cost breakdown in plain english

It's the labor, that's why. Someone mixed this dough, laminated this dough, cut this dough in to individual pieces with a very large knife and then rolled each individual piece in to a rope, and coiled each rope into that lovely danish you're admiring. By hand. Over and over again.

That's why your perfect Saturday breakfast costs what it does.

In case you were wondering.

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.

A question of Raspberries

Rhubarb has taken over my world, pies, turnovers and cases in the walk-in. The danish doesn't even have apples on it anymore and I thought that would be one of the holdouts. Yeah, sure there is a rhubarb apple pie, but seasons don't change overnight. Lemon curd still lingers. We're all looking ahead to strawberries. And savory is in on it too with rapini that makes me flat out hungry every time it is prepped.

But we also have a cake with raspberry buttercream. Now, it's raspberries that we got fresh and froze ourselves back in warmer times, but still, the berry bushes are spindly, mostly leafless and invisible. Even the plum tree in my back yard is barely past budding. So is this ok? A slippery slope? Where do you need to cross the seasonality line? When is chocolate's season, really?

Regardless, it is a damn good cake. And that's a slippery slope too. Someday I'm going to be the one deciding where the line is. What happens when it is a bad year for raspberries? Does an item like this, one of our cake staples, fall off the menu? Or do you devote what supply you have to just this item and change out something else? This is what I am learning about now. Good lessons.

...and there was a lincoln log in me sock drawer!

Devil's food cake and cinnamon marshmallow.

How to go out to eat

So, we went to DC and went out for dinner. A serious, big, splurgy, my sister's 30th birthday dinner where we made up for belatedness with an extra shot of awesome. We did the tasting menu, wine pairings, and had a great time. Of the four of us, one was new to the whole idea of dining at that level so we tried to give him an idea of what to expect. No big rules and regulations, just suggestions on how to get the most out of things. I'm pretty sure it worked, he had a great time (as we all did) and I think the chef only spotted him licking his plate once or twice.

It occured to me as we were throwing a few simple ideas his way that people don't think about going out to eat as an event anymore. Maybe it went the way of men wearing hats all the time and ladies' gloves. That's a shame, too, because the way to get the most out of a meal that someone else is cooking is to look at it for the splurge it is... not just something from the drive through. And when one is trying to economize, if you can make even the smallest indulgence feel more decadent, it will satiate you longer. So these are a few of the things we covered at dinner on how to really go out to eat:

1. Choose the dinner companions that are best for the situation. Seriously, a tasting menu with a bad companion is an exercise in contemplating infinity. Someone with serious germphobia might ruin your fun tracking down a local taco truck. A good hint, enthusiasm for the idea. Don't forget to be a good dining buddy yourself. If you have to, work out piddly details like who will cover what part of the check beforehand so you can just relax and enjoy your occasion.

2. Have a plan. This actually came up after our fancy dinner. My sweetheart suggested that having a budget in mind and that sort of thinking was too much work for a simple meal. I countered that if you have something in mind, you are more likely to find the best possible options. It is not a bad thing to say in advance, "We can spend 30 dollars tonight, and I'm just not feeling Chinese food but I would kill for nacho tots." It will help control the "I don't know, what do you want to do?" endless loop of bad feelings.

3. Go to the best place possible in your budget. This should be a given, but if chili's hasn't gone completely bankrupt by now, then it needs to be restated. Hell, if you only have $20 that will get you good pho for two in most cities. Live in the middle of nowhere? Maybe you've got some guy in the next town that makes killer catfish or a great burger. Explore your options, and if that doesn't work, stay home and save the money. There are worse things than not going out to eat.

4. Trust in the person cooking. If you followed suggestion #2, this will be much more rewarding. Not every dish needs to be fussed with before eating and sometimes you may enjoy something you would not normally like. Those moments are worth more than the monotony of every good hot dog you've ever had. I had a very wonderful, memorable meal in which the chef hit every single ick nerve of everyone at the table, but we tried everything anyway and loved it.

5. Attitude is everything. The internet is filled with people who take going out to eat too damn seriously. If you go into each meal with a mind ready only to critique, not to enjoy, then I don't want to eat with you. Remember, the dish that saved Anton Ego was a variation on a peasant dish, one that he sneered at for its baseness when it was presented to him. Be willing to be surprised by the simple things. I'm not saying don't pay attention to what you're eating, I'm saying don't clinically dissect every second of it.

6. Savor it. Relax a little. Laugh. Look around. Talk. Ignore your cell phone. Ask your server how she is doing tonight. Don't sweat the money you're spending because that is a decision you already made. Yes, this all goes back to #5 but it bears repeating.

We won't be going out to eat for a while, and I know that will have been our big meal for the year (although there's another 30th birthday next year, so who knows what that will bring). But I have lots of snapshots in my head. I have flavors and smells and can revisit that amazing scallop or the goat or that rhubarb sorbet and the occasion was special. That is why we spend the money, take the time, make the effort, why we go out to eat in the first place. I may be crazy for having put as much as I did into one meal, but bottom line?

Totally worth it.

Dans le merde

The rhythm in a bakery is very different. My busiest day is my first day back; Saturday, I'm taking it easy, doing some extra dishes, getting out early.

Not like the line.

Which doesn't mean you don't get weeded. You do. But this is Production in a different sense of the word. And our weeds are different. It's like a different part of the swamp.

What I hate, though, are the weeds you can see from a distance, the weeds you see coming, but you just haven't reached them yet. Knowing they are mostly unavoidable. It comes from being part of a good solid team. You would think that would make it better, right? A good team can pull together, pull through. A good team can weather the occasional outbreak of the plague or maternity leave. Yes, maternity leaves come in outbreaks. Seriously.

What a good team can't do easily, is hum smoothly along when parts of it leave permanently. Sometimes it happens, through no fault of management, economy, or Acts of God, that you lose a few people all at once. Rolling over a quarter of your production staff in a two month period? That's pretty harsh. We're dealing with that now.

And if you're a team of two, and your other half is leaving? The half that could be relied upon to pick up all those thousand little jobs which, although each was a five minute job, those five minutes added up to hours of every day? The half that knew exactly what you meant when you forgot English was your native language and gibbered about the thingy. The half that made you crazy with cleaning even as you were inspired to do better yourself. The half that let you bitch about a job you love just because you needed to bitch about something. The half that actually deserved full credit because you knew that, even if that person could not do your job, you would have problems doing your job without them? When that half leaves, even if you understand, are genuinely happy for their opportunity, and wish them all the best, how do you roll with that?

You see the weeds coming. But you know the old saying about lemons.

I'll miss you, other half. Big shoes.

Worldly Distractions

Things in the world suck right now. Talked to various family members about how much money they are no longer worth thanks to the market. The place where I live was named in Business Week as the U.S.'s most unhappy city. Another friend lost his job. I'm the only source of income in my house and we just paid rent. That cat puked on the stairs. We have new neighbors and they have a barky dog.

So, I made candy. All day.

Why did I make candy? Because I love doing it. Because it is relatively easy, requires little in the way of cash and equipment. Because there is a good effort to reward ratio. It's a skill I like to develop. There is inifinite chance to adapt, to play. I shelled and toasted my local hazelnuts for toffee. I threw some matcha in the cream for my chocolate caramels. I found inspiration for my hard candies in what I was drinking and the flavor defined the shape. I got excited with each new batch to try something more. When I looked up, I had used every silpat in the house but one, I had candy everywhere and hours had passed. And I realized, for a while, it had been ok.

I can't say we'll all be ok, I can't even say that it will get better. There may be some sort of deeper meaning to choosing lemon and bitters to flavor my hard candy, other than the fact that it tastes awesome.

Whatever the world brings, sugar is easy to clean up. Water just washes it away.

10,000 Hours

That's the magic number, as far as brains are concerned.

Even before diving in to Outliers, I'd heard the number before. It goes something like this: in order to master something (and I mean You are the Shit, the Bee's Knees, recognized for what you can do) you need to practice it for ten thousand hours. That's when the brain flips a switch and says "Ok, this? We've got it." The difference between good and great isn't just practice. It's many, many hours of practice.

Ten thousand hours works out to be about eight hours a day, seven days a week for four and a half years. Without a vacation. For most people, though, it works out to doing something for about ten years. Nine, if it's chess and you're Bobby Fisher. I wonder how it falls out with chefs, though. And I do mean Chefs - the real thing. Because yes, I imagine that if I am still at this job after four more years, I will be pretty well set in my laminated dough skill set. Less that that, even, because well, the crazy hours cooks can keep. But what about the rest of the products? Menu creation? How does 10000 hours translate into the development of one's palate? Do you need to taste things for ten thousand hours before you can really tell what is sublime? And then do you need ten thousand hours of plating techniques?

All I know for sure is I've been cooking professionally for five years now. I still have a lot to learn. But I think I've got scooping cookies down.

Think Pink! And Caramel

drive

Some days, I find myself at work thinking about the cool things I can cook when I get home. Some days I find myself exhausted at the prospect of cooking at home, but do it anyway.

This industry is filled with crazed alphas who devote seemingly every pore of their body to the food they make. That's what it says in the magazines anyway. In the face of this, I don't see myself as particularly ambitious. I don't have the zeal to go work at another restaurant on my days off just to stay in the game. I may think about spending a vacation by staging at some great restaurant, but that would require me taking time off. Hell, I can't even give myself the freedom to collect debt by eating at the best restaurants around because I'd rather cook out of a cookbook at home and save the money. Maybe its an age thing. Maybe I started too late in this game.

I've been getting myself worked up over someone else's recipes. I've been pushing myself to come home and do a lot of baking after baking all day. My sweetheart has pointed out, somewhat rightfully, that I can take a break, that it isn't my recipes I'm working so hard on. I countered that these recipes are the work of a baker that has influenced me, and now I have the chance to help him inspire others. That its worth it because I'm getting a glimpse at a process I wouldn't otherwise see. I say all these things, but I'm not sure that's really what I'm feeling.

It's much more personal.

It's about promises I have made to myself about finishing things I start. It is about knowing that I can damn well do better than THAT and I'm going to keep trying until it comes out the way I want. You learn something from even the idiots out there, and sometimes the idiot is you. There is always room for improvement. You're only as good as the last work you did.

You're only as good as the last work you did. And you know that could be better.