A Foot in the Door

Fight the Good Fight

We always hear the expression, “If it doesn’t kill you, it makes you stronger.” This usually applies to all the things we never voluntarily want to face in life…struggle, suffering, loss, pain, etc. It’s as if someone decided that even the bad stuff has to have a positive side, to make everything worthwhile.

I wonder if this is actually the case.

People who know me know that I’m not a particularly strong person. Granted, I’m probably stronger than I give myself credit for, but I’m not widely known as one of those pillar people who can always be leaned on and counted on to support others. I’m often at a loss for words in a crisis (funny thing for a writer), I’m socially awkward and I can cry at the drop of a hat. I am not a powerhouse.

Yet, I can rise to the occasion. Anyone who knows me, or has even crossed my path in the last five years, has certainly heard about my legal battle from hell. I’m loathe to get into it here, but suffice to say I tried to do the right thing over a bad purchase and as a result I’ve been dragged through courts across both Quebec and Ontario. Somehow, with no legal background I’ve managed to successfully fight every battle…and I’m up against one of the largest law firms in Canada. As my closest and dearest friend put it, “It’s their bad fortune that you’re intelligent and unemployed – a deadly combination.”

I’ve been feeling very Erin Brockovitch about the whole thing, but without all of her signature self-confidence. I feel like I’m fighting the good fight, on behalf of all the little people – except the little people don’t even know I exist. You see, this isn’t some huge crucial constitutional issue. It’s actually a regular old household item that practically everyone possesses. And even if I win, even if I emerge victorious when all of this is said and done, no one will ever even know. So what’s it all about?

Aside from learning about the law (which in some cases is just plain crazy), developing my ‘factum’ writing skills, losing tons of weight and spending many a sleepless night, I don’t really see the benefit in the fight. Okay, so it’s fodder for the blog, but that doesn’t really count.

So I’ve decided to turn this into a lesson. If I can do this, anyone can. There’s nothing to stop each and every one of us for fighting for what we believe in. Certainly, we have to pick our battles – I don’t recommend a full on engagement over the remote control – but once we’ve chosen our cause, we should follow through. Everyone throws around the word ‘principle’, but it really is a hefty word. Without our principles, what are we all about? We all need something to believe in, to get behind, to rally around and to champion.

There are things in our lives which define us – our strong sense of justice, our desire to see children fed, to see people treated equally and our basic beliefs about what is right and what is wrong. And our goals don’t have to be lofty, either. Maybe you want to drop an extra ten pounds, learn to budget more carefully, write a beautiful poem or simply live better. Some people make a fortune motivating others, calling them to action. Why can’t we motivate ourselves? We can all be our own cheerleader.

Granted, we may not win all our battles, but at least we’ll have the satisfaction of having tried. And don’t be like me – don’t beat yourself up every time you fail. I’m beginning to see that there’s no such thing as absolute failure. We always learn something. And even if it turns out badly, remember –

If it doesn’t kill you, it’ll only make you stronger.

Why I Love My Wooden Spoon

I love my wooden spoon. So simple in design, it’s one of the oldest and most basic of all kitchen utensils. Yet for some reason, it is still one of the most prized possessions of professional and amateur chefs alike. Indispensable for stirring and sautéing, it fits perfectly into one’s hand.

Most of all, I love the way it rests on the rim of the pot, just waiting for its next dip.

With so many new gadgets on the market, people tend to forget about the basics when it comes to food preparation. In most cases, a handful of good kitchen tools will take care of almost any task. These are the items that are worth investing in as they make your time in the kitchen infinitely more enjoyable.

In no particular order, my top ten favourite kitchen utensils are:

Wooden Spoon: A good, solid wooden spoon can be your best friend. Make sure to have two – one for sweet foods and one for savoury. It’s no fun eating brownies that taste like tomato sauce.
Chef Knife: Do the research and invest wisely. A sharp 8” (or 10”) will perform most of your kitchen tasks with ease – slicing, dicing, chopping, crushing, mincing, peeling, carving, etc. Test out a few in the store to find one that feels balanced in your hand and pick up a honing steel to keep your knife in top condition.

Paring Knife: A good pairing knife is a blessing when doing detail work, peeling and culinary decorations. Remember to use caution - a well-sharpened knife is much safer than a dull one.

Stainless Steel Tongs: These babies are a life-saver. They are perfect for pan frying, sautéing, breading, roasting over a gas flame, retrieving items from hot water, serving, etc. From the first time you pick them up they’ll become an extension of your right arm.

Zester: Zest is one of the most powerful flavouring agents you can add to your food. Citrus zest is perfect for marinades, dressings, sauces and desserts. While a grater can do the job, you have to be careful to avoid the bitter white pith. A good quality zester will ensure perfect results every time.

Whisk: A sturdy whisk allows you to whip, mix, blend, emulsify and beat. There are two types of whisks – a harder one can be used to break up masses and mash while a more flexible one is ideal for incorporating air into your dressings, sauces and cream.

Plastic Scraper: Known as ‘the enemy’ to all those who love to lick the bowl, this tool is used to scrape every last drop of batter, sauce, dressing, marinade and dough from your bowl and/or work surface, ensuring that all your ingredients are included in your final product. At around a dollar a pop, it pays for itself upon first use.

Mesh Strainer: There’s nothing worse than lumpy batter or sauces. Rather than starting from scratch, a simple fix is to pass your final product through a fine strainer. For tougher jobs, or food items which require absolute clarity (i.e.: stocks), try lining your strainer with wet cheesecloth.

Scale: More of a must for bakers and beginners, an accurate scale will facilitate measuring out ingredients and ensure proper portion sizes. Scales are indispensable for dieters and health-conscious cooks.

Heat Resistant Spatula: While a spatula is a must, a heat resistant spatula is just good sense. A spatula is the only tool that allows you to properly fold ingredients together. It’s also handy for cleaning off your mixer’s paddles. Heat resistance allows you to use it while cooking without fear of melted plastic ending up in your food. Use it when scrambling eggs, flipping crepes or pancakes and perhaps even making a pastry cream for your favourite dessert.

There are an abundance of places that sell kitchen supplies, from department stores to specialty shops. However, for the best prices and a good variety of professional quality merchandise, it’s worth checking out a restaurant supply shop – most of which are open to the public.

Bat Out Of...

I have supernatural abilities. With nothing but the sheer force of my will, I can make my worst nightmares come true. Check this out:

I live in a courtyard which has a family of resident bats. I’m okay with this, due to their penchant for eating bugs. However, my biggest fear is that one of those pesky little beasts will find their way into my home…when I’m alone.

My husband mocks this fear. It’s not his fault; he just has no way to relate to the workings of my crazy and paranoid mind.

Last summer (yes, it's been a while since my last entry) I was lying in bed at 1:00 am reading the paper when a bat flew into the bedroom. As the exterminator informed me the following day, a bat’s sonar is so highly developed there’s no chance it will ever touch me. Seems logical to the rational mind, but logic and rationale fly out the window at 1:00 am. The bat, unfortunately, did not.

I hid under the covers for a full thirty seconds before I realized no one was coming to save me. My husband was out of town, and my two otherwise feisty dogs were of surprisingly little use in a full on bat attack. So I tried to collect myself, and started chanting – I can do this, I can do this – as I slid out of bed and crawled to the dresser. I slipped on some clothes (heaven forbid the bat should see me naked!) and tied a shirt around my head.

I grabbed the two dogs by their collars and headed down the stairs. On my ass. With minimal headroom on the staircase I didn’t want to chance any unfortunate encounters. When I got to the bottom, I saw him flying low through the living and dining rooms. I opened the front door, grabbed a broom, squatted in the hallway and waited.

Did I mention the screaming? Let’s just say there was screaming.

After a while, I could not understand what was taking so long for the bat to leave. It flew past that door a dozen times. My panic was rising and I was growing hoarse. I knew there was no way to fight a bat without screaming. So I did what any other full grown woman who owns her own home would do. I called my daddy.

Talk about worst nightmares. What can be more horrifying than being woken up in the middle of the night by your screaming, frantic child? But thanks to that psychic bond between father and daughter, all I had to do was choke out one word: bat.

“Do you want me to come over?” he asked. It was 1:30 am. He was being ridiculous.

“Talk to your mother,” he said. Now, whatever bond exists between father and daughter is surpassed only by the one between mother and daughter. All my mother needed was to hear me scream. She covered the phone and said, “Phil, get over there.”

At about that time, my neighbour came home from a late night out. He passed my wide open door and spotted me on the floor in my bat-chasing get-up. Somehow, he seemed to know something was up. Again, all I had to say was ‘bat.’

We must have been quite the sight; my neighbour with his net, my father with the newspaper and me with the broom. We turned the house upside down. No bat. Convinced it had left the same way it came in, both my father and neighbour went home. I knew better.

I sat on the couch and waited. Three, two…and there it was, flying in from the second floor landing. I let out a scream for good measure. I grabbed the dogs and the cordless and ran outside. As I began to dial, I realized I was holding the remote control.

Hearing my demented whimpers from next door, my neighbour emerged once again with his net. After an exhaustive search, I finally spotted the bat on top of my window molding. My neighbour (henceforth known as my guardian angel) took one swipe with his net, trapped the bat and we went to release him outside.

And all I could think was, he’s so small.

Afraid of Going too Far


Sometimes life deals you a blow; something you weren’t quite expecting. Something bad. And sometimes, it deals you more than one at a time. It’s as if the whole world stops, and yet you can’t seem to catch your breath. Times like these are meant for taking stock, re-evaluating and re-prioritizing. And for facing one’s biggest fears.

Someone close to me is going through a very rough time. As a result, I’ve learned what it means to be a best friend. It means feeling another’s pain as if it were my own. I have always been a sensitive person. I can cry so easily it’s almost comical. But I have learned something about myself – my compassion far exceeds the confines of my body. At this moment, this is defined by an immeasurable sadness, but I understand enough about life to realize that this can also, someday, be an asset to me. I mean, if I can take on someone else’s grief, then certainly I am capable of spreading some degree of joy. Surely the scales must work this way.

Life is short. This is true no matter how long you live. But in the day to day, we forget this simple fact. We treat each day as if there were so many more guaranteed to follow in its footsteps. I know very few people who are lucky enough to be able to say they lived their lives to their fullest, seen all they’d longed to, crossed off each item on their life to-do list. Why is that? Why do we always insist on putting everything off? “I’ll do that when,” or “I’ll get to it tomorrow.” We always seem to say, “Wouldn’t it be great if…” instead of “Remember how incredible it was when.” It’s silly. It’s pointless. It’s almost an insult.

I never go all the way. I never live life to its fullest. I have my moments, sure. The spontaneous road trip, the months of backpacking across foreign countries, the shady film shoots that took me far and wide. I got married in a war zone, for g-d’s sake. And granted, my ‘life-is-a-journey’ approach to living does give me some bonus points. But when I look at the wide shot, when I hold myself up to that great cosmic mirror, it’s not a pretty picture. And not only do some days merely pass me by, but I actually look forward to their end.

So what’s stopping me? What am I scared of?

I’m afraid of going too far in my writing, of hiding behind words or revealing too much. I’m afraid of going too far in the kitchen, of turning up the flame or adding the wrong seasoning. I’m afraid of driving too fast, of making quick decisions, of saying the wrong thing, of feeling the wrong thing, of waiting too long. I’m afraid of putting it out there, for the whole world to see. To judge. And to be disappointed. In me.

I’m afraid of falling. I’m afraid that if I go too far or move too fast, I’ll fall.

Or is that fail?

But in the grand scheme of things, these small failures I fear so much mean little. They are merely signposts along the way, marking the places where I tried, learned, and moved on. Without the failure, I would never really know when I've managed to succeed. So why does it take an earth-shattering event to make me realize this? I guess it proves the point that there is a lesson to be learned in everything, and that even bad things can produce positive results. Even if it's in the most indirect way.

So here I am, battling my fears and forging ahead. Last night in class, I turned up the heat and burned my onions. It may not have been on purpose, but it was timely. And you know what happened? Nothing. So let's see what happens when I try to push myself in other areas, when I break my self-imposed confines and re-define my own limits. Or remain limitless

What do I have to be afraid of? Falling? I can probably withstand a scraped knee.

We'll call it a soldier's stripe.

Patience is a Four Letter Word

In about a week’s time, I’ll be doing my first practical exam for the basic prep module of my culinary course. In this module, we learned various cooking techniques and how to make white, brown and fish stocks, the five mother sauces and some of their derivatives, and how to marinate and preserve fruits and vegetables.

Going through this module, the class was told that what we’re learning now forms the basis for everything we will be doing in the kitchen. Each new recipe called for a different technique, and in effect the past four weeks have been a whirlwind of new information. It’s only in taking a step back and reflecting that am I able to truly appreciate the breadth of knowledge I’ve acquired in so short a time.

And while I understand the importance of this module and it’s relevance on my career in food, I’ve been having a tough time seeing the bigger picture. It’s all well and good to know how to prepare a red onion confit, but what in the world would I use one for? And yes, I understand how to make the liaison for my Allemande sauce, but what on earth is it supposed to taste like? And question for question, what do I hear?

“Patience, Pablo, patience…”

I can’t tell you how many times this phrase has been uttered over the past two months. Aside from the mystery of how I came to be known as Pablo, the whole sentence is just plain wrong. I am not impatient. I just want to know it all. Right now.

And this is odd, because it’s not exactly me. I’ve always considered myself a relatively patient person. I love the delicious anticipation of the slow reveal, the cliff-hanger at the end of my favourite show (in seven years I never read one Buffy spoiler!) and turning things over and over in my mind before making any kind of decision on a matter. I’m the kind of person who stops two thirds of the way through a book and begins to read each page twice, to put off the inevitability of the ending. I move slowly, and I rarely get anxious in traffic – preferring to think of it as ‘me’ time that is completely outside of my control…

Oh, who am I kidding?

Am I really a patient person? When I posed the million-dollar question to the husband last night, he just stared at me in frank disbelief. Even I had to chuckle as I followed his gaze down to my left leg, which was bouncing uncontrollably as I waited for him to respond. The answer was self-evident.

If forced to come up with a theory, I would say my impatience is rooted in the fact that there is a strict separation between my body and mind. As slow as I may seem at grasping new ideas, I’m actually a pretty quick learner. Even while I’m staring at a cooking demo with a puzzled expression on my face, there’s a little man who lives in my head who’s screaming, “Got it! Next!” It’s as if my body travels five paces behind my brain; even though I understand a recipe or cooking technique, my body is utterly incapable of replicating it without screwing up.

And of course, in this case particularly, my impatience also stems from finding myself in the position of a subordinate. You might think ‘pupil’ or ‘student’ would be a more appropriate word, but I assure you, you are wrong. The single most important thing I’ve learned so far in culinary school is how to say, “Yes, Chef.” To date, I have been accused of leaving the fridge door open, neglecting to request the vacuum sealer, speaking at an inappropriate time and other miscellaneous crimes. Regardless of my innocence, I’ve had to suck it up and say, “Yes, Chef. I’m sorry, Chef.”

Anyone who knows me understands how difficult this is. I have a very hard time keeping my mouth shut. On top of which, I’m used to being the one in charge. I head up a production office, complete with a full staff of people working under me. And as time passes, I’m discovering a real parallel between being a subordinate in the kitchen, and dealing with subordinates in my job. Every time I go up and ask my Chef where to find something (like aluminum foil), I hear one of my production assistants asking me how to use the photocopier. I used to think to myself, “How can he be asking this? How can he be asking ME this? How can he be working in this office and NOT have made it his business to know that machine inside and out? How can he lack the mental resources to open the manual and read it? And what the hell is he doing on MY production floor??” And I know that my Chef must be feeling the same urge to kick me in the ass that I once felt for that PA. And it kills me.

The fact that I can be so together, and so on top of things in a production office and so out of my element and lost in the kitchen astounds me. I am damn good at my job, and in seven years of freelance coordinating, I never once had to look for a show. My phone rang nonstop. How is it that I can be so good at something I hate, and so bad at something I love?

Somehow, this has to change.

So in order for me to slow down, take a breath and work on my patience level, I’ve decided to approach the kitchen in much the same way I’d have my dream employee approach the floor. I am going to focus on developing an intimate relationship with that kitchen. We are going to be friends. I will do anything, learn anything and try anything if it will get me one step closer to my comfort level. I will grow to be at ease with my surroundings, my classmates, my Chefs, and my equipment. I will regain control, so that when it’s time to start cooking, I will be prepared.

Pablo has a plan.

Having established myself as a semi-competent keener, I’m usually among the first chosen to help out with odd jobs in the kitchen – such as brining the pickles, cleaning out the steam kettle and being one of three responsible for the fridge. This adds a lot of extra work, in that I’m also expected to be doing what the rest of the class is doing at the same time. And even though I’m probably one of the slowest moving people in the class, it’s all good. I have nowhere else to be, and the amount of additional knowledge I’m acquiring is mind-blowing.

My severe television addiction has been altered somewhat in that at least fifty percent of my TV time is now allotted to the Food Network (up from a mere 15 percent in the past). Bye, bye Anderson Cooper; Hello, Wolfgang Puck. I’m buying cookbooks on a regular basis and I’m browsing the produce aisles a little more carefully.

My non-television time is devoted to perfecting the techniques I’ve learned so far; I’ve got a freezer full of white and brown stock, a lifetime supply of mayonnaise and enough duxelle to stuff a horse. I refuse to panic about what the perfect Allemande sauce should taste like. I’ll be content in knowing that the consistency and colour are right. And who cares if I have no clue what to do with any of it, right?

“Patience, Pablo…it will come.”

So will all this newfound perspective make me a better boss? It’s doubtful. But it will make me think twice before asking where the aluminum foil is.

When it comes to food, my biggest pet peeve is the Misleading Menu.

The husband and I rarely dine out. As a result, when we do we tend to stick to the tried and true. After roughly twenty-five years of eating in this city, I’ve got a top pick and an alternate ready for each of my favourite haunts. The combo plate at Schwartz’s, the rack of lamb at Gibby’s, the rib steak at Rubes, the chicken tikka at Taj Mahal, the full teriyaki dinner at Katsura, the steak frite at Bistro, the club roll at Nick’s, the mish mash at Beauty’s, and the veal marsala anywhere I can get my hands on it… You get the picture. These are sure things and they comfort me.

On occasion, we will try something new – either on recommendation, based on a good review or to attend some or other function. I am so indecisive and hesitant when it comes to making the final decision in where to eat that I’m always thankful when the choice is made for me. Such was the case last weekend. It was a friend’s birthday, and we were all going to meet for dinner at a new eatery that recently opened in our neighbourhood. I’d passed the place a few times and kind of turned my nose up at it – it seemed cold and pretentious. The last thing I want when I go out to eat is to be made to feel inferior. I’m insecure enough as it is, thank you very much. The least I can do is enjoy my meal. But, as it meant hanging with friends and trying something new I looked forward to the evening nonetheless.

I suppose my first mistake was going on an empty stomach and being seduced by the offer of a glass of Chianti. Or was it the fact that we were twenty minutes late, but still thirty minutes away from ordering? Whichever, there was just enough time for two glasses of Chianti – still on that empty stomach.

When I opened the menu, I had a delightful surprise. Every single item looked fantastic. My mouth watered as I read down the page, savouring the description of each dish. Whoever penned that menu is simply a genius. Save for two items (rapini and salmon), I was game to try anything. I cannot recall another time in my life when this was the case. The pricing was somewhat odd, and the menu explained that they were going for an eclectic, non-traditional tapas-type thing. The range was anywhere from $5.00 to $12.00 per dish. It seemed quite a discrepancy, so we assumed the portions varied.

The husband and I each chose two absolutes, and I asked the waitress to recommend another two. Second mistake. One of her selections, the beef satay, was overcooked and dry. The other, an almond encrusted brie, never even arrived. Our two choices, the calamari and tandoori chicken, were only mediocre. And the portions, even those priced as entrées, were incredibly small. I felt as if I had suffered a personal slight. The menu had been so promising, and the letdown was devastating.

Three hours and a substantial amount of cash later, I left the restaurant somewhat inebriated, and very, very hungry.

Luckily, the company was fabulous and occasion was well-worthy of celebration. And this is the great thing about dining out in a group – even if the food fails, you can always rely on your friends to provide great company and a memorable evening. But for foodies like me, the memory of that deceit will linger for a long, long time. And often, you don’t have the fallback of friends to restore an otherwise ruined meal.

A few months back, the husband and I tried out a relatively new Mexican restaurant that had been well-reviewed in our local paper. The atmosphere was charming, and the menu seemed refreshingly authentic. We selected two completely different entrees. Imagine our surprise when both plates showed up at the table – identical down to the mysterious, previously unmentioned carrots. Two bites and we were out of there, shaking our head at the wonder of it all; the Misleading Menu.

I’m a writer. To me, words are promises. Whether it be a story’s promise to lead you to its rightful conclusion, an article’s promise to inform you on a subject matter, a blog’s promise to further exploit the ego of its author, or even a menu’s promise to represent what will appear on your plate. Writers have an obligation to their words, to choose them carefully and honestly, to present the truth in whatever they are committing to paper.

You see, I’m a writer who loves food. To me, the menu writer’s obligation is just as weighty as the poet’s or the journalist’s. And perhaps this presents a problem, as it is no secret that some restaurants just serve lousy food. So what’s to be done? Should the menu read, “tough veal with pasty brown sauce” or “over-cooked pasta with yesterday’s leftovers”? Although it would be funny, I suppose it’s not the answer. But on the other hand, what right do these sub-par dining establishments have to continually hide behind a well-written menu and an unsuspecting diner? Perhaps they need to fulfill their end of the bargain and live up to their menus. This is serious. It’s about food, our appetites, and the fate of all of our bellies. This is about accountability.

And the promise of a good meal.

Just Call Me Pablo

I can’t believe how much I’m learning.

A mere two weeks ago, I was standing on line at the cash at my butcher shop, sadly surveying my purchase; ground beef, chicken breast, veal, stir-fry beef, stewing beef, and flank steak. The same order I’d been making once a month for the past seven years. How many times had I stood at the display, longing to try something new and always wondering, “What on earth would I do with that?” I think I’m beginning to get an idea.

Last night, when I was lying in bed (with the husband snoring away beside me), I began to have fairy-like visions of a succulent chicken roasting on a bed of onions and potatoes. Or a brisket, braising away while I whip up a lip-smackin’ batch of tzimmes. (Which I don’t know how to do, by the way.) Or even taking a stab at the husband’s favourite – roast beast. I could almost smell the intoxicating aroma as it wafts through the house, taking its usual passage up the stairs to the second floor landing. I got up to check the oven, not because I actually thought it might be on but just because I’m a paranoid freak.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that after a month of cooking school I’m ready to take on the culinary world. But I am saying that I’m beginning to see the path that might lead me there. To date, the course has been mainly theoretical, and as I’ve mentioned I’m pretty good with the book learning. The true test will come over the next month as we start to tackle basic prep in the kitchen.

First up will be knife skills, and we’ll be learning all the different cuts; turning (or tourner), brunoise, julienne, batonnet, etc. I’m eager to learn all this. I am. I just wish I could control the shaking of my hand so as to avoid the inevitability of a serious wound. We’ve already had one knife accident in the class. It wasn’t too serious, but it had potential. The only real surprise about the whole thing was that it didn’t happen to me.

Once we’ve caught on to all the different ways in which to use our knives (notice I don’t say ‘master’), we’ll be moving on to the preparation of basic stocks and sauces. This is where I’ll really get to test my mettle. True, I’m not such a soup fan, but that’s no excuse for not knowing the difference between a broth, a stock and a consommé.

And funny as it may sound, the simplicity of chicken soup always struck me as the greatest mystery in the world. I could never understand how such flavour and soothing goodness could be derived from the bones of an animal. Now I understand how the gentle simmering of those silly old bones releases the flavour (and gelatin) trapped within. That the rules are so precise for proper stock making fascinates me – how each and every step from the temperature of the water to the way in which the finished stock leaves its pot makes a remarkable difference in its outcome. I am so excited about this revelation that the only thing that stops me from running out to the butcher right now to buy myself a bag of bones is my stalwart and true sheer laziness.

And I am so ashamed of every time I threw a few spoonfuls of powdered chicken stock into my pea soup and said, “Here – try this. It’s fabulous.”

But when I say I’m learning, I’m not only referring to new skills in the kitchen. Putting myself in this situation forces me to learn a lot about myself. How well I play with others, for instance. And the jury is still out on that one. I have a deep-rooted fear of leadership which dovetails beautifully with my inability to keep my mouth shut. It often puts me in the awkward situation of choosing to follow someone else’s lead, and then constantly (though often silently) questioning their every move. I had never really examined this facet of my personality before. Can’t say I like it much, but it makes for some excellent writing fodder.

I am also learning about my own levels of dedication, drive and ambition. These are three words I’d often lump together, but are now taking on distinct meanings for me. I am dedicated to food. No doubt about it. And I am dedicated to writing. I have the drive to pursue both loves, and hopefully they will converge at some point in the future (or right now?). But I've always felt lacking in the ambition department. Others around me were always surpassing me; my secretaries became producers while I just stood still. And for a long time, this made me uncomfortable, as if some key element of my character was missing: I didn’t have the ‘drive’ to keep working the long hours in film, and I wasn’t ‘ambitious’ enough to get where I needed to be. Now I realize that I wasn’t the problem – I was just working towards the wrong goal.

You see, so far, the most important lesson I’ve learned in school is to be true to myself. Now that I know what I want to do with my life, the journey there doesn’t seem like so much of an uphill climb. Rather, it’s more like a leisurely stroll through the countryside. There is absolutely no rush. As a matter of fact, the more I take my time, the more opportunity there is to learn new things. And taste new things.

With this course, I feel as though I have finally found what I have been searching for all these years. I anticipate every class and I soak up every minute. Sometimes, I have to pinch myself in order to believe that I am really there, in school, learning about FOOD. It's hard to keep the idiot smile off my face. And for all my nerves, anxiety, and truly disturbing keener tendencies, it is the most fantastic thing that’s ever happened to me. And suddenly, I’ve found that ambition.

And yes. I’m going to get the bones.

I can’t believe how much I thought I knew about the kitchen.

Let’s just say it’s a good thing I posted that piece a while back about how I’m starting to realize that I don’t know everything. That little bit of foresight is going to save me a whole lot of embarrassment.

Three weeks ago, I started a professional culinary course. It’s a twelve month program which I’m doing at night so that I can write during the day. Or partake in some other (actual money-making) ventures. Classes are Monday to Friday from 5:00 to 10:00 pm. You know what this means, people: No more prime time television. This is serious stuff.

The first thing I learned, on my very first night, is what a spoiled brat I am. Of the twenty-two students in the class, I was only one of two not currently holding a full-time job. The other student, like me, was in the midst of a long awaited career change. We’re talking about someone who got into graphic design before it became computerized, and now finds herself parked in a chair all day. A kindred spirit.

That leaves nineteen adults (and one minor) who work a full eight hour day, and then attend five hours of class. Or the other way around. One woman, who works in a chocolate factory, leaves class and heads to work for a midnight to 8:00 am shift. Three days a week, she works a part-time job in the afternoons. On top of all this, she went and visited every single kitchen supply store in order to report back to us on who had the best prices. This woman is an inspiration.

There are a few kids, by which I mean in the 17-21 age range, who are fresh out of school and know that this is what they want. For the rest of us, it’s about searching for a better life. And I mean this literally. A healthy percentage of students have just arrived within the last few months from countries such as China, Croatia, Thailand and Mexico. These are people who barely speak the language, are undoubtedly working low paying jobs, who may have families to support and yet still come in every night at five o’clock. This is passion. This is dedication. This is drive.

So far, the class has mainly focused on some essential theory, such as hygiene and safety, but bit by bit we are beginning to explore the kitchen and all the various tools and equipment. Last week, we learned some basic knife skills. I learned what a spaz I am. The only thing scarier than learning how to chop vegetables is learning how to hone a blade against a steel.

A few nights ago, we learned about all of the different equipment in the kitchen; the mixers, blenders, grill, deep fryer, etc. I learned what a klutz I am. I have such a bad case of nerves, I tend to break or drop anything I touch. It’s really the most bizarre thing. I love the kitchen. I spend a good chunk of my time in the kitchen. So how is it that suddenly I feel like a stranger in a new land?

All of this is very disconcerting to the keener in me – the little girl who wants to do well, please her teachers and get good grades. The theory part is fine; I’m an old hat at written exams. Regardless of the fact that I tend to suffer great anxiety the preceding night, I generally test well. But I can see already that this practical part is going to be a bitch. Almost everything I’ve done in the kitchen up to this moment has been wrong. How could my instincts have been so far off on the very thing that is closest to my heart? My precious, precious food – how could you have tricked me so? My hands shake, my palms sweat and I feel like I have two right feet. I read about food, I watch food-related television, and I eat a lot – I thought I knew this stuff. I thought I knew it cold.

But as it turns out, this culinary course makes for a nice little analogy of my life: I thought I knew it all, and really I know nothing. But this is a good thing. I will open myself entirely to the experience, become the proverbial blank slate and absorb as much as I possibly can. I will try new things, learn new techniques and build the foundation for an entirely new bank of knowledge, one that I can draw on for inspiration, ideas, and a whack of good writing. And even more than that, I’m going to share it all with you.

Rediscovering food. How cool is that? Because really, if I thought I loved it so much the first time around, imagine how incredible it’s going to be from here on in.