Nooks and Crannies

On my externship, my summer was not just full of loud, hot kitchens. I was generously given plenty of time off to explore Charleston, South Carolina. I'm not sure if you've ever been, however Charleston is one of the most beautiful cities in the United States.

Charleston was the south's major port, even before the Revolutionary War, and the architecture shows that quite proudly. The residential area of town is full of tall, sea side homes with elaborate hanging gardens, giving Charleston that famous "Southern magnolia" scent all over the city. The city is young, being a college city, and accommodates their students with the various tea shoppes, coffee shops, parks, and snack bars. The streets are swarmed with tourists, business men, and skateboarding spring breakers, always alive with the energy its people provides.

Being a foodie and a college student myself, I fit right in to Charleston, and spent most of my days off roaming the streets discovering the little nooks and crannies about the city.

One of the few coffee houses I found in Charleston was City Lights in between Market and King. City Lights specializes in its coffee but has soda, beer, wines, and various sandwiches and pastries. The original interior of the late 1800s is perfectly persevered on the inside and adorned with large oil contemporary paintings. The floors, booths, walls, and bar are all beautiful, carved wood and the ceiling the familiar floral tiling. The coffee was not the attraction, it was the building.

To my surprise, the reason to the lack of coffee houses was the surplus of tea shoppes. One, that still remains my favorite to this day, is a chain. Teavana has seats, tea related merchandise, and a wall full of bins containing different teas. As you order you can smell these wonderful bins and the varieties. Teavana will make your tea hot, iced, or frozen with additions available like lemon, cream, sugar, and honey. The other tea shoppe did not sell the tea drinkable but had its own wall dedicated to loose leaf teas. The wall was in the very back and the tea kept in glass jars. These jars could be open and smelled. The decor of the building was meant to look like an ancient tea and spice trading port. The floors were scratched wood, the walls stone, and the ceiling high and criss cross with big wooden beams. The other walls were either dedicated to flavored sugars, flavored salts, dried spices, or spice blends. All were kept in the same glass jars that were easy to open for smelling. The salt and sugar jars also came with small wooden spoons to allow you to taste a small scoop of the black truffle salt or the rose hip sugar.

Chocolate shoppes were another primary source for my quickly depleted pay checks. A Belgian chocolate shoppe on Church and Market served homemade truffles (made with Belgian chocolate) and imported Belgian chocolates. Twice I went in to buy truffles and was pleased each time. Once I went in to buy the imported chocolates and before I made it to my car, the chocolates melted into a delicious but undistinguished block. My favorite chocolate shoppe was on King. The chocolates were hand painted and paired in ways that ranged from classic to funky. I had traditional espresso or raspberry but my favorites were passion fruit or blue cheese truffles. The passion fruit was beautifully vibrant and powerful in the truffle while the blue cheese was a hinted undertone that died as soon as you swallowed the chocolaty morsel.

However, my favorite location in Charleston, by far, was the olive oil shop. It was a small room that had a slim door facing King street. The sign blended into the wall and the window beautifully insignificant. As I was dragged in the lighting was low and all the shelves old and wooden. The shelves were laden with medium sized tin barrels with a small description of the olive oil inside. They were separated into groups. Some were classified by the location of the oil, some the traditional flavor (such as basil or garlic), and others were a bit more foreign (chipotle or lime). Another wall had the same tin barrels of balsamic vinegars. Some aged for twelve years, others peach flavored, some pomegranate. Each bin had small cups on the side to taste the oils and vinegars.

The Line

My extern is over and I am back in school and book classes. However, the memory of my extern is ever present. The end of June, The Sanctuary lent me to the Atlantic Room. The Atlantic Room is our sea food restaurant on the resort. At first I was only to help plate for the very hectic banquettes. Steadily I started to return for banquette prep. My responsibilities grew from asking for step by step directions; being drawn out a list; being handed the clip board; being completely in charge of banquette prep; being in charge of prep and appetizers; prep, appetizers, and soup and salad, prep, appetizers, soup and salad, plating; and finally prep, appetizers, soup and salad, plating, and dessert. However, nothing compares to the night I was put on the line.

Funny how memory works, I cannot remember the day for the life of me, but I can clearly remember being told I would be helping the Assistant to the Sous Chef on saute. Saute is a station normally manned by two full time employees, and interns are never allowed on the hot line. Tonight it would just be me and Ryan (Assistant to the Sous Chef). Service starts out slowly giving Ryan plenty of time to explain what dishes are produced by the station and what the dynamics of each plate. A bit overwhelmed, I memorize six dishes, determined to make every single one of these dishes as they came in. In the last forty five minutes of service we receive ninety five tickets (orders).

The speed hit me like lightening running through my veins, only concentrating on what I had been trained to do an hour ago. The entire kitchen was alive with the symphony of clanging pots, fires roaring, and the fryer spitting. I was spinning, ducking, reaching, and swerving, all within perfect choreography that matched the other dancers in the kitchen. No burns, no cuts, only the old fashioned sweat on my brow and smoke in my lungs.

Finally I give another elegant turn and yell "Risotto in the window!" only to be answered by the grill cook with "Nine-thirty! We're done! Service is over! We did it!". My heart sunk. What do you mean service is over? I was just getting started! The adrenaline carried me into cleaning and never met the same force that addicted me to the line the next two times I were to work the bake station.

Extern

I started at Kiawah Island Golf Resort on March 10, 2010. In just a short month I've discovered just how far I could grow and my position in the food world. First of all, the island is gorgeous. The road leading up to the resort is straight out of a movie. The road is one lane and lined with large, historical oak trees that drape over the road creating pockets of sun light on a very green pathway. The resort itself is five star (Forbes) and five diamond (AAA) rated. The restrictions that determine these ratings are strict and hard to keep up. Because of this, the hotel never ceases to amaze me. The thought patterns at anticipating a guests needs are so extensive that they monitor the employees vocabulary.

I work in the banquette department. Meaning, we provide for all the meetings, weddings, and celebrations. Sometimes we have turn overs as little as seven people, and sometimes up to 500 people. I chose banquette because of the attention to detail, precision, and replication that is so important. Every plate has to look perfect, and every plate has to look the same. I did not expect that the quantity could be so demanding as well. My chef has been kind enough to let me experience every side of banquette possible. At first I was being trained on the hot side of the kitchen (where all the hot food would be made). I have also been doing action stations all through out my externship (stations cooked out with the guests). I even was allowed to try front of the house (waiting) for a night. Right now, I am on the cold side (Garde Manger) and sometimes in EDR (Employee Dinning Room). While I miss the speed and demand of the hot side, Garde Manger does play with presentation much more than the hot side, which I love.

My experience there has already been very colorful. Early on in my externship (while I was still on the hot side) my nick name was established, Fire Marshall. I lit my kitchen on fire. Now, before you judge me, here me out. I was asked to test portable propane stoves to see if they would light for Easter. I have never touched a portable propane stove before, but I was not about to tell my chef "no". I thought, I learn mostly by being thrown to the sharks, how is this any different? So I jumped in. We had six silver stoves and two black stoves. I would inset the propane tank, lock, then attempt to light the spark. If the spark did not light, then I would place it into the "did not work" pile. I was given an entire stainless steel table to accomplish this task. My table was strewn with these stoves, propane tanks, and combustible "pam" spray cans. It was orderly, but set disaster, unknown to me. As I speedily went through the silver ones I came across my last two black stoves. I inserted the propane tank as I had done previously to the other stoves, locked, and heard an evil "hissss". It sparked and I held my lighter to the spark and nothing happened. Removing the tank to put the stove in the "did not work" pile, I noticed there was now a pool of liquid on the table. Interest more than warning went through my head. I grabbed my side down to wipe up the mess and carried on. I had one more propane stove left to test and it was the last black one. Again I inserted the tank, locked it, and heard the same hiss. Held my lighter up to the spark and for the fist time, one of the stoves lit! However...the entire stove lit. My first reaction was to pour salt on the flame. In school, when ever something caught fire, we would pour salt on the flame. My next thought as the flame shot down the rest of the table that I had so foolishly wiped down with liquid propane, was "there is not enough salt in this kitchen to put out this fire." My next thought was just as foolish as it hit the flaming table with my side towel, for this is another thing we are taught at school. Finally I started yelling "Fire! Fire! I don't know how to put out this fire!" On of my trainers ran over yelling "Get the fire extinguisher" and I yelled back, just as my chef, the pastry chef, and the head of the hotel chef, all walked in, "I'm the extern! I don't know where the fire extinguisher is!" Luckily, she knew where it was and grabbed it. In the movies when a fire extinguisher is used, thick white foam ejects out of the can........this was what I was expecting. Instead our (later noticed) expired fire extinguisher started sputtering blue gel-like liquid. The fire was put out and nothing was damaged, except my pride.

My birthday was also spent at Kiawah and was food worthy. It was my first "grown up" birthday, also know as, alone. However I decided to take myself out on one of Kiawah's nature kayaking tours. It was in a salt water riverine that eventually would connect into the ocean in a giant C around Kiawah. It was home to many salt water creatures like sharks, dolphins, flounder, and numerous shellfish. During the tour I saw many of these animals, including paddling about twenty feet from two dolphins. At one point our guide pointed at a field of mud and rocks. He told me that those "rocks" were really oysters. My excitement rose and I asked him if these were legal waters (meaning, "can we eat them?!) and he told me yes, many people gather oysters in this area. I asked him if I was allowed to grab a few to put in my kayak and he insisted he would grab a bucket of them. I was ecstatic. He was generous enough to let me take the bucket home (after a promise of exchanged cookies). Within thirty minutes of these oysters being picked from their bay I had ran to a farmers market and bought two lemons and organic, homemade cocktail sauce, and was at home being a "bad ass mother shucker". That being said, Kiawah liked to have "oyster roasts" and for several of my action stations I shucked roasted, not raw oysters. They smelled so different, that I had to try them roasted. I popped half of my bucket into the oven and ate the other half raw waiting for these "roasted oysters". I put them in the oven at 350 until the shell popped open. The fresh roasted oysters were probably the best thing I've ever eaten. I love raw oysters, however, the complexity of the texture and taste completely changed. The oyster had more of a chew and the flavor was almost smokey. It was phenomenal.

Another exciting event I was allowed to participate in was Forbes. Forbes is the corporation, previously known as Mobil, that rates with five stars (it is very similar to Michelin, except American). They came to Kiawah, their annual visit, to rate us. However, this time they brought along the head executives of every business that had been rated 5 star with them. We were serving people like Thomas Keller and Patrick O'Connell. For not being very up to date with my celebrity chefs, I've met Thomas Keller twice, Anthony Bourdain, Emeril, and Patrick O'Connell. God forbid I ever get an autograph.

Quantities to Extern

In my last post- which was unGodly long ago- I was nervous for my new class, Quantities. Quantities is the smallest kitchen in the school that must put out the most amount of food (about 4oo plates) in the smallest amount of time (prep is from 8:15-11). My class, being a big class, was going to be cramped and competing for space, equipment, and ingredients. My schedule was sandwich for two days, pasta for two days, then "entree 3" for three days.

Sandwiches went pretty darn well. I was given the option of serving fries or a side with my sandwich. While fries would have been the easy way out (for it wasn't my station to make them), I wanted the freedom to create a side that I thought paired well with my sandwich. The first day was a ruben with a german potato salad and the second day was a gyro with a greek salad (Chef did not approve my idea of hummus with vegetables). Both days were a hit. The Chef (also very new to the class for the previous Chef switched to skills) complimented the potato salad and watched me like a hawk. His past time hobbies included asking me- on the random hour- how many sandwiches I had made and how many I had left to do. This would cause me to run over to my speed rack and count each sandwich then do a very long subtraction equation in my head. On day, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Chef smile when he shouted "KateLynn! How many sandwiches!" "Sixty five Chef and forty to go!" I learned that if I set a certain number of sandwiches per tray and counted as I finished each tray then I would always know my numbers- this was Chef's lesson.

During pasta- I was more proud of my work than in sandwiches but me and my partner felt the strained heat of our conflicting personalities. The first day I was plating a pasta that was virtually mine, in recipe, method, and execution. During service "vegetarian pasta" was shouted and I called back "heard!" meaning I would simply leave out the shrimp as I tossed my lemon-butter sauce over my pasta. When I handed it to my partner to "run" to the front, he refused to take it, claiming he never heard the order. As both him and I got into a shouting match over one plate another student came over to carry it to the front....professionalism points off for me and communication needs to be worked on for both.

Entree three days were the most mentally exhausting. Quantities was unique in the fact that it was the longest class you would ever take. You must be there in the morning at 5:30 to organize the food order and you did not get out until 3. This was much different from the 7-1 schedule we were all used to. Also, if we did not finish prep then we would stay late. This was my first experience in 12 hour days, by the end of the week, I was exhausted. One day in particular my entree was duck, and again Quantities allowed me the freedom to create my own marinade. Considering the sauce for the duck would be a black berry au jus I decided the marinade would be something similar. It was a lovely concoction of red wine, balsamic vinegar, honey, olive oil, black berry puree, parsley stems, and tarragon. It was even lovelier when Chef told me to take the duck breasts out of the bucket they were marinading it and put them into trash bags (this way the large volume of duck breasts would be submerged in the marinade), and the trash bag I grabbed was an unfamiliar white trash bag (our black ones were no where to be found), when the trash bag split open and my beautiful marinade was all over my beautiful chef whites. Luckily my first reaction was to save the food. I dove forward to catch the breasts on the table to stop them from touching the horrible infamous K-16 floor (Kitchen 16 is the location of Quantities). All I had to do was remake the marinade and go home to change my whites...er- my pinks. "Look at it this way" said Chef, "now you smell AMAZING!"

Breakfast

Within a week Breakfast started and if I thought Quantities was hectic hours.....I was in for a surprise. Breakfast class started at 1:30 and ended at 8:15. The first day was the hardest and my sleep schedule molded to my new nocturnal ways. Again my schedule was split into "2-2-3". My first two days was on the fruit station. Fruit was a wonderful start for me. It was very intricate and detailed oriented. You were incharge of smoothies, fruit salad, grape fruit, and one fruit plate. The fruit plate was normally a trio of something and plated to elegance.

"Farq" station was short for Farquarson which was the name for our "cafeteria" (it shames me to call it a cafeteria for it is the most beautiful one I have ever seen) and the duties included making coffee on the hour every hour, setting up the tables, pastries, fruit trees, tea station, and making oatmeal. My first day was a train wreck- to put it kindly. I ran out of coffee, the chef's table was NOT set to his liking, I could not find the baskets for the pastry table, I did not follow the instructions for the oatmeal so 1) it was too sweet and 2) it was late at service. Total disaster. However I approached Chef after class and promised him a better day, and the next day it was nothing less. The coffee was in abundance, the chef's table to perfection, the pastries were all in their appropriate baskets, the oatmeal was hot and in its container, and I in the back doing dishes. Chef was pleased.

Egg station was a phenomenal station for me. It was the glory of the breakfast kitchen and 100% a la minute (at the last minute). It was difficult but I became talented with eggs quickly and re-established my habit for seasoning my food (which was lost in the K-16 rush). The last day of breakfast is "specials day" and every station comes up with one special. However eggs must come up with four specials (one burrito, one scramble, one omelet, and one "more"). Our special burrito was greek, our special scramble was huevos rancheros, our special omelet was a philly cheese steak omelet, and our one "more" was eggs florentine. Huevos Rancheros was my responsibility and I was obsessive about it! My knife work was pristine, my peppers fire roasted, and my veggies all sauted in advance as carefully as I could. First I would start by a splash of clarified butter in the pan and allowed to heat up, then a spoonful of onions and garlic sweated until the aroma was pungent. Then a spoonful of my jalapeno, poblano, red bell pepper (all fire roasted) mixture would hit the pan, along with a spoonful of tomatoes. A ladle full of pre-scrambled eggs would then hit the pan along with salt and pepper and my chopsticks would whisk away over the flame. When the eggs were almost done I would add a spoonful of shredded pepper jack cheese, finish the eggs over the flame and let them hit the plate. In a straight row the toppings were pico de gallo, sour cream, and avocados. Red, white, and green. It was my demo plate and all the egg team gather round with chef to have him taste every plate. He went around with his constructive criticisms then ate a bit of my plate. I could feel my breath being held. As he was chewing he asked me if this was one ladle of eggs. I nodded and told him it was. He told me to use possible 3/4ths of a ladle for it was just a tad too big of a portion. He finished his bite and tells me that the flavor is outstanding, that it was a wonderful plate. The world started moving again and one of my class mates patted my back. It was a wonderful feeling and even more so when Chef approached me during service and asked me to make him a seperate plate for his breakfast that day.

My First Stagie

Some weekend in between Quantities and Breakfast I had one interview for my extern and one stagie (short for the French term "stagiaire" which means apprentice) in the big city. A stagie is a process someone must go through before working at a well known restaurant. This allows the person to see if the restaurant is right for them and the restaurant to see if the person is right for them. My extern was approaching uncomfortably fast and I had no leads. The interview was with the Oyster Bar in Grand Central Station. As soon as I walked in my red warning bell was going off. All the tables were covered in red-checkered table clothes and a live lobster tank was staring at me. It was the BBQ Rib of the sea food world. The Chef was kind and offered me a tour- a mistake on his part. His kitchen was dirty, and his fish were not on ice. He bothered me with his repetition of "equality of women" in his kitchen. The repetition of it made me wonder if it needed to be forced and didn't come naturally. By the end of the tour I was offered the job and had to respectfully decline it- it didn't matter to me how hopeless my extern search was going, as soon as Chef said "I do not care about the quality of the food we produce here, it is about the numbers, the quantity" did I want to run.

The stagie was much different. It was the restaurant Tabla in New York City which I highly recommend to anyone. It is a French-Indian fusion restaurant and grandiose in appearance. The kitchen was clean, the floors were white, and the stainless steal was shinning. The walk-in refrigerators were neatly organized but oddly empty. "This time of year our produce stalk is a bit poor. You see, we buy as locally as we can by going to the farmer's market in central park every weekend, and in the winter there is not much to select from." We then walked into the meat refrigerator, again it was nicely organized, however it was the hanging duck that caught my eye. "We dry-age in house" Chef said. Something I have not seen since my "meat identification and fabrication" day at the CIA. The fish walk in was last, and, unlike my first place, it had no smell, everything was on ice and neatly put away. "Look at this" Chef said pulling out a drawer, "You will never see this again." In the drawer in tight rows lay tine brightly silver fish- they could have been pendents for jewelry they were so beautiful. "These are fresh sardines".

My night ended with a watchful eye on service, a menu tasting, and the disappointing comment at the end of the day. "I am sorry KateLynn, we would love to have You but we just do not have room for an extern this year."

Garde Manger

My extern hunt went on as I entered my final class, Garde Manger. This class was the definition of love and hate for me. The days in which we made hor dourves and made our own cheese I was estatic. When we did plated appatizers I loved the beauty of the food but unlike the freedom I had grown used to in Breakfast/Quantities, Chef would not let me play with the plating. My partner and I might have slipped in our own style anyway. Making my own forcemeats and terrines, were just not my thing. Meaty jello can stay off of a menu anywhere in my opinion.

Grand buffet, however, was a battle. It is possible I have mention grand buffet as the student who ate instead of the student who cooked in this blog before. It is a huge event every three weeks in which the Garde Manger classes and various pastry classes break down and set up an extravagant buffet in the great hall (Farq). The tables are bronze for the culinary students, and white for the baking. The baking department adorns the tables with tall cakes and master piece bread center pieces. The culinary students have a region dedicated to each table. The regions include Spain, Italy, South west, Hudson Vally Local, Germany, Charcuterie, and of course, France!!! I was lucky enough to be given France.

However, in my self exploration in the CIA I've realized how important the vegetarian lifestyle is to me. I was once a vegetarian and I was the most happy when I was (I was not smart and not very healthy, but I was happy!). Re-meeting friends in the vegetarian lifestyle made me ache for it again. Grand buffet was not what one would call vegetarian friendly. Meat jello, gelatin, and chicken stock flooded the food, making Grand Buffet day almost inedible for vegetarians. Knowing this, I approached my Chef in Garde Manger and asked him if I could do a one hundred percent vegetarian table. While Chef and I had some differences, he said yes. Chef said yes to the vegetarian table, but he would not make it easy on me to turn his beloved French table into purely vegetables. My group and I met every night, researching the flavor profiles of France, the different cheese, the different mushrooms- all in order for this menu to develop. After three days we had a beautiful menu in place, but needed Chef's approval. It took another three days to track the man down to get it approved, and prep needed to be started the following day. Our menu included mushroom/barely burger, hazelnut vinaigrette black-eyed pea salad, mushroom confit and brie bruschetta, apricot chutney, brie, cucumber sandwich on walnut bread, roasted pepper salad, blue cheese mousse and Belgian endive, wild mushroom terrine, a sun-dried tomato and goat cheese tartlet, and a cheese/fruit/bread center piece. Our prep ran into several problems, especially with my terrine. Instead of gelatin I was using Agar-Agar a gelatin like substance made out of sea weed. Unfortunately me nor chef has ever worked with the tricky stuff and was trying to get it to set up in the mushroom terrine. Certain prep could not be started until a bread order came in, which didn't come in until the last day, two hours late, and frozen. It was the most stressful three days of my life.

The day of however the presentation was wonderful. Wooden boxes and empty wine bottles gave our table a rustic- elegance, and the food provided the color. I cannot count how many people were ecstatic about a vegetarian table and thanked me and my group profusely. Compliments were made on the food and every felt so right. All the trouble that I had gone through was made worth it by the people enjoying my food.

Extern

Eventually I found an extern and was accepted. I am going to Charleston, South Carolina with my partner in crime from school. She and I drove down together from New York to South Carolina, and if a picture should have ever been taken it should have been of my poor car driving down. Carrying two girls' worth of stuff, was impressive. Every corner was taken up. We were sitting on pillows and comforters. She had a coffee pot at her feet and I was holding a suit case in place with my elbow as I drove. It was a three day trip (stopping periodically to stay with a friend) and learned the intimacy that a long road trip can provide.

She and I are on Kiawah Island working in the Sanctuary resort. It is a world famous golf resort known for its 5-star 5-diamond awards. It's 5 golf courses are in the top 50 and 2 are in the top ten, one of which is the top third (and ocean front). It has numerous tennis courts and ranked number one in the country for tennis resorts by tennis magazine. I, myself, am working in the banquettes department and my friend is working in the pastry department (right next door!).

Last Monday was my first day and although I haven't been working much, it is said it will pick up in April when Easter/Mother's Day/ and weddings start up. So far the freedom I have been granted as an extern is amazing- I have been trusted on the grill station, making She-Crab bisque from start to finish, making a scallop ceviche, and being on an action station for my first banquette (I was carving the prime rib).

Before I end this-very long- update I will include a random fact of the day: Did you know scallops had feet? As I was cutting scallops for the ceviche there were what I would call "scraps" at the bottom of the container and I asked my Sous Chef if I should include those as well. When he told me to through them away I was completely confused. He told me to look at the scallops, they all had little tags of flesh on them- something I had never seen before. He told me that was their feet and they get too tough to eat. I was amazed and he started laughing. He told me that "we coastals" like to mess with "you mid-westerns" (me) by giving us stamps of sting ray for our scallops. I laughed, playing along with his joke, when he reassured me that no- in the past there was scandal about string ray flesh being used for scallops because the taste and texture was similar but the value was completely different. "That's why your scallops don't have feet" he told me.

We are a Kitchen

I have completely fallen in love with this life style. If there was any turning point from who I was into a Culinary Student- it was today.

My journey has been almost poetic. First I start with the discipline and difficult simplicity of the skills classes, trying to master the traditional French style. Learning how to differentiate a buerre noissette from a pommes gallette. I would bring fresh pasta dough back to the dorm kitchen and the heat of the summer still provided fresh tomatoes and basil. Friends would surround a stand up bar tearing fresh baked sour doughs, ciabattas, and multi-grain baguettes dipping them into simple olive oil and garlic.

Rules got looser and cultures became stronger when I started Americas. The rigid tension melted away with the lust and gluttony that influenced the Cajun and Creole dishes we made. The culture then spun as we studied the trying work and detail of Mexican cuisine but the love and satisfaction that it provided in the ending product.

Asias tried me as I struggled to find its beauty. The food was so much of a contrast than I was used to. Instead of stressing indulgence- it stressed control. The food was concentrated on the ideal of survival and a healthy living. Everything was green and stir fried. Salt didn't come from salt, it came from fish or soy. Digestion or purity of palate was stressed. I remember the first time I worked the wok, how connected I had to be to the food. The smells were more intense, the heat was hotter, and the movement was demanding. I had to be completely engrossed in the food to prevent it from burning or to learn that I could draw out more flavor if I let it rest on the side. However, another thing Asias taught me was that craving for my French basics.

I never realized how much I loved the smell of butter until I had been working two weeks with nothing but oils. Salt felt so refreshing in between my fingertips. The familiarity on how to season my food brought me satisfaction. I love and respect the cleansing aspect Oriental cuisine provides, but I needed the inside of my mouth coated with fat, followed by a dry red wine. The food was comforting and fulfilling- for body and soul.

Friends became thicker as well. Call it our hospitable personalities, but for every holiday a celebration (or two) was required. Food, desserts, music, laughter, and surprises were at each one. Trust and communication brought people close. I eat breakfast, work for 8 hours, eat lunch, eat dinner, and do homework with these people everyday. They are my family. I can tell them anything and they me. Even friendship within the kitchen itself is a humorous thing to watch. Close friends stay in pairs or triples but as Americas came and past tensions were broke and senses of humor were discovered. Personalities are now understood and predicted. Sanitation fights often break out during clean up across the room with squirt bottles. Songs are broke into if the lyrics are well known. Playful threats are given as warning bells. Nicknames and pet names are used. Disagreements still exist but I sense that if any outsider were to threaten someone inside my kitchen- my kitchen would defend him or her to the bitter end.

Today we got a pep talk from our up comming chef for Quantities. The work load is going to increase significantly, the work is going to be harder, and its going to get more creative. It is suppose to be the hardest class the CIA offers. Its only for seven days, but I'm a little bit excited- and scared. I feel like my group will get stronger- we might loose some- but I think we'll get better for it. I feel like we are actually a kitchen.

Herb of Your Choice

All characters and interests are drawn to a culinary school. Today never proved to be more true. One of my out of kitchen classes is Interpersonal Communication and in such a class we were instructed to give public speeches on anything that sparks our interest as long as it has to do with food. Each student, whether full of confidence or terror, approaches the front of the room to immerse the class into all the different possibilities this field offers. I, myself, spoke on food writing. Other topics included fermentation, sustainability, economic commerce, environmentally concious design, coffee, and many more. My favorite, however, could not be topped.

A young man in his mid to late twenties swaggered up to the front of the class with a box clutched to his chest. He had an arrogant smile played on his face as he introduced his topic. It was interesting, I do admit. This "tool" could specialty bought for several hundred dollars, or you can make it yourself for about $300. He explained that by taking a common found power tool (I couldn't tell you if my life depended on it) and a few simple attachments you could make a vaporizer. In this vaporizer, he explained, you could put your "herb of choice" into the attachment- a beautiful ironic foreshadowing- and as the tool runs it is then vaporized into thin air and captured into a second attachment that included a plastic bag and a valve.

I had seen ideas of this done before to where a scent was captured into a plastic pillow under a heavy plate in molecular gastronomic restaurants and punctured by a waiter to waft up to the customer's nose, capturing his palate before he even touched his food. Beautiful idea, taken very, very wrong.

As this young man ground up cinnamon in his "vaporizer" and captured it in the bag, his audience-captured and stunned- asked to smell the "cinnamon air". His grin got broader, knowing his presentation was a hit, and informed that chef would get the first puff of "cinnamon air" With a pump to the valve, visible vapor dispersed into the air all around chef's head. He then proceeded to give the rest of the class the pleasure of the oh-so-awaited vaporized cinnamon.

The smell was not that of cinnamon. It was blatantly, without question, marijuana.

Chef ended the session with the closing statement: "When I was younger, we had bongs."

In the Weeds

Comming to the CIA, I've heard this "in the weeds" infamously whispered through its walls without the pleasure of experiencing such a place. Luckily this experience happened in several days through the course of my educational career.

The first day "in the weeds" was about my fourth day in skills 3. It was sauteed chicken with fines herbs sauce (a splendid dish that is very popular among the students in the culinary). We were doing a flawless job with prep, however...the a la minute (at the last moment) of firing the dish where we put the beautifully seared chicken in the over to finish we met disaster. Communication struggled and chicken was not put in the oven putting our plate's main protein on a standby. This is where I got my first addicting taste of the hot line. I was thrown on the hot line, away from plating, to finish the sauce (made from the fond of the pan, white wine, glace de volaille, and heavy cream). I, quite literally, had two saute pans (one in each hand) swirling on the stove top to deglaze the bottom. In the end, we got every single plate out the door- to some, not exactly happy, customers. However, the adrenaline rush was still fresh and exuberant in my blood stream.

Several more, not so wonderful, weedy experiences have happened since but today, today the weeds called for a casualty. This time I was in Cuisines of the Americas and where we once had 2 groups on 1 dish, we have 1 group working on one dish, and before we had 4 bodies to a group, we are lucky to have 3. Our dish today was shrimp etouffee, white rice, green beans, and stuffed mirliton. The amount of prep we had was enough to intimidate most. At demo, 30 minutes before service, chef tastes our etouffee to explain to us that the dish is inedible (too much white pepper, a seasoning I find revolting in taste and smell and think should never be used in a product that will be anywhere near humans) and the only way to correct this is to completely remake the etoufee. The shrimp etoufee takes 30 minutes to cook, without prep. As we dash to gather ingredients and cutting boards, my mind divides the work, and I grab the bell peppers to make the oh-so-loved holy trinity. To mince 2 pounds of bell peppers is something I find difficult but necessary and start-pardon my French- hauling ass like I've never hauled before. In this infestation of weeds I feel a all-to-familiar pressure on my left middle finger, swear quite loudly, and run to the paper towels. I wrap my finger, apply pressure, and inform the chef I need to go to the nurse all before the pain sets in (on the bright side, it was a good sign my knife was sharp). In the nurses' office I discovered several things. The CIA has toughened my skin so much that I did not cry (about passed out as I watched the mixture of blood and hydrogen peroxide foam over my hand). After I was wrapped up I returned to finish the hectic prep work and we open on time.

Today's shinning moment, however, was in the middle of lecture I looked down at my right hand and was proud to notice that a callus was forming on the palm of my hand in between my thumb and pointer finger. An accomplishment I have been waiting for ever since a chef I worked with back at home told me it was a mark of a serious chef.