Monday, 6/7/10 – Level 4 Day 2 (Production)

I stink. From my hands, my arms and somewhere on my torso that I have not yet targeted is seeping an oceany, ammonia-laced smell. Don't worry – I definitely showered…I showered the heck out of my skin, yet I still get the feeling people are moving away from me on the subway and I can't seem to outrun the sensation that I'm being shadowed by a 500-lb. tuna. Oh yea, that's right! I forgot to wear gloves while butchering the 50-lb. cod last night. That must be it.

It took me a solid 45 minutes, perhaps longer, to break that sucker down. First of all, it was as fat as my thigh and as long as my arm, and its anatomy was unlike anything I've ever butchered before. The angle of the ribcage posed a huge problem as I tried to shimmy the filet off of his/her body, and it didn't help that I weigh a buck twenty and that puppy was manhandling ME. (Thank goodness we didn't have the halibut…) I finally released the two massive filets and carefully removed the skin. Cod is extremely delicate, so I approached the pin bones with much trepidation; using my school-issued fish tweezers, I located the first pin bone and pulled…and pulled…and pulled. It didn't budge. I put some elbow into it, lodging my leather shoes under the table to give me some more muscle and pulled again. Nothing. After several tries I finally pried out a long, sharp, curved needle-like bone – much, much longer than I was expecting. I hid the horror on my face and tackled the rest, moving methodically down the filet. When I was done – both sides filleted, de-skinned and pin bones removed – I hauled the two pieces next door, dropped them off, and ran back. I don't like to be caught too long amongst the Level 5 and 6 kids…they scare me and I'm afraid someone's going to stuff me into a trash can or something.

After the fish was out of my hair (literally), I drained the chicken stock and prepared for Family Meal. Production was asked to bread and fry some leftover catfish, so I made an accompanying remoulade, which is basically an herby and salty tartar sauce – perfect for fried fish. The fish was a huge hit, and I was told my remoulade was tasty. You can't lose with a mayonnaise-based condiment.

To make myself useful, I attempted to help two male classmates haul 100 pounds of roasted veal bones, plus caramelized carrots, onions and celery, up to the 4^th floor. Not wanting to intimidate them with my mean muscle definition and mad lifting skills, I chose to simply provide the journey's entertainment with a little metal tong/whistle serenade. We made it up to the 4^th floor and found an empty cauldron in the Level 2 kitchen, so the two men lifted and tilted the large box of ingredients up to the edge then motioned for me to move around to the other side to help ensure that the bones fell neatly into the pot. I got right in, and was soon elbow-deep in a box of warm, slimy bones that are twice the size of my radius and ulna combined. I'm starting to realize that size does matter in the chef world, and my small frame is becoming a handicap I must overcome. Perhaps that's why it's mostly seen as a male-dominated field. Luckily I have male classmate friends that are willing to reach a high pan for me, lift a heavy pot of water or cold-heartedly murder a cute animal on my behalf, for which I am very grateful. That's not saying I don't have the dedication and the autonomy to complete tasks on my own; it's just nice to have a helping hand.

I consistently have very vivid dreams; since as far back as I can remember my dreams have taken on such a life-like movie quality, sometimes involving even taste and smell. It's usually fascinating, and allows me to experience things I would not normally have the opportunity to, or in some instances would not want to, experience in my real life. On rare occasions, a dream will be so intense and so involved that it will stay with me for hours, even days, invading my thoughts and actions at every turn. I'm always amazed, though, at how calm my sleeping face and body seem while my mind is hard at work creating an alternate universe. I obviously don't know this personally, but my dear husband has confirmed, after a night of bungee jumping over the Colorado River and riding tigers through the African safari (don't ask), that my body was as still as a statue. I can't help but wonder, though, if this whole experience is just a dream. Have these past few months at The French Culinary Institute really happened, or will I wake up one morning, reach over to my alarm clock only to find that I'm late for my miserable job in my miserable office with my miserable co-workers. Have I woken up from that nightmare, or is this the real dream? One thing's for sure: I have yet to encounter any tigers that are willing to be ridden.