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Something to Think About

I have been doing more and more writing lately and I realize how it helps me in the interpretation of my daily life and how it helps me to regulate a positive self image. And for me self image is a tough thing. No one is as hard on themselves as I am on me. Ok, of course there is someone harder on themself, unfortunately I'm guessing most of those end up as suicides. I'm talking about living and maintaining, minus happy drugs.

I just can't do the happy drug thing. They seem to screw my head up more than they help me and I just can't abide my that. Mostly what I wanted to say is three cheers for writing more. Now if I just find more people into reading more of what I write maybe I'll be getting somewhere.

The Best

So, maybe this right now is the best I can do. Writing little bits and pieces around the web. At least at this point I'm putting it out there, which is far better than I have ever managed to do before. I know I'm not publishing books, writing for magazines, or knocking out scripts, but at the same time I have build a nice cache of work and have finished my first real, solid one act play. That's something right?

Now I just wish people would read what I am writing here. They do over at writingup.com. Check it out if you'd like. Just click here: http://www.writingup.com?referer=3080 I hope that works, it's the first time I've tried to do the whole hyper-link thing. Now I suppose I should publish this so I can try it out. Unfortunately blogger doesn't seem to be working at this moment. Now I'll just have to keep blithering on while I'm waiting for it to start working again. Lucky You.

Fat Bastard

I pull on my gut and think about what it is to be fat and wonder why I have slid into this abyss. First I think it is because I hurt my back and couldn't really do anything for a while. That doesn't cut it because I wasn't really doing anything before it happened. Than I find myself laying my lard on the depression I have fallen into after selling the restaurant and the failure of the DC restaurant gig to work out, and I suppose that one does work in some ways. I do have a big streak of snacking like crazy when I'm feeling down, but I usually pull myself out in time. After those two, I usually walk the wild side with my secret plot to use my loss of girth as a catalyst for writing a book on losing it and in that I always think that I should be at my closest point to popping before starting the project. Or maybe I'm just made to be the portly king.

What it really comes down to and that I have never admitted to anyone is that I have a real live and true eating disorder. I gorge on snacks for no reason. Maybe I'm thinking that it will ease the pain of having to listen to the dogs barking in my head, but it doesn't. All it leads to is more self-loathing and more eating. I used to pull my own trigger in order to get the food out, but I don't even do that anymore. It hurt my throat too much and just seemed like a really bad idea. Now I just take it in and consume, consume, consume... More later if I can stomach this topic any more.

The Wonderful World of Cabbage

As I sit here in the office chomping on my mid-day meal, I cannot help but marvel at the wonder that is cabbage. Be it red, green, napa or bok choy, I love it. It has texture and body and keeps some oomph even as you leave it in the microwave for a minute or so too long. Not that I condone the use of microwaves, but sometimes it is inevitable; especially when you are faced with a cold pork & chicken burrito. The cheese needs to melt, the rice has to warm up a little bit and the pork needs to change from the texture of a hockey puck. And there in the thick of it all, my red cabbage. It's almost sweet, yet earthy as all get out. I tend to add cabbage to all of my roasts, curries and miscellaneous sautees. Ropa Vieja with green cabbage and pineapples, now you are talking about a scrumptious meal.

Let us not forget that little wonder of a minature cabbage, the brussel sprout. Stop grimmacing and try this: Cut your sprouts in half. Pull off any drooping leaves. Trim the stem. Now sautee in enough H2O to cover half of the sprout & enough butter to cover with a thin layer. Add salt & pepper & maybe a little garlic after about 3 minutes on medium high heat. After all H2O evaporates deglaze the pan with a splash or two of balsamic vinegar. Yum

Random Thought

There is something daunting about leaving behind a safe secure life and heading out into the unknown.  I grew up in a kitchen learning and loving the culinary arts.  Knives, pans and fire were my primary tools.  A shrinking world’s bounty became the palette from which dishes were created.  As the years passed, critical acclaim came and elevated my status as a minor star in the local culinary universe.  Through it all, I remained true to the vision of food that had developed into my personal take on the dining experience.  Nights and days were spent pushing the medium further until I broke free of constraining owners and opened a place of my own.  It was only then that I learned the ugliness of the business and felt the undertow of daily operations draining away the energy that had once exclusively served the food.

Lunch Time

So I'm sitting here at work, spending my lunch hour inside, because it is cold and windy outside. Not my happiest place, but far better than many others I have found myself in through the years.

Built scones this morning and tried sweetening them up a little more. I used this recipe:

3 cups Flour
1 cup Sugar
1 T Baking Power
1/4 tsp. Baking Soda
Pinch Kosher Salt
1/3 cup Heavy Cream
5 T Unsalted Butter
1/2 cup Julienne Dried Apricots
1 Egg
1/4 tsp Vanilla Extract

Now, Maybe they were a little too sweet, but the crowd here at S&P seemed to dig them. In some ways I have to say that by adding more sugar the scones are finally right for the crazed sweet tooth of the American consumer. Next up I'm going savory scone style with cornmeal, cheddar & bacon. I think it will work, but it might take a little finesse along with a mighty splash of trial and error. What the hell I'm up for anything about now.

It's funny, because now that I don't work in a kitchen I find myself wanting to bake rather than prepare ridiculous meals and I don't know why. I've never enjoyed working as a pastry chef, but now I seem to have the patience for it. It's calming for me in many ways. Maybe I'm just getting old.

Person Chef Whatever

So I would really be happy to write about food and help people out in what they are doing. As is, wedding/graduation season is fast approaching and the people are coming out of the woodwork for the Kman to do some work for them. Now I can really be picky about what I take on and what I avoid. I really don't have to take whatever pops up because I am holding down the 9-to-5 for the real deal. My goal is to pull in 15-20k doing the catering thing on the weekends and what not. We'll see what happens.

My desire is to only take on the adventurous souls who want an experience while trusting me to pull it off with flair. I don't want the mighty whitey bull shit anymore. I don't mind catering for rich people, but just not the hyper anal ones that have to bug you constantly about every little detail. I guess I don't feel much like writing tonight.

so maybe this hasn't worked out

I suppose this hasn't exactly worked out the way I had hoped it would. Like usual I have fallen off after making some kind of dramatic plan to get out there and really do it this time. Maybe I was trying to pull off some sort of New Year's resolution. Mostly I think I'm just trying to make writing in my own voice a real routine again.

Since graduating from UVA last May, my writing has been nothing if not spotty and irratic. I'm not generating ideas like I used to simply because I'm not using the part of my little monkey brain that does that kind of work.

Part of it I know is just the whole coming to grips with the identity shift that has accompanied my change from high profile restaurant owner guy to mind mannered editor. I'm currently back to square one. My income is ridiculously low and my job is somewhat menial. That being said, I really am enjoying what I do and at the end of the day it stays in the office. There is no work to take home and nothing hanging on my head. To say it simply, It's what I was looking for.

Another part is that I am currently realizing that my relationship with food is not a very healthy one and I'm not only talking about the fact that I currently find myself more than a little overweight. That lies heavily on the black dog coming around for an extended stay. Need a definition of the black dog? Look into a little Winston Churchill. Why doesn't anyone talk about the fact that WC was 1/2 American? Not that it is that big of deal, but I find it interesting and wonder how it colored his life. I suppose I only wonder because I'm an American and often I find my mind drifting to thoughts about what is it to be american and what happened to the American Dream. I'm pretty sure the American Dream still exists, but only for people in far off lands. Those of us born and bred here can feel that we have missed its hayday and only made it around for the after funeral reality.

Whatever... Oh yeah, my relationship with food has been occupying a chunk of my mind for the last while, because I have finally started to pull it together and look at my obsession with cooking and what drove me to amass as much knowledge and experience with it as I possibly could. In many ways, I feel as though the kitchen has cost me so much in the way of experience, but it has also given me a very different pallate to colour my world by. Yes, I like the "our" in colour it just looks better that way.

Now I have done it written something else. Yee Haw!

Maksim Bread

Sorry About My Absence

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.

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.

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.