The Verdict

Last week I wrote about my adventure to the spice market and the resulting “Sichuan k-hole” of obsessively toasting, blending, grinding, and then rubbing down of every pork product in the house.  Last night I tossed the last tasty end bits of braised pork belly into a tomato sauce destined for madras curry and, you guessed it.  Rabbit.  Rabbit is tender and moist, when cooked properly.  But it does not have that fatty richness possessed by our friend the pig.  I was hoping to disguise my desire to use up leftovers for an act of genius master cookery.  It worked.

To completely digress...how many times have you tasted an interesting combination of ingredients at a restaurant and thought, “wow, who would have ever thought to grind up pappadum, coat a chicken breast, and then fry it?!”  (Not that particular example, of course, but something like it).  Chances are, a disproportionate amount of geniusly invented dishes you have experienced in a restaurant were an act of sheer desperation, not enlightened inspiration.  The night those pan-fried tapioca cakes went on the menu, I guarantee you someone’s head rolled for not re-ordering polenta meal when they ran out. 

Adding the pork belly created a rich yet balanced sauce, with the acidity of tomatoes mellowed by porky goodness.  In culinary school, they taught us to balance an acidic tomato sauce with sugar, a gastrique, a dot of butter, cream or milk in the case of a bolognese, or even a roux (those crazy French).  I have found that a bit of richness, whether it be ground lamb, pancetta, or finely chopped beef,  provides the perfect balance to a tomato sauce. 

Last night’s dinner is not the intended topic here.  Let’s revisit the pork belly.  Last week I wanted to compare pork belly that had been marinated with a spice rub to belly that had rested in brine. 

This is very detailed, just in case you love knowing why things happen, not simply that they do.

A marinade is used to flavor, moisturize, and tenderize meat.  This marinade consisted of Chinese five spice, a bit of kaffir lime juice, grated ginger, and a 50/50 sugar and salt mixture.  (David Chang of the Momofuku empire uses just this sugar and salt blend on his pork belly, allowing it to rest anywhere from a few hours to a day before roasting it).  The acid in the lime juice breaks down the muscle filaments, allowing for absorption of flavor and a more tender cooked result.  The salt, without water, actually begins to dehydrate the meat while infusing it with aromatics.  A typical marinade or rub that will be allowed to rest for a while should not include salt, as it will dehydrate the meat.  Using Chang’s method was a first for me, as I was curious how the fatty pork belly would hold up. 

Brine, on the other hand, is that thing we talk about around the Thanksgiving table.  If the turkey is moist, a guest may exclaim, “wow, this is so moist, did you use a brine?” while the other impressed guests turn their attention to the host, hoping for a clue as to what a brine actually is and what it does.  It is about one tenth as interesting as a deep-fried turkey and a million times safer (but don’t drink the brine).  This pork brine included half a gallon of water, half a cup each of salt and sugar, along with ginger, kaffir lime, and Chinese five spice.  I brought all of the ingredients up to a simmer for five minutes, then cooled it down and poured it over the pork. 

Harold McGee, the authority on the chemistry of food, explains the two purpose benefit of using a brine in his book On Food And Cooking.  The first is that the salt begins to dissolve and disrupt the structure of muscle filaments, creating a more tender result when cooked.  The second benefit is the transfer and absorption of salt and the brine itself into the meat.  A pound of pork belly can increase it’s weight by about ten percent by absorbing the brine, which counterbalances the yield loss of nearly twenty percent when it is cooked (that twenty percent doesn’t include rendering fat loss, which can be collected for delicious use later*).  The downside to a brine is the saltiness, but it is the salt, ranging from 2-4 tablespoons per quart of water, that is required for the aforementioned processes to work. 

The sugar used in both methods exists primarily to cut the harshness of the salt.

I decided to braise both specimens, rather than roast them as in the initial plan.  The scored fat caps were seared until golden brown and crispy, then the bellies were seared all around before being immersed in chicken stock and (everyone will tell you not to do this) a very small amount of brining liquid.  The key is to avoid making the braising liquid too salty, so if you use part of the brine, add it slowly and sparingly.  The liquid stood about halfway up the pork.  Some aromatics were added, and the bellies were placed in the oven at 250 degrees for almost three hours.  I turned them over several times while cooking, making sure they were fat side up for the final hour.

That night we had half inch steaks of pork belly seared and then glazed with soy, mirin, rice vinegar, brown sugar, ginger, and garlic.  I finished the glaze with some of the brining liquid, making sure not to reduce it too much.  The sauce was a bit sticky, perfect for serving over rice with a saute of shredded brussels sprouts.  The following day we made steamed pork buns with fresh pickled carrots and red onion, cilantro, and hoisin from a jar.

So which one did we prefer and why?  They were each delicious in some similar and some different ways, but the brined pork belly wins.  It was the most flavorful and moist overall, though I found myself picking out some of the larger layers of fat.  The marinated pork belly did have some delightful attributes.  The fat was more edible; it was slightly dried out and hard, giving more resistance to the bite, making it delicious.

*To avoid changing the subject too many times during the entry, I am making a little list of things you can do with rendered pork fat here.  Use it instead of oil or butter when searing meat, especially scallops.  Saute veggies in it, such as cabbage or brussels sprouts.  Or utilize it in a number of pastry recipes calling for lard, such as steamed buns or empanada dough.  The fat used here is seasoned, so it limits the uses for pastries, but pork fat can help make such tender breads. 

Everywhere, Everywhere, Whoopie!

I’ve been eating a lot of rabbit lately.  I wasn’t giving that fact much thought when shopping for dinner, the muscular rabbits arranged in a conga line next to the less svelte chickens in the glass case.  I love the completeness of rabbit, from start to finish.  Butchering them is quite similar to chicken, trading in wings for front legs and breasts for loins.  The parts are all there, and can intuitively be sorted out with a few minutes and a boning knife.  And the saying that they taste like chicken is, actually, fairly accurate, especially if you’ve never knowingly eaten it before.

Yesterday, I picked up two rabbits from the local butcher shop.  The owner and I chatted for a moment about my plans to braise the legs, thighs, and belly flaps, how the loins are to be saved for a client, and the bones set aside to make a stock later in the week with chicken bones.  The livers are going to become a rabbit liver mousse, along with a nub of foie left over from a previous project.  If included, (sometimes they get lost in the shuffle), hearts will be braised and kidneys are to be seared off and nibbled by Jaimy; I’ll go for a half kidney, but that is my limit.  Discussing my plans for the rabbit felt good, knowing I was accounting for each part of the bunny for complete utilization.  I very much enjoyed walking these three and a half pound brown paper bundles home for dinner, daydreaming about new dishes the whole way.

An hour later, I began telling my mother the dinner menu over the phone.  There was a long pause.  With the two hour time difference, I thought that perhaps she was already eating dinner, that her mouth was full and needed a few seconds to finish chewing so that she could exclaim how delicious my braised rabbit bolognese sounded.  But no, she was taking a moment to choose her words carefully.

“Aren’t you afraid of the.... karmic repercussions of eating so much rabbit?  You used to have one as a pet.”  Now it was my turn to pause.  I immediately knew what she meant: cute adorable little bunnies, the subject of many children’s books, nursery rhymes, MY own childhood pet, eaten for dinner?  I get it.  They are adorable.  Painfully so- I still get weepy over my childhood rabbit, Max, and his terribly sad ending when his tunnel caved in on him.  I even named, as an adult, a cat in his honor. 

As any daughter does when speaking to her mother, I became defensive.  “What, you think that because they are cute, their lives are somehow more valuable than that of a fish or a chicken?  How cute was that pig whose shoulder you braised last week?”  While I waited for a response, adorable bunny memories began flashing through my mind.  At the Common Ground Fair in Maine a few years ago, a woman sat with an angora bunny in her lap while she combed it and directly fed it’s fur into a spinning wheel.  The bunny sat there, patiently chewing on a piece of hay.  Tonight’s memory will be bunny sitting on a sauce of San Marzano tomatoes and picholene olives over pappardelle.

Now, I am not one of those people who does not understand that eating meat means killing animals.  I have spent countless hours trying to decide which factors are most important in deciding how to and what to eat.  An average cow of 1,200 pounds will yield nearly 500 pounds of meat, or anywhere from 1,000 to 1,500 servings.  A 3 1/2 pound rabbit will provide 2-3 servings.  One life for a thousand meals or one life for dinner for two?  Looks like it’s beef for dinner.  But what about carbon footprint?  Slow Food USA reported that the resources required to create one pound of meat of beef can create six pounds of rabbit meat.  And while I have never myself raised (well, not for the purposes of eating) or slaughtered (never, for any purpose) a rabbit, Michael Pollan reports that they are not invasive: they are quiet, less stinky, and easier to kill than most other farm animals.  Not to mention they have reputation for fast and frequent procreation- a gestation period of only thirty days and potential to breed four to six times a year (though I still can’t seem to get the notion of rabbits laying eggs out of my head, damn you, Cadbury!).  Now I’m leaning toward rabbit for dinner.

After serving a rabbit confit terrine during the French wine tasting on the Taber this summer, I was proudly rattling off my rabbit knowledge to a guest from British Columbia.  From a couple of visits to Jaimy’s hometown in the Kootenays, I had a good idea that the guest knew a bit or two about animal farming.  And, without being patronizing, he very quickly showed me that I did not.  After quoting the ease of raising and dispatching rabbits and my intention to raise some myself when I have some land, the guest told me that he raises cows instead.  I was insistent to communicate what I had read about how quiet and pleasant rabbits are to raise. 

“Well, they’re only quiet until you try to kill them.  Then they scream so loud that the neighbors think you’re killing your own kids.  I got tired of having to kill an adorable animal every single time I wanted meat for dinner, it created an unappetizing association.” 

My eyes grew wide with my naivete.  “Oh, um, wow.”  No rebuttal there.

Back to the karmic value of taking a rabbit’s life.  I’d like to think that I have pretty good karma.  I let cars merge in front of me.  I pick up trash on the street.  I smile at strangers.  Am I cashing in the good karma I am creating here so I can eat rabbit for dinner?  Once my mother planted the seed, I started wondering how other people felt about rabbit.  Thomas Keller described his first rabbit dispatching experience in The French Laundry Cookbook.  His farmer arrived with six rabbits in a cage, demoed killing and cleaning one for Chef Keller, then abruptly left him with the remaining terrified rabbits to deal with.  The lesson he was reminded of?  Respect every ingredient. 

But that doesn’t apply only to rabbits.  It may be their cuteness that reminds us to think about the food we eat, but in the end it applies to all animals, all ingredients.  Life, energy, and resources go into everything that grows, animal or vegetable.  Cute or ugly, we must not waste or disrespect any ingredient.  As a cook, I’ve seen other line cooks, even chefs, toss the narrow tail portion of salmon, the rounded trim of parsnips that were squared off, and chicken carcasses into the garbage.  It is this wastefulness, this assumption that food is abundant, never-ending, and cheap, that contributed to the birth of the nose to tail movement.  In a culture where I swear there is a boneless, skinless, chicken breast factory full of legless chickens out there, there is another culture growing that utilizes everything, treats every part of every animal with respect.  The cute bunny munching on carrot tops?  A reminder to us all to consume meat mindfully. And give thanks to the animal whose life was sacrificed for us to eat. 

Please tell me your thoughts on rabbits.  I am fairly vocal about my continued love for them, and have found that it is often met with intrigue and curiosity.  They are everywhere, let me know if you prefer them in a field or on your plate.  This includes you, Mom.

*Please be aware that during the entire writing of this entry, I sang a song of rabbits in my head.  Captains Ken and Ellen used to sing this song with Evelyn and Jan Kok from Presque Isle.  It was coined “The Dead Rabbit Song”, and starts with “everywhere, everywhere, whoopie! rabbits rabbits rabbits rabbits” and continues to tell a tale of rabbits procreating and taking over... until someone decides to fight back.

Spicy!

I am having a love affair with my spice merchant.  Well, not him, exactly.  But with his exotic spices and herbs.  As someone who typically marvels at the beauty of simplicity, my recent romance with complex and mysterious layers of flavor has me daydreaming of new spice combinations and applications.  It is January, after all, and the highly acclaimed tomatoes, carrots, and baby lettuces of summer seem so far away.  I was gazing out the window this morning at the whitish-gray bleakness swallowing all of Washington, grinding toasted coriander with pink peppercorns and meyer lemon zest for Petrale sole on the canvas of empty sky.

In December, I entered World Spice Merchants in Pike Place Market.  I was immediately overcome with the I-want-one-of-everything feeling of a comic book junkie upon discovering Comicon.  And then I was overcome with a sneezing fit.  How do these spice gods and goddesses survive with their sinuses intact?

After curiously watching my hummingbird like flight from jar to jar, the merchant recommended The Spice Lover’s Guide to Herbs & Spices by Tony Hill.  I felt like Buddy the Elf when I actually started speaking with the expert spice blenders and toasters, “Hi!  I’m Aimee, I cook food.  What’s your name?  What’s your favorite spice?  What’s your favorite food?  Do you have a best friend?  Can I be your best friend?”  If I hadn’t been mopping my eyes and nostrils from overexposure, I surely would have tried to hug them.

Seventy six dollars and thirty two cents later, I arrived back home with enough spices and herbs to season the entire Pacific Ocean.  I did pick up the recommended book, but that still leaves me with over fifty dollars in spices.  Had I slipped and fallen on a wet grate upon leaving the store, the Puget Sound would have become a spicy dungeness crab and killer whale stew.

I spent the first two hours back home reading spice profiles and origins, (aloud, I may add, how annoying to be anyone around me, in this case Jaimy).  “Hey did you know that the black lemon is actually a lime?”  Of course he didn’t, who would know that?  “Well, it is.... ooh! Hey, we can make them ourselves, we just have to....”  Before I was finished, I had already mentally planned to plant an organic rooftop garden that included ginger and lime trees, a trip to India and China to taste how the locals used everything from finger root to Chinese five spice, and a trek across La Mancha to pick our own saffron.

In the meantime, I figured I should actually use the spices.  If you happened to receive some spice blends for Christmas from Jaimy and me, this was the story leading up to it.  Our apartment smelled like the neighbors everyone complains about.  Mixing, toasting, grinding, adjusting, jarring: we went into full production mode.  We debated the benefits of hand grinding with a mortar and pestle versus blending with an electric spice grinder.  We tasted the difference between the dry spices themselves and their toasted versions.  At the end of the night, the kitchen was powdered with everything from finely ground cassia-stick cinnamon to ras el hanout.  I swept the surface remains into a pile and set it aside for a seasoning surprise dinner later.  Don’t worry, I won’t use it on you.

Toasting Chinese five spice

Grinding Chinese five spice

I am very aware of the fact that I am probably committing spice blending blasphemy here.  Last night I put Chinese five spice in a pork belly brine with kaffir lime and ginger.  While China and Southeast Asia seem pretty close together from my vantage point in Seattle, I am sure that I broke a rule in regional cuisine.  Mixing the spices from one country with citrus from another region, well, I may as well be saying they’re all the same to me.  But I want to try them together, so I do so secretly at first.  I then admitted my sin to Jaimy, and now today to all of you.  I’m not planning on serving my pork belly to President Hu Jintao or anything, or even Morimoto (who is Japanese, so why am I assuming he’d know all about Chinese five spice?!  Of course he does).  But still, I feel guilty.*

There are a few projects in the works, and we plan to update with how the pork belly turns out.  We are doing a comparison between dry rubbed (and slightly cured) belly and brined belly, both with a Chinese five spice base.  Since I keep mentioning it and not elaborating, Chinese five spice is a blend of star anise, fennel seed, cassia-cinnamon, cloves, and Sichuan or black peppercorns.  After marinating in these flavors overnight, they’ll be slow roasted, (though braising is another favorite pork belly technique).  I’m thinking steamed buns, although Vietnamese sandwiches (Banh Mi) also sound good.  Anyone have any ideas for serving the belly?



*Upon further reading this morning, kaffir lime is used quite often in Chinese cuisine, even if it’s point of origin thousands of years ago was a few miles down the road.  AND, the kaffir lime is in the same family as the Sichuan peppercorn.  It was even recommended to use some lime to replace the absence of Sichuan peppercorns in spice blends (they've been banned for import through the years due to blight).  Sichuan peppercorns do not grow well in the U.S., but they've had success growing kaffir lime trees in California.

First To Leave The Party

I was invited to a post-holiday holiday party last night.  In the restaurant industry, we are typically so busy before and during the holidays working AT events that if we have a party at all, it is not until mid-January.*  The party was for the restaurant that I left back in April.  It was a peaceful and polite departure, as I had simply found that it wasn’t the direction I wanted to head in for the long term.  Strangely, over the course of the year, I began to second guess my decision, wondering (even if just for a moment), where I would be had I stayed.

If I haven’t made this clear yet, it really was the best decision for me.  Sometimes continuing to work for the best in the industry doesn’t mean that we will be the most successful, the happiest, or the most fulfilled.  Like everyone, we cooks all have our niche, the uniqueness being what we are passionate about; otherwise all restaurants and the cooks in them would be the same.  Take the contestants on Top Chef, for example.  Each cook has a different set of memories and experiences to draw from and develop new dishes (often on the fly).  Rarely do we see two dishes that are quite similar, even when the same few ingredients are required across the board.  Years ago, when walking onto a line for the very first time, did these cooks understand at that moment that each and every day of cooking would mold their cooking skills, menu development, thought process, even neatness and organization? 

Cooks seek out line jobs for a number of reasons.  And many cooks, at different points in their careers, seek out different types of jobs with varying needs in mind (or not in mind).  Sometimes we have an ideal of working for a mentor, a leader in the industry with a food ideology.  Other times we simply need income.  As time passes, we often trade in low positions at high end places for high positions at... well, a variety of establishments.  Each experience, from the process used to check in new produce and manage inventory to the method preferred to blanch fava beans, will differ slightly (or, perhaps frighteningly, differ a lot), from one establishment to the next.  And, in turn, these experiences will influence how we teach others when the time comes.  I find that the influence comes from wanting to either model an inspiring experience or from wanting to get as far away from a terrible experience as possible.  Regardless of the line of work you are in, either way can be an effective teaching tool.

To get back on topic here, I left the restaurant eight months ago.  I am going back for a party, partly to visit with old work friends, but also to (and I really hate to admit it), gauge my culinary growth with that of my old colleagues. 

Steamy windows back lit by lights and moving shadows, I round the corner into a stiff evening breeze as I approach the entry.  Am I even going to recognize anyone here?  In previous years, our holiday party was a potluck, a patchwork of items consisting of everything from watery casseroles and store-bought cookies to fresh rolls and tart tatin.  It was obvious that some cooks, unable to drive the menu on a daily basis, were aiming to impress.  Others simply resented having to cook on their one day off.  On this night, I walk into a party in full swing, with a complete balanced and decorated buffet with every accompaniment imaginable.  Some guests are even dressed in coconut bras and grass skirts.  This party is organized. 

It is an interesting experience to suddenly be surrounded by those who stayed when I left.  I recognize many of the faces around me, and I can guess by the mannerisms of the new faces whom they may have replaced.  My old line partners update me on the promotions/hiring/firing over the course of the year.  One line cook who I helped train is now the Chef de Cuisine.  An apprentice who trained with me is now the Sous Chef.  I am mixed with happiness and envy for my old partners in battle, but there is this other feeling.  It is the one deep in my chest, seemingly protected by my rib cage, an ache that instantly fills my head with regret for jumping ship.  Could I have been the next Sous Chef?  Or better? 

It is not until today that I revisit that feeling.  Why did I suddenly feel again that this one restaurant holds my future in its hands?  I didn’t align with the menu, the food preparations, the ridiculous hours, or the painfully low pay that required me to spend part of my retirement plan just to pay rent on a studio apartment.  I didn’t get the lightness of step that tells me that I am on the right track.  My aching back and feet, the disconnection between the guests eating the food and the cooks preparing it, the lack of overall direction that I felt I needed to become a stronger cook.  How would getting a promotion make any of it better, I mean really better, not just a temporary boost? 

It wouldn’t. 

But what is the lesson here?  Is it that I shouldn’t second guess my decision because it was the right one to make, or that I shouldn’t look back and fret over it because I can’t change the past and just need to move forward?  Or both?  I have friends who have given their notice at a bistro, only for that place to win a James Beard Award a few months later.  Others who have stayed aboard at a sinking ship of a restaurant, forgoing their own paycheck and picking their drunk and crying owner/Chef out of the gutter to sleep on their floor.  Cooks who have quit over a dispute for one single night off to go see Radiohead, cooks hired because they staged on the day the lead saute cook walked out over a complaint about too rare halibut. 

Surely months of writing down my life goals and the steps to reach them, then taking the appropriate action - surely that is the right path.  Right?  Is my cause more legitimate than quitting to go to the Sasquatch Festival?  Does it matter?



*Thinking of the movie Coming To America, when invited to a party by a previous or current employer, be skeptical when they ask you to wear something that sounds uniform-like.  You might end up serving the meal or parking cars...

The Kitchen Cabinet

At 7:15 pm on a Monday, I head out into the rainy Seattle night on foot.  Walking the first few blocks, I feel invigorated, inspired, even empowered.  As I approach my local butcher shop, Rain Shadow Meat, my heart sinks at the dim light and lack of sidewalk board.  Closed.  I take a moment to stand under an awning of a nearby store to gather my thoughts and construct a new plan.  I glance at the time on my phone, then up at the night sky.  Turning around, I begin the long trek over the freeway toward Whole Foods.

To walk in the frigid rain may lead you to believe that my refrigerator is empty.  Perhaps some wilted lettuce and a bendy carrot, and just a can of garbanzo beans and the remains of a burlap sack of basmati in the kitchen cabinet.  But that is not the case.  The refrigerator is stocked with leftover braised rabbit thighs, an herb roasted chicken, chicken liver pate, the remains of a cheese night from a few days earlier, brussels sprouts, arugula, as well as the typical staples.  In the freezer are pierogies and the last of the season’s king salmon.  As for the pantry, it has recently taken over the adjoining cabinet with dried flageolets, three kinds of rice, canned tomatoes, and a variety of pickled and preserved items.  The beans hollered, “pick me, pick me!” and the jasmine rice chimed in, “we’re the perfect team!”  I peered to the back of the cupboard, bored with the options in front of me.

So why am I standing in a puddle up to my ankles waiting for the crosswalk to give the go ahead?  I blame occupational hazard.  Some of you have experienced the Stephen Taber first hand.  While an amazing sailing (and to toot my own horn, culinary) experience, there is one specific geographic hurdle.  We are on a boat.  On the water.  There is no last minute run on a Wednesday to grab an extra head of lettuce, or even half and half for coffee.  When we back off the dock every Monday morning, I scan the landing for the last minute purveyor I may have forgotten about.  I always expect to see our fishmonger, Jamie, running down the gangway, one arm waving, the other cradling our precious stone crab, Pemaquid mussels, and Atlantic salmon. 

But we always manage to get through it.  Ask any schooner cook.  We forget even the most important of ingredients from time to time.  Most often we can improvise.  Low on milk? Use melted ice cream (churned the night before by our guests) or left over creme anglaise to soak bread for French toast.  Guests meeting us at the breakwater for dinner and need to stretch the protein?  Make a farce with chorizo and apples and stuff the pork tenderloin.  And what about forgetting ingredients altogether?  No apples for crisp, we turn to a chocolate and caramel dessert.  If the star ingredient for crab cakes doesn’t make it into the icebox, we’ll have fritters with leftover corn and prosciutto and a horseradish dipping sauce.  When the problem presents itself, us schooner cooks may take a moment to fret or sulk (or at the end of August, burst into tears), but then we jump into action.

There are, of course, those special moments when I realize that the swiss chard has wilted beyond saving or the last tomato saved for bruschetta went into the lentil soup.  I walk aft, eyeing Captain Noah (sometimes I fret out loud, and it is usually in the form of whining) and I hear those magical words.  “We’re taking afternoon walks in Stonington, and today is the farmer’s market.”  And thus my desire to just have things go my way as planned wins over the part of me that wants to heroically solve the problem without being saved by modern conveniences (if a visit to the farmer’s market can be called a modern convenience; although after being on a schooner in Maine it feels like a trip to New York City).

And so here I am, back on land and feeling pretty good about it.  While I love the simplicity of life on the boat, I fully indulge in the luxuries of being ashore.  Yes, I savor a queen size bed, central heat, and hot water.  But when I am in the kitchen, I marvel at the fact that I can cook on a whim.  I can make whatever I am craving to eat or create, and I don’t have to row a mile to get there.  Sure, the food processor, instant heat on the stove, and dishwasher are luxurious.  But it is the freedom to cook that I love.

I consider this as a car splashes puddle water across my chest, soaking my scarf, jacket, and will to push on. 

An hour later, I am pounding pork tenderloin medallions into flattened tender meat for Schnitzel and setting potatoes on the stove to boil.  The meat counter is fresh out of veal, but I am hell bent at this point to create a dinner that at least vaguely resembles my initial plan.  I am also surprised to see that I had used the last few ounces of flour, and can’t make the accompanying spaetzle (a spaetzle story to follow soon, perhaps in a collection of kitchen disaster stories).

I can hear the dried beans laughing at me, shaking like a pair of maracas.

Later, Jaimy and I bite into the first crispy corner of breaded pan fried pork, a slather of cheesy chive mashed potatoes bulging off the fork.  I commit to cooking from what we have in house before going to the store again. 

Moving On

It has been almost a year since my last blog post.  We all neglect things from time to time to focus on other areas of our lives, and writing has been the one thing I have put on the back burner that I long to return to.  In updating my profile, I noticed that the "About Me" section of my profile is completely outdated.  To get myself and all of you up to speed, I am updating my profile and copying the old one in this post. 

Who I was:

I am a recent culinary school graduate residing in Seattle. I am amazed every day that I work on the line at a restaurant that is regarded very highly in the industry.  It is competitive.  The hours are long.  The work is highly physical and emotionally taxing.  This blog will dive into what I am learning in the kitchen, from ingredients and food preparation to working with others and realizations about myself.  If you ever wondered about the reality of a romantic career, I am here to provide a glimpse.  So far, it kind of resembles a collage of the worst day of my life, the best day of my life, from feeling defeated to feeling on top of the world.  I wouldn't change a thing.

Well, perhaps I would change a thing or two, or all of it.  But my purpose stays the same.

Who I am:

I love cooking food.  I love eating food.  I love what food does for us.  It brings us together, creates a vessel to celebrate life, ourselves, each other, what can grow from the earth and how it can nourish us.  I left the line this year to pursue my love for food on my terms.  I was exhausted and under-nourished.  These days I try to treat myself in the way I treat those I cook for.