On being a chef today, after you buy your local, seasonal produce

Not too long ago Tony Bourdain did a guest bit on Michael Ruhlman's blog.  I was excited to see the first question he was asked was "What issues do you see facing chefs today?" I wasn't happy with his answer.

Not because it was wrong; the points he made were fine.  I just feel there is a whole massive area that was completely ignored.  The question I wanted to see answered was "What staff related issues do you see facing chefs today?"  I wanted to see how those of us who wrangle the next generation of cooks, bakers, servers, dishwashers, minor criminals and pirates are seeing the shape of the future.

Since I didn't get his answer, I wanted to share some of my own observations.  These are the things I see, the things I try to handle as best I can, the things that I cope with to varying degrees of success.

First off, my staff doesn't expect to make a lot of money right away.  Contrary to the stories people tell about kids these days, these are cooks who even if they did go to culinary school aren't expecting to be the cock of the walk right out the door - there just hasn't been the employment market for that for years now.  They are happy to have a job. And, while they are making or just barely above minimum wage, they hope they have a chef that remembers what it is like to live on that kind of paycheck, when $600 equals two weeks pay, or when that Christmas bonus meant you could pay your bills and buy a few presents.  This matters. A lot. It's why they will scrabble for hours, take extra shifts, hope for a sliver of OT, get that second or third job. Luckily for them, there are plenty of us out there that do remember, because it wasn't so long ago when we were doing the exact same thing.  And as a manager who remembers that feeling, there comes the desire, especially with your best staff members, to wish you could change that, really pay a "living wage" whatever the hell that's supposed to be.  There's a big issue right there, and it doesn't even start to cover things like health care, paid time off or, the crucial one, where the money comes from to do these things.

OK, fine, the staff doesn't expect a lot of money - hopes for it, but doesn't expect it.  So what do they expect from their chefs?  Inspiration in one form or another.  To be taught, and have the chance to learn.  To be given the chance to try new things, to have their ideas taken seriously and with open mindedness.  In a perfect situation, to have the mentor that they will remember long after they have left the place.  Notice, I didn't say they "hope for" all of this, they EXPECT it.  This part is hard.  Every chef I know has days where all they want is a team that works with robotic precision exactly to their specifications day in and day out. Those are the days where baking powder gets used instead of baking soda in the brownies, where the tray of wineglasses gets dropped, and then, at the worst possible time, someone looks up and says, "But WHY do we do it this way?".  There was a time (and some kitchens still work this way, just none that I want to be in) where just looking up could get you fired, berated, a sheet pan thrown at you, all three.  Now, chefs need to anticipate that question.  To answer it before it comes at the worst possible time.  That's the only way to get the real hustle handled with the next generation - to equip your staff with everything they need to know, including the knowledge of when to ask, and when to put your head down and do the job.   And if they learn that, and do that for you, you need to make sure it gets acknowledged. Like I said, this is hard, but more and more, it's expected.

I'm sure some lament the loss of a military like obedience in the kitchen.  But really, I think the biggest issue facing chefs today is one that has always been there - how do we get done what needs doing?  That hasn't changed.  What has changed is the definition of what it means to be a chef from the perspective of your staff.  It doesn't matter what you think it means that someone slapped a four letter word next to your name on a menu. It matters what the people you hire, the people you train, and ultimately, the people you rely on to represent you think it means.

Sorry, chef, but without them, there's only so much you can get done, and we all know there's a lot that needs doing.

A healthy appetite

I am sick.  Nothing major, just one of those times when that little tickle in the back of your throat wins.  I was on cup of tea and bad television hour number 17 or so when my appetite started to make a comeback. You know what I didn't want?  A bacon wrapped cheese dog. In fact, I don't think I've ever heard of someone just getting over the flu wanting a bacon wrapped cheese dog. There was no desire for a 7 topping pizza, or anything with a slab of foie.  I didn't want a cupcake, or an assortment of fruits and snacks to dip in warm salted caramel.

That last one may be starting to sound okay, though.

The point is, I wanted vegetables, broth, bread.  Maybe a little cheese or perhaps an egg.  Rice would be ok.  Pasta would be fine, as long as the vegetables and the broth were there, too.  How much better would I feel, all the time, if I ate like I was just starting to feel better?  How much better would we all be if we ate like we were trying to get the vitamins in, where food was sustaining and a tonic and a reminder that we'd feel better, and with any luck we'd feel better soon?  Sometimes I wonder if we've all just played a giant trick on ourselves with our cravings.

The thing is, next week, I may be having that bacon cheese dog.  I don't know all the answers to the best way to eat food, even when I know a lot of really excellent answers on how to prepare it.  It is continually surprising to me just how vast, varied, and individual our needs for food are, and how lost each and every one of us is when it comes to the best way to eat to feel good in our own skin.

For now, I think it's good if I stick with soup.

Demon's Farts and Other Legacies

So, I have a new job. Actually I've had this job for a smidge over a month now, but I'm just starting to get a finger and toe hold of an idea of what my life will be like on this train I am currently riding. It's been a fun, crazy, breathless time, and somehow in there I managed to learn something about pumpernickel.

 Me and pumpernickel, we go way back. I know it appeared for sandwiches (pastrami was probably my gateway to pumpernickel) but mostly I remember the bread dip. It was a recipe from my aunt, and it was creamy and full of dill and always served in a bowl of pumpernickel bread. On such occasions as this dip would appear, I would happily eat what was left of the bowl, with its thin layer of remaining dip, delighting in the flavors and textures. Those loaves even had the occasional raisin in them. I have no idea what made that baker put raisins in the pumpernickel, but it's probably the reason I like raisins, especially in savory items.

When faced with the prospect of making my own pumpernickel, it was that pumpernickel of my memories I wanted to recreate. Like so many other cooks before me, I found the task daunting, frustrating and perplexing. True pumpernickel is not what most Americans eat. The name refers to a sourdough rye bread that was baked low and long to get its dark color and was considered so indigestible that the name describes what the consumer was to experience later as a result of eating it. I'm not quite sure what demon's farts are supposed to be like, but it sounds really awful. So I'm mostly glad that the recipe in America was lightened up and enhanced, even if the name stuck. My sticking point was the enhancements. Pumpernickel color makes a nice dark loaf, but it is really just food coloring. Bleh. Pumpernickel flour, when checking the label, turns out to be dark rye flour with a variation that existed only on the price tag. Phooey. And everyone who loves pumpernickel has their own absolute list of what can and cannot appear: caraway or no, onions or no, coffee, chocolate, etc, etc, etc.

So I made my own list, and did what anyone experimenting with food should do - I played until it tasted right. I know without a shadow of a doubt that there are those who will tell me how wrong I am doing it, but this is mine. Yes, dammit, there is caraway.  And despite the naysayers, there are those out there who have told me, "Hey, this is really good pumpernickel." I'm glad they like my memories.

A love letter to my kitchen

I went to fill the bird feeder yesterday and somehow, an hour later, I was standing in front of my stove with a toothpick cleaning out crevices and muttering darkly about ill fitting drip pans. I'm not quite sure how that came to happen, but the bird feeder did get filled. Eventually.

What I realized while I was doing this mad cleaning was that I spend more time cleaning my kitchen than any other room in my house. More time wiping, soaping, sweeping and clearing space in a room that has the same footprint as one armchair from the living room.

If I had to describe the kitchen, I would say small. My sweetheart goes to get a drink from the fridge and I stop moving because otherwise something will go horribly awry. I would then add comments about cabinet doors that don't close true anymore, especially in the rain. The single cabinet wide enough to hold my pans. Burner coils that only half work, and don't stay level. The fridge light has never worked properly. Two oddly placed outlets, total.

And yet, that tiny space is home. When I need comfort, I go there. When I want to celebrate, I go there. To bring together friends and neighbors, to find peace in solitude, that is the part of our house where I can make the world, for a little while, be what I wish it to be.

And really, that is why I cook for a living. Not because I love the craft of it, which I do. Not because I love the result, which without question is true. It's because that world that exists in my kitchen is a good world. If I move to a larger kitchen, then that good world I've created becomes larger, as well. If the people in that larger kitchen share their good world with mine, that good world becomes even larger. "Trying to make the world a better place" is trite and cliche to me. There is no try. When I cook, the world is better to me. I just want to get everyone else in on the action.

Grasping at Straws

This has not been the best summer. I admit it, I've been struggling to put a good face on things but when you find yourself listening to Queen's Innuendo for motivation you aren't in the best place.

You need a Shirley Temple.

Ok, maybe you don't, but I do. I don't know what it is about this drink that wraps me up in footie pajamas and says, "It's ok, you can have fun now.", but it never fails to make me feel better about the world. Of course, as a grown up I can play with it in ways that wouldn't have been suitable when I was eight. Also, as a grown up, I can decide how many cherries it gets. This may be the best part, especially when you use cherries you have done up yourself. Or, if you have had a really bad set of weeks, you can do something like what I did. You can get really crazy and take someone else's inspiration and really customize your drink. Like, for example, making a cherry cheesecake shirley temple float.

Put rum cherries in the bottom of your glass(about a dozen, depending on how your day was.) Top with rum from the cherries, and some cherry syrup. Add cheesecake ice cream. If you think cheesecake tastes like ick, you can use vanilla or almond ice cream. Pour ginger ale over the top. You may need another cherry. Or more rum.

And footie pajamas.

Cherry Syrup

750 g of cherries, pitted (I used Ayers Creek's amazing montmorency cherries)

150 g sugar

50 g water

a dash of bitters

a squeeze of lime juice

a pinch of salt

Put everything together in a pot and bring to a gentle boil. Boil for 10 minutes, stirring occasionally. Strain through a fine strainer into a bowl pressing all of the syrup out of the fruit. The syrup will thicken slightly when cool, but you can reduce the strained syrup to intensify its flavor and thicken it if you want (you risk scorching it, so use caution!). Cool and store in a covered container in the fridge. I have no idea how long it will keep because I use it too quickly.

The Long Dark Apple Time of the Soul

Late January.

It's an odd thing. Sure, it's citrus season but citrus does so much better in the summer. I blame lemonade ads. There are nuts and chocolates, as always, but really, what we come to in the wonderful winter world of working seasonally is apples.

Not that it is apple season.

Oh yeah, that's right, all those apples were in season back in the late summer and fall and have been sitting in storage ever since. They aren't fresh. Our cabbages are fresher. But there they are, a dutiful standard until the rhubarb comes in. And the rhubarb is still a long way off.

I love apples, actively seek out interesting varieties and yet in late winter I too look at glorious apple pies and think, "Eh, ok. I don't need dessert today." And that is so wrong. Because apples are endlessly wonderful, useful, nutritious and far more interesting and challenging than any old berry. Best way to serve a berry? Straight up. How boring is that? But what is the best way to serve an apple?

In a pie? a cake? dipped in caramel? as a sauce? baked? fried? spread on toast? a tart? As chips? Dumplings? Juice? Cider? Layered with almond cake and served with toasted almond ice cream?

Straight up?

20 Things from 2010

1. Ayers Creek Polenta

2. A lovely glass of scotch at Laurelhurst Market

3. Getting the poached egg just right

4. Toasted 3 seed bread

5. Good Stuff NW

6. My walk to work

7. Fresh horseradish

8. Gaffer's Fish n Chips

9. Black Basque beans

10. My namesake

11. Braising greens that I harvested

12. Creme brulee can suck it.

13. Lobster mushrooms foraged by my neighbor

14. Hannah Bridge cheese from Ancient Heritage Dairy

15. Cranicocktails and brussels sprouts fritters for Thanksgiving

16. Passing around Soul of Chef

17. How I Fell In love with a Fish

18. A single sour orange

19. Fried green tomatoes

20. Half Smoke

A Theoretically Life-Changing Event

My niece and namesake was born at the time this bread was being baked, on April 9th.

If you don't know what TED talks are, basically there is a conference (now international) where people are invited to talk about something that matters to them. The results are fascinating, educational, and, as intended, worth sharing.

Peter Reinhart does this talk about the cycle of life as manifested in bread. Now, personally, I don't think about my doughs this deeply, philosophically. But somehow, at this time, I felt this was a good thing to share.

not exactly a farmer cook

There are certain food absolutes you learn early, hear often. Respect your ingredients. Fresher is better. Know where your food comes from.

In a professional kitchen, this can translate to recognizing the giant truck when it pulls up with your order, or actually visiting farmers, or even doing it yourself.

At home is a different story. At home you are free to explore the whims of your mind and stomach, and not have to worry so much about whether or not the berry yield will last you until January. I have an idyllic vision of what I like my home kitchen to be. It involves, among other things, a home garden with endless fresh herbs, happy vegetables and a cat napping under some heirloom variety of something.

Reality check: I live in an apartment, and I kill plants. Herbs that are "easy to grow" die at my hands. Our little patio gets sunlight only late in the Oregon afternoon. But I try. I can tell you lots of facts about plant needs. I know the difference between xanthophyll and chlorophyll. Facts, however, do not translate into vegetables. I bought my plants this year expecting to soon be throwing away depressing half dead specimens. I threw away the snap peas first.

Why did I go to this expense with a budget stretched thin enough? Because every time one of those plants died, I felt I was somehow failing as a cook. I know what to do with these things when they arrive triple washed and shrink wrapped. I should be able to do better than that, I felt. At home, especially, I should be able to go straight to the source. Sun and soil and water can translate into flavors we can't replicate. As good as my strawberry shortcake may be, it's a biscuit and cream without the berries. And I know the best berries can never see the inside of a fridge, can handle only a few minutes of travel and will never see the supermarket shelves. How good of a cook can I be if I can't get the best ingredients? So I try again.

This summer, I have learned something. The more I ignore plants, except to water them, the better they do. I've actually gotten to make tarragon vinegar with my own tarragon and so far I've harvested exactly one tomato (It was on the plant when I bought it) but it looks like there should be a jalapeno and a cucumber soon. I'm excited for each morning as small as the bounty may be. And each time I cook with these plants, I'm aware of all it took for them to get to where they are. Was that the best tomato ever? No. But I cooked it the best way I knew, and the result was very good. I'm learning. The next one will teach me more.

red rubin basil, the most beautiful basil I've ever seen.

sustenance without food

I admit it, I can be single minded. I can bore my coworkers with the history of rhubarb, cure my sweetheart's insomnia with possible dinner menus and even make myself crazy thinking about food.

It's easy to get caught up. There are so many tools available to connect us with other cooks the world over, even with the odd hours we keep, and hash out recipes for the perfect lemon tart. At any given moment, there is someone ready to discuss whether that amuse bouche really did set the tone for the meal or the tragedy of an unappreciated dessert item. Scientific evaluations on the roasting of potatoes and snarky gossip. Thoughtful poetry on a chef's inspirations and useful hints on a home garden. And I am so so tempted, if not to chime in, then to at least observe the diatribes. Information junkie that I am, I want to sample it all. I have to force myself to walk away.

The world does not exist solely within the rim of a plate.

In fact, some of the best parts don't involve plates at all. And maybe, if I'm really lucky, they can serve to inspire anyway. The cooks I most admire talk about sculpture and nature, science, architecture, literature, politics, art, philosophy and make hardcore use of their free time. Sure, they can talk food at length but that conversation is layered with everything else they know. More importantly, they bring everything else into their food, enriching it in a way that can't be taught. There is value not only in devoted study but in the exploration of other disciplines.

I guess even cooks need hobbies.

How to make hot chocolate

Go downstairs to the kitchen. Watch the cats laugh at you when you step on the cold linoleum floor. They, being smarter than you, are sitting on the edge of the carpet, which they will not leave until you open the cat food, and then will return to the carpet as quickly as possible. The food will keep. You consider once again that the kitchen would not be so cold if you didn't leave the window open at night, but realize that you like it, because it reminds you of cooperstown and gives you more of a reason to have hot chocolate. You'll start closing the window soon. Maybe October.

Throw some vegetarian specialty kinda poptarts in the toaster oven because you find them strangelly compelling. Look at the box for the first time and snicker at these "healthy" roof tiles being 420 calories for two. It being a special occasion, you throw the box away, never to contemplate such numbers again.

Grab the New Favorite Pot, a large chunk of dark Callebaut (because you are the sort to have this lying around) and some water. Slosh water into the pot and turn on the stove. Chop a larger quantity of chocolate than you think necessary, and throw it in the pot. Add some sugar, vanilla paste and salt, because you have learned only as an adult that salt is good. Scoff at the milk. The milk is for pussies. You are having Hot Chocolate. You are not having a latte. You are not having anything Au Lait.

The not pop tarts are starting to smell good.

Deem it Time to Begin Whisking. Contemplate Brillat-Savarin and MFK Fisher and their great Hot Chocolate Wisdom. Whisk madly, stop, and taste. Be surprised that the flavors are right on the first try, because you always are. Become deeply critical, adjust flavor accordingly. Consider the Chinese 5 spice powder, restrain. It would not harmonize with the not pop tarts. Turn off the heat as the mixture begins to boil.

Grab a ladle and pour ladlesful of the hot chocolate back into the pot from high above, not to aerate, but to make yourself feel like willy wonka. Such is goodness. Pour some Hot Chocolate into the cup.

The toaster oven dings.

Wrap a hand around the warming mug and begin nibbling off the dry flavorless parts of the not pop tart. Quickly follow with a sustaining flavorful sip of the hot chocolate to rehydrate your tongue. Retreat to upstairs where the floor is carpeted to savor beverage and open birthday cards.

Good morning.

Porch moments

We were never cake people. If I wanted cake, I wanted one that was very atypical. I remember at age six, when schools still insisted on a class cake for birthdays with no thought to allergies or nutrition, I wanted a spice cake. Lemon cake was another decent option, but otherwise, meh. Could care less. I still hate cakes.

That crisco icing on a dry sponge? Bleh. I think that was partially why I went for a French pastry education; the chefs understood that the world of dessert was so much better without a slab of yellow cake with chocolate frosting.

We love pies, though. What is not to love? A crust, baked dark to bring out the sweetness. Inside, those berries we picked off Mt. Otsego from that secret blueberry/currant/raspberry stash. Apples heaped high and topped with impossible amounts of brown sugar crumb. Or perhaps some lemon. Serious lemon. My first from scratch lemon meringue is legendary among my friends who tasted it. I cut down the lemon next time I made it, but that first one was sublime to me.

This past week I found this. It was a pie, online for the world. Whole lemons, skin and all, sliced thin. I saw the recipe and had to make it, feverish with desire, planning my time off around the ability to make this pie. I made it knowing there would be no one here to share it with; it would be, at best, distasteful to my nearest and dearest. Bitter with zest, tangy, just a bit of sugar.

The crust is my own, an all-butter deviation. I smiled as I crimped the edges remembering how magical crusts once were, how did she get that edge?, as a younger me watched pies made. Of course, the pies were never made by men. I never figured out why. Poor deprived souls. The filling is as I expected - this is a pie for my tastes alone, a race against spoilage. Can I finish it before it is lost to the world?

So I eat a bit more in the afternoon sun. For today, this is my favorite dessert.

Educated Guesses

I have a theory about rhubarb. It goes something along the lines of soon, there will be a serious rhubarb fad. Rhubarb will be the next pomegranate, goji berry, there will be BarbWonderful and I will have this soup, and smile. And then, as quickly as the next issues of all of those magazines appear, rhubarb will fade away and I will smile again.

Rhubarb went through a bad phase. Around the World Wars it was considered a good thing to plant because it grows just about everywhere and it was a good vegetable substitute. What the propaganda neglected to mention was what part of the rhubarb to eat; since the leaves are toxic and the roots a laxative, well, a lot of people were turned off.

Happily, that memory is fading. And also, people are finding more ways to use rhubarb than just pie. (It is really good in pie, tho.) For example, rhubarb syrah soup with honey yogurt sauce is a really good use of rhubarb. I am convinced that most people who like tart things but claim to not like rhubarb would like this soup, at least until you told them it was rhubarb.

Rhubarb, for me, is spring. I never buy it frozen and so I only think of it at this time of year, like Shamrock Shakes. I have a long term taste memory for it, unlike anything else I can think of. I made the soup and thought, "The rhubarb is tart this year." We homogenize so much in our world, to try and maintain that same flavor each year, each season. Wine is a happy exception, but our food should have their peaks and eddies, as well. Strawberries, grapefruit, even our meat should have flavor that varies from season to season, place to place, year to year.

Why do humans prefer mediocre food just because it is unsurprising? Don't we realize that delight is found at the moment of discovery?