Tuesday, October 28, 2003
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 08, 2003
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.
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.
Friday, October 03, 2003
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’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.
