Just for You

Friends and I have been sharing some pretty cool links back and forth on facebook and one friend wanted me to read a blog about blogging. It was actually a very cool page and convinced me to share some of my pictures with anyone who cares to read about my adventures. All of these pictures I took of the campus when I started, the mere beauty of the campus covers up my photography skills. Remember, I'm a writer not a photographer. I started in late summer so all the pictures are of summer, I'll try to take some now that the leaves are changing and throughout the season.

Tuesday 29 September 2009

Oh my, today...today was something. For the first time in my college career, my alarm clock decided not to go off. The day I have class at 7 with a brand new chef, my first day of skills. I wake up at 6:57.

Never have I ever gotten dressed so fast or muttered so many profanities as this morning. I arrived at class at 7:04 out of breath and mortified. I hate being late and the morning did not start off right.

Luckily we were given 2 breaks and 1 more lunch break. The first break gave me plenty of time to run back to my room to finish dressing and to grab my forgotten necessities, the second gave me plenty of time to catch up on breakfast, and by lunch I was certain that I was no longer behind. I might not have started skills off with the best bang but through my impression, it will not be a very demanding class.

I finished meat with a C, not my most prized grade but it is the best example of why not to miss even one day of class, it automatically drops your final grade down a letter grade, and am eagerly awaiting my fish grade, feeling pretty proud of my final. Monday, although a day off due to our regular 3 day weekends, I still went to the fish class for extra practice and enjoyed every minute of it.

Before I applied for the CIA my chefs kept emphasizing waiting until December to dodge my age group, freshly out of high school. I, foolishly, did not take their advice and now am witnessing why such a thing was suggested. Your class is your group, your team. I have never liked nor understood team work until starting a kitchen class with my class mates. In the kitchen it is impossible to have the "every man for himself attitude", the entire kitchen acts and breathes together. When one person fends for himself or lacks in many specific areas, the entire team hurts. While I've been witnessing many groups struggling with experience and maturity levels, everyone struggling to work together. I am so grateful for my luck. My group flows like a well oiled clock- a saying I take back for not ever having to deal with a non-oiled clock. My group works like music, in my mind. In our low points we have people who pull ahead, like a solo that hides the fact that the chorus isn't hitting the right key. We learn from each other and all have the same motivation. I was heartbroken to find out we will be split up after skills 2.

Wednesday 23 September 2009

The term "hump" day never meant more to me than today. I was informed as new college lingo that hump day referred to Wednesday, as the last day before it was the down hill slide of the week. Never before have I struggled so hard to try to make it over this hump before Thursday.

Meat finished all too soon last week with a deep regret it could not be an entire semester long. I sent an email to my chef thanking him and telling him how lucky I felt having be able to take his class. However, fish started mid-week and I had one of the CIA's finest jewels of a chef. Now due to all civility I cannot give the chef's name but inside these halls he is a legend....and one tough cookie.

My fear that I felt before meat returned and I made sure everything about my uniform was perfect on that Wednesday morning. I waited outside the room, with all of my eager classmate, half an hour early- not wanting to double cross such a chef. He, himself, was a half hour late and greeted us in the morning with a well-to-do "What the fuck are you standing around for? Put your shit away!"

The week progressed in a very, baptized by fire type way. In the case that actual confusion and help was wanted, chef would very calmly, kindly show you the right way, several times over if you just didn't get it. It was however when you argued, tried to make excuses, or just didn't listen to simple directions did you get yelled at. Chef was also a man who believe that even when you did your very best, produced everything perfectly, you did the bare minimum. He didn't expect anything less. While this sounds like a normal philosophy it meant that he did not baby you or compliment your work. If you butterflied a trout perfectly, he'd say nothing, if you didn't he'd criticize you, and if you fished for a compliment (pardon the pun) he'd call you out on it. I quickly learned that if Chef passed by me without correcting me, I was doing a pretty damn good job. This is another thing that I've noticed. I've never been pure in my speech, but my language has progressively been getting less lady like in the kitchen. I had to be reminded to watch my language talking to my father on the phone.

Being a woman in this field is definitely interesting compared to any other field. The culinary world is still the boys' playing field and you have to play by the boys' rules. Having a kitchen full of all my close friends is a relief, but them mostly being men (out of a class of 14 we only have 4 girls, myself included) I am quickly learning how to interact. I don't act like one of the guys, they don't like that. A woman is a woman is a woman. I still keep my femininity without falling behind. I can still cut fish and keep up with the boys without spitting and cursing. However, in most professions a smack on the ass or a "babe", "boo", or "sweetheart" can be suit for sexual harassment. In the kitchen: it means I've gained respect. The guys don't do this with the girls they see as slow or inefficient. They are gentleman and have not smacked my lower torso but when "Hey babe where is the salmon?!" is shouted I know it is at me and at no other woman in the kitchen. Its part of the team, and I kinda like it.

Today, Wednesday, was the toughest though. Today I had to watch, thank God not partake in, a lobster be killed. It was awful. I understand that all animals I work with were killed at one time and I am very thankful for the life that was given up to sustain mine, but there is something horrid about watching a living being die. There was no way to tell if the lobster was in pain, fear, or even knew it was coming, but the very feeling in the air felt forbidden. I understand that the profession I chose, this is common, but I sincerely hope I never have to do a thing. Whether or not you are a Christan, in every religion murder is a sin. In my belief, it doesn't matter how small the life is. Today I sinned, watching such a thing happen and not stopping it, nor repenting it. Today I must have taken the lives of 24 shellfish without even thinking about it, until seeing the lobster under the tip of the knife, with only a few seconds to live.

I only have 2 more days of fish and then I'm on to skills. School is still so fast paced I feel as though I'm always behind. I am excited for skills though and finally feel confident that I can handle what even someone throws at me.

Saturday September 12, 2009

This week has been an emotional doozy.

Tuesday I woke up at 5 in the morning to attend my first in-kitchen class. Meat Fabrication. As I pulled on the traditional uniform of the chef I humored myself by comparing my reflection in the mirror to Rocky. A chef uniform takes away any feminine shape or characteristics one might have. I jotted on some eye liner to remind myself that I was indeed a woman and not a famous boxer in the movies.

When I trudged up the slight slope under the still persistent moon, I was terrified. Horror stories are always told about chefs and their....volume, when you make the same mistakes, over and over. I was convinced I would make some horrid mistake and be told to leave on my first day. Also, classes are quite different at the CIA than in other universities. Instead of having so many classes on alternating days for...oh about an hour or 2 a day, you have one class, 3 weeks, 6 hours a day. I was dreading standing up in a freezing room for 6 hours knowing nothing about what I should do.

Nothing could be more different than my prediction. First of all, my chef calmly, persistently, and patiently taught me every cut I needed to make into my top blade of beef. As we moved on to something much more bigger, an entire beef shoulder, I felt empowered. I felt I could do anything, if I could break down this huge piece of meat, and I did quite successfully. After our 4 hours of hands on, chef called timed and clean up began. A sinking in my heart followed, I wanted to yell out at the chef, asking him to give me one more shoulder to practice yet, four hours could NOT have passed by. I pulled it together and helped the team-ironically all friends of mine- clean and hike our 5 flights of stairs to the lecture room for 2 hours of in-class teaching. I could not wipe the smile off of my face. Me and my class mates kept repeating about how much fun our first kitchen class was and how we looked forward to tomorrow.

Wednesday did not disappoint but my throat gave a familiar uncomfortable itch. Trying to kill the bugger before it got as bad as last time I went to the nurse to just be assured that I should gurgle with salt water (which I did) and wait it out. I woke up Thursday feeling worse and nothing at all like the first time I got sick. I was nauseous and week and passed on breakfast. In class I asked Chef to excuse me to the nurse when I was afraid I might faint. The nurse....told me the exact same thing and to lie down. I lie down for ten minutes, then return to class, determined not to miss class! Chef, kind man, asked if I was alright and that if I needed to take a day off I could. I assured chef I would rather be in class and if I felt weak again I would sit down. I cube my veal shank and slowly move about my day, still happy that I'm there. After class I make it back to the nurse to meet with the Nurse Practitioner. He runs me through all normal rountine that I have been before, and tests me for strep- for the 3rd time. It comes out negative-again. He writes a prescription and sends me on my way.

Now in the pharmacy I loose any professional control I had. My body has not deteriorated down to pain and exhaustion. I can barely talk and fever strikes my body into chills. I put in for my prescription and asks the woman if I can pay with a credit card over the phone (like most college students I have no money and resort to asking my parents for money). She says yes, I call my father for the card information, and sit down for a good 20 minutes waiting for a total of 6 pills. When my name is finally called, I can barely speak and they refuse to take a credit card over the phone. I start sobbing in store because of the combination of stress, pain, and anger. Luckily my mess made the pharmacy make an exception and I was on my way.

Friday I wake up, sicker than I have been all week, and loose any solid foods in my system. I collapse on my bed, text my class mates that I will not make it to class, and fall asleep until noon. Luckily again, Chef understands. I make an appointment to discuss how I can make up my hands on learning and I start on my homework friends have emailed to me. My symptoms are flu like, and nothing like what I had the first time.

Saturday I do nothing but sleep and drink. I call in sick for the food and wine festival I was so excited to work and ask a friend to fill in for me. I feel so much better today, I only have a stuffed up nose and annoying cough. Maybe tomorrow it will be gone and Monday I can enjoy my last few days of a class that has brought me the most joy.

September 04, 2009 Part 2

I have been waiting for this since I started the CIA, this inspiration.

One of the few classes you can transfer out of in the beginning is Writing, especially if you have an AP credit for the class. I do, and I can very easily get out of writing, or I could. For those of you who cannot tell, I love to write. I decided against transferring credits to remove myself from writing in my excitement to write, and as it happened the class was nothing what I expected. It was middle school English all over again. However we had a young thing, who looked about in her mid to late twenties, teach us one class as she was a student teacher. This hour class with an inexperienced teacher gave me exactly what I have been waiting for.

Everyone in the culinary field has seen the Pixar movie "Ratatouille", including myself. Though out this class I kept picturing the scene where the grim reaper-like critic tastes and writes about the prepared ratatouille. Our assignment was to take four ingredients (tomatoes, chocolate, olives, and cheese), taste them, then write about the experience of tasting them without using well known schema for the descriptions. I could feel my soul flourish as I did so, please let me share what I chicken scratched on my torn, tomato stained college ruled paper.

The tomatoes were in a class oblong jar of the beautiful colors yellow, green, and red, but you see these colors were not just colors. The yellow was color of the bright yellow tulips in spring, or the paint that elementary children use to paint a sun smiling down at a house and stick figured family. The green was the color of a bright vibrant lime, long scallion, or freshly mowed grass. The color alone promised the fresh taste and smell that comes from laying down in the back yard on a summer day. The red, oh the red, was the color of a beautiful woman's lips, or the color of a hand drawn valentine, or the cocktail dress the perfect hostess wears. It was a perfect red. Our young student teacher, about our age, informed us that she picked the tomatoes from a garden 2 hours before the class from a friend's garden. The taste did not disappoint this promise. As I bit into that bright tulip colored tomato it gushed onto my paper in which I was scratching down my observations. The taste was light and tingled on your tongue, like the sun would dance upon a running spring, and that red, beautifully red tomato was gentle and tasted like the air smells after it rains. The tomato tasted like music, light and young.

Chocolate was passed around, exuberantly. As perfect chocolate is the flavor was harsh and demanding and lingered in your mouth long after you swallowed. I thought myself clever as I jotted down "fruity" for a description until I noted the piece of chocolate I was nibbling on had blueberries hidden in its crisp bark. Its strength and bold quality reminded me of a harsh winter or a nobleman speaking Russian standing as tall and as straight as he could. It was majestic and addicting, it dominated. The mint chocolate pieces gave a very surprising effect however. It soothed the noble taste as does hot chocolate and memories of my mother and celebration came to me. In a treat we would go to the movies and my mother would always buy the chocolate-mint candies, flavoring her goodnight kisses. It brought me bubbly joy and a light heart.

The olives, as the dark chocolate, were bold and loud. Olives seem to fit right in with a loud German festival along with spicy sausages, tart sourkraut, and fizzy beer. As the beer familiarity tingled my tongue so did the image of wine, Italy, and night lights. Parties, drinking, flirting all swelled with the olives, bringing that risque excitement of jazz, martinis, and smooth talking gentleman wooing giggling women in dark corners out in its sour little depths, hidden in that sexy round shape that perfectly can be popped into a flirting mouth.

Cheese, oh cheese!, again was so contrasting. The creamy, smooth fat coated the mouth and enveloped the soul like a warm blanket, speaking in soft French promises. Eyes started drooping and the body felt as though it was floating in calm water listening to the glass like chimes underneath its waves. In this came another memory. The cheese was a pleasant smoked Gouda that reminded me of the sandwich cheeses that lay waiting in the top self of my father's refrigerator in our white, warm, quiet kitchen. Sunlight would penetrate the windows and white curtains reflecting off of the white walls and floors. As a little girl I would sneak slices of this cheese and nibble on a slice at a time to enjoy its complex, distinct flavor that was lost in a sandwich.

Back and forth I switched between the olives and the Gouda as my supply of snacks shrunk and the feeling of happiness filled my entire being. The combination of the exciting, loud olives and my comforting, soft cheese brought about both the feeling of trust, relaxation, and jitters. This simple combination supports how foods bring out the best in each other, feelings and memories that they cannot alone do. This combination is so delicate and special that it must be enjoyed. Next time you go out for a meal, or spend more than 30 minutes making a meal, take small bites and concentrate what the flavors do. They speak to you, bring back memories, and provide the most valued experience that we have lost to fast food.

September 04, 2009

I have some interesting days for you.

Wednesday I woke up to a glorious meal of 20 cheeses and at least 10 perfectly roasted nuts and seeds. While this sounds exquisite-mind you it was- I have a theory it was all an act. Friday (today) is finals, I believe it is a bribe. I, however, discovered my true love in life. Roquefort. If Brie and Blue cheese met and had one night of passion, Roquefort would be the child. It is indeed in the Blue-Veined Cheeses category but its creamy, smooth texture resembles the texture Brie is so prized for. The astringency of the blue in this cheese sends a delightful tart in the back of the cheeks, like a puckering feel with lemons, with the delicate combination of spice. My school text describes Roquefort as "raw sheep's milk, ivory cylinder with blue-green marbling, deep, fully, spicy, semi-soft, crumbly." I don't necessarily agree with the crumbles but everything else seems to be quite accurate. But as all would have it, Roquefort was on the test today and I couldn't remember the name. I can picture spellings you see without actually hearing the word so my poor answer resembled something like "Rofert".

Thursday was Grand Banquette day again, and oh how I love Grand Banquette. Again the old chapel that now serves as our cafeteria was lined with tables full of small plates of all the classes' masterpieces. The stage is full of baskets so artfully stacked with bread and outlined with the desserts, plated in such away you are almost tempted not to eat them....almost. My "gang" and I are getting the hang of Grand Banquette, you go early, swipe, set your bags and belongings down at an empty table and gather three plates at a time, each trip setting them down at your table. Then you have a .....25 course meal? It is delightful. Thursday my best plate was the clams cooked so plainly the pure taste of the shell fish was the focus, and this slowly smoked, roasted, then baked pork fajitas with a cilantro, lime, dill cream sauce. The simplicity of these foods brought out the skill rather than show. The dessert of the day was a pistachio cake filled with raspberry moose. I have a feeling my terminology is not correct for the pistachio "cake" was so delicate, so moist, so creamy I could pass it as moose itself. The combination of both pistachio and raspberry was delightful and tart. The dessert was so light and creamy I did not feel heavy at the end of my meal even though I must have eaten at every single table....I still have bread and tomato-basil cream cheese in a to-go-box in my little dorm fridge.

Friday is today and not close to over with, however I've already taken 2 finals, have one more on the way, and one midterm. At first I was shaky about the 3 week turn over spill, I thought it would be too much for me too fast. However I am beginning to like it. Because you have very little time to cram a bunch of information you do not have "busy" work and you don't have time to procrastinate. I am notorious for procrastinating....at procrastinating. However, when you have a test every 2 days and a final every 3 weeks- you don't have time to put off studying. You have to study or- pardon my French- your screwed.

Eating today was almost as enjoyable as Grand Banquette. I finally found something at breakfast that astounded me. Today a friend convinced me to order a chrizo breakfast burrito and it was incredibly delicious, I went back to K-16 to tell them so. It was mildly spicy and wonderfully salty. The flavors combined together in a wonderful way. Lunch was just as intriguing. I went to the Americas Kitchen and talked to the chef, who influenced my choice. Salad and soup was consistent for everyone in Americas. Salad was a simple, tomato vinaigrette. It was spicy and sour and did not coat the palate, it was light and a perfect introduction to a meal. The soup was the exact opposite, a nice balance with the salad. It was a cream soup of some sort, reminded me heavily of cream of potato, I wish I could give more specifics. Now the meal, the meal was something else. I ordered goat. I've never had goat, nor knew it was an edible creature. The goat was braised and reminded me in the first bite of pork but later resembled more of a roast beef flavor, it was wonderful. The sauce was a thick, tart tomato base. The plate was accompanied with green olives, pearl onions (that must have been pickled), and cherry tomatoes. The entire plate really played with the "pain" we really enjoy. The tartness of the pickling vegetables and the naturally sour tomatoes really prickled your mouth in a refreshing, addicting way. The long spear shaped potatoes (that very easily could have been yuka, thank you product knowledge!) were sprinkled with red pepper and offered no mercy for the plate. It was wonderful and encourages me to order more and more plates that I am hesitant about in the future.