A Little Helping of Focus

About a week ago I sat outside in the sun after an energizing and clarifying workout to think about the summer. To think about what I really wanted to accomplish. While I hoped to be in school (or closer to it), it is not the reality. The reality is that my kitchen does need to become my classroom and instead of only wanting it to be so, I need to go about making it that way.

Fast forward a week later and there wasn't much of focus to go with my helping of wanting. And that needed to change.

All I want to report on, for now, is a little purchase that has made a world of difference. I walked into Target, grabbed a cheap (and durable) 3-ring binder and some top loading sheet protectors. Later in my apartment, after my brownies were cooling, I took some of my most man-handled recipes (the stains and tears to prove it) and organized and placed them in their protective sheets. And I flipped through the beginnings of what will be my very first personal cookbook and my very first personal workbook.

Tomorrow I go about gathering some other recipes I use constantly. I'll type them onto new sheets with my notes and personal reflections of what worked (or didn't), print, and insert. Later I'll grab my technique books and articles I have clipped and saved, copy and scan, or type and print, or cut and tear, and those too will make themselves a new home in my binder.

I'm smiling.

A Little Competition

My very good friend David has decided to enter into a cooking competition and I am reaping the rewards. The challenge is to create your own recipe, using certain local ingredients, and to pair that all with a local wine (local being Washington State local and not New York local--at least for the contest but not for us). Last night he and Rachel came over for a tasting. While David cooked (a great roasted red pepper and pear soup with great little cheddar bunuelos), we chatted, we set the table, and I tried to stay away from the white chocolate hazelnut brownies I had cooked for our dessert.

The food (just like the last time we got together for a little culinary exploration) was divine. We tasted the meal with two different types of wine before settling on one bottle (a Cabernet Sauvignon) and before Rachel and I dived biscuit first into the soup. We talked about what worked, what didn't, and about how versatile and tasty the soup was (with plans to recreate and use it for various summer picnics).

By the end of the evening our bowls were licked clean and David had to hide the last little beautiful bunuelo from us. There are more plans to get together to cook again. Shop together at a Farmer's Market. Head out of the city to the country to spend a few days cooking. All of it sounds delicious.

And the brownies? I could have let them cook a little longer. I also don't know how I feel about the hazelnuts. The white chocolate was not as present as I would like. But they are tasty.

Next time I'll make the little mini chocolate cupcakes I had originally wanted to experiment with.

Frost! Frost! Frost! -- At the Bakery

I had a great morning there today. Cakes to frost. Happy Birthdays and Congratulations to wish. So many times when I place a cake in the box, making sure it is as perfect as it can be, I look down and think of the next time it will be viewed. What will Hallie or Jake or Noah think when they look at their name across the top of a red velvet or devil's food cake? Will they think my "B" or "C" crooked? Will they wish for more sprinkled confetti or for room to place an extra candle? Will they wish I used chocolate instead of blue or pink? Will they not care as they search in vain for that cake server or knife so they can slice through the thick layer of frosting? I make myself hungry. Not for cake. But to be a part of that experience. I want to bake a cake. And gift it.

My internship is coming to an end. Another four or so weeks and I will no longer walk into that kitchen, don my apron, hat, and mess towel. There are some mornings when dragging myself out of bed and thinking of the long day ahead of me (bakery, gym, work) I want nothing more than to call in to the bakery and make my excuses. But then I remember the great opportunity this has been and how little time I have left. So little time to stand side by side to some of the best bakers I have met. Men and women who learned not only in school but in the daily grind of early mornings or late nights. Men and women who stood side by side to great pastry chefs to learn when to perhaps use oil instead of eggs in a cupcake and why. Lessons I fear I might forget if I don't chronicle them and if I don't keep myself in a kitchen.

While I have been looking at other opportunities for internships this summer I am sad to report that no one is really responding. While you would think this experience would make me a shoe-in it seems as if school is still something people are looking first for. There is one slight opportunity that will take me off of the sweets path but will keep me in a professional kitchen. I can only keep my eyes and mind open and see where that leads me.

Fiend!

My garbage smelled foul as I lifted the lid and threw in the wilted shards of the peonies. I could smell you rotting inside. And I wanted nothing more than to purge you, yes, you, even in your decaying state, from my kitchen. Heave you into a darkness deeper than the first one I condemned you to on Sunday morning.

You. Yes. You! Flat. Thin. But I did not stop there. Oh no, there was the tasteless punishment to be inflicted upon you.

Into the deep. To be forgotten about. Until your stench reached up and assaulted my senses and sensibilities.

Pancakes. Fiend! How you torment me.

My Jungian shadow clasping my eyes by way of my nostrils with visions of you sliding from my nonstick pan into a plastic grave. Oh you scoungrel! How you mocked me the very next morning at breakfast appearing on his plate. How beautifully you presented yourself. Tinged with lemon and ricotta, accessorized with blackberries and strawberries, showered with a deep amber maple syrup. I sneered at you as I tasted your fluffy flesh, secretly hoping to be able to snarl that most hurtful of all nouns in the English language--BISQUICK!

My body instead sagged at the truth. You could not be sullied with such ugliness. Such a thing could not prostitute that kitchen. No. You, fiend, were beautifully created with the most basic and simple ingredients. My enemy. My achilles heel.

I remember your presence years before tart with grated apples. How you mock me with those memories. One day I shall conquer you again as I slide my spatula swiftly under you, flipping until you are perfectly golden brown and sweating with just the faintest hint of melted butter. One day I shall have revenge on you that now mocks me from that rotting grave.

What? No Picture

Six eggs and three cups of milk. To save two bananas that were beyond their level of ripeness. Some extra rum. Some extra brown sugar. My first bread pudding for my father. A success.

Two eggs. 1.5 cups of milk. A little over 2 cups of flour. Some nutmeg. A little vanilla. To make one batch of pancakes that were thrown into the garbage.

Another 2+ cups of flour. Butter. A lot. 4 large Mutsu apples. And one great apple pie. Of which I had one spoonful (of mostly apples and none of my buttery, flaky tart).

All of that equals not one picture. And I feel this blog suffering for it. The pie was beautiful. A delight in its white pie plate, if not in my belly.

Home Remedy

I am a single gal living in this big bad city in an apartment all by my lonesome with nothing but my kitchen and web musings to keep me company on most mornings and nights. There is nothing wrong with it. I rejoice in it (sometimes). When do I feel alone? When I’m sick.

With the recent publication of “What we Eat When we Eat Alone” or the popularity of books like “Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant,” or the countless movies and television shows and articles about cooking for one, or living alone, or enjoying the life of a single gal in the city, you would think that this entire world is full of nothing but people eating, dining, and living alone. You could also find yourself uttering the words, “how depressing.” I can’t help but think of the scene in “Under the Tuscan Sun” where, recently divorced, she inhales her dinner alone in her kitchen while standing at the sink. Okay, so sitting in my living room, still in pajamas, recovering from a horrible cold, and not being able to think of anything but “Under the Tuscan Sun” to reference is making me think, “how depressing.” Let’s move on, shall we?

A little over a week ago it started with the slight tickle in the back of the throat. A couple of days later the throat tickling advanced to aching. And then one morning I woke to find my throat sitting closed in protest for the nose’s audacity to go on vacation. There was sneezing and coughing. Achy eyes. Yes, the eyes ached. There was the trudging in to work, the trips for cough drops (quite surprised I did not overdose on those), countless tissue papers abused, cups of tea that might have been better and more quickly served intravenously, and finally the great collapse.

The morning after the great collapse, feeling quite alone, with no loved one to soothe me to sleep, to make me tea, to gather me into their arms and sweetly sing all would be okay, I walked into my kitchen. Okay, walked is perhaps too strong of a word to describe the act of the drooping head that lugged dragging feet all of ten feet from my bedroom into my kitchen; regardless, I was in my kitchen. I took a small glass bowl gifted by a sweet friend, poured about half of a bottle of honey into it, sliced half of an onion, and coarsely chopped one clove of garlic together and immersed it all in the honey. I put the cover on the bowl and let it sit on my counter.

Four hours later the water from the onion had seeped into the honey and turned it into a sweet sticky juice. It is my mother’s home remedy for a cold. Two tablespoons of the concoction each day is supposed to cure all. Or at least loosen enough of the sludge that caused my lungs to rattle to bring on a cold free morning sooner than any dosage of NyQuil could. Who knows if it really works. Who cares. For the first time, after almost a year in my apartment, I felt truly alone. For the first time, I was making my mother’s home remedy while not standing in my mother’s kitchen using my mother’s ingredients and tools. The glass bowl was mine. The onion and garlic from my pantry. The honey purchased myself. I put them all together and I then ingested them. I was sick. Alone in my apartment. And taking care of myself. And while I felt truly alone I felt anything but lonely. With the first spoonful I saw my father’s hands work at pulling the rind of an orange in one peel to make me a comforting pot of tea, with the next I felt the warm hand of my mother work through my hair as my heavy head slept soundly on her lap, with the next spoonful I saw the strong back of my boyfriend as he worked in my tiny kitchen to make me breakfast and to serve me smiles.

Sick, yes. Definitely not as much this morning as I have been the past week. Alone, no. Friends, family, and love have taken up residence in the simple ingredients of my pantry.

Out Sick

This is day 3 of a common cold that has literally knocked the socks off of me. No gym. No work. No bakery. Sigh. No bakery. I went through a little withdrawal the other day (yesterday) and opted for some kitchen therapy. Second rate blueberry muffins. Not exactly what I wanted. But they're passable. We'll for me. I guess I know what I'll be having for breakfast for the next few days.

A Beautiful Day at the Bakery

Wednesday. I was tired. I haven't been sleeping well the past few nights and worry the same will happen tonight (blame the sinus pressure and the NyQuil not kicking in fast enough ... I guess I can also blame the random web surfing that is keeping me occupied enough to stay awake but to run off on tangents ... FOCUS). The bakery. On Wednesday. Right? Yes!

I was exhausted. And looked it apparently (as commented by the little flitting Tinkerbell). My assignment that day was to frost cakes. Lots of them. Loads. There was a six inch red velvet with the most random birthday inscription I have ever come across and a challenge to fit on the small face of the cake. But, mission accomplished.

There were more red velvet cakes. An Achilles heel (much like pancakes, baguettes, some pastas, you get the picture). I could never slather on enough of the buttercream to get the cake to look just as I really wanted it to look. Perhaps I thought too much. Perhaps I allowed myself too much time to frost each cake. Not so much on Wednesday. Too make cakes. I got to work, pulled out the off set spatula, gave the buttercream a good turn, flipped over the first layer, frosted, cleaned, smoothed, flipped on the second, frosted, cleaned smoothed, and then decorated as instructed. Perfect. Even by my standard. There were four more like it before I moved on to other cakes.

A good day. An accomplished day. And I got to squeeze in a Pilates class before work. Joy!

The Power of Orange Cookies

Or any cookie for that matter. I walked into a pastry shop around my apartment with the idea of "scoping it out" for a possible summer internship. I haven't sampled any of their offerings and thought I should (support local business, right) before seeing about anything else. The display cases were not at all appetizing or appealing (the shop wasn't either to be truthful) so I picked what looked the most interesting--a chocolate cheesecake. While waiting for the pre-cut slice to be put into a paper bag I looked at the rest of the offerings--more cakes: chocolate mousse, carrot, german chocolate ... standard fare). There was a large bowl of chocolate chip cookies and some interesting looking (and LARGE) rugelach and I was overcome with the desire to purchase a chocolate chip cookie. Not because it looked particularly tasty (it looked dry actually) but to see if I could judge the quality of a bakery on a cookie. That has given me ideas. I feel like I judge myself based on the quality of my cookie. Why can't I do the same with others? So, a horrible task and assignment but one I think I can suffer through ... sample the cookie offerings of New York City's bakeries. See what passes the test and what should just be passed by.

Coffee for One

I don't make coffee all too often in my apartment. It's a reminder that I am enjoying a meal alone. Something I relish at times but at others it smarts. Especially after a day spent with friends and loved ones or remembering the evening prior when a meal was shared with friends who enjoy food and the varied creations as much as I do.

But every so often I will pull out the grinder, the whole beans, I'll put the water in the kettle, take out the coffee mug, the spoon, wash all the parts of my cute little french press, reassemble, and wait for the whistle to tempt me to caffeine and the promises of the relaxing moments to come.

The relaxation this evening joined by a grilled gouda and fontina cheese sandwich on whole wheat bread with smoked turkey and spiced with some hot mustard.

The coffee is finished. The remains of the sandwich still being wiped from the corners of my smiling lips.

My assignment tonight is simple (after I avoided the intoxicating power of "How To Pick a Peach"): write a blog, or two, disconnect from Facebook, do some dishes (maybe), read an article, and then really plan out how to turn my kitchen into a classroom.

I'm Not Yet Awake ...

and forgot to chronicle the tales of yesterday's day at the bakery.

I was scheduled to work with the little wandering Tinkerbell again but she was not in yet by the time I arrived. So instead the head baker had me start her work. Yes, an intern, not yet in school, baking 30 yellow cakes that would later be topped with chocolate or a buttercream and displayed and sold or delivered with a "Happy Birthday Christopher." I creamed the butter. Weighed the sugar. Sifted the flour. Beat the eggs. Doing all of this while the head baker opted to help me by prepping my cake pans. I was left alone to make the cakes. Left alone in my own little utopia where I joked and chatted in English and broken Spanish. And where in later weighing the batter per cake pan I realized where I might have not paid the most attention. A lesson learned and retained for next time and for my own kitchen experimentation. Each day always delivering a lesson in patience and in paying full attention.

The time flew by and before I knew it the cakes were cooling, Tinkerbell was at work at red velvet cakes, I had already frosted three Devil's Food cakes, and was on my way to wishing Christopher a "Happy Birthday" written out in broken cursive and surrounded by confetti.

The Morning After

I must start with a picture. Look at that, will you. I live alone. Where is the moldy piece of cheese, the one egg, the bottle of beer (those are actually on the fridge door and out of the picture's frame), and the wilting take-out Chinese box? Oy vey!

What made my refrigerator regurgitate so much in offerings? A trip to the market. I really only wanted eggs and butter. I came back with a little more (you should see my pantry, also out of the picture's frame). And a dinner party. With only three people (including me) but oh so many wonderful and delightful leftovers.

Let's rewind a bit before I get ahead of myself.

The plan was thought and decided upon back during the Biden-Palin debate. Yes, back in October we looked at each other and said "let's get together and cook." It only took 6 months. Hey, I needed to get all of my ideas and eggs in order to create a friend-worthy dessert. Okay, maybe I just procrastinate. But Rachel and I chatted about it when we ran into each other at a concert at work. And I realized, okay, we really need to do this now instead of always just saying we have to do it. Afterall, I'm in danger of just appearing to be a flake. (I am. A little flitting flake.) So I emailed David thus securing the date.

My responsibility? Dessert. And it was set (sort of, but more on that later). I had left over frosting from my banana coconut cupcakes. I swore the frosting too sweet (or maybe full of too much rum). David denied both. Said impossible. Implored me to deliver a cupcake topped with the frosting. Unfortunately, the cupcakes were all gone by the time I tried to salvage one for him. That little hiccup dictated dessert. I had frosting. I needed to make the cupcake David never tasted. A cake was made instead. And frosted. And displayed. And later eaten. And maybe the frosting wasn't as sweet as I remember. Maybe it was just what was needed at the end of the evening after the wonderfully savory bits that tickled my palate.

What were those savory bits? Cherry tomatoes to snack on while David chopped and prepped and I brushed dirt off of mushrooms. Those tomatoes washed down with some Pellegrino mixed with a tart cranberry juice (rest in peace Juicy Juice). A salad of greens with shredded cabbage, chopped avocado, a sliced red pepper, and later topped with a bit of Goddess dressing (truly divine; sacrilegious be damned!). Another salad with feta cheese mixed in with some olive oil and chopped cucumbers and more tomatoes. Finished with a frittata of mushrooms, sauteed onions, garlic, and rosemary. My stomach turning happy little flips in remembrance. Oh, and I must not forget the bottle of organic pale ale.

I'm groggy now just thinking about it. How wonderful it was to wake up and remember the amazing evening cooking together, watching videos, listening to music, talking about astrological charts, and sophisticated crunchy populations.

A Trip to the Laundromat

A bizarre title to start a new musing on food, ay?

Laundry on Sunday morning. It affords me a cup of coffee and some peace and quiet. An even more bit of bizarre, I admit. But there is something about being in the midst of the noise of the outside world that allows me to disassociate myself, remove myself, focus myself in ways that I cannot do in the comfort of home where I feel the strain of the surrounding four walls, the unused kitchen, the clogged bathroom sink (again!), and run on sentences. (And it affords me random thoughts like how I really need to look at my kitchen like a classroom. So many ideas out of that one!).

Laundry on Sunday morning allows me something else. Well, laundry on any morning but this particular morning being a Sunday means I personify all mornings with the name Sunday. Good morning Friend! The coffee. Two dollars. Actually a little less but the change extends itself to the homeless man outside of the Dunkin Donuts. Being the least I can do for the man who opens the door and who greets me with a cheery good morning regardless of whether my feet take me through his door or down the subway steps. My constant morning companion to an otherwise quietly expressed good morning.

The large windows, available washers standing by, and the open bench gift me this luxury. A place to insert myself and write. Each trip here different. Some mornings I write. Others I sit back and read the stories of the people walking by, or flip through the pages of the magazines I have not touched, highlighting recipes to try or alter, or dream of trips to Morocco, Kerala, Puerto Rico, my beloved Madrid, the unseen Paris, the unexplored United States.

This morning I write. My words filling the blank pages. I plan to put the pen away. Tuck her back into the wilds of the the bag where she will lose herself among my ipod, laundry detergent, and free laundry sheets. When inspiration returns I'll juggle and maneuver to greet her and to give me voice.