Holy Dumpling !!!

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Fried dumpling is a Jamaican staple that is easy to make. It consists of four ingredients, all-purpose flour, baking powder, water and salt. Some variations add a pat of butter to the recipe while others substitute milk for water. Dumplings are a cheap way to bulk up a meal where flour is cheap and meat or fish expensive. Usually found at the breakfast table, along with fried ripe plantains, boiled green bananas and roast breadfruit, dumplings are torn apart with your fingers and used to sponge the  delicious gravy from saltfish (bacalao) cooked in coconut oil, rundown mackerel or corned beef with scotch bonnet peppers. This fried dough is brown and crispy on the outside but remains soft and chewy on the inside. Children love to split dumplings in half and spread grape jelly in the middle; it’s a sweet treat, especially with a hot cup of Milo or Horlicks.

Try this recipe at home; you’ll see for yourself how easy it is:

Jamaican Fried Dumpling

 Ingredients

4 cups all-purpose flour

3 teaspoons baking powder

1 1/2 teaspoons salt

1/2 cup milk

1 cup vegetable oil for frying

Directions

1. In a large bowl, stir together the flour, baking powder and salt. Add milk, 1 tablespoon at a time just until the mixture is wet enough to form into a ball. The dough should be a firm consistency. Knead briefly. The dough should not stick to the fingers when done.

2. Heat the oil in a large heavy skillet over medium heat until hot. Break off pieces of the dough and shape into a patty – kind of like a flat biscuit. Place just enough of the dumplings in the pan so they are not crowded. Fry on each side until golden brown, about 3 minutes per side. Remove from the pan and drain on paper towels before serving.

 

 

86 Happiness – A Fickle Emotion, Like a Vase of Carnations, Beautiful in the Moment, Unaware of its Inevitable Demise, as sure as Roots Separated from Earth.” Jomo Morris

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The number “86” in kitchen lingo means to “be out of a particular menu item or ingredient.” Urban legend contends that the term originated from a famous New York speakeasy called Chumley’s. The bar was located at 86 Bedford Street, but had its entrance through an interior adjoining courtyard to provide privacy for its customers. The prohibition era, was the perfect petri dish for clandestine business activities, with government officials accepting bribes to allow bars like Chumley’s to keep the masses inebriated. If the police were planning a raid in that area, the bartender would be tipped off, at which point he could “86” his customers through the backdoor on Bedford Street, while the police were coming through the front courtyard.

Georges Blanc, wrote in his 1943 cookbook, ‘Ma Cuisine des Saisons’ that
“Happy and successful cooking doesn’t rely only on know-how; it comes from
the heart, makes great demands on the palate and needs enthusiasm and a deep
love of food to bring it to life.”

In the trenches where it’s 8:30 pm and open warfare has been declared between hungry diners and line cooks working feverishly to keep them sated. Wrong time for poetry or romantic ideals, buddy! The tension is palpable, we’re communicating, shouting, moving, no time for laughter, focus, everything must be perfect.

Cooking professionally is like skiing a double diamond run like Alta Zero; it’s an adrenaline rush, a straight shot of B12 to the heart. But it also means that technique, repetition and precision guide every move. From sauté pan to plate each motor skill has been honed to create an economy of movement that conditions a cook to multi-task without thinking. Night after night, line cooks “86” happiness in their hearts because we have no place for it; might as well seal such sentiments in the center of an onion, a large purple one, with roots attached and crinkly brown parchment like skin.

Anyway who cares? Show me a happy line cook and I’ll show you a lazy one. And there’s a collective gasp, how could anyone be so mean? There is no ill intent, but great kitchens push and challenge the mettle of everyone who works there. Let me break it down for you, there is no place for complacency in the evolution of a cook. From cook to sous chef and eventually executive chef, there must be personal struggle, pain, sacrifice and a penance paid through years of hard work.

A happy cook is content, there’s no uncomfortable places in that kitchen, you know what’s coming, where’s the challenge? Where’s the catalyst forcing you to grow? I’ve never worked in a kitchen where knowledge, technique or prowess comes naturally or is given with tablespoons of patience. You make mistakes, take your licks, cower, cringe, get beat up by the chef, but you’ve also learnt how to fix the hollandaise when it’s broken. Learning in everyday workplace situations, that slow accumulation of knowledge that in time becomes wisdom is like fresh milk from cows. Sure you can drink it, but add rennet, heat it, strain the curds and wait. It’s milk that’s been transformed, yellow, sweet, salty, stinky, but infinitely better for its transformation.

“Maybe that’s enlightenment enough: to know that there is no final resting place of the mind; no moment of smug clarity. Perhaps wisdom…is realizing how small I am, and unwise, and how far I have yet to go. -Anthony Bourdain”

 

“86 Happiness” Sidney (Sous Chef)

 

Return to Writing

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I overcooked the artichokes! My sous chef tosses a green blob onto my cutting board and walks away. It holds its shape for a few fragile seconds and then collapses into a forlorn puddle of disgrace. Tendrils of steam drift upwards and their accusatory fingers cries shame as I sweep what was once an artichoke, into the garbage. I’m too busy for despair and instead focus on the tickets in front of me. I’m working short order tonight and my extensive prep list has me in the shits. I have forty globe artichokes to cook and clean before the night is out. It’s an eight hour shift; but hours glide by in spurts of ticket orders and spasms of hectic
preparation.

In our pre-shift line-up, My sous chef suggests I use the tilt skillet to cook the artichokes at a low simmer for an hour. I’ll need to add mirepoix and wire grates to keep them fully submerged during cooking. I make notes on my prep list, mirepoix, vinegar, grates, 1 hour. Hustling from one task to the next, “two things at once,” I mutter to myself, medium rondeau – salty water with a squirt of canola oil for penne pasta, crush avocado for guacamole, a loaf of brioche for short rib sandwiches. I need to bring the kitchen’s requisition downstairs by 4 pm, there’s only a quart of corn soup left and I grab fourteen ears of corn from the cooler wishing they could shuck themselves.

Another ticket comes in, burger medium-rare,
Sweet potato fries. Faster, faster, gotta have my mise-en-place ready for service. I need to julienne forty Spanish onions – prep for French onion soup tomorrow. My brain is clicking and clacking like a cash register, prioritizing, trying to stay ahead of the weeds looming in the horizon. I’m plating my hamburger but I’m already two steps ahead, mentally making guacamole and cutting the brioche for the sandwiches. Multitasking – the tilt skillet needs to be cleaned. I ask the dishwasher to take care of that. I have tickets coming in; a shrimp taco, French onion soup for the bar, an order of truffle French fries for the restaurant, push those out, then down to the store room. Purchasing now has our completed requisition and I run up the stairs two at a time to the kitchen. There’s a plastic lexan of artichokes in the cooler and I place them on a prep table close to the skillet. Turn the skillet, set the dial to 300F, turn the water faucet on, head back into the cooler for mirepoix and then over to my station to prep. Suddenly there’s a lull in service and I head to the back to start cooking my artichokes.

Artichokes can be a pain in the ass to cook
And clean. In appearance they look like miniature Olympic torches with triangular green scales. In reality, artichokes are over grown thistles that come in varying sizes and colors. It’s a lot of cleaning and trimming with a paring knife to eat something that tastes like a subdued brussel sprout. The inside oxidizes quickly and must be kept submerged in acidulated water, usually slices of lemon. I’m looking at these glaucous green thistles with their hard fibrous outer leaves and marvel at the person who saw potential in an artichoke. The court bouillon is simmering and I tip the Lexan over the stainless steel edge and watch as they topple into the skillet. Reaching behind I pick up the grates and place them on top as forty artichokes sink to the bottom of a murky sea of carrots, onions, celery garlic and lemons. I‘ll be back in an hour to rescue them and that’s that!

About twenty pounds of onions are sitting on my cutting board I try to work around them as more orders pile onto my station. I’ve already put a pepperoni and meat lover’s pizza in the small brick oven beside my station. Burgers are sizzling on the grill, an order for a pulled pork sandwich is working and the French fries to go with it are almost crisp and golden in the fryer. I bump past the sauté guy to put the hoagie bun on the flat top and then grab the paddle to give each pizza a quick turn. I’m still thinking about those artichokes simmering in the back, but for now my focus are the hungry diners waiting for their food. “Room service! You’re pizzas are up!” I shout. I’ve got a pork sandwich and two pizzas up! Room! Your food is in the window dying! My window empties as servers match food to tickets and place them in respective hot boxes.

I turn away and start peeling onions When my inner buzzer goes off and I look at the clock. This is power hour and the micros is screeching nonstop, “Order in!”Sous chef pulls a ticket off the printer, “three top, first course on table forty, two French onion, one corn soup.” I call back “heard! One corn, two French onion, five minutes,” and place the order on my ticket holder. Ten minutes left for my artichokes, but I shout across to my sous chef who’s busy expediting, “chef, my artichokes, you gotta minute?” No time to wait for an answer we make eye contact as I ladle two orders of French onion into a sauté pan and stick a corn flan into the oven. I look up and he’s disappeared, a peripheral thought about my artichokes, flicked away as I add a ladle of corn soup to another hot sauté pan.

A bowl for the corn soup, sits under the heat lamp And I push it aside to pull two lion heads down for the French onion. Soup then four croutons, a slice of Swiss then gruyere and a sprinkle of hand grated parmesan then under the salamander. While those are working I pull my bowl, the flan is hot and I unmold it and place it right side up in the center. The soupcis poured around; dirty sauté pan joins a growing stack under my station, and I finish with circle of paprika oil, old bay popcorn and corn shoots. In the window and then hop towards the salamander to save my French onions, a sprinkle of fine chopped parsley and my first course is in the pass. A room service ticket comes in for penne pasta rustica. “Table forty in the window! I need a runner!

I’m thinking about my artichokes, But the penne pasta has to go out first. I look up, just in time to see my sous chef, we make eye contact, colors fade, and the buzz of the kitchen dulls and becomes lethargic as if time has slowed to savor this moment. My sous chef tosses a green blob onto my cutting board and walks away. It holds its shape for a few fragile seconds and then collapses into a forlorn puddle of disgrace. Tendrils of steam drift upwards and their accusatory fingers cries shame as I sweep what was once an artichoke, into the garbage. I’m too busy for despair and instead focus on the tickets in front of me. I’m working short order tonight and as time speeds up, I realize I’m deep in the shits.

So What If You Don’t Like My Mac & Cheese

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Not in a box, on a shelf, made it all myself

Elbow pasta, not that Krafta, stir the pot, cooks it faster

Drain it, strain it, add some oil to maintain it

Let it cool, there’s no rush, should be firm to tha touch

 

Start that sauce, lots of butter, a little flour

Clickety clack, wooden spoon forth and back

Some call it roux, looks like goo

Pour some cream, slow steady stream

 

Stir and stir, end in sight, almost done, time for fun

Shred that cheddar, more is better, cheese and sauce melt together

Razzle, dazzle, bubble, pop,

Just like magic, Roger rabbit

 

Mix, shake, pyrex, bake, cheese on top, don’t spill a drop

350, tick tick tock, golden crust, oozes from cheesy bruises

Love the smell, delicious can’t you tell

Too bad, too sad, go make yours and I’ll eat mine!

The Truth about Buying a Knife

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“An expensive knife may inflate your ego while depleting your pocket, it’s a beautiful showpiece. A cheaper knife has to prove its worth, just like the hand wielding it.” Jomo Morris

Over time I’ve accumulated an extensive collection of knives. Some I use on a daily basis, while others wait for a special occasion – a heavy meat cleaver for chopping goat meat or a serrated knife for cutting bread into croutons. I’ve always equated brand name knives with quality and durability. Having a toolbox filled with expensive knives distinguished an industry professional from the home cook, who would wince at spending $120 on a Shun French knife. Expensive European brands like the heavy German Wusthofs and Henckel were a common site in professional kitchens and retail stores like Williams Sonoma, until chefs began to fall in love with super sharp, wafer thin, Japanese steel, like Global, Shun and Mac knives. I paid eighty for a 12” Wusthof and fifty for my 8” Mac French knife. Wusthofs are very thick German blades that require constant maintenance; I had to buy a whetstone just to sharpen it and a steel to help maintain the edge. I also own a Wustoff super slicer which is a cross between a serrated edge and  French knife, it comes in pretty handy for cutting bulky root vegetables and general all purpose work. As for my Mac knife, it was a favored child, until it fell and the tip broke.

Curious, I decided to put my theory to the test and look at the collection of fellow line cooks. What I found, was an assortment of knives, some new, some old, expensive forged knives, nestled beside stamped blades with solid plastic handles. Their toolboxes represented a global melting pot of Asian, American and European cutlery; each knife became a point of reference as they progressed from kitchen to kitchen. My belief was in fact a misnomer. In fact, the opposite was true. Companies produce expensive knives and market them primarily to amateur cooks. Yes, chefs perpetuate the myth of added prowess from the use of brand name products, but ultimately, it’s the general public that shell out the big bucks to buy them. Owning a fancy knife at home is like a status symbol, signaling to other foodies, the seriousness of your intentions and commitment.  Professionals prefer their tools to be dependable, reliable and most importantly affordable. These are tools we work with everyday and durability is more important than aesthetic appeal.

Experienced cooks learn to value their knives by the sharpness of the blade. The best knives retain their keen edge, despite repetitive acts of shredding, dicing, peeling and chopping. A sharp knife increases speed and efficiency as copious amounts of raw produce is transformed into silky smooth whipped potatoes, tomato concasse, French onion soup and steak tartare in time for service. A well honed, twelve inch French knife is the line cooks’ workhorse, though I’ve worked with a chef, whose favorite knife was a scimitar. I’ve watched him skillfully fillet whole salmon, portion dry-aged ribeye and fill a nine pan with perfectly julienned chives – in a blur of motion, elbows close to his side as he rocked the blade back and forth on the cutting board.

Recently, I bought a knife from a fellow line cook; He had twelve of them stashed in his locker and I happened to pass by, as he was changing into his uniform. I wanted one, because I’m familiar with the kiwi brand, they are wickedly sharp, lightweight and cheap. Everyone in the kitchen bought one.  I know I’ll never see this brand in Williams Sonoma or at the Cook’s Warehouse but who cares. It’s perfect for a fine brunoise of red onions or thinly slicing a bundle of chives. I use it to slice tuna for plating, scoring foie gras, as well as general prep work.

                My knives are like old friends – my meat cleaver and super slicer are over ten years old. They’ve traveled with me to Jamaica; they’ve waited patiently while I tried to forget about cooking and becoming a chef and set my mind to other things like working in the family business. They lay for years nestled snuggly in my knife roll while I tried to forget about what I loved most. A good knife will always be there even if it lies at the bottom of a pile. I treasure my collection of knives – my boning, paring, utility, French, serrated edge, santouku. I’ve paid the ultimate price in blood and sweat to use them and now they are truly mine.

A Home for Red Rooster

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A wise owl once said, “When it rains, it pours” and tonight, a vengeful cloud decided to wring itself dry over Taylor farm. Rain lashed the trees, and thunder roared from the heavens. Even the stars were scared. One by one they winked out, as if God had punched a hole in the sky, leaving a thick slab of darkness to ooze over the farm like a chocolate sundae. Red Rooster didn’t care about the hurt feelings of an angry cloud. His only concern was the plump raindrops soaking his tail feathers. He had chosen to roost in a lime tree and now he was cursing his bad luck. His perch was damp and slippery, the pitter patter of water falling from the leaves annoyed him and worst, he was wet. Exasperated, Red tucked his head further under his wing and tried to go back to sleep. Spying the sleeping rooster, the vengeful cloud shook the lime tree with a loud thunderclap causing Red to cock-a doodle in fright. Embarrassed,   Red flew into the night amidst a chorus of hooting and chirping from a couple of cheeky chickadees and a pair of turtle doves.

                Red landed in a flutter of feathers beside the kennel at the side of the Taylor farmhouse. He cocked his head this way and that way. He used his beak to preen his black, red and gold plumage, then puffing his chest feathers; he mustered the courage to peck at the door, before cautiously sticking his head inside. “This feels warm and cozy,” he thought, and best of all, it was dry. His only warning came from the rattle of a chain and the sound of paws scrambling against the wooden floor. A shaggy brown face filed his vision and the snap of canine teeth and saliva, nearly took his neck of, as Red Rooster jumped backwards with a loud squawk. The chain pulled taut with a snap and Red was swiftly sent on his way by the ferocious barking of the farms’ golden retriever.

                In his fright, Red flew past the picket fence that ran around the farmhouse and smack into a herd of milking cows. He narrowly escaped being crushed by a hoof, a head butted him in his side, a tail took a swipe at his comb. Splattered in mud, Red ran for his life dodging udders and giant hooves until finally the sound of their incensed mooing was far behind him. Slipping through the fence, he ran as fast as his legs could carry him, past the Taylors front porch and around to the kitchen wall. In a few hours it would be morning. The rain had ceased, the stars had returned, but Red was tired, worn out, beat up, his throat was soar and he was covered from comb to spur in mud and bits of grass.

                A gust of wind, a twist of fate, an open window and with that, Red’s luck changed. The kitchen window had become unhinged during the storm and although Red Rooster knew that animals were never allowed into the house, he decided to chance it. With the last of his strength, Red flew up and landed on the window sill. “Now here is a perch fit for a king,” he thought. He paused for a moment, looked left, then right before spying a crock-pot at the end of the counter where the cupboards nestled against the refrigerator. Happy at last, Red hopped into the kitchen and with a quick flap of his wings was comfortably settled in on top of Mrs. Taylors favorite crock pot. Tucking his head under his wing Red Rooster fell instantly asleep. 

                A dream about roosters? “What foolishness,” Mrs. Turner muttered as she pushed aside the bed sheets and sat on the side of the bed. Mr. Turner was still in bed snoring contentedly, “silly man, he could sleep through anything,” she grumbled. The bed springs creaked as she stood up and went into the bathroom for her slippers and housecoat.  Humming to herself, Mrs. Turner shuffled down the stairs, walked through the hallway and into the kitchen. Imagine her surprise, when she flicked the switch and saw Red Rooster fast asleep on her crock-pot and mud all over her kitchen counter.  She was on the verge of screaming at the errant bird, when it hit her; her grandchildren were coming to visit and she had wanted something special to prepare for Sunday dinner. “Stranger things have happened” she thought, “now where is my knife”.

I really liked the recipe for  COQ AU VIN  from the blogsite The Pioneer Woman. It’s very detailed with a ton of pictures and I thought that it would be a nice finishing touch to my story. Actually, I had the recipe in mind first and then decided to write a story around it. Maybe for my next post, I will cook this dish at home and share the recipe  with you from my own pictures.

Picked Saltfish and Marinated Tomatoes

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 Ingredients:

½ lb Saltfish

2 Roma Tomatoes

1 Cucumber

¼ Red Onion

8 sprigs Parsley

1 Scotch Bonnet Pepper

3 tbsp Sherry Vinegar

3 tbsp Coconut Oil

6 tbsp Canola Oil

Pinch of salt if necessary

 Method:

Soak saltfish in water overnight, this removes most of the salt from the cured fish.

Cut the tomatoes in halves. Remove the seeds and cut julienne. Do the same for the cucumber, cut in half, remove the seeds and slice into half rounds.

  1. Pick the parsley from the stems and rough chop
  2. Use ¼ of a red onion and cut julienne
  3. Cut ¼ of a scotch bonnet pepper into rounds
  4. Toss tomatoes, cucumber, onion, parsley together.
  5. Fry the whole pieces of saltfish in the canola oil about four minutes on each side until crisp.
  6. Add the coconut oil to the saute pan.
  7. Next add the scotch bonnet pepper, then the vinegar.
  8. Remove from the heat and let cool for a few minutes.
  9. Flake the saltfish and pour the oil and vinegar mixture over the cucumber and tomatoes.
  10. Add the flaked saltfish to the salad, taste and season with a pinch of salt if necessary.

Growing Up Country

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I grew up on a farm, away from streetlights, movie theatres, supermarkets and rows of concrete houses stuck together in tidy subdivisions that baked under the hot Jamaican sun.  Albany, St. Mary, was a small village, deep in the Jamaican countryside, in its heyday, this region was famous for its banana and sugar cane, agriculture was and still is the lifeblood of this parish. My mother had recently remarried and her husband (now my stepdad), had decided to follow his dream and become a farmer. I was about nine at the time and my first memory of my new home, was how alone we were. There were no neighbors, as far as the eye could see, the land dwarfed our house like a fly on a cow’s rump, to be swatted away at any moment. I was swallowed by “bush,” surrounded by it, “bush” was everywhere, like biting into a scotch bonnet pepper, “bush” was coming out my nostrils, my ears, my brain. This was my new life, far away from Montego Bay, steel, asphalt, cruise ships and tourists, replaced by a kaleidoscope of varying hues of grass, trees and shrubs.

 My father was a cattle farmer with herds of Red Poll cows penned in by sharp barb wire fences, which divided the farm into pastures for grazing and more importantly kept the cows from wandering onto the road. He also rented a huge D9 caterpillar tractor that created a patchwork of crude roads so he could drive his Land Rover around the farm without breaking an axle. He worked hard, to turn this wilderness, into land suitable for cultivation. Pumpkin and Scotch Bonnet pepper was planted for export. Seedlings from coconut trees were sewn in neat rows on hilly terrain; an investment for the future.

In those early days, the repetitive “thwack” of sharp machetes and the angry buzzing of chainsaws became as normal as the honking of traffic on St. James Street.  Nature didn’t take very kindly to our efforts at domestication and retaliated with a nasty counter -attack in the form of ticks. “Grass lice,” as they were commonly called, were especially virulent on cattle farms. They were everywhere in the waist high grass that surrounded my house – they coated the legs of my jeans, swarmed over my t-shirt and eventually latched themselves snugly onto my skin. I’ve found ticks between my toes, under my armpits, and places insect should never dare go. They itch and scratch for days after being removed. In those days, we had no such thing as insect repellent, I was miserable and my hatred for “Bush” grew stronger with each unfortunate encounter.Summer was my favorite time, there was no school, mangoes were in season – we had plenty of them on the farm, but best of all, there was a river running through the property. Mangoes to fill my belly and pools of emerald green shaded by bamboo trees to dive into and explore. My friends and I, would frolic for hours, searching for tiny shrimp under the rocks and trying to catch the fast moving mullet fish that swam in the deeper pools. A bamboo pole was our raft of choice and there was plenty of varying lengths to choose from, then a minute in the sun to dry off and a few Julie or Stringy mangoes for a snack before heading home, barefoot and carefree. I grew up country but didn’t stay.  A part of me longed for concrete and stores with large glass windows and the vibrant energy of the city. Now I live in the huge metropolitan city of Atlanta, Georgia. The Dekalb High School Community Garden is the closest I’ve been to the memories of my youth since moving here. It’s a small brush with nostalgia, a reminder of life, simple and sweet. Far removed, but closer to my roots, try this recipe for Picked Saltfish and Marinated Tomatoes, it‘s one of my favorite and I hope it will become yours too.

 Picked Saltfish and Marinated Tomatoes

 Ingredients:

½ lb Saltfish

2 Roma Tomatoes

1 Cucumber

¼ Red Onion

8 sprigs Parsley

1 Scotch Bonnet Pepper

3 tbsp Sherry Vinegar

3 tbsp Coconut Oil

6 tbsp Canola Oil

Pinch of salt if necessary

 Method:

Soak saltfish in water overnight, this removes most of the salt from the cured fish.

Cut the tomatoes in halves. Remove the seeds and cut julienne. Do the same for the cucumber, cut in half, remove the seeds and slice into half rounds.

  1. Pick the parsley from the stems and rough chop
  2. Use ¼ of a red onion and cut julienne
  3. Cut ¼ of a scotch bonnet pepper into rounds
  4. Toss tomatoes, cucumber, onion, parsley together.
  5. Fry the whole pieces of saltfish in the canola oil about four minutes on each side until crisp.
  6. Add the coconut oil to the saute pan.
  7. Next add the scotch bonnet pepper, then the vinegar.
  8. Remove from the heat and let cool for a few minutes.
  9. Flake the saltfish and pour the oil and vinegar mixture over the cucumber and tomatoes.
  10. Add the flaked saltfish to the salad, taste and season with a pinch of salt if necessary.

Flower Power :)

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Mother Nature shares her smile by giving us FLOWERS

I found these Zinnias growing at the Dekalb High Community Garden

It’s a small urban garden cared for by kids 

Red, Yellow, Pink and Orange, imagine their excitement as the seeds began to grow

Now the season is changing and these flowers are a reminder, in times of uncertainty, life is still beautiful

Never forget, opportunity comes in many different shapes, colors, and textures

Often we are so busy stirring pots in Lifes’ kitchen, we pay no attention to someone knocking at the door

 

 

 

 

 

It starts with small details - things we often ignore

Pennies, matching socks, roots, leaves, stems, Hugs and Kisses for Loved Ones galore 

 Honey Bees share Marigolds with Butterflies

That’s Insect Peace and Love -  Flower Power

Smile your troubles away, today is a brighter day

Remember, even clouds need a holiday

 

Together we can plant and nurture, our own beautiful gardens, filled with joy and happiness

 

 

 

 

 

 

Watch it grow, and the seeds unfurl, leaves kissed by the morning sun

Petals that sway, gently in the breeze

All this can be done, though it may take some time

But nature has shown us and we can see 

all that’s needed is you and me 

Chefs Table

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I’ve always been a fan of comic books. In high school; X-men, Spider-man and Conan the Barbarian were some of my favorites. It’s safe to say, Marvel super heroes, helped shape my love for science fiction and fantasy books. Books feed my imagination; they were a doorway to escape through, as soothing as a glass of fresh lemonade on a hot July afternoon. The act of reading is passive, quiet and deeply personal.

It’s the antithesis of working in a kitchen. In my apartment, one of my favorite places for reading is the bathroom.  It’s a sanctuary compared to the noise and constant communication required to function effectively in a busy restaurant.  So after a hard nights work, in my bathroom I’ll sit – my sanctuary  - with a good book perched on my knees and no sense of urgency.

My moment of meditative reverie is snatched away as the elevator doors slowly ping open and I walk past the dish pit and into the main kitchen. The extremely bright twelve foot fluorescent lights, paint the space in an artificial sunlight, that brightens my chef whites but not my thoughts. The am shift is on their way out; nine pans filled with an assortment of mise en place lay on the stainless steel counter-top. There is an economy of movement as cooks cover each one with a thin film of plastic wrap, label and date, slot them into a hotel pan and place them onto a speed rack. Their day is done, and the pm crew barely speaks to them – a nod in greeting, a word or two – it’s our turn now.

There’s an eight hour stretch ahead of us and we use the down time, to gather around the expeditors table, for a quick meeting with the pm sous chef.In kitchen speak its called “line-up,” and it’s a daily meeting where the sous chef brings the crew up to date on reservations for the evening as well as other pertinent bits of information. It can be as short as five minutes or last as long as thirty, depending on the topics discussed.

Tonight, ten people will be enjoying a chefs tasting menu in the kitchen and he focuses most of the meeting on explaining the components of each dish and clarifying any questions the cooks may have.Our tasting menu comprises of seven small intricately constructed dishes, no more than five bites, each with its own wine pairing. garde manger gets the first course, sauté gets the next two, grill picks up three and four then back to garde manger for the cheese course and finally over to pastry for dessert.

We’re all busy scribbling notes on our copies of the menu; time is precious, better to get it right the first time. As the meeting continues my eyes drift to the clock on the wall. There is a palpable sense of tension as fingers start to twiddle and the clock ticks past 3:30pm. This is go time!

 Sensing the mood swing, the sous chef brings the meeting to an end and heads to the office to finish paperwork. We all scatter into the coolers to our pm speed racks and update our prep lists for service. It’s a race against the clock, pure and simple. Dinner starts at 6pm, that’s the cutoff point, it’s a lot to do in a short period of time; for the next 2 ½ hours time is my enemy.The pressure is physical, it’s mental, to succeed I have to move in a blur.

I’m not polite. I push past other cooks, I’ve stopped smiling, and I’m already running through my mental checklist of things I need to accomplish.

Adrenaline, fear, and exhilaration, courses through my veins as I blend, dice, chop and assemble my mise en place for service. Time, measured in hours is whittled down to minutes, but tonight, I’m in a good place, all the pieces have come together and I stand still for a moment, to breathe.