Not that I really think anyone is reading this at this point, but there has been a rather large gap between my last post and now. Largely because after putting up the last post, I had to head up to Utica, New York for my aunt's funeral. It was sad for me and everyone else, just like a funeral should be. It also put me off of my axis for about a week while I fell back into my routine. So, now I'm dedicating myself to catching all of you would be readers with my culinary life up until this point. Unfortunately, I won't be able to continue this second.
This was My Dinner (for 2 adults, 1 three year-old & plenty of leftovers for office lunches tomorrow),
1 lb. Ground Pork
1.5 Diced Yellow Onions
6 Cloves Garlic
Can Sweet Corn
2C. Black Beans (I usually have some cooked beans around)
Can Crushed Tomatoes
4T Chili Powder
2 T Kosher Salt
1 T Coriander
1/2 T White Pepper
1tsp. Ground Oregano
1tsp. Fine Grind Mustard Powder
1 T Cumin
Pinch Sugar
Throw all in a pot and Play with your kid until it's done. Serve with shredded cheddar and a glop of Sour Cream. Estimated Time: 20 minutes. Can't beat that in a pinch. Try it rolled in warm Flour Tortillas for extra fun. Not my greatest recipe, but I thought I would just toss it in there just for the heck of it.
Monday, January 23, 2006
Saturday, January 07, 2006
Step Into My Kitchen - Part II
So, throughout my ill fated year-and-a-half stint in Ohio... (Bowling Green State University to be exact. A place that is completely flat with the exception of the artificial hills built up for the interstate ramps and overpasses and so cold that eventually you really start believing that a 35 degree day is so warm you shout take your coat off and hop about like a giddy little bunny. ) I returned to work at the resort in Virginia during every single break in academic action. Spring Break was and exercise in culinary techniques. The same went for Thanksgiving, Christmas, and of course the entire Summer. I was there knee deep in the five restaurants of the place as well as the Banquet kitchen, which in some ways was a pleasant respite from the head strong ego associated with the sous chef of the various restaurant, but it is from them that I was dipped into their different flavors. There was: a very healthy sort of spa guy that was way au naturel, an Americana pot head who could pull the standards, but had no finesse, a massive German bastard who threw fits and was so fat he would invariably crash into anything and everything around him, the just coming out of the closet, I can really cook but mostly I'm worried about my new sexuality chef guy who was turned loose on the lesser outposts of cuisine, the stoic banquet queen chef who was tough as nails with a voice to match, and the cerebral executive chef who understood what food was all about, but could not align himself with the business side of the whole equation. In short, I was in heaven. This was a creative pot that I loved to be stewed in. The personalities and the joie de vive that accompanies the pressure of high volume, high quality cuisine. I was pushed through mountains of vegetables and yelled at when they were not of consistent shape and size. I was shat upon at every possible turn, but at the end of the day my love of the job and commitment to the mission of getting everything done left me grinning like the Mad Hatter and accepted by the big boys and girls running the show.
Thinking back through all of that, I want to leave whatever this is that I do right now and head back to that place where creativity and production so firmly meshed. But alas, all good things must come to an end. By the time I was dropping out of school in Ohio and heading back to the Commonwealth, the team was split up and a new executive chef was at the helm. Luckily for me, the former executive chef had opened up his own place in the rundown town in which my parents live and he was game for taking me under his wing and making a chef out of me. His name is Peter Dixon and I owe him more than he will ever know. I'm sure I was a pain in the ass employee, largely because I was 19 & 20 during my time there and completely out of my mind, but he showed me the ins and outs of menu design, ordering, food costs and the art of the kitchen. He taught me more about wine than anyone I have still yet to meet. Not because it would help his business out in any way, but because it was a part of my education. Eventually, it was time to go. I had to move out of my parents house and jump into the next stage of my culinary education and eventual awakening.
Thinking back through all of that, I want to leave whatever this is that I do right now and head back to that place where creativity and production so firmly meshed. But alas, all good things must come to an end. By the time I was dropping out of school in Ohio and heading back to the Commonwealth, the team was split up and a new executive chef was at the helm. Luckily for me, the former executive chef had opened up his own place in the rundown town in which my parents live and he was game for taking me under his wing and making a chef out of me. His name is Peter Dixon and I owe him more than he will ever know. I'm sure I was a pain in the ass employee, largely because I was 19 & 20 during my time there and completely out of my mind, but he showed me the ins and outs of menu design, ordering, food costs and the art of the kitchen. He taught me more about wine than anyone I have still yet to meet. Not because it would help his business out in any way, but because it was a part of my education. Eventually, it was time to go. I had to move out of my parents house and jump into the next stage of my culinary education and eventual awakening.
Friday, January 06, 2006
Step Into My Kitchen - Part I
I suppose the best way to start this out is to introduce myself and what I hope to accomplish on these pages and what better way to do that but to get down and give you a quick run through of my cooking experience.
When I was five years-old, my fate was sealed. After working in the kitchen with my mother, dinner was ruined simply because my mother failed to follow the directions in the cook book. What the cook book was and what we were cooking are lost to the ravages of time, but the story will survive to my dying day. Having wasted all of that work, I promptly told Mother to leave the kitchen and that from now on I would be doing the cooking. I even went so far as giving her the mantra, "Follow Directions and you won't need Corrections!" Of course my stamina as the primary cook of the house did not last as long as my necessity to rides bikes and play baseball, so my family was forced to suffer under the weight of my mother's cooking for another decade and then some.
At fourteen, I decided to make the jump from home cook to restaurant and started doing every position possible in my neighbors Italian restaurant. The old men in their guinnea-Ts thought I was crazy for wanting to work in the restaurant with them, but after months of hazing me with the worst duties possible, I was taken under their wing and taught the ways of the Italian Kitchen. This place was nothing special, just a small local restaurant staffed by a family of immigrants and their underage neighbor kid, but I loved it. It sounds ridiculous to me now, but that world was so exotic to a normal middle-class white kid. The fact that they made their own bread was enough to keep me gabbing for weeks.
At sixteen, I read about a new restaurant opening up at a local ski, golf, and tennis resort. There I was drawn in to what I had always dreamed of: the food of the rich. For some reason I was always drawn to what the rich whiteys were eating and I thought that to cook that kind of food was sophisticated and special. After eating veal patties and salisbury steak forever the idea of smoked scallops and black bean cakes just blew my little head away. Everyday was an adventure in learning. The chef was a volatile prima donna, and I quickly learned what I would never become. Nonetheless, I pumped that place for all of the information it could give me and in the meantime I got to cook for the governor, Supreme Court Justices, celebrities of varying degree and a whole lot of aging moneyed white people. The reason I bring race up so much in this portion is because I link the type of food produced at high end resorts to be aimed at their largest clientele and that clientele is the wonderbread whiteys. Not that there is anything wrong with that. I'm white afterall, but with a very blue collar. Maybe the kitchen was also my way of trying to be a social climber. Who knows? Maybe we'll find out as this thing goes on.
Finally in 1988, I graduated from high school and was forced to go to college by my father who was not hearing any more of this, "I just want to be a chef," stuff and packed me off to nowhere Ohio for a brief stint as an avid alcoholic and occasional student. I can't even tell you why I went, but it was for all of the wrong reasons.
My heart and head were already stolen by the white jackets and houndstooth pants that rested unused in my closet at home. There is something to be said for the uniform of the chef. Many people giggle about it and brag that they can cook without it and isn't it great because what do those guys in the funny suits really know anyway. Let me tell you, I have done it both ways and the uniform is one of both form and function. It's nice and traditional and ties you into something bigger than just one little restaurant. It's part of a history. Not to mention wearing the jacket at the very least protects you from splatters and burns better than any t-shirt I have ever seen. Not to mention a uniform is a uniform. It's meant to take the wear and tear. Regular clothes just stain and stink, then you can never wear them again for anything else, so why not save them and continually destroy your chef's jacket until the stains will no longer come out and the whole thing has gone a hazy gray from the continuous bleaching it has taken.
When I was five years-old, my fate was sealed. After working in the kitchen with my mother, dinner was ruined simply because my mother failed to follow the directions in the cook book. What the cook book was and what we were cooking are lost to the ravages of time, but the story will survive to my dying day. Having wasted all of that work, I promptly told Mother to leave the kitchen and that from now on I would be doing the cooking. I even went so far as giving her the mantra, "Follow Directions and you won't need Corrections!" Of course my stamina as the primary cook of the house did not last as long as my necessity to rides bikes and play baseball, so my family was forced to suffer under the weight of my mother's cooking for another decade and then some.
At fourteen, I decided to make the jump from home cook to restaurant and started doing every position possible in my neighbors Italian restaurant. The old men in their guinnea-Ts thought I was crazy for wanting to work in the restaurant with them, but after months of hazing me with the worst duties possible, I was taken under their wing and taught the ways of the Italian Kitchen. This place was nothing special, just a small local restaurant staffed by a family of immigrants and their underage neighbor kid, but I loved it. It sounds ridiculous to me now, but that world was so exotic to a normal middle-class white kid. The fact that they made their own bread was enough to keep me gabbing for weeks.
At sixteen, I read about a new restaurant opening up at a local ski, golf, and tennis resort. There I was drawn in to what I had always dreamed of: the food of the rich. For some reason I was always drawn to what the rich whiteys were eating and I thought that to cook that kind of food was sophisticated and special. After eating veal patties and salisbury steak forever the idea of smoked scallops and black bean cakes just blew my little head away. Everyday was an adventure in learning. The chef was a volatile prima donna, and I quickly learned what I would never become. Nonetheless, I pumped that place for all of the information it could give me and in the meantime I got to cook for the governor, Supreme Court Justices, celebrities of varying degree and a whole lot of aging moneyed white people. The reason I bring race up so much in this portion is because I link the type of food produced at high end resorts to be aimed at their largest clientele and that clientele is the wonderbread whiteys. Not that there is anything wrong with that. I'm white afterall, but with a very blue collar. Maybe the kitchen was also my way of trying to be a social climber. Who knows? Maybe we'll find out as this thing goes on.
Finally in 1988, I graduated from high school and was forced to go to college by my father who was not hearing any more of this, "I just want to be a chef," stuff and packed me off to nowhere Ohio for a brief stint as an avid alcoholic and occasional student. I can't even tell you why I went, but it was for all of the wrong reasons.
My heart and head were already stolen by the white jackets and houndstooth pants that rested unused in my closet at home. There is something to be said for the uniform of the chef. Many people giggle about it and brag that they can cook without it and isn't it great because what do those guys in the funny suits really know anyway. Let me tell you, I have done it both ways and the uniform is one of both form and function. It's nice and traditional and ties you into something bigger than just one little restaurant. It's part of a history. Not to mention wearing the jacket at the very least protects you from splatters and burns better than any t-shirt I have ever seen. Not to mention a uniform is a uniform. It's meant to take the wear and tear. Regular clothes just stain and stink, then you can never wear them again for anything else, so why not save them and continually destroy your chef's jacket until the stains will no longer come out and the whole thing has gone a hazy gray from the continuous bleaching it has taken.
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