Why hello there long lost friends of the world wide web, it’s been a while. So much has happened in this cold and hazy big apple. I’m back in my old stomping grounds on 18th trying to put myself back into a able-blogging conscious. It’s been exactly as the broker told me. I’m never home, and when I am, I spend no more than one waking hour there. I’m sharing my tiny apartment right now with my good friend Cara and the few moments I’d normally have to write have been replaced by red wine and impromptu dance parties. Where do I begin!?
I’m already in the last course of Module 2 in culinary school, which blows my mind. We’ve learned about sautéing and grilling, frying, and poaching, classic french dishes and techniques. I’ve eaten pounds of veal and chicken paillards. I’ve volunteered at the James Beard House (post to follow), our school’s graduation, and a chef’s dinner. I got into a brutal battle with an artichoke and a paring knife, resulting in handfuls of blood and a mid-class trip to the ER. I was the first in the class to have a “major” injury, something besides the daily cuts and burns we’ve all had several times over, and I’ve been spending the last few days partially handicapped with a thumb full of liquid stitches and a splint.
These last two weeks have been the typical up and down roller coaster ride, school and New York both a vigorous tug of war game pulling me back and forth between love and hate and oscillating feelings of brilliance and adequacy. Last week I had one of those days where I wanted to quit cooking altogether and become a dishwasher or janitor or some non-glorified profession. I know how to do dishes. I’m good at dishes, I’m efficient, it’s easy. No one will come breath over me while I’m doing them and tell me I’m scrubbing wrong, all day, every ten minutes.
I over-browned the bacon in a pan without slanted sides. I butchered two chickens improperly after several examples. “Is this your chicken?” “Yes, Chef,” “Where are my bones? I need bone-in breasts, this is unusable.” I underbrowned the chicken, too little pieces in too large a saute pan, “why would you do that? you’re burning up the pan,” “I thought that saute needed high heat,” “Not this high, never this high.” The coq au vin was under-seasoned, the flambé didn’t properly flame, the bacon was charred, I poured brandy from the bottle, I used too much wine, put too many chicken thighs in too small a rondeau, the oven was low, and the stew tasted bland and undercooked. I felt like I knew nothing. I admit I at one point went to the bathroom to cry to myself for a minute before recomposing myself on the toilet of the 14th floor. I didn’t have the skin for it, and it just widdled away at me to hear over the 3 compartment sink, “You better toughen up now. This industry will beat the shit out of you.”
We were let out late after our lecture, and I ran in the pouring rain to 15th street for an interview, looking like a wet spaniel, bought 2 cupcakes at Crumbs and a bottle of Old Vine zinfandel, ate my shitty coq au vin and watched Julie and Julia for the fifteenth time. I just wanted to hear Madamme Broussard say to Julia Child, “You have no real talent for cooking.” I try to keep her in mind always. Twenty years my senior she became something huge out of nothing. There’s hope!