son, she was more than aware that she looked quite the opposite of normal to her very good friend, Kenneth. He knew her so well, she was without any doubt that he could see the entire storm system swirling around inside her - hurricanes, tornadoes and thunderstorms all raging inside of a fairly small skeletal frame covered over by her brighter and brighter pink skin. If anyone in the audience was noticing her, they must have thought she was dying of a fever.
Kenneth leaned down close to her ear before the music began and murmured only, "Hmmmm.."

It was all he needed to say. Incorporated into that tight, quiet little "Hmmm.." was all the sardonic amusement and understanding of a gay man watching his girlfriend fall off an emotional cliff bigger than the Grand canyon right in front of his eyes faster than he could say "Martini, now!"
Kenneth was so amused and intrigued by this unexpected turn of events, in fact, that he quite forgot to peruse the audience in search of young 'talent' before the lights dimmed.
"Damn this one and her drama," Kenneth thought as he tried to look around in the darkness, but could only be aware of the raging storm and heat coming from the blonde woman next to him, "it's always about her! What on EARTH could have happened between these two anyway?" he thought.

As the music started, that was exactly the question racing through his friend's mind - like an actual race. Like the chariot race in 'Ben Hur'. Horses stampeding the thought through her brain and heart unrelentingly. "What on earth COULD have happened between us, anyway?"

When the music started, it took less than a moment for the tears to start streaming down her face. They came along with the most powerful truth that any of us can ever know. The same power of truth that comes when someone we love dies, or when our child is born. There are some things in life that are undeniable. Inescapable. Some emotional truths that are so powerful we are like helpless, raw animals in their wake. She could not have stopped crying for anything in the world. She could not have denied every or any of the feelings and thoughts that were rushing over and through her like tidal waves. She was every bit as helpless to them as if she were in the eye of a tsunami, in fact. And as the music filled her with love, longing and the deepest, sharpest regret she had ever known - she knew with every molecule in her body that she had made the biggest mistake of her life...

Insomnia


It was 1:34 am. She thought about going upstairs "to bed"...."But why?", she thought. "What's the point?" Two years ago, she had been reacquainted with a long lost love. Reacquainted. What a funny and misleading word - in this instance. Let me start again. Two years ago she had been invited to a concert. It was funny, because she drove two and a half hours to see it with her friend and her son, and when they got there - they couldn't find the venue. Roaming around this little beach town in the pitch dark, looking for a concert that had already started. When they finally found the place, they were told it was intermission. She went in search of the ladies' room, laughed at herself in the mirror after much scrutiny and primping. Why should it be so important, after all? He was married, lived far away, and it had been a very, VERY long time. Surely every silly thought floating around in her head was just that. Silly. Laughing at herself was the only thing to do. She hurried back to the concert hall, but just as she turned the corner, she saw him. What happened to her then can hardly be described. She'd spent the last two years alternately trying to forget it, and trying to hold onto it as hard as she could. She saw him from a little distance, standing in the corridor, and in less than an instant, everything was different. In less than an instant it felt as though they were the only two people on the earth. In less than an instant, she felt like she couldn't breath, couldn't make sense of anything, and felt like she couldn't even exist if she could not be with him. In less than an instant, the world started to spin in slow motion, she could focus on nothing but his face - her heart beating furiously, her cheeks bright red - it took all of her will power to move like a human, shake his hand, and find her way into a seat. She choked on her own longing as she watched him move into the space with the same boyish grace she remembered from so long ago. Only now his tall frame was more self assured and life had clearly been gracious and good to him, for he was more handsome, confident and talented than any human has a right to be - all at once.