Almost famous? Nah ...

The not-so-winning dish.

The email came about a month ago. It was an invitation from the administrators at the school for students to participate in a cooking contest. One student would be chosen to represent the school in a regional competition and then, potentially, a national competition. Anyone from the school could enter and we got to choose from a list of ingredients to prepare.
I was interested at the time, but I knew that it was just one more thing on my plate, so to speak, that was already heaped full. I'm in school 20 hours a week, I'm working 32-40 hours a week and spending another 12-15 commuting everywhere. That kind of schedule doesn't leave much time for
extracurricular activities.
Then another email arrived. It was another invitation to participate in the contest. There was still time, still room, for anyone still interested.
I considered that a nudge. I threw my hat in the ring. Could I produce a dish in, say, 2 days? Sure. Could I come in and cook in time to present my dish at 9:15 am? Sure. Did I have a 12 hour day at school in between? Yep.
But ... can I cook lamb? Yes! Am I good under pressure? Pretty much. Can I be creative? Well ....
Sometimes.
Last Tuesday night, while I was at work, I said yes, I'd enter the contest. I told my chef at work what I wanted to prepare. He told me what he thought of my ideas and gave me good insight.
On Wednesday night, after I got home from school, I prepared a few things and wrote a list of stuff to pack. I left my house at 5:45 and arrived at the school at 7 am.
My dish: Roasted rack of lamb rubbed with mustard and rosemary, dusted with panko and served with a parsley and mint gremolata; a fingerling potato and brussel sprout hash topped with roasted yellow and orange peppers and a salad of arugula microgreens, olive oil, sea salt, pickled yellow beets and pickled shallots. It was fresh, interesting, flavorful and balanced.
The judges ate everything. They complimented my lamb, said it was cooked perfectly and nicely seasoned. They enjoyed the gremolata and the pickled vegetables. They said the potatoes were kind of dry and would have benefited from some kind of sauce. They asked me to tell them the story of my dish. I ... ah ... didn't have a story. I said that I love lamb and that my mom always cooked lamb. I thought the plate was rustic and interesting and that I had some nice, fresh elements on the plate. I was flying by the seat of my pants at that moment. I had no story about my plate. There wasn't a ... theme. There wasn't a common element to tie my ingredients together. I mean, I know what they were looking for ... sort of ... but I was completely unprepared for the question.
Listen, I was going on about 8 hours of sleep in a two-day stretch. I was bleary eyed. So I just spoke from my heart. I didn't try to sugarcoat things. I just told them what I cooked and why.
They said they'd let me know the next day.

As it turned out, they had a tough time choosing a winner. They didn't let us all know the results until the end of the day Tuesday. The winners (two will represent the school and the contest organizers will decide which one will compete) were more edgy with their plates, and stepped out of the box way more than I did. And that's what the judges were looking for -- well executed plates with some kind of originality .. something that sings.
But here's what happened in the meantime: I went to the website to check out the contest ... and look at past competitions, winning dishes, the chefs who competed. I was blown away. And I'll tell you what, I'm a very good cook, but I am not at all sure I've got the culinary chops for this kind of competition. I'm not saying that as a self deprecating sort of comment, truly. I know what I know and what I don't know in the kitchen.
I can't feel badly at all about not being chosen to compete. I stepped out (way out) of my comfort zone. I worked hard. I made very good food that was aesthetically appealing. The judges were very kind when they emailed me today and invited me to participate in an other sort of competition at school in a few weeks.
Culinary school has been such a gift, a blessing, a challenge, an education. I have absolutely nothing to feel badly about. In fact, I feel very happy ... and grateful.

And now I own a meat grinder.

Culinary school is just like any other school; it's expensive. And in addition to tuition, we have to buy a knife kit, text books and uniforms.We don't have campus housing, so we all commute from somewhere. And if we have full time jobs, they have to be a little less full time so that we can go to school, so we are making less money.
But going in, we knew the deal. School was going to be a ton of work and it was going to cost a lot of money and it would often be a burden on our families, spouses and friendships.
Here's what they don't tell you. You will need an extra bucket of money for all the stuff you will want (you know, need) to buy because you used it in class. I'm referring to all of those gadgets that you have seen or read about but never knew how to use properly. Or the spoons/knives/zesters/spatulas/pans or ingredients you've never had but now cannot live without.
I'm telling you, there should be a separate section in our student handbook about this titled, "Stuff you'll want after taking these courses."
For example: We made gnocchi in class one day, a simple pasta made with leftover cooked potatoes. To get the potatoes nice and smooth, we used a potato ricer.
I now own a potato ricer.
During a class on pork, I made sausage. The next day, I bought the meat grinding attachment for my Kitchenaid mixer and ordered the sausage stuffer online.
After one of our chefs spoke lovingly about how wonderful freshly nutmeg is as opposed to the bottled kind, a few of us went on a culinary road trip to a spice store to buy our own.
There are other things, but I'm resisting (ice cream maker, gnocchi board, brioche pan).
I'm not alone. We are all doing a lot of kitchen store shopping. And we encourage each other "Go ahead, buy it! You'll use it all the time!"
And we have a list of culinary destinations: Armenian bakeries, restaurant supply stores, a huge produce market in Watertown.
I could go on. I could feel guilty. Or I could just look at it as part of the package. You know, the part they don't tell you about.
Did I mention the school sweatshirts?

I brought my mom to class today

I had such a good day today. I woke up at 5 a.m., drove to school and arrived in time to walk down to the coffee shop with a classmate and grab a coffee. Cafe Zing in Porter Square in Cambridge sells great coffee, coffee drinks and tea. I'm very fond of cold-brewed iced coffee and they make it there ... and it's lovely.
On the way back to school, we found a dozen red roses in a box on the street, clearly abandoned, and grabbed one to bring to our chef instructor.
Once in class, we made bread: cheddar cheese bread, challah, bagels, cinnamon swirl bread, white pullman, baguettes, herbed-olive rolls and a beer bread. We also made a butternut squash soup and zucchini-spinach salad, so that we had something to eat today besides bread. 
After class, a few of us went to visit Penzey's Spice Shop in Arlington, recommended by one of our chef instructors. We bought nutmeg, Vietnamese cinnamon, cardamom pods, vanilla beans and flavored salts.
On the way back to Cambridge we decided to stop for milkshakes and do some studying together. My new friends are bright and talented. We are from all walks of life. On paper, we don't have much in common. In the kitchen, we have everyone in common. We cheer each other on, we help each other out and we laugh a lot.
Today, I felt so much joy being in the kitchen. It wasn't all about my classmates or the sunshine outside. It wasn't just about the cute little baby who went by in a stroller and waved to me. And it wasn't just about the lovely loaves of bread we produced.
Today, I felt my mom's presence so strongly. My mother taught me to make bread. Her recipe made nine loaves, and that's what we made. It was a basic white bread recipe. We would take some bread to the neighbors, make one pan of dinner rolls, freeze some and eat the rest. I remember the big yellow bowl we used to let the bread rise. It had pink and blue rings around the outside. I remember the various pans we used to bake the bread. She would teach me how to shape the loaves, how to tuck them into the pans. I remember the smell of the kitchen, the warmth, the quiet.
But what came to me so magically today was the simple, sweet meditation of kneading the dough. I could hear her talking to me, showing me how to push the dough away with the heels of my hands, how to fold it over, how to sprinkle a little more flour on it, turn it and push it away again.
Many of the students today knew how to knead bread dough. It's not hard to learn, but it takes practice. It's not just about learning how to knead, but also about how to read the dough.
There were about 10 minutes today when I was kneading my dough and I just felt everything else fall away. It felt as if I was back in that little kitchen on Martin Street with my mom making bread, with the big yellow bowl and the sweet smell of the yeast filling the air.
When my mother taught me how to make bread she couldn't possibly have known what a loving, wonderful, magical gift it was. I know I didn't.

Soup class was hard

We likely all had the same thought heading into our class on soups and stocks last week, "How hard can this be?" After all, who can't make soup?
But there is making soup and making really good soup. And because I'm in culinary school, it's not just really good soup, it's nicely presented really good soup, layered with flavor, perfectly seasoned and plated with panache.
At 9:30 that night, I got a text from a classmate "Why am I so tired? Soup class was hard."
It all started out innocently enough. We were all present and accounted for when our chef instructor Erin came in and said the folks in the kitchen downstairs needed help with prepping stock. Since our class dovetailed nicely with that mission, we got down to business.
We rolled up our sleeves and cleaned chicken backs for about an hour. We chopped the vegetables to go in the stock (mirepoix - a combination of carrots, onions and celery) and threw in herbs. A few folks in class also roasted bones for veal stock and chopped up mirepoix for that.

My cream of mushroom soup, garnished with croutons,
crispy shallots and chopped sun dried tomatoes.

Then, class began.
Lecture was about the various kinds of soups, how they are made, what differentiates one from another. We then went over the recipes we'd be making and got to work.
The process isn't just getting together the ingredients and starting to cook. We all must mis-en-place before we do anything; we "put things in place." We grab a sheet pan. We get small bowls. We grab our knives and any other utensils we need. When the food is brought up from the downstairs kitchen, we measure and chop and pour and weigh our ingredients. It all has to be in place and checked by our chef or chef assistant before we proceed. And it isn't as simple as putting a potato on the tray. If the potato needs to be chopped, we have to chop it. If a carrot needs to be julienned, it must be presented that way ... down to a pinch of salt in a bowl.
So, you can imagine how long that part of the process takes when it comes to soup.
But also, we are learning the correct way to make soup, how to add layers of flavor and to season it correctly. We all had to bring our soup to our chef unseasoned with a bowl of lemon juice, one of butter, and some salt and pepper. We then tasted the soup and decided together how best to season it to bring out the flavor.
It's not exactly the way I cook at home. It actually doesn't resemble how I cook at home at all. Then again, my cream of mushroom soup was excellent. I used three kinds of mushrooms, shallots, sun dried tomatoes, cognac, fresh herbs, chicken stock and a little potato.
Other classmates made shrimp bisque, chicken chowder, borscht and an Italian soup, pomadoro, made with bread.
We all sat down and ate soup. Then we finished the dishes, cleaned the counters, swept and mopped the floors. We trudged out together and headed for home.
Soup class was hard.

New chapters

When I started this blog, it was an effort to stay in touch with readers of my newspaper food column. I'd include stories I didn't have room for and recipes I wanted to share.
After leaving the newspaper, the blog morphed into a place for me to share more specific food stories but again, recipes and observations.
But last summer, I started feeling as if I ... well, I wasn't a writer anymore. I had a lot to say but I found myself struggling to find the time and the desire to post much of anything.
A month went by, then a few months. Lo and behold, a year went by and I hadn't written anything on this blog.
Of course, lots of things were happening: I started a new job. My father got sick. I got engaged. My father died. I got married. And two days after my wedding, I started culinary school.
It's easy to say that I had a lot of reasons for not blogging, because I did. But more than that, I didn't have a place to focus. I didn't have a specific thing to write about ... other than food.
And so, rather than posting photos of every single thing I make at school on Facebook or sending mass emails out to my family members,  I'm turning this blog into a diary of sorts about my culinary school experiences.
I haven't been in an educational setting in decades. It's challenging, exhilarating, fun, intense, exhausting and one of the coolest things I've ever done.
I'm in school full time, which is roughly 20 hours a week, at The Cambridge School of Culinary Arts. I'm also working full time, but less than I was, about 32 hours a week. I work as a cook so I'm in kitchens pretty much all the time, when I'm not in my car or on the commuter train.
The 'ah-ha' moments started the first day I was in school. From the very beginning, I remember thinking "Wow. I never knew that."
My program combines savory cooking (food basics) with pastry. I leave my house at 6 a.m. to either drive in or catch a train; class starts at 8:30 with a lecture followed by time in the kitchen. The first lecture I had was four hours on vegetables. That isn't typical, but most lectures are about 2 hours at the very least.
Each week there is also a seminar we must attend; knife skills, food safety, plating and tasting.
I carry a backpack that weighs 16 pounds. It has my school binder, my knife kit and other cooking utensils. I wear a uniform - white chef coat, checked chef pants, white school t-shirt, white apron, white chef hat, black non-skid shoes. I keep a big safety pin inside my pants pocket and attach my wedding rings to it when I'm at school because we can't wear any jewelry. Or nail polish. Or piercings.
The program I'm in is a 16-week certificate program; graduation is at the end of January. There is also a professional chef's program, which is an additional 16 weeks (and an additional $15,000).
So, that's the skinny, pretty much.
I'm tired a lot of the time, but energized too. I find myself way, way out of my comfort zone, which is a good thing. Most of the students are much younger than I am but there are a few that grew up without a cell phone.
I love the way my life is today ... busy and challenging and creative and happy. 

Obsession: Iced coffee

Implements of destruction: Coffee, Nespresso machine, coffee maker, $20 take out cup, ice cube try. 

So yes, I'm a New Englander and yes, I love coffee. But somewhere along the line, the happy train has veered off the tracks and I've become one of those nutty people when it comes to iced coffee. Specifically, I've become one of those people who has to have the iced coffee made a certain way or I'm not interested. As I write this, I'm sitting in my living room at 8:20 a.m. without a coffee. Why? Because I don't have half and half. I have milk, but I can't drink coffee with milk, only half and half.
Here's the way it goes: I make a big pot of coffee using twice as much coffee as I would for hot coffee. I freeze some of the coffee into ice cubes and put the rest in a pitcher in the refrigerator. I then make several shots of espresso to add to the pitcher. This, in itself, was a bit of obsession. I tried a few different ways to make espresso before finally breaking down and buying a Nespresso, which makes us very happy. Nine seconds, and you have a cup of espresso.
In the morning when I go to have my coffee, I put some of the ice cubes in a glass, add the iced coffee and stir in some half and half. Oh, wait, I forgot ... it's not just any glass, it's a take out cup from Starbucks that I bought a little while ago. It's a $20 take out cup. Trust me, that's too much to pay. I thought it said $12.95. When I got to the register, I found out I was wrong. I bought it anyway. Turns out it was worth it. It keeps my iced coffee chilled for hours. 
To get my perfect cup of iced coffee every day, I need coffee, the coffee maker, the espresso maker, a pitcher, a take out mug, half and half and ice cubes made from coffee.
It's ridiculous.
And delicious.

Vegetarian, schmegitarian?

This Roasted Vegetable Pie features
a crust made from rice
and filled with vegetables, 
kalamata olives and fontina cheese.

The other night while describing what I was making for dinner, my boyfriend Barry said, "Is there any meat in it?" I made a roasted vegetable pie with a rice crust. But no, it doesn't contain any meat. You see, for the most part, if a meal doesn't contain meat, to Barry, it's not a real meal. He's a carnivore, as am I. But I can eat a meal without meat; it's more of a challenge for him. I had anticipated this and made some pork cutlets to go with the pie.
I did ask him if he could try to do "meatless Mondays" with me. He said that yes, he'd do it, no problem. I suspect it won't be a problem, but it might be a challenge ... for both of us. For him, it will probably be about embracing change. For me, it will likely be about finding good vegetarian options other than the usual suspects: vegetarian chili, quiche, pasta with some kind of sauce.
So, if it's such a challenge, why do it? Mostly because I'd like to eat less meat for health reasons. But I'd also like to stretch my culinary wings and learn to make more meatless meals.
It's an experiment. It may turn into a lifestyle change for us. Then again, Barry may be making himself a ham sandwich to go with our Monday dinners. 
I'll keep you posted.
In the meantime, here's the recipe for the roasted vegetable pie. It's delicious. The recipe is from a Cooking Light magazine many years ago.

 

Roasted Vegetable Pie 

2 cups cooked jasmine, basmati, or long-grain rice
2 large egg whites, lightly beaten
1/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese
Cooking spray
1 1/2 cups sliced zucchini
1 1/2 cups sliced yellow squash
1/2 cup (2 ounces) fontina cheese, divided
1 cup thinly sliced onion
1 cup thinly sliced fennel bulb (about 1 small bulb)
1 teaspoon dried basil
1 teaspoon dried oregano
1 teaspoon olive oil
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 garlic cloves, crushed
1/4 cup chopped pitted kalamata olives
1 tomato, sliced

Preparation

Preheat oven to 400°.
Combine first three ingredients. Press evenly into a 9-inch pie plate coated with cooking spray. Bake at 400° for 10 minutes. Remove from oven. Increase oven temperature to 450°.
Combine zucchini and next 8 ingredients (zucchini through garlic) in a medium bowl; stir to coat. Place vegetable mixture on a baking sheet coated with cooking spray. Bake at 450° for 15 minutes or until vegetables are tender. Remove vegetable mixture from oven. Add olives and tomato; toss gently.
Reduce oven temperature to 375°.

The vegetables are roasted
with a little olive oil.

The rice crust is held together
with egg whites
and Parmesan ch
Fontina cheese
before the vegetables go in.

Sprinkle 1/4 cup fontina cheese over rice crust. Top with vegetable mixture. Sprinkle with 1/4 cup fontina cheese. Bake at 375° for 30 minutes.