I am alive... barely.

Last night in class the single most terrifying moment in my life occurred… A sauté pan tried to kill me. I was cooking bacon (not for myself, we all know I would never eat a little innocent Wilbur… not), and I took the bacon out of the pan, and was pouring the excess fat (gross I know) into our "fat bucket" (even grosser).

Then, out of nowhere, there was this pop that sounded like a gun shot. It was so loud everyone screamed and my ears were ringing. What was it, you ask? A bullet would have been nothing compared to what it actually was... one of the rivets that was holding my busted, old pan handle to the base SHOT out of the pan from the heat.

Basically what I am trying to say is that a deep-fried-covered-in-hot-and-spitting-oil,-shaped-like-a-bullet-with-a-spike-attached-to-the-back-rivet, SHOT out at me. It hit the tile on the wall and CHIPPED the tiles. I could have DIEDDDDDDDD.

The best part was the chef's reaction. He sighs and says calmly, “Oh happens all the time."

Did I mention this was right after oil spit out of another pan and hit me right about my eye? My EYE.

Anyway, I just wanted to let you all know that I’m really in the trenches out there and that if anything happens to me it has been nice knowing you and I’ve had an awesome life. Eat some Chipotle for me.

Now for Something Entirely Different....

Check this out. Blogging is contagious!

Go daddy, go!

The End of Storing Up?! Bite Your Tongue!!!

I’m horrible, I know. I’m so sorry for not having written in ages! But I warned you, I have a lot on my plate, and recently I have been feeling like I’m in the middle of a never-ending buffet and my plate just keeps getting heavier and heavier. I know that I won’t be able to eat it all, but I just can’t help stacking pancakes on top of mashed potatoes on top of tiramisu. Deep down I know it will end in a stomach ache, but I keep asking myself “What’s one more thing gonna do???”

To catch you up, here is a brief recap of everything that has happened in the past month:

-I cry in class when asked to kill a lobster.
-I am heckled by my teacher and eventually kill the lobster.
-I sort through duck organs as my punishment for being a baby.
-I am suddenly desensitized to the entire butchering process.
-I breakdown (aka cut up) a rabbit without saying a word.
-I accept that my afterlife will consist of being pinched by lobster claws and nibbled by bunnies.
-I get an A as my mid-semester grade, which is surprising considering that I labeled one of the herbs on a quiz “cannibus” (hey, it was just a joke man..)
-I make a flippin awesome hollandaise while singing an altered version of Madonna’s “Holiday” that went like this, “if we took a hollandaise, oh yeah, come on, put it atop a poached egg, oh yeah, come on, it would beeee, it would be so yummmmm-yyyy” but no one laughs.
-I realize delirium has officially set in.
-I eat at Esca and talk to, (ok, the truth is I just listened and didn’t say anything because I got all nervous and sweaty), Dave Pasternack about how he smuggled whale into America from China in his shoe and ate yams on a stick, “YOU GOTTA TRY IT, MAN.”
-I see that delirium comes with the territory and feel much better.
-I get settled into my new job at the network and spend my days worrying that I’ll somehow mess up and Alton will be disappointed in me.
-I see the new cast of FN Star and get really excited for inexplicable reasons.
-I make mac n’ cheese from béchamel sauce and realize that real mac n’ cheese isn’t supposed to be orange.
-I recognize that Kraft will never taste the same again and I have a moment of silence.
-I eat at Olive’s and bump Todd English up from gentleman caller to suitor, but wonder why the menu describes pizza a “flatbread”… it is very confusing.
-I eat at BLT Prime and wonder why Laurent keeps naming restaurants after me, (maybe because everyone wants to be LT? Get it?)

Well, I think that brings you up to speed!!

***The above photo is not actually of me, thank goodness. But I’m sure that hand will be pinched for all eternity too.

Sorry Wilbur…

So my new best friend (who shall remain nameless) gave me some jamón ibérico de bellota, (the way in which they got it shall also remain a secret). Basically it is a really, REALLY fancy prosciutto which I gobbled up on a borderline moldy mini-bagel last night. It was the only thing in my fridge after a long day of work and school, and even though I really did want to savor the experience and analyze the taste, I just couldn’t. I even gave a tiny piece to my little hot dog, Brutus, but he wasn't all that impressed! I wanted to tell you, dear reader, about this so you can casually bring it up to your friends and sound smart.

Here are a few highlights from an article called “Mere Mortals Confront the Ultimate Ham” in New York Magazine’s Grub Street:

“It's the ultimate prize, the holy grail for pork-lovers: the famed jamón ibérico de bellota, the black-footed, acorn-fed Spanish ham… it's illegal in this country.”

“It was approved for importation to America last year — but it takes three years to cure and age under the conditions dictated for its Stateside distribution. It's the ultimate pork product. And no one in America can get it until 2008. "I have waited all my life for this moment. I will have tears in my eyes," Eric Ripert told the New York Post recently.”

“Not everyone is content to wait. One august food-world figure had someone send him legal Italian prosciutto, into which a friend had shuffled the good stuff. A wine importer once kept slices of the ham, wrapped in Cryovac, rolled up inside a boot within a suitcase during a flight.”

Fresh Meat: Cooking School (or Culinary Arts School if You Want to be Fancy) in a Nutshell

THIS BLOG IS RATED R FOR ADULT LANGUAGE

The uniform is hideous. Black and white hounds tooth MC Hammer pants, an immense chef's jacket, an immense apron, the most horrific black shoes ever made (very orthopedic), dish cloths attached to my waist, oh and a snazzy little bucket cap that makes me look like a penis. The petite Asian man that sold me this terrifying creation assured me that "my husband will be so happy I can coooook!" great because that's exactly why I'm doing it! How did you know??? When I first put the outfit on I cried. When I showed my friends they laughed until they cried. I was not off to a good start.

I had a horrible pit in my stomach all day because I was so nervous - so nervous I couldn't eat! A decision that would lead to very maladroit situation...

I show up, sign in, and hope that we get to have orientation in our street clothes so that my fellow classmates can see that I really am stylish and fabulous and that the uniform does not reflect my fashion sense… But no. After I signed in and was given my books I was told to go change into my uniform and go to the classroom.

So I’m lugging all this shit around and I can't find my locker and have to keep squeezing by all these people with my two huge bags filled with supplies, books, and my hideous uniform and its just really awkward because... guess what... I was in the men’s locker room! It didn't have a door nor was it labeled so how the fuck was I supposed to know! Finally a nice little man asked me if I was having trouble finding my locker and explained to me why that was... He points me in the right direction and apparently my locker is in the women's bathroom. But the door has a code and I can't get in. To make matters worse I had abandoned my bags in the men's locker room because they were too heavy and everything was turning into a big clusterfuck.

I stand there knocking on the bathroom door awkwardly until someone lets me in. The code is 673 and my locker code is 9387 and the room number is 1937373 and my student I.D number is 5427573569 and my class number is 2938842307746 and everyone says this so nonchalantly and I have no fucking clue how to remember it all. At this point I’m really sweaty and uncomfortable and wondering what the hell I was thinking. I change into my hideous uniform and it dawns on me; the uniform is the least of my problems.

I awkwardly wait in the hallway outside of the classroom and try to introduce myself to people but I feel really short in my shoes and generally uncomfortable and heinous and insecure. The older students call us fresh meat (great pun... NOT) and I get more nervous. I make three friends in my class though; two guys both named Mike, one who used to be the food manager of all the Starbucks in New York but just quit to go to school, and the other works in a psychiatric ward in New Jersey. Seriously.

We get settled in the classroom and meet the teacher, Chef James - a very handsome guy from Alabama who was a chef at Daniel before deciding to teach. I feel really short. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window and think about how that fucking hat is ruining my life. I cross my legs but the MC Hammer pants go up and I see my thick white socks sticking out of my pleather nurse shoes and feel like a Staten Island commuter (think "Working Girl").

The admissions guy comes in and talks for 2 hours about the hideous uniform, attendance, and other things I don't remember. I zone out. There is no break and I am seriously considering peeing my pants. He says nail polish is not allowed, and stares at me. He says hair must be "COM-PLE-TE-LY" under the hat and stares at me. He says jewelry is not allowed and stares at me. He says “CURSING WILL NOT BE TOLERATED!” and I stare at myself because I know this will be a problem... Oh and talking back is means for suspension - isn't that crazy? I'm going to need a muzzle.

Then Chef James gives his whole shpeal about ‘bama and we go around the table introducing ourselves. This is about when I decide to never complain again (in class that is, you guys will still hear it), because everyone has it harder - much harder - than me. The psych ward guy works 10 hours then commutes to school from Jersey, this other lady has the breakfast shift at a restaurant and works 4am-4pm in Queens then comes to school. Four of the twelve students were work-study students; this means that they had to work at the school for 3 hours for every hour of class they want to take. Four hours of class a day x four days a week x three hours of work = a shit load of working to take the class and I feel guilty. And short.

I prepare a speech in my head about how I love and respect food and want to know everything about it and then when its my turn I flub up and forget what I planned and spew out something about Creole cuisine? To be honest, I really have no idea what I said. Then I say I'm a Production Coordinator over here in food land and I feel so fucking thankful that I got that promotion on Friday because now I have a fancy sounding title. My stomach keeps growling and I look really dumb. And short.

Then we get our crap. Tons and tons and tons of beautiful supplies - bags and boxes and knife rolls of supplies. When Chef James is handing me my thingamajig-who-the-fuck-knows-what-it-is he sees my hands and says, "no nail polish!" yeah, I got that already but I can't talk back, remember? He tells us we have to label every piece of equipment with our name and that nothing stays on them except for nail polish. OK so no nail polish on my nails, but nail polish on my knives is fine. Wait isn't nail polish FLAMMABLE??? They're trying to kill me already and it’s only day one.

I don't really know what happened after that, it’s all a blur. But I know we ended the class with a tour of the other classrooms, you know, rooms 9756074650238 - 0873607865076 remember that because modules 9650765 will be held in room 87368172356... We end up in a class with students that are about to graduate and they show us this incredible array of food - really beautiful stuff. They each present what they made and even though it looks perfect to me, it goes something like this:

Cute little man student that helped me find my locker: "here we have mint parpadelle with a lamb ragu"
Mean man with big hat: "AND WHAT'S WRONG WITH IT????"
Cute little man student that helped me find my locker: "uhhh... but the carrots aren't chopped small enough..."
Mean man with big hat: "ANDDDDDD??????"
Cute little man student that helped me find my locker: "and uhhh..."
Mean man with big hat: "SPEAK UP, YOU'RE SMALL. NO ONE CAN HEAR YOU!!!!"
I feel really, really short.

Then we're all supposed to try what they made and even though I don't want to eat lamb or veal or any baby animals or intestinal weird shit like that, I give myself a big scoop of sweetbreads and the lamb because… well because I’m terrified of the man with the big hat. You're eating BRAINNNNNN and little innocent LAMBBBBBB.

I change and walk home, lugging all my shit in 4 inch heels and the fucking tool box that weighs as much as Star Jones pre-bypass keeps hitting my leg and leaves a tiny scratch on my new boots and I stand on the street cursing to myself. It’s really reassuring that it's only been a day and I have already started to go totally loco.

I stay up for an hour carefully painting my name onto 9746507456027436203 items and then look at my syllabus. Oh great! I have 20, yes 20, chapters to read by tomorrow!

Anyway, it was pretty terrifying but I know it will be a fun experience overall once I get into the grove of things. Plus I get to carry around this huge knife kit which makes me feel very important. I want someone to try to mug me. I don't think so pal! Wait a second, hold my immense bag of spoons while I open up my knife kit and take off the blade guard and then cut you up!!! Julienned of course...

"TOOT TOOT!" -My Horn

Sure, I like my little baby blog, my mom likes it (but I think she's legally required to say she likes everything I do), and my friend Mary from Maryland seems to like it (thanks for the comments Mary!). But apparently, actual real blogging celebs like it too... swoon.

My new BFF the Food Network Addict said :
"Your blog looks fun. I checked out the chipotle fan link, and I'm not convinced. It just makes me want a burrito bol even more! ;-) "

Then, about two seconds later my new buddy the Amateur Gourmet said:
"Your site looks great--I love the design."

It's only a matter of time before we're sharing one Frozen Hot Chocolate with three straws gabbing about how awesome the food bloggespher is...

Thanks guys!

Check Out This Little Diddy

My awesome cousin Evan wrote this song for me as my early Christmas gift, isn't it incredible?! I love the Rach Ray shout out...

Look at Me, I’m Sandra Lee…

I know in the song from “Grease” it’s “Look at Me, I’m Sandra Dee” but I don’t care – it should have been Sandra Lee because she’s flippin’ awesome. Oh Sandy… I just finished her memoir, Made From Scratch and take my word for it, it is a MUST READ!!!

I laughed, I cried, I felt very confused and uncomfortable; all of my favorite emotions tied up in just 269 pages. Poor Sandy really has been through a lot – her pill-popping mom abandoned her then when she finally came back she beat her, she raised her siblings single-handedly, she lost all her money, her grammy died, she had to make that Kurtain Kraft Krap… then she had to travel the globe, become a “lifestyle expert,” star on a Food Network show, and become a New York Times bestselling author. Let me tell you pal, it was a real rollercoaster.

A few passages in particular I will always hold near and dear to my heart; I particularly loved when Sandypoo tried to offer an explanation for the booze-cruise that is Semi-Homemade; "The cocktail segment was never intended to become a regular part of the show. During my first week of filming, I decided to demonstrate one of my favorite cocktails, Jamaican Rum Punch. I made the drink many times before so I felt comfortable with free-pouring the liquor without measuring the amount I was using… I got caught up in keeping eye contact with the camera and forgot to monitor the amount of run I poured into the pitcher (page 215)."

Sure you did Sandy…

I also felt all toasty inside when Sandy would cite her most beloved passages at the beginning of each chapter. Best of which was her Survivor quotation; “I’m back on my feet, just a man and his will to survive... I’ve got the eye of the tiger (page 217).” If you don’t think that’s funny, check your pulse.

Seriously though, it is a wonderful book and it made me like Sandra even more than before. It made me sympathize with her rough childhood enough that I didn’t feel resentful when she finally found success completely by her own merit and determination, (which I think is the response she was going for).

Sadly, there is neither an explanation as to how the two soufflés on her chest miraculously rose, nor does she offer a reason for why her “parties” are never attended by anyone except maybe her niece and nephew – maybe I’m alone on this, but I find pre-teens and pitchers of booze to be a very maladroit situation. Can’t she at least hire fake friends to come over and see her elaborate tablescapes? I’m sure Michael Chiarello knows where to rent some…