Fall in a rain forrest

Halloween has just come and gone.
The sunny fall days have turned into rainy, cold days here in the Pacific North West. When I drive into school at 6:30 am, the sky is pitch black. When I get to the lit up bridge, I can finally see the beautiful curves of Portland reveal themselves as curtains of fog move and sway like a dramatic set. The city is placed among hills of Christmas trees with this giant river and many beautiful bridges acting as a frame as you come in from the east. The darkness and fog at that time make the city look like a grey-blue water color painting - or an old photograph that is slightly out of focus. It is heartbreakingly beautiful to me every single morning. And every single morning I am reminded of all the different types of people who have cultivated and built this place - from the rich people in the twinkly houses that scatter down the hills, to the working class people who built these bridges and have worked by them, on them and under them, to the native American Indians who were here with the bears and the salmon and all this luscious growth long before any Europeans found it.

Rainy days are for lovers.
They always feel especially lonely to me when I am without it.
Here, I find myself moving from one rainy day to the next like an invisible woman. Other than my one friend, Chris, and my sister (whom I see once a week if I'm lucky) - I am invisible here. It's a strange feeling for someone as extraverted as myself. I know there is a lesson to be learned - I'm just not sure what it is yet.

I'm not invisible anywhere else.
And, as if to prove my point, the ONE person I have met on my own in Portland - I met in the air (on a plane) above Los Angeles. ( my invisible cloak had not yet descended, you see)
Her name is Cindy. She is roughly my mother's age, and she has invited me out to hear her daughter sing tonight. Of course I am going. I am dying for a friend!

I miss my friends and family in L.A. And I miss my friends and family on the East Coast. So many of them are STILL without electricity after hurricane 'Sandy'. Some I have not heard one word from since the storm and have no assurance that they are ok. So I worry and hope from this far corner of the country.

There is nothing wrong with this beautiful rain forrest. No terrible storms here, no fires or drought. The fall days and nights are saturated with colors and nostalgic smells - smoke from fireplaces mixed with rain and flowers. There is no shortage of culture here, either. More art house cinemas, live theatre  and music venues, more amazing restaurants than I can relate to you. The only thing missing is all of the people that I love.

Now I'm Pissed.

Just got back from school. From my first practical final (which just means all of the actual cooking and everything else that's done in the kitchen - as opposed to written tests, math, etc) - and I was so mad, I drove straight home and took it out on the dishes. Not throwing them or anything - just DOING them.
I know - it would be so much more exciting if I told you I threw them all across the kitchen and glass and porcelain were flying everywhere - but that didn't happen.

(Now, Mark has a GREAT 'throwing glass' story, and if he doesn't agree to write a guest blog one of these days soon, I may just write it FOR him - as heard second hand, of course!)

The thing is, these chefs are (as so many people warned me ahead of time) such ego-maniacle jerk- holes, it's hard to take sometimes. Let me, at this time, try to paint a picture of the three chefs I have had the occasion to study under so far. I shall not use their real names, of course, and as you may have noticed, I will never even name the school which I am attending for fear of being sued or failed.

First, there was the night time chef. Let us call him Churchill. He seemed like a nice enough fellow - just a little defeated and not seeming to love his job. Churchill is an older man (late 50's , I should guess?)  quite tall, with a thick head of salt and pepper hair and an unfortunate goatee/mustache combo. I posit that he would be much more attractive if he would grow his full beard in. I asked him meekly one evening if he ever DID wear a full beard and he looked at me as though I had asked him to join my satanic cult.
 Despite the fact that we are expected to learn about a jillion things every night and our lecture time is precious, Chef Churchill chose to amuse us with stories about his glorious youth. He told us all about how he was a super star in San Francisco - smoking weed and doing blow with the hottest chefs in town. He had been an unstoppable young gun in one of the most exciting cities in the world. He told us all about how he could do any station on the line - and how he frequently did (when someone called in sick or something) - all the while dangling a cigarette in his mouth, or resting it on the edge of his cutting board. Those were the days before health and sanitation were concerned with things like cigarettes in the kitchen. "We all smoked in the kitchen!" he laughed.
I rubbed my hands together in the freezing cold lecture room and tried to imagine him when he was young, hanging out with my heroin, Alice Waters. I imagined that he was very cute back in the day, and very cocky.
 I can tell you all kinds of things about Chef Churchill. Because that's how he spent our evenings. Telling us all about his personal life. I know where he grew up, that his first restaurant job was at Mc Donalds, all about his culinary training, his 2 wives that both divorced him (he seemed a little sad about that), that he used to have a cat and he doesn't have any children...I could go on and on.

Next in line comes Chef Jefferson. That's what I'm calling him, because he thinks he's so cool. And if he had slaves and lived in the time of Jefferson, I bet he'd sleep with them. This chef seems to think of himself as the young, groovy, "hot" chef. He's married with kids (cute kids - we saw pictures), but he's not really all that. It is immediately apparent that lots of young, female culinary students get crushes on him, and of course he loves it. Why wouldn't he?
 Jefferson's the one I'm so mad at right now. This man makes my bullshit detector go off like crazy. In fact, I'm so mad at this moment, that I think that's all I'll say about him right now. Except to say that he's only made ONE dish that was any good so far.
 And THAT is what my sister thinks is really bumming me out so much about this whole school experience. That the FOOD doesn't taste very good. Seriously. So far, it's like we're learning to cook for a geriatric cruise ship.

You see, I'm ok working with or for megalomaniacs IF they are brilliant. If they are truly brilliant, they can be as nuts as they want to, as far as I'm concerned. And of COURSE I've worked with and for these types of people. I'm an actress! Directors have yelled at me, sometimes made me cry, sometimes I held my own...but, I guess I have this idea that one has to EARN the right to be a crazy jerk-hole.

Which brings me to my favorite chef. The only ray of hope I can see in this twisted learning environment. I shall call him Napoleon. Chef Napoleon.
I adore this man. He has made me cry already. That was embarrassing. But he is the ONLY one catching me out on my bad habits, AND the only chef so far that seems to have a real LOVE of the culinary arts.
Chef Napoleon is a smaller man (not tiny, but a hair shorter than me) with a HUGE amount of energy and sparkle. He is from another part of the world, where life is harder and he has worked harder than anyone there, I believe, to achieve what he has. He yells a lot, and his sparkle can turn on a dime into anger or impatience, but he doesn't seem to hold on to any bad feelings. He is funny and intimidating.
Chef Napoleon can yell at me or make me cry all he wants - because he is BRILLIANT. What this man knows about spices and flavor profiles is invaluable, and can NOT be found in any book. I believe he is the absolute treasure of the school. He is the reason I want to go to school every day, and dread going to school if I am even slightly unprepared.

It is another glorious day here. The sun is shining, it is barely cool and crisp, and the wind is sending the fist of the colored leaves around in flurries. Believe it or not, there are still roses blooming all over town, and the views outside my windows could not be more idyllic. All of this gentle fall beauty is taking the wind out of my little huff. And as I am calming down, enjoying the chestnut trees and the golden leaves, I have to laugh it off, shake my head and remember that I have a LOT of work to do before monday - Chef Napoleon demands perfection, you see. And HIM, I don't want to disappoint.

NOT sticking my foot in it - for once!

Just got back from another hard day at culinary school. All of the instructors over there seem to be in CRANKY moods.(how can they be when it is SOO beautiful outside?)

I should be going over my math quiz right now to figure out all the stuff I got wrong - but I just can't face it yet. I feel like I'm in some bad high school movie. What's that one where Drew Barrymore has to go back to high school as an adult - and they STILL treat her like she's a total dork? THAT'S THE ONE!!!! THAT'S THE ONE I'M IN!!! Only there's no cute teacher to fall for in my movie.

Oh well. I'm proud of myself for today. I can be pretty awful about sticking my foot in my mouth, and for ONCE in my life, I kept quiet.

I got to school 4 minutes before the classroom door closed, and some other chef was in there chatting with my instructor. Out of the blue, he turns to me and asks, "So, do you miss Chef _, yet?" (my other night-time chef instructor).

I just looked at him. Immediately 2 answers flew into my head.
The first one was,"Well I'm pretty damn sure he doesn't miss ME."
And the second one was, (dripping with sarcasm) "Oh yes. I really miss hearing him lecture us about his X-wives. Riveting!"
But instead - INSTEAD, dear readers, I merely looked at this chef for several seconds with my mouth open (I'm sure I looked like an imbecile), telling myself very sternly, "Don't say anything, don't say anything.." and finally sort of blurted out, "....uh...yea."

This was a small victory for me. Especially considering how out of it I am in the morning. I am just not a morning person. I do not like this new schedule very much. Sometimes I wish I could whine to someone over there about stuff. I wish I could tell someone that that other chef seemed to dislike me quite a bit for some reason (maybe I remind him of his X-wife - one of them? I don't know!) , and that I'm too lonely here as it to be able to handle that AND the mean kids at school. I don't know what it is about Portland, but no one talks to me here. It was so different feeling when I was on my own in Paris or Bali - even South Africa. I spent loads of time there on my own - but people TALK to you. If you are sitting at an outdoor cafe in Paris all by yourself - someone will strike up a conversation with you.

One lovely evening in Paris, I was having a drink at Duex Magots all by my lonesome. I started writing in my journal, and before I knew it, a handsome man a couple of tables over asked me if I was a writer. We ended up talking for two and a half hours - despite the language hick-ups. It was great fun to meet people like that - all over the place. This couple that Mark and I met in Bali are still our friends - we ended up hanging out with them in Portland when we up here scouting it out. Total strangers. But one of us was brave enough to say "hi", and now we have some really cool new friends. Mark's even written them into his screenplay!

Here, I may as well be a leper.
Thank goodness for you, gentle readers. You are the most communication I have in any given week.
Thanks for hanging in there with me!

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?

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.

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."

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!